darkens around us, the eye is in perpetual weariness, and the heart in continual fever, with gazing beyond the present into its results.
Edward had now entered a grass avenue, over which the limes interlaced their yellow blossoms, pale in the moonlight, while their faint odour filled the air. How many kindly and affectionate thoughts thronged Lorraine's memory, as he rode slowly onwards! Shutting out the hot sun in summer, and the cold wind in winter, and lying apart from any of the more direct roads that crossed the park, this avenue had been a very favourite resort with himself and his brother. The hours that in other days had been here passed away!
retract, but to defend my assertion? Hope is like constancy, the country, or solitude—all of which owe their reputation to the pretty things that have been said about them. Hope is but the poetical name for that feverish restlessness which hurries over to-day for the sake of to-morrow. Who among us pauses upon the actual moment, to own, "Now, even now, am I happy?" The wisest of men has said, that hope deferred is sickness to the heart: yet what hope have we that is not deferred? For my part, I believe that there are two spirits who preside over this feeling, and that hope, like love, has its Eros and Anteros. Its Eros, that reposes on fancy, and creates rather than calculates; while its Anteros lives on expectation, and is dissatisfied with all that is, in vague longings for what may be.
