Let us dwell, that we may realize this thirst of the soul, upon the contrast.  There are, at least, four forms of attraction which are presented, as I suppose, to your soul, certainly to mine.  First of all, there is the attraction of natural beauty.  If you stand on a fair August afternoon on the terrace, for instance, at Berne, or on the heights of Chaumont; if you gaze at the distant Alps, crowned with snow which was generated in winter, but which takes the brightness and glory of diamonds in the summer sun; if, coming from the noise and heat of England, you first gaze at that line of strange pointed mountains crowned with that whiteness, struck with the sunlight, you are moved by natural beauty.  If you stand in America on the upper reaches of the St. Lawrence, and watch the river as it hurries to its destiny at Niagara; if you see the tossing water writhing almost like living creatures anticipating a dreadful destiny and passing over the fall; or if, rising out of what is tragic in nature, you come to what is homely—­if, for instance, you see the chestnut woods of spring with an inspiration of quiet joy, or if you see the elms at Worcester or Hereford in our common England in the autumn time with an inspiration of sorrow; wherever you turn with eye or head, with a feeling in your heart, a thought in your mind, nature demands her recognition; and you London men, in the toil of your struggle, in the noise of your work, in the dust of your confusion of life, when you get your holiday in spring or autumn,—­unless, indeed, you have passed into the mere condition of brutes,—­while you still keep the hearts of men, you feel there is something in the apostles of culture, in the teachers of esthetics, in persons who say that beauty is everything to satisfy the soul.  Nature, you say—­and you say it justly—­says, “Beauty.”  You find a delight as you gaze upon nature.  Yes, dear friends, you are stimulated, you are delighted, you are consoled; there is one thing which you are not—­you are not satisfied.

Or, quite possibly, you turn to that which seems to English natures more practical and less poetical—­you turn to the attraction of activity.  You say the poets, or the preachers, or the dreamers may gaze upon nature; but Englishmen have something else to do—­we have to work.  You look at the result of activity, and it is splendid.  Imagine, picture for a moment, political achievement; picture to yourselves the power not only of a mind, but of a personality, of a character which can attract vast millions who have never gazed upon the human expression in the human face—­can attract them to great love or to great hatred, can mold the destinies of an empire, can change the current of the time—­think of such men as Richelieu or Cavour, or more modern instances, and you understand what is the greatness and the power of the attraction of political activity.  Or, to come nearer home, go into your London city, and watch the working of your London mart.  What