quent moments that I allow myself to think thus
slightingly of Latin Prose. It is a valuable accomplishment, and, when
I have repaired the breaches made by professional work in the mental
equilibrium, I shall rejoin my colleagues with a full sense of its
paramount importance.

I scribble this diary with a vile pen, and ink like blacking, on the
corner of my breakfast-table. I have packed my knapsack, and in a few
minutes I shall set out upon my march.

April 9.--I spent an almost perfect day yesterday. It was a cool bright
day, with a few clouds like cotton-wool moving sedately in a blue sky.
I first walked quietly about my little town, which was full of delicate
beauties. The houses are all built of a soft yellow stone, which
weathers into a species of rich orange. Heaven knows where the
designers came from, but no two houses seem alike; some of them are
gabled, buttressed, stone-mullioned, irregular in outline, but yet with
a wonderful sense of proportion. Some are Georgian, with classical
pilasters and pediments. Yet they are all for use and not for show; and
the weak modern shop-windows, which some would think disfigure the
delicate house-fronts, seem to me just to give the requisite sense of
contrast. At the end of the street stands the church, with a stately
Perpendicular tower, and a resonant bell which tells the hour. This
overlooks a pile of irregular buildings, now a farm, but once a great
manor-house, with a dovecote and pavilions; but the old terrace is now
an orchard, and the fine oriel of the house looks straight into the
byre. Inside the church--it is open and well-kept--you can trace the
history of the manor and its occupants, from Job Best, a rich mercer of
London, whose monument, with marble pillars and obelisks, adorns the
south aisle; his son was ennobled, whose effigy--more majestic still,
robed and coroneted, with his Viscountess by his side, and her dog
(with his name, Jakke, engraven on his shoulder)--lies smiling, the
slender hands crossed in prayer. But the house was not destined to
survive. The Viscount's only daughter, the Lady Penelope, looks down
from the wall, a fair and delicate lady, the last of her brief race,
who, as the old inscription says with a tender simplicity, "dyed a
mayd." I cannot help wondering, my pretty lady, what your story was;
and it will do you no hurt if one, who looks upon your gentle face,
sends a wondering message of tenderness behind the veil to your pure
spirit