quest of that tranquillity and those rural pleasures, which they have heard characterised as forming the most rational enjoyments of life. Convinced by experience, of the impossibility of attaining perfect happiness in that sphere wherein they have been accustomed to move, they look upon this impossibility as resulting more from local situation than from the want of a properly regulated mind, or the constitution of human nature. Poets and philosophers, in every age, have contributed to strengthen this opinion. In the writings of the former, we meet with exquisite descriptions of natural scenery, conveyed in fascinating language, and joined with appeals to the fancy and feelings, calculated to leave a deep impression on the heart. The simple melody of birds, the solemn murmurs of the ocean, the enchanting beauties of some real or imaginary landscape, are represented as producing effects equally wonderful with those wrought by the lyre of Orpheus; as irresistibly overpowering every turbulent passion, and imperceptibly instilling into the soul a love and reverence for virtue. Cicero, and most of the ancient philosophers, have expatiated on the pleasures of a country life, and the incalculable advantages it yields in point of tranquillity and genuine happiness, over a more intimate

connexion with the world. The moderns have been equally inclined to propagate similar doctrines. In the writings of Rousseau, they form a very prominent feature; and a late well-known author, possessed of cultivated talents and an enlightened mind, has contributed not a little to their popularity. "We may all," he observes, live in Arcadia, if we please. The beauties of a crystal spring, a silent grove, a daisied meadow, will chasten the feelings of the heart, and afford, at all times, a permanent and sure delight."*

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Few reflecting persons, who have had an opportunity of enjoying these boasted advantages, can be ignorant of the fallacy of expectations raised on this basis. It will not be denied, that such scenes are capable of imparting to most persons a certain degree of pleasure. There is something naturally attractive, for instance, in the "sightrefreshing" livery with which the face of nature is decorated, as well as the simple melody of birds, and the invigorating healthful breeze; but a principal part of the impression these make upon the mind, depends upon its cultivation, and particular bias. The peasant is not necessa

* Zimmerman on Solitude.

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rily either happier or more virtuous in sequence of living in a situation the most highly favoured by nature;—unless his taste is improved by education and culture, he receives little delight from viewing them; and a short acquaintance with him will convince unprejudiced inquirers, that his heart is often a prey to disquietude, and subject to the influence of violent contending passions.

That we may be enabled to enjoy whatever advantages rural scenery is capable of yielding, it is therefore necessary that we cultivate a taste for its beauties. In proportion as the mind is elevated and expanded, our pleasures in contemplating them will increase. Objects which before seemed too insignificant to attract attention, will then appear in their true relative importance; and from even the tamest landscape, some feature or other may always be selected, worthy of our notice and admiration. To the enlightened observer, every different herb, fruit, and flower, every variety of soil or product, of prospect or of season, will convey information, and inspire sensations, to which a mind differently constituted must ever remain a stranger. While the untutored peasant is suffering his eye vacantly to wander over the surrounding scenery, or merely employing it in ascertaining the proper

mode of cultivation, the former is perhaps tracing the progress of vegetation, from the first vernal bud, to the matured productions of autumn; remarking the numberless instances of transcendent skill, ingenuity, and benevolence, displayed in every part of creation; selecting and combining their various beauties by the aid of fancy; strengthening and invigorating his reasoning faculties, by meditating on the wonders that every where surround him; and from such pursuits deriving additional motives for acquiescing in the divine dispensations, and fulfilling the duties of that station in which the author of such stupendous works has been pleased to place him. Nothing will contribute more to produce these effects, than the study of the best poets. Although their enthusiasm has led them to ascribe powers to nature which she never possessed, they are best capable of developing her intrinsic beauties. Ever observant of those nice discriminations which more peculiarly manifest the hand of a master, their remarks are generally combined with the purest morality. In the Seasons of Thomson, or the Task of Cowper, the reader will find his attention directed to many beauties, which, without such assistance, had in all probability escaped his notice; and the moral lessons which they are calculated to

convey, are, in these works, pointed out and enforced in the most pleasing and energetic

manner.

Besides this cultivation of the mind, however, something else is necessary to give even the most enchanting scenery its proper zest. The passions must be regulated, and kept in due subjection. Wherever this is not done, the landscape will exhibit its charms in vain; or if they should forcibly attract notice, the impression they make will only be momentary. Ovid, in one of his epistles, has introduced a lover, lamenting his folly in hoping to find relief from a change of scenery, while the dart that wounded him still rankled in his bosom. This remark is still more applicable to the malevolent passions. To him who is sickening with envy, every opening grace will only convey additional torment; especially when he reflects, that the charms which press themselves upon his attention, are equally open to the inspection of a hated rival. The ambitious man, whose heart is perpetually panting after honours and distinctions, would be unhappy although surrounded by Arcadian scenery, or even placed in Elysium itself. The music of birds, the crystal rill, the gale embued with Arabian fragrance, will be found ineffectual to sooth the pangs of remorse, to silence the upbraidings of conscience, or alleviate the anguish of