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.