Everything tends to sanctify the spot. The very duties of life, in which his daily occupations may have engrossed his time, are often broken in upon by the remembrance thereof. The more mental those duties may have been, either in law, physic, or divinity, the keener or clearer will be the reflection or vision of the past. None but those whose hearts are completely given up to the idolatry of money, can forget the place of friendship, 'Where bold and brave, and modest, pure, and bland, He sought love's friendship both with heart and hand.' Let his calling be ever so high and sacred, there is no sin in looking back upon that spot and those thoughts of days gone by, though he may well know that he can never enjoy them again. He may even feel thankful that he never can. He may never even desire so to do, and yet never undervalue the heavenly permission which then sanctioned his betrothment, and witnessed his espousals. If the dear place be gone from him; if others possess it; if fathers, mothers, brothers, and friends, who smiled upon our days of love, and shared their freedom with us, be all departed--can we forget them? No! memory is vivid in love. But are there no sorrows commingled therewith? no remembrances of mortal heart-burnings, affronts, failings, differences, wants of temper, accusations, or disputations? Smooth must have flowed the channel of life, if nothing of this kind can be remembered. But if they can, and the God of mercy has softened the heart with tears of repentance for those past, unruly, or discordant intruders, let not the honest lover repine or despair, that he cannot alter the past. His love is true, though the very earth may banish him from the spot. But what sensations crept over Latimer and the Lady Ellen as they stood at the foot of the Tower, for the last time! 'Philosophers maintain, dearest husband, that we ought not to encourage any of those sensations which touch upon the melancholy moments of the past. They would have us shake off the memory of anything in which we have once delighted; but they appear to me to think there is no pleasure at all in reflection. Now, though sorrow may sadden the present moment, there is a species of unalloyed pleasure in the remembrance of those days, and in revisiting those scenes where we once imbibed the happiness of conversation with those we loved. What say you, dearest husband?'