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other they rise before me。 Books gentle and quieting； books noble and inspiring； books that well merit to be pored over； not once but many a time。 Yet never again shall I hold them in my hand； the years fly too quickly； and are too few。 Perhaps when I lie waiting for the end； some of those lost books will e into my wandering thoughts； and I shall remember them as friends to whom I owed a kindness……friends passed upon the way。 What regret in that last farewell！
III
Every one； I suppose； is subject to a trick of mind which often puzzles me。 I am reading or thinking； and at a moment； without any association or suggestion that I can discover； there rises before me the vision of a place I know。 Impossible to explain why that particular spot should show itself to my mind's eye； the cerebral impulse is so subtle that no search may trace its origin。 If I am reading； doubtless a thought； a phrase； possibly a mere word； on the page before me serves to awaken memory。 If I am otherwise occupied； it must be an object seen； an odour； a touch； perhaps even a posture of the body suffices to recall something in the past。 Sometimes the vision passes； and there an end； sometimes； however； it has successors； the memory working quite independently of my will； and no link appearing between one scene and the next。
Ten minutes ago I was talking with my gardener。 Our topic was the nature of the soil； whether or not it would suit a certain kind of vegetable。 Of a sudden I found myself gazing at……the Bay of Avlona。 Quite certainly my thoughts had not strayed in that direction。 The picture that came before me caused me a shock of surprise； and I am still vainly trying to discover how I came to behold it。
A happy chance that I ever saw Avlona。 I was on my way from Corfu to Brindisi。 The steamer sailed late in the afternoon； there was a little wind； and as the December night became chilly； I soon turned in。 With the first daylight I was on deck； expecting to find that we were near the Italian port； to my surprise； I saw a mountainous shore； towards which the ship was making at full speed。 On inquiry； I learnt that this was the coast of Albania； our vessel not being very seaworthy； and the wind still blowing a little （though not enough to make any passenger unfortable）； the captain had turned back when nearly half across the Adriatic； and was seeking a haven in the shelter of the snow…topped hills。 Presently we steamed into a great bay； in the narrow mouth of which lay an island。 My map showed me where we were； and with no small interest I discovered that the long line of heights guarding the bay on its southern side formed the Acroceraunian Promontory。 A little town visible high up on the inner shore was the ancient Aulon。
Here we anchored； and lay all day long。 Provisions running short； a boat had to be sent to land； and the sailors purchased； among other things； some peculiarly detestable bread……according to them； cotto al sole。 There was not a cloud in the sky； till evening； the wind whistled above our heads； but the sea about us was blue and smooth。 I sat in hot sunshine； feasting my eyes on the beautiful cliffs and valleys of the thickly…wooded shore。 Then came a noble sunset； then night crept gently into the hollows of the hills； which now were coloured the deepest； richest green。 A little lighthouse began to shine。 In the perfect calm that had fallen； I heard breakers murmuring softly upon the beach。
At sunrise we entered the port of Brindisi。
IV
The characteristic motive of English poetry is love of nature； especially of nature as seen in the English rural landscape。 From the 〃Cuckoo Song〃 of our language in its beginnings to the perfect loveliness of Tennyson's best verse； this note is ever sounding。 It is persistent even amid the triumph of the drama。 Take away from Shakespeare all his bits of natural description； all his casual allusions to the life and aspects of the country； and what a loss were there！ The reign of the iambic couplet confined； but could not suppress； this native music； Pope notwithstanding； there came the 〃Ode to Evening〃 and that 〃Elegy〃 which； unsurpassed for beauty of thought and nobility of utterance in all the treasury of our lyrics； remains perhaps the most essentially English poem ever written。
This attribute of our national mind availed even to give rise to an English school of painting。 It came late； that it ever came at all is remarkable enough。 A people apparently less apt for that kind of achievement never existed。 So profound is the English joy in meadow and stream and hill； that； unsatisfied at last with vocal expression； it took up the brush； the pencil； the etching tool； and created a new form of art。 The National Gallery represents only in a very imperfect way the richness and variety of our landscape work。 Were it possible to collect； and suitably to display； the very best of such work in every vehicle； I know not which would be the stronger emotion in an English heart； pride or rapture。
One obvious reason for the long neglect of Turner lies in the fact that his genius does not seem to be truly English。 Turner's landscape； even when it presents familiar scenes； does not show them in the familiar light。 Neither the artist nor the intelligent layman is satisfied。 He gives us glorious visions； we admit the glory……but we miss something which we deem essential。 I doubt whether Turner tasted rural England； I doubt whether the spirit of English poetry was in him； I doubt whether the essential significance of the mon things which we call beautiful was revealed to his soul。 Such doubt does not affect his greatness as a poet in colour and in form； but I suspect that it has always been the cause why England could not love him。 If any man whom I knew to be a man of brains confessed to me that he preferred Birket Foster； I should smile……but I should understand。
V
A long time since I wrote in this book。 In September I caught a cold； which meant three weeks' illness。
I have not been suffering； merely feverish and weak and unable to use my mind for anything but a daily hour or two of the lightest reading。 The weather has not favoured my recovery； wet winds often blowing； and not much sun。 Lying in bed； I have watched the sky； studied the clouds； which……so long as they are clouds indeed； and not a mere waste of grey vapour……always have their beauty。 Inability to read has always been my horror； once； a trouble of the eyes all but drove me mad with fear of blindness； but I find that in my present circumstances； in my own still house； with no intrusion to be dreaded； with no task or care to worry me； I can fleet the time not unpleasantly even without help of books。 Reverie； unknown to me in the days of bondage； has brought me solace； I hope it has a little advanced me in wisdom。
For not； surely； by deliberate effort of thought does a man grow wise。 The truths of life are not discovered by us。 At moments unforeseen； some gracious influence descends upon the soul； touching it to an emotion which； we know not how； the mind transmutes into thought。 This can happen only in a calm of the senses； a surrender of the whole being to passionless contemplation。 I understand； now； the intellectual mood of the quietist。
Of course my good housekeeper has tended me perfectly； with the minimum of needless talk。 Wonderful woman！
If the evidence of a well…spent life is necessarily seen in 〃honour； love； obedience； troops of friends；〃 mine； it is clear； has fallen short of a moderate ideal。 Friends I have had； and have； but very few。 Honour and obedience……why； by a stretch； Mrs。 M… may perchance represent these blessings。 As for love……？
Let me tell myself the truth。 Do I really believe that at any time of my life I have been the kind of man who merits affection？ I think not。 I have always been much too self…absorbed； too critical of all about me； too unreasonably proud。 Such men as I live and die alone； however much in appearance acpanied。 I do not repine at it； nay； lying day after day in solitude and silence； I have felt glad that it was so。 At least I give no one trouble； and that is much。 Most solemnly do I hope that in the latter days no long illness a this life of quiet enjoyment to the final peace。 So shall no one think of me with pained sympathy or with weariness。 One……two……even three may possibly feel regret； e the end how it may； but I do not flatter myself that to them I am more than an object of kindly thought at long intervals。 It is enough； it signifies that I have not erred wholly。 And when I think that my daily life testifies to an act of kindness such as I could never have dreamt of meriting from the man who performed it； may I not be much more than content？
VI
How I envy those who bee prudent without thwackings of experience！ Such men seem to be not unmon。 I don't mean cold… blooded calculators of profit and loss in life's possibilities； nor yet the plodding dull； who never have imagination enough to quit the beaten track of security； but bright…witted and large…hearted fellows who seem always to be led by mon sense； who go steadily from stage to stage of life； doing the right； the prudent things； guilty of no vagaries； winning respect by natural progress； seldom needing aid themselves； often helpful to others； and； through