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第10部分（第1页）

nd　flowers；　I　hear　the　birds　whose　wont　it　is　to　sing　to　me；　ever　and　anon　the　martins　that　have　their　home　beneath　my　eaves　sweep　past　in　silence。　Church　bells　have　begun　to　chime；　I　know　the　music　of　their　voices；　near　and　far。

There　was　a　time　when　it　delighted　me　to　flash　my　satire　on　the　English　Sunday；　I　could　see　nothing　but　antiquated　foolishness　and　modern　hypocrisy　in　this　weekly　pause　from　labour　and　from　bustle。　Now　I　prize　it　as　an　inestimable　boon；　and　dread　every　encroachment　upon　its　restful　stillness。　Scoff　as　I　might　at　〃Sabbatarianism；〃　was　I　not　always　glad　when　Sunday　came？　The　bells　of　London　churches　and　chapels　are　not　soothing　to　the　ear；　but　when　I　remember　their　sound……even　that　of　the　most　aggressively　pharisaic　conventicle；　with　its　one　dire　clapper……I　find　it　associated　with　a　sense　of　repose；　of　liberty。　This　day　of　the　seven　I　granted　to　my　better　genius；　work　was　put　aside；　and；　when　Heaven　permitted；　trouble　forgotten。

When　out　of　England　I　have　always　missed　this　Sunday　quietude；　this　difference　from　ordinary　days　which　seems　to　affect　the　very　atmosphere。　It　is　not　enough　that　people　should　go　to　church；　that　shops　should　be　closed　and　workyards　silent；　these　holiday　notes　do　not　make　a　Sunday。　Think　as　one　may　of　its　significance；　our　Day　of　Rest　has　a　peculiar　sanctity；　felt；　I　imagine；　in　a　more　or　less　vague　way；　even　by　those　who　wish　to　see　the　village　lads　at　cricket　and　theatres　open　in　the　town。　The　idea　is　surely　as　good　a　one　as　ever　came　to　heavy…laden　mortals；　let　one　whole　day　in　every　week　be　removed　from　the　mon　life　of　the　world；　lifted　above　mon　pleasures　as　above　mon　cares。　With　all　the　abuses　of　fanaticism；　this　thought　remained　rich　in　blessings；　Sunday　has　always　brought　large　good　to　the　generality；　and　to　a　chosen　number　has　been　the　very　life　of　the　soul；　however　heretically　some　of　them　understood　the　words。　If　its　ancient　use　perish　from　among　us；　so　much　the　worse　for　our　country。　And　perish　no　doubt　it　will；　only　here　in　rustic　solitude　can　one　forget　the　changes　that　have　already　made　the　day　less　sacred　to　multitudes。　With　it　will　vanish　that　habit　of　periodic　calm；　which；　even　when　it　has　bee　so　largely　void　of　conscious　meaning；　is；　one　may　safely　say；　the　best　spiritual　boon　ever　bestowed　upon　a　people。　The　most　difficult　of　all　things　to　attain；　the　most　difficult　of　all　to　preserve；　the　supreme　benediction　of　the　noblest　mind；　this　calm　was　once　breathed　over　the　whole　land　as　often　as　sounded　the　last　stroke　of　weekly　toil；　on　Saturday　at　even　began　the　quiet　and　the　solace。　With　the　decline　of　old　faith；　Sunday　cannot　but　lose　its　sanction；　and　no　loss　among　the　innumerable　that　we　are　suffering　will　work　so　effectually　for　popular　vulgarization。　What　hope　is　there　of　guarding　the　moral　beauty　of　the　day　when　the　authority　which　set　it　apart　is　no　longer　recognized？……Imagine　a　bank…holiday　once　a　week！

V

On　Sunday　I　e　down　later　than　usual；　I　make　a　change　of　dress；　for　it　is　fitting　that　the　day　of　spiritual　rest　should　lay　aside　the　livery　of　the　laborious　week。　For　me；　indeed；　there　is　no　labour　at　any　time；　but　nevertheless　does　Sunday　bring　me　repose。　I　share　in　the　mon　tranquillity；　my　thought　escapes　the　workaday　world　more　pletely　than　on　other　days。

It　is　not　easy　to　see　how　this　house　of　mine　can　make　to　itself　a　Sunday　quiet；　for　at　all　times　it　is　well…nigh　soundless；　yet　I　find　a　difference。　My　housekeeper　es　into　the　room　with　her　Sunday　smile；　she　is　happier　for　the　day；　and　the　sight　of　her　happiness　gives　me　pleasure。　She　speaks；　if　possible；　in　a　softer　voice；　she　wears　a　garment　which　reminds　me　that　there　is　only　the　lightest　and　cleanest　housework　to　be　done。　She　will　go　to　church；　morning　and　evening；　and　I　know　that　she　is　better　for　it。　During　her　absence　I　sometimes　look　into　rooms　which　on　other　days　I　never　enter；　it　is　merely　to　gladden　my　eyes　with　the　shining　cleanliness；　the　perfect　order；　I　am　sure　to　find　in　the　good　womans　domain。　But　for　that　spotless　and　sweet…smelling　kitchen；　what　would　it　avail　me　to　range　my　books　and　hang　my　pictures？　All　the　tranquillity　of　my　life　depends　upon　the　honest　care　of　this　woman　who　lives　and　works　unseen。　And　I　am　sure　that　the　money　I　pay　her　is　the　least　part　of　her　reward。　She　is　such　an　old…fashioned　person　that　the　mere　discharge　of　what　she　deems　a　duty　is　in　itself　an　end　to　her；　and　the　work　of　her　hands　in　itself　a　satisfaction；　a　pride。

When　a　child；　I　was　permitted　to　handle　on　Sunday　certain　books　which　could　not　be　exposed　to　the　more　careless　usage　of　mon　days；　volumes　finely　illustrated；　or　the　more　handsome　editions　of　familiar　authors；　or　works　which；　merely　by　their　bulk；　demanded　special　care。　Happily；　these　books　were　all　of　the　higher　rank　in　literature；　and　so　there　came　to　be　established　in　my　mind　an　association　between　the　day　of　rest　and　names　which　are　the　greatest　in　verse　and　prose。　Through　my　life　this　habit　has　remained　with　me；　I　have　always　wished　to　spend　some　part　of　the　Sunday　quiet　with　books　which；　at　most　times；　it　is　fatally　easy　to　leave　aside；　ones　very　knowledge　and　love　of　them　serving　as　an　excuse　for　their　neglect　in　favour　of　print　which　has　the　attraction　of　newness。　Homer　and　Virgil；　Milton　and　Shakespeare；　not　many　Sundays　have　gone　by　without　my　opening　one　or　other　of　these。　Not　many　Sundays？　Nay；　that　is　to　exaggerate；　as　one　has　the　habit　of　doing。　Let　me　say　rather　that；　on　many　a　rest…day　I　have　found　mind　and　opportunity　for　such　reading。　Nowadays　mind　and　opportunity　fail　me　never。　I　may　take　down　my　Homer　or　my　Shakespeare　when　I　choose；　but　it　is　still　on　Sunday　that　I　feel　it　most　being　to　seek　the　privilege　of　their　panionship。　For　these　great　ones；　crowned　with　immortality；　do　not　respond　to　him　who　approaches　them　as　though　hurried　by　temporal　care。　There　befits　the　garment　of　solemn　leisure；　the　thought　attuned　to　peace。　I　open　the　volume　somewhat　formally；　is　it　not　sacred；　if　the　word　have　any　meaning　at　all？　And；　as　I　read；　no　interruption　can　befall　me。　The　note　of　a　lin；　the　humming　of　a　bee；　these　are　the　sounds　about　my　sanctuary。　The　page　scarce　rustles　as　it　turns。

VI

Of　how　many　dwellings　can　it　be　said　that　no　word　of　anger　is　ever　heard　beneath　its　roof；　and　that　no　unkindly　feeling　ever　exists　between　the　inmates？　Most　mens　experience　would　seem　to　justify　them　in　declaring　that；　throughout　the　inhabited　world；　no　such　house　exists。　I；　knowing　at　all　events　of　one；　admit　the　possibility　that　there　may　be　more；　yet　I　feel　that　it　is　to　hazard　a　conjecture；　I　cannot　point　with　certainty　to　any　other　instance；　nor　in　all　my　secular　life　（I　speak　as　one　who　has　quitted　the　world）　could　I　have　named　a　single　example。

It　is　so　difficult　for　human　beings　to　live　together；　nay；　it　is　so　difficult　for　them　to　associate；　however　transitorily；　and　even　under　the　most　favourable　conditions；　without　some　shadow　of　mutual　offence。　Consider　the　differences　of　task　and　of　habit；　the　conflict　of　prejudices；　the　divergence　of　opinions　（though　that　is　probably　the　same　thing）；　selves　between　any　two　persons　brought　into　more　than　casual　contact；　and　think　how　much　self…subdual　is　implicit　whenever；　for　more　than　an　hour　or　two；　they　co…exist　in　seeming　harmony。　Man　is　not　made　for　peaceful　intercourse　with　his　fellows；　he　is　by　nature　self…assertive；　monly　aggressive；　always　critical　in　a　more　or　less　hostile　spirit　of　any　characteristic　which　seems　strange　to　him。　That　he　is　capable　of　profound　affections　merely　modifies　here　and　there　his　natural　contentiousness；　and　subdues　its　expression。　Even　love；　in　the　largest　and　purest　sense　of　the　word；　is　no　safeguard　against　perilous　irritation　and　sensibilities　inborn。　And　what　were　the　durability　of　love　without　the　powerful　alliance　of　habit？

Suppose　yourself　endowed　with　such　power　of　hearing　that　all　the　talk　going　on　at　any　moment　beneath　the　domestic　roofs　of　any　town　became　clearly　audible　to　you；　the　dominant　note　would　be　that　of　moods；　tempers；　opinions　at　jar。　Who　but　the　most　amiable　dreamer　can　doubt　it？　This；　mind　you；　is　not　the　same　thing　as　saying　that　angry　emotion　is　the　ruling　force　in　human　life；　the　facts　of　our　civilization　prove　the　contrary。　Just　because；　and　only　because；　the　natural　spirit　of　conflict　finds　such　frequent　scope；　does　human　society　hold　together；　and；　on　the　whole；　present　a　pacific　aspect。　In　the　course　of　ages　（one　would　like　to　know　how　many）　man　has　attained　a　remarkable　degree　of　self…control；　dire　experience　has　forced　upon　him　the　necessity　of　promise；　and　habit　has　inclined　him　（the　individual）　to　prefer　a　quiet；　orderly　life。　But　by　instinct　he　is　still　a　quarrelsome　creature；　and　he　gives　vent　to　the　impulse　as　far　as　it　is　patible　with　his　reasoned　interests……　often；　to　be　sure；　without　regard　for　that　limit。　The　average　man　or　woman　is　always　at　open　discord　with　some　one；　the　great　majority　could　not　live　without　oft…recurrent　squabble。　Speak　in　confidence　with　any　one　you　like；　and　get　him　to　tell　you　how　many　cases　of　coldness；　alienation；　or　downright　enmity；　between　friends　and　kinsfolk；　his　memory　registers；　the　number　will　be　considerable；　and　what　a　vastly　greater　number　of　everyday　〃misunderstandings〃　may　be　thence　inferred！　Verbal　contention　is；　of　course；　moner　among　the　poor　and　the　vulgar　than　in　the　class　of　well…bred　people　living　at　their　ease；　but　I　doubt　whether　the　lower　ranks　of　society　find　personal　association　much　more　difficult　than　the　refined　minority　above　them。　High　cultivation　may　help　to　self…mand；　but　it　multiplies　the　chances　of　irritative　contact。　In　mansion；　as　in　hovel；　the　strain　of　life　is　perpetually　felt……between　the　married；　between　parents　and　children；　between　relatives　of　every　degree；　between　employers　and　employed。　They　debate；　they　dispute；　they　wrangle；　they　explode……then　nerves　are　relieved；　and　they　are　ready　to　begin　over　again。　Quit　the　home　and　quarrelling　is　less　obvious；　but　it　goes　on　all　about　one。　What　proportion　of　the　letters　delivered　any　morning　would　be　found　to　be　written　in　displeasure；　in　petulance；　in　wrath？　The　postbag　shrieks　insults　or　bursts　with　suppressed　malice。　Is　it　not　wonderful……nay；　is　it　not　the　marvel　of　marvels……that　human　life　has　reached　such　a　high　point　of　public　and　private　organization？

And　gentle　idealists　utter　their　indignant　wonder　at　the　continuance　of　war！　Why；　it　passes　the　wit　of　man　to　explain　how　it　is　that　nations　are　ever　at　peace！　For；　if　only　by　the　rarest　good　fortune　do　individuals　associate　harmoniously；　there　would　seem　to　be　much　less　likelihood　of　mutual　understanding　and　good…will　between　the　peoples　of　alien　lands。　As　a　matter　of　fact；　no　two　nations　are　ever　friendly；　in　the　sense　of　truly　liking　each　other；　with　the　reciprocal　criticism　of　countries　there　always　mingles　a　sentiment　of　animosity。　The　original　meaning　of　hostis　is　merely　stranger；　and　a　stranger　who　is　likewise　a　foreigner　will　only　by　curious　exception　fail　to　stir　antipathy　in　the　average　human　being。　Add　to　this　that　a　great　number　of　persons　in　every　country　find　their　delight　and　their　business　in　exasperating　international　disrelish；　and　with　what　vestige　of　mon　sense　can　one　feel　surprise　that　war　is　ceaselessly　talked　of；　often　enough　declared。　In　da