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 *dreaming—a very lotus-eaters' land it seemed to be that soft and slumberous morning—some chance drifting of thought called to mind William Hazlitt's remarks anent a walking tour, a recreation in which he delighted: "Give me," says he, connoisseur of good things that he was, "the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner then I laugh, I leap, I sing for joy." Well, we could not readily run, nor yet leap, as we were driving and in a quiet mood moreover, neither did we sing for joy; not that we took our pleasures sadly, but rather for the hour did we delight in a drowsy progress soothed into untold rest by the peace-bestowing quietude that prevailed all around: our happiness was too real to need any outward display, which but too often disturbs the deep repose of absolute content. Such a sensation of inward satisfaction with oneself and one's surroundings comes not every day, not even with searching after, but when it comes it makes one thankfully realise the full meaning of—

that blessed mood In which the burden of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened.

Uffington, the first village on our way, proved to be a remarkably picturesque one, clean and neat, with solid stone-built cottages, some roofed with homely thatch, others with gray stone slabs, and all looking pictures of contentment—let us hope