or　at　least　that　moves　with　〃no　pace　perceived。〃　　The　vibrating
  wings　are　folded；　and　Corot's　wind；　that　flew　through　so　many
  springs；　summers；　and　Septembers　for　him　（he　was　seldom　a　painter　of
  very　late　autumn）；　that　was　mingled　with　so　many　aspen…leaves；　that
  strewed　his　forests　with　wood　for　the　gatherer；　and　blew　the　broken
  lights　into　the　glades；　is　charmed　into　stillness；　and　the　sky　into
  another　kind　of　immortality。　　Nor　are　the　trees　in　this　antique
  landscape　the　trees　so　long　intimate　with　Corot's　south…west　wind；
  so　often　entangled　with　his　uncertain　twilights。　　They　are　as　quiet
  as　the　cloud；　and　such　as　the　long　and　wild　breezes　of　Romance　have
  never　shaken　or　enlaced。
  Upon　all　our　islands　this　south…west　wind　is　the　sea　wind。　　But
  elsewhere　there　are　sea　winds　that　are　not　from　the　south…west。
  They；　too；　none　the　less；　are　conquerors。　　They；　too；　are　always
  strong；　compelling　winds　that　take　possession　of　the　light；　the
  shadow；　the　sun；　moon；　and　stars；　and　constrain　them　all　alike　to
  feel　the　sea。　　Not　a　field；　not　a　hillside；　on　a　sea…wind　day；　but
  shines　with　some　soft　sea…lights。　　The　moon's　little　boat　tosses　on
  a　sea…wind　night。
  The　south…west　wind　takes　the　high　Italian　coasts。　　He　gathers　the
  ilex　woods　together　and　throngs　them　close；　as　a　sheep…dog　gathers
  the　sheep。　　They　crowd　for　shelter；　and　a　great　wall；　leaning　inland
  also；　with　its　strong　base　to　the　sea；　receives　them。　　It　is　blank
  and　sunny；　and　the　trees　within　are　sunny　and　dark；　serried；　and
  their　tops　swept　and　flattened　by　months　of　sea…storms。　　On　the
  farther　side　there　are　gardens　…　gardens　that　have　in　their　midst
  those　quietest　things　in　all　the　world　and　most　windless；　box…hedges
  and　ponds。　　The　gardens　take　shelter　behind　the　scared　and　hurried
  ilex　woods；　and　the　sea…wind　spares　them　and　breaks　upon　the
  mountain。　　But　the　garden　also　is　his；　and　his　wild　warm　days　have
  filled　it　with　orange…trees　and　roses；　and　have　given　all　the
  abundant　charm　to　its　gay　neglect；　to　its　grass…grown　terraces；　and
  to　all　its　lapsed；　forsaken；　and　forgotten　dainties。
  Nothing　of　the　nature　in　this　seaward　Italy　would　be　so　beautiful
  without　the　touch　of　man　and　of　the　sea　gales。
  When　the　south…west　wind　brings　his　rain　he　brings　it　with　the
  majestic　onset　announced　by　his　breath。　　And　when　the　light　follows；
  it　comes　from　his　own　doorway　in　the　verge。　　His　are　the　opened
  evenings　after　a　day　shut　down　with　cloud。　　He　fills　the　air　with
  innumerable　particles　of　moisture　that　scatter　and　bestow　the　sun。
  There　are　no　other　days　like　his；　of　so　universal　a　harmony；　so
  generous。
  The　north　wind　has　his　own　landscape；　too；　but　the　east　wind　never。
  The　aspect　which　he　gives　to　the　day　is　not　all　his　own。　　The
  sunshine　is　sweet　in　spite　of　him。　　The　clouds　go　under　his　whip；
  but　they　have　kinder　greys　than　should　be　the　colours　of　his　cold。
  Not　on　an　east…wind　day　are　these　races　in　heaven；　for　the　clouds
  are　all　far　off。　　His　rain　is　angry；　and　it　flies　against　the
  sunset。　　The　world　is　not　one　in　his　reign；　but　rather　there　is　a
  perpetual　revolt　or　difference。　　The　lights　and　shadows　are　not　all
  his。　　The　waxing　and　waning　hours　are　disaffected。　　He　has　not　a
  great　style；　and　does　not　convince　the　day。
  All　the　four　winds　are　brave；　and　not　the　less　brave　because；　on
  their　way　through　town；　they　are　betrayed　for　a　moment　into　taking
  part　in　any　paltriness　that　may　be　there。　　On　their　way　from　the
  Steppes　to　the　Atlantic　they　play　havoc　with　the　nerves　of　very
  insignificant　people。　　A　part；　as　it　were；　of　every　gale　that　starts
  in　the　far　north…east　finds　its　goal　in　the　breath　of　a　reluctant
  citizen。
  You　will　meet　a　wind　of　the　world　nimble　and　eager　in　a　sorry
  street。　　But　these　are　only　accidents　of　the　way　…　the　winds　go　free
  again。　　Those　that　do　not　go　free；　but　close　their　course；　are　those
  that　are　breathed　by　the　nostrils　of　living　creatures。　　A　great
  flock　of　those　wild　birds　come　to　a　final　pause　in　London；　and　fan
  the　fires　of　life　with　those　wings　in　the　act　of　folding。　　In　the
  blood　and　breath　of　a　child　close　the　influences　of　continent　and
  sea。
  THE　HONOURS　OF　MORTALITY
  The　brilliant　talent　which　has　quite　lately　and　quite　suddenly
  arisen；　to　devote　itself　to　the　use　of　the　day　or　of　the　week；　in
  illustrated　papers　…　the　enormous　production　of　art　in　black　and
  white　…　is　assuredly　a　confession　that　the　Honours　of　Mortality　are
  worth　working　for。　　Fifty　years　ago；　men　worked　for　the　honours　of
  immortality；　these　were　the　commonplace　of　their　ambition；　they
  declined　to　attend　to　the　beauty　of　things　of　use　that　were　destined
  to　be　broken　and　worn　out；　and　they　looked　forward　to　surviving
  themselves　by　painting　bad　pictures；　so　that　what　to　do　with　their
  bad　pictures　in　addition　to　our　own　has　become　the　problem　of　the
  nation　and　of　the　householder　alike。　　To…day　men　have　began　to　learn
  that　their　sons　will　be　grateful　to　them　for　few　bequests。　　Art
  consents　at　last　to　work　upon　the　tissue　and　the　china　that　are
  doomed　to　the　natural　and　necessary　end　…　destruction；　and　art　shows
  a　most　dignified　alacrity　to　do　her　best；　daily；　for　the　〃process；〃
  and　for　oblivion。
  Doubtless　this　abandonment　of　hopes　so　large　at　once　and　so　cheap
  costs　the　artist　something；　nay；　it　implies　an　acceptance　of　the
  inevitable　that　is　not　less　than　heroic。　　And　the　reward　has　been　in
  the　singular　and　manifest　increase　of　vitality　in　this　work　which　is
  done　for　so　short　a　life。　　Fittingly　indeed　does　life　reward　the
  acceptance　of　death；　inasmuch　as　to　die　is　to　have　been　alive。
  There　is　a　real　circulation　of　blood…quick　use；　brief　beauty；
  abolition；　recreation。　　The　honour　of　the　day　is　for　ever　the　honour
  of　that　day。　　It　goes　into　the　treasury　of　things　that　are　honestly
  and　…　completely　ended　and　done　with。　　And　when　can　so　happy　a　thing
  be　said　of　a　lifeless　oil…painting？　　Who　of　the　wise　would　hesitate？
  To　be　honourable　for　one　day　…　one　named　and　dated　day；　separate
  from　all　other　days　of　the　ages　…　or　to　be　for　an　unlimited　time
  tedious？
  AT　MONASTERY　GATES
  No　woman　has　ever　crossed　the　inner　threshold；　or　shall　ever　cross
  it；　unless　a　queen；　English　or　foreign；　should　claim　her　privilege。
  Therefore；　if　a　woman　records　here　the　slighter　things　visible　of
  the　monastic　life；　it　is　only　because　she　was　not　admitted　to　see
  more　than　beautiful　courtesy　and　friendliness　were　able　to　show　her
  in　guest…house　and　garden。
  The　Monastery　is　of　fresh…looking　Gothic；　by　Pugin　…　the　first　of
  the　dynasty：　it　is　reached　by　the　white　roads　of　a　limestone
  country；　and　backed　by　a　young　plantation；　and　it　gathers　its　group
  of　buildings　in　a　cleft　high　up　among　the　hills　of　Wales。　　The　brown
  habit　is　this；　and　these　are　the　sandals；　that　come　and　go　by　hills
  of　finer；　sharper；　and　loftier　line；　edging　the　dusk　and　dawn　of　an
  Umbrian　sky。　　Just　such　a　Via　Crucis　climbs　the　height　above　Orta；
  and　from　the　foot　of　its　final　crucifix　you　can　see　the　sunrise
  touch　the　top　of　Monte　Rosa；　while　the　encircled　lake　below　is　cool
  with　the　last　of　the　night。　　The　same　order　of　friars　keep　that　sub…
  Alpine　Monte　Sacro；　and　the　same　have　set　the　Kreuzberg　beyond　Bonn
  with　the　same　steep　path　by　the　same　fourteen　chapels；　facing　the
  Seven　Mountains　and　the　Rhine。
  Here；　in　North　Wales；　remote　as　the　country　is；　with　the　wheat　green
  over　the　blunt　hill…tops；　and　the　sky　vibrating　with　larks；　a　long
  wing　of　smoke　lies　round　the　horizon。　　The　country；　rather　thinly
  and　languidly　cultivated　above；　has　a　valuable　sub…soil；　and　is
  burrowed　with　mines；　the　breath　of　pit　and　factory；　out　of　sight；
  thickens　the　lower　sky；　and　lies　heavily　over　the　sands　of　Dee。　　It
  leaves　the　upper　blue　clear　and　the　head　of　Orion；　but　dims　the
  flicker　of　Sirius　and　shortens　the　steady　ray　of　the　evening　star。
  The　people　scattered　about　are　not　mining　people；　but　half…hearted
  agriculturists；　and　very　poor。　　Their　cottages　are　rather　cabins；
  not　a　tiled　roof　is　in　the　country；　but　the　slates　have　taken　some
  beauty　with　time；　having　dips　and　dimples；　and　grass　upon　their
  edges。　　The　walls　are　all　thickly　whitewashed；　which　is　a　pleasure
  to　see。　　How　willingly　would　one　swish　the　harmless　whitewash　over
  more　than　half　the　colour　…　over　all　the　chocolate　and　all　the　blue
  …　with　which　the　buildings　of　the　world　are　stained！　　You　could　not
  wish　for　a　better；　simpler；　or　fresher　harmony　than　whitewash　makes
  with　the　slight　sunshine　and　the　bright　grey　of　an　English　sky。
  The　grey…stone；　grey…roofed　monastery　looks　young　in　one　sense　…　it
  is　modern；　and　the　friars　look　young　in　another　…　they　are　like
  their　brothers　of　an　earlier　time。　　No　one；　except　the　journalists
  of　yesterday；　would　spend　upon　them　those　tedious　words；　〃quaint；〃
  or　〃old　world。〃　　No　such　weary　adjectives　are　spoken　here；　unless　it
  be　by　the　excursionists。
  With　large