206 RIVERBY 



them, and was loath to lay them down, they were so 

 full of suggestion of the dear land and home she had 

 so lately left. I suppose it was a happy surprise to 

 her to find that the earth had the same fresh, moist 

 smell here that it had in Ireland, and yielded the 

 same crisp tubers. The canny creature had always 

 worked in the fields, and the love of the soil and 

 of homely country things was deep in her heart. 

 Another emigrant from over the seas, a laboring man, 

 confined to the town, said to me in his last illness, 

 that he believed he would get well if he could again 

 walk in the fields. A Frenchman who fled the city 

 and came to the country said, with an impressive 

 gesture, that he wanted to be where he could see 

 the blue sky over his head. 



These little incidents are but glints or faint 

 gleams of that love of Nature to which I would 

 point, an affection for the country itself, and not 

 a mere passing admiration for its beauties. A great 

 many people admire Nature; they write admiring 

 things about her; they apostrophize her beauties; 

 they describe minutely pretty scenes here and there ; 

 they climb mountains to see the sun set, or the sun 

 rise, or make long journeys to find waterfalls, but 

 Nature's real lover listens to their enthusiasm with 

 coolness and indifference. Nature is not to be 

 praised or patronized. You cannot go to her and 

 describe her; she must speak through your heart. 

 The woods and fields must melt into your mind, 

 dissolved by your love for them. Did they not 

 melt into Wordsworth's mind? They colored all 



