Obviously in some of us the passion for nature and natural beauty is so predominant that if it be starved (as it must needs be in a great city) or only tantalized by the sight of pictures reminding us of woods, and hills, and fresh breezes when we are stifled and jostled in the crowded rooms of Burlington House, we miss so much out of life that nothing can make up for it, and no pleasures of the intellect in the company of clever people, or gratification of taste in the most luxurious home, is sufficient to banish the regret. A young branch swaying in the breeze of spring, and the song of the lark rising out of the thyme and the clover, are better than all the pictures, the concerts, the conversations which the town can offer. And just in the opposite way, there are others amongst us in whom the whole æsthetic element is subordinate to the social; and who long to take a part in the world's work, rather than to stand by and watch the grand panorama of summer and winter move before them while they remain passive. Is it not patently absurd to talk as if persons so differently constituted as these could find happiness — the one where his ingrained passion for nature is permanently denied its innocent and easy gratification — the other, where his no less deeply-rooted interest in the concerns of his kind is narrowed within the petty sphere of rural social life.
But let us now pass on, hoping that we have found the round man for the round hole, and the square man for the square one. What are the more hidden and recondite charms of the two modes of life, whose superficial characteristics the Town Mouse and the Country Mouse have rehearsed? What is the meaning in the first place of that taste for "Life at High Pressure," against which Mr. Greg cautions us, and Mr. Matthew Arnold inveighs? Why was it that the sage Dr. Johnson felt undoubtedly a twinge of the same unholy passion when he remarked to the faithful Boswell how delightful it was to drive fast in a post-chaise — in such a post-chaise, and over such roads as existed in his time? I apprehend that the love for rapid movement comes from the fact that it always conveys to us a sense of vivid volition, and effectually stirs both our pulses and our brains, causing us not only to seem to ourselves, but actually to become, more intelligent. At first the bustle and hurry of London life bewilder the visitor, and finding it impossible to think, move, and speak, as fast as is needful, he feels like a feeble old lady arm-in-arm with Jack in his seven-league boots. But after a little while he learns to step out mentally as rapidly as his neighbours, and thereby acquires the double satisfaction of the intrinsic pleasure of thinking quickly, and not dwelling on ideas till they become tedious, and the further sense of gratified vanity in being as clever as other people. This last is again a curious source of metropolitan satisfaction. It is all very well to boast of having "also dwelt in Arcadia." Such pastoral pride is humility beside the conceit of being a thorough-bred Londoner. There may live many men with souls so dead as never to themselves to have said — anything signifying peculiar appropriation of the soil of Scotland, or of any other "native land." But who has ever yet met a Cockney who was not from the bottom to the top of his soul proud of being a Londoner, and deeply convinced that he and his fellows can alone be counted as standing eminent "in the foremost files of time"? Of course whilst he is actually in London, he has no provocation to betray his self-satisfaction among people who can all make the same boast. But watch him the moment he passes into the country, the pains which he takes that the natives shall fully understand what manner of man — even a Londoner — they have the privilege of entertaining, and no doubt will remain as to how immensely superior he feels himself to be from those who habitually dwell "far from the madding crowd." If he wander into the remoter provinces, say of Scotland, Wales, or Ireland, there is always in his recognition of the hospitality shown to him, a tone like that of the shipwrecked apostle, "the barbarous people there showed us no small kindness;" and he manages to convey by looks, words, and manners, his astonishment at any vestiges of civilization he may meet on those distant shores, and his graceful forbearance in putting up with the delicious fresh fruit, cream, vegetables, and home-fed beef and mutton of his entertainers in lieu of the stale produce of the London shops. One such stranded Cockney I have known to remark that he "observed" that the eggs at N——, and at another country house where he occasionally visited, had in them a "peculiar milky substance," about whose merits he seemed doubtful; and another I have heard after landing at Holyhead on his return from Ireland, complacently com-
