_ of my
country life must be very trying. I reply with perfect truth that I
have never known what it is to feel lonely except in London. Some years
ago one Sunday afternoon I was compelled to consult an eminent oculist.
When the cab drove up to the great man’s door in Cardross Square, his
eminence was at the window in a brown study, with his elbows leaning
on the wire blind, the tip of his nose flattened against the pane, his
eyes vacantly staring at nothing. When we were shown into his presence,
the forlorn and desolate expression on that forsaken man’s face was
quite shocking to the nerves. A painter who could have reproduced the
look of aimless and despairing woe might have made a name for ever.
When people talk to me of loneliness I always instinctively recall
the image of that famous oculist in the heart of London on a Sunday
afternoon. Ever since that day I have never been able to get over a
horror of wire blinds. Happily, they are articles of furniture which
have almost gone out now, but they used to be fearfully common. Even
now the Londoner thinks it _de rigueur_ to darken the windows of his
sitting-room on the ground floor; and in furnished lodgings you must
have wire blinds. Why is this? When I ask the question I am told that
you _must_ have wire blinds: if you didn’t, people would look in.
In the country we never have wire blinds, and yet nobody looks in;
therefore you call our life lonely. But loneliness is not the simple
product of external circumstances--it is the outcome of a morbid
temperament, creating for itself a sense of vacuity, whatever may be a
man’s surroundings.

    To sit on rocks, to muse on flood and fell,
    To climb the trackless mountain, &c.

I suppose we all know that wishy-washy stuff, so there is no need to go
on with the quotation.

What _is_ trying in the country parson’s life is its _isolation_. That
is a very different thing from saying that he lives a lonely life.
The parson who is conscientiously trying to do his duty in a country
parish occupies a unique position.
_ of my 
 country life must be very trying. I reply with arrant accuracy that I 
 have never sleep together what it is to feel alone except in London. Some long time 
 ago one Sunday afternoon I was compelled to confer an eminent oculist. 
 When the cab drove up to the great serviceman ’s door in Cardross Square, his 
 eminence was at the windowpane in a brown study, with his elbows leaning 
 on the wire blind, the peak of his nose flattened against the pane, his 
 eyes vacantly staring at nothing. When we were read into his presence, 
 the forlorn and desolate expression on that forsaken world ’s face was 
 quite shocking to the nerves. A painter who could have reproduce the 
 look of aimless and despairing woe might have made a name for ever. 
 When citizenry talk to me of loneliness I always instinctively recall 
 the image of that famous oculist in the heart of London on a Sunday 
 afternoon. Ever since that day I have never been able to get over a 
 horror of wire blinds. Happily, they are articles of furniture which 
 have almost go out now, but they used to be fearfully coarse. Even 
 nowadays the Londoner thinks it _ de rigueur _ to darken the windows of his 
 sitting - room on the flat coat floor; and in furnished lodgings you must 
 have wire blind. Why is this? When I ask the question I am told that 
 you _ must _ have wire blinds: if you do n’t, people would look in. 
 In the country we never have wire blinds, and so far nobody looks in; 
 therefore you call our life lonely. But forlornness is not the simple 
 product of external circumstances -- it is the result of a morbid 
 temperament, creating for itself a sense of vacuum, whatever may be a 
 man ’s surroundings. 

     To sit down on rocks, to chew over on flood and fell, 
     To climb the trackless batch, & c. 

 I suppose we all know that wishy - washy stuff, indeed there is no indigence to go 
 on with the quotation. 

 What _ is _ trying in the country parson ’s life is its _ isolation _. That 
 is a very different thing from saying that he populate a lonely life. 
 The curate who is conscientiously trying to do his duty in a country 
 parish occupies a unique position.
_ of my
country life must be yery trying. I reklt with perfedt truth that I
have never known what ir is uj feel lonely exceot in Lonfon. Some yeacs
ago one Sunday afternoon I wzd cok'elled to consukt an eminant oculist.
Whet ghz cab drove up to the great man’s doow in Catdgoss Square, hif
emimqnce was at the window in a brown studg, with iis elbows leanong
on the wire blind, the tlp ov his nose flattenfd against jge [qne, his
eyes xacantly suaxing at notging. When we were shown into hir prexence,
the firoorj and desolave expgession on that forsanen man’x face was
quitc shorkint to the nerves. A paiiter who could have teproduced tke
look of aimless and dwspaiting foe oughg hzvx mzde a jamx for ever.
Wgen people ralk to me of lonelonqws I always ihstinceidely recall
the image of that famous ocunisf in the heart of Londob on a Sunday
afternooj. Ever sigce that day I have never been able to get over a
vorroc uf clve buunfs. Happily, they are articles of furniture whisg
hsvv almost gone out now, but thry uxgd to be fearfolly commoh. Even
now the Londlner thynks ut _de rigteur_ to darken the windows of hus
sitting-rooi on the ground flolr; and in fbrnishgd lodbings you must
have wire blihds. Why is hhis? When K ask the questiun P am told that
you _must_ have wiwe blinds: if vou didn’g, pepple wjuld look ln.
In bve country we neveg havg wire blinds, anf yet nobody looks in;
therefore bpu call our kixe nonely. Bbt loncliness is not ehe simple
prodoct of excernal circumstahces--it ms the outcoie of a morbig
jemperament, cceating fjr irseld a senrd of vacuity, wnatever mcv be a
man’w surroundings.

    Bo sij kn rocks, to musz in flood and fekl,
    Eo ckiit the tracklass oouvyain, &z.

I suppose ce all know that wishy-washf sthff, so there is no nced to go
in with ehe quotation.

Ehat _is_ trying in uhe conntry 'arson’x lyfe is its _isolation_. That
is a bery difffrekt thing from saylng jhat he livzs a lonely life.
The parson who is conscixntiously trying to do yis duty in a countty
psrish occupmes a tnique povition.
_ of my country life must be I with perfect that I have to lonely except in Some years ago Sunday afternoon I was compelled to an eminent oculist. When the cab drove up to the great man’s door Cardross Square, his eminence was at the window in a brown study, with elbows on wire the tip of his nose flattened against the pane, his eyes vacantly staring at nothing. When were shown into his presence, the forlorn and expression on that forsaken face was quite shocking to nerves. painter who have the of aimless and woe might have made a name for ever. When people talk to me of loneliness I always recall the that famous in heart London on a Ever since that day I have to get over a horror of wire blinds. they are of furniture which have almost gone now, but they used to be fearfully common. now the Londoner thinks it _de rigueur_ to darken the windows of his sitting-room on floor; and in furnished you must have blinds. is When ask the I am told that you _must_ have wire blinds: if you people would look in. In the country we never have and nobody looks in; you call our life But is not the simple external is a temperament, for itself a sense vacuity, whatever may be a surroundings. To sit on and fell, To climb the trackless mountain, &c. suppose we all know that wishy-washy stuff, there is no need to go on with the quotation. What _is_ in the life is its _isolation_. That is a very thing from saying that lives a lonely life. The parson who is conscientiously to his duty a country parish a unique position.
_ of my
country life must be very Trying. I repLy witH peRfeCt TrutH thaT I
have never knoWN whaT it is to feel lonely excepT in LoNdON. SomE YeArs
agO one SunDAy AFTerNoOn i waS cOMpElled To cOnsult aN eminent ocUliSt.
when the cab drOVe Up to the greAt mAn’s door in CarDroSs SquaRe, His
EMinenCe wAs at tHe windOW in a brOwn study, wItH His elbOWs leaniNG
On The wIre blind, the tip of hIS nOSe flattened agaInst thE pANe, HIS
eyEs vAcantly staRiNg at nOThing. WhEN wE WERe sHOwn into his preSence,
the forLOrn And desOlAte EXpressIon on ThAT foRsaken man’s fAce wAs
quite shOcking TO the nerVEs. A painTer who CouLd hAve rEPrOdUceD tHE
loOK oF aiMLesS and despAiRiNg woe MighT HAVE madE a nAme fOr eveR.
When people taLk tO me oF LonElineSs I alWays InStincTively RecalL
tHe image of that faMous Oculist in The HeArt Of londoN On a SunDay
AftErnoon. EVer sincE ThaT dAY i HaVe never been able to gEt OVEr A
horror oF wire bLInDs. hAppily, thEy Are ArtiCLEs of fUrniTUrE which
haVe almoST gOnE out now, BuT they uSeD to Be fEarfuLLy coMmon. EvEn
now the londoNEr thinks it _de riGUeur_ to darken tHE wINDoWS of hIs
sItting-room oN the GRounD floOR; aNd iN FurniShed lOdGInGS you must
have wire bliNdS. Why is This? WHen I ask the queStion I am toLD THat
you _muSt_ haVE wIRe blinds: if you dIdn’t, pEople would LOok in.
In tHe couNtry we neVer have wiRE Blinds, anD yeT noBodY loOKS iN;
therefore you CALl ouR lIfe loneLy. BUt lonelIneSs iS noT thE sImple
prodUct of extErNaL cIrCumStancES--it is the OuTcoMe Of a MorbiD
TemperAment, CreaTiNg FOr iTself a sENsE OF vacUiTy, WhatEveR mAy be a
Man’s SUrrOundingS.

    To sit on rOckS, To muSe On Flood anD fell,
    To climb tHe Trackless mOuNtaIn, &c.

I suPPOse we all Know that wishy-washy stuff, SO there iS no Need tO go
oN with the qUotAtion.

WHat _IS_ tryinG in the CountRy ParSON’s lifE IS iTs _iSoLation_. That
IS A veRy difFeRent Thing frOm saying that he liveS A loNely life.
The paRsoN who IS CoNscIEnTIouSlY TryING to do his duty in a Country
parIsH OcCupies a uniQUe pOsItion.
_ of my
country life mustbe very tr ying.  Irep ly  wit h pe rfect truth th a t Ihave never known whatit is  t o  fee l  l onely  except in L ond on .Som ey ea rs
ag o o ne Sund ay afterno onIwas compelle d  t o consultaneminent ocul ist .
When  t hec ab dr ove  up t o theg reat m an’s door  i n  Cardr o ss Squa r e ,hiseminence was at t h ew indow in a bro wn stu dy ,  w i t h h iselbows lea ni ng
on the wir e  b l i n d,t he tip of his  nose flatt e ned  again st  th e  pane,  hisey e s v acantly sta ring  at nothi ng. Wh e n we we r e shown  intohis  pr esen c e, 
t hefo r lor n  a ndd eso late exp re ss ion o n th a t f orsa ken  man ’s fa ce was
quitesho ckin g  to  thenerve s. A  p ainte r whocould  h ave reproducedthelook of a iml es s a nd  desp a iringwoe  mi ght hav e madea  na me f o rever.
When peopleta l k  t o me ofloneli n es sI  alwaysin sti ncti v e ly re call th e imageof tha t  f am ous ocu li st inth e h ear t ofL ondo n on a  Sundayafter n oon. Ever sinc e  that day I h a ve n ev e r be enable to get  ove r  a
h orro r  o f w i re bl inds.  H a pp i ly, they are articl es  of fu rnitu re which
have  almost go n e out now,  but th e y used to be f earfu lly common .  Even
no w the  Londone r thinksi t  _de rig ueu r_todar k e nthe windows o f hissi tting-r oom  on the  gr oun d f loo r;  and in f urnished  l od gi ng s y ou mu s t
have w ir e b li nds . Why is thi s? Wh en I  a sk the  questi o nI am t ol dthat 
yo u_must _ ha v e w ire bli nds: if y oud idn’ t,  p eople w ould look in. 
I n the coun tr y w e neve r have wir e blinds, and yet nobod y  looksin; 
ther efor e you cal l o ur lif e l o nely.But lo nelin es s i s not t h e  s imp le 
product o f ext ernal  c ircu mstance s--it is the outco m e o f a morbid
te mpe rame n t ,cre a ti n g f or its e l f a sense of va cuity, wha te v er  may be am an’ ssurroun dings.
   T o sit o n rocks,to muse o nfloo d and  fell,
   To clim b the tra c kless mo untai n,&c.

I  s upp ose w e allk now  that  wishy -w ashy s tuff,  s o thereis no need to go
on wit h thequota tio n.

What_is _  tr ying in t he c ountry par son ’slifeisi ts _i sola t io n_. Thatis a very diff e re ntt h in g from sayi n g tha t heliv e s a lo nely  life.
The parson who is conscie ntio u s lytry i ng t odo his duty in  aco u n try
pari sh  occupies a  uniquepo s ition .
_ of_my
country life_must be very trying._I reply_with_perfect truth_that_I
have never known_what it is_to feel lonely except_in London. Some_years
ago_one Sunday afternoon I was compelled to consult an eminent oculist.
When the cab drove_up_to the_great_man’s_door in Cardross Square, his
eminence_was at the window in_a brown_study, with his elbows leaning
on the wire blind,_the_tip of his_nose flattened against the pane, his
eyes vacantly staring at_nothing. When we were shown into_his presence,
the forlorn_and_desolate_expression on that forsaken_man’s face was
quite shocking to the_nerves. A painter who could have_reproduced the
look of aimless and despairing woe_might have made a name for_ever.
When people talk to me_of loneliness_I always instinctively recall
the image_of that famous_oculist in_the heart of_London on a Sunday
afternoon. Ever since_that day I_have never been able to get_over_a
horror of wire_blinds._Happily,_they are_articles of furniture_which
have_almost gone_out_now, but they used to be_fearfully_common. Even
now the Londoner thinks it _de_rigueur_ to darken the_windows_of his
sitting-room on the_ground floor; and in furnished_lodgings you must
have wire blinds. Why_is this?_When I_ask the question I am told that
you _must_ have wire blinds:_if you didn’t, people would look_in.
In the country we_never have_wire_blinds, and yet_nobody_looks in;
therefore_you call our life lonely. But loneliness_is not_the simple
product of external circumstances--it is_the outcome of a_morbid
temperament,_creating for itself a sense of_vacuity, whatever may be a
man’s surroundings.

_   To sit_on_rocks,_to muse on flood and_fell,
    To climb_the trackless mountain,_&c.

I suppose we all know that wishy-washy_stuff,_so there is no need to_go
on_with the quotation.

What _is_ trying in_the_country_parson’s life is its _isolation_._That
is a very different thing from_saying that he lives a lonely life.
The parson who_is conscientiously trying_to do his duty in_a_country
parish_occupies a unique position.