ridiculous plight, and that every one who departed carried with him food for mirth, of which my misfortunes were the subject. Never did hart pant for the waters of the brook more fervently, than did I for the cool and quiet retreat of my own chamber, where I might rid myself of my present shame, and breathe freely as one who had achieved a deliverance. A deliverance! The black hole at Calcutta was at a freezing point, compared with what I felt. The stage had by this time become perfectly crammed ;-so much so that the children on either side of me were pressed close against me;-and the consciousness of my condition added to the heat, so that it raged within me. I became, at length, so uncomfortable that I determined to brave ridicule and all its stings and arrows, and make my escape at the first opportunity.

Fortunately we now trotted on without interruption, until we came to Spring street; when being near my domicile I determined to emerge from my durance vile. I pulled the string. Ping went the sound over my head, and we stopped. Ye who have suffered mishap, pity me! I rose, in a hurry to get out, and in doing so, I for a moment forgot the children, who were sitting on the skirts of my coat, by which means I pulled them asunder again to my horror and dismay. The female seeing the child was in my way, rose to take it to her; in doing which, her bonnet hitched the string, and ping it went again. The coach immediately started on, which jerked me forwards directly into the woman's arms. She being unable to sustain my weight, fell forward with me upon the gentleman next to her, who shifting suddenly from his seat to avoid such an awkward collision, let us both fall upon the coach floor.

I never heard such a guffaw in all my life. Moreover the children began to scream and bellow most lustily, as if their mother had been killedfrightened she was, no doubt-but by Jove not half so much as I was. We both struggled for a moment to get up again;-but as the coach was bumping us over the stones and gutters, we only made matters worse by bumping more and more against each other. The woman at last became enraged-ungovernably so-and having disengaged her right hand she began to cuff me, over the back and ribs, most unmercifully.

"I'll teach you," cried she, "to treat a decent woman in this shameful way."

"My good madam," cried I, at the top of my voice, amid the roars of the passengers," My good madam, it was impossible to help it. Pray, sir," continued I to a gentleman near me, "lend me your assistance."

He pulled the string, and we stopped once more. I scrambled to my feet again, and bustling my way through the barrier of legs and umbrellas, I fled from the omnibus,-"the observed of all observers," as I hurried along the streets in my woful plight. All sorts of people said and looked all sorts of things; some tittered, some coughed, some laughed aloud, whilst "I say, mister, you're in for it,"-"Crackie, Bob, what a smash,"-assailed my ears from every side. Thank heaven, I reached home at last; and flinging myself upon a couch, I rang for my servant, who came, and stared. I could have kicked the booby into the street. I could see he was about to begin a long string of interrogatories, but I cut him short by demanding instantly my black suit ;-and determined from henceforth to consider the first of May as a season of penance and mortification, instead of cheerfulness and rejoicing.

RURAL ENJOYMENT.

O rus quando ego te aspiciam.

To a mind of keen sensibilities, and poetical temperament, few of the ordinary pleasures of life can compete with the strain of tender feelings, which is almost invariably called forth by a lonely ramble in some sequestered glade, when "the burthen and the heat of the summer's day is o'er;" when the eye, which has been dazzled by the intense glare of light during so many hours, can dwell with pleasure, enhanced by contrast, on the fresh verdure of the dewy woodlands, and the soft haze which is spread, like a veil over the face of beauty, across the cool horizon. Perhaps, in the whole range of human sensations, there is not one more generally inherent in every breast than this desire for rural enjoyment; ask the soldier, the sailor, the merchant, what is the end which he proposes to himself, after he shall have realized that independence, for which they all have striven alike, and each will tell you of some romantic nook, that has struck his fancy in his wanderings, and colored his waking dreams for ever after, amid the turmoil, the strife, the sordid anxieties, the engrossing cares of cities. There has he laid out the mode in which he will enjoy contented ease beneath his own fig tree,-there is the promised elysium which has raised his spirit

"to scorn delights and live laborious days;"

this is the hope, which has cheered his mind under many a bitter calamity; this is the hope, which, though never to be fulfilled, still haunts him to the tomb, and often times prompts him to seek out for his senseless bones an enduring mansion in that green spot, after which he had so yearned in life. What can be the source of this strange passion in men, who, were they to receive the objects of their prayers, to acquire possession of the suburban rus for which they have panted so long, would fly in disgust, ere a solitary week had passed over their heads, from the innocent and unexciting pleasures of a country life? Is it that even in our present state of refinement, there is still a hankering after the wild sports, and wilder perils of the wilderness, when

"erect in woods the noble savage ran,"

or is it indeed, that there is so evident a superiority in the lovely face of nature, over the artificial restraints of the city, that it cannot but be manifest even to the least observant eye;-is it simply that, as an old writer quaintly though beautifully expresses himself,

"God made the country, but man made the town"?

In truth we know not, nor will we pause to inquire; suffice it to know that such a feeling has been implanted in almost every heart, by Him who best can judge what is good for man; and moreover-were not this sufficient proof of the excellence of such a feeling,-who has ever wandered among the lone haunts of nature, tracing the brooklet to its secluded fount, listening to the converse of the foliage with the winds of heaven, for all these things have a language, that speaks directly to the heart, without feeling every earthly thought give way to a pensive and affectionate melancholy; without perceiving that his soul was almost insensibly

"from nature's works, upraised to nature's God?" Common as this feeling is to the greater part of mankind, how much

more deeply imprinted must it be on the minds of those, who, born and bred among the simple, and perhaps undignified delights of some rural district, have been condemned, in after life, to the confinement of a huge and heated metropolis? How does the victim cherish the recollection of those green hills, and bright waters, which would be still his friends, were every human being whom he valued cut off at one fell swoop from his affection. Perhaps, however, we are falling into the common error of egotism; perhaps we are presupposing the existence of sensations in the minds of others, because we are conscious that they are rooted in the very core of our own hearts. We passed ourselves the happiest days of our existence in a sweet pastoral country; the memories of our young days of transient merriment, and yet more transient sorrow, are all interwoven with recollections of verdant hedge-rows, and dewy copses. There is one green hillock, hundreds of miles from hence, with its calm church yard and dark chestnuts, in the bosom of which we hope at some future period to lay our bones, even if it should be denied to our mortal vision ever to behold it more; there is a tinkling brook, by whose side we have sat the livelong summer's day, fishing for the small fry which swarmed by thousands round our artless bait, or launching our tiny fleets in its mimic coves;-and though we have gazed, in awe and breathless admiration, at the stupendous beauties of Niagara, though we have looked upon earth's noblest rivers sweeping through every variety of scenery, still the murmurs of that puny rivulet rise oftener, and oh! how far more sweetly, to our remembrance than the far famed rush of the world's most classic waters. How often could we have cried aloud with the patriotic Syrian-" are not Abana and Pharphar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel." Yet if we apply our minds to investigate the causes of this, all is wrapt in impenetrable darkness; why should the murmur of flowing water raise such emotions, rather than the din of chariot wheels, or the thousand noises which make a Babel of our streets? -Why should a single green tree waving its branches on a sunny bank conjure up the sweet fancies of our childhood, rather than the paved thoroughfare, or the brick-built mansion ?-To prove that such is the case we need but cite the authority of every bard, from the pastoral poets of Arcadia or Etrurian vales, to those who have been the admiration of all later ages, the writers of the Elizabethan era of England. Shakspeare and Milton, teem with such descriptions of rustic scenery, as prove them to have sought the matter for their strains, not in the ponderous tomes of classical authority, but from the mighty book of nature; nor have the minstrels of our own days dwelt with less enthusiasm on the strange power, which is exercised over human sympathies by the lonely lake, the mountain, or the forest, than upon the passions and desires of the mind itself. So accurate are the paintings of Byron, so minute his details, and so true his reflections, that it would be no hard task for an artist to transfer the spirit of his words to the canvas, and embody their force in the actual reality of colors. It is this peculiarity, which has rendered the poets of the English language more generally popular among all classes of persons, than the writers of any other tongue; there is a simple pathos in the figures, which they so frequently elicit from their contemplation of the wonderful beauties of nature, that needs no commentary to point out its application; it comes directly home to the imagination of every reader, whether it be

clothed in the way ward musings of the melancholy Jacques, the sweet, romantic dreams of Juliet or of Jessica, or in the slighter though no less characteristic touches that intrude themselves into scenes of the most appalling interest, yet never without adding to the effect of the action, and the identity of the personage:-what labored strain, for instance, could have so revealed the character of the "gracious Duncan" to our imagination, as the short converse which he holds with Banquo on entering the fatal fortress of Macbeth?

Dun. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.-

Ban. This guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress
Nor coigne of 'vantage, but this bird hath made
His pendent bed, and procreant cradle: where they
Most breed and haunt, I have observed, the air

Is delicate.

What could so completely convince us of the reality of those, who are thus familiarly enjoying the sweets of the summer evening, as these few most simple, and therefore most lovely lines; what more perfect contrast could have been conceived to the dark meditations of the murderous Thane, to which they stand in closest proximity ;—what could exhibit the gentle and amiable disposition of the victim to so much advantage, as this innocent fondness for those beauties, which to the contemplative eye abound in every green field, in the breaking dawn, and in the misty close of day; in the tempest no less than in the calm; on the summit of the snow capped Alp, or in the humble valley that sleeps at its feet, in shadow scarcely less palpable at noon, than at the deadest hour of night? It would indeed be a superfluous and an endless task, to attempt to cull the sweets from the unbounded luxuriance, which flourishes in every page whether of poet or philosopher, tragedian or divine,-familiar as they must be to every heart, that is not dead to one of the purest sources of enjoyments that nature has bestowed upon her votaries. Rely upon it, that if a man love not his country, he loves not anything.-The being who has never felt his heart expand in gratitude to the Great Giver of all good; who has never pictured to himself the features of the Eternal, in the bright magnificence with which he has invested the creatures of his hand; who has never communed with his own soul in the solitary woodland, or by the silent lake, and pictured to himself from the repose of these, the immortal rest which is prepared hereafter, in that blessed sphere where the envy, the hatred, the sordid selfishness, and the fierce passions of the human breast will have no power to mar the beatitude of paradise, must indeed be dead, not to sentiment alone, but to every high and noble feelings which raise man above his kindred clay. For our own part, whenever we have escaped from the turmoil, the anxieties, and the hollowness of society, we seek for no other pleasures, than that of absolute quiescence, in some shadowy hamlet far from the busy haunts of sordid, money-making business; we need not the absence of excitement, we feel not the want of intercourse with our fellows, for

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where rone intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar.

We love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which we steal

From all we may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the universe, and feel,

What we can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Often have we stood by the brink of some far cataract "from morn to dewy eve," watching the white clouds of spray, as they rose from the abyss beneath our feet, and the bright sun-bows spanning the watery arch; with our eyes fixed on the glorious spectacle before us, but with our thoughts wandering back, back into the gulf of departed years, calling up the happy scenes of our childhood, enjoying high commune with those, whom we have once so tenderly loved, for whom we have so bitterly lamented, till the gloom of night has crept upon us unperceived, and we have started to behold the pale stars waning in the sky, which—at the moment we last remember to have marked it,-was bathed in noontide lustre. For ourselves, we never hear the sound of a rippling streamlet, without feeling ourselves transported to the home of our fathers; we never look upon a waving tree, but our spirit wanders back to the gigantic ash, which shed its gentle twilight over the porch of that old church where first we learned to read the word that giveth life; we never listen to the breezy wind wantoning in the tree tops, but we

Feel the gales that from them blow

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
Our weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

We never return from our brief visits to those districts of peace and contentment where we fain, did our avocations permit, would bury ourselves;— in some vast wilderness,

Some boundless contiguity of shade,

Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach us more--

But we feel ourselves not only sadder, but better, men; in gazing upon a lovely landscape, rich in the adornments of summer, there is ever a touch of melancholy in the train of thoughts, that sweep across our soul!--Before we shall again cast our eyes across that smiling champaign, the chilling blasts of winter will have effaced all the fair labors of his genial predecessor; the deep snow will have whelmed our fragrant flowers; the wild hailstorm, and the drenching shower, will have swelled our favorite rill into a dark and sullen torrent; and perhaps before the returning season shall have again called forth the leaves and buds to revel in their ephemeral existence, the wintry hand of death may have benumbed the fervor of our souls, and closed our eyes in that sleep that knows no waking.

And now farewell, thou, who hast wandered with us hitherto in the fairy paths of fiction !-we leave thee for a time, it is true, but we trust that the familiarity, which we have carried on thus far with so much profit to ourselves, and, may we venture to hope,-not wholly without pleasure to thee, may be renewed after a brief interval.-We have struggled through the helpless stages of our infancy, we feel our youthful vigor growing day by day, our small stock of ideas ripening hourly into more matured understanding, we have the hope before us of a vigorous youth, perhaps of an honorable and useful manhood; with thee it rests to say, whether, beneath the maternal fostering of thy patronage, the weak bantling may be reared into maturity and strength, or whether its small pipe must be quenched, its little limbs must be relaxed, its frail spirit must "go hence and be no more seen!"