THE STUDY OF NATURE. 47 
past which then occupied my pen. I was writing of 93. Its heroic 
primeval history enveloped, possessed, shall I say consumed, me. All 
the elements of happiness which surrounded me, which I sacrificed to 
work, adjourning them for a time that, according to all appearances, 
might never be mine, I regretted daily, and incessantly cast back 
upon them a look of sorrow. It was a daily battle of affection and 
nature, against the sombre thoughts of the human world. 
That battle for me will be always a powerful souvenir. The 
scene has remained sacred in my thought. Elsewhere it no longer 
exists. The house is destroyed—another built on its site. And it 
is for this reason that I have dallied here a little. My cedar, how- 
ever, has survived; a notable thing, for architects now-a-days hate 
trees. 
When, however, I drew near the end of my task, some glimpses 
of light enlivened the wild darkness. My sorrows were less keen, 
when I felt sure that I should thenceforth enjoy this memorial of a 
cruel but fertile experience. Once more I began to hear the voices 
