LESSON CXXVI. Morning Scene in Winter.-COOPER. ELIZABETH approached a window and drew its curtain, and throwing open its shutters, she endeavoured to look abroad on the village and the lake. But a thick covering of frost, on the panes of glass, while it admitted the light, hid the view. She raised the sash, and then, indeed, a most glorious scene met her delighted eye. The lake had exchanged its covering of unspotted snow, for a face of dark ice, that reflected the rays of the rising sun, like a polished mirror. The houses were clothed in a dress of the same description, but which, owing to its position, shone like bright steel; while the enormous icicles that were pendent from every roof, caught the brilliant light, apparently throwing it from one to the other, as each glittered, on the side next to the luminary, with a golden lustre, that melted away on its opposite, into the dusky shades of a background. But it was the appearance of the boundless forests, that covered the hills, as they rose, in the distance, one over the other, that most attracted the gaze of Miss Temple. The huge branches of the pines and hemlocks, on the western mountains, bent with the weight of the ice that they supported, while their summits rose above the swelling tops of the oaks, beeches, and maples, like spires of burnished silver issuing from domes of the same material. The limits of the view, in this direction, were marked by an undulating outline of bright light, as if, reversing the order of nature, numberless suns might momentarily be expected to heave above the western horizon. In the foreground of the picture, along the shores of the lake, and near to the village, each tree seemed studded with diamonds, that emitted their dancing rays, as the branches waved gently under the impulse of the wind. Even the sides of the mountains, where the rays of the sun could not yet fall, were decorated with a glassy coat, that presented every gradation of brilliancy, from the first touch of the luminary, to the dark foliage of the hemlock, as it glistened through its coat of crystal. In short, the whole view was one scene of quivering radiancy, as lake, mountains, village, and woods, each emitted its portion of light, tinged with its peculiar hue, and varied by its position and its magnitude. LESSON CXXVII. The Ruins of Jamestown.-WIRT. [Extracted from a Letter of the British Spy.] I HAVE taken a pleasant ride of sixty miles down the river, in order to see the remains of the first English settlement in Virginia. The site is a very handsome one. The river is three miles broad; and, on the opposite shore, the country presents a fine range of bold and beautiful hills. But I find ne vestiges of the ancient town, except the ruins of a church steeple, and a disordered group of old tombstones. On one of these, shaded by the boughs of a tree, whose trunk has embraced and grown over the edge of the stone, and seated on the head-stone of another grave, I now address you. On one side, is an inscription on a gravestone, which would constitute no bad theme for an occasional meditation from Yorick himself. The stone, it seems, covers the grave of a man who was born in the neighbourhood of London; and his epitaph concludes the short and rudely executed account of his birth and death, by declaring him to have been "a great sinner, in hopes of a joyful resurrection,' as if he had sinned, with no other intention, than to give himself a fair title to these exulting hopes. But awkwardly and ludicrously as the sentiment is expressed, it is in its meaning, most just and beautiful; as it acknowledges the boundless mercy of Hea ven, and glances at that divinely consoling proclamation, come unto me, all ye, who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." The ruin of the steeple is about thirty feet high, and mantled, to its very summit, with ivy. It is difficult to look at this venerable object, surrounded as it is, with these awful proofs of the mortality of man, without exclaiming in the pathetick solemnity of Shakspeare, "The cloudcapt towers, the gorgeous palaces, Whence arises the irrepressible reverence, and tender affection, with which I look at this broken steeple ? Is it, that my soul, by a secret, subtile process, invests the mouldering ruin with her own powers; imagines it a fellow being; a venerable old man, a Nestor, or an Ossian, who has witnessed and survived the ravages of successive generations, the companions of his youth, and of his maturity, and now mourns his own solitary and desolate condition, and hails their spirits in every passing cloud? Whatever may be the cause, as I look at it, I feel my soul drawn forward, as by the cords of gentlest sympathy, and involuntarily open my lips to offer consolation to the drooping pile. Where is the busy bustling crowd, which landed here two hundred years ago? Where is Smith, that pink of gallantry, that flower of chivalry? I fancy, that I can see their first, slow, and cautious approach to the shore; their keen and vigilant eyes, piercing the forest in every direction, to detect the lurking Indian, with his tomahawk, bow and arrow. Good Heavens! what an enterprize! how full of the most fearful perils! and yet how entirely profitless to the daring men who personally undertook and achieved it! Through what a series of the most spirit-chilling hardships, had they to toil! How often did they cast their eyes to England in vain! and, with what delusive hopes, day after day, did the little, famished crew strain their sight to catch the white sail of comfort and relief! But day after day, the sun set, and darkness covered the earth; but no sail of comfort or relief came. How often, in the pangs of hunger, sickness, solitude, and disconsolation, did they think of London; her shops, her markets, groaning under the weight of plenty; her streets, swarming with gilded coaches, bustling hacks, with crowds. of lords, dukes, and commons, with healthy, busy contented faces of every description; and, among them, none more healthy or more contented, than those of their ungrateful and improvident directors! But now-where are they all? the little, famished colony which landed here, and the many coloured crowd of London, where are they gone? where there is no distinction; consigned to the common earth. Another generation succeeded them; which, just as busy and as bustling as that which fell before it, has sunk down into the same nothingness. Another, and yet another billow has rolled on, each emulating its predecessor in height; towering, for its moment, and curling its foaming honours to the clouds; then roaring, breaking, and perishing on the same shore. Is it not strange, that familiarly and universally as these things are known, yet each generation is as eager in the pursuit of its earthly objects, projects its plans on a scale as extensive, and labours in their execution with a spirit as ardent and unrelaxing, as if this life and this world were to last for ever? It is, indeed, a most benevolent interposition of Providence, that these palpable and just views of the vanity of human life are not permitted entirely to crush the spirits, and unnerve the arm of industry. But at the same time, methinks, it would be wise in man to permit them to have, at least, so much weight with him, as to prevent his total absorption by the things of this earth, and to point some of his thoughts and his exertions, to a system of being, far more permanent, exalted and happy. Think not this reflection too solemn. It is irresistibly inspired by the objects around me; and, as rarely as it occurs, (much too rarely) it is most certainly and solemnly true. It is curious, to reflect, what a nation, in the course of two hundred years, has sprung up and flourished from the feeble, sickly germ which was planted here! Little did our shortsighted court suspect the conflict which she was preparing for herself; the convulsive throe by which her infant colony would in a few years burst from her, and start into a political importance that would astonish the earth. LESSON CXXVIII. Debt and Credit.-TRENTON EMPORIUM. I DISLIKE the whole matter of debt and credit-from my heart I dislike it; and think the man, who first invented a ledger, should be hung in effigy, with his invention tied to his feet, that his neck might support him and his works together. My reason for thus sweeping at the whole system is, not that I believe it totally useless, but that I believe it does more mischief than good-produces more trouble than accommodation, and destroys more fortunes than it creates honestly. These opinions are not of a recent date with me; they are those upon which I set out in early life, and as I grew older, I became more and more confirmed in them; not that I changed my practice while I held fast my profession, and got my fingers burned at last, by trusting my name in a day book, for I never did it, because I saw the evil effects of credit around me in every shape and form. And a visit this morning to my old friend, Timothy Coulter, called the subject up so forcibly, that I concluded to write you a line on it. His last cow was sold this very morning, by the constable for six dollars, though she cost him sixteen, and they have not left an ear of corn in his crib, or a bushel of rye in his barn, much less any of his stock-it was what was called the winding up of the concern; and he is now on his good behaviour, for, I heard one of his creditors say, that if he did not go on very straight, that he would walk him off to the county prison-ship. Thus has ended Timothy's game of debt and credit. When he first commenced farming, he was as industrious and promising a young man as was to be found; he worked day and night, counted the cost, and pondered on the purchase of every thing. For a year or two, he kept out of debt, lived comfortably and happy, and made money; every merchant that knew him, was ready to make a polite bow-each knew him as one of your cash men, and liked his custom. mechanick shook him by the hand, and begged his company to dinner, hoping to get a job from him; and even the lawyer, in contemplation of his high character, tipped his beaver as he passed him, with a sign, as much as to say, Tim, you have more sense than half the world; but that's no consolation to us. The By some fatality, Timothy found out, however, that there was such a thing as credit. He began soon to have many running accounts, and seldom paid for what he got; it soon followed, that the inquiry, "do I really want this article ?" before he bought it, was neglected; then the price was frequently not asked; then he began to be careless about payday; his accounts stood-he disputed them when rendered -was sued-charged with costs, and perhaps, slyly, with interest too, and he became a money borrower before long; but his friends, after a lawsuit had brought them their money, were ready to trust him again, and he was as ready to buy. The same farce was played over and over, until now the end of these things has come; and, poor fellow, he is turned out in the wide world, without a friend, save a wife and six miserable babes. I asked the constable for a sight of the execution, and he showed it to me. It was issued by young squire Bell, and I could not but recollect how different was the history of this |