The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon

to an immemorial right of way;—the neighboring 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 a calm and settled security, a hereditary transmission of homebred 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:

        Through each gradation, from the castled hall,
        The city dome, the villa crowned with shade,
        But chief from modest mansions numberless,
        In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life,
        Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof'd shed;
        This western isle has long been famed for scenes
        Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place;
        Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove,
        (Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,)
        Can centre in a little quiet nest
        All that desire would fly for through the earth;
        That can, the world eluding, be itself
        A world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses
        But its own sharers, and approving Heaven;
        That, like a flower deep hid in rock cleft,
        Smiles, though 't is looking only at the sky.*

    * From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the
    Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M.

THE BROKEN HEART.

                                      I never heard
        Of any true affection, but 't was nipt
        With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats
        The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose.
                                                MIDDLETON.
    IT is a common practice with those who have outlived the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on human nature have induced me to think otherwise. They have convinced me that, however the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it?—I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love! I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave.
    Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there her ambition strives for empire—it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless—for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.
    To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangs; it wounds some feelings of tenderness—it blasts some prospects of felicity; but he is an active being—he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation,