Listening to the
prophets of all times and climes, it has heard them proclaim their
ordinances, and has seen these observances punctually obeyed for hundreds
of years, and nothing has come of it all. To-day it listens to the
prophets of humanity, and it sees much real benevolence actually carried
out. But the result is infinitesimal. Nothing comes of it; it does not
satisfy the individual heart. The world at large continues untouched and
indifferent--first because its common sense is not convinced, and
secondly because its secret aspirations are in no degree satisfied. So
that it is not altogether the world's fault if it is stolid. Everything
has been tried and found wanting, Men rushed in crowds to the
gold-diggings of California, to the Australian 'finds;' and in like
manner, if any real spiritual or ideal good were proffered, crowds would
rush to participate in it. Nothing yet has been given but empty words,
and these so-called 'goods' have proved as tasteless, and as much Dead
Sea apples, as the apples of vice; perhaps even more bitter than the
regrets of vice. Though I cannot name the ideal good, it seems to me that
it will be in some way closely associated with the ideal beauty of
nature.
SUMMER IN SOMERSET.
The brown Barle River running over red rocks aslant its course is pushed
aside, and races round curving slopes. The first shoot of the rapid is
smooth and polished like a gem by the lapidary's art, rounded and smooth
as a fragment of torso, and this convex undulation maintains a solid
outline.
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