Outside London 



ings, touches of brush or chisel. Let us look at our 

 lives. I mean to say that there is no nation so 

 thoroughly and earnestly artistic as the English in 

 their lives, their joys, their thoughts, their hopes. 

 Who loves nature like an Englishman? Do Italians 

 care for their pale skies ? I never heard so. We go 

 all over the world in search of beauty to the keen 

 north, to the cape whence the midnight sun is visible, 

 to the extreme south, to the interior of Africa, gazing 

 at the vast expanse of Tanganyika or the marvellous 

 falls of the Zambesi. We admire the temples and 

 tombs and palaces of India; we speak of the 

 Alhambra of Spain almost in whispers, so deep is our 

 reverent admiration ; we visit the Parthenon. There 

 is not a picture or a statue in Europe we have not 

 sought. We climb the mountains for their views and 

 the sense of grandeur they inspire ; we roam over the 

 wide ocean to the coral islands of the far Pacific; we 

 go deep into the woods of the West; and we stand 

 dreamily under the Pyramids of the East. What part 

 is there of the English year which has not been sung 

 by the poets ? all of whom are full of its loveliness ; 

 and our greatest of all, Shakespeare, carries, as it 

 were, armfuls of violets, and scatters roses and golden 

 wheat across his pages, which are simply fields written 

 with human life. 



This is art indeed art in the mind and soul, 

 infinitely deeper, surely, than the construction of 

 crockery, jugs for the mantelpiece, dados, or even 

 of paintings. The lover of nature has the highest 

 art in his soul. So, I think, the bluff English farmer 

 who takes such pride and delight in his dogs and 

 horses, is a much greater man of art than any French- 

 man preparing with cynical dexterity of hand some 

 coloured presentment of flashy beauty for the salon. 

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