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THE LOVER'S SEAT.

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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 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.

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