And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

cede, that there certainly was some cause for the effect which had been produced, though he would not justify its degree. The habits of business and the maxims of the world are diametrically opposed to those sublime contempla. tions which the lover of nature indulges in the calmness of rural scenes forms a perfect contrast to the bustle of active life; and the man who thinks rather of the means of acquiring a property in what he beholds, than of en

As You Like H, Act 2. Sc. 1.

N the sources from which men en

Ideavour to derive their pleasures, they are too apt to forget, how much of their happiness and comfort depends upon themselves. They look upon external objects as possessing inherent charms, and think that the possession of those objects will contribute very materially to the augmentation of their cujoyments. They associate with certain situations the ideas of superior felicity, and suppose that is is only ne cessary to be placed in those situations, in order to obtain that felicity. And, very frequently, after mistaking what was best calculated to promote the altainment of the end which they seek, they attach blame where it is not due, and deal out their censures where they are not merited. It is very evident, that, from our physical constitution, much of our pleasure depends upon our senses; but, at the same time, it should be remembered, that "The mind's the standard of the man," and that it is only in proportion as this is well regulated, and properly disciplined, that any thing. however pleas ing to the eye, howevery grateful to the palate, or however harmonious to the car, can long continue to afford satisfaction.

mates its value according to what it will sell for; cannot enter into the feelings of the fond enthusiast, who

dwells with rupture on the beauties of an oft-frequented spot, and, with all the devotion of a lover, possesses at once his tenderness and bis extravagance.

But however willing we may be to allow, that it is very possible for the seuse of admiration of the scenes of nature to produce feelings in the breast which are altogether incompatible with that decision of character and energy of mind which a daily intercourse with men requires; yet we would always view a tendency towards this excess

with sentiments of the most lenient indulgence, and even, in many instances, of something like envy; sentiments which we could never experience towards that insensible being who runs into the other extreme, and is never willing to quit the heat and the hurry, the business and the bustie of the city, for the solema silence and lovely sweetness of the lonely valley, the calın retreats and sequestered solitude of the dusky grove.

The love of the scenes of nature affords a proof, at least, of a valuable simplicity of mind, and of a freedom from many of the fictitious affectations of a vain disposition. There is a wide, a very wide, difference between the taste which revels upon the poisoned pleasures of the gaieties of life, and

that which seeks for the honied bal

and impure in conduct: but the latte evinces, that, whatever be its objec tionable qualities, there still remains something that looks like Nature's own

implanting; something altogether unconnected with the applause of man and the praise of the insincere; something that is now really good, that may be come better, that seldom degenerates into evil, and that stamps a valuable and intrinsic merit on its possessor. We can easily conceive of a connection between the anxieties of business, the restlessness of care, the fatigues of daily occupation, and the collision of opposite minds, with the designing craftiness which only delights in deceiving its victim, with the cunning subtilty that watches for an opportunity to defraud, and with the callous insensibility that heeds not the supplications of the dis tressed; but these are feelings altogether incompatible with the quiet scenes of rural silence; their possessors will never seek for their gratifications in that solitude which leaves nothing for their vices to act upon, nothing round which they can twine their venomous folds but the poisoned reflections of their own minds. The crowded city and the busy mart may afford employment for cunning and deceit, but the verdant meadow and the "dewy lawn" will be fields of operation on which they can find no victims.

We are very far from insinuating that there is any thing like a necessary connection between the evil qualities of mind to which we have alluded,

and the intercourse with mankind which

the ordinary avocations of life, and the engagements of business require. We only mean to point out the more frequent and extended opportunities for their display which such scenes afford, and to place them in contrast with the opposite tendency of those of nature. And had we been inclined to harbour so unjust and uncharitable a sentiment, the recollection of many characters, within the sphere of our own acquaintance, who, whilst they were conscientiously discharging those duties which they owed to themselves, to their families, and to their country, were suscep tible of a double relish on the con

templation of the enchanting scenes of rural tranquillity, heightened by the contrast with the ordinary habits of their lives, would lead us at once to have discarded such a suspicion: And if we had required any thing further to convince us of our error, we need only to have remembered, that the warmest admirer, of the beauties of the country is indebted for many of his

pleasures to that delicate taste, and classical elegance, which have distins guished the rural retreats of many, whose ability to display them arose from the wealth which assiduous engagement in commercial enterprize had honourably procured.

It would be, perhaps, a difficult task to find the man who was not susceptible of some pleasure in contemplating the scenes of rural tranquillity, unless bis mind be disturbed with the consciousness of guilt, or tormented by the pangs of remorse. The here effect which the combination of light and shade, and the varieties of that verdure which the wise ordination of creative wisdom has ordained, afford a certain indescribable pleasure to the organs of vision; whilst the sounds that salute the ear, the whis pering breeze that "lulls the spirit while it fills the mind," and the melody of the ten thousand warblers who cheer the day,

"Exhilirate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid Nature." But it is not the mere sensual gratifications that are thus produced, which blest source of pleasure to the lover of are to be regarded as affording the no

that is connected with its objects, that renders them so pleasing to the cultivated taste and the refined mind. If we could by any means analyse the feelings, and scrutinize into the reflections of different individuals, whilst placed in situations calculated to call into full action the utmost extent of pleasure of which they were susceptible on a view of Nature's fairest prospects, we might probably ascend in a gradual mauner, from sensations almost as unforms a part of the fallow field, to emocouth and shapeless as the clod which tions as refined and delicate as the fairest production in Nature's cultivated garden. The countryman, who regards each object with the indifference of one it, and who, vastly different from the who can discover no peculiar beauty in ancient Arcadian shepherds, who seem

nature. It is the association of ideas

much better suited

"To serve occasions for poetic pomp," than to take the charge of their fleecy flocks, casts an eye of listless indifference on all that surrounds him, muy be regarded as the least susceptible of refined emotions. The man whose early habits have been connected with the details of business, and whose only motive

for resorting to the quiet walks of rural tranquillity is the healthful vigour which he iubales in the pure gales which bear none of the contamination of the crowded city, feels that pleasure which results from the mere gratification of his senses, mingled perhaps, in a trifling degree, with something mental that is scarcely definable. The scholar and the student, whose attention to their literary lore bave served at once to enfeeble their constitutions whilst they have been enlarging their minds, aud have thrown a sickly aspect over the pallid counteDance which often kindles with intelligence; and have faded the eye which often beams with the sparkling rays of genius; connecting the pleasing associations of classical description with the surrounding scenery, apply their tavorite passages to the objects of their regard, and modernize, by a species of mental translation and intellectual application, the animated descriptions of ancient literature. But there is a class of feelings, and a peculiar train of meutal associations, much more suited for the complete enjoyment of Nature's landscapes. There is a certain delicacy of sentiment, a peculiar adaptation of mental images, an activity of imagination, and a susceptibility of temper, that seem necessary to be collected in the constitution of that mind, which is the most alive to the pleasures of rural scenery. It is the combination and operation of these which form the basis of a genuine poetical taste, and which invest the objects which are contemplated with a peculiar interest, which it is not easy to express by words, but which will be instantly recognized by all who have experienced it. And where these feelings operate with all their energy, and are accompanied with that Christian appropriation which can enter fally into the sentiment conveyed by that beautiful idea of our sweetest, chastest, best of poets-"My Father made them all"- -we scarcely know a more enviable pleasure than that which is possessed by the man, who can thus enjoy the bounties of the parent of the universe, and whilst beholding him as the Father of all," can experience the beavenly delight resulting from an individual relationship, and the sublime sxlisfaction produced by so ennobling

an intercourse.

There is one consideration which is calculated to invest this subject with a peculiar interest, and to stamp the pleasures produced by the contempla

tion of the objects of nature with a permanent and enduring value. It is to those hours which have been thus spent, and to those days which have been thus passed, that the memory most frequently recurs, and on which the imagination loves to dwell. On a retrospective view of those enjoyments, or those anxieties, which have been experienced at an early period of our lives, but which stili produce some faint impressions of their former influence, as they successively present themselves to our remembrance; one and another is suffered to pass through the mind, unheeded and disregarded, living again indeed, but presenting themselves like dusky shadows, which bear no interesting character, and which are distinguished by no pleasing colours. But as the early scenes of our childhood, or our youth, or our more advanced years, are remembered, sceues which have been connected with the quiet tranquillity of rural innocence, we seize upon them with an eager avidity; retam them with a certain creative spor tiveness; invest them with all their for mer, and more than their former interest; add to Nature's own colouring a few heightening tints of our own; throw in some new lights, and mellow them with a softer shade; and when the imperious calls of duty and the demands of life rouse us from our willing dreams, we wake from a sleep so fascinating and so seductive, that we could have wished that the fairy landscape which our imagination had painted had been as permanent as it was pleasing. When the morning of youth has diminished into the misty obscurity of distance; when the noon of manhood has been passed through; and when the tranquil evening of advancing age bas withdrawn us, in a measure, from the ceremonies and the formalities of social intercourse; the tumultuous cares aud unquiet scenes of business; the connexions of society, and the bonds of worldly acquaintance; it is not to these that the memory will revert with its fondest recollections and purest satis faction; but it will dwell with delight on the remembrance of the joys which the scenes of nature has afforded, and will often cast a longing lingering look behind" to those tranquil hours when the mind has surrendered itself in retirement to the unrestrained enjoy ments of its own reflections, and the unjuterrupted participation in the most insocent recreations of life. ALFRED.

WHEN I entered the wretched youth's room, I was introduced to him by the worthy man who is the keeper of the prison, and whose character has been long revered by every one who knows him, as possessing all those excellent principles which render him an ornament to society, even in his unenviable and, too often, misrepresented office. I confess myself to have felt a disposition to think but slightly of the humanity of individuals in his station; but the many evidences of the tender consideration with which this person applied himself, in all cases of human misery, to alleviate the sufferings of his prisoners, have induced me to change my opinion, and acknowledge that all my prejudices against keepers of prisons and jailors, have given way before the generous conduct of this good man ; and I perceive that even those whose employment it is to guard the conscience-stricken culprit, can feel for their depraved and degraded fellowcreature, and are anxious to temper the rigors of confinement with Christian sympathy.

After my first introduction, I visited the young man three or four times before I received the letter which you have inserted in your Miscellany for last Month. At these seasons I was anxious to bring him to a just estimation of the moral and religious necessity for repentance.

As I had long been acquainted with the general course of the dissipated life that he had led, I represented to him how unworthy of a rational being such a surrender of his better judgment and purer convictions must appear to him, when he reflected on the decep. tious nature of those vicious gratifications which had led him to the brink of Europ. Mag. Vol. LXXIII. June 1818.

destruction, both of body and soul. I pointed out the fatal certainty with which ruin of character and remorse of conscience-the one irretrievable and the other overwhelming, were always found to follow in the footsteps of the rash votary of libertine indulgence;1 brought him to acknowledge the sad truth, that too frequently such an one was left by the treachery of his passions without any possibility of making amends to society for the outrages which he had committed upon its prescriptive laws and social rights;-I'dis. played to him the irremediable injury which he had inflicted upon his ill-requited parents; I dwelt upon the misery, disgrace, and despondency, into which he had plunged a woman, who, whatever might have been the atrocity of her acquiescence in his unprincipled views, certainly did not deserve to be rendered for ever wretched by the man who had been generously made the participator of her husband's unsuspecting confidence, and liberal co-operation to promote his personal advancemeut in commercial profit and importance;-I bade him reflect, that, "notwithstanding he had escaped the sentence of death in consequence of the inadequacy of the laws against the enormous crime of duelling to bring the offenders to condign punishment, the stain of blood was upon his hands, and the guilty deed of depriving a fellow-creature of life was recorded against him in the judgment of an Omniscient GoD;-that, in the volume of Retribution, none of those evasions and sophistries would be found allowed, by which the corruption of the human heart, and the fashion of a sinful world, sought to justify the selfish principles of a false and murderous honour;-I concluded by imploring him to consider well, in his own unhappy example, the religious truth of the following inference: that no man can violate the moral obligations which he owes to society, without transgressing in equal degree those in which he is bound towards GoD. And, hence, it became him to seek the pardon of his guiltiness at His divine hand; since, as His justice was eternal, so would be His wrath. To the justice of man he had submitted himself; and when the temporary forfeiture of his personal liberty should be paid, the discharge of the penalty exacted would be accomplished; and whether he manifested his penitence or not for the iniquity which he had done, was 3 Q

not in the contemplation of those laws by which he was punished. It was not so with the justice of GoD, and the inflictions of His displeasure. The former could only be appeased by a faithful repentance of those transgressions which he had committed; and the lat ter could no otherwise be averted than by such newness of life, as might prove that repentance to be sincere. I advised him, therefore, to retire from the public eye as soon as the period of his sentence should be completed, in order to avoid that contempt and execration with which all who knew him would, out of regard to their own reputation, reject him from their intercourse. In this retirement he might cultivate that hope, which the mercy of Heaven still held out to him, and which henceforward could be the only consolation and the sole support of his miud.

This I unfolded to him in all its sacred dependencies, and endeavour ed to impress him with a Christian trust, that forgiveness might still be ob tained through the righteousness of his Redeemer, and this forgiveness might be followed by everlasting blessed

ness.

By these, and similar reasonings, I probed his wounded conscience; and searched the depths of the wound, by representing to him what he had lost, and what he yet might gain. He no longer possessed the good opinion of society, or his own-- He was for ever deprived of all return to reputation and credit in this world; notwithstanding which, he had it in his power to seek that Divine favour and happy immortali ty, in which he would discover that peace and joy can only bless those who seek the one in this world through the paths of pious obedience; and the other, in the World to come, through the sure mercies of the Most High!

As I felt the desolate misery to which this early victim of ungoverned pas sions had reduced himself, it was my great anxiety, as a Minister of the Word of reconciliation, to seize the reflections of his mind while they were balanced between self-reproach and repentance, and to fix them upon the latter; but I found his thoughts wretchedly bewildered between the infidel notions which he had imbibed, and those prospects of eternity which his fears, rather than his hopes shadowed to his forebod ing soul. Pleasure, in all its most ruin ous pursuits, had been his only object;

and I clearly perceived that, so vitiated had been his heart, there was still a regret fingering in his bosom, at finding himself, by this last fatal act, cut off at once from all worldly gratification, and doomed to disappointment and disgrace; 1. therefore, shewed him the utter unprofitableness of the career which he had so inconsiderately run, as well as the criminal impetuosity with which be had persevered in its course, unrestrained by the admonitions and expostulations of his heart-broken parents, and unchecked by the reproaches of his own conscience.

It was my duty to press these salutary truths upon this poor young man's acknowledgment; and my sympathies were too strongly excited, not to blend with my sense of duty, an earnest desire to call him back from the unhallowed paths in which he had wandered far from the moral and religious purity of Christian principle. When I looked at him, and called to mind that he was once the endeared child of an affectionate mother, and the promising hope of an indulgent father-when I saw him sunk in woe and personal privation -when I recollected the expectations which his youthful promise had raised in all his relatives- when, too, the excellent education which he had received, and the talents which it had unfolded, occurred to me; and when I contemplated the sad and piteous reverse of all this which he now exhi bited, I could not avoid regarding hin as a dreadful example of that subjugation to evil, by which a youth, who discards all restraints of pious and moral instruction, and opposes the perverseness of his will to the advice of the wise, is induced to unite himself to the libertine association of the wicked and the vile; at first, perhaps, without intending to go all lengths with them; but, at last, compelled to do so, by an influence which he cannot resist; and to which, by the destructive habit of continued intercourse, he willingly surrenders all his better prospects, and happier bopes.

I had attended him as an old acquaintance of his family; and, I trust, I may add, as the friend of his souland I was the more disposed to use my most anxious exertions to reclaim him from his guilty course, because I feared, that in his then distracted state of mind, despair might lay hold of him, and precipitate him into a lower deep