left the field before the usual hour, the school was shut, and the village green silent and solitary. A few of the better class of villagers, in their decent sabbath dress, were walking over the hill toward the mansion; others, with their wives and children, were standing round the gate of the church-yard, and there was something mournful in the motions and attitudes of all. I knew well what all this meant, but I gazed on it with a vacant mind, and without any new conviction of my desolate lot. I even saw with a sad pleasure the beauty of a landscape, which, like all the world, was nothing now to me. But this did not last long -suddenly there was a hum of voices, and a stir among those who had been waiting at the church-the bell tolled, a faint chant swelled from behind the hill, and the procession came slowly in sight. Then the truth fell on me with an overpowering weight; I threw myself on the ground, and looked on with a bursting heart, till all I had loved was forever hidden from sight.-Farewell, my friend! I am going to Rome for a few months, for it is the seat of my religion, and I would look once more before I die on the mightiest remains of earth. I have watched the fall of the last leaves in Underwalden; I shall return to see them put forth once more, but when they fall again, they will cover the grave of HERMANN.

Rural Occupations favourable to the Sentiments of Devotion.-BUCKMINSTER.

No situation in life is so favourable to established habits of virtue, and to powerful sentiments of devotion, as a residence in the country, and rural occupations. I am not speaking of a condition of peasantry, (of which, in this country, we know little,) who are mere vassals of an absent lord, or the hired labourers of an intendant, and who' are therefore interested in nothing but the regular receipt of their daily wages; but I refer to the honourable character of an owner of the soil, whose comforts, whose weight in the community, and whose very existence, depend upon his personal labours, and the regular returns of the abun

dance from the soil which he cultivates. No man, one would think, would feel so sensibly his immediate dependence upon God, as the husbandman. For all his peculiar blessings he is invited to look immediately to the bounty of Heaven. No secondary cause stands between him and his Maker. To him are essential the regular succession of the seasons, and the timely fall of the rain, the genial warmth of the sun, the sure productiveness of the soil, and the certain operations of those laws of nature, which must appear to him nothing less than the varied exertions of omnipresent energy. In the country we seem to stand in the midst of the great theatre of God's power, and we feel an unusual proximity to our Creator. His blue and tranquil sky spreads itself over our heads, and we acknowledge the intrusion of no secondary agent in unfolding this vast expanse. Nothing but Omnipotence can work up the dark horrors of the tempest, dart the flashes of the lightning, and roll the long-resounding rumour of the thunder. The breeze wafts to his senses the odours of God's beneficence; the voice of God's power is heard in the rustling of the forest; and the varied forms of life, activity, and pleasure, which he observes at every step in the fields, lead him irresistibly, one would think, to the Source of being, and beauty, and joy. How auspicious such a life to the noble sentiments of devotion! Besides, the situation of the husbandman is peculiarly favourable, it should seem, to purity and simplicity of moral sentiment. He is brought Acquainted chiefly with the real and native wants of mankind. Employed solely in bringing food out of the earth, he is not liable to be fascinated with the fictitious pleasures, the unnatural wants, the fashionable follies, and tyrannical vices of more busy and splendid life.

Still more favourable to the religious character of the husbandman is the circumstance, that, from the nature of agricultural pursuits, they do not so completely engross the attention as other occupations. They leave much time for contemplation, for reading, and intellectual pleasures; and these are peculiarly grateful to the resident in the country. Especially does the institution of the Sabbath discover all its value to the tiller of the earth, whose fatigue it solaces, whose hard labours it interrupts, and who

feels, on that day, the worth of his moral nature, which cannot be understood by the busy man, who considers the repose of this day as interfering with his hopes of gain, or professional employments. If, then, this institution is of any moral and religious value, it is to the country we must look for the continuance of that respect and observance, which it merits. My friends, those of you, especially, who retire annually into the country, let these periodical retreats from business or dissipation bring you nearer to your God; let them restore the clearness of your judgment on the objects of human pursuit, invigorate your moral perceptions, exalt your sentiments, and regulate your habits of devotion; and, if there be any virtue or simplicity remaining in rural life, let them never be impaired by the influence of your presence and example.

Reciprocal Influence of Morals and Literature. –
FRISBIE.

IN no productions of modern genius is the reciprocal infuence of morals and literature more distinctly seen, than in those of the author of Childe Harold. His character produced the poems, and it cannot be doubted, that his poems are adapted to produce such a character. His heroes speak a language supplied not more by imagination than Consciousness. They are not those machines, that, by` a contrivance of the artist, send forth a music of their own but instruments, through which he breathes his very soul, in tones of agonized sensibility, that cannot but give a sympathetic impulse to those who hear. The desolate misanthropy of his mind rises, and throws its dark shade over his poetry, like one of his own ruined castles; we feel it to be sublime, but we forget that it is a sublimity it cannot have till it is abandoned by every thing that is kind, and peaceful, and happy, and its halls are ready to become the haunts of outlaws and assassins. Nor are his more tender and affectionate passages those to which we can yield ourselves without a feeling of uneasiness. It is not that we can here and there select a proposition formally

false and pernicious; but he leaves an impression unfa. vourable to a healthful state of thought and feeling, peculiarly dangerous to the finest minds and most susceptible hearts. They are the scene of a summer evening, where all is tender, and beautiful, and grand; but the damps of disease descend with the dews of heaven, and the pestilent vapours of night are breathed in with the fragrance and balm, and the delicate and fair are the surest victims of the exposure.

Although I have illustrated the moral influence of literature principally from its mischiefs, yet it is obvious, if what I have said be just, it may be rendered no less powerful as a means of good. Is it not true that within the last century a decided and important improvement in the moral character of our literature has taken place? and, had Pope and Smollett written at the present day, would the former have published the imitations of Chaucer, or the latter the adventures of Pickle and Random? Genius cannot now sanctify impurity or want of principle; and our critics and reviewers are exercising jurisdiction not only upon the literary, but moral blemishes of the authors who come before them. We notice with peculiar pleasure the sentence of just indignation which the Edinburgh tribunal has pronounced upon Moore, Swift, Goethe, and, in general, the German sentimentalists. Indeed, the fountains of literature, into which an enemy has sometimes infused poison, naturally flow with refreshment and health. Cowper and Campbell have led the muses to repose in the bowers of religion and virtue; and Miss Edgeworth has so cautiously combined the features of her characters, that the predominant expression is ever what it should be. She has shown us not vices ennobled by virtues, but virtues degraded and perverted by their union with vices. The success of this lady has been great; but, had she availed herself more of the motives and sentiments of religion, we think it would have been greater. She has stretched forth a powerful hand to the impotent in virtue; and had she added, with the apostle, in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, we should almost have expected miracles from its touch.

COMMON-PLACE BOOK OF PROSE.

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Evening Scenes on the St. Lawrence.-SILLIMAN.

FROM the moment the sun is down, every thing becomes silent on the shore, which our windows overlook, and the murmurs of the broad St. Lawrence, more than two miles wide immediately before us, and, a little way to the right, spreading to five or six miles in breadth, are sometimes for an hour the only sounds that arrest our attention. Every evening since we have been here, black clouds and splendid moonlight have hung over, and embellished this tranquil scene; and on two of these evenings we have been attracted to the window, by the plaintive Canadian boat-song. In one instance, it arose from a solitary voyager, floating in his light canoe, which occasionally appeared and disappeared on the sparkling river, and in its distant course seemed no larger than some sportive insect. In another instance, a larger boat, with more numerous and less melodious voices, not indeed in perfect harmony, passed nearer to the shore, and gave additional life to the scene. A few moments after, the moon broke out from a throne of dark clouds, and seemed to convert the whole expanse of water into one vast sheet of glittering silver; and, in the very brightest spot, at the distance of more than a mile, again appeared a solitary boat, but too distant to admit of our hearing the song, with which the boatman was probably solacing his lonely course.

Franklin's first Entrance into Philadelphia.—
FRANKLIN.

I HAVE entered into the particulars of my voyage, and shall, in like manner, describe my first entrance into this city, that you may be able to compare beginnings so little auspicious with the figure I have since made.

On my arrival at Philadelphia, I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to come by sea. I was covered with dirt; my pockets were filled with shirts and stockings; I was unacquainted with a single soul in the place,