is accused as a monotony.  But those who find its modesty delightful may have a still more delicate pleasure in the blooming and blossoming of the sea.  The passing from the winter blue to the summer blue, from the cold colour to the colour that has in it the fire of the sun, the kindling of the sapphire of the Mediterranean—­the significance of these sea-seasons, so far from the pasture and the harvest, is imperceptible to ordinary senses, as appears from the fact that so few stay to see it all fulfilled.  And if the tourist stayed, he would no doubt violate all that is lovely and moderate by the insistence of his descriptions.  He would find adjectives for the blue sea, but probably he would refuse to search for words for the white.  A white Mediterranean is not in the legend.  Nevertheless it blooms, now and then, pale as an opal; the white sea is the flower of the breathless midsummer.  And in its clear, silent waters, a few days, in the culmination of the heat, bring forth translucent living creatures, many-shaped jelly-fish, coloured like mother-of-pearl.

But without going so far from the landscape of daily life, it is in agricultural Italy that the little less makes so undesignedly, and as it were so inevitably, for beauty.  The country that is formed for use and purpose only is immeasurably the loveliest.  What a lesson in literature!  How feelingly it persuades us that all except a very little of the ornament of letters and of life makes the dulness of the world.  The tenderness of colour, the beauty of series and perspective, and the variety of surface, produced by the small culture of vegetables, are among the charms that come unsought, and that are not to be found by seeking—­are never to be achieved if they are sought for their own sake.  And another of the delights of the useful laborious land is its vitality.  The soil may be thin and dry, but man’s life is added to its own.  He has embanked the hill to make little platforms for the growth of wheat in the light shadows of olive leaves.  Thanks to the metayer land-tenure, man’s heart, as well as his strength, is given to the ground, with his hope and his honour.  Louis Blanc’s ‘point of honour of industry’ is a conscious impulse—­it is not too much to say—­with most of the Tuscan contadini; but as each effort they make for their master they make also for the bread of their children, it is no wonder that the land they cultivate has a look of life.  But in all colour, in all luxury, and in all that gives material for picturesque English, this lovely scenery for food and wine and raiment has that little less to which we desire to recall a rhetorical world.

MR. COVENTRY PATMORE’S ODES