Than be the king of men elsewhere,
And most sovereign slave of care;
To have one moment of thy dawn,
Than share the city's year forlorn.
THOREAU
The enthusiastic nature poetry of James Thompson, called "The Seasons," came as a shock to that inbred lover of the city streets, the taverns and town activities, Doctor Samuel Johnson. In these poems, the Doctor found that natural objects which before had hardly been worthy of attention were made to appear beautiful. We must believe that after having read "Spring," "Summer," "Autumn," and "Winter," upon his infrequent excursions beyond the environs of the great metropolis he saw new beauties in the hitherto common-place landscapes, responded to the color in the fields and hedgerows, became interested in fantastic cloud effects, heard music in the streams, the waterfalls and in the songs of birds. For how many of us have arisen new sources of joy in Nature's beauteous wonderland at the instigation of poets, essayists and novelists who have seen and read with loving eyes
Of this fair volume which we World do name.
In an ardent conversation upon the power of certain poets a friend told me that the Anglo-Saxon world looked at Nature through Wordsworth's spectacles. He maintained that the reaction of nature upon even those who have never read a poem by this poet was influenced by his poetry; Wordsworth's interpretation of Nature had so permeated nineteenth century religion and literature that it was impossible for even the casual newspaper reader to escape it. We do not directly acknowledge our debt, but the garden clubs, the bird-study societies, the surburbanite who throughout the year will spend an hour and a half in the train, in order, on the way to the station in the early morning, to obtain the pleasures of Nature's awakening, and her retirement upon his return at twilight, and the Saturday afternoon golfer who, after holing his ball, looks beyond the course at the green whispering woods and rolling hills, expands his chest and murmurs "This is the life," are all unconsciously paying part tribute to the poet who wrote,
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours.
We need a love of nature to-day, as we have never needed it before. In the terrific complexity and speed of our external existence we crave the quiet, internal stimulus to meditation and dreams that comes from the Great Mother's intricate, manifold, yet untempestuous method of doing things. From the close hatches of the city where the noise, the smells, and the turmoil seem all man-made, we must get away to the fields and blossoming pastures to find our souls alone with ourselves and the Great God Pan. To those who answer the call of the wild, or even the call of the suburban garden, there come new strength and new conceptions of beauty, to apply to the work of the world to which we have lent our hand. The call is being answered,—man goes back to his own. We see it on every side: no one in any walk of life seems so humble or satisfied not to desire some day to own a farm; most summer resorts where there were formerly many a "flanneled fool" have now become "Adamless Edens," for our young men have answered the call of the Red Gods, and have packed their kits for the trail that leads to the tall timbers of solitude, of balsam, of camp fires and dreams.