One May Return To The

Science Is A Capital Or Fund Perpetually Reinvested; It Accumulates, Rolls Up, Is Carried Forward By Every New Man. Every Man Of Science Has All The Science Before Him To Go Upon, To Set Himself Up In Business With. What An Enormous Sum Darwin Availed Himself Of And Reinvested! Not So In Literature; To Every Poet, To Every Artist, It Is Still The First Day Of Creation, So Far As The Essentials Of His Task Are Concerned. Literature Is Not So Much A Fund To Be Reinvested As It Is A Crop To Be Ever New-grown.

We Cannot Walk Through Life On Mountain Peaks.

All Sounds Are Sharper In Winter; The Air Transmits Better. At Night I Hear More Distinctly The Steady Roar Of The North Mountain. In Summer It Is A Sort Of Complacent Purr, As The Breezes Stroke Down Its Sides; But In Winter Always The Same Low, Sullen Growl.

The Pleasure And Value Of Every Walk Or Journey We Take May Be Doubled To Us By Carefully Noting Down The Impressions It Makes Upon Us.

I Am In Love With This World. It Has Been My Home. It Has Been My Point Of Outlook Into The Universe. I Have Never Bruised Myself Against It Nor Tried To Use It Ignobly.