It is remarkable how few events or crises there are in our
histories, how little exercised we have been in our minds, how
few experiences we have had. I would fain be assured that I am
growing apace and rankly, though my very growth disturb this dull
equanimity--though it be with struggle through long, dark, muggy
nights or seasons of gloom. It would be well if all our lives
were a divine tragedy even, instead of this trivial comedy or
farce. Dante, Bunyan, and others appear to have been exercised in
their minds more than we: they were subjected to a kind of
culture such as our district schools and colleges do not
contemplate. Even Mahomet, though many may scream at his name,
had a good deal more to live for, aye, and to die for, than they
have commonly.

When, at rare intervals, some thought visits one, as perchance he
is walking on a railroad, then, indeed, the cars go by without
his hearing them. But soon, by some inexorable law, our life goes
by and the cars return.

"Gentle breeze, that wanderest unseen,
And bendest the thistles round Loira of storms,
Traveler of the windy glens,
Why hast thou left my ear so soon?"

While almost all men feel an attraction drawing them to society,
few are attracted strongly to Nature. In their reaction to Nature
men appear to me for the most part, notwithstanding their arts,
lower than the animals. It is not often a beautiful relation, as
in the case of the animals. How little appreciation of the beauty