The Naturalist in La Plata eBook

perfect confidence in his rider is necessary; and he must be made to go at a swift and smooth pace over level grassy ground.  With these conditions the sensation is positively delightful.  Nothing of earth is visible, only the vast circle of the heavens glittering with innumerable stars; the muffled sound of the hoofs on the soft sward becomes in fancy only the rushing of the wings of our Pegasus, while the enchanting illusion that we are soaring through space possesses the mind.  Unfortunately, however, this method of riding is impracticable in England.  And, even if people with enthusiasm enough could be found to put it in practice by importing swift light-footed Arabian or pampa horses, and careering about level parks on dark starry nights, probably a shout of derision would be raised against so undignified a pastime.

Apropos of dignity, I will relate, in conclusion, an incident in my London life which may possibly interest psychologists.  Some time ago in Oxford Street I got on top of an omnibus travelling west.  My mind was preoccupied, I was anxious to get home, and, in an absent kind of way, I became irritated at the painfully slow rate of progress.  It was all an old familiar experience, the deep thought, lessening pace, and consequent irritation.  The indolent brute I imagined myself riding was, as usual, taking advantage of his rider’s abstraction; but I would soon “feelingly persuade” him that I was not so far gone as to lose sight of the difference between a swinging gallop and a walk.  So, elevating my umbrella, I dealt the side of the omnibus a sounding blow, very much to the astonishment of my fellow-passengers.  So overgrown are we with usages, habits, tricks of thought and action springing from the soil we inhabit; and when we have broken away and removed ourselves far from it, so long do the dead tendrils still cling to us!

CHAPTER XXIV,

SEEN AND LOST,

We can imagine what the feelings of a lapidary would be—­an enthusiast whose life is given to the study of precious stones, and whose sole delight is in the contemplation of their manifold beauty—­if a stranger should come in to him, and, opening his hand, exhibit a new unknown gem, splendid as ruby or as sapphire, yet manifestly no mere variety of any familiar stone, but differing as widely from all others as diamond from opal or cat’s-eye; and then, just when he is beginning to rejoice in that strange exquisite loveliness, the hand should close and the stranger, with a mocking smile on his lips, go forth and disappear from sight in the crowd.  A feeling such as that would be is not unfrequently experienced by the field naturalist whose favoured lot it is to live in a country not yet “thoroughly worked out,” with its every wild inhabitant scientifically named, accurately described, and skilfully figured in some colossal monograph.  One swift glance of the practised eye, ever eagerly searching for some