tells of emotions unsuspected, and thoughts hitherto concealed by the guarded brow and practised lip. Now, of all times and places calculated for confidence, there is no time like evening; no place like sitting over the fire.
Much may be said in favour of a long walk on a summer twilight; the heart opens to the soft influences of the lovely hour; but those very influences distract us from ourselves. The eye is caught by the presence of the beautiful: the violets, half hidden in the long grass; a branch of hawthorn, heavy with its fragrant load; a cloud, on which the crimson shadow lingers to the last:—these are too fair to be passed by unnoticed; they take us from our discourse with a half unconscious delight. Moreover, before the calm and subduing aspect of nature, human cares feel their own vanity. The lulling music of leaves, stirred only by the gentle wind, enters into the soul; and the sweet, deep drawn, breath brings its own tranquillity. Passionate and present, indeed, must be the despair that resists the harmony of such an hour; but the quiet chamber, and the secluded hearth, have
