THE JULY FIELDS 119 



" Fruitless, aimless world " ? Why, willy-nilly, 

 Nature moulds him — even by allowing him to 

 think he is moulding her. 



Behold these meadows ! Will he take them and 

 mould them to anything better than they are? 

 No, he certainly will not. Will he give them an 

 aim higher than they possess at present? Pos- 

 sibly. There is, however, only one way by which 

 he may succeed ; let him unbend, and let him 

 gather these meadows closer to his heart and 

 understanding : let him transport what he can of 

 them to his parks and gardens. But let him not 

 for one moment imagine that by so doing he is 

 " moulding " them ; for, indubitably, it is they 

 who will be moulding him. 



And for this reason : Alpine fields are such 

 superlatively true art that he cannot but find in 

 them, as in all true art, a common ground of 

 interest, fellowship, happiness, advancement ; "a 

 means" — as Tolstoi says of true art — "of union 

 among men, joining them together in the same 

 feelings" — feelings that must ameliorate, must 

 refine. 



We are now nearing the dread but necessary 

 moment when the scythe will be laying low the 



