We Lived Within Two Hundred Yards Of

I Might Have Simply Settled Down Into An Armchair Literary Life. I Really Don't Know Exactly Why I Didn't.

With My Somewhat Vague Aspiring Mind, To Be Imprisoned In The Rude Details Of A Most Material Life Was Often Irksome.

The Other Thing That Happened In 1883 Was My Reading Of Thoreau's Walden.

In April 1882 My Father Died; And I Was At Once Whirled Out Of My Land Of Dreams Into A Very Different Sphere.

Anyone Who Realises What Love Is, The Dedication Of The Heart, So Profound, So Absorbing, So Mysterious, So Imperative, And Always Just In The Noblest Natures So Strong, Cannot Fail To See How Difficult, How Tragic Even, Must Often Be The Fate Of Those Whose Deepest Feelings Are Destined From The Earliest Days To Be A Riddle And A Stumbling-block, Unexplained To Themselves, Passed Over In Silence By Others.