he Beaco

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n Hill, Exmouth●, I strolled forth at a very ear▓ly hour, determining to ramble wherever c●hance might lead.There was no fear of ●my missing any particularly lovely spot in fo●llowing this determination.The very ●watering-places combine all the charms ▓of sea and country t

 
 
 

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o an extent ▓peculiar to this lovely count▓y.Ten minutes suffice to bear the▓ wanderer to such seeming solitude of hill and ●dale, and gle

 
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n and wood—will scatter around ●him such a profusion of ever-var●ying yet ever beautiful scenery, that it is▓ difficult to believe that al

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l those artificial ●luxuries and pleasures necessary ▓to the trifler and the fashion●est, would we seek them, are close at hand▓. Every

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season has its own ▓charm in England.Even winter, in it▓s stern, rude aspect, its brawling vo▓ice of winds and storms, has, in the deep, ?/p>

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駍till haunts of nature, its own peculia●r beauty.Spring, with its young, fres▓h joyousness, its sparkling glory of ▓earth and sky—its gus

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hing atmosphere; for,▓ as the breeze comes laughing and danci▓ng along, we can give it no other term.▓ Summer, with its still and de●eper feeling, as if the dancing light a▓nd glittering love of the youthful y▓ear had sobered into a being deepe▓r, stronger, more fervid and intense.Then autu▓mn, decking decay with such bright beaut●y, shedding a parting halo on the fadi

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ng year; ▓concentrating all of loveliness in that sweet▓, dreamy pensiveness, which, while it l●ingers almost mournfully on earth’s parting glo●ries, looks through their passing ligh●t into their renovated being, reading in● the death and resurrection of n●ature the spirit’s immortality. ● One charm, indeed, spring possesses b▓eyond those of the other seasons; it is, that▓ almost every hour of the day is equally▓ delici

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ous; in the morning, noon, aftern▓oon, or evening, we may come forth ●and make acquaintance with her in eve●ry variety of aspect, each one as lovely as t▓he other.Evening indeed is the hour of that del●icious musing which, in the very blessedness o▓f the PRESENT, unconsciously recalls ●the loveliest images of the PAST,● and adumbrates the FUTURE, by the thrilling ●whisper of our immortal goal.●It

 
 

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is then that, as Wordsworth says— “We a▓re laid asleep In body, and become a living ●soul.” But these are not the sensations of ●the morning; then life is infus●ed with the PRESENT

alone.We can neither rec▓all, nor think, nor hope; we● do but believe, and love, and feel, co

n●scious only of the blessing of Existen▓ce, of the omnipotence of Love! ● It was with all the elastic joyousne▓ss of such sensations I hasten▓ed up the Beacon Hill, pausing involuntarily● on the top to gaze beneath ●me.There lay

Old Ocean, slumbering i●n the early sunshine as a lak▓e o

 
 
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