Love.—­There is a mysterious influence in nature, which renders us, in her loveliest scenes, the most susceptible to love. * * In all times, how dangerous the connexion, when of different sexes, between the scholar and the teacher!  Under how many pretences, in that connexion, the heart finds the opportunity to speak out.

Passion—­The doubt and the fear—­the caprice and the change, which agitate the surface, swell also the tides of passion.

Poverty—­makes some humble but more malignant.

Want.—­How many noble natures—­how many glorious hopes—­how much of the seraph’s intellect, have been crushed info the mire, or blasted into guilt, by the mere force of physical want?

Benevolence.—­How poor, even in this beautiful world, with the warm sun and fresh air about us, that alone are sufficient to make us glad, would be life, if we could not make the happiness of others.

Eloquence.—­The magic of the tongue is the most dangerous of all spells.

Genius.—­There is a certain charm about great superiority of intellect, that winds into deep affections which a much more constant and even amiability of manners in lesser men, often fails to reach.  Genius makes many enemies, but it makes sure friends—­friends who forgive much, who endure long, who exact little; they partake of the character of disciples as well as friends.

Experience.—­’Tis a pity that the more one sees, the more suspicious one grows.  One does not have gumption till one has been properly cheated—­one must be made a fool very often in order not to be fooled at last!

Cat-kindness.—­Paw to-day, and claw to-morrow.

London at Night.—­One of the greatest pleasures in the world is to walk alone, and at night, (while they are yet crowded) through the long lamp-lit streets of this huge metropolis.  There, even more than in the silence of woods and fields, seems to me the source of endless, various meditation.

How easy it is to forget!—­The summer passes over the furrow, and the corn springs up; the sod forgets the flower of the past year; and the battlefield forgets the blood that has been spilt upon its turf; the sky forgets the storm; and the water the noon-day sun that slept upon its bosom.  All Nature preaches forgetfulness.  Its very order is the progress of oblivion.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

A DAY AT LULWORTH.[1]