only raises the spirits, but inspires and elevates our whole being.
Those who love Nature can never be dull. They may have other temptations, but at least they will run no risk of being beguiled by ennui, idleness, or want of occupation, "to buy the merry madness of an hour with the long penitence of after time." The love of Nature, again, helps us greatly to keep ourselves free from those mean and petty cares which interfere so much with calm and peace of mind; it turns "every ordinary walk into a morning or evening sacrifice," and brightens life until it becomes almost like a fairy tale.
"Moonlight on the lake."
In the romances of the Middle Ages we read of knights who loved, and were loved by, Nature spirits—of Sir Launfal and the Fairy Tryamour, who furnished him with many good things, including a magic purse in which
As oft as thou puttest thy hand therein,
A mark of gold thou shalt iwinne,
as well as protection from the main dangers of life. Such times have passed away, but better ones have come. It is not now merely the few who are so favoured. All those who love Nature, she loves in return, and will richly reward, not perhaps with the good things, as they are commonly called, but with the best things of this world; not with money and titles, horses and carriages, but with bright and happy thoughts, contentment and peace of mind.
Happy indeed is the Naturalist; to him the seasons come round like old friends, to him the birds sing, and as he walks along, the flowers stretch out from the hedges and look up from the ground. "Year after year, as the flowers die away and the earth is once more bare, he looks back delighted on the pleasant months along which he has walked hand-in-hand with Nature; for he feels that his intelligence has been strengthened, his temper sweetened, his love of God increased, by fellowship with her changes, study of her secrets, reverence for her works."[1]
Though we can never "remount the river of our years," he who loves Nature is always young."
But what is the love of Nature? Some people seem to think they show a love of flowers by gathering them. How often one finds a bunch of withered blossoms on the roadside; plucked only to be thrown away! Is this love of Nature? It is, on the contrary, a wicked waste, for a waste of beauty is almost the worst waste of all.
If we could imagine a day prolonged for a lifetime, or nearly so, and that sunrise and sunset were rare events which happened but a few times to each of us, we should certainly be entranced by the beauty of the morning and evening tints. The golden rays of the morning are a fortune in themselves; but we overlook, in fact, the loveliness of Nature, because it is constantly before us. For "the senseless folk," says King Arthur, "is far more struck at things it seldom sees."
Well says Cicero: "Well did Aristotle observe: If there were men whose habitations had been always underground, in great and commodious houses, adorned with statues and pictures, furnished with everything which they who are reputed
- ↑ Tuckwell.
