leaves, and the trembling fulness of its ears, is a Miracle of Beauty."

Here one feels the healing of Nature in the appearance of some new beauty, and in the gift divine of quiet sequestration. The thick, close lilac bushes shut out the sight of field and road. The ear may catch the sound of an insect now and then, but the dark chorus of the world is on the far horizon-unheard.

And there are times of a deeper withdrawing-as great a Miracle as aught beneath or in the heavens; an over-shadowing and a revealing. The incoming of the evening causes a fuller outgoing of the soul. There is a rapturous stillness. The spirit of sweetness rises silently through the twilight air; there is a breathing perfume everywhere. Now approaches the gift of the Evening Star. A silvery light diffuses itself over all things we look, and the brightness centres in yonder throbbing planet. Presently, there is a darkening, and we begin to see the sparkling dust from Heaven's footstool flying through space. The mind gradually becomes agitated: Night is here, she who "brings as many thoughts as she wears stars."

:

In a few hours, the flower of day has been long closed. I retire to my chamber-wrap the shroud of darkness around me. I prepare for the death of the World-Life: take just such space as will serve in the cemetery. In the dark furrow I lay myself down, and as I murmur with Novalis,-" Thou, Night's Inspiration, Slumber of Heaven, comest over me!" lo! it is already here. The soul has hied away from the sepulchre of the body; the mystic music has risen from the sod, and ascended into the heaven of heavens.

Such the ecstasy, the balm, the repose, the Vision.

Proteus is in the Garden as well as Psyche. The elemental god in earth, ether, water, fire, is ever transforming himself. Here, too, is Chloris, the fairest

goddess of flowers, without whom even Juno, queen of power and beauty, was barren, and who, by her spiritual flower-forces, impregns the soul with progenies of strong, lustrous thought.

These sometimes arise from the constellated glory of the whole of the living masses. The greatest emotion, the strongest impression, may be due to the complete scene entering the mind; in some moods, as with Beauty, Sorrow, Separation, details defraud us of the pathos, the rapture, as well as of the splendour and the gloom. The Greek painter could only depict overwhelming grief effectively by the averted and covered face; Milton could only speak of the King of Terrors, and of the loveliness of Eve, in general

terms.

But the darlings of Nature can also have a dainty individuality, and a bright particular reference. Each flower, consuming in its beauty, has its special charm, a select tone, often much-loved suggestions. Feelings and scenes are enwoven in the tresses of the flower beds, and the trailing green of the rockery. That crisp, low creeping plant, recalls the craggy parsley-fern-path leading to Scale Force, the sombre mountains enclosing Buttermere, the cavernous cleft in the rocky side of the hill, the darkness within, and the long, streaming fall. That bunch of the forget-me-notsacramental flower of Love-carries the mind to woody shades that lie beneath Romaldkirk, and once more I see the glitter and hear the murmur of the Tees. These primroses tell of Spring days, fresh meadows and water courses and those cowslips, too, are pensioners of memory,-they bring round me dells, and green hills, and holiday-times, long, long ago. The pansy at my feet doth the same tale repeat, of the glory and the dream, which certainly fly for awhile with flowers and leaves, but ever reappear with them in the quickening Spring.

None of these things can pass away. That which has mingled with the heart's blood does not utterly perish. The tenderness of the flowers finds a lasting place in the bosom; elevated hopes have been nurtured by their loveliness. Mrs. Somerville was wont to say: "Whatever flowers grow in heaven, I think I shall regret our own roses and mignonette." When the gentle, fiery fancy of Jean Paul was passing to the heavenlier world, his last murmur was: "My beautiful flowers, my lovely flowers!" When Tom Hood was ill unto death, he sang that he smelt "the Rose above the mould!" Keats, in one of his reveries, wherein he traversed past scenes and recalled old emotions, just before his departure from earth, said. that "the intensest pleasure he had received in life was in watching the growth of flowers ;" and after a peaceful, forward look, he said "I feel the flowers growing over me." Great has been the love for flowers, and that it grows not less when the spirit of man is returning to God who gave it, is highest of all testimony to the strong foundations on which it rests. The manifestations and admonitions in the Garden are sources of joy and strength; but the conclusion of the matter is assured in divine fulness, when we perceive the love of flowers lingering on the lips of the dying, and mingling with Everlasting Hopes, and with the rays which lighten the tomb from the Bright Kingdom beyond.

36

CHAPTER II.

THE WARFARE OF THE DAY,

I.

'Everything is a combination of all things."

-Diogenes of Sinope.

As I leave the Garden, I pause on the threshold of my home. I hear the murmur of the town borne on the soft west wind. It reminds me of the warfare I have left, which is still continued by tens of thousands. Yonder cloud, which lies along the course of the river, is the smoke of the battle.-"Let us hear of it a little," demands the curious Trinculo: "let us be loyal and give audience to the world."

Matters have been involved-but others have been brought to a profitable conclusion.-" And all good? enquires Onocrotalos, with acidulous emphasis. “Nay, not necessarily," intervenes Trinculo, who well knows the world's ways. "But in some cases, you hear, there has been a profitable conclusion.

"Twas a glorious victory!'"

These Voices were not heard in the Garden. In other places they are importunate: will have attention,— jubilant, complaining, commenting, replying. The grievous voice of Onocrotalos scarcely ceases to assault my ears before there are responses, often consoling beyond the softness of speech. We all talk to ourselves, though it be in thinking, when we utter no sound. Each of us has within him Trinculo with all his waywardness, the conscientious Apostolo, embittered, froward Onocrotalos, gracious Arcangelo, These Voices are as pertinacious

as thy voice, reader, or mine, when we converse with foe or friend, and find an embodiment in words of our thoughts. Their language cannot discompose our considerations as to Business. They may, indeed, be helpful, for Business has many aspects. They may stimulate, if they should not enlighten. These magical Voices may be more than one's own thoughts—some of the world's thoughts vocal. Now let us enter the Book-Chamber, and see what there can be learned of the outer work.

In this evening hour Business has no demand upon us,-suggests the spirit-voice of Arcangelo. The season is our own. We command Business as imperiously as ever it has commanded us. We can play with it to as capricious ends as ever it has played with us. We can make it a meditation or a jest. It is a thing to be adorned, or to be stripped and whipped, as we like best, and as suits our pleasantry.

In its consideration, therefore, forego not humour, whilst you keep hold of seriousness; for all its sins and glories, Business deserves to be dealt with in no stinted, distrustful phrase.

There are many who assume to sneer at the Man of Business; but this is wrong,-all workers are Men of Business. And those who in lazy impotence would look down upon them, we must despise : they may be lounging after pleasure; they may deem their spurious easiness to be godlike; but we know by signs indubitable that they are but rotting before they are ripe, and only wait the hour when they shall perish miserably in their delusions, and the cheerful cry of the toiler, and the music of the shuttle of his daily life, will be sounds of torment to their ears.

Business-further remarks Arcangelo ;-Business! in its most solemn aspect, may be taken to be that portion of Divine Law (which ever implies Action) wherein man