sentiments. Are facts so necessary then? Have you exhausted all your previous stock? Or do you sit brooding there for some expected truth which shall show you the hollowness of your ways, but which, while you sit there, and shut your ears to the beseechings of the soul, shall never come, and you shall die at last a beggar. The sovereignty of the intellect has dwindled into cant, as much soul as you can muster avails; maugre that, all is barrenness and ashes. Events strengthen not the hope, for no length of time will ever ripen the contents of an empty barrel. If the intellect is our highest faculty, how comes it that so many of those who have been so highly endowed with this inheritance, have only died at last covered with shame at the perverted nature of their lives?-who, while stalking like petty gods among men, and transcending by the giant powers of their minds, have yet left a blight and pestilence in their path, as venemous reptiles leave their slimy tracks behind them. The names of Alexander, Pericles, Aspasia, Cataline, Alcibiades, Mirabeau, and Napoleon, only suggest a thousand more which might be quoted. And much to be deplored are the effects of our systems of trade, commerce, and education, in checking the growth of the best sentiments of our nature. The slow and steady calculations of gain and loss are appended, like badges of charity, to every effort which the pure soul would make to rescue some relic of itself from the wreck and destruction in which it finds itself immersed, and which threaten almost to strike God from the world. The influence of the senses is to circumscribe all things, and make the walls of space and time look solid and real,

and to surround us with a world of insanity and corruption; but the moment we suffer the soul to speak, we become advertized of the great possibilities of our being, and a heaven of truth opens before us, in which we may bathe as in an ocean which has neither let nor bound, and even to us, the attributes of God become possible. "The moment we indulge our affections, the earth is metamorphosed; there is no winter and no night; all tragedies, all ennui vanish-all duties even; nothing fills the proceeding eternity but the forms all radiant of beloved persons." The moment the soul is assured of its acceptance to this universal realm, it acquires a new life, and a beaming satisfaction. Plato says, "lookest thou at the stars? If I were heaven, with all the eyes of heaven would I look down on thee ?" and to the soul which is conscious of its high regard for the plain and solid beauty of its presentiments, the whole universe becomes but the speaking semblance of itself, and the bond of union between it and those it holds most dear.

All that the poet can teach us is his own impotency to express adequately the sentiments and feelings which surround us with each pulsing of the soft air, and with each echo of the wheeling sky. This power which abides within us is higher than intellect, more potent than will, and works through every fibre of our living hearts for good and beautiful purposes. It is the living soul of the world, the Alpha and Omega of this passing life, the primum mobile of all the virtues, and the vital force of all heroic actions. It is a power above the bolts and bars of thought, and fills up the space between the earth

and heaven. It endows us with the rose of immortality, and gathers round us all the moments of the past and future it can crowd a whole eternity into one hour, one single hour of immeasurable bliss.

120

THE LAND OF BLACKBERRIES.

"What tho' no charms my person grace,

Nor beauty moulds my form, nor paints my face?
The sweetest fruit may often pall the taste,
While sloes and brambles yield a safe repast."

BLACKLOCK'S Plaintive Shepherd.

TALK not of the luscious land of vines; sing not the praises of blue heavens and rivers which flow through vintage banks; of Rhines, and Moselles, and Rhones, and Danubes; forget that there are regions of towering palms, and fruitful bananas, and golden prairies reaching to the sea,-lands all fragrant with magnolia blossoms, and jungles where the richest fruits rot, untouched, upon the mould; sigh not for Grecian vales and isles of Paphos; nor pine for the rose-gardens of Cashmere, nor for the scented bowers where the bulbul sings. Know that here, in this island of green meadows and luxuriant hedgerows, we speak the tongue of Lydegate; that we are compatriots with Spencer, Chaucer, Shakspere, and Keats; and that it is the land of beechen woods and Druidical memorials; and above all, let us be grateful to the Providence which has placed us in the Land of Blackberries.

Blackberries! rich, juicy, cool, and gushing, which, in the days of boyhood, lured us with their jetty lusciousness, and made us forget old Horace and the Pons Asinorum, and in exchange for the Eton Grammar and the pickled birch, gave us a larger life in the green woods, made our young hearts beat with hopeful enthusiasm, and filled us with the first taste of life's poetry. Who then but would love blackberries, even though less delicious and refreshing to the palate than they really are? Who but would love the simple fruits which recalled the memories of orchard-robbing, school-mischief, April fools, holiday rambles, and frantic dogs with kettles or crackers at their tails? Blackberries,—ah ! away we go, the sunshine is still blinking among the trees, and although the air grows chill, autumn is still ruddy, and the hedges are yet fruitful. There is Epping Forest, whither we went from Stepney at eight years of age "Blackberrying." We knew almost every dell, and cover, and tangled copse, and from any path could lead you direct to the richest garden of Blackberries. We knew the haunts of Hornsey, and Finchley, and Old Ford—now, alas! little towns, or appendages to London -long before we were twelve years of age; and many a dream of Robin Hood and Will Scarlet have we dreamt there among the fern, after having sated ourselves, after the fashion of Justice Greedy,-with the blackest of ripe Blackberries. There was always a charm about it, which neither tattered clothes, nor lacerated hands, nor angry looks at home, nor harsh words at school, could ever dispel; and to compensate for all the sorrows and trials of school drudgery and book education, we had the