"
"What middleman?" demanded the Girton Girl.
"The artist," explained the Minor Poet; "the man who has turned the
whole thing into a business, the shopman who sells emotions over the
counter. A Corot, a Turner is, after all, but a poor apology
compared with a walk in spring through the Black Forest or the view
from Hampstead Heath on a November afternoon. Had we been less
occupied acquiring 'the advantages of civilisation,' working upward
through the weary centuries to the city slum, the corrugated-iron-
roofed farm, we might have found time to learn to love the beauty of
the world. As it is, we have been so busy 'civilising' ourselves
that we have forgotten to live. We are like an old lady I once
shared a carriage with across the Simplon Pass."
"By the way," I remarked, "one is going to be saved all that bother
in the future. They have nearly completed the new railway line.
One will be able to go from Domo d'Orsola to Brieg in a little over
the two hours. They tell me the tunnelling is wonderful."
"It will be very charming," sighed the Minor Poet. "I am looking
forward to a future when, thanks to 'civilisation,' travel will be
done away with altogether.
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