OUTDOOR LIFE IN LITERATURE. II 
reflects but does not observe. It sees what it brings 
with it the power of seeing, what it has been accus- 
tomed to see, what it is looking for. Mrs. Barbauld’s 
familiar story, ‘““Eyes and no Eyes, or the Art of 
Seeing,” illustrates my meaning: Robert comes back 
wearied with his walk; William comes, refreshed by a 
delightful ramble, every step of which brought a new 
pleasure. 
If the object sought is rest merely, it may be 
found in outdoor life better than elsewhere. The view 
of a broad New England landscape, especially on a 
summer day, with its meadow intervals, sparkling 
streams or lakes, with its distant hills or mountains 
woody-sloped, the various shades of green which clothe 
it, from the sombre colors of the pine to the bright, 
fresh green of the waving corn, here a broad band of 
brightest sunlight, there a dark shadow moved as by an 
invisible hand over it, the cattle browsing quietly on 
the hillside or standing in the cooling stream,—the 
view of such a landscape, lovingly gazed upon, cannot 
but bring peace to the wearied soul and rest to the 
tired body. A landscape is not a page of a book, to be 
taken in with a glance of the eye. It is the book itself, 
and the leaves must be turned if the book is to be read. 
It is néver the same for long at a time, nor produces 
the same effect, although it may impress us equally 
with its constant beauty. Under the blush of early 
