uld extend it to all civilized natives of our country。 We are content with nothing but the finest savours； the truest binations； our wealth； and happy natural circumstances； have allowed us an education of the palate of which our natural aptitude was worthy。 Think； by the bye； of those new potatoes； just mentioned。 Our cook； when dressing them； puts into the saucepan a sprig of mint。 This is genius。 No otherwise could the flavour of the vegetable be so perfectly； yet so delicately； emphasized。 The mint is there； and we know it； yet our palate knows only the young potato。
IX
There is to me an odd pathos in the literature of vegetarianism。 I remember the day when I read these periodicals and pamphlets with all the zest of hunger and poverty； vigorously seeking to persuade myself that flesh was an altogether superfluous； and even a repulsive； food。 If ever such things fall under my eyes nowadays； I am touched with a half humorous passion for the people whose necessity； not their will； consents to this chemical view of diet。 There es before me a vision of certain vegetarian restaurants； where； at a minim outlay； I have often enough made believe to satisfy my craving stomach； where I have swallowed 〃savoury cutlet；〃 〃vegetable steak；〃 and I know not what windy insufficiencies tricked up under specious names。 One place do I recall where you had a plete dinner for sixpence……I dare not try to remember the items。 But well indeed do I see the faces of the guests……poor clerks and shopboys； bloodless girls and women of many sorts……all endeavouring to find a relish in lentil soup and haricot something…or…other。 It was a grotesquely heart…breaking sight。
I hate with a bitter hatred the names of lentils and haricots……those pretentious cheats of the appetite； those tabulated humbugs； those certificated aridities calling themselves human food！ An ounce of either； any pounds？……of the best rump…steak。 There are not many ounces of mon sense in the brain of him who proves it； or of him who believes it。 In some countries； this stuff is eaten by choice； in England only dire need can pel to its consumption。 Lentils and haricots are not merely insipid； frequent use of them causes something like nausea。 Preach and tabulate as you will； the English palate……which is the supreme judge……rejects this farinaceous makeshift。 Even as it rejects vegetables without the natural conitant of meat； as it rejects oatmeal…porridge and griddle…cakes for a mid…day meal； as it rejects lemonade and ginger…ale offered as substitutes for honest beer。
What is the intellectual and moral state of that man who really believes that chemical analysis can be an equivalent for natural gusto？……I will get more nourishment out of an inch of right Cambridge sausage； aye； out of a couple of ounces of honest tripe； than can be yielded me by half a hundredweight of the best lentils ever grown。
X
Talking of vegetables； can the inhabited globe offer anything to vie with the English potato justly steamed？ I do not say that it is always……or often……to be seen on our tables； for the steaming of a potato is one of the great achievements of culinary art； but； when it IS set before you； how flesh and spirit exult！ A modest palate will find more than simple fort in your boiled potato of every day； as served in the decent household。 New or old； it is beyond challenge delectable。 Try to think that civilized nations exist to whom this food is unknown……nay； who speak of it； on hearsay； with contempt！ Such critics； little as they suspect it； never ate a potato in their lives。 What they have swallowed under that name was the vegetable with all its exquisite characteristics vulgarized or destroyed。 Picture the 〃ball of flour〃 （as old…fashioned housewives call it） lying in the dish； diffusing the softest； subtlest aroma； ready to crumble； all but to melt； as soon as it is touched； recall its gust and its after…gust； blending so consummately with that of the joint； hot or cold。 Then think of the same potato cooked in any other way； and what sadness will e upon you！
XI
It angers me to pass a grocer's shop； and see in the window a display of foreign butter。 This is the kind of thing that makes one gloom over the prospects of England。 The deterioration of English butter is one of the worst signs of the moral state of our people。 Naturally； this article of food would at once betray a decline in the virtues of its maker； butter must be a subject of the dairyman's honest pride； or there is no hope of its goodness。 Begin to save your labour； to aim at dishonest profits； to feel disgust or contempt for your work……and the churn declares every one of these vices。 They must be very prevalent； for it is getting to be a rare thing to eat English butter which is even tolerable。 What！ England dependent for dairy…produce upon France； Denmark； America？ Had we but one true statesman……but one genuine leader of the people……the ears of English landowners and farmers would ring and tingle with this proof of their imbecility。
Nobody cares。 Who cares for anything but the show and bluster which are threatening our ruin？ English food； not long ago the best in the world； is falling off in quality； and even our national genius for cooking shows a decline； to anyone who knows England； these are facts significant enough。 Foolish persons have prated about 〃our insular cuisine；〃 demanding its reform on Continental models； and they have found too many like unto themselves who were ready to listen； the result will be； before long； that our excellence will be forgotten； and paltry methods be universally introduced； together with the indifferent viands to which they are suited。 Yet； if any generality at all be true； it is a plain fact that English diet and English virtue……in the largest sense of the word……are inseparably bound together。
Our supremacy in this matter of the table came with little taking of thought； what we should now do is to reflect upon the things which used to be instinctive； perceive the reasons of our excellence； and set to work to re…establish it。 Of course the vilest cooking in the kingdom is found in London； is it not with the exorbitant growth of London that many an ill has spread over the land？ London is the antithesis of the domestic ideal； a social reformer would not even glance in that direction； but would turn all his zeal upon small towns and country districts； where blight may perhaps be arrested； and whence； some day； a reconstituted national life may act upon the great centre of corruption。 I had far rather see England covered with schools of cookery than with schools of the ordinary kind； the issue would be infinitely more hopeful。 Little girls should be taught cooking and baking more assiduously than they are taught to read。 But with ever in view the great English principle……that food is only cooked aright when it yields the utmost of its native and characteristic savour。 Let sauces be utterly forbidden……save the natural sauce made of gravy。 In the same way with sweets； keep in view the insurpassable English ideals of baked tarts （or pies； if so you call them）； and boiled puddings； as they are the wholesomest； so are they the most delicious of sweet cakes yet invented； it is merely a question of having them well made and cooked。 Bread； again； we are getting used to bread of poor quality； and ill…made； but the English loaf at its best……such as you were once sure of getting in every village……is the faultless form of the staff of life。 Think of the glorious revolution that could be wrought in our troubled England if it could be ordained that no maid； of whatever rank； might bee a wife unless she had proved her ability to make and bake a perfect loaf of bread。
XII
The good S… writes me a kindly letter。 He is troubled by the thought of my loneliness。 That I should choose to live in such a place as this through the summer； he can understand； but surely I should do better to e to town for the winter？ How on earth do I spend the dark days and the long evenings？
I chuckle over the good S…'s sympathy。 Dark days are few in happy Devon； and such as befall have never brought me a moment's tedium。 The long； wild winter of the north would try my spirits； but here； the season that follows autumn is merely one of rest； Nature's annual slumber。 And I share in the restful influence。 Often enough I pass an hour in mere drowsing by the fireside； frequently I let my book drop； satisfied to muse。 But more often than not the winter day is blest with sunshine……the soft beam which is Nature's smile in dreaming。 I go forth； and wander far。 It pleases me to note changes of landscape when the leaves have fallen； I see streams and ponds which during summer were hidden； my favourite lanes have an unfamiliar aspect； and I bee better acquainted with them。 Then； there is a rare beauty in the structure of trees ungarmented； and if perchance snow or frost have silvered their tracery against the sober sky； it bees a marvel which never tires。
Day by day I look at the coral buds on the lime…tree。 Something of regret will mingle with my joy when they begin to break。
In the middle years of my life……those years that were the worst of all……I used to dread the sound of a winter storm which woke me in the night。 Wind and rain lashing the house filled me with miserable memories and apprehensions； I lay thinking of the savage struggle of man with man； and often saw before me no better fate than to be trampled down into the mud of life。 The wind's wail seemed to me the voice of a world in anguish； rain was the weeping of the feeble and the oppressed。 But nowadays I can lie and listen to a night… storm with no intolerable thoughts； at worst； I fall into a passionate sadness as I remember those I loved and whom I shall see no more。 For myself； there is even fort in the roaring dark； for I feel the strength of the good walls about me； and my safety from squalid peril such as pursued me through all my labouring life。 〃Blow； blow； thou winter wind！〃 Thou canst not blow away the modest wealth which makes my security。 Nor can any 〃rain upon the roof〃 put my soul to question； for life has given me all I ever asked…… infinitely more than I ever hoped……and in no corner of my mind does there lurk a coward fear of death。
XIII
If some stranger from abroad asked me to point out to him the most noteworthy things in England； I should first of all consider his intellect。 Were he a man of everyday level； I might indicate for his wonder and admiration Greater London； the Black Country； South Lancashire； and other features of our civilization which； despite eager rivalry； still maintain our modern pre…eminence in the creation of ugliness。 If； on the other hand； he seemed a man of brains； it would be my pleasure to take him to one of those old villages； in the midlands or the west； which lie at some distance from a railway station； and in aspect are still untouched by the baser tendencies of the time。 Here； I would tell my traveller； he saw something which England alone can show。 The simple beauty of the architecture； its perfect adaptation to the natural surroundings； the neatness of everything though without formality； the general cleanness and good repair； the grace of cottage gardens； that tranquillity and security which make a music in the mind of him who gazes……these are w