“Well, put aside the verse-making: don’t
you find a sensible enjoyment in those solitary summer
walks, when you have Nature all to yourself,—enjoyment
in marking all the mobile evanescent changes in her
face,—her laugh, her smile, her tears, her
very frown!”
“Assuming that by Nature you mean a mechanical
series of external phenomena, I object to your speaking
of a machinery as if it were a person of the feminine
gender,—her laugh, her smile,
etc. As well talk of the laugh and smile
of a steam-engine. But to descend to common-sense.
I grant there is some pleasure in solitary rambles
in fine weather and amid varying scenery. You
say that it is a holiday excursion that you are enjoying.
I presume, therefore, that you have some practical
occupation which consumes the time that you do not
devote to a holiday?”
“Yes; I am not altogether an idler. I
work sometimes, though not so hard as I ought.
‘Life is earnest,’ as the poet says.
But I and my dog are rested now, and as I have still
a long walk before me I must wish you good-day.”
“I fear,” said Kenelm, with a grave and
sweet politeness of tone and manner, which he could
command at times, and which, in its difference from
merely conventional urbanity, was not without fascination,—“I
fear that I have offended you by a question that must
have seemed to you inquisitive, perhaps impertinent;
accept my excuse: it is very rarely that I meet
any one who interests me; and you do.”
As he spoke he offered his hand, which the wayfarer
shook very cordially.
“I should be a churl indeed if your question
could have given me offence. It is rather perhaps
I who am guilty of impertinence, if I take advantage
of my seniority in years and tender you a counsel.
Do not despise Nature or regard her as a steam-engine;
you will find in her a very agreeable and conversable
friend if you will cultivate her intimacy. And
I don’t know a better mode of doing so at your
age, and with your strong limbs, than putting a knapsack
on your shoulders and turning foot-traveller like
myself.”
“Sir, I thank you for your counsel; and I trust
we may meet again and interchange ideas as to the
thing you call Nature,—a thing which science
and art never appear to see with the same eyes.
If to an artist Nature has a soul, why, so has a
steam-engine. Art gifts with soul all matter
that it contemplates: science turns all that is
already gifted with soul into matter. Good-day,
sir.”
Here Kenelm turned back abruptly, and the traveller
went his way, silently and thoughtfully.
KENELM retraced his steps homeward under the shade
of his “old hereditary trees.” One
might have thought his path along the greenswards,
and by the side of the babbling rivulet, was pleasanter
and more conducive to peaceful thoughts than the broad,
dusty thoroughfare along which plodded the wanderer
he had quitted. But the man addicted to revery
forms his own landscapes and colours his own skies.
