secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze, a leaf could not rustle to the ground, a diamond drop could not patter in the stream, a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality.

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations, has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the island is level, and would be monotonous were it not for the charms of culture; but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture; and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness.

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, well-established principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Every thing seems to be the growth of ages, of regular and peaceful existence: — the old church, of remote architecture, with its low, massive portal; its Gothic tower; its windows rich with tracery and painted glass; its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil; its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields and kneel at the same altar.

The parsonage, a quaint, irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the taste of various ages and occupants; the stile and footpath leading from the churchyard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows,

according to an immemorable 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, an hereditary transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation.

It is a pleasant sight on 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. IRVING.

EXQUISITE; accurate, exact, very excellent. HARMONIOUS; adapted to each other, having the parts proportioned to each other, symmetrical. COMBINATION; union of particulars. COY AND FURTIVE; modest and shy. FOLIAGE; clusters of leaves, flowers, and branches. GLADE; open place in a forest. COVERT; a shelter, a hiding-place. SEQUESTERED; secluded, retired. QUAINT; odd, fanciful, singular. TRACERY; ornamental stone-work. YEOMANRY; the collective body of freeholders. HEREDITARY; that which descends from an ancestor, as from a parent to a child. DOMAIN; land about a family mansion. RUDDY; color of the human skin in high health. EMBELLISHMENT; that which renders any thing pleasing to the eye, or agreeable to the taste, in dress, furniture, manners, or in the fine arts.

THE SUMMER WIND.

DEW; long u, not oo. MORNING; sound the r, and give the last n

its ringing sound; do not call it mawnin.

sound. FLOWERS; erz as in hers, not uz.

SCARCE; give a its long

AGAIN; ai like short e

FIERCE; ie like long e. MEADOW; ow like long o, not er, nor uh SOUNDS; sound ndz.

Ir is a sultry day; the sun has drunk

The dew that lay upon the morning grass;

There is no rustling in the lofty elm

That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint

And interrupted murmur of the bee,

Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize
Rolls up its long, green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds -
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,
Their bases on the mountains, their white tops
Shining in the far ether-fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's cye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

O, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,

The pine is bending his proud top; and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak

Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep, distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring on his breath: a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and borders of the brook,
Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

SULTRY; very hot, burning, and oppressive. CANOPIES; covers over, extends over. POTENT; powerful. FERVOR; heat. DECLINES; bends downward. BLOOMS; used for BLOSSOMS. VOLUBLE; active, moving with ease. FRAGRANCE; perfume, grateful odor.

RURAL LIFE IN SWEDEN.

SOMETHING; give n its ringing sound. NORTHERN; er as in her. FORESTS; Sound sts. YELLOW; short e, not short a―ow like long o, not uh. WARM; Sound the r. FIELDS; sound ldz. TAVERNS; sound rnz. HOUSEWIFE; huzwif. MONTHS; sound nths- do not call it munse.

THERE is something patriarchal still lingering about rural life in Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval simplicity reigns over that northern land, almost primeval solitude and stillness. You pass out

from the gate of the city, and, as if by magic, the scene changes to a wild, woodland landscape. Around you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, trailing with moss, and heavy with red and blue cones. Under foot is a carpet of yellow leaves; and the air is warm and balmy.

On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream, and anon come forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as you pass. You sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you." The houses in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strown with the fragrant tips of fir boughs.

In many villages there are no taverns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travellers. The thrifty housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of which are hung round with rude pictures from the Bible, and brings you her heavy silver spoons, - an heirloom, -to dip the curdled milk from the pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before; or bread with anise-seed and coriander in it, or, perhaps, a little pine bark in it.

Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the plough, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travellers come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have pipes in their mouths, and hanging around their necks in front, a leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank notes of the country, as large as your two hands. You meet, also, groups of Dalekarlian peasant women, travelling homeward, or townward in pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and soles of birch bark.

Frequent, too, are the village churches, standing by the