stitution so happily tempered as ours, that blessing seems peculiarly annexed to affluence. The English landed gentleman who can set his foot upon his own soil and say to all the world-This is my freehold; the law defends my right: Touch it who dare!-is surely as independent as any man within the rules of society can be, so long as he encumbers himself by no exceedings of expense beyond the compass of his income. If a great estate therefore gives a man independence, it gives him that which all who do not possess it seem to sigh for.

When I consider the numberless indulgences which are the concomitants of a great fortune, and the facility it affords to the gratification of every generous passion, I am mortified to find how few who are possessed of these advantages avail themselves of their situation to any worthy purposes. That happy temper which can preserve a medium between dissipation and avarice is not often to be found, and where I meet one man who can laudably acquit himself under the test of prosperity, I could instance numbers who deport themselves with honour under the visitation of adversity. Man must

be in a certain degree the artificer of his own happiness: the tools and materials may be put into his hands by the bounty of Providence, but the workmanship must be his own.

I lately took a journey into a distant county upon a visit to a gentleman of fortune, whom I shall call Attalus. I had never seen him since his accession to a very considerable estate; and as I have met with few acquaintance in life of more pleasant qualities, or a more social temper than Attalus, before this great property unexpectedly devolved upon him, I flattered myself that fortune had in this instance bestowed her favours upón one who deserved them; and that I should find in Attalus's society

the pleasing gratification of seeing all those maxims which I had hitherto revolved in my mind as matter of speculation only, now brought forth into actual practice; for amongst all my observations upon human affairs, few have given me greater and more frequent disappointment, than the almost general abuse of riches. Those rules of liberal economy which would make wealth a blessing to its owner and to all he were connected with, seem so obvious to me who have no other interest in the subject than what meditation affords, that I am apt to wonder how men can make such false estimates of the true enjoyments of life, and wander out of the way of happiness, to which the heart and understanding seem to point the road too plainly to admit of a mistake.

With these sanguine expectations I pursued my journey towards the magnificent seat of Attalus, and in my approach it was with pleasure I remarked the beauty of the country about it; I recollected how much he used to be devoted to rural exercises, and I found him situated in the very spot most favourable to his beloved amusements; the soil was clean, the hills easy, and the downs were chequered with thick copses, that seemed the finest nurseries in nature for a sportsman's game. When I entered upon his ornamented demesne, nothing could be more enchanting than the scenery; the ground was finely shaped into hill and vale; the horizon every where bold and romantic, and the hand of art had evidently improved the workmanship of nature with consummate taste; upon the broken declivity stately groves of beech were happily disposed; the lawn was of the finest verdure, gently sloping from the house; a rapid river of the purest transparency ran through it, and fell over a rocky channel into a noble lake within view of the mansion; behind this

upon the northern and eastern flanks I could discern the tops of very stately trees, that sheltered a spacious enclosure of pleasure ground and gardens, with all the delicious accompaniments of hothouses and conservatories.

It was a scene to seize the imagination with rapture: a poet's language would have run spontaneously into metre at the sight of it. "What a subject," said I within myself "is here present for those ingenious bards who have the happy talent of describing nature in her fairest forms! Oh! that I could plant the delightful author of The Task in this very spot! perhaps whilst his eye-in a fine phrensy rolling-glanced over this enchanting prospect, he might burst forth into the following, or something like the following rhapsody—'

Bless'd above men, if he perceives and feels
The blessings he is heir to, He! to whom
His provident forefathers have bequeathed
In this fair district of their native isle
A free inheritance, compact and clear.
How sweet the vivifying dawn to him
Who with a fond paternal eye can trace
Beloved scenes, where rivers, groves and lawns
Rise at the touch of the Orphean hand,
And Nature, like a docile child, repays
Her kind disposer's care! Master and friend
Of all that blooms or breathes within the verge
Of this wide stretch'd horizon, he surveys
His upland pastures white with fleecy flocks,
Rich meadows dappled o'er with grazing herds,
And valleys waving thick with golden grain.

Where can the world display a fairer scene?
And what has Nature for the sons of men
Better provided than this happy isle;
Mark! how she's girded by her watery zone,
Whilst all the neighbouring continent is trench'd
And furrow'd with the ghastly seams of war:
Barriers and forts, and arm'd battalions stand
On the fierce confines of each rival state,

Jealous to guard, or eager to invade;
Between their hostile camps a field of blood,
Behind them desolation void and drear,
Where at the summons of the surly drum

The rising and the setting sun reflects

Nought but the gleam of arms, now here, now there
Flashing amain, as the bright phalanx moves:
Wasteful and wide the blank in Nature's map,
And far far distant where the scene begins
Of human habitation, thinly group'd
Over the meagre earth; for there no youth
No sturdy peasant, who with limbs and strength
Might fill the gaps of battle, dares approach;
Old age instead, with weak and trembling hand,
Feebly solicits the indignant soil

For a precarious meal, poor at the best.

Oh Albion, oh, bless'd isle, on whose white cliffs Peace builds her halcyon nest, thou who, embraced By the uxorious ocean, sitst secure,

Smiling and gay, and crown'd with every wreath
That Art can fashion or rich Commerce waft
To deck thee like a bride, compare these scenes
With pity not with scorn, and let thy heart,
Not wanton with prosperity, but warm
With grateful adoration, send up praise
To the great Giver-thence thy blessings come.
The soft luxurious nations will complain
Of thy rude wintry clime, and chide the winds
That ruffle their fine forms; trembling they view
The boisterous barrier that defends thy coast,
Nor dare to pass it till their pilot bird,
The winter-sleeping swallow, points the way;
But envy not their suns, and sigh not thou
For the clear azure of their cloudless skies;
The same strong blast that beds the knotted oak
Firm in his clay-bound cradle, nerves the arm
Of the stout hind, who fells him to the ground.
These are the manly offspring of our isle;
Theirs are the pure delights of rural life,
Freedom their birthright and their dwelling peace;
The vine, that mantles o'er their cottage roof,
Gives them a shade no tyrant dares to spoil.

Mark! how the sturdy peasant breasts the storm,
The white snow sleeting o'er his brawny chest ;
He heeds it not, but carols as he goes

Some jocund measure or love-ditty, soon
In sprightlier key and happier accent sung
To the kind wench at home, whose ruddy cheeks
Shall thaw the icy winter on his lips,

And melt his frozen features into joy.
But who that ever heard the hunter's shout,
When the shrill fox-hound doubles on the scent,
Which of you, sons and fathers of the chase,
Which of your hardy, bold, adventurous band
Will pine and murmur for Italian skies?
Hark! from the covert side your game is view'd!
Music, which none but British dryads hear,
Shouts, which no foreign echoes can repeat,
Ring through the hollow wood and sweep the vale.
Now, now, ye joyous sportsmen, ye whose hearts
Are unison'd to the ecstatic cry

Of the full pack, now give your steeds the rein!
Yours is the day-mine was, and is no more:
Yet ever as I hear you in the wind,

Though chill'd and hovering o'er my winter hearth,
Forth, like some Greenwich veteran, if chance
The conquering name of Rodney meets his ear,
Forth I must come to share the gladening sound,
To show my scars and boast of former feats.

They say our clime's inconstant, changeful-True! It gives the lie to all astrology,

Makes the diviner mad and almost mocks
Philosophy itself; Cameleonlike

Our sky puts on all colours, blushing now,
Now lowering like a froward pettish child;
This hour a zephyr, and the next a storm,
Angry and pleased by fits-Yet take our clime,
Take it for all in all, and day by day
Through all the varying seasons of the year,
For the mind's vigour and the body's strength,
Where is its rival?-Beauty is its own:
Not the voluptuous region of the Nile,
Not aromatic India's spicy breath,

Nor evening breeze from Tagus, Rhone, or Loire
Can tinge the maiden cheek with bloom so fresh.
Here, too, if exercise and temperance call,
Health shall obey their summons; every fount,
Each rilling stream conveys it to our lips;
In every zephyr we inhale her breath;
The shepherd tracks her in the morning dew,