ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA.

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It is with feelings of deep regret that I have
noticed the literary animosity daily growing up
between England and America. Great curiosity
has been awakened of late with respect to
the United States, and the London press has
teemed with volumes of travels through the republic;
but they seem intended to diffuse error
rather than knowledge; and so successful have
they been, that, notwithstanding the constant
intercourse between the nations, there is none

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concerning which the great mass of the British
people have less pure information, or more prejudices.

English travellers are the best and the worst
in the world. Where no motives of pride or
interest intervene, none can equal them for profound
and philosophical views of society, or
faithful and graphical descriptions of external
objects; but when the interests or reputation
of their own nation come in collision with
those of another, they go to the opposite extreme,
and forget their usual probity and candour,
in the indulgence of spleen, and an illiberal
spirit of ridicule.

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate,
the more remote the country described.
I would place implicit confidence in an Englishman's
description of the regions beyond the cataracts
of the Nile; of unknown islands in the
Yellow Sea; of the interior of Africa; or of
any other tract which other travellers might be
apt to picture out with the illusions of their
fancies; but I would cautiously receive his

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account of his immediate neighbours, and of
those nations with which he is in habits of
most frequent intercourse. However I might
be disposed to trust his probity, I dare not
trust his prejudices.

But it has been the peculiar lot of our country,
to be visited by the worst kind of English
travellers. While men of philosophical spirit
and cultivated minds have been envoys from
England to ransack the poles, to penetrate the
deserts, and to study the manners and customs
of barbarous nations, with which she can have
no permanent intercourse of profit or pleasure;
it is left to the broken down tradesman,
the scheming adventurer, the wandering mechanic,
the Manchester and Birmingham agent,
to be her oracles respecting America—to treat
of a country in a singular state of moral and
physical development; where one of the greatest
political experiments in the history of the
world is now performing, and which presents
the most profound and momentous studies for
the statesman and the philosopher.

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That such men should give prejudiced accounts
of America is not a matter of surprise.
The themes it offers for contemplation are too
vast and elevated for their capacities. The national
character is yet in a state of fermentation:
it may have its frothiness and sediment,
but its ingredients are sound and wholesome;
it has already given proofs of powerful and generous
qualities, and the whole promises to settle
down into something substantially excellent.
But the causes that are operating to strengthen
and ennoble it, and its daily indications of admirable
properties, are all lost upon these purblind
observers, who are only affected by the
little asperities incident to its present situation.
They are capable of judging only of the surface
of things; of those matters which come in contact
with their private interests and gratifications.
They miss some of the snug conveniences
and petty comforts which belong to an
old, highly finished, and over-populous state of
society, where the ranks of useful labour are
crowded, and many make a painful and servile

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subsistence, by studying the very caprices of
appetite and self indulgence. These minor comforts,
however, are all-important in the estimation
of narrow minds; and they either do not
perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are
more than counterbalanced among us, by great
and generally diffused blessings.

Or, perhaps, they have been disappointed in
some unreasonable expectation of sudden gain.
They may have pictured America to themselves
an El Dorado, where gold and silver abounded,
and the natives were lacking in sagacity.
Where they were to become strangely and suddenly
rich, in some unforeseen, but easy manner.
The same weakness of mind that indulges
absurd expectations, produces petulance in disappointment.
They become embittered against
the country on finding that there, as every where
else, a man must sow before he can reap; that
he must win wealth by industry and talent;
and must compete with the common difficulties
of nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent
and enterprising people.

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Or, perhaps, through mistake, or ill-directed
hospitality, or the prompt disposition to cheer
and countenance the stranger, prevalent among
my countrymen, they may have been treated
with unwonted respect in America; and, accustomed
all their lives to consider themselves
many strata below the surface of society, and
brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority,
they become arrogant on the common boon of
civility; they attribute to the lowliness of others
their own elevation; and underrate a society
where there are no artificial distinctions, and
where, by any chance, such individuals as
themselves can rise to consequence.

One would suppose, however, that information
coming from such sources, on a subject
where the truth is so desirable, would be received
with caution by the censors of the press.
That the motives of these men, their veracity,
their opportunities of inquiry and observation,
and their capacities for judging correctly, would
be rigorously scrutinized, before their evidence
was admitted, in such sweeping extent, against

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a kindred nation. The very reverse, however,
is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance
of human inconsistency. Nothing can surpass
the vigilance with which English critics will
test the credibility of the traveller who publishes
an account of some distant, and comparatively
unimportant, country. How warily
will they compare the measurements of a pyramid,
or the descriptions of a ruin, and how
sternly will they censure any discrepancy in
these contributions of merely curious knowledge;
while they will receive, with eagerness
and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations
of coarse and obscure writers, concerning
a country with which their own is placed
in the most important and delicate relations.
Nay, what is worse, they will make these apocryphal
volumes text books, on which to enlarge,
with a zeal and an ability worthy of a more
generous cause.

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome
and hackneyed topic; nor should I have adverted
to it, but for the undue interest

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apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain
injurious effects which I apprehended it might
produce upon the national feeling. We attach
too much consequence to these-attacks. They
cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue
of misrepresentations attempted to be woven
round us, are like cobwebs wove round the
limbs of an infant giant. Our country continually
outgrows them. One falsehood after
another falls off of itself. We have but to live
on, and every day we live a whole volume of
refutation. All the writers of England, united,
cannot conceal our rapidly-growing importance
and matchless prosperity. They cannot conceal
that these are owing, not merely to physical
and local, but to moral causes. To the
political liberty, the general diffusion of knowledge,
the prevalence of sound moral and religious
principles, that give force and sustained
energy to the character of a people; and
which, in fact, have been the acknowledged
and wonderful supporters of their own national
power and glory.

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But why are we so exquisitely alive to the
aspersions of England? Why do we suffer
ourselves to be so affected by the contumely she
has endeavoured to cast upon us? It is not in
the opinion of England alone that honour lives,
and reputation has its being. The world at
large is the arbiter of a nation's fame: with its
thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and
from their collective testimony is national glory
or disgrace established.

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively
of but little importance whether England do us
justice or not: it is, perhaps, of far more importance
to herself. She is instilling anger and
resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation,
to grow with its growth, and strengthen
with its strength. If in America, as some of
her writers are labouring to convince her, she is
hereafter to find an invidious rival, and a gigantic
foe, she may thank those very writers
for having provoked that rivalship, and irritated
that hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading
influence of literature at the present

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day, and how completely the opinions and passions
of mankind are under its control. The
mere contests of the sword are temporary; their
wounds are but in the flesh, and it is the pride
of the generous to forgive and forget them;
but the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart;
they rankle most sorely and permanently in the
noblest spirits; they dwell ever present in the
mind, and make it morbidly sensitive to the
most trifling collision. It is not so much any
one overt act that produces hostilities between
two nations; there exists, most commonly, a
previous jealousy and ill will, a predisposition
to take offence. Trace these to their cause,
and how often will they be found to originate
in the mischievous effusions of writers, who,
secure in their closets, and for ignominious
bread, concoct and circulate the venom that is
to inflame the generous and the brave.

I am not laying too much stress upon this
point; for it applies most emphatically to our
particular case. Over no nation does the press
hold a more absolute control than over the

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people of America; for the universal education of
the poorest classes makes every individual a
reader. There is nothing published in England
on the subject of our country, that does not circulate
through every part of it. There is not a
calumny dropt from an English pen, nor an unworthy
sarcasm uttered by an English statesman,
that does not go to blight good will, and
add to the mass of latent resentment. Possessing,
then, as England does, the fountain head
from whence the literature of the language flows,
how completely is it in her power, and how
truly is it her duty, to make it the medium of
amiable and magnanimous feeling—a stream
where the two nations might meet together, and
drink in peace and kindness. Should she, however,
persist in turning it to waters of bitterness,
the time may come when she may repent her
folly. The present friendship of America may
be of but little moment to her; but the future
destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt:
over those of England there lower some shadows
of uncertainty. Should, then, a day of gloom

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arrive; should those reverses overtake her, from
which the proudest empires have not been exempt,
she may look back with regret at her
infatuation, in repulsing from her side a nation
she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus
destroying her only chance for real friendship
beyond the boundaries of her own dominions.

There is a general impression in England,
that the people of the United States are inimical
to the parent country. It is one of the errors
that has been diligently propagated by designing
writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political
hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality
of the English press; but, collectively
speaking, the prepossessions of the people are
strongly in favour of England. Indeed, at one
time they amounted, in many parts of the union,
to a degree of bigotry that was absurd. The
bare name of Englishman was a passport to
the confidence and hospitality of every family,
and too often gave a transient currency to the
worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the
country there was something of enthusiasm

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connected with the idea of England. We looked
to it with a hallowed feeling of tenderness and
veneration, as the land of our forefathers—the
august repository of the monuments and antiquities
of our race—the birth-place and mausoleum
of the sages and heroes of our paternal
history. After our own country, there was none
in whose glory we more delighted—none whose
good opinion we were more anxious of possessing—
none toward whom our hearts yearned
with such throbbings of warm consanguinity.
Even during the late war, whenever there
was the least opportunity for kind feelings to
spring forth, it was the delight of the generous
spirits of the country to show that, in the midst
of hostilities, they still kept alive the sparks of
future friendship.

Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden
band of kindred sympathies, so rare between
nations, to be broken forever?—Perhaps it is
for the best—it may dispel an illusion which
might have kept us in mental vassalage, interfered
occasionally with our true interests, and

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prevented the growth of proper national pride.
But it is hard to give up the kindred tie! and
there are feelings dearer than interest—closer
to the heart than pride—that will still make us
cast back a look of regret, as we wander farther
and farther from the paternal roof, and
lament the waywardness of the parent, that
would not permit the affections of the child.

But however short-sighted and injudicious
may be the conduct of England in this system
of aspersion, recrimination on our part would
be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt
and spirited vindication of our country, or the
keenest castigation of her slanderers—but I allude
to a disposition to retaliate in kind, to retort
sarcasm and inspire prejudice, which seems
to be spreading widely among our writers. Let
us guard particularly against such a temper, for
it would double the injury, instead of redressing
it. Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort
of abuse and sarcasm; but it is a paltry and
unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of a
morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather than

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warmed into indignation. If England is willing
to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or
the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave
the integrity of her press, and poison the fountain
of public opinion, let us not follow her example.
She may deem it her interest to diffuse
error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose
of checking emigration; we have no purpose
of the kind to serve. Neither can we have any
spirit of national jealousy to gratify, for as yet,
in all our rivalships with England, we are the
rising and the gaining party. There can be no
end to answer, therefore, but the gratification of
resentment—a mere spirit of retaliation. But
even that is impotent. Our retorts are never
republished in England; and fall short, therefore,
of their aim; but they foster a querulous
and peevish temper among our writers; they
sour the sweet flow of our early literature, and
sow thorns and brambles among its blossoms;
but what is still worse, they circulate over our
own country, and, as far as they have effect,
produce virulent national prejudices. This last

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is the evil most especially to be deprecated.
Governed, as we are, entirely by public opinion,
the utmost care should be taken to preserve
the purity of the public mind. Knowledge
is power, and truth is knowledge; whoever,
therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice,
wilfully saps the foundation of his country's
strength.

Republicans, above all other men, should be
characterized by candour and clearness of thinking.
They are, individually, portions of the sovereign
mind and sovereign will, and should be
enabled to come to all questions of national
concern with calm unbiassed judgments. From
the peculiar nature of our relations with England,
also, we must have more frequent questions
of a difficult and delicate character arising
between us than with any other nation; questions
that affect the most acute and excitable
feelings: and as these must ultimately be determined
by popular sentiment, we cannot be
too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent
passion or prepossession.

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Opening too, as we do, an asylum for all nations
of the earth, we should receive them all-with
impartiality. It should be our pride to
exhibit an example of one nation at least, destitute
of national antipathies, and exercising, not
merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those
more rare and noble courtesies which spring
from liberality of opinion.

Indeed, what have we to do with national
prejudices? They are the inveterate diseases of
old countries, that have crept into their habits
of thinking in rude and ignorant ages, when nations
knew but little of each other, and looked
beyond their own boundaries with distrust and
hostility. But we have sprung into national
existence in an enlightened and philosophic
age, when the different parts of the habitable
world, and the various branches of the human
family, have been indefatigably studied and
made known to each other; and we discredit
the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake
off the national prejudices, as we would the local
superstitions, of the old world.

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But above all, let us not be influenced by any
angry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the
perception of what is really excellent and amiable
in the English character. We are a young
people, and an imitative one, and will form ourselves
upon the older nations of Europe. There
is no country so worthy of our study as England.
The spirit of her constitution is most
analogous to ours. The manners of her people—
their intellectual activity—their freedom
of opinion—their habits of thinking on all subjects
that concern the dearest interests and most
sacred charities of private life, are all most congenial
to the American character; and, in fact,
are most worthy in themselves: for it is in the
moral feeling of the people that the deep foundations
of British prosperity are laid; and however
the superstructure may be time-worn, or
overrun by abuses, there must be something solid
in its basis, and admirable in its materials, to uphold
it so long unshaken by the tempests of the
world.

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It should be the endeavour of our writers,
therefore, discarding all feelings of irritation,
and disdaining to be affected by the illiberality
of British authors, to speak of the nation dispassionately,
and with determined candour.
While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry
with which some of their countrymen admire
and imitate every thing English, merely because
it is English, they should point out what is really
worthy of approbation. We may thus place
England before us as a perpetual volume of reference,
wherein the sound deductions of ages
of experience are recorded; and while we avoid
the errors and absurdities which may have
crept into the page, we may draw from thence
golden maxims of practical wisdom, wherewith
to strengthen and embellish our national character.

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RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND.

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The stranger who would form a correct opinion
of the English character, must not confine
his observations to the metropolis. He must
go forth into the country; he must sojourn in
villages and hamlets; he must visit castles,
villas, farm houses, cottages; he must wander
through parks and gardens; along hedges
and green lanes; he must loiter about country
churches; attend wakes and fairs, and other
rural festivals; and cope with the people in all
their conditions, and all their habits and humours.

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In some countries, the large cities absorb the
wealth and fashion of the nation; they are the
only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society,
and the country is inhabited almost entirely
by boorish peasantry. In England, on
the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering
place, or general rendezvous, of the polite circles,
where they devote a small portion of the
year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and
having passed this kind of carnival, return
again to the apparently more congenial habits
of rural life. The various strata of society,
therefore, are diffused over the whole surface of
the kingdom, and the most retired neighbourhoods
afford specimens of the different ranks.

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with
the rural feeling. They possess a keen sensibility
to the beauties of nature, and a relish for
the pleasures and employments of the country.
This passion seems inherent with them. Even
the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up
among brick walls and bustling streets, enter
with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact

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for rural occupation. The merchant has his
snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis,
where he often displays as much pride and zeal
in the cultivation of his flower garden, and the
maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct
of his business, and the success of a commercial
operation. Even those less fortunate individuals,
who are doomed to pass their lives in
the midst of din and traffick, contrive to have
something that shall remind them of the green
aspect of nature. In the dark and dingy lanes
of the metropolis, every drawing room window
is like a bank of flowers; wherever, also, there
is a spot capable of vegetation, the grass plot
and flower bed are cultivated, and every square
has its mimic park, laid out with picturesque
taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure.

Those who see the Englishman only in
town, are apt to form an unfavourable opinion
of his social character. He is either absorbed
in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements
that dissipate time, thought, and
feeling, in this huge metropolis. He has,

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therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and
abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is
on the point of going somewhere else; at the
moment he is talking on one subject, his mind
is wandering to another; and while paying a
friendly visit, is calculating how he shall economize
time so as to pay the other visits allotted
to the morning. A vast place, like London, is
calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting.
In their casual and transient meetings,
they can but deal briefly in commonplaces.
They present but the cold superficies of character—
its rich and genial qualities have no
time to be warmed into a flow.

But it is in the country that the Englishman
gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks
loose gladly from the cold formalities and negative
civilities of town; throws off his habits
of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and freehearted.
He contrives to assemble around him
all the conveniences and elegancies of polite
life, and to banish its restraints. His country
seat abounds with every requisite, either for

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studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural
exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses,
dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are
at hand. He puts no constraint, either upon
his guests or himself, but in the true spirit of
hospitality, provides the means of enjoyment,
and leaves every one to partake according to
his inclination.

The taste of the English in the cultivation
of land, and in what is termed landscape gardening,
is unrivalled. They have studied nature
intently, and discover an exquisite sense of
her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations.
Those charms, which, in other countries,
she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here
assembled round the haunts of domestic life.
They seem to have caught her coy and furtive
graces, and spread them, like witchery, about
their rural abodes.

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence
of English park scenery. Vast lawns
that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here
and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up

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rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of
groves, and woodland glades, with the deer
trooping in silent herds across them; the hare,
bounding away to the covert; or the pheasant,
suddenly bursting upon the wing. The brook,
taught to wind in the most natural meanderings,
or expand into a glassy lake—the sequestered
pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the
yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, the trout
roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters;
while some rustic temple, or statue of nymph,
grown green and dank with age, gives an air
of classic sanctity to the seclusion.

These are but few of the features of park
scenery, which, indeed, is too well known to
need description. But what most delights me,
is the creative talent with which the English decorate
the unostentatious abodes of middle life.
The rudest habitation, the most unpromising
and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an
Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise.
With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at
once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his

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mind the future landscape. The steril spot
grows into loveliness under his hand; and yet
the operations of art which produce the effect
are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing
and training of some trees; the cautious pruning
of others; the delicate distribution of
flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage;
the introduction of a green slope of velvet
turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue
distance, or silver gleam of water—all these
are managed with a nice tact, a pervading, yet
quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with
which a painter finishes up a favourite picture.

The residence of people of fortune and refinement
in the country has diffused a degree
of taste and elegance in rural economy, that
descends to the lowest class. The very labourer,
with his thatched cottage and narrow
slip of ground, attends to their embellishment.
The trim hedge, the grass plot before the door,
the little flower bed bordered with snug box,
the woodbine trained up against the wall, and
hanging its blossoms about the lattice; the pot

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of flowers in the window; the holly providentially
planted about the house, to cheat winter
of its dreariness, and throw in a gleam of green
summer to cheer the fireside:—all these bespeak
the influence of taste, flowing down
from high sources, and pervading the lowest
levels of the public mind. If ever love, as
poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must
be the cottage of an English peasant.

The proneness to rural life among the higher
classes of the English, has had a great and salutary
effect upon the national character, I do
not know a finer race of men than the English
gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy
which characterize the men of rank in
some countries, they exhibit a union of elegance
and strength, a robustness of frame and
freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to
attribute to their living so much in the open air,
and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations
of the country. These hardy exercises
also produce a healthful tone of mind and spirits,
and a manliness and simplicity of manners,
which not even the follies and

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dissipations of the town can easily pervert. In the
country, too, the different orders of society
seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed
to blend and operate favourably upon
each other. The distinctions between them do
not appear to be so strong and impassable as
in the cities. The manner in which property
has been distributed into small estates and
farms, has established a regular gradation from
the nobleman, through the classes of gentry,
small landed proprietors, substantial farmers,
down to the labouring peasantry; and while it
has thus banded the extremes of society together,
has implanted in each intermediate link
a spirit of independence. This, it must be
confessed, is not so universally the case at
present as it was formerly; the larger estates
having, in late years of distress, absorbed the
smaller, and, in some parts of the country,
almost annihilated the sturdy race of small
farmers. These, however, I believe, are but
casual breaks in the general system I have
mentioned.

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In rural occupation there is nothing mean
and debasing. It leads a man forth among
scenes of natural grandeur and beauty; it
leaves him to the workings of his own mind,
operated upon by the purest and most elevating
of external influences. Such a man may be
simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar.
The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing
revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders
in rural life, as he does in the lower orders
of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve,
and is glad to doff the attributes of rank,
and enter into the honest heartfelt enjoyments
of common life. Indeed, the very amusements
of the country bring men more and more together;
and the sound of hound and horn blend
all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one
great reason why the nobility and gentry are
more popular among the inferior orders in England
than in any other country; and why the
latter have endured so many excessive pressures
and extremities, without repining more

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generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and
privilege.

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic
society, also, may be attributed the rural feeling
that runs through British literature; the frequent
use of illustrations from rural life; those
incomparable descriptions of nature, that abound
in the British poets—that have continued down
from “the flower and the leaf” of Chaucer,
and have brought into our closets all the freshness
and fragrance of the dewy landscape.
The pastoral writers of other countries appear
as if they had paid nature an occasional
visit, and become acquainted with her general
charms; but the British poets have lived and
revelled with her—they have wooed her in her
most secret haunts—they have watched her
minutest characteristics. A spray could not
tremble in the breeze—a leaf could not rustle to
the ground—a diamond drop could not patter in
the stream—a fragrance could not exhale from
the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson
tints to the morning, but it has been noticed

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by these impassioned and delicate observers, and
wrought up into some beautiful morality.

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds
to rural occupations has been wonderful on the
face of the country. A great part of the island
is level, and would be monotonous, were it not
for the charms of culture; but it is studded and
gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces,
and embroidered with parks and gardens. It
does not abound in grand and sublime prospects,
but rather in little home scenes of rural repose
and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm house
and moss-grown cottage is a picture; and as
the roads are continually winding, and the view
shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted
by a continual succession of small landscapes
of captivating loveliness.

The great charm, however, of English scenery
is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it.
It is associated in the mind with ideas of order,
of quiet, of calm and settled principles, of hoary
usage and reverend custom. Every thing seems
to be the growth of ages of regular and

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peaceful existence. The old church of remote architecture,
with its low massive portal; its gothic
tower; its windows rich with tracery and
painted glass in scrupulous preservation; its
stately monuments of warriors and worthies of
the olden time, ancestors of the present lords
of the soil; its tombstones, recording successive
generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose
progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel
at the same altar. The parsonage, a quaint
irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired
and altered in the tastes of various ages and
occupants. The stile and footpath leading
from the churchyard, across pleasant fields,
and along shady hedge-rows, according to an
immemorial right of way. The neighbouring
village, with its venerable cottages, its public
green, sheltered by trees, under which the forefathers
of the present race have sported. The
antique family mansion, standing apart in some
little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting
air on the surrounding scene.—All these
common features of English landscape, evince

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a calm and settled security, an hereditary transmission
of home-bred virtues, and local attachments,
that speak deeply and touchingly for the
moral character of the nation.

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning,
when the bell is sending its sober melody across
the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry in their
best finery, with ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness,
thronging tranquilly along the green
lanes to church; but it is still more pleasing to
see them in the evenings, gathering about their
cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the
humble comforts and embellishments which
their own hands have spread around them.

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose
of affection in the domestic scene, that is,
after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues and
purest enjoyments; and I cannot close these desultory
remarks better, than by quoting the
words of a modern English poet, who has depicted
it with remarkable felicity:

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