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Updated: June 29, 2025
If they seemed distressed, or if they seemed to think a course right " ... Have I come to Utopia to hear this sort of thing? Section 7 It is necessary to turn the botanist's thoughts into a worthier channel. It is necessary to override these modest regrets, this intrusive, petty love story. Does he realise this is indeed Utopia?
And to guide us among the trees and flowers we fortunately have Sir Joseph Hooker, who in his "Himalayan Journals" has described this botanist's paradise in loving detail, so we cannot do better than follow him. Amid the many plants he mentions we can only select a few, but these few will at least help to give us some conception of the whole and show the range of variation as we ascend.
It was at once laboratory, study, and dwelling-room. Two large cabinets, something the worse for transportation, alone formed a link between this abode and the old home at Twybridge. On door-pegs hung a knapsack, a botanist's vasculum, and a geologist's wallet.
A sudden fear of what he will do takes hold of me. He sits white and tense as the two come into the clearer light of the courtyard. The man, I see, is one of the samurai, a dark, strong-faced man, a man I have never seen before, and she is wearing the robe that shows her a follower of the Lesser Rule. Some glimmering of the botanist's feelings strikes through to my slow sympathies.
It must be seen first afar off, and then close, to understand the vagaries of splendour in which Nature indulges here. And yet the Norantea, common in the high woods, is even more splendid, and, in a botanist's eyes, a stranger vagary still. On past the whaling quay.
Yet I have an idea that in some obscure manner we should come to feel at once a difference in things. The botanist's glance would, under a subtle attraction, float back to Airolo. "It's queer," he would say quite idly, "but I never noticed that building there to the right before." "Which building?" "That to the right with a queer sort of thing " "I see now. Yes.
"You'd wonder how he knew," he says. "You would." I nibble a green blade. "Do you realise quite," I ask, "that within a week we shall face our Utopian selves and measure something of what we might have been?" The botanist's face clouds. He rolls over, sits up abruptly and puts his lean hands about his knees. "I don't like to think about it," he says.
The real fact was that sportsmanship was already becoming distasteful to young Darwin, and his hunting expeditions were now largely carried on with a botanist's drum and a geologist's hammer. But to the practical Doctor these things were no better than the gun it was idling, anyway.
So a flower looks between the cold pages of a botanist's album, so a bird sings in his case: for life is to do that for which we were created, and if that be the praise of God in His sanctuary, to stand impotently by under the gaze of innumerable unbelievers in a museum is to die.
Her station in exile at the Wells of the weariful rich, under the weight of the sullen secret, unenlivened by Dudley's courtship, subdued her to the world's decrees; phrased thus: 'I am not to be a heroine. The one golden edge to the view was, that she would greatly please her father. Her dream of a love was put away like a botanist's pressed weed.
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