They did not ask it to express itself in vast horizons, in a display of wild vigour. Untamed Nature displeased them; it struck them as a tyrannical mechanism which would keep moving and straining itself without definite purpose, whilst it should be influenced and controlled by human thought. On the contrary, the more supple Nature became,—the more docile, urbane, almost affectionate—the better she answered their expectations. They did not appreciate the _objects_ of Nature; but they valued a beautiful sunny day, a beautiful horizon, the flowers which scent the air, the glistening, rippling, soothing sea, the buds bursting with sap and life, because this life is one with man’s. Plato has indicated the need he felt of such a setting in the celebrated prologue of the _Phaedrus_, where Socrates and his friend, strolling along the bank of the Ilissus, seat themselves near a temple of the Muses, in the shade of a lofty plane-tree, on one of those velvet swards in which every footstep leaves its trace. Stirred by the fierce heat of the glowing sun, life buzzes and sings on all sides; the murmur of water mingles with the chirp of grasshoppers and innumerable confused dronings; odours of all kinds fill the air, and life is quaffed in deep draughts; but amid all these myriad voices blending into one grand symphony the mind of the philosopher reigns supreme. Man, then, must in no way be considered the enemy of Nature; he is her friend and master. Nature speaks to us, and we speak to her, and are subject to her influence in the highest degree. Not merely do climate, temperature, the beauties of the scenery exercise a paramount influence upon us, as the monks so well understood who loved extensive horizons and noble summits, but it may be said that there is not a tree or a plant but influences us by its vicinage. The love of Nature emits a radiance like the love of a woman, like all love, though in a less degree. It is good then and right not to neglect so important a source of emotion. Nature herself delights us because she smiles on us and we feel she loves us,—because a higher power settles her proud rocks and governs her volcanic fires. How pleasant it is (especially in warm countries) to shape for ourselves in the broad world, too vast for us, a private and particular nook: to send our very selves, as it were, out through the woods by straight paths which make our will felt far away; to give the flowers what forms and tints we please; to impress our character upon everything; thus we banish all savour of imperfection and ugliness and allow nothing to be seen but uniformity and affection; for, in the words of a man of that time, if you go into the country, it is not to “descend from light into the gloom.” Salut! palais, jardins, paradis de délices, Dont les beaultez font ignorer les vices.[211]