Destruction of a Family of the Pilgrims by the Savages. Melancholy Decay of the Indians. Object and Success of the Missionary Enterprise. Mont Blanc in the Gleam of Sunset Contrast in the Characters of Cicero and Atticus. Scenery in the Highlands on the River Hudson. Extract from a Speech on the British Treaty. Appeal in Favour of the Union. Grand electrical Experiment of Dr. Franklin. Pleasures of the Man of a refined Imagination. Scene at Niagara. Procession of Nuns in a Catholic Hospital. Grandeur of astronomical Discoveries. Scenes on the Prairies. Eulogy on William Penn. Morbid Effects of Envy, Malice, and Hatred. Appearance of the first Settlements of the Pilgrims. Description of a Herd of Bisons. The Character of Jesus. Recollections of J. Quincy, Jun. A Slide in the White Mountains. OF AMERICA. Goodness of the Deity displayed in the Beauty of WERE all the interesting diversities of colour and form to disappear, how unsightly, dull, and wearisome, would be the aspect of the world! The pleasures, conveyed to us by the endless varieties, with which these sources of beauty are presented to the eye, are so much things of course, and exist so much without intermission, that we scarcely think either of their nature, their number, or the great proportion which they constitute in the whole mass of our enjoyment. But, were an inhabitant of this country to be removed from its delightful scenery to the midst of an Arabian desert, a boundless expanse of sand, a waste, spread with uniform desolation, enlivened by the murmur of no stream, and cheered by the beauty of no verdure; although he might live in a palace, and riot in splendour and luxury, he would, I think, find life a dull, wearisome, melancholy round of existence; and, amid all his gratifi cations, would sigh for the hills and valleys of his native land, the brooks, and rivers, the living lustre of the Spring, and the rich glories of the Autumn. The ever-varying brilliancy and grandeur of the landscape, and the magnificence of the sky, sun, moon, and stars, enter more extensively into the enjoyment of mankind, than we, perhaps, ever think, or can possibly apprehend, without frequent and extensive investigation. This beauty and splendour of the objects around us, it is ever to be remembered, is not necessary to their existence, nor to what we commonly intend by their usefulness. It is, therefore, to be regarded as a source of pleasure gratuitously superinduced upon the general nature of the objects themselves, and, in this light, as a testimony of the divine goodness peculiarly affecting. Night Season favourable to Contemplation and "Watchman,,what of the night?”—Isaiah xxi. 11. To this query of Isaiah, the watchman replies, that "The morning cometh, and also the night." The brevity of this answer has left it involved in something of the obscurity of the season in which it was given. I think that night, however sooty and ill-favoured it may be pronounced by those who were born under a daystar, merits a more particular description. I feel peculiarly disposed to arrange some ideas in favour of this season. I know that the majority are literally blind to its merits; they must be prominent, indeed, to be discerned by the closed eyes of the snorer, who thinks that night was made for nothing but sleep. But the student and the sage are willing to believe that it was formed for higher purposes; and that it not only recruits exhausted spirits, but sometimes informs inquisitive and mends wicked ones. Duty, as well as inclination, urges the Lay Preacher to sermonize while others slumber. To read numerous volumes in the morning, and to observe various characters at noon, will leave but little time, except the night, to digest the one or speculate upon the other. The night, therefore, is often dedicated to composition, and, while the light of the paly planets discovers at his desk the Preacher, more win than they, he may be heard repeating emphatically with Dr. Young, "Darkness has much Divinity for me.' He is then alone; he is then at peace. No companions near, but the silent volumes on his shelf; no noise abroad, but the click of the village clock or the bark of the village dog. The deacon bas then smoked his sixth, and last pipe, and asks not a question more concerning Josephus or the church. Stillness aids study, and the sermon proceeds. Such being the obligations to night, it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge them. As my watchful eyes can discern its dim beauties, my warm heart shall feel, and my prompt pen shall describe, the uses and pleasures of the nocturnal hour. "Watchman, what of the night?" I can with propriety imagine this question addressed to myself; I am a professed lucubrator; and who so well qualified to delineate the sable hours as "A meager, muse-rid mope, adust and thin?" However injuriously night is treated by the sleepy moderns, the vigilance of the ancients could not overlook its benefits and joys. In as early a record as the book of Genesis, I find that Isaac, though he devoted his assiduous days to action, reserved speculation till night. "He went out to meditate in the field at eventide." He chose that sad, that solemn hour, to reflect upon the virtues of a beloved and departed mother. The tumult and glare of the day suited not with the sorrow of his soul. He had lost his most amiable, most genuine friend, and his unostentatious grief was eager for privacy and shade. Sincere sorrow rarely suffers its tears to be seen. It was natural for Isaac to select a season to weep in, that should resemble "the colour of his fate." The darkness, the solemnity, the stillness of the eve, were favourable to his melancholy purpose. He forsook, therefore, the bustling tents of his father, the pleasant "south country," and "well of Lahairoi;" he went out and pensively meditated at eventide. The Grecian and Roman philosophers firmly believed that the "dead of midnight is the noon of thought." One of them is beautifully described by the poet as soliciting knowledge from the skies in private and nightly audience, and that neither his theme, nor his nightly walks, were forsaken till the sun appeared, and dimmed his "nobler intellectual beam." We undoubtedly owe to the studious nights of the ancients most of their elaborate and immortal productions. Among them it was necessary that every man of letters should trim the midnight lamp. The day |