by frequent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk' is still further increased by a multiplicity of coats; in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad brimmed, low crowned hat, a huge roll of coloured handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom, and in summer time, has a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole, the present, most probably, of some enamoured country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots, which reach about half way up his legs.

All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible, that neatness and propriety of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. The mo ment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler; his duty being merely to drive them from one stage to another.

When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his great coat, and he rolls about the inn yard, with an air of the most absolute lordliness. He is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and those nameless hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kinds of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the dripping of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap room. These all look up to him as an oracle; treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and other topicks of jockey lore; and above all, endeavour to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin, that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands into the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey.

I do not know whether it was owing to the pleasing serenity, that reigned in my own mind, but I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the journey. A stage coach, however, always carries animation with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment, can hardly take leave of the group, that accompanies them. In the mean time, the coachiman has a world of small commissions to execute; sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant:

sometimes jerks a small parcel, or newspaper, to the door of a publick house, and sometimes with a knowing leer, and words of sly import, hands to some half blushing, half laughing housemaid, an odd shaped billet-doux, from some rustick admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every side, of fresh country faces, and blooming, giggling girls.

At the corners, are assembled juntoes of village idlers and wise men, who take their stations there, for the important purpose of seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to which, the passing of the coach, is an event, fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses to look at the passing sight; the cyclops, round the anvil, suspend their ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap, labouring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatick engine to heave a long drawn sigh; while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the smithy.

I was suddenly roused from a fit of luxurious meditation, by a shout from my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the coach windows for the last few miles; recognizing every tree and cottage, as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy. "There's John and there's Carlo! and there's Bantam !" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands.

At the head of a lane, there was an old sober looking servant in livery, waiting for them; he was accompanied by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shagged mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road side, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him.

I was pleased to see the fondness, with which the little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some difficulty, that John arranged they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first.

Away they set off at last, one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands, both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know hother pleasure or melancholy most predominated; for I

was reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few minutes afterwards to water the horses; and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight.

LESSON LXII.

Character of Washington.-U. S. LITERARY GAZETTE.

We cannot help feeling, strange as it may seem to many, and false as it may seem to some, that Washington is not fairly and rightly appreciated by his countrymen. There is a sort of fashion of thinking him negatively rather than positively great. No one denies his reliance upon justice and right, his courage, or his faith, in the ultimate prevalence of a good cause; for he jeopardized fortune, life, and reputation, in a conflict between rebellion, weak, poor, and almost resourceless, and sovereignty, powerful, armed, and resolute.

None doubt his integrity; for all temptation man can meet, was offered him, during the war, by the enemy, and at its close, by every feeling of ambition and self-love in his own heart, and he was moved by them-less than the summer breeze may move an oak.

But his intellect was as extraordinary as his moral nature; its essential quality was pure wisdom, profound, unerring, almost superhuman; and because there was in his mind no effort, no turbulence, nothing but the quiet of unfading and shadowless light; because he formed his conclusions and went to his results almost intuitively, and needed no collision with other minds, to strike out the light of his own, his wondrous endowments were hardly known; and there are, who think him a cold and prudent man, gifted with excellent temper, and excellent sense, but withal, possessed of no very remarkable genius.

Now, we speak not of gratitude due to him; of the policy of rewarding such services with high fame; but we advise all, who dare to look up and measure an intellect, which led the

destinies of this land, and was the instrument chosen by God to work a nation's deliverance—we do request them to learn to measure it aright; to estimate its power by its achievement ; and to remember that in those disastrous days, when men best learn each other's nature, the best and bravest in the land bowed down before him, and felt that it was given to him to rule, and to them to obey.

LESSON LXIII.

The Vision of Liberty.-WARE.

THE evening heavens were calm and bright;
No dimness rested on the glittering light,
That sparkled from that wilderness of worlds on high.
Those distant suns burn'd on with quiet ray;

The placid planets held their modest way;
And silence reign'd profound o'er earth, and sea, and sky.

Oh what an hour for lofty thought!
My spirit burn'd within; I caught
A holy inspiration from the hour.
Around me man and nature slept;
Alone my solemn watch I kept,

Till morning dawn'd, and sleep resumed her power.

A vision passed upon my soul.
I still was gazing up to heaven,
As in the early hours of even ;
I still beheld the planets roll,
And all those countless sons of light

Flame from the broad blue arch, and guide the moonless night.

When, lo, upon the plain,

Just where it skirts the swelling main,

A massive castle, far and high,

In towering grandeur broke upon my eye.

Proud in its strength and years, the pondrous pile

Flung up its time defying towers;

Its lofty gates seem'd scornfully to smile
At vain assault of human powers,

And threats and arms deride.

Its gorgeous carvings of heraldric pride
In giant masses graced the walls above,
And dungeons yawn'd below.

Yet ivy there and moss their garlands wove,
Grave silent chroniclers of Time's protracted flow.

Bursting on my steadfast gaze,
See, within, a sudden blaze!

So small at first, the zephyr's slightest swell,
That scarcely stirs the pine tree top,

Nor makes the wither'd leaf to drop,
The feeble fluttering of that flame would quell.

But soon it spread-
Waving, rushing, fierce, and red,
From wall to wall, from tower to tower,
Raging with resistless power;

Till every fervent pillar glow'd,

And every stone seem'd burning coal,
Instinct with living heat, that flow'd
Like streaming radiance from the kindled pole.

Beautiful, fearful, grand,

Silent as death, I saw the fabrick stand.
At length a crackling sound began ;
From side to side, throughout the pile it ran;
And louder yet, and louder grew,

Till now in rattling thunder peals it grew,
Huge shiver'd fragments from the pillars broke,
Like fiery sparkles from the anvil's stroke.

The shatter'd walls were rent and riven,
And peacemeal driven

Like blazing comets through the troubled sky.
'Tis done; what centuries had rear'd,
In quick explosion disappear'd,
Nor even its ruins met my wondering eye.

But in their place,

Bright with more than human grace,

Rob'd in more than mortal seeming,

Radiant glory in her face,

And eyes with heaven's own brightness beaming;

Rose a fair majestic form,

As the mild rainbow from the storm.