ble and expansive mulberry tree, which shaded us from the summer heats, when in the hours of sorrow my cousin, Miss Martin, Honora, and myself, resorted thither to indulge our mournful recollections. Every other visit we have, through life, paid to this quiet scene was, as it is now, in autumn. Behind the house lies the kitchen garden, and across it a pebbly path which leads into the churchyard. Ah! what a difference between our stately cathedral and this simple edifice— The plainest roof that Piety could raise, And only vocal with its Maker's praise! When the tuneless bell calls us to Sunday's service, what a contrast, in these rude and mossgreened walls, to the long and vaulted aislesthe pealing organ-the beautiful and full-voiced choir, and all the soul-exalting enthusiasm which results to a lover of music from choral devotion and Gothic magnificence! But here the religious heart pours forth its unassisted devotion in the plain pews, and at the rustic altar, surrounded by humble villagers; their only finery the crowded posy, whose pinks and roses mixed with flowering thyme and southernwood are twisted closely round by a plenitude of pack thread, and diffuse a fragrance more cheering and grateful to my sense than the cambric handkerchiefs of fashionable ladies, sprinkled with costly essence and perfumed waters. Nothing can be more uniform, more simple, than the manner in which we pass our time; and in which week after week glides smoothly, yet swiftly, away, and seems, on retrospect, to have been scarce so many days. This is from the want of various faces, varied employments, and of incidents to mark the progress of time, and divide one day from another on the memory. We rise at seven. At eight, my aunt and cousin, my mother, Honora, and myself meet at our neat and cheerful breakfast. That dear, kindhearted saint, my uncle, has his milk earlier, and retires, for the morning, to his study. At nine, we adjourn to my aunt's apartment above stairs, where we read aloud to the rest who are at work. At twelve, my uncle summons us to prayers in the parlour. When they are over, the family disperses, and we young ones either walk or write till dinner. That appears at two. At four, we resume my aunt's apartment. Its large and lightsome window commands, it is true, no other prospect than the churchyard over the garden wall, and the village below, which is broad and grassy, with houses thinly scattered. Now in the latter end of August, the evening spectacle, from seven to eight, is truly pleasing and joyous. A majestic old elm stands in the middle of the greensward, circled round by a mossy seat, and is the rendezvous of the village youths and maidens, when the labours of the day are past. Some of the young men wrestle; some play at quoits; and others sit on the bench, and talk to the lasses. It is impossible to express the satisfaction I have in beholding these natural and innocent plea sures: Scene of athletic sports and whisper'd vows. When we quit this dear apartment, to take an evening walk, it is always with a degree of reluctance, even when the sun shines golden on the little dark wood, a mile from us, and on Weldon Hill, which overlooks a rich valley, watered by the smooth and silent Trent, and crowned by the town of Nottingham and its stately castle. To this hill, when we can prevail on ourselves to quit our book, and the sight of these rural lovers, we generally walk; except the local attractions of our traditionary cuckoo-bush lead us a less pleasant way, through a narrow path, over a large ploughed field, to a clump of trees resembling our Borecap hill, and which, ancient story says, the wise villagers planted to hedge in the cuckoo. How I love these old tales, and to visit the places which are said to remain in their commemoration! Have you read Churchill's whimsical poem, which he named after this village-his Gotham? where we find the following odd burden recuring perpetually : Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites, rejoice! Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice! Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? 'Tis strange random business, without plan, without story, without moral; but it contains beautiful as well as unaccountable lines. Instance : Let fragrant shrubs be brought, with every flower And fears to leave the earth from whence she springs, To that proud giantess of garden race, Who, madly rushing to the sun's embrace, O'ertops her fellows in the aspiring aim, Demands his wedded love, and bears his name. What pity that a genius so animated, which ought to have lived for all times, and have been a citizen of the world, should have chosen to exist for a period only, by directing his whole attention to party satire, and wasting his glowing vigour upon personal philippics! Many would think it a bathos in subject, to quit a satirized senate and its celebrated poet to resume the diary of an obscure village, and to talk of its unassuming pastor-to tell you that the hour between supper and bed time is enlivened, and turned to excellent mental account, by my uncle's energetic conversation, which is always upon religious, literary, or moral subjects. At half past ten, he calls in his servants to join our vesper devotions, which close the peaceful and unvaried day, resigning us to sleep, as tranquil as itself. Your agreeable image is often so obliging to visit my slumbers; a favour for which I am always grateful to her gentleman usher, Mr. Morpheus. DR. FRANKLIN TO DR. FOTHERGILL. DEAR DOCTOR, Philadelphia, March 14, 1764. I RECEIVED Your favour of the 10th December. It was a great deal for one to write whose time is so little his own. By the way, when do you intend to live? i. e. to enjoy life. When will you retire to your villa, give yourself repose, delight yourself in viewing the operations of nature in the vegetable creation, assist her in her works, get your ingenious friends at times about you, make them happy with your conversation, and enjoy theirs ; or, if alone, amuse yourself with your books and elegant collections? To be hurried about perpetually, from one sick chamber to another, is not living. Do you please yourself with the fancy that you are doing good? You are mistaken. Half the lives you save are not worth saving, as being useless; and almost the other half ought not to be saved, as being mischievous. Does your conscience never hint to you the impiety of being in constant warfare against the plans of Providence? Disease was intended as the punishment of intemperance, sloth, and other vices; and the example of that punishment was intended to promote and strengthen the opposite virtues. But here you step in officiously with your art-disappoint those wise intentions of nature, and make men safe in their excesses; whereby you seem to me to be just of the same service to society as some favourite first minister, who, out of the great benevolence of his heart, should procure pardons to all criminals that applied to him. Only think of the consequences. You tell me the Quakers are charged on your side of the water with being, by their aggressions, the cause of this war. Would you believe that they are charged here, not with offending the Indians, and thereby provoking the war, but with gaining their friendship by presents, supplying them privately with arms and ammunition, and engaging them to fall upon and murder the poor white people on the frontiers ? |