Of golden morns and eves, whose glory makes "And Winter too with his soft mantle wraps "I would be loved! O God I would be loved! "Is there A curse between me and the race, and so "It cannot be that I repulse the sight. They tell me I am very beautiful. I know my cheeks are fair, my eyes are bright "Is it my beauty is my curse? 'Twas said Of that fair, fated land, Italia, By him who knew her best, and loved her most, O God! if this be so, let sickness come, And rob me of the charms which make my woe. "Come death and gently fold me in thy arms, * Again the silence reigned around; a star And with their presence soothe her wounded heart. JOHN ALFRED LANGFORD. COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. A LITTLE TALK ABOUT A GOOD BOOK. It is with books, as with human beings-some are no sooner seen than they become favourites, and ever after hold an abiding place in our affections. Others acquire this power by slow degrees, growing, as it were, upon your love with every fresh interview, until they silently, but surely, take possession of the whole heart. These become our firm friends. We consult them in our troubles, seek for their advice before we attempt great undertakings, confess our errors, and thankfully receive their monitorial council thereon; in our sacred hours of affliction we rest upon their love, and find balm for the wounded heart in their sympathy and consolement. In some respects books have an advantage over their living companions in this friendly relationship. They are passive to all our varying thoughts and feelings. We take them up and lay them down just as humour prompts us, or the fulness of the heart compels. We may communicate as much or as little of our joys and sorrows as we please, and not a question will be asked, or a sign of disappointment appear. When one sentence applies more intimately to our peculiar state of mind than another, we may re-read it over and over again; or, laying down the book, may lovingly dwell upon the words until they become a part of us; and our souls drink in the wisdom and the consolation, as the desert drinks the rain-drops of a falling shower. Books may want the warmth, the heaving, heart-moving power of a living loving friend; there is no grasp of the hand that tells so much, which the tongue can never say; no sweet voice singing from the depths of affection "Peace, peace, thou perturbed spirit;" no mild glance of an eye lit up with sympathy and hope; but there is a spirit which asks not, nor needs these adjuncts, that steals into the heart's inner sanctuary, and blesses the sufferer with a calm, though perhaps, melancholy quietness of thought which is soothing and beautiful. Especially is this the case to those who in sorrow love solitude; who in grief see a spiritual teacher, which alone can raise the soul to the highest conception of the divine, and inspire the deepest trust in the Unseen. Goethe has beautifully said Who never ate his bread with tears, Who never through night's gloomy hours, He knows ye not, ye heavenly powers.* And our young English poet, Henry Sutton, in two verses, which, for true poetry, outweigh many a volume of rhyme, has sung in sweet wailing tones that falls on the ear like the beloved voice of a departed friend The flowers live by the tears that fall From the sad face of the skies; And life would have no joys at all, Love thou thy sorrow, grief shall bring The Rainbow-see how sweet a thing, I was led into the above train of thought by reading the book same. *Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass, Wer nicht die kummervollen Nǎchte Auf seinem Bette weinend sass, Der kennt euch nicht, ihr hümmlischen Măchte. GOETHE. tude" was then brought, and, almost hopeless and with indifference, I turned over its pages and glanced at its contents. By degrees its calm spirit, its large-heartedness, its genial sympathy with suffering and sorrow, its gentle judgment on the erring and sinful, its love of children, and flowers, and fields, and woods, its quiet, home-like wisdom, its charity so manly and free from cant; and, more than all, its religious tone and deep veneration for the divine in life; though they did not, and could not remove my grief, yet they elevated, soothed, and refined it. I have never seen its author, and most likely never may; but I feel for him more than men generally feel for even their most favourite writers, and may not rest till I have told others what a deep store of fruitful wisdom lies in his little volume. It is a sweet pleasure to speak of a book in which broods the spirit of love. For with a magic influence will the spirit steal into the aching heart, and for a time, like a bright sunset after a dull, cloudy day, all will be serene and cheerful. The Companions of my Solitude are the thoughts, reveries, and meditations which occupy the author's mind when sitting alone in his study, pacing his garden walks, rambling the neighbouring green and shady lanes, sauntering through the pine wood, walking over the downs, or going to and from his friend Dunsford's. With these he communes as with living friends, and their talk is upon the questions and things that at present most interest the world. The loss of time in unprofitable labour, the amusements and education of the people, the “great sin of great cities,” the Church, and other topics of a kindred nature, occupy his solitude with pleasant thought and healthy speculation. It would be well for the world if our legislators and public teachers were carefully to read the book, and endeavour to make practical many of our author's suggestions. They are full of the "milk of human kindness," tempered by a deep wisdom and a rich fund of common sense; not "what we mean by common sense that is apt to be hard, overwise, and disagreeable," but "the common sense of a romantic person, and of one who had a great perception of the harmonious." But I will now let the author speak for himself. He is meditating on the loss of time. "Law, for example, what a loss of time, of heart, of love, and of leisure! There are good men whose minds are set upon improving the law; but I doubt whether any of them are prepared to go far enough. Here again we must hope most from the general improvement of the people. Perhaps, though, some one great genius will do something for us, have often fancied that a man might play the part of Brutus in I the law. He might simnlate madness in order to ensure freedom. He might make himself a 'great lawyer, rise to eminence in his profession, and then turn round and say 'I am not going to enjoy this high seat and dignity; but intend henceforward to be an advocate for the people of this country against the myriad oppressions and vexations of the law. No Chancellorships or ChiefJusticeships for me. I have only pretended to be this slave in order that you should not say that I am an untried and unpractical man-that I do not understand your mysteries.' How many shattered hearts, and ruined families, and blasted hopes groan in England now for such a Brutus of the law ?" Our quotations must necessarily be disjointed, and our analysis of the book imperfect. To extract all the passages we should like, would be to leave but little unappropriated. In reading it passages on passages called for the pencil mark; and what is still more to the purpose, took hold of the mind and gave it matter for after thought and future elaboration. Here is an extract on the small annoyances which fill so large a space in every man's life :"Those very unfortunate concurrences of circumstances, which most men's lives will tell them of, where a man, from some small error or omission, from some slight carelessness, or overtrust in thoughtless innocence or inexperience, gets entangled in a web of adverse circumstances, which will be company for him on sleepless nights and anxious days throughout a large part of his life. Were success in life (morally or physically) the main object here, it certainly would seem as if a little more faculty in man were sadly needed. A similar thing occurs often to the body, when a man, from some small mischance or oversight, lays the beginning of a disease which shall depress and enfeeble him while he sojourns upon earth. And it seems, when he looks back, as if such a little thing would have saved him: if he had not crossed over the road, if he had not gone to see his friend on that particular day, if the dust had not been so unpleasant on that occasion, the whole course of his life had been different. Living, as we do, in the midst of stern, gigantic Laws, which crush everything down that comes in their way, which know no excuses, admit of no small errors, never send a man back to learn his lesson and try him again, but are as inexorable as Fate-living, I say, with such creatures about us (unseen, too, for the most part,) it does seem as if the faculties of man were hardly as yet adequate to his situation here. "Such considerations as the above tend to charity and humility; and they point also to the existence of a future state. "As regards charity, for example, a man might extend to others |