again. The hours, if there are any, are all golden, and we have
no occasion to note the passage one to the other; or if we start them,
just to see the motion, they run on diamonds of the purest water; but
mostly, whether it be morn, or mid-day, or the starry night, Sabbath or
week-day, it is all one--all beautiful. Does it rain? It is quite proper.
The earth needs it, no doubt, and it will look the more grateful therefor.
Does it shine? Why then the birds will sing, and if they will come a
little nearer, we will teach them that charming air from the last opera.
Does a new star come out in heaven, or an old one disappear? The one will
be an added glory, and the other not much missed; but they will little
concern our astronomy. Expect no more rhapsodies, my friend, unless it be
upon the wonderful ease with which every thing can be done without them.
That we find all things pleasant, is the extent of our poetry. It is
pleasant to wake; it is pleasant to sleep; it is pleasant to wake and
sleep again; pleasant to watch the opening lid, and pleasant the smile
that follows it; pleasant are kind words and tones, the touch of hands,
and the touch of lips; the breath of flowers and those that love them;
pleasant are the thousand infinitesimals, like the motes of the sun-beam,
not less bright because of their minuteness; and pleasant the thought that
sufficient as this heaven may be, there is another one above. And
doubtless it is pleasant to breathe as usual, and feel the heart send
round its currents with a touch of joy; but oh, pleasanter than all, to
have no sigh or throb, to remind you that that breath must one day stop,
and that warm blood turn cold. Oh! in the 'time' that is set apart 'for
all things,' may heaven look kindly on and count these trifling hours!

'Shall we ever leave this charming retreat? Certainly not, while these
things last; but it is not impossible that we may return with the cold
weather. Meanwhile, I have made a chalk-mark about the grounds, and as yet
nothing with a bite or sting has passed over it. Mrs. JULIAN, as she now
insists upon being called, has become highly contemplative; and if I did
not know that she was never so happy before, I should think her sometimes
a little sad; she is so quiet, so demure, and so eternally bewitched with
that boy! Why Sir, she will sit for half a day over the fellow, amusing
herself and him with I know not what varieties and wonders of invention;
with lullabies and dit