superior to what are generally procured in the city. But above all, there is generally a home feeling among country people, which carries with it many virtues. In cities there is scarcely such a place as home. We merely stay in such a street at such a number, and without the number we could with difficulty find our residences -for entire blocks of houses are often precisely similar in all respects. About the old homestead we love the very grass, and trees, and winding roads, the birds singing over our heads, the flowers blooming about us; and the atmosphere seems to bear joy and health with it. We think that friendships are more apt to strike root and endure in the country, than in the city. For the most part, in cities, what is society so called, but a wearisome round of common places, stereotyped remarks, which give no insight into the character of the individual you are conversing with? and the same style of dress and mode of living and education form classes of which each individual constitutes a fragment, separate, but not distinct. In the country the young pass much time with one another, under the same roof; they are more thrown upon their own resources; they become intimate from the very fact of being acquainted with each other's character, disposition, trains of thought. Public opinion is but little felt, or little heeded, for they scarcely know its influence. There you find much originality, both in thought and observation, with a depth of sincerity, genuine, and fresh from

the heart.

The recollections of May-poles on the banks of the silver Trent, of sheep-shearing, and harvest home festivals

"The promise of the spring, The summer's glory and the rich repose Of autumn, and the winter's silvery snow," (ROGERS' HUMAN LIFE,)

have cheered many an hour of Miller's existence in the dark and unwholesome streets of London. He forgets not in his exile in the city, the country walks in frosty weather, the glow it gave to the blood, the deep blue sky, looking far higher than in summer-the hoar frost on the trees and hedges the freezing showers glazing everything on which they fell; he sees the hard brown buds, but thinks of the tender aves and rich colors folded beneath their

hard sheaths; and the brave little robin, "sacred to the household gods," recalls to mind pleasurable thoughts of childhood, of "The Children in the Wood." And when summer comes, in imagination, he gazes on the sky-lark floating heavenward, and hears the blackbird's mellow voice, and loves the rolling river, the flowers, and grass, and hills and woods, and the village green with its oak, or sycamore, or elm, in the centre, and the old men sitting beneath it when their day's work is done, smoking their pipes, and talking about the weather, the appearance of the crops, the health and prosperity or adversity of their neighbors, while the children are rolling about on the grass. To him the summer's heat is mitigated and sweetened by the fragran: breath of the hay field, and he feels the coolness of the old woods, and sees the cattle standing knee-deep in the running streams. Miller is truly

A novel with the title of "Gideon Giles, the Roper," appeared in London in 1841. with thirty-six illustrations by Edward Lambert. In this production Miller at-, tempted to produce a true English work. to make the scenery and characters thor oughly English. The chief events of the story are such as had fallen under his own observation, and he wished to express his indignation against an unjust and crue! English law. The story turns upon the fact that a poor man can sell the goods be himself makes, in the town or parish i which he lives, without a license; but le him offer the same goods for sale in the neighboring villages, or at the doors of lonely and out of the way houses, where the inhabitants would be compelled to g miles to purchase such articles as he bring to their doors, and he is liable to a penalty of £40 or three months' imprisonment.

The character of Ben Brust is capital drawn, and excellently well supporte throughout the work. He is described a a man of "remarkable exterior," large and fat, with a countenance that seemed as if had never known care; there was a kin. of "come day go day" appearance abor him; he looked, to use a homely phras

"a jolly-hearted fellow,"—and such a man in reality was Ben Brust, one who never troubled his head with what his neighbors thought about him, who never worked until he was fairly forced, or thought of obtaining new clothes until the old ones had all but dropped from his back. He looked too fat to think; he was too weighty a man for care to bend down; "waking thought" seldom sat on Ben's eyelids, for he had been heard to say that he never remembered being in bed five minutes without falling asleep; he was a philosopher in his way. If he was hungry he could make a meal in a turnip field; a bean stack was to Ben a banquet; had you named poverty to him he would have stared, and said, he knew no farmer of that name. Still, he loved a good dinner. A comfortable man was Ben Brust. Ben was married: his wife was a thin, spare, cross-grained little woman, with a sharp vinegar aspect, so thin that she was nicknamed "Famine," while Ben was called "Plenty;" he would have bumped down three wives the size of his own, in any fair scale in England. Famine went out to work, while Plenty lay sleeping in the sunshine; she was scratching and saving, washed and cleaned for people in the village. Plenty sat on gates and stiles whistling, or sometimes, standing on the bridge, would spit in the water and watch it float away; and when the day was not very hot indeed, go on the other side to see it come through. "Oh, he is a lazy goodfor-nowt," his wife would exclaim, "but I never let him finger a farthing of my gettings; I keep my own cupboard under lock and key, and never trouble him for a bite or a sup, year in and year out; all I desire him to do is to keep himself." Ben, on the other hand, used to say, "A man's a fool that kills himself to keep himself. When a rich man dies he cannot take his wealth with him, and I've heard the parson advise folks to take no thought for the morrow; besides, it was a saying before I was born that there is but a groat a year between work and play, and they say that play gets it; all the comforts of life consist in snoring and brusting,' for such were the elegant terms he chose for sleep and food; as to clothes, a flower and a butterfly are finer than anybody in the land." Ben often wondered, too, "why a

quart jug was no bigger." Nevertheless, Ben, with all his idleness and love of ale and meat, is a sturdy and fine specimen of a man. "He deals in russet yeas and honest kersey noes," and is ever ready to aid his fellow creatures, and has withal a heartiness and simplicity of character that interest the reader extremely in his fortunes. He can work zealously enough when it is for the benefit of another, in spite of his fondness for a quiet sleep on the soft grass under shady trees, places where he would throw himself down and think how foolish it was for the birds to take the trouble to fly about in the hot sunshine. We read the work to a couple of mechanics in their workshops. At first it hindered their work but slightly, but in the course of half an hour all work had ceased; the hammer and jack plane were quiet side by side. Their day's work was spoiled. We read till late in the evening, and early next morning were called upon to finish it; and so anxious were they to hear the conclusion that they could not go to work. They saw unerringly, how lifelike the characters were, and the cares and misfortunes and sterling qualities of Gideon Giles, found a way to their hearts and elicited deep sympathy. It is a noble book, written by a noble man, the owner of "no faint and milky heart." All the characters appear to have been drawn from individuals falling under Miller's own observation, and bits of scenery are described exquisitely, bringing the very places before our eyes.

greater has been our pleasure; even as a child whose eye tracks the sun-set across the sea, and believes that the trailing pathway of gold ends only on the threshold of heaven.

"The solemn woods have to us seemed like the great cathedrals which God himself had erected, as if a holier religion reigned there than was ever found beneath the towering fabrics erected by the hand of man. The deep roaring of the winds had a sound to us unlike aught earthly; the rustling of the leaves in gentler gales, awoke the heart unaware to prayer; we felt not the same while in the midst of such shadowy scenery. The pillars hewn and carved, and upreared by mortal hands, look not so grand and reverential as an aisle of ancient oaks, tossing their gnarled boughs above our heads, and admitting through the massy roof partial openings of the sky. The organ never fell upon our ears with the same solemnity as the roar of the ocean, beating upon a solitary shore. Between the walls of high and lofty mountains we have felt an inward awe, which the vaulted abbey could never awaken; for over the one hung the great image of the Creator, above the other, the builder man.

"Ruins only approach the sublime when they are gray and vast, and time has erased their history. To us the Pyramids would not convey such images of mysterious and melancholy grandeur as the naked and rugged pile of Stonehenge. The untraceable Past having long since claimed it for his own, and handed it to Eternity, it seems tinged with the first sunshine which broke upon the world, and may catch the last ray which may settle down upon the earth, ere the night of eternal silence and darkness descends upon it."

Some of Miller's glowing descriptions of scenery, of rustic and hearty characters, his admiration

"Of their old piety and of their glee,” (KEATS,)

The

remind us at times of Rousseau. wanderings of St. Preux in the Pays de Vaud, as described in the twenty-third letter of the New Héloïse, are delicious. We behold him at one time enveloped in a drizzling cloud arising from a torrent thundering against the rocks at his feet; we gaze on yawning abysses, gloomy woods, suddenly opening on flowery plains,--a blending of the wild and cultivated,-horrid caverns, vineyards and cornfields among cliffs and precipices,-where are united almost all seasons in the same instant, every climate in the same spot; the tops of the mountains are variously illuminated, ixture of light and shade,-the thunstorms far below him,-the purity of

the air, producing tranquillity of soul,scenes, plants, and birds. joined with the pleasure of looking on new The disinterested zeal and humanity of the inhabitants are eloquently described. When St. Preux approaches any hamlet towards evening, the inhabitants are eager to entertain and lodge him in their houses, and he to whom the preference is given was always well pleased. They would receive no pay, and were offended when it was proffered. "The same simplicity exists among themselves: when the children are once arrived at maturity, all distinction between them and their parents seems to have ceased; their domestics are seated at the same table with their masters; the same liberty reigns in the cottage as in the republic, and each family is an epitome of the state.' "Ils en usent entre eux avec la même simplicité : les enfants en age de raison sont les égaux de leurs pères : les domestiques s'asseyent a table avec leur maitres; la même liberté regne dans les maisons et dans la republique, et la famille est No wonder that Julia in l'image de l'état.' her reply to this eloquent epistle exclaims: La relation de votre voyage est charmante; elle me feroit aimer celui qui l'a écrite quand bien même je ne le connoitrois pas."

There is also a beautiful picture of a fine breathing landscape, and the portrait of a happy man, where Werter is represented sitting beneath some lime trees, which spread their branches over a little green in front of a church, where he has a fine view of the country, and is surrounded by cottages and barns, and an old woman lives close by, who sells wine, coffee and cakes. Here Werter sits and reads Homer.*

*It is rather strange that we have no version, in English, of the "Sorrows of Werter," direct from the German. The English one, in common use, is a translation from the French. We have now betore us a French translation printed at Maestricht in 1776. It contains two pictures; one represents Charlotte cutting off slices of bread and butter for the children, and the other is a view of Werter's room. In the last letter of this work occurs the following affecting passage. We copy from the French: "Quand dans une belle soirée d'été, tu te promeneras vers la montagne, ressouviens toi de moi; rappelle to comme tu m'as vu souvent monter de la vallée; leve les yeux vers la cimetière qui renferme num tombe, et vois aux derniers rayons du soleil com la couvre. J'étois tranquille en commençant ma me le vent du soir fait ondoyer l'herbe haute qu lettre, mais en me retraçant vivement tous ces co jets, voilà que je pleure comme un enfant." New for the English: "When in a fine evening of sunmer you walk towards the mountains, think of me.

"

Rural Sketches, with twenty-three illustrations, was published in London by Van Voorst in 1839. We wish that we had room

recollect the times you have so often seen me come up from the valley; raise your eyes to the churchyard which contains my grave; and by the light of the departing sun, see how the evening breeze waves over the high grass which grows over me! I was calm when I began my letter; but the recollection of these scenes makes me weep like a child."

A word or two about another translation. Leigh Hunt in the Indicator, in some remarks on Lazarillo de Tormes, observes that the English version of the work is done with great tact and spirit, he knows not by whom, but that it is worthy of De Foe. Lazarillo serves a blind beggar, who, to keep his mug of common Spanish wine safe from the inroads of Lazarillo, holds it in his own hands; but this avails him nothing, for the cunning Lazarillo contrives to suck out some with a reed; the beggar then, to prevent this, places his hand over it. Upon this his antagonist makes a hole near the bottom of the mug, and fills it up with wax, and then taps it gently when he feels thirsty. Lazarillo tells his adventures himself.

ENGLISH VERSION.

"You won't accuse me any more I hope (cried I) of drinking your wine, after all the fine precautions you have taken to prevent it. To that he said not a word; but feeling all about the pot, he at last unluckily discovered the hole, which cunningly dissembling at the time, he let me alone till next day at dinner, not dreaming, God knows, of the old man's malicious intention, but getting in between his legs, according to my wonted custom, receiving into my mouth the distilling dew, and pleasing myself with the success of my own ingenuity, my eyes upward, but half shut, the furious tyrant taking up the hard but sweet pot with both his hands flang it down again with all his force upon my face; by the violence of which blow, imagining the house had fallen upon my head, I lay sprawling without any sentiment or judgment, my forehead, nose and mouth gushing out with blood, and the latter full of broken teeth and broken pieces of the can." We think that the above translation is from the

French. We have an old translation with the title page as follows: "Lazarillo de Tormes. Traduction Nouvelle. A Paris, chez Claude Barbin au Palais, sur le Perron de la sainte Chapelle. MD.C.L.XXVIII. Avec Privilege due Roy." "Vous ne m'accuserés pas maintenant de vous avoir bû vostre vin, lui desois-je. Vous y avés mis

bon ordre, Dieu merci. Il ne me dit mot, mais il tourna tant le pot de tous côtés il le tastonna si bien par tout, qu'il trouva malheureusement le trou. Il n'en fit pas semblant sur l'heure: mais le lendemain sans le porter plus loin, comme j'eus ainsté mon pot, ne pensant à rien moins qu'à ce que le malicieux aveugle me gardoit, ie me mis entre ses jambes comme j'avois accoustumé. Tandis que ie beuvois, le visage en haut, et les yeux à demi fermés, l'aveugle enragé prit son tems pour se vanger de moi, et levant à deux mains ce doux et cruel pot de terre, il me le déchargea sur le visage de toute a force. En vérité le pauvre Lazare, qui ne s'y attendoit pas, et que le plaisir de boire tenoit comne ravi, s'imagina dans ce moment que le plancher i tomboit sur le tête. Le coup de pot fut si bien assené, que j'en perdis connoissance: le pot se mit en mille pièces; il m'en entra quelquesunes bien ivant dans le visage, qui me le balafrèrent en plueurs endroits, et me cassèrent les dents, qui me =anquent encore auiourd'hui."

"There is a green look about his pages; he carries with him the true aroma of the green forests; his lines are mottled with rich mosses, and there is a gnarled ruggedness upon the stems of his trees. His waters have a fresh look and a flashing sound about them, and you feel the fresh air play around you while you read. His birds are the free denizens of the fields, and they send their songs so life-like through the covert that their music rings upon the ear, and you are carried away with their sweet pipings. He heard the sky-lark sing in the blue dome of heaven before he transferred its warblings to his pages, and inhaled the perfume of the flowers he described; the roaring of the trees was to him an old familiar sound; his soul was a rich storehouse for all that is beautiful in Nature."

We find a pleasantly written account of Miller in a late English work, and transcribe it for the gratification of the reader :

"I had read with considerable interest a work entitled, A Day in the Woods,' by Thomas Miller, 'basket-maker,' and felt not a little delighted with his vivid and graphic descriptions of rural and forest scenery. Nothing so natural and fresh had appeared in our literature. Even Bloomfield failed to convey so happy an idea of country life as Miller. One morning I inquired his address, and determined to call on Mr. Miller, trusting to the frankness and amiability which pervaded every page of his book, for his excuse of my introducing myself to him. I had a long walk down St. George's road, Southwark, on a dismal, drizzling November day-and that was no joke, as any one familiar with a foggy day, at that time of the year, in London, can testify. After much inquiry I found out Elliot's Row, to which place I had been directed, and when I had ascertained the group of houses in one of which the poet resided, I had great difficulty in finding out the exact dwelling. The very people who lived next door to Miller did not know of such a person-although half of literary London was ringing with his praises, and crying him up as a newly found genius. Such is fame in the mighty metropolis!