So we, who knew the deep
fen, will breathe one sigh over the last scrap of wilderness, and say
no more; content to know that -
'The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.'
IV. MY WINTER GARDEN. {135}
So, my friend: you ask me to tell you how I contrive to support this
monotonous country life; how, fond as I am of excitement, adventure,
society, scenery, art, literature, I go cheerfully through the daily
routine of a commonplace country profession, never requiring a six-
weeks' holiday; not caring to see the Continent, hardly even to spend
a day in London; having never yet actually got to Paris.
You wonder why I do not grow dull as those round me, whose talk is of
bullocks--as indeed mine is, often enough; why I am not by this time
'all over blue mould;' why I have not been tempted to bury myself in
my study, and live a life of dreams among old books.
I will tell you. I am a minute philosopher: though one, thank
Heaven, of a different stamp from him whom the great Bishop Berkeley
silenced--alas! only for a while.
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