Impressions 



the ghost of an echo. Silence is as easily broken 

 as are promises. We have but to listen to our 

 own breathing to fill our ears. Silence is a por- 

 tentous word, standing theoretically for a stern 

 fact, but theoretically only. Practically it is 

 only a relative condition and a marvellously 

 happy one. Silence, Solitude, Self! as pleas- 

 ing a combination as our wills can conjure up. 

 These obtaining, we can do as we please, or, 

 choosing inaction, think as we please. No bet- 

 ter time than this to sift the chatter of the last 

 crowd we mingled with, and perhaps gather a 

 grain of gold from the infinitude of chaff. This 

 triple condition is a better one out-of-doors, as 

 in these woods, than in any house. The house 

 is ever a museum of distracting objects. Books, 

 pictures, chairs and tables lead us from our 

 natural to our artificial selves, but not so out- 

 of-doors. Trees, birds, flowers, water, earth, 

 sky nothing in these runs counter to whole- 

 some natural thoughts. We blend with all 

 about us ; not out of place, but accurately fitted, 

 as Nature purposed, in that marvellous mosaic 

 we call Creation. 



Silence is a condition so largely of our imag- 

 ination that it need never be seriously consid- 



59 



