The poetry of life a common thing-Fed by common scenes- Enjoyed by common persons-In what it consists,—in the love and search of the ideal in common scenery, events, and persons -Excellence of this common poetry of life-Its attributes- Its intrinsic worth-Its opposition to the spirit of the world Pleasure is a common thing-Whole truths accepted at the Lover's Seat-Its absolute condemnation as applied to humanity in general the result of extraordinary views-Danger and evil of such views-Pleasure considered-As belonging to common life in country and in town-Man needs society-Cities re- quired to supply this end-Pleasures of the country how far enjoyed-Deceptions respecting the virtue and repose of rustic life-Cities offer social and intellectual pleasures-Excellence of these common pleasures-The streets, the markets-Con- Adherence to nature in regard to manhood a common thing- Contrasts from a desire of the extraordinary-Its excellence- Adherence to nature in regard to womanhood a common thing -Its excellence-Instances the substitutions proposed by those ambitious of singularity-The unfeminine character traced to a literary source-To a religious one-To a defective nature-Adherence to nature in regard to youth a common thing-Its excellence-The faults of youth traced to a love Excellence of other common things-One's own country-The common love for it better than the artificial—Travelling, its disadvantages-The common in one's own social positions— Contrast presented by the dreams of ambition—The evil result of thirsting for singularity in this sphere-Faults of the emi- nent-Their misery and privations-The common lot is best -Acquiescence in the common degrees of society excellent- The love of union and equality common and natural-A test THE LOVER'S SEAT. &c. CHAPTER I. It was on an evening in September long ago,-but one never forgets such things down to the minutest details, that two friends, after rambling through the beautiful woods that clothe the hills on which the Crystal Palace now stands, had passed through the garden of a lone road-side inn near the inclosure that bears the name of the Beulah Spa, and were resting themselves on the sloping side of that high ground in a sequestered bower, from which there was a prospect over a richly cultivated valley that reaches to the Surrey hills. The sun was beginning to get low amidst those magnificent clouds which render so peculiarly beautiful its autumnal setting; though Shakspeare perhaps intended to convey a doubtful compliment by saying,— "He smiles as 'twere a cloud in autumn." The garden was well stocked with those trees that rejoice the eye when the bright sun with kindly distant beams gilds ripened fruit. If you were for classical images, or had ever heard of such a place, you might have thought unlocked the garden of the Hesperides, where the apples were pure gold. Passing through a little gate, you find the hill side overgrown with wild VOL. I. B furze, blackberry bushes, and broom; and then at the end of a blind alley, that in gayest holiday time seems to feel not the footing of one passenger, you arrive at the bower all but forgotten, as it seems, at present. It is like the spot of which Sir Walter Raleigh says, that only Love could find you out in it. Some ancient fir-trees with laurels at their base, intermingled with the brightness of many-tinted blooms which gleamed like stars through their shade, separate this uncultivated ground from the garden, forming a screen on the north and east, but to the south and west the view is open to all the beauties of nature and of art which adorn that suburban paradise. How sweet for moments to persons escaped from a city these solitary places are! How wantonly the wind breathes through the leaves, and courts and plays with them! Hark, hark! Oh sweet, sweet! how the birds record too! Oh thought! that is dearest and deepest in the human heart, surpassing utterance, in such a harmony art thou begotten; in such soft air, so gentle, lulled and nourished! John Paul Richter says he remembers a summer's day, when he was returning about two o'clock, watching the splendid sunny mountain side, and when an (until then unexperienced) undefined longing came over him of mingled pain and pleasure. "Ah," says his biographer, "it was the whole nature awaking and thirsting after the heavenly gifts of life that lay as yet concealed, undefined, and colourless in the deep folds of the heart; but an accidental sunbeam partially reveals them. There is a time of longing which knows not the name of its own object, which at best can only name itself. It is not the hour of moonlight, whose silvery sea so softly melts the heart, and makes it feel the Infinite, so much as it is the light of the afternoon sun, spreading itself over a wide prospect, which exercises this power of awakening a painful, boundless aspiration." The scene I am attempting to describe might have reminded one of this passage. These two friends, whose presence we are recalling, at all events, without knowing any thing of John Paul Richter, agreed to rest here some time; and so the reader must fancy that he sees them sitting down side by side, the diamond trellis round the entrance of the arbour forming a sort of frame to the view, as if the natural landscape were really a picture. He must imagine also the air breathing upon them most sweetly, and all the place as being suffused with a general pleasure showing like the peaceful bower of happiness. He must not forget to note the time also of this meeting; for, as the German writer has already told us, there is something in that too, since the evening like the dawn has peculiar attractions; and not for men alone, but it would almost seem for some plants, like the mignonette, which is sweeter and more penetrating at the setting as well as at the rising of the sun than at noon. In short, he must suppose every thing co-operating to form one of those happy hours that are easier felt than analyzed and defined. One might have felt like Aminta saying to Lisauro, in the "Maid in the Mill," "Pray be merry, The birds sing as they meant to entertain you; Every thing smiles abroad; every thing is in love." Or like Raybright, in the "Sun's Darling," exclaiming, "The rose-lipp'd dawning Is not so melting, so delicious; Turn me into a bird, that I may sit Still singing in such boughs." Or, for we must be in the vein of poesy now, one might have had the feeling of another when he says,— "Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Every thing is happy now, Every thing is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue 'Tis the natural way of living." But who are these friends supposed to be? Why, as for that, reader, you must know that the real is already changed into the ideal, and so you will be relieved from the burden of your curiosity, unless you would even still inquire as to whom we suppose them to be in their transformed character, though even then we have no answer perhaps that will perfectly satisfy you. However, this much ought to be sufficient. Every book you know that is composed after certain approved models must |
