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