There is a valley in South England remote from ambition and from fear where the passage of strangers is rare and unperceived, and where the scent of the grass in summer is breathed only by those who are native to that unvisited land. The roads that go to the Channel do not traverse it; one track alone leads through it to the hills, and this changeable: now green where men have little occasion to go, now a good road where it nears the homesteads and the barns, The woods grow steep above the slopes; and when they cannot attain them, fill in and clothe the coombes. And, in between, along the floor of the valley, deep pastures and their silence are bordered by lawns of chalky grass and the small yew trees of the Downs. The clouds that visit its sky reveal themselves beyond the one great rise. But the plains above which they have travelled and the Weald to which they go, the people of the valley cannot see and hardly recall. The wind, when it reaches such fields, is no longer a gale from the salt, but fruitful and soft, an inland breeze; and those whose blood was nourished here feel in that wind the fruitfulllness of our orchards and all the life that all things draw from the air. In this place, when I was a boy, I pushed through a fringe of beeches that made a complete screen between me and the world, and I came to glade called No Man's Land. I climbed beyond it, and I was surprised and glad, because from the low ridge of that glade I saw the sea. To this place very lately I returned. The many things that I recovered as I can up the countryside were not less charming than when a distant memory had enshrined them, but much more. Whatever veil is thrown by a longing recollection had not intensified nor even made more mysterious the beauty of that happy ground; not in my very dreams of morning had I, in exile, seen it more beloved or morer are.