lobelias,
or of bright-blue larkspurs, all the way from London to Liverpool?"
I suggest nothing of the sort. Our railway lines in England, when they
follow the valleys--as railway lines must in hilly districts--are
extraordinarily beautiful. The eye, for example, could desire nothing
better, in swift flight, than the views along the Wye Valley or in the
Derbyshire Peak country, and even the rich levels of Somerset have a
beauty of their own (above all in May and June, when yellow with sheets of
buttercups) which artificial planting would spoil. But--cant about Nature
apart--every line has its dreary cuttings and embankments, all of which
might be made beautiful at no great cost. I need not labour this: here
and there by a casual bunch of rhododendrons or of gorse, or by a sheet of
primroses or wild hyacinths in springtime, the thing is proved, and has
been proved again and again to me by the comments of fellow-passengers.

Now I am honestly enamoured of this dream of mine, and must pause to dwell
on some of its beauties. In the first place, we could start to realise it
in the most modest fashion and test the appreciation of the public as we
go along. Our flowers would be mainly wild flowers, and our trees, for
the most part, native British plants, costing, say, from thirty shillings
to three pounds the hundred. A few roods would do to begin with, if the
spot were well chosen; indeed, it would be wiser in every way to begin
modestly, for though England possesses several great artists in landscape
gardening, their art has never to my knowledge been seriously applied to
railway gardening, and the speed of the spectators introduces a new and
highly-amusing condition, and one so singular and so important as to make
this almost a separate art. At any rate, our gardeners would have to
learn as they go, and if any man can be called enviable it is an artist
learning to express art's eternal principles in a new medium, under new
conditions.

Even if we miss our millionaire, we need not despond over ways and means.
The beauty-spots of Great Britain are engaged just now in a fierce rivalry
of advertisement. Why should not this rivalry be pressed into the service
of beautifying the railway lines along which the tourist must travel to
reach them? Why should we neglect the porches (so to speak) of our
temples? Would not the tourist arrive in a better temper if met on his
way with silent evidence of our desire to please? A