two must again be parted.

But I would have every one who cares to establish a wise economy of
life and joy, cultivate, by all means in his power, a sympathy with
and a delight in nature. We tend, in this age of ours, when
communication is so easy and rapid, when the daily paper brings the
whole course of the world into our secluded libraries, to be too
busy, too much preoccupied; to value excitement, above
tranquillity, and interest above peace. It is good for us all to be
much alone, not to fly from society, but resolutely to determine
that we will not be dependent upon it for our comfort. I would have
all busy people make times in their lives when, at the cost of some
amusement, and paying the price perhaps of a little melancholy,
they should try to be alone with nature and their own hearts. They
should try to realize the quiet unwearying life that manifests
itself in field and wood. They should wander alone in solitary
places, where the hazel-hidden stream makes music, and the bird
sings out of the heart of the forest; in meadows where the flowers
grow brightly, or through the copse, purple with bluebells or
starred with anemones; or they may climb the crisp turf of the
down, and see the wonderful world lie spread out beneath their
feet, with some clustering town "smouldering and glittering" in the
distance; or lie upon the cliff-top, with the fields of waving
wheat behind, and the sea spread out like a wrinkled marble floor
in front; or walk on the sand beside the falling waves. Perhaps a
soi-disant sensible man may see these words and think that I am a
sad sentimentalist. I cannot help it; it is what I believe; nay, I
will go further, and say that a man who does not wish to do these
things is shutting one of the doors of his spirit, a door through
which many sweet and true things come in. "Consider the lilies of