transmission of the letters to the friend to whom they are addressed. The Roman, according to this theory, seems to have been as sensible as myself of the convenience of not being shackled by formal methods, or tethered to a particular subject-of taking up the pen only when he was in the humour for writing, and laying it down when he had nothing more to say. Beyond this I fear there are few points of resemblance between us, and I have certainly no pretensions to his weight and gravity, as I shall forthwith proceed to prove.

I am now sitting in my little parlour, and if you were here, man of business as you are, you could not help feeling enchanted. It is one of the richest mornings in spring: vegetation is bursting forth with a progress almost visible to the eye. The hawthorn hedges are nearly in full foliage, and display that tender green, so delightful yet so evanescent. The lilac, the poplar, the elm, the beech, the sycamore, exhibit various degrees of forwardness: some are in bud, some in leaf, and others in that state of imperfect expansion, half bud, half leaf, which has a grace and elegance, if not a richness, to be remarked at no other

time. The lively verdure of the fields is so grateful to the eye, that I could gaze upon it for ever: a delicate fragrance breathes from the sweetbriar, and from a number of the early garden-flowers, and there is a peculiar scent of freshness from the opening buds of a hundred shrubs and trees. But, above all, the melody of innumerable birds sends a delicious sensation to the heart. Even now, as I sit with my window open, I can distinguish the skylark, the wren, the chaffinch, the linnet, and the thrush in such charming confusion, that it is almost impossible to follow the notes of any of them. Besides, if I attempt it, my attention is immediately called to some other "rill of song" which bubbles up close to my ear. To a vacant mind it is" enchantment all," and I am irresistibly led to exclaim, with the poet

"Oh! Nature, how in every charm supreme,

Whose votaries feed on rapture ever new;

Oh! for the voice and fire of seraphim,

To sing thy glories with devotion due!"

You will probably smile at all this as enthusiasm, and I have no doubt you will find many to join you. There are few, as far as my ob

servation extends, who enjoy the beauties of nature with much zest. Persons in general can relish a poetical description of them and feel an exhilaration of spirits when they exchange the smoky atmosphere of a town for the pure air and fresh verdure of the fields; but they cannot dwell upon them without weariness for any length of time, nor enter at all into their minuter appearances. Natural scenery does very well connected with other objects, with the pleasures of company and conversation, and the animation of exercise; but take these away, and it ceases to be a source of enjoyment. He, however, who has the true tone of feeling, the genuine taste, sees, with indescribable emotions, not only the general appearance of objects, but graces and beauties unmarked by other eyes. He dwells with delight on the peculiar form of a tree, the rich tint of a flower, the lights and shades of a landscape, the blue depths of the sky, and requires nothing else to fill his mind :

"The meanest flow'ret of the dale,

The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,

To him are opening Paradise."

I distinctly recollect,

My own taste for the beauties of the woods and fields is as old as my recollection. I have some curious reminiscences of walks with my nurse amongst groves and gardens, and of gathering daisies, buttercups, wood-anemones, and blue-bells. I even yet feel the awe with which I gazed in very early life on the magnificence of the sky, when the evening sun had left behind it a gorgeous mass of brilliant colours, or when the deep azure of heaven gave prominence to piles of silver clouds, amongst which my imagination was transported to lose itself. too, that at school I had no great relish for my tasks in fine weather; and when the sun's rays fell into our gloomy school-room, and I looked out and saw the smiling sky, I felt it hard to be shut up a great part of the day, instead of cropping kingcups in the meadows, or lying on the grass with my hand over my eyes, looking at the skylark. I have ever since had an aversion to being cooped up in a room in summer: I pant for the open air and the blue canopy. Even when I read or write, I throw my window open, that I may feel the freshness of the atmosphere, and catch the melody of the

birds.

Above all, I have a rooted dislike to

spend the spring in a town.

On more than

one occasion, however, in the course of my life, I have been compelled to do this. Once in particular, from a combination of circumstances which it is not necessary to explain, I recollect having been grievously afflicted by the necessity of spending the spring months in London, in no very agreeable situation, and, what rendered the matter worse, with a prospect before me of not revisiting the country for several years. I was then, too, in the prime of life, or rather in the dubious age between boyhood and manhood. With what longing thoughts I used to picture to myself the green fields, and flowers, and woods, which I had left! Even the rain, which pattered against the window of my gloomy habitation in the city, reminded me how rich the landscape looked after a shower, when the sun

"In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems."

Near the house in which I resided, there was an old tree, which began to show some signs of returning life. I hailed its expanding buds with rapture, and was indebted to it for a thousand