22 A GOOD WORD FOR WINTER. 



give the true relish. They are as good company, the worst 

 of them, as any I know, and I am not a little flattered by a 

 condescension from any one of them ; but I happen to hold 

 Winter s retainer this time, and, like an honest advocate, am 

 bound to make as good a showing as I can for him, even if 

 it cost a few slurs upon the rest of the household. Moreover, 

 Winter is coming, and one would like to get on the blind 

 side of him. 



The love of Nature in and for herself, or as a mirror for 

 the moods of the mind, is a modern thing. The fleeing to 

 her as an escape from man was brought into fashion by 

 Rousseau ; for his prototype Petrarch, though he had a taste 

 for pretty scenery, had a true antique horror for the grander 

 aspects of nature. He got once to the top of Mount Ventoux, 

 but it is very plain that he did not enjoy it. Indeed, it is 

 only within a century or so that the search after the 

 picturesque has been a safe employment. It is not so even 

 now in Greece or Southern Italy. Where the Anglo-Saxon 

 carves his cold fowl, and leaves the relics of his picnic, the 

 ancient or mediaeval man might be pretty confident that 

 some ruffian would try the edge of his knife on a chicken of 

 the Platonic sort, and leave more precious bones as an 

 offering to the genius of the place. The ancients were cer 

 tainly more social than we, though that, perhaps, was natural 

 enough, when a good part of the world was still covered with 

 forest. They huddled together in cities as well for safety as 

 to keep their minds warm. The Romans had a fondness for 

 country life, but they had fine roads, and Rome was always 

 within easy reach. The author of the Book of Job is the 

 earliest I know of who showed any profound sense of the 

 moral meaning of the outward world ; and I think none has 

 approached him since, though Wordsworth comes nearest 

 with the first two books of the Prelude. But their feeling 

 is not precisely of the kind I speak of as modern, and which 

 gave rise to what is called descriptive poetry. Chaucer 

 opens his Clerk s Tale with a bit of landscape admirable 

 for its large style, and as well composed as any Claude. 



There is right at the west end of Itaille, 



Down at the root of Vesulus the cold, 



A lusty plain abundant of vitaille, 



Where many a tower and town thou mayst behold, 



That founded were in time of fathers old, 



And many an other delectable sight ; 



And Saluces this noble country hight. 



