. In the forest of Arden. owy surface of the lake when theheavens shine above him ? Why shouldone linger before the picturesque land-scape which art has imperfectly trans-ferred to canvas when the scene, withall its elusive play of light and shade,lies outspread before him ? I becameconscious that in Arden one liveshabitually in the world which booksare always striving to portray and in-terpret ; that one sees with his owneyes all that the eyes of the keenestobserver have ever seen; that onefeels in his own soul all the greatestsoul has ever felt. That which in theouter world most men know onl
. In the forest of Arden. owy surface of the lake when theheavens shine above him ? Why shouldone linger before the picturesque land-scape which art has imperfectly trans-ferred to canvas when the scene, withall its elusive play of light and shade,lies outspread before him ? I becameconscious that in Arden one liveshabitually in the world which booksare always striving to portray and in-terpret ; that one sees with his owneyes all that the eyes of the keenestobserver have ever seen; that onefeels in his own soul all the greatestsoul has ever felt. That which in theouter world most men know only byreport, in Arden each one knows forhimself. The stories of travellers ceaseto interest us when we are at last withinthe borders of the strange, far country. Books are, at the best, faint andimperfect transcriptions of Nature andlife; when one comes to see Nature li SX 86 W-t iMimiiiul«illllllll!.:;.5;il;ii:iilllliMmMMllill<lllli]lU^^^. fiiiiiiiii;;iisiiii!ii/wii!i;^;i;i:tiiii
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Keywords: ., bookauthormabieham, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookyear1903
