OUTSIDE LONDON. 235 



onward. The curve of the greyhound is not only 

 the line of beauty, but a line which suggests motion ; 

 and it is the idea of motion, I think, which so strongly 

 appeals to the mind. 



We are often scornfully treated as a nation by 

 people who write about art, because they say we 

 have no taste; we cannot make art jugs for the 

 mantelpiece, crockery for the bracket, screens for 

 the fire ; we cannot even decorate the wall of a room 

 as it should be done. If these are the standards by 

 which a sense of art is to be tried, their scorn is to a 

 certain degree just. But suppose we try another 

 standard. Let us put aside the altogether false 

 opinion that art consists alone in something actually 

 made, or painted, or decorated, in carvings, colour- 

 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 Alham- 

 bra 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 



