Eliz. Brother, we don't want you. There! Mrs. H. cannot arrange the flower vase without you. Thank you, Mrs. Hartman. lastly, when life's changeful orb has pass'd the full,' a confirmed faith in the nobleness of humanity, thus brought home and pressed, as it were, to the Luc. I'll have my revenge! I know very bosom of hourly experience; it what I will say ! supposes, I say, a heartfelt reverence for Eliz. Off! Off! Now, dear Sir, worth, not the less deep because divested of its solemnity by habit, by familiarity, Love, you were saying- Eliz. (impatiently). Pshaw! Fri. Well then, I was saying that love, truly such, is itself not the most common thing in the world: and mutual love still less so. But that enduring personal attachment, so beautifully delineated by Erin's sweet melodist, and still more touchingly, perhaps, in the well-known ballad, John Anderson, my Jo, John,' in addition to a depth and constancy of character of no everyday occurrence, supposes a peculiar sensibility and tenderness of nature; a constitutional communicativeness and utterancy of heart and soul; a delight in the detail of sympathy, in the outward and visible signs of the sacrament within -to count, as it were, the pulses of the life of love. But above all, it supposes a soul which, even in the pride and summer-tide of life-even in the lustihood of health and strength, had felt oftenest and prized highest that which age cannot take away, and which, in all our lovings, is the Love; Eliz. There is something here (pointing to her heart) that seems to understand you, but wants the word that would make it understand itself. Kath. I, too, seem to feel what you mean. Interpret the feeling for us. feeling of modesty which will arise in delicate minds, when they are conscious of possessing the same or the correspondent excellence in their own characters. In short, there must be a mind, which, while it feels the beautiful and the excellent in the beloved as its own, and by right of love appropriates it, can call Goodness its playfellow; and dares make sport of time and infirmity, while, in the person of a thousand-foldly endeared partner, we feel for aged virtue the caressing fondness that belongs to the innocence of childhood, and repeat the same attentions and tender courtesies which had been dictated by the same affection to the same object when attired in feminine loveliness or in manly beauty. Eliz. What a soothing-what an elevating idea! Kath. If it be not only an idea. Fri. At all events, these qualities which I have enumerated, are rarely found united in a single individual. How much more rare must it be, that two such individuals should meet together in this wide world under circumstances that admit of their union as Husband and Wife. A person may be highly estimable on the whole, nay, amiable as neighbour, friend, housemate -in short, in all the concentric circles of attachment save only the last and inmost; and yet from how many causes be estranged from the highest perfection in this! Pride, coldness, or fastidiousness of nature, worldly cares, an anxious or ambitious disposition, a passion for display, a sullen temper, one or the other -too often proves the dead fly in the compost of spices,' and any one is enough to unfit it for the precious balm of unction. For some mighty good sort of people, too, there is not seldom a sort of solemn saturnine, or, if you will, ursine vanity, that keeps itself alive by sucking the paws of its own self-importance. And as this high sense, or rather sensation of their own value is, for the most part, grounded on negative qualities, so they have no better means of preserving the same but by negatives-that is, by not doing or saying any thing, that might be put down for fond, silly, or nonsensical;-or (to use their own phrase) by never forgetting themselves, which some of their acquaintance are uncharitable enough to think the most worthless object they could be employed in remembering. But Fri. Not so! Good men are not, I trust, so much scarcer than good women; but that what another would find in you, you may hope to find in another. well, however, may that boon be rare, the possession of which would be more than an adequate reward for the rarest virtue. Eliz. Surely, he, who has described it so well, must have possessed it? Fri. If he were worthy to have possessed it, and had believingly anticipated and not found it, how bitter the disappointment! (Then, after a pause of a few minutes), ANSWER, ex improviso Yes, yes that boon, life's richest treat He had, or fancied that he had; The fancy made him glad! Eliz. (in answer to a whisper from Say, 'twas but in his own conceit Katharine). To a hair! He must have sate for it himself. Save me from such folks! But they are out of the question. Fri. True! but the same effect is produced in thousands by the too general insensibility to a very important truth; this, namely, that the misery of human life is made up of large masses, each separated from the other by certain intervals. One year, the death of a child; years after, a failure in trade; after another longer or shorter interval, a daughter may have married unhappily; -in all but the singularly unfortunate, the integral parts that compose the sum total of the unhappiness of a man's life, are easily counted, and distinctly remembered. The happiness of life, on the contrary, is made up of minute fractions the little, soon - forgotten charities of a kiss, a smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment in the disguise of playful raillery, and the countless other infinitesimals of pleasurable thought and genial feeling. Kath. Well, Sir; you have said quite enough to make me despair of finding a 'John Anderson, my Jo, John,' with whom to totter down the hill of life. Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish! The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish, But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain Unnourished wane ; Faith asks her daily bread, And Fancy must be fed ! Now so it chanced-from wet or dry, It boots not how I know not whyShe missed her wonted food; and quickly Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly. Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and nay, His faith was fix'd, his heart all ebb and flow; Or like a bark, in some half-shelter'd bay, That boon, which but to have possess'd And what it was ;--an evergreen When his young heart first yearn'd for The picture stole upon my inward sight. A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er sympathy! Dear tho' unseen! unseen, yet long por That woke the tear yet stole away the pang, Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd. And last, a matron now, of sober mien, Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen, Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd The brightness of the world, O thou once free, And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills And famous Arno, fed with all their rills; Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy! Even in my dawn of thought-Philo- | Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures Though then unconscious of herself, The golden corn, the olive, and the She bore no other name than Poesy; And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, vine. Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old, 80 And forests, where beside his leafy hold That had but newly left a mother's The sullen boar hath heard the distant knee, horn, Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, And whets his tusks against the gnarled And with that serviceable nymph I stoop A mimic mourner, that with veil with 'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echo- And more than all, the embrace and |
