Happy， truly， is the naturalist. He has no time for melancholy dreams. The earth becomes to him transparent； everywhere he sees significancies， harmonies， laws， chains of cause and effect endlessly interlinked， which draw him out of the narrow sphere of self-interest and self-pleasing， into a pure and wholesome region of solemn joy and wonder. He goes up some Snowdon valley； to him it is a solemn spot (though unnoticed by his companions)， where the stag's-horn clubmoss ceases to straggle across the turf， and the tufted alpine clubmoss takes its place： for he is now in a new world； a region whose climate is eternally influenced by some fresh law (after which he vainly guesses with a sigh at his own ignorance)， which renders life impossible to one species， possible to another. And it is a still more solemn thought to him， that it was not always so； that aeons and ages back， that rock which he passed a thousand feet below was fringed， not as now with fern and blue bugle， and white bramble-flowers， but perhaps with the alp-rose and the "gemsen-kraut" of Mont Blanc， at least with Alpine Saxifrages which have now retreated a thousand feet up the mountain side， and with the blue Snow-Gentian， and the Canadian Sedum， which have all but vanished out of the British Isles. And what is it which tells him that strange story？ Yon smooth and rounded surface of rock， polished， remark， across the strata and against the grain；and furrowed here and there， as if by iron talons， with long parallel scratches. It was the crawling of a glacier which polished that rock-face； the stones fallen from Snowdon peak into the half-liquid lake of ice above， which ploughed those furrows.
AEons and aeons ago， before the time when Adam first "Embraced his Eve in happy hour， And every bird in Eden burst In carol， every bud in flower，"those marks were there； the records of the "Age of ice；" slight， truly； to be effaced by the next farmer who needs to build a wall；but unmistakeable， boundless in significance， like Crusoe's one savage footprint on the sea-shore； and the naturalist acknowledges the finger-mark of God， and wonders， and worships.
Happy， especially， is the sportsman who is also a naturalist： for as he roves in pursuit of his game， over hills or up the beds of streams where no one but a sportsman ever thinks of going， he will be certain to see things noteworthy， which the mere naturalist would never find， simply because he could never guess that they were there to be found. I do not speak merely of the rare birds which may be shot， the curious facts as to the habits of fish which may be observed， great as these pleasures are. I speak of the scenery， the weather， the geological formation of the country， its vegetation， and the living habits of its denizens. A sportsman， out in all weathers， and often dependent for success on his knowledge of "what the sky is going to do，" has opportunities for becoming a meteorologist which no one beside but a sailor possesses； and one has often longed for a scientific gamekeeper or huntsman， who， by discovering a law for the mysterious and seemingly capricious phenomena of "scent，" might perhaps throw light on a hundred dark passages of hygrometry. The fisherman， too， - what an inexhaustible treasury of wonder lies at his feet， in the subaqueous world of the commonest mountain burn！ All the laws which mould a world are there busy， if he but knew it， fattening his trout for him， and making them rise to the fly， by strange electric influences， at one hour rather than at another.
Many a good geognostic lesson， too， both as to the nature of a country's rocks， and as to the laws by which strata are deposited， may an observing man learn as he wades up the bed of a trout-stream； not to mention the strange forms and habits of the tribes of water-insects. Moreover， no good fisherman but knows， to his sorrow， that there are plenty of minutes， ay， hours， in each day's fishing in which he would be right glad of any employment better than trying to "Call spirits from the vasty deep，"who will not "Come when you do call for them."What to do， then？ You are sitting， perhaps， in your coracle， upon some mountain tarn， waiting for a wind， and waiting in vain.
"Keine luft an keine seite， Todes-stille f乺chterlich；"as G攖he has it -"Und der schiffer sieht bek乵mert Glatte fl刢he rings umher."You paddle to the shore on the side whence the wind ought to come， if it had any spirit in it； tie the coracle to a stone， light your cigar， lie down on your back upon the grass， grumble， and finally fall asleep. In the meanwhile， probably， the breeze has come on， and there has been half-an-hour's lively fishing curl； and you wake just in time to see the last ripple of it sneaking off at the other side of the lake， leaving all as dead-calm as before.
Now how much better， instead of falling asleep， to have walked quietly round the lake side， and asked of your own brains and of Nature the question， "How did this lake come here？ What does it mean？"It is a hole in the earth. True， but how was the hole made？ There must have been huge forces at work to form such a chasm. Probably the mountain was actually opened from within by an earthquake； and when the strata fell together again， the portion at either end of the chasm， being perhaps crushed together with greater force， remained higher than the centre， and so the water lodged between them. Perhaps it was formed thus. You will at least agree that its formation must have been a grand sight enough， and one during which a spectator would have had some difficulty in keeping his footing.
And when you learn that this convulsion probably took plus at the bottom of an ocean hundreds of thousands of years ago， you have at least a few thoughts over which to ruminate， which will make you at once too busy to grumble， and ashamed to grumble.
