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prison is; and we have improved on that | ritual eye, reflecting the heavens and the earth, idea, for we have built our own-and are pri- and no one knows what the heavens and the soner, turnkey, and jailer all in one, and 'tis noiseless as the house of sleep. Or what if we declare that Christopher North is a king in his palace, with no subjects but his own thoughts-his rule peaceful over those lights and shadows-and undisputed to reign over them his right divine.

earth are, till he has seen them there-for that God made the heavens and the earth we feel from that beautiful revelation-and where feeling is not, knowledge is dead, and a blank the universe. Love is life. The unloving merely breathe. A single sweet beat of the heart is token of something spiritual that will be with us again in Paradise. "O, bliss and beauty! are these our feelings"-thought we

-fair plumed in a flight of doves!" The vi sion kept sailing on the sky-" to and fro for our delight"-no sound on their wings more than on their breasts; and they melted away in light as if they were composed of light—and in the hush we heard high up and far-off mu sic-as of an angel's song.

That was a dream of the mysterious night; but now we are broad awake-and see no em blematical phantoms, but the mere sights of the common day. But sufficient for the day is the beauty thereof-and it inspires us with af fection for all beneath the skies. Will the whole world, then, promise henceforth to love us?--and we promise henceforth to love the whole world.

The opening year in a town, now answers in all things to our heart's desire. How beautiful the smoky air! The clouds have a home-once in a dream-"all circling in the sunshine ly look as they hang over the happy families of houses, and seem as if they loved their birthplace; all unlike those heartless clouds that keep stravaigging over mountain-tops, and have no domicile in the sky! Poets speak of living rocks, but what is their life to that of houses? Who ever saw a rock with eyes-that is, with windows? Stone-blind all, and stone-deaf, and with hearts of stone; whereas who ever saw a house without eyes—that is, windows? Our own is an Argus; yet the good old Conservative grudges not the assessed taxes-his optics are as cheerful as the day that lends them light, and they love to salute the setting sun, as if a hundred beacons, level above level, were kindled along a mountain side. He might safely be pronounced a madman who preferred an avenue of trees to a street. Why, trees have no chimneys; and, were you to kindle a fire in the hollow of an oak, you would soon be as dead as a Druid. It won't do to talk to us of sap, and the circulation of sap. A grove in winter, bole and branchleaves it has none-is as dry as a volume of sermons. But a street, or a square, is full of "vital sparks of heavenly flame" as a volume of poetry, and the heart's blood circulates through the system like rosy wine.

But a truce to comparisons; for we are beginning to feel contrition for our crime against the country, and, with humbled head and heart, we beseech you to pardon us-ye rocks of Pavey-Ark, the pillared palaces of the stormsye clouds, now wreathing a diadem for the forehead of Helvellyn-ye trees, that hang the shadows of your undying beauty over the "one perfect chrysolite," of blessed Windermere !

Our meaning is transparent now as the hand of an apparition waving peace and good-will to all dwellers in the land of dreams. In plainer but not simpler words, (for words are like flowers, often rich in their simplicity-witness the Lily, and Solomon's Song)-Christian people all, we wish you a Merry Christmas and Happy New-Year, in town or in countryor in ships at sea.

A Happy New-Year!-Ah! ere this ARIA, sung sotto voce, reach your ears, (eyes are ears, and ears are eyes,) the week of all weeks will be over and gone, and the New-Year will seem growing out of the old year's ashes!-for the year is your only Phoenix. But what with time to do has a wish-a hope-a prayer! Their power is in the Spirit that gives them birth. And what is Spirit but the well-head of thoughts and feelings flowing and overflowing all life, yet leaving the well-head full of water as ever -so lucid, that on your gazing intently into its depths, it seems o become a large soft spi

It seems the easiest of all easy things to be kind and good--and then it is so pleasant! "Selflove and social are the same," beyond all ques tion; and in that lies the nobility of our nature. The intensest feeling of self is that of belong. ing to a brotherhood. All selves then know they have duties which are in truth loves-and loves are joys--whether breathed in silence, or uttered in words, or imbodied in actions; and if they filled all life, then all life would be good-and heaven would be no more than a better earth. And how may all men go to hea ven? By making themselves a heaven on earth, and thus preparing their spirits to breathe empyreal air when they have dropped the dust. And how may they make for themselves a heaven on earth? By building up a happy HOME FOR THE HEART. Much, but not all-oh! not nearly all-is in the site. But it must be within the precincts of the holy ground-and within hearing of the waters of life.

Pleasures of Imagination! Pleasures of Memory! Pleasures of Hope! All three most delightful poems; yet all the thoughts and all the feelings that inspired them-ethe realized-will not make FAITH! "The dayspring from on high hath visited us!" Blessed is he who feels that line-nor need his heart die within him, were a voice to be heard at midnight saying-"This New-Year's day shall be thy last!"

One voice-one young voice- all by its sweet, sad, solitary self, singing to us a Christmas Hymn! Listening to that music is like looking at the sky with all its stars. Was it a spirit?

"Millions of spiritual creatures walk unseen, Sole or responsive to each other's voice, Hymning their great Creator."

No, the singer, like ourselves, is mortal; and in that thought, to our hearts, lies the pathos of her prayers. The angels, veiling their faces

with their wings, sing in their bliss hallelujahs
round the throne of heaven; but she-a poor
child of clay, with her face veiled but with the
shades of humility and contrition, while
"Some natural tears she drops, but wipes them soon,"—
sings, in her sorrow, supplications to be suffer-
ed to see afar-off its everlasting gates-open-
ing not surely for her own sake-for all of
woman born are sinful-and even she in what
love calls her innocence feels that her fallen
being does of itself deserve but to die. The
hymn is fading away, liker and liker an echo,
and our spirit having lost it in the distance,
returns back holier to the heart-hush of home!
The million hunger and thirst after the
stronger and darker passions; nothing will go
down with them but the intense. They are in-
tolerant or careless-or even ashamed of
those emotions and affections that compose the
blessing of our daily life, and give its lustre to
the fire on the hearth of every Christian house-
hold. Yet, for all that, they are inexperienced
in those same stronger and darker passions cf
which they prate, and know nothing of the
import of those pictures of them painted, with
background of gloom and foreground of fire,
in the works of the truly great masters. The
disturbed spirit of such delineations is far be-
yond the reaches of their souls; and they mis-
take their own senseless stupor for solemn
awe-or their own mere physical excitement
for the enthusiasm of imagination soaring
through the storm on the wings of intellect.
There are such things in "Satan's Invisible
World Displayed" in poetry, as strong and
dark passions; and they who are acquainted
with their origin and end call them bad pas-
sions; but the good passions are not dark, but
bright-and they are strong too, stronger than
death or the grave.

All human beings who know how to reap
"The harvest of a quiet eye,
That broods and sleeps on its own heart,"
feel, by the touch, the flowers of affection in
every handful of beauty they gather up from
those fortunate fields on which shines, for ever
through all seasons, the sun of life.. How soft
the leaves! and, as they meet the eye, how
fair! Framed, so might it seem, of green dew
consolidated into fragrance. Nor do they fade
when gently taken from their stalk on its na-
tive bed. They flourish for ever if you bruise
them not-sensitive indeed; and, if you are so
forgetful as to treat them rashly, like those of
the plant that bears that name, they shrink, and
seem to shrivel for a time-growing pale, as if
upbraiding your harshness; but cherished, they
are seen to be all of

"Immortal amaranth, the tree that grows
Fast by the throne of God;"

for the seeds have fallen from heaven to earth,
and for eighteen hundred years have been
spreading themselves over all soils fit for their
reception-and what soil is not fit? Even fit
are stony places, and places full of thorns.
For they will live and grow there in spite of
such obstruction-and among rank and matted
weeds will often be seen peering out like prim-
roses gladdening the desert.

That voice again-"One of old Scotland's songs, so sad and slow!" Her heart is now blamelessly with things of earth. "Sad and slow!" and most purely sweet. Almost mournful although it be, it breathes of happinessfor the joy dearest to the soul has ever a faint tinge of grief. O innocent enchantress! thou encirclest us with a wavering haze of beautiful imagery, by the spell of that voice awakening after a mood of awe, but for thy own delight. From the long dim tracts of the past come strangely blended recognitions of woe and bliss, undistinguishable now to our own heart-nor knows that heart if it be a dream of imagination or of memory. Yet why should we wonder? In our happiest hours there may have been something in common with our most sorrowful-some shade of sadness cast over them by a passing cloud, that now allies them in retrospect with the sombre spirit of grief; and in our unhappiest hours there may have been gleams of gladness, that seem now to give the return the calm character of peace. Do not all thoughts and feelings, almost all events, seem to resemble each other-when they are dreamt of as all past? All receive a sort of sanctification in the stillness of the time that has gone by-just like the human being whom they adorned or degraded-when they, too, are at last buried together in the bosom of the same earth.

Perhaps none among us ever wrote verses of any worth, who had not been, more or less, readers of our old ballads. All our poets have been so-and even Wordsworth would not have been the veritable and only Wordsworth, had he not in boyhood pored-oh, the miser!-over Percy's Reliques. From the highest to the humblest, they have all drunk from those silver springs. Shepherds and herdsmen and woodsmen have been the masters of the mightytheir strains have, like the voice of a solitary lute, inspired a power of sadness into the hearts of great poets that gave their genius to be prevalent over all tears, or with a power of sublimity that gave it dominion over all terror, like the sound of a trumpet. The Babes in the Wood! Chevy Chace! Men become women while they weep

"Or start up heroes from the glorious strain."

Sing then, "The Dirge," my Margaret, to the Old Man, "so tender and so true" to the spirit of those old ballads, which one might think were written by Pity's self.

DIRGE.

"O dig a grave, and dig it deep,

Where I and my true love may sleep!
We'll dig a grave and dig it deep,
Where thou and thy true love shall sleep!

"And let it be five fathom low.
Where winter winds may never blow!--
And it shall be five fathom low,
Where winter winds shall never blow!

"And let it be on yonder hill,
Where grows the mountain daffodil!
And it shall be on yonder hill,
Where grows the mountain daffodil !
"And plant it round with holy briers,
To fright away the fairy fires!-
We'll plant it round with holy briers!
To fright away the fairy fires!

"And set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine !-
We'll set it round with celandine,
And nodding heads of columbine!

"And let the ruddock build his nest
Just above my true love's breast!-
The ruddock he shall build his nest
Just above thy true love's breast!

"And warble his sweet wintry song
O'er our dwelling all day long!
And he shall warble his sweet song
O'er your dwelling all day long.
"Now, tender friends, my garments take,
And lay me out for Jesus's sake!

And we will now thy garments take,
And lay thee out for Jesus' sake.

"And lay me by my true love's side,
That I may be a faithful bride!-

that lies on the surface, but has no power to disturb, much less destroy, the record printed on the heart.

We are all of us getting old-or older; nor would we, for our own part-if we could-renew our youth. Methinks the river of life is nobler as it nears the sea. The young are dancing in their skiffs on the pellucid shallows near the source on the Sacred Mountains of the Golden East. They whose lot it is to be in their prime, are dropping down the longer and wider reaches, that seem wheeling by with their silvan amphitheatres, as if the beauty were moving mornwards, while the voyagers are stationary among the shadows, or slowly descending the stream to meet the meridian day. Many forget

We'll lay thee by thy true love's side, That thou may'st be a faithful bride!" "The torrent's smoothness ere it dash be bw," Ay-ay-thou too art gone, WILLIAM STANLEY ROSCOE! What years have flown since and are lost in the roaring whirlpool. Under we walked among the "alleys green" of Al- Providence, we see ourselves on the river ex lerton with thee and thy illustrious father! and panded into a sealike lake, or arm of the who ever conversed with him for a few hours sea; and for all our soul has escaped and suf in and about his own home-where the stream fered, we look up to the stars in gratitude-and of life flowed on so full and clear-without down to the stars-for the water too is full of carrying away impressions that never seemed stars as well as the sky-faint and dim indeed to be remembrances-so vivid have they re--but blended, by the pervading spirit of mained amidst the obscurations and oblitera- beauty, with the brighter and bolder lumina tions of time, that sweeps with his wings all ries reposing on infinitude.

OUR WINTER QUARTERS.

BUCHANAN LODGE for a few months-fare- | with the spirit of cur kind. Weakest or well! "Tis the Twelfth of November; and for the City we leave thee not without reluctance, early in March by the blessing of Heaven again to creep into thy blooming bourne. Yet now and then we shall take a drive down, to while away a sunny forenoon among thy undecaying evergreens, to breathe the balm of thy Christmas roses, and for one Gentle bosom to cull the earliest crocuses that may be yellowing through the thin snows of Spring.

In truth, we know not well why we should ever leave thee, for thou art the Darling of all the Seasons; and Winter, so churlish elsewhere, is ever bland to thee, and, daily alighting in these gardens, loves to fold and unfold, in the cool sunshine, the stainless splendour of his pale-plumaged wings. But we are no hermit. Dear to us though Nature be, here, hand-in-hand with Art walking through our peaceful but not unpeopled POLICY, a voice comes to us from the city-heart-winning us away from the stillness of solitude into the stir of life. Milton speaks of a region

"Above the stir and smoke of this dim spot,
Which men call Earth;"

and oft have we visited it; but while yet we
pursue the ends of this our mortal being, in
the mystery of the brain whence ideas arise,
and in the mystery of the heart whence emo-
tions flow-kindred and congenial all-thought
ever blending with feeling, reason with imagi-
nation, and conscience with passion-'tis our
duty to draw our delight from intercommunion

wickedest of mortals are your soul-sick, lifeloathing, world-wearied men. In solitude we are prone to be swallowed up in selfishness; and out of selfishness what sins and crimes may not grow! At the best, moral stagnation ensues-and the spirit becomes, like "a greenmantled pool," the abode of reptiles. Then ever welcome to us be living faces, and living voices, the light and the music of reality— dearer far than any mere ideas or emotions hanging or floating aloof by themselves in the atmosphere of imagination. Blest be the cordial grasp of the hand of friendship-blest the tender embrace of the arms of love! Nay, smile not, fair reader, at an old man's fervour; for Love is a gracious spirit, who deserteth not declining age.

The DROSKY is at the door-and, my eye! what a figure is Peter! There he sits, like a bear, with the ribands in his paws-no part visible of his human face or form divine, but his small red eyes-and his ruby nose, whose re-grown enormity laughs at Liston. One lit tle month ago, the knife of that skilful chirur geon pared it down to the dimensions of a Christian proboscis. Again 'tis like a wart on a frost-reddened Swedish turnip. Pretty Poll, with small delicate pale features, sits beside him like a snowdrop. How shaggy since he returned from our last Highland tour is Filho da Puta! His name long as his tail-and the hair on his ears like that on his fetlocks. He absolutely reminds us of Hogg's Bonassus.

Ay, bless these patent steps-on the same principle as those by which we ascend our nightly couch-we are self-deposited in our Drosky. Oh! the lazy luxury of an air-seat! We seem to be sitting on nothing but a voluptuous warmth, restorative as a bath. And then what furry softness envelopes our feet! Yes-Mrs. Gentle Mrs. Gentle-thy Cashmere shawl, twined round our bust, feels almost as silkensmoothe as thine own, and scented is it with the balm of thy own lips. Boreas blows on it tenderly as a zephyr-and the wintry sunshine seems summery as it plays on the celestial colours. Thy pelisse, too, over our old happy shoulders, purple as the neck of the dove when careering round his mate. Thy comforter, too, in our bosom-till the dear, delightful, delicious, wicked worsted thrills through skin and flesh to our very heart. It dirls. Drive away, Peter. Farewell Lodge-and welcome, in a jiffy, Moray Place.

And now, doucely and decently sitting in our Drosky, behold us driven by Peter, proud as Punch to tool along the staring streets the great-grandson of the Desert-born! Yet-yet -couldst thou lead the field, Filho, with old Filho, with old Kit Castor on thy spine. But though our day be not quite gone by, we think we see the stealing shades of eve, and, a little further on in the solemn vista, the darkness of night; and therefore, like wise children of nature, not unproud of the past, not ungrateful for the present, and unfearful of the future, thus do we now skim along the road of life, broad and smooth to our heart's content, able to pay the turnpikes, and willing, when we shall have reached the end of our journey, to lie down, in hope, at the goal.

What pretty, little, low lines of gardenfronted cottages! leading us along out of rural into suburban cheerfulness, across the Bridge, and past the Oriental-looking Oil-Gas Works, with a sweep winding into the full view of PITT Street, (what a glorious name!) steep as some straight cliff-glen, and an approach truly majestic-yea, call it at once magnificentright up to the great city's heart. "There goes Old Christopher North!" the bright boys in the playground of the New Academy exclaim. God bless you, you little rascals! We could almost find it in our heart to ask the Rector for a holiday. But, under him, all your days are holidays for when the precious hours of study are enlightened by a classic spirit, how naturally do they melt into those of play!

"Gay hope is yours, by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Yours buxom health, of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,

Every thing has been tenderly dusted as if by hands that touched with a Sabbath feeling and though the furniture cannot be said to be new, yet while it is in all sobered, it is in no. thing faded. You are at first unaware of its richness on account of its simplicity-its grace is felt gradually to grow out of its comfortand that which you thought but ease lightens into elegance, while there is but one image in nature which can adequately express its repose that of a hill-sheltered field by sunset, under a fresh-fallen vest of virgin snow. For then snow blushes with a faint crimson-nay, sometimes when Sol is extraordinarily splendid, not faint, but with a gorgeousness of colouring that fears not to face in rivalry the western clouds.

Let no man have two houses with one set of furniture. Home's deepest delight is undisturbance. Some people think no articles fixtures-not even grates. But sofas and ottomans, and chairs and footstools, and screensand above all, beds-all are fixtures in the dwelling of a wise man, cognoscitive and sensitive of the blessings of this life. Each has its own place assigned to it by the taste, tact, and feeling of the master of the mansion, where order and elegance minister to comfort, and comfort is but a homely word for happiness. In various moods we vary their arrangement-nor is even the easiest of all Easychairs secure for life against being gently pushed on his wheels from chimney-nook to window-corner, when the sunshine may have extinguished the fire, and the blue sky tempts the Pater-familias, or him who is but an uncle, to lie back with half-shut eyes, and gaze upon the cheerful purity, even like a shepherd on the hill. But these little occasional disarrangements serve but to preserve the spirit of permanent arrangement, without which the very virtue of domesticity dies. What_sacrilege, therefore, against the Lares and Penates, to turn a whole house topsy-turvy, from garret to cellar, regularly as May-flowers deck the zone of the year! Why, a Turkey or a Persian, or even a Wilton or a Kidderminster carpet is as much the garb of the wooden floor inside, as the grass is of the earthen floor outside of your house. Would you lift and lay down the greensward? But without further illustration

be assured the cases are kindred-and so, too, with sofas and shrubs, tent-beds and trees. Independently, however, of these analogies, not fanciful, but lying deep in the nature of things, the inside of one's tabernacle, in town and country, ought ever to be sacred from all radical revolutionary movements, and to lie for ever in a waking dream of graceful repose. All our affections towards lifeless things become tenderer and deeper in the continuous and unbroken flow of domestic habit. The eye gets lovingly familiarized with each object That fly th' approach of morn." occupying its own peculiar and appropriate Descending from our Drosky, we find No. place, and feels in a moment when the most 99, Moray Place, exhibiting throughout all its insignificant is missing or removed. We say calm interior the selfsame expression it wore not a word about children, for fortunately, the day we left it for the Lodge, eight months since we are yet unmarried, we have none; ago. There is our venerable winter Hat-as but even they, if brought up Christians, are no like Ourselves, it is said, as he can stare-sit- dissenters from this creed, and however rackety ting on the Circular in the Entrance-hall. in the nursery, in an orderly kept parlour or

And lively cheer, of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

drawing-room how like so many pretty little | whom we had been sorning, all unprepared did white mice do they glide cannily along the we once set our foot! From the moment, and floor! Let no such horror, then, as a flitting it was but for a moment, and about six o'clock ever befall us or our friends! O mercy! only-far away in the country-that appalling vilook at a long huge train of wagons, heaped sion met our eyes-till we found ourselves, up to the windows of the first floors, moving about another six o'clock, in Moray Place, we along the dust-driving or mire-choked streets have no memory of the flight of time. Part with furniture from a gutted town-house of the journey-or voyage-we suspect, was towards one standing in the rural shades with performed in a steamer. The noise of knockan empty stomach! All is dimmed or de-ing, and puffing, and splashing seems to be .n stroyed-chairs crushed on the table-land, and our inner ears; but after all it may have been four-posted beds lying helplessly with their a sail-boat, possibly a yacht!-In the Attics an astonished feet up to heaven-a sight that Aviary open to the sky. And to us below, the might make the angels weep! many voices, softened into one sometimes in the pauses of severer thought, are sometimes very affecting, so serenely sweet it seems, as the laverocks' in our youth at the gates of heaven.

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son !-O that thou and we had been rowers in the same boat on the silent river! Rowers, indeed! Short the spells and far between that we should have taken-the one would not have turned round the other but when the oar chanced to drop out of his listless hand-and the canoe would have been allowed to drift with the stream, unobservant we of our back. ward course, and wondering and then ceasing to wonder at the slow receding beauty of the hanging banks of grove-the cloud mountains, immovable as those of earth, and in spirit one world.

People have wondered why we, an old barren bachelor, should live in such a large house. It is a palace; but never was there a greater mistake than to seek the solution in our pride. Silence can be had but in a large house. And At our door stand the Guardian Genii, Sleep silence is the chief condition of home happi- and Silence. We had an ear to them in the ness. We could now hear a leaf fall-a leaf building of our house, and planned it after a of the finest wire-wove. Peter and Betty, Polly long summer day's perusal of the Castle of Inand the rest, inhabit the second sunk story-dolence. O Jemmy Thomson! Jemmy Thom. and it is delightful to know that they may be kicking up the most infernal disturbance at this blessed moment, and tearing out each other's hair in handfuls, without the faintest whisper of the uproar reaching us in our altitude above the drawing-room flat. On NewYear's Day morning there is regularly a competition of bag-pipers in the kitchen, and we could fondly imagine 'tis an Eolian Harp. In his pantry Peter practised for years on the shrill clarion, and for years on the echoing horn; yet had he thrown up both instruments in despair of perfection ere we so much as knew that he had commenced his musical stu- Ay! Great noise as we have made in the dies. In the sunk story, immediately below world our heart's desire is for silence-its that, having been for a season consumptive, delight is in peace. And is it not so with all we kept a Jenny ass and her daughter-and men, turbulent as may have been their lives, though we believe it was not unheard around who have ever looked into their own being? Moray and Ainslie Places, and even in Char-The soul longs for peace in itself; therefore, lotte Square, we cannot charge our memory with an audit of their bray. In the sunk story immediately below that again, that distinguished officer on half pay, Captain Campbell of the Highlanders-when on a visit to us for a year or two-though we seldom saw him-got up a Sma' still-and though a more harmless creature could not be, there he used to sit for hours together, with the worm that never dies. On one occasion, it having been supposed by Peter that the Captain had gone to the East Neuk of Fife, weeks elapsed, we remember, ere he was found sitting dead, just as if he had been alive, in his usual attitude in his armchair, commanding a view of the precipice of the back court.

Just as quiet are the Attics. They, too, are furnished; for the feeling of there being one unfurnished room, however small, in the largest house, disturbs the entire state of mind of such an occupant, and when cherished and dwelt on, which it must not unfrequently be, inspires a cold air of desolation throughout the domicile, till "thoughts of flitting rise." There is no lumber-room. The room containing BlueBeard's murdered wives might in idea be entered without distraction by a bold mind.— But oh! the lumber-room, into which, on an early walk through the house of a friend on

wherever it discerns it, it rejoices in the image of which it seeks the reality. The serene human countenance, the wide water sleeping in the moonlight, the stainless marble-depth of the immeasurable heavens, reflect to it that tranquillity which it imagines within itself, though it never long dwelt there, restless as a dove on a dark tree that cannot be happy but in the sunshine. It loves to look on what it loves, even though it cannot possess it; and hence its feeling on contemplating such calm, is not of simple repose, but desire stirs in it, as if it would fain blend itself more deeply with the quiet it beholds! The sleep of a desert would not so affect it; it is Beauty that makes the dif ference that attracts spirit to matter, while spirit becomes not thereby materialized-but matter spiritualized; and we fluctuate in the air-boat of imagination between earth and hea ven. In most and in all great instances there is apprehension, dim and faint, or more distinct, of pervasion of a spirit throughout that which we conceive Beautiful. Stars, the moon, the deep bright ether, waters, the rainbow, a pure lovely flower-none of them ever appear to us, or are believed by us to be mere physical and unconscious dead aggregates of atoms. That is what they are; but we could have no pleasure in them, if we knew them as such.

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