answer has literature to this?" Here he showed a third sketch.
"I know nothing of literature," I said; "I am a journalist."
He sighed with relief, and pointed to a yellow thatched house with windows open on to the sea, and behind the house the usual dark trees and silver sky.
"There," he exclaimed, "literature does not believe in or understand the honest life, bound up with the seasons and beauty which is expressed by that simple scene. See, there, equal laws, harmony, aims unspotted by the world, not fearing nor loving kings. Any thoughtful man living in a scene like that would be wiser, and it would be impossible for him to err. I myself would venture to be a Daphnis or Menalcas again there. I can hear the one living pastoral poet saying in that cottage by the sea—
The cows are crowding round the gate.
An hour or more, the sun has set;
The stars are out; the grass is wet;
The glow-worms shine; the beetles hum;
The moon is near—come, Phyllis, come!
Among the quick and bramble thorns;
The red cow jerks the padlock chain;
The dun cow shakes her bell again,
And round and round the chestnut tree,
The white cow bellows lustily."…
He knew all four verses by heart.
"Your aims are wonderful," I stammered. "If I could only see you at work, if you would only show me the scenes which inspire such antique and lofty emotions…"
"See! this is London—nothing but trees—I have seen
