says the soul-tossed, self-torturing Byron. Books, music, art, the drama, philosophy, science--at bottom there seems to be something disquieting in these. They come in such questionable shape. They are the works of man; and we never altogether trust the works of man. We never feel, even with the first of those who know, that our fellow-man, who is, after all, like unto ourselves, has answered every question, allayed every doubt, stilled every fear. Was something of this in Matthew Arnold's mind when he cried: "One lesson, _Nature_, let me learn of thee," and prayed her to calm, to compose him to the end?--But enough in praise of calm. Calm is compatible with the highest and most exuberant spirits. Indeed, high and exuberant spirits are the first and natural outcome of a mind at peace with itself. Good old Walton is continually breaking out into pious or pastoral song--and making milkmaids and milkmaids' mothers break out into song, too. XV Evening Meditations § 21 If, as Messieurs _Piscator_, _Venator_, and _Auceps_, and their tuneful milkmaids, show, early morning walks tend to blithesomeness of heart, evening walks tend perhaps to meditation of mind. As day wears on--I do not know, I may be wrong, but to me it seems that as day wears on it takes a more sombre aspect. It was at dusk that Gray's Elegy was written. In the very sound of Milton's simple words, "Then came still evening on," there is to me an echo of quietness, perhaps of melancholy.--Many a lesson I have learned by quiet meditation in quiet scenes, prolonged far into the night.--Indeed, he is a wise walker who chooses for himself one or more secluded spots, sequestered deep, whither he may go, there to commune with himself; or to hold high converse with the mighty dead; or to lend an expectant ear for the dryads of the woods; or, if nothing more, to rid him of the petty perturbations incident to a life lived between four walls, a floor, and a ceiling, and broken into fragments by clocks which strike the hours and watches which point to the minute. § 22 One such spot I have, and from it many a lesson I have learned.--It is a great amphitheatre, Nature-made, vast and open. It slopes to the north and west, and all about it and about are green trees--green trees and shrubs and lowly plants. In the whole space I am the one spectator--save for little grasses that stand on tiptoe to look and listen; save for little weeds that nod their heads; and a beetle crawling heedless over dry and shining grains of sand. In the orchestral centre, where, in ancient Greece, should stand the lighted altar, there chances to be a little crimson maple; and behind and beyond rise verdant hills. Before me, as where should be the stage, stand, in green habiliments, beech and elm and fir; oak and cedar; lithe and virginal saplings; broad-shouldered pines, staid and stalwart--a goodly company, goodly and green, wondrous green; and for me they act and pose and sing.... The drama opens.