ember; and for the City we leave thee not without reluctance, early
in March by the blessing of Heaven again to creep into thy blooming
bourne. Yet now and then we shall take a drive down, to while away a
sunny forenoon among thy undecaying evergreens, to breathe the balm of
thy Christmas roses, and for one _Gentle_ bosom to cull the earliest
crocuses that may be yellowing through the thin snows of Spring.

In truth, we know not well why we should ever leave thee, for thou art
the Darling of all the Seasons; and Winter, so churlish elsewhere, is
ever bland to thee, and, daily alighting in these gardens, loves to fold
and unfold, in the cool sunshine, the stainless splendour of his
pale-plumaged wings. But we are no hermit. Dear to us though Nature be,
here, hand-in-hand with Art walking through our peaceful but not
unpeopled POLICY, a voice comes to us from the city-heart--winning us
away from the stillness of solitude into the stir of life. Milton speaks
of a region

"Above the stir and smoke of this dim spot,
Which men call earth;"

and oft have we visited it; but while yet we pursue the ends of this our
mortal being, in the mystery of the brain whence ideas arise, and in the
mystery of the heart whence emotions flow--kindred and congenial
all--thought ever blending with feeling, reason with imagination, and
conscience with passion--'tis our duty to draw our delight from
intercommunion with the spirit of our kind. Weakest or wickedest of
mortals are your soul-sick, life-loathing, world-wearied men. In
solitude we are prone to be swallowed up in selfishness; and out of
selfishness what sins and crimes may not grow! At the best, moral
stagnation ensues--and the spirit becomes, like "a green-mantled pool,"
the abode of reptiles. Then ever welcome to us be living faces, and
living voices, the light and the music of reality--dearer far than any
mere ideas or emotions hanging or floating aloof by themselves in the
atmosphere of imagination. Blest be the cordial grasp of the hand of
friendship--blest the tender embrace of the arms of love! Nay, smile
not, fair reader, at an old man's fervour; for Love is a gracious
spirit, who deserteth not declining age.

The DROSKY is at the door--and, my eye! what a figure is Peter! There he
sits, like a bear, with the ribbons in his paws--no part visible of his
human face or form divine, but his small red eyes--and his ruby nose,
whose re-grown enormity laughs at Liston. One