impression which is the test of the highest beauty. Yet these again
are beauties of a sensational order which beat insistently upon the
dullest mind. The true connoisseur of natural beauty acquiesces in,
nay prefers, an economy, an austerity of effect. The curve of a
wood seen a hundred times before, the gentle line of a fallow, a
little pool among the pastures, fringed with rushes, the long blue
line of the distant downs, the cloud-perspective, the still sunset
glow--these will give him ever new delights, and delights that grow
with observation and intuition.

I have spoken hitherto of nature as she appears; to the unruffled,
the perceptive mind; but let us further consider what relation
nature can bear to the burdened heart and the overshadowed mood. Is
there indeed a vis medicatrix in nature which can heal our grief
and console our anxieties? "The country for a wounded heart" says
the old proverb. Is that indeed true? I am here inclined to part
company with wise men and poets who have spoken and sung of the
consoling power of nature. I think it is not so. It is true that
anything which we love very deeply has a certain power of
distracting the mind. But I think there is no greater agony than to
be confronted with tranquil passionate beauty, when the heart and
spirit are out of tune with it. In the days of one's joy, nature
laughs with us; in the days of vague and fantastic melancholy,
there is an air of wistfulness, of mystery, that ministers to our
luxurious sadness. But when one bears about the heavy burden of a
harassing anxiety of sorrow, then the smile on the face of nature
has something poisonous, almost maddening about it. It breeds an
emotion that is like the rage of Othello when he looks upon the
face of Desdemona, and believes her false. Nature has no sympathy,
no pity. She has her work to do, and the swift and bright process