Hence in solitude, or that deserted state
when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not
with us; we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky. In
the motion of the very leaves of Spring, in the blue air, there is
then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence
in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the
rustling of the reeds beside them, which, by their inconceivable
relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to dances of
breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the
eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one
beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he were in a desert
he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or power is dead, man
becomes a living sepulchre of himself, and what yet survives is the
mere husk of what once he was.
* * * * *
This and a fragment, with a character of Mr. Canning, by Sir James
Mackintosh, are the _transcendentals_ of the volume; as are the
tale--The Half-brothers, by Mr. Banim, with an Ossian-like plate of
the heroine; The Sisters of Albano, by Mrs.
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