236 THE OPEN AIR. 



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 lovehness ; 

 and our greatest of all, Shakspeare> 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 EngHsh farmer 

 who takes such pride and delight in his dogs and 

 horses, is a much greater man of art than any 

 Frenchman preparing with cynical dexterity of hand 

 some coloured presentment of flashy beauty for the 

 salon. The English girl who loves her horse — and 

 English girls do love their horses most intensely — is 

 infinitely more artistic in that fact than the cleverest 

 painter on enamel. They who love nature are the 

 real artists ; the *' artists " are copyists. St. John 

 the naturalist, when exploring the recesses of the 

 Highlands, relates how he frequently came in contact 

 with men living in the rude Highland way — forty 

 years since, no education then — whom at first you 

 would suppose to be morose, unobservant, almost 

 stupid. But when they found out that their visitor 

 would stay for hours gazing in admiration at their 

 glens and mountains, their demeanour changed. 

 Then the truth appeared: they were fonder than he 



