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definite career; and at one time he consulted Mr. Gladstone as to my taking up a political life. Gladstone wrote in answer that my father must recollect that a political life was "surrounded by an adamantine wall," that a man in politics was apt to "lose the finer moral sense," and that the political outlook ahead was "full of storms."

We

Our life did not undergo much change. stayed at Farringford, as of late, till the end of June or the beginning of July, and then went to Aldworth. That fine air effectually cured my father's summer hay-fever: and he could now thoroughly enjoy his walks and drives in the beautiful country round Blackdown and Haslemere.

Two places he particularly liked. One was "Wegner's Wells" on Hindhead, where he wrote his " Flower in the crannied wall,” and of which George Eliot said to him,

What a good place for a murder in a novel!" The other was the "Silent Pool" near Albury, beneath the Merrow downs that look over Guildford. I have often heard him describe this pool-"The splendour and ripply play of light on the stream as it gushes from the chalk over the greensand bottom, the mackerel colours which flit about in the sunshine, and the network of the current on the surface of the pool like crystal smoke.' "The water itself," he said, "was like what Keats says of Neptune's cave, the palace floor breath-air."

The motto he proposed for a new sundial in his garden was the old "Horas non numero nisi serenas." As years went by he became calmer and more restful in himself. To plant new trees, and to watch the growth of what were already planted, continued to be unfailing sources of pleasure to him. His hours of work were. somewhat changed, Sir Andrew Clark having insisted. on his walking before luncheon, and resting afterwards. With his crook-handled stick, and accompanied by

my brother, or myself, or a friend, and by a dog, he would tramp over hill and dale, not caring if the weather were fair or foul, every now and then stopping in his rapid walk to give point to an argument or to an anecdote. When alone with me, he would often chant a poem that he was composing, and add fresh lines. There was the same keen eye as of old for strange birds and flowers, and, as of old, he would make a point of looking up a strange bird or a new flower as soon as he returned home from his walk. If a tourist were seen coming towards him, he would flee: for many would recognize from a distance his broad-brimmed wideawake (the kind of hat that Carlyle, Sir Henry Taylor, and others of his contemporaries wore) and his short blue cape with velvet collar, and would deliberately make for him in order to put some question. His hours were quite regular: he breakfasted at 8, lunched at 2, dined at 7. At dessert, if alone, he would read to himself, or if friends were in the house, he would sit with them for an hour or so, and entertain them with varied talk. He worked chiefly in the morning over his pipe, or in the evening after his pint of port, also over his pipe. Rare books or books with splendid bindings he never cared for; yet he treasured his first edition of Spenser's Faery Queen, and his second edition of Paradise Lost. He would read over and over again his favourite authors, and his delight was genuine when he came across a new author who "seemed to have something in him." He was not unfrequently abstracted in mood for days while he was composing, which made him appear brusque to strangers, but alone with his family he was never so happy as when engaged on a great subject. His very directness and simplicity moreover caused him sometimes to be misunderstood. With strangers doubtless he was shy at first, owing mostly to his short-sight, though none could be more

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genial when he thawed. No one could have been more tolerant of or more gracious to dull people; and out of his imaginative large-heartedness he usually invested everyone with higher qualities than he or she possessed. As Jowett observed, "he would sit by a very commonplace person, telling stories with the most high-bred courtesy, endless stories not too high or too low for everyday conversation." With the country folk he loved to converse; especially seeking out the old men, from whom he always tried to ascertain their thoughts upon death and the future life.

poor

His afternoons he generally spent on one of our smaller lawns, surrounded by birch and different sorts of pine and fir and cypress, after the fashion of separate green parlours. Here he would read the daily papers or some book to my mother lying out in her sofa-chair, or would receive friends from the neighbourhood, or would talk to guests staying in the house.

By degrees luncheon became later, partly because of the two hours' walk which had been ordered in the morning, and partly because of the trains which brought friends from London; and not seldom he went to town.

In March 1875 I find a note after he had seen Irving in Hamlet: "It is not a perfect Hamlet: the pathetic side of him well done, and the acting original. I liked it much better than Macready's. Irving came into the box, and we had a talk: he is a taking man."

In the summer my mother had sufficiently recovered to go with my father, my brother and myself to Pau, whence my father1 and I made a tour in the Western Pyrenees. At Pau, meanwhile, Lionel became engaged to Eleanor Locker, whom as a child we had known well,

On this journey he took Balzac's novels with him, especially delighting in Le pere Goriot and Eugénie Grandet.