52 THE CANADIAN ENTOMOLOGIST 



dear old doctor, my host, I had a great liking for fiction and was passionately" 

 fond of poetry; the great problem novels of the day, and indeed more recent 

 books of mark I devoured with keep appetite, and was never tired of conning 

 the pages of my favorite poets — Burns, Keats, Shelley, Rossetti, Swinburne 

 and Matthew Arnold. 



One great boon, I am sure, I owed to this course of systematic reading 

 in Science. It added an intellectual interest to my long walks in solitary com- 

 munion with Nature. For the habit of lonely wandering that I had formed on 

 Slyboots' departure cannot have been entirely wholesome; there was hardly a 

 sight or a sound in the world that did not awaken some chord of memory, and 

 I often brooded over the past, though with more of wistful reverie than of sorrow 

 in my^ mood. But as soon as the interest of this new theory took hold of me, it 

 gave me a new outlook on Nature, and instead of brooding inwardly, my thoughts 

 went out to Natural objects in search of illustration, to test book-theories as it 

 were, and in this channel of activity they found a healthy and cheerful outlet. 



More and more, it became a delight to mark the characteristic beauties 

 of English scenery; the deep luxuriant lanes, the floral treasures of hedgerow 

 and meadow, of riverbank and stream; the glories of the beech woods and 

 groves of oak; the distant views of the breezy downs, and the wild grandeur of 

 the Wessex moors. But always the crowning glory of the year, when Spring 

 had blossomed into Summer, was the visit to Scotland. My favorite haunt, 

 growing dearer season by season, was a mountain stream in the neighborhood 

 of Bridge of Allan. Whether I took my fishing-rod or not made little dif- 

 ference, nor what direction I started out in ; all paths seemed at last to lead to 

 the mouth of the Wharrie burn where it merged in the river Allan, and then 

 came an all-day tramp, up through the woods, past cataract and linn, climbing 

 the steep glen by mossy rocks, past rowan and birch, out on to the open moor 

 and then over the heather, till I had tracked the baby stream to its cradle in a 

 mountain tarn, below the peaks of the everlasting hills. 



As soon as I entered the University I began to gather a library for myself. 

 One of the most treasured shelves was devoted to books of scientific theory; 

 I made a selection of volumes from the International Scientific Series published 

 by Kegan Paul, and became a subscriber to two new series — the Minerva Library 

 of Famous Books, edited by G. T. Bettany, and the Contemporary Science 

 Series published by Walter Scott; every volume of these two publications I 

 purchased on issue and devoured at my leisure. 



But my interest in Evolution never for a moment lessened the love of 

 Natural objects or dulled the sense of mystery, of wonder, and of beauty in God's 

 handiwork. And this emotional attitude to Nature was greatly strengthened 

 in my student days at Oxford by a wonderful discovery that I made at the 

 end of my second year. While travelling in the realms of gold I found that I 

 was not alone or peculiar, had nothing to be ashamed of, in my solitary musing 

 on the mystery of life. I found the most secret thoughts and feelings of my very 

 soul from boyhood to manhood laid bare and given a language in two books 

 that have been a bible to me ever since, the Poems of William Wordsworth^ 

 especially Tintern Abbey, and Richard Jefferies' Story of My Heart. 



