Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 60, No. 373, November 1846
… "chi ama, qual chi muore,
Non ha da gire al ciel dal mondo altr'ale."
(Sonnetto: Dall' aspra piaga.)
There are, in Angelo's collection, four compositions which may be regarded as dedicated to the memory of Luigia de Medici; first, the sonnet. – "Spirto ben nato," … in which the poet deplores "the cruel law which has not spared tenderness, compassion, mercy – treasures so rare, united to so much of beauty and fidelity; then the Sonnets 27, 28, and 30, where Michel Angelo, as though emboldened by the irreparable calamity which had befallen him, raises the veil under which the circumstances and the illusions of his love had hitherto been shrouded, for every one, and almost for himself. Now he exclaims: – "Oh, fallacious hopes! where shall I now seek thee – liberated soul? Earth has received thy beauteous form, and Heaven thy holy thoughts! – (Sonnetto 27.)… This first love, which fixed my wandering affections, now overwhelms my exhausted soul with an insupportable weight. – (Sonnetto 28.) … Yes, the brightness of the flame, which nourished while consuming my heart, is taken from me by heaven; but one teeming spark remains to me, and I would wish to be reduced to ashes only after shining in my turn." The sense of the latter triplet is very enigmatical; it is here interpreted in accordance with the known character of the poet, and the direction which he delayed not to give to his faculties. From this moment Angelo, devoted to the threefold worship of God, art, and his country, constantly refused to think of other ties. He had, he remarked, "espoused the affectionate fantasy which makes of Art a monarch, an idol; "my children," he added, "will be the works that I shall leave behind me." More than thirty years were to elapse, ere in this heart, yet youthful at the approach of age, another woman, and she the first of her era, (Vittoria Colonna,) occupied in part the place left vacant by Luigia de' Medici.
It is to these few imperfect indications, conjectures, and fugitive glimpses, to which the most perspicacious care has not always succeeded in giving a positive consistency, that all our knowledge is reduced of one of the purest and most amiable forms presented by the historical and poetical gallery of Florence, during what is named her golden age. But what destiny was more worthy than that of Luigia de' Medici to excite a generous envy? Orphan from her birth, her life experienced that alone which elevates and purifies: hope, grief, and love. No vulgar cares abased her thoughts; no bitter experience withered her heart; death, in compassion, spared her the spectacle of the reverses of her family, and participation in the guilty successes which followed those disasters. Delicate and stainless flower, she closed on the eve of the storm that would have bathed her in tears and blood! The only evidence remaining to us of her is poetry of a fame almost divine – of a purity almost religious; and this young maiden, of whom no mention has come down to us, in addressing herself to our imagination, borrows the accents of the most extraordinary genius possessed by a generation hitherto unequalled in achievements of the mind. The place of sepulture of Luigia de' Medici is unknown; her remains were most probably deposited, without monumental inscription, in the vaults of San Lorenzo, the gentilizia church of her house. Among the epitaphs composed by Angelo, without attempting to indicate for whom, there is one whose application to Luigia de' Medici would be apt and touching. It may be thus translated: – "To earth the dust, to heaven the soul, have been returned by death. To him who yet loves me, dead, I have bequeathed the thought of my beauty and my glory, that he may perpetuate in marble the beautiful mask which I have left."
The editors of Michel Angelo have assumed that this admirable composition, as well as those which accompany it under the same title, were written for a certain Francesco Bracci. The expression "chi morta ancor m' ama" is sufficient to refute this singular supposition.
We shall now attempt to give some idea of the poetical compositions from which we have not yet quoted, and which we conjecture to have been similarly inspired in Michel Angelo by his love for Luigia de' Medici. We incline to consider as belonging to the earliest poetic age of the great artist, to the epoch of the first and only real love experienced by him, all the pieces forming the first part of his work, commencing with the celebrated sonnet —
"Non ha l'ottimo artista," * * *
and ending with the thirtieth —
"Qual meraviglia è se vicino al fuoco."
* * *
in addition, the sonnet, three madrigali, (pieces without division of stanzas or couplets,) and one canzone, which the editors have placed at the head of the collection, entitled by them – "Componimenti men gravi e giocosi." The commencement of a new era in Angelo's thoughts and poetic style appears to us marked by the composition of the two admirable pieces which he dedicated to the memory of Dante Alighieri: —
"Dal mondo scese ai ciechi abissi;"
* * *
and
"Quanto dime si dee non si può dire."
Michel Angelo petitioned but once: this was that Leo X. would grant the ashes of Dante to Florence, where the artist "offered to give a becoming burial to the divine poet, in an honourable place in the city." – (Condivi, Vita di Michel Angelo.)
Previously a stranger to the sentiments of love, the young artist at first wonders and fears at their violence:
"Who, then, has lifted me by main force above myself? How can it be that I am no longer my own? And what is the unknown power which, nearer then myself, influences me; which has more control over me; passes into my soul by the eyes; increases there without limit, and overflows my whole being?" —Madrigali, 3, 4.
Soon, however, he no longer doubts upon the character of this intoxication; he feels that he loves; he traces in sport the most graceful and animated picture of her who has captivated his heart! But this pure and ardent soul speedily becomes alarmed at the profound agitation in which it sees itself plunged; desires to go back to the cause, to recognise its origin, and measure its danger. Michel Angelo recognises, in conjunction with the danger, a sublime reward reserved for him who shall know how to merit it.
"The evil which I ought to shun, and the good to which I aspire, are united and hidden in thee, noble and divine beauty! * * * Love, beauty, fortune, or rigour of destiny, it is not you that I can reproach for my sufferings; for in her heart she bears at once compassion and death! Woe to me if my feeble genius succeed only, while consuming itself, in obtaining death from it!"57
Yes, dangerous and often fatal is that passion which seems to choose its favourite victims among hearts the most generous – intelligence the most ample:
"Very few are the men who raise themselves to the heaven; to him who lives in the fire of love, and drinks of its poison, (for to love is one of life's fatal conditions,) if grace transport him not towards supreme and incorruptible beauties – if all his desires learn not to direct themselves thither – Ah! what miseries overwhelm the condition of lover!" – (Sonnet 10.)
But this declaration has not been applied to all passionate and deep affections:
"No, it is not always a mortal and impious fault to burn with an immense love for a perfect beauty, if this love afterwards leave the heart so softened that the arrows of divine beauty may penetrate it."
"Love wakens the soul, and lends it wings for its sublime flight: often its ardour is the first step by which, discontented with earth, the soul remounts towards her Creator." – (Sonnet 8.)
Transported with this thought, in which he feels the passion to which he has yielded at once transforming and tranquillising itself, Michel Angelo gives to it in his verses the most eloquent and most ingenious developments.
"No, it is not a mortal thing which my eyes perceived, when in them was reflected, for the first time, the light of thine; but in thy look, my soul, inquiet, because it mounts towards its object without repose, has conceived the hope of finding her peace."
"She ascends, stretching her wings towards the abode from whence she descended! The beauty which charms the eyes calls to her on her flight; but, finding her weak and fugitive, she passes onwards to the universal form, the divine archetype."
This expression, and many others dispersed throughout the collection, show that he had profited more than he cared to acknowledge by the discourses of the Platonic Academy.
"Yes, I perceive it; that which must die can offer no repose to the wise man. * * * That which kills the soul is not love; it is the unbridled disorder of the senses. Love can render our souls perfect here below, and yet more in heaven!" – (Sonnet 2.)
And fruther on:
"From the stars most near to the empyrean, descends sometimes a brightness which attracts our desires towards them: it is that which is called love!" – (Mad. 8.)
But this celestial route demands extraordinary efforts on the part of him who aspires to travel it:
"How rash and how unworthy are the understandings, which bring down to the level of the senses this beauty whose approaches aid the true intelligence to remount to the skies. But feeble eyes cannot go from the mortal to the divine;58 never will they raise themselves to that throne, where, without the grace from on high, it is a vain thought to think of rising."
Michel Angelo believed that he recognised these characteristics, as rare as sublime, in the love which pervaded his own heart.
"The life of my love is not the all in my heart. * * This affection turns to that point where no earthly weakness, no guilty thought, could exist."
"Love, when my soul left the presence of her Creator, made of her a pure eye, of thee a splendour, and my ardent desire finds it every hour in that which must, alas! one day die of thee."
"Like as heat and fire, so is the Beautiful inseparable from the Eternal. * * * I see Paradise in thy eyes, and so return there where I loved thee before this life,59 I recur every hour to consume myself under thy looks." – (Sonnet 6.)
He writes elsewhere, with a singular mixture of affectionate ardour and metaphysical boldness, —
"I know not if this is, in thee, the prolific light from its Supreme Author which my soul feels, or if from the mysterious treasures of her memory some other beauty, earlier perceived, shines with thy aspect in my heart."60
"Or if the brilliant ray of thy former existence is reflected in my soul, leaving behind this kind of painful joy, which perhaps, at this moment, is the cause of the tears I shed;"
"But after all, that which I feel, and see, which guides me, is not with me, is not in me, * * sometimes I imagine that thou aidest me to distinguish it." * * * * (Sonnet 7.)
It is easy to conjecture the danger of this inclination to metaphysical speculation for an ardent and subtile genius, which, even in its works of art, has left the proof of a constant disposition towards an obscure mysticism or a sombre austerity. Michel Angelo was enabled to avoid these two dangers, on one or the other of which he would have seen his genius wrecked, by the noble confidence which he ever maintained in "the two beacons of his navigation," tenderness of heart, and pure worship of beauty.
Thus, we shall see with what outpouring he proclaims the necessity, for the human soul, to attach itself strongly to some generous love:
"The memory of the eyes, and this hope which suffices to my life, and more to my happiness, * * * reason and passion, love and nature, constrain me to fix my regard upon thee during the whole time given me. * * * Eyes serene and sparkling; he who lives not in you is not yet born!"
And again:
"It is to thee that it belongs to bring out from the coarse and rude bark within which my soul is imprisoned, that which has brought and linked together in my intelligence, reason strength, and love of the good." (Mad. 10.)
Then was renewed that sweet and pregnant security in which the soul, "under the armour of a conscience which feels its purity," may gain new energy and journey towards her repose:61
"Yes, sometimes, with my ardent desire, my hope may also ascend; it will not deceive me, for if all our affections are displeasing to heaven, to what end would this world have been created by God?
"And what cause more just of the love with which I burn for thee, than the duty of rendering glory to that eternal peace, whence springs the divine charm which emanates from thee, which makes every heart, worthy to comprehend thee, chaste and pious?
"Firm is the hope founded on a noble heart, the changes of the mortal bark strip no leaves from its crown; never does it languish, and even here it receives an assurance of heaven." – (Sonnet 9.)
Now it is with accents of triumph and anon with the serener emotion of an immortal gratitude, that the poet exhibits the luminous ladder which his love assists him to mount, the support he finds in it when he descends again to the earth:
"The power of a beautiful countenance, the only joy I know on earth, urges me to the heaven, I rise, yet living, to the abode of elect souls – favour granted rarely to our mortal state!
"So perfect is the agreement of this divine work with its Creator, that I ascend to Him on the wings of this celestial fervour; and there I form all my thoughts, and purify all my words.
"In her beautiful eyes, from which mine cannot divert themselves, I behold the light, guide upon the way which leads to God;
"Thus, in my noble fire, calmly shines the felicity which smiles, eternal, in the heavens! – (Sonnet 3.)
"With your beautiful eyes I see the mild light which my darkened eyes could not discern. Your support enables me to bear a burden which my weary steps could not endure to the end."
"My thoughts are shaped in your heart; my words are born in your mind.
"With regard to you, I am like the orb of night in its career; our eyes can only perceive the portion on which the sun sheds his rays." – (Sonnet 12.)
The admirable picture of indissoluble union in a settled tenderness, one of the most perfect pieces which has come from Angelo's pen, was sketched, doubtless, in one of those moments of severe and entire felicity:
"A refined love, a supreme affection, an equal fortune between two hearts, to whom joys and sorrows are in common, because one single mind actuates them both;
"One soul in two bodies, raising both to heaven, and upon equal wings;
"To love the other always, and one's self never, to desire of Love no other prize than himself; to anticipate every hour the wishes with which the reciprocal empire regulates two existences:
"Such are the certain signs of an inviolable faith; shall disdain or anger dissolve such a tie?" – (Sonnet 20.)
The last verse makes allusion to some incident of which we have been unable to find any historical explanation:
"Or potra sdegno tanto nodo sciorre?"
But these ill-founded fears soon gave way to the presentiment of the cruel, the imminent trial, for which the poet's affection was reserved.
"Spirit born under happy auspices, to show us, in the chaste beauty of thy terrestrial envelope, all the gifts which nature and heaven can bestow on their favourite creation!"
"What inexorable law denies to this faithless world, to this mournful and fallacious life, the long possession of such a treasure? Why cannot death pardon so beautiful a work?" – (Sonnet 25.)
The poet, however, already knew that such is the law, severe in appearance, but merciful in reality, which governs all things on this earth, "where nothing endures but tears."62 It was then that Michel Angelo discovered in his heart that treasure of energy destined to sustain him in the multiplied trials of a life, of which he measured the probable length with a melancholy resignation.63
"Why," he exclaims, "grant to my wounded soul the vain solace of tears and groaning words, since heaven, which clothed a heart with bitterness, takes it away but late, and perhaps only in the tomb?"
"Another must die. Why this haste to follow her? Will not the remembrance of her look soothe my last hours? And what other blessing would be worth so much as one of my sorrows?"64
In fine, armed with "the faith that raises souls65 to God, and sweetens their death," Michel Angelo, when the fatal blow fell, was enabled to impart to his regrets an expression of thankfulness to the Supreme Dispenser of our destinies; and giving a voice from the tomb to her whom he had so deeply loved, he puts these sublime words into her mouth:
"I was a mortal, now I am an angel. The world knew me for a little space, and I possess heaven for ever. I rejoice at the glorious exchange, and exult over the death which struck, to lead me to eternal life!" —Epitaffio, v.
THINGS IN GENERAL
A Gossiping Letter from the Seaside to Christopher North, Esq.By an Old Contributor
-Near – , England,October 1846.
My Dear Christopher, – Where am I? What am I doing? Why have I forgotten you and Maga? Bless us! what a pother! – Give a man time, my revered friend, to answer: I have not forgotten either you or Maga; I am at the seaside; and I am doing, as well as I can, nothing. There are your testy questions answered: and as to divers objurgatory observations of your's, I shall not attempt to reply to them – regarding them as the results of some gout-twinges which have, I fear, a little quickened and heated the temper of that "old man eloquent," who, when in good health, plays but one part – that of a caressing father towards his children; for as such Christopher North has ever (as far as I know) regarded his contributors. "Why don't you review something or other? There's – , an impudent knave! – has just sent me his – : you will find it pleasant to flagellate him, or – , a Cockney coxcomb! And if you be not in that humour, there are several excellent, and one or two admirable works, which have appeared within the last eighteen months, and which really have as strong a claim on Maga as she has on her truant sons, – and you, among the rest, have repeatedly promised to take one, at least, in hand. If you be not in the critical vein – do, for heaven's sake, turn your hand to something else – you have lain fallow long enough! – With one of the many articles which you have so often told me that you were 'seriously thinking of' on – , or – , or – , &c., &c., &c.; and if that won't do – why, rather than do nothing, set to work for an hour or two on a couple of mornings, and write me a gossiping sort of letter – such as I can print – such as you have once before done, and I printed, – on Things in General. Surely the last few months have witnessed events which must have set you, and all observant men, thinking, and thinking very earnestly. Set to work, be it only in a simple, natural, easy way – care not you, as I care not, how discursively – a little touch of modest egotism, even, I will forgive on this occasion, if you find that – " Here, dear Christopher, I recalcitrate, and decline printing the rest of the sentence; but as to "Things in General" – I am somewhat smitten with the suggestion. 'Tis a taking title – a roomy subject, in which one can flit about from gay to grave, from lively to severe, according to the humour of the moment; and since you really do not dislike the idea of an old contributor's gossip on men and things, given you in his own way, I shall forthwith begin to pour out my little thoughts as unreservedly as if you and I were sitting together alone here. Here; but where? As I said before, at the seaside; at my favourite resort – where (eschewing "Watering-places" with lively disgust) I have spent many a happy autumn. When I first found it out, I thought that the lines had indeed fallen to me in pleasant places, and I still think so; but were I to tell the public, through your pages, of this green spot, I suspect that by this time next year the sweet solitude and primitive simplicity of the scene around me would have vanished: greedy speculating builders, tempting the proprietors of the soil, would run up in all directions vile, pert, vulgar, brick-built, slate-roofed, Quakerish-looking abominations, exactly as a once lovely nook in the Isle of Wight – Ventnor to wit – has become a mere assemblage of eyesores, a mass of unfavourable eruptions, so to speak – Bah! I once used to look forward to the Isle of Wight with springy satisfaction. Why, the infatuated inhabitants were lately talking of having a railroad in the island!!
I quitted Babylon, now nearly eleven weeks ago, for this said sweet mysterious solitude. London I dearly, dearly love – except during the months of August, September, and October, when it goes to sleep, and lies utterly torpid. When I quitted it very early in August, London life was, as it were, at dead-low water-mark. I was myself somewhat jaded with a year's severe exertion in my lawful calling, (what that may be, it concerns none of your readers to know,) and my family also were in want of change of air and scene; so that, when the day of departure had arrived, we were in the highest possible spirits. Our house would – we reflected – within a few hours put on the dismal, dismantled appearance which almost every other house in the street had presented for several weeks, and we, whirling away to – ; but first of all it occurred to me to lay in a stock of our good friend Lee's port and sherry, (for where were we to get drinkable wine at – ?) – ditto, in respect of six pounds of real tea – not quasi tea, i. e., raisin-stalks and sloe-leaves – three bottles of whisky; four of Anchovy sauce; and four of Reading or Harvey's sauce; two pounds of mustard, and some cayenne and curry-powder: having an eye, in respect of this last, to – hot crab! a delicious affair! Arrangements these which we are resolved always to make hereafter, having repeatedly experienced the inconvenience of not doing so. Having packed up every thing, and given special orders for the Times to be provided daily, and the Spectator weekly, away we go – myself, wife, three hostages to fortune, and three other persons, and – bless him! – Tickler; Timothy Tickler – that sagacious, quaint, affectionate, ugly-beautiful Skye terrier, which found its way to me from you, my revered friend – and is now lying gracefully near me, pretending – the little rogue – to be asleep; but really watching the wasps buzzing round him, and every now and then snapping at them furiously, unconscious of the probable consequences of his success, – that,
"If 'twere done, when 'tis done,
Then– 'twere well it were done quickly!"
By what railway we went, I care not to say – beyond this, that it belongs to one of that exceedingly select class, the well-conducted railways; and we were brought to the end of that portion of our journey – whether one hundred, two hundred, or two hundred and fifty, or three hundred miles, signifies nothing – safely and punctually arriving two minutes earlier than our appointed time. Then, by means of steam-boats, cars, and otherwise, taliter processum est, that about eight o'clock in the evening we reached this place, which, in the brilliant moonlight, looked even more beautiful than I had ever seen it. Near us on our left – that is, within a few hundred feet – was the placid silvery sea, "its moist lips kissing the shore," as Thomas Campbell expressed it; and while supper was preparing, we went to the shore to enjoy its loveliness. Not a breath of wind was stirring – scarce a cloud interfered with the moon's serene effulgence. Lofty cliffs stretched on either side of us as we faced the sea, casting a kindly gloom over part of the shore; and on turning towards the land, we beheld nothing but solemn groves of trees, and one sweet cottage peeping modestly from among them, as it were a pearl glistening half-hid between the folds of green velvet, about half-way up the fissure in the cliffs by which we had descended. Two or three fishing-boats were moored under the cliff, and against one of them was leaning the fisherman, not far from his snugly-sheltered hut, pleasantly puffing at his pipe. Near him lay extended on the shingle, grisly even in death, a monster – viz. a shark, the victim of the patience, pluck, and tact, which had been exhibited that afternoon by the fisherman and his son, who had captured the marine fiend in the bay, at less than two miles' distance from the shore. 'Twas nine feet in length, wanting one inch; – and its teeth made your teeth chatter to look at them. Tickler inspected him narrowly, having first cautiously ascertained by his nose that all was right, and then exclaimed, "Bow, wow, wow!" – thus showing that even as a live ass is better than a dead lion, so a live terrier was better than a dead shark. [As I find that several of these hideous creatures have been lately captured here, quære the propriety of bathing, as I had intended, from a boat, a little way of from the land? Hem!] The only visible occupants of those solitary sands at that moment were myself, my wife and children, the fisherman, Tickler, and the dead shark. I remained standing alone for a few moments after my companions had turned their steps towards our cottage, eager for supper, and gazed upon the sequestered loveliness around me with a sense of luxury. What a contrast this to the scene of exciting London life in which I had happened to bear a part on the preceding evening! The following verses of Lord Rosscommon happened to occur to me, and chimed in completely with the tone of my feelings: —
"Hail, sacred Solitude! from this calm bay
I view the world's tempestuous sea;
And with wise pride despise
All those senseless vanities:
With pity moved for others, cast away,
On rocks of hopes and fears I see them toss'd,
On rocks of folly and of vice I see them lost:
Since the prevailing malice of the great
Unhappy men, or adverse fate
Sunk deep into the gulfs of an afflicted state:
But more, far more, a numberless prodigious train,
Whilst virtue counts them, but, alas, in vain.
Fly from her kind embracing arms,
Deaf to her fondest call, blind to her greatest charms,
And sunk in pleasures and in brutish ease,
They in their shipwreck'd state themselves obdurate please.
* * * * * *
Here may I always, on this downy grass,
Unknown, unseen, my easy moments pass,
Till, with a gentle force, victorious Death
My solitude invade,
And stopping for a while my breath,
With ease convey me to a better shade!"
But a sharpened appetite for supper called me away, and I quickly followed my companions, casting a last glance around, and suppressing a faint sigh, fraught with the reflection, "All this —Deo volente– will be ours for nearly three months." Why does one so often sigh on such an occasion?
You may conceive how we enjoyed our supper to the utmost, and then all of us retired to our respective apartments, which were so brilliantly lit by the moon, as to make our candles pale their ineffectual fires. I stood for a long time gazing at the beautiful scenery visible from my little dressing-room window, and then retired to rest, grateful to the Almighty for our being allowed the prospect of another of these periodical intervals of relaxation and enjoyment. To me they get more precious every year; they do, decidedly. But why? Let me, however, return to this question by-and-by: 'tis one which, with kindred subjects, has much occupied my thoughts this autumn, in many a long, solitary stroll over the hills, and along the seashore.
I wish I could do justice to my cottage and its lovely locality. Yet why should I try to set your's and your readers' teeth on edge? You have some lovely nooks on your Scottish coast; but you cannot beat this. We are about three hundred yards from the sea, of which our windows, on one side, command a full view; while from all the others are visible dark, high, steep downs, at so short a distance, that methinks, at this moment, I can hear the faint – the very faint – tinkle of a sheep-bell, proceeding from some of the little white tufts moving upon them. I am now writing to you towards the middle of this stormy October. Its winds have so much thinned the leaves of the huge elms which stand towards the south-eastern parts of our house, that I can now, from my study-window, distinctly see the church – very small, and very ancient – which, when first we came, the thick foliage rendered totally invisible from this point. My window looks directly upon the aforesaid downs, which at present appear somewhat gloomy and desolate. Yet have they a certain air of the wild picturesque, the effect of which is heightened by the howling winds, which are sweeping down over them to us, moaning and groaning through the trees, and round the gables of our house, (the aspect of the sky being, at the same time, bleak and threatening.) How it enhances my sense of snugness in the small antique, thoroughly wind-and-weather tight room in which I am writing! A little to my left is a vast natural hollow in the downs, from which springs a sort of little hanging wood or copse, the mottled variegated hues of which have a beautiful effect. Between me and the downs are small clumps of trees – abrupt little declivities, thickly lined with shrubs, all touched with the bronze tinting of the far-advanced autumn – two or three intensely-green fields, in the nearest of which are browsing the two cows belonging to the parsonage – which is, by the way, quite invisible from any part of my house, though at only a hundred yards' or two distance. Oh! 'tis a model – a love of a parsonage! – buried among lofty trees, richly adorned with myrtles, laurel, and clematis – the well-trimmed greensward immediately surrounding the long, low, thatched house, which combines rural elegance, simplicity, and comfort in its disposition – is bordered by spreading hydrangeas, dahlias, fuschias, mignionette, and roses – ay, roses, even yet in full bloom! Its occupant is my friend, a dignitary of the church, a scholar, a gentleman, and "given to hospitality;" but I will say nothing more on this head, lest, peradventure, I should offend his modesty, and disclose my locality. My own house is more than sufficient for my family; 'tis a small gentleman's cottage, delightfully situate, and containing every convenience, (especially for a symposium,) and surrounded by a luxuriant garden. Along one side of the house, and commanding an extensive and varied sea and land view, runs a little terrace of "soft, smooth-shaven green," made for a meditative man to pace up and down, as I have done some thousand times – by noonday sunlight, by midnight moonshine – buried in reverie, or charmed by contemplating the scenery around, disturbed by no sound save the caw! caw! caw! from the parsonage rookery, the sough of the wind among the trees, and, latterly, the sullen echoes of the sea thundering on the shore. Ah! what an inexpressibly beautiful aspect is just given to the scene by that transient gleam of saddening sunlight!