word Home will have only a special significance； indicating the mon abode of retired labourers who are drawing old…age pensions。
XVIII
I cannot close my eyes upon this day without setting down some record of it； yet the foolish insufficiency of words！ At sunrise I looked forth； nowhere could I discern a cloud the size of a man's hand； the leaves quivered gently； as if with joy in the divine morning which glistened upon their dew。 At sunset I stood in the meadow above my house； and watched the red orb sink into purple mist； whilst in the violet heaven behind me rose the perfect moon。 All between； through the soft circling of the dial's shadow； was loveliness and quiet unutterable。 Never； I could fancy； did autumn clothe in such magnificence the elms and beeches； never； I should think； did the leafage on my walls blaze in such royal crimson。 It was no day for wandering； under a canopy of blue or gold； where the eye could fall on nothing that was not beautiful； enough to be at one with Nature in dreamy rest。 From stubble fields sounded the long caw of rooks； a sleepy crowing ever and anon told of the neighbour farm； my doves cooed above their cot。 Was it for five minutes； or was it for an hour； that I watched the yellow butterfly wafted as by an insensible tremor of the air amid the garden glintings？ In every autumn there es one such flawless day。 None that I have known brought me a mind so touched to the fitting mood of wele； and so fulfilled the promise of its peace。
XIX
I was at ramble in the lanes； when； from somewhere at a distance； there sounded the voice of a countryman……strange to say……singing。 The notes were indistinct； but they rose； to my ear； with a moment's musical sadness； and of a sudden my heart was stricken with a memory so keen that I knew not whether it was pain or delight。 For the sound seemed to me that of a peasant's song which I once heard whilst sitting among the ruins of Paestum。 The English landscape faded before my eyes。 I saw great Doric columns of honey…golden travertine； between them； as I looked one way； a deep strip of sea； when I turned； the purple gorges of the Apennine； and all about the temple； where I sat in solitude； a wilderness dead and still but for that long note of wailing melody。 I had not thought it possible that here； in my beloved home； where regret and desire are all but unknown to me； I could have been so deeply troubled by a thought of things far off。 I returned with head bent； that voice singing in my memory。 All the delight I have known in Italian travel burned again within my heart。 The old spell has not lost its power。 Never； I know； will it again draw me away from England； but the Southern sunlight cannot fade from my imagination； and to dream of its glow upon the ruins of old time wakes in me the voiceless desire which once was anguish。
In his Italienische Reise； Goethe tells that at one moment of his life the desire for Italy became to him a scarce endurable suffering； at length he could not bear to hear or to read of things Italian； even the sight of a Latin book so tortured him that he turned away from it； and the day arrived when； in spite of every obstacle； he yielded to the sickness of longing； and in secret stole away southward。 When first I read that passage； it represented exactly the state of my own mind； to think of Italy was to feel myself goaded by a longing which； at times； made me literally ill； I； too； had put aside my Latin books； simply because I could not endure the torment of imagination they caused me。 And I had so little hope （nay； for years no shadow of reasonable hope） that I should ever be able to appease my desire。 I taught myself to read Italian； that was something。 I worked （half…heartedly） at a colloquial phrase…book。 But my sickness only grew towards despair。
Then came into my hands a sum of money （such a poor little sum） for a book I had written。 It was early autumn。 I chanced to hear some one speak of Naples……and only death would have held me back。
XX
Truly； I grow aged。 I have no longer much delight in wine。
But then； no wine ever much rejoiced me save that of Italy。 Wine… drinking in England is； after all； only make…believe； a mere playing with an exotic inspiration。 Tennyson had his port； whereto clings a good old tradition； sherris sack belongs to a nobler age； these drinks are not for us。 Let him who will； toy with dubious Bordeaux or Burgundy； to get good of them； soul's good； you must be on the green side of thirty。 Once or twice they have plucked me from despair； I would not speak unkindly of anything in cask or bottle which bears the great name of wine。 But for me it is a thing of days gone by。 Never again shall I know the mellow hour cum regnat rosa； cum madent capilli。 Yet how it lives in memory！
〃What call you this wine？〃 I asked of the temple…guardian at Paestum； when he ministered to my thirst。 〃Vino di Calabria；〃 he answered； and what a glow in the name！ There I drank it； seated against the column of Poseidon's temple。 There I drank it； my feet resting on acanthus； my eyes wandering from sea to mountain； or peering at little shells niched in the crumbling surface of the sacred stone。 The autumn day declined； a breeze of evening whispered about the forsaken shore； on the far summit lay a long； still cloud； and its hue was that of my Calabrian wine。
How many such moments e back to me as my thoughts wander！ Dim little trattorie in city byways； inns smelling of the sun in forgotten valleys； on the mountain side； or by the tideless shore； where the grape has given me of its blood； and made life a rapture。 Who but the veriest fanatic of teetotalism would grudge me those hours so gloriously redeemed？ No draught of wine amid the old tombs under the violet sky but made me for the time a better man； larger of brain； more courageous； more gentle。 'Twas a revelry whereon came no repentance。 Could I but live for ever in thoughts and feelings such as those born to me in the shadow of the Italian vine！ There I listened to the sacred poets； there I walked with the wise of old； there did the gods reveal to me the secret of their eternal calm。 I hear the red rillet as it flows into the rustic glass； I see the purple light upon the hills。 Fill to me again； thou of the Roman visage and all but Roman speech！ Is not yonder the long gleaming of the Appian Way？ Chant in the old measure； the song imperishable
〃dum Capitolium Scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex……〃
aye； and for how many an age when Pontiff and Vestal sleep in the eternal silence。 Let the slave of the iron gods chatter what he will； for him flows no Falernian； for him the Muses have no smile； no melody。 Ere the sun set； and the darkness fall about us； fill again！
XXI
Is there； at this moment； any boy of twenty； fairly educated； but without means； without help； with nothing but the glow in his brain and steadfast courage in his heart； who sits in a London garret； and writes for dear life？ There must be； I suppose； yet all that I have read and heard of late years about young writers； shows them in a very different aspect。 No garretteers； these novelists and journalists awaiting their promotion。 They eat……and entertain their critics……at fashionable restaurants； they are seen in expensive seats at the theatre； they inhabit handsome flats……photographed for an illustrated paper on the first excuse。 At the worst； they belong to a reputable club； and have garments which permit them to attend a garden party or an evening 〃at home〃 without attracting unpleasant notice。 Many biographical sketches have I read； during the last decade； making personal introduction of young Mr。 This or young Miss That； whose book was……as the sweet language of the day will have it… …〃booming〃； but never one in which there was a hint of stern struggle； of the pinched stomach and frozen fingers。 I surmise that the path of 〃literature〃 is being made too easy。 Doubtless it is a rare thing nowadays for a lad whose education ranks him with the upper middle class to find himself utterly without resources； should he wish to devote himself to the profession of letters。 And there is the root of the matter； writing has e to be recognized as a profession； almost as cut…and…dried as church or law； a lad may go into it with full parental approval； with ready avuncular support。 I heard not long ago of an eminent lawyer； who had paid a couple of hundred per annum for his son's instruction in the art of fiction…… yea； the art of fiction……by a not very brilliant professor of that art。 Really； when one es to think of it； an astonishing fact； a fact vastly significant。 Starvation； it is true； does not necessarily produce fine literature； but one feels uneasy about these carpet…authors。 To the two or three who have a measure of conscience and vision； I could wish； as the best thing； some calamity which would leave them friendless in the streets。 They would perish； perhaps。 But set that possibility against the all but certainty of their present prospect……fatty degeneration of the soul； and is it not acceptable？
I thought of this as I stood yesterday watching a noble sunset； which brought back to my memory the sunsets of a London autumn； thirty years ago； more glorious； it seems to me； than any I have since beheld。 It happened that； on one such evening； I was by the river at Chelsea； with nothing to do except to feel that I was hungry； and to reflect that； before morning； I should be hungrier still。 I loitered upon Battersea Bridge……the old picturesque wooden bridge； and there the western sky took hold upon me。 Half an hour later； I was speeding home。 I sat down； and wrote a description of what I had seen； and straightway sent it to an evening newspaper； which； to my astonishment； published the thing next day……〃On Battersea Bridge。〃 How proud I was of that little bit of writing！ I should not much like to see it again； for I thought it then so good that I am sure it would give me an unpleasant sensation now。 Still； I wrote it because I enjoyed doing so； quite as much as because I was hungry； and the couple of guineas it brought me had as pleasant a ring as any money I ever earned。
XXII
I wonder whether it be really true； as I have more than once seen suggested； that the publication of Anthony Trollope's autobiography in some degree accounts for the neglect into which he and his works fell so soon after his death。 I should like to believe it； for such a fact would be； from one point of view； a credit to 〃the great big stupid public。〃 Only； of course； from one point of view； the notable merits of Trollope's work are unaffected by one's knowledge of how that work was produced； at his best he is an admirable writer of the pedestrian school； and this disappearance of his name does not mean final oblivion。 Like every other novelist of note； he had two classes of admirers……those who read him for the sake of that excellence which here and there he achieved； and the undistinguishing crowd which found in him a level entertainment。 But it would be a satisfaction to think that 〃the great big stupid〃 was really； somewhere in its secret economy； offended by that revelation of mechanical methods which made the autobiography either a disgusting or an amusing book to those who read it more intelligently。 A man with a watch before his eyes； penning exactly so many