Somewhere I had heard a line of poetry, A thing of beauty is a joy for ever, and now it came into my mind, and for the first time I thoroughly understood what it meant.

Base, indeed, would be the man who could look upon that mighty snow-wreathed pile -- that white old tombstone of the years -- and not feel his own utter insignificance, and, by whatever name he calls Him, worship God in his heart.
Such sights are like visions of the spirit; they throw wide the windows of the chamber of our small selfishness and let in a breath of that air that rushes round the rolling spheres, and for a while illumine our darkness with a far-off gleam of the white light which beats upon the Throne.
Yes, such things of beauty are indeed a joy for ever, and I can well understand what little Flossie meant when she talked of Kenia as her companion.

As Umslopogaas, savage old Zulu that he was, said when I pointed out to him the peak hanging in the glittering air: 'A man might look thereon for a thousand years and yet be hungry to see.' But he gave rather another colour to his poetical idea when he added in a sort of chant, and with a touch of that weird imagination for which the man was remarkable, that when he was dead he should like his spirit to sit upon that snow-clad peak for ever, and to rush down the steep white sides in the breath of the whirlwind, or on the flash of the lightning, and 'slay, and slay, and slay'.
'Slay what, you old bloodhound ?' I asked.
This rather puzzled him, but at length he answered -- 'The other shadows.' 'So thou wouldst continue thy murdering even after death ?' I said.
'I murder not,' he answered hotly; 'I kill in fair fight.

Man is born to kill.

He who kills not when his blood is hot is a woman, and no man.