Obrazy na stronie
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image it by the orange-grove in that sheltered glen, on which the sun is now beginning to shine, and of which the trees are at the same time loaded with sweet golden fruit and balmy silver flowers. Such objects may well portray a state in which hope and fruition become one eternal feeling.

[The Influence of Religion.]

Religion, whether natural or revealed, has always the same beneficial influence on the mind. In youth, in health and prosperity, it awakens feelings of gratitude and sublime love, and purifies at the same time that it exalts. But it is in misfortune, in sickness, in age, that its effects are most truly and beneficially felt; when submission in faith and humble trust in the divine will, from duties become pleasures, undecaying sources of consolation. Then, it creates powers which were believed to be extinct; and gives a freshness to the mind, which was supposed to have passed away for ever, but which is now renovated as an immortal hope. Then it is the Pharos, guiding the wave-tossed mariner to his home—as the calm and beautiful still basins or fiords, surrounded by tranquil groves and pastoral meadows, to the Norwegian pilot escaping from a heavy storm in the North Sea—or as the green and dewy spot, gushing with fountains, to the exhausted and thirsty traveller in the midst of the desert. Its influence outlives all earthly enjoyments, and becomes stronger as the organs decay and the frame dissolves. It appears as that evening-star of light in the horizon of life, which, we are sure, is to become, in another season, a morningstar; and it throws its radiance through the gloom and shadow of death.

Sir Humphry had previously published a volume in the same conversational manner and discursive style—Salmonia, or Days of Fly-fishing, 1828. He was an enthusiastic angler, and his habits of inquiry led him to investigate the nature of fish, and indeed of all objects and phenomena which came under his observation. “His was an ardent boyhood, says Professor Forbes. ‘Educated in a manner somewhat irregular, and with only the advantages of a remote country town [Penzance, in Cornwall], his talents appeared in the earnestness with which he cultivated at once the most various branches of knowledge and speculation. He was fond of metaphysics; he was fond of experiment; he was an ardent student of nature; and he possessed at an early age poetic powers which, had they been cultivated, would, in the opinion of competent judges, have made him as eminent in literature as he became in science. All these tastes endured throughout life. Business could not stifle them—even the approach of death was unable to extinguish them. The reveries of his boyhood on the sea-worn cliffs of Mount's Bay may yet be traced in many of the pages dictated during the last year of his life amidst the ruins of the Coliseum. But the physical sciences —those more emphatically called at that time chemical-speedily attracted and absorbed his most earnest attention. The philosophy of the imponderables—of light, heat, and electricity—was the subject of his earliest, and also that of his happiest essays. Of his splendid discoveries, the most useful to mankind have been his experiments on breathing the gases, his lectures on agricultural chemistry, his invention of the safety-lamp, and his protectors for ships. For his invention of the safetylamp, he was rewarded with a baronetcy by the prince regent in 1818, and the coal-owners of the north of England presented him with a service of plate worth £2000. It is mortifying to think that this great man, captivated by the flatteries of the

fashionable world, and having married a rich Scottish lady, Mrs Apreece, lost much of the winning simplicity of his early manner and of his devotion to science. There was always, however, more in him to admire than to condemn, and he must be recogmised as the greatest chemist the world has ever Seon.

RICHARD SHARP.

This gentleman, commonly called “Conversation Sharp, aftermingling in all the distinguished society of London, from the days of Johnson and Burke to those of Byron, Rogers, and Moore, in 1834 published—at first anonymously—a small volume of Letters and Essays in Prose and Verse. Rogers thought the volume hardly equal to Sharp's reputation; but his reputation was founded on his conversational powers, and the higher order of genius is not—as Sir Walter Scott observed—favourable to this talent. ‘For forming a good converser,' adds Scott, “good taste, and extensive information, and accomplishment are the principal requisites, to which must be added an easy and elegant delivery, and a well-toned voice. Mackintosh, however, termed Sharp the best critic he had ever known, and Byron also bears testimony to his ability. From commercial concerns Mr Sharp had realised a large fortune—he left £250,000—and had a seat in parliament. He died at a very advanced age in 1835. The Essays evince knowledge of the world and sound sense.

A few of his maxims and reflections are subjoined:

Satirical writers and talkers are not half so clever as they think themselves, nor as they ought to be. They do winnow the corn, 'tis true, but 'tis to feed upon the chaff. I am sorry to add that they who are always speaking ill of others, are also very apt to be doing ill to them. It requires some talent and some generosity to find out talent and generosity in others; though nothing but self-conceit and malice are needed to discover or to imagine faults. The most gifted men that I have known have been the least addicted to depreciate either friends or foes. Dr Johnson, Mr Burke, and Mr Fox were always more inclined to overrate them. Your shrewd, sly, evil-speaking fellow is generally a shallow personage, and frequently he is as venomous and as false when he flatters as when he reviles—he seldom praises John but to vex Thomas.

Trifling precautions will often prevent great mischiefs; as a slight turn of the wrist parries a mortal thrust.

Untoward accidents will sometimes happen; but after many, many years of thoughtful experience, I can truly say, that nearly all those who began life with me have succeeded or failed as they deserved.

Even sensible men are too commonly satisfied with tracing their thoughts a little way backwards; and they are, of course, soon perplexed by a profounder adversary. In this respect, most people's minds are too like a child's garden, where the flowers are planted without their roots. It may be said of morals and of literature, as truly as of sculpture and painting, that to understand the outside of human nature, we should be well acquainted with the inside.

It appears to me indisputable that benevolent intention and beneficial tendency must combine to constitute the moral goodness of an action. To do as much good and as little evil as we can, is the brief and intelligible principle that comprehends all subordinate maxims. Both good tendency and good will are indispensable; for conscience may be erroneous as well as callous, may blunder as well as sleep. Perhaps a man cannot be

thoroughly mischievous unless he is honest. I'ud, 761

practice is also necessary, since it is one thing to see that a line is crooked, and another thing to be able to draw a straight one. It is not quite so easy to do good as those may imagine who never try.

WILLIAM MAG IN N.

This gentleman, one of the most distinguished periodical writers of his day, a scholar and wit, has left scarcely any permanent memorial of his genius or acquirements. He was born at Cork in 1794, and at an early period of life assisted his father in conducting an academy in that city. He received his degree of LL.D. in his twenty-fourth year. In 1819 Maginn commenced contributing to Blackwood's Magazine. His papers were lively, learned, and libellous—an alliterative enumeration which may be applied to nearly all he wrote. He was a keen political partisan, a Tory of the old Orange stamp, who gave no quarter to an opponent. At the same time there was so much scholarly wit and literary power about Maginn’s contributions, that all parties read and admired him. For nine years he was one of the most constant writers in Blackwood. He had removed to London in 1823, and adopted literature as a profession. In 1824 Mr Murray the publisher commenced a daily newspaper, The Representative. Mr Disraeli was editor, and Maginn was engaged as foreign or Paris correspondent. His residence in France, however, was short; the Representative soon went down, and Maginn returned to London to ‘spin his daily bread out of his brains. He was associated with Dr Giffard in conducting the Standard newspaper, and when Fraser's Magazine was established in 1830, he became one of its chief literary supporters. One article in this periodical, a review of Berkeley Castle, led to a hostile meeting between Maginn and the Hon. Grantley Berkeley. Mr Berkeley had assaulted Fraser, the publisher of the offensive criticism, when Maginn wrote to him, stating that he was the author. Hence the challenge and the duel. The parties exchanged shots three several times, but without any serious result. Happily, such scenes and such literary personalities have passed away. The remainder of Maginn's literary career was irregular. Habits of intemperance gained ground upon him; he was often arrested and in jail; but his good-humour seems never to have forsaken him, He wrote a series of admirable Shakspeare papers for Blackwood in 1837, and in the following year he commenced a series of Homeric ballads, which extended to sixteen in number. In 1842 he was again in prison; his embarrassments increased, and his health gave way. One of his friends wrote to Sir Robert Peel, acquainting him with the lamentable condition of Dr Maginn, and the minister took steps for the relief of the poor author, at the same time transmitting what has been termed a ‘splendid gift.” Maginn died on the 29th of August 1842. The sort of estimation in which he was held by his contemporaries may be gathered from the following rhyming epitaph on him by Lockhart:

Here, early to bed, lies kind WILLIAM MAGINN,
Who, with genius, wit, learning, life's trophies to win,
Had neither great lord nor rich cit of his kin,
Nor discretion to set himself up as to tin;
So his portion soon spent—like the poor heir of Lynn-
He turned author ere yet there was beard on his chin,
And, whoever was out, or whoever was in,
For your Tories his fine Irish brains he would spin,
Who received prose and rhyme with a promising grin-
“Go ahead, you queer fish, and more power to your fin,’
*: save from starvation stirred never a pin.

Light for long was his heart, though his breeches
were thin,
Else his acting for certain was equal to Quin;
But at last he was beat, and sought help of the bin–
All the same to the doctor from claret to gin-
Which led swiftly to jail and consumption therein.
It was much when the bones rattled loose in the skin,
He got leave to die here out of Babylon's din.
Barring drink and the girls, I ne'er heard a sin:
Many worse, better few, than bright, broken MAGINN.

ALEXANDER AND John BETH U NE.

These humble but noble-minded brothers, sons of a farm-labourer in Fifeshire, cultivated literature under circumstances the most discouraging, and with a spirit of independence and virtuous selfreliance above all praise. ALEXANDER BETHUNE (1804–1843) commenced his career as an author by contributing to Chambers's Edinburgh Journal in the year 1835. In 1838 he published a volume of Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry. JoHN BETHUNE (1810–1839) wrote a small portion of the work, and in 1839 appeared another joint-production, a treatise on Practical Economy. After John's death, Alexander collected a volume of poetical pieces, and published them (1840) with an interesting and affecting memoir of his brother's life. In 1843, Alexander published a second volume of tales, The Scottish Peasant's Fireside; and in the same year he was offered the editorship of a weekly newspaper, The Dumfries Standard, but his health was now gone, and he died on the 13th of June 1843. The education of those remarkable men was confined to a few months’ schooling; they had both wrought as labourers, working in quarries or breaking stones on the highway, and though they had occasionally short glimpses of prosperity, they never rose above the humblest condition. Out of their scanty wages they maintained their parents and built a house for them, mostly with their own hands. Alexander was offered pecuniary assistance, but declined it. His parents and brother were then gone, and he had saved sufficient to defray the expenses of his illness and his funeral. The prose and poetry of the Bethunes bear no tokens of their imperfect education; all is simple, truthful, and correct—often elegant.

SIR GEORGE AND SIR FRANCIS BOND HEAD.

The elder of these brothers—sons of an English gentleman, James Roper Head, Esq.—was author of Forest Scenes in North America, 1829, and Home Tours in England, 1835–37. The Home Tours were made in the manufacturing districts, through which the author travelled as a Poor-law Commissioner, and were written in a light, pleasing style. He afterwards applied himself to a laborious topographical and antiquarian account of Rome, in three volumes, 1849, and he translated Cardinal Pacca's Memoirs and Apuleius Metamorphoses. He died in 1855, aged seventy-three.

His brother, FRANCIs BoND HEAD (born January 1, 1793), has had more vivacity and spirit as an author, though retaining many of the family characteristics. While a captain in the army, he published Rough Notes taken during some Rapid Journeys Across the Pampas and among the Andes, 1826. The work was exceedingly popular, and the reputation of ‘Galloping Head, as the gay captain was termed, was increased by his Bubbles from the Brunnen of Nassau. He was appointed governor of Upper Canada in 1835, and created a baronet in 1837; but his administrative was not equal to his literary talent, and he was forced to resign in 1838. He published a Narrative of his Administration, which was more amusing than convincing. Turning again to purely literary pursuits, Sir Francis wrote The Emigrant, 1852, and essays in the Quarterly Review, afterwards republished in a collected form with the title of Stokers and Pokers—Highways and Byways. The national defences of this country appearing to Sir Francis lamentably deficient, he issued a note of warning, The Defenceless State of Great Britain, 1850. Visits to Paris and Ireland produced A Faggot of French Sticks, or Paris in 1851, and A Fortnight in Ireland, 1852. All these works are lively and entertaining. The judgments and opinions of the author are often rash and prejudiced, but he is seldom dull, and common-place incidents are related in a picturesque and attractive manner.

[Description of the Pampas.]

The great plain, or pampas, on the east of the Cordillera, is about nine hundred miles in breadth, and the part which I have visited, though under the same latitude, is divided into regions of different climate and produce. On leaving Buenos Ayres, the first of these regions is covered for one hundred and eighty miles with clover and thistles; the second region, which extends for four hundred and fifty miles, produces long grass; and the third region, which reaches the base of the Cordillera, is a grove of low trees and shrubs. The second and third of these regions have nearly the same appearance throughout the year, for the trees and shrubs are evergreens, and the immense plain of grass only changes its colour from green to brown; but the first region varies with the four seasons of the year in a most extraordinary manner. In winter the leaves of the thistles are large and luxuriant, and the whole surface of the country has the rough appearance of a turnip-field. The clover in this season is extremely rich and strong; and the sight of the wild cattle grazing in full liberty on such pasture is very beautiful. In spring the clover has vanished, the leaves of the thistles have extended along the ground, and the country still looks like a rough crop of turnips. In less than a month the change is most extraordinary: the whole region becomes a luxuriant wood of enormous thistles, which have suddenly shot up to a height of ten or eleven feet, and are all in full bloom. The road or path is hemmed in on both sides; the view is completely obstructed; not an animal is to be seen; and the stems of the thistles are so close to each other, and so strong, that, independent of the prickles with which they are armed, they form an impenetrable barrier. The sudden growth of these plants is quite astonishing; and though it would be an unusual misfortune in military history, yet it is really possible that an invading army, unacquainted with this country, might be imprisoned by these thistles before it had time to escape from them. The summer is not over before the scene undergoes another rapid change: the thistles suddenly lose their sap and verdure, their heads droop, the leaves shrink and fade, the stems become black and dead, and they remain rattling with the breeze one against another, until the violence of the pampero or hurricane levels them with the ground, where they rapidly decompose and disappear—the clover rushes up, and the scene is again verdant.

[A French Commissionnaire.]

In Paris this social luxury has been so admirably supplied, that, like iced water at Naples, the community could now hardly exist without it. Accordingly, at the intersection of almost all the principal streets, there is posted by the police an intelligent, respectable-looking

man-there are about twelve thousand of them— cleanly dressed in blue velveteen trousers, and a blue corduroy jacket, on the breast of which is affixed a brass ticket, invariably forfeited by misconduct, bearing his occupation and number. The duties of this commissionnaire are not only at various fixed prices to go messages in any direction, and at determined rates to perform innumerable other useful services, but he is especially directed to assist aged and infirm people of both sexes in crossing streets crowded with carriages, and to give to strangers, who may inquire their way, every possible assistance. The luxury of living, wherever you may happen to lodge, within reach of a person of this description, is very great. For instance, within fifty yards of my lodgings, there was an active, honest, intelligent dark-blue fellow, who was to me a living book of useful knowledge. Crumpling up the newspaper he was usually reading, he could in the middle of a paragraph, and at a moment's notice, get me any sort of carriage-recommend me to every description of shop-tell me the colour of the omnibus I wanted— where I was to find it—where I was to leave it—how I ought to dress to go here, there, or anywhere: what was done in the House of Assembly last night—who spoke best-what was said of his speech—and what the world thought of things in general.

[The Electric Wires, and Tawell the Murderer.]

Whatever may have been his fears—his hopes—his fancies—or his thoughts—there suddenly flashed along the wires of the electric telegraph, which were stretched close beside him, the following words: “A murder has just been committed at Salthill, and the suspected murderer was seen to take a first-class ticket for London by the train which left Slough at 7 h. 42 m. P.M. He is in the garb of a Quaker, with a brown greatcoat on, which reaches nearly down to his feet. He is in the last compartment of the second first-class carriage. And yet, fast as these words flew like lightning past him, the information they contained, with all its details, as well as every secret thought that had preceded them, had already consecutively flown millions of times faster; indeed, at the very instant that, within the walls of the little cottage at Slough, there had been uttered that dreadful scream, it had simultaneously reached the judgment-seat of Heaven! On arriving at the Paddington station, after mingling for some moments with the crowd, he got into an omnibus, and as it rumbled along, taking up one passenger and putting down another, he probably felt that his identity was every minute becoming confounded and confused by the exchange of fellow-passengers for strangers that was constantly taking place. But all the time he was thinking, the cad of the omnibus—a policeman in disguise— knew that he held his victim like a rat in a cage. Without, however, apparently taking the slightest notice of him, he took one sixpence, gave change for a shilling, handed out this lady, stuffed in that one, until, arriving at the bank, the guilty man, stooping as he walked towards the carriage-door, descended the steps; paid his fare; crossed over to the Duke of Wellington's statue, where pausing for a few moments, anxiously to gaze around him, he proceeded to the Jerusalem Coffeehouse, thence over London Bridge to the Leopard Coffeehouse in the Borough, and finally to a lodging-house in Scott's Yard, Cannon Street. He probably fancied that, by making so many turns and doubles, he had not only effectually puzzled all pursuit, but that his appearance at so many coffee-houses would assist him, if necessary, in proving an alibi; but, whatever may have been his motives or his thoughts, he had scarcely entered the lodging when the policeman— who, like a wolf, had followed him every step of the way —opening his door, very calmly said to him—the words no doubt were infinitely more appalling to h'." than the scream that had been haunting him—‘Haven’t you just come from Slough?’ The monosyllable ‘No,' confusedly uttered in reply, substantiated his guilt. The policeman made him his prisoner; he was thrown into jail; tried; found guilty of wilful murder; and hanged. A few months afterwards, we happened to be travelling by rail from Paddington to Slough, in a carriage filled with people all strangers to one another. Like English travellers, they were all mute. For nearly fifteen miles no one had uttered a single word, until a short-bodied, short-necked, short-nosed, exceedingly respectable-looking man in the corner, fixing his eyes on the apparently fleeting posts and rails of the electric telegraph, significantly nodded to us as he muttered aloud: ‘Them's the cords that hung John Tawell !’

WILLIAM AND MARY HO WITT.

A love of natural history and poetry, great industry, and a happy talent for description, distinguish these popular writers, originally members of the Society of Friends. Mary Botham was a native of Uttoxeter, county of Stafford; William Howitt was born in 1795, at Heanor, in Derbyshire. They were married in 1823, and the same year they published, in conjunction, The Forest Minstrel, a series of poems. In the preface is the following statement: ‘The history of our poetical bias is simply what we believe, in reality, to be that of many others. Poetry has been our youthful amusement, and our increasing daily enjoyment in happy, and our solace in sorrowful hours. Amidst the vast and delicious treasures of our national literature, we have revelled with growing and unsatiated delight; and at the same time, living chiefly in the quietness of the country, we have watched the changing features of nature; we have felt the secret charm of those sweet but unostentatious images which she is perpetually presenting, and given full scope to those workings of the imagination and of the heart, which natural beauty and solitude prompt and promote. The natural result was the transcription of those images and scenes.’

A poem in this volume serves to complete a happy picture of studies pursued by a married pair in concert:

Away with the pleasure that is not partaken :
There is no enjoyment by one only ta'en :
I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken
On lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again.
When we sit by the fire that so cheerily blazes
On our cozy hearthstone, with its innocent glee,
Oh! how my soul warms, while my eye fondly gazes,
To see my delight is partaken by thee!

And when, as how often, I eagerly listen
To stories thou read'st of the dear olden day,
How delightful to see our eyes mutually glisten,
And feel that affection has sweetened the lay.
Yes, love—and when wandering at even or morning,
Through forest or wild, or by waves foaming white,
I have fancied new beauties the landscape adorning,
Because I have seen thou wast glad in the sight.

And how often in crowds, where a whisper offendeth,
And we fain would express what there might not
be said,
How dear is the glance that none else comprehendeth,
And how sweet is the thought that is secretly read :
Then away with the pleasure that is not partaken!
There is no enjoyment by one only ta'en :
I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken
# lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again.

Mrs Howitt has since published a great variety of works—The Seven Temptations, a dramatic poem, 1834; Wood Leighton, a novel; The Heir of West Wayland; and several volumes both in prose and verse for children. The attention of Mr and Mrs Howitt having been drawn to the Swedish language, they studied it with avidity, and Mrs Howitt has translated the tales of Frederika Bremer and the Improvisatore of Hans Christian Andersen, all of which have been exceedingly popular, and now circulate extensively both in England and America. Mr. Howitt has been a still more voluminous writer. His happiest works are those devoted to rural description. The Book of the Seasons, 1831, delineates the picturesque and poetical features of the months, and all the objects and appearances which the year presents in the garden, the field, and the waters. An enthusiastic lover of his subject, Mr Howitt is remarkable for the fulness and variety of his pictorial sketches, the richness and purity of his fancy, and the occasional force and eloquence of his language.

[Love of the Beautiful.]

If I could but arouse in other minds (he says) that ardent and ever-growing love of the beautiful works of God in the creation, which I feel in myself—if I could but make it in others what it has been to me—

The nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being— if I could open to any the mental eye which can never be again closed, but which finds more and more clearly revealed before it beauty, wisdom, and peace in the splendours of the heavens, in the majesty of seas and mountains, in the freshness of winds, the everchanging lights and shadows of fair landscapes, the solitude of heaths, the radiant face of bright lakes, and the solemn depths of woods, then, indeed, should I rejoice. Oh that I could but touch a thousand bosoms with that melancholy which often visits mine, when I behold little children endeavouring to extract amusement from the very dust, and straws, and pebbles of squalid alleys, shut out from the free and glorious countenance of nature, and think how differently the children of the peasantry are passing the golden hours of childhood, wandering with bare heads and unshod feet, perhaps, but singing a ‘childish, wordless melody' through vernal lanes, or prying into a thousand sylvan leafy nooks, by the liquid music of running waters, amidst the fragrant heath, or on the flowery lap of the meadow, occupied with winged wonders without end. Oh that I could but baptise every heart with the sympathetic feeling of what the city-pent child. is condemned to lose; how blank, and poor, and joyless must be the images which fill its infant bosom, to that of the country one, whose mind Will be a mansion for all lovely forms, IHis memory be a dwelling-place

- For all sweet sounds and harmonies! I feel, however, an animating assurance that nature will exert a perpetually increasing influence, not only as a most fertile source of pure and substantial pleasures—pleasures which, unlike many others, produce, instead of satiety, desire, but also as a great moral agent: and what effects I anticipate from this growing taste may be readily inferred, when I avow it as one of the most fearless articles of my creed, that it is scarcely possible for a man in whom its power is once firmly established, to become utterly debased in sentiment or abandoned in principle. His soul may be said to be brought into habitual union with the Author of

Nature-
Haunted for ever by the Eternal Mind.

In this spirit Mr Howitt has written The Rural Life of England, two volumes, 1838; The Boy's Country Book; and Visits to Remarkable Places, two volumes; the latter work giving an account of old English halls, battle-fields, and the scenes of striking passages in English history and poetry. Another work of the same kind, The Homes and Haunts of the Poets, 1847, is greatly inferior, being disfigured by inaccuracies and rash dogmatic assertions. Mr Howitt was for some years in business in the town of Nottingham, and a work from his fertile pen, the nature of which is indicated by its name, the History of Priestcraft, 1834, so recommended him to the Dissenters and reformers of that town, that he was made one of their aldermen. Disliking the bustle of public life, Mr Howitt retired from Nottingham, and resided for three years at Esher, in Surrey. Mr and Mrs Howitt then removed to Germany, and after three years' residence in that country, the former published a work on the Social and Rural Life of Germany, which the natives admitted to be the best account of that country ever written by a foreigner. Our industrious author has also translated a work written expressly for him, The Student Life of Germany. After his return, Mr Howitt embarked in periodical literature as a proprietor, but neither The People's Journal nor Howitt's Journal was a successful speculation. He then sailed for Australia, and a two years' residence in that colony enabled him to publish an interesting and comprehensive work, in two volumes, entitled Land, Labour, and Gold, or Two Years in Victoria, with Visits to Sydney and Van Diemen's Land. Few writers have displayed greater intellectual activity than Mary and William Howitt, and to the young they have been special benefactors.

Mountain Children. [By Mary Howitt.]

Dwellers by lake and hill !
Merry companions of the bird and bee |

Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill, With unconstrained step and spirits free!

No crowd impedes your way,
No city wall impedes your further bounds;

Where the wild flock can wander, ye may stray The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds.

The sunshine and the flowers,
And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours, And the green hills whereon your fathers played.

The gray and ancient peaks Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;

And the low voice of water as it makes, Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight.

These are your joys! Go forth- | Give your hearts up unto their mighty power; For in his spirit God has clothed the earth, | And speaketh solemnly from tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills
Its quiet way into your spirits finds;

And awfully the everlasting hills Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth Twining its flowers, and shouting full of glee; And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth,

Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.

Hence is it that the lands
Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons;

Whom the world reverences. The patriot bands Were of the hills like you, ye little ones:

Children of pleasant song
Are taught within the mountain solitudes;

For hoary legends to your wilds belong, And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

Then go forth-earth and sky
To you are tributary; joys are spread

Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie
In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread!

[Mountains—From ‘The Book of the Seasons']

There is a charm connected with mountains, so powerful that the merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their magnificent features, kindles the imagination, and carries the spirit at once into the bosom of their enchanted regions. How the mind is filled with their vast solitude how the inward eye is fixed on their silent, their sublime, their everlasting peaks! How our heart bounds to the music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle of their gushing rills, to the sound of their cataracts' How inspiriting are the odours that breathe from the upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary and solemn pine ! how beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as over a vast, inimitable picture !

At this season of the year [autumn] the ascents of our own mountains are most practicable. The heat of summer has dried up the moisture with which winter rains saturate the spongy turf of the hollows; and the atmosphere, clear and settled, admits of the most extensive prospects. Whoever has not ascended our mountains knows little of the beauties of this beautiful island. Whoever has not climbed their long and heathy ascents, and seen the trembling mountain-flowers, the glowing moss, the richly tinted lichens at his feet; and scented the fresh aroma of the uncultivated sod, and of the spicy shrubs; and heard the bleat of the flock across their solitary expanses, and the wild cry of the mountainplover, the raven, or the eagle; and seen the rich and russet hues of distant slopes and eminences, the livid gashes of ravines and precipices, the white glittering line of falling waters, and the cloud tumultuously whirl

ing round the lofty summit; and then stood panting on

that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately gather and break over a thousand giant peaks and ridges of every varied hue, but all silent as images of eternity; and cast his gaze over lakes and forests, and smoking towns, and wide lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming and reposing beauty, knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial wealth which his own country possesses.

But when we let loose the imagination from even these splendid scenes, and give it free charter to range through the far more glorious ridges of continental mountains, through Alps, Apennines, or Andes, how is it possessed and absorbed by all the awful magnificence of their scenery and character! The skyward and inaccessible pinnacles, the

Palaces where Nature thrones Sublimity in icy halls :

the dark Alpine forests, the savage rocks and precipices, the fearful and unfathomable chasms filled with the sound of ever-precipitating waters; the cloud, the silence, the avalanche, the cavernous gloom, the terrible visitations of Heaven's concentrated lightning, darkness, and thunder; or the sweeter features of living, rushing streams, spicy odours of flower and shrub, fresh spiritelating breezes sounding through the dark pine-grove; the ever-varying lights and shadows, and *!"

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