and I suddenly found myself inspired with a contradictory vein of hopefulness, and became vehement in its defense.  In spite of all the disastrous forebodings I constantly have, I cannot but trust that the spread of enlightenment and general progress of intelligence in the people of this country—­the good judgment of those who have power and the moderation of those who desire improvement—­will effect a change without a crash and achieve reform without revolution.

Wednesday, May 18th.—­My mother and I started at two o’clock for Oatlands.  The day was very enjoyable, for the dust and mitigated east wind were in our backs; the carriage was open, and the sun was almost too powerful, though the earth has not yet lost its first spring freshness, nor the trees, though full fledged, their early vivid green.  The turf has not withered with the heat, and the hawthorn lay thick and fragrant on every hedge, like snow that the winter had forgotten to melt, and the sky above was bright and clear, and I was very happy.  I had taken “The Abbot” with me, which I had never read; but my mother did not sleep, so we chatted instead of my reading.  She recalled all our former times at Weybridge.  It was a great pleasure to retrace this well-known road, and again to see dear old Walton Bridge and the bright, broad Thames, with the noble chestnut trees on its banks, the smooth, smiling fields stretching beyond it, and the swans riding in such happy majesty on its bosom.  I really think I do deserve to live in the country, it is so delightsome to me.  We reached Oatlands an hour before dinner-time and found the party just returned from riding.  We sauntered through part of the grounds to the cemetery of the Duchess of York’s dogs....  We had some music in the evening.  Lady Francis sang and I sang, and was frightened to death, as I always am when asked to do so....

Thursday, 19th.—­A bright sunny morning, the trees all bowing and bending, and the water chafing and crisping under a fresh, strong, but not cold, wind.  I lost my way in the park and walked toward Walton, thinking I was going to Weybridge, but, discovering my mistake, turned about, and crossing the whole park came out upon the common and our old familiar cricketing ground.  I flew along the dear old paths to our little cottage, but “Desolate was the dwelling of Morna”—­the house closed, the vine torn down, the grass knee-deep, the shrubs all trailing their branches and blossoms in disorderly luxuriance on the earth, the wire fence broken down between the garden and the wood, the gate gone; the lawn was sown with wheat, and the little pine wood one tangled maze, without path, entrance, or issue.  I ran up the mound to where John used to stand challenging the echo with his bugle....

O tempo passato!—­the absent may return and the distant be brought near, the dead be raised and in another world rejoin us, but