CHAPTER XII 



TOWARDS THE BORDER 



I CANNOT subscribe to Mr. Chesterton's epigram 

 that " It is not only nonsense but bhisphemy to 

 say that man has spoilt the country," for in a wild 

 hill country cultivation is hateful. It is, I know, 

 a necessary evil, but I could wish that it were 

 carried on without marring the beauty of 

 mountains. In tlie low country it is another 

 matter, and waving fields of corn spread about 

 a plain produce a soothing and very pleasing effect 

 upon the mind, turning it insensibly to thoughts 

 of a home and the swelling of church bells. Par- 

 ticularly is this the case if the observer reflects 

 upon such a scene whilst on a journey. The fields 

 move past him in one soft, easily-moving panorama. 

 The monotonous tedium of everyday life is 

 abolished, and over the dullest prospect is thrown 

 an air of romance which, were the traveller to 

 investigate at first-hand, would melt at his too 

 corporeal touch as the fanciful realities of a dream 

 melt at the coming of the day. For romance is 

 ever intangible. W^e snatch at it with eager 

 fingers as it flies before us, an elusive will-o'-the- 

 wisp. But the homesteads we see, bowered in 

 trees, within sound of ruiming waters, fixed and 



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