s, jays and such-like, and doubtless in former days included wolves,
boars, roe-deer and stags, beings which, as Walt Whitman truly remarks,
do not worry themselves about their souls.

With this question, however, we need not concern ourselves. To me,
after stumbling by chance on the little church in that solitary woodland
place, the story of its origin was accepted as true; no doubt it had
come down unaltered from generation to generation through all those
centuries, and it moved my pity yet was a delight to hear, as great
perhaps as it had been to listen to the beautiful chimes many times
multiplied from the wooded hill. And if I have a purpose in this book,
which is without a purpose, a message to deliver and a lesson to teach,
it is only this--the charm of the unknown, and the infinitely greater
pleasure in discovering the interesting things for ourselves than in
informing ourselves of them by reading. It is like the difference in
flavour in wild fruits and all wild meats found and gathered by our own
hands in wild places and that of the same prepared and put on the table
for us. The ever-varying aspects of nature, of earth and sea and cloud,
are a perpetual joy to the artist, who waits and watches for their
appearance, who knows that sun and atmosphere have for him revelations
without end. They come and go and mock his best efforts; he knows that
his striving is in vain--that his weak hands and earthy pigments cannot
reproduce these effects or express his feeling--that, as Leighton said,
"every picture is a subject thrown away." But he has his joy none the
less; it is in the pursuit and in the dream of capturing something
illusive, mysterious, and inexpressibly beautiful.

Chapter Two: On Going Back

In looking over the preceding chapter it occurred to me that I had
omitted something, or rather that it would have been well to drop a word
of warning to those who have the desire to revisit a place where they
have experienced a delightful surprise. Alas! they cannot have that
sensation a second time, and on this account alone the mental image
must always be better than its reality. Let the image--the first sharp
impression--content us. Many a beautiful picture is spoilt by the artist
who cannot be satisfied that he has made the best of his subject, and
retouching his canvas to bring out some subtle charm which made the
work a success loses it altogether. So in going back, the result of
the inevitable disillu