26 A GOOD WORD FOE WINTER. 



plentier, and perhaps also these exhibitions of hers are 

 cheapened in estimation by the fact that in enjoying 

 them we are not getting the better of anybody else. 

 Your true lovers of nature, however, contrive to get 

 even this solace; and Wordsworth looking upon moun- 

 tains as his own peculiar sweethearts, was jealous of 

 anybody else who ventured upon even the most innocent 

 flirtation with them. As if such fellows, indeed, could 

 pretend to that nicer sense of what-d'ye-call-it which was 

 so remarkable in him ! Marry come up ! Mountains, no 

 doubt, may inspire a profounder and more exclusive pas- 

 sion, but on the whole I am not sorry to have been born 

 and bred among more domestic scenes, where I can be 

 hospitable without a pang. I am going to ask you pres- 

 ently to take potluck with me at a board where Winter 

 shall supply whatever there is of cheer. 



I think the old fellow has hitherto had scant justice 

 done him in the main. We make him the symbol of old 

 age or death, and think we have settled the matter. As 

 if old age were never kindly as well as frosty ; as if it 

 had no reverend graces of its own as good in their way as 

 the noisy impertinence of childhood, the elbowing self- 

 conceit of youth, or the pompous mediocrity of middle 

 life ! As if there were anything discreditable in death, 

 or nobody had ever longed for it ! Suppose we grant 

 that Winter is the sleep of the year, what then 1 I \ake 

 it upon me to say that his dreams are finer than the 

 best reality of his waking rivals. 



" Sleep, Silence' child, the father of soft Rest," 



is a very agreeable acquaintance, and most of us are bet- 

 ter employed in his company than anywhere else. For 

 my own part, I think Winter a pretty wide-awake old 

 boy, and his bluff sincerity and hearty ways are more 

 congenial to my mood, and more wholesome for me, 



