also, of the expressions of astonishment which sometimes escaped my lips, when I referred to your indifference to the loveliest scenes, and the richest landscapes which the country can afford. I need hardly tell you, my dear Charlotte, that I allude to those enchanting beauties which the morning presents. With all your enthusiasm for the charms of nature, how can you suffer yourself to lose the opportunity of enjoying. them in the greatest perfection? I can really hardly give you credit for your sincerity, while you altogether neglect, or shew so much inattention to what has so high a claim upon your admiration. Do you really know what you lose, by spending those hours in sleep which might be devoted to the most pleasing and most beneficial enjoyment? Only recollect the peculiar fascinations of the morning. Think upon the feelings which they are calculated to excite. Picture to yourself—(and if you imagine I have painted in too glowing colours, rise tomorrow and compare it with the reality, and

if there be one tint too vivid, one touch too flattering, destroy the painting and forget the artist,) picture to yourself a summer morning. The sun rising in all his native majesty, shedding his beams with a gentle influence, which, whilst it predicts their increasing power, teaches us to value their present mildness. Every object as it catches the first rays of "the powerful king of day," appearing to smile at his approach. The lengthened shadows that shoot across the meadow, slowly diminishing as he advances. The clouds that seemed to check his early progress, gradually yielding to his growing might, and "illumed with fluid gold," disappearing amid" the kindling azure." The glistening dew-drops, "stars of morning," impearling every leaf. Vegetation clothed in a richer verdure, and the variegated flowers in livelier hues. The groves resounding with the melody of the feathered tribes, who appear susceptible of gratitude for the return of the opening day. Whilst every animal is in motion, and seems to feel

a new satisfaction in the exercise of its active powers, and the revival of its capacities for enjoyment.

You are very well aware how much of the pleasure or the pain that is experienced on the consideration of particular objects, depends upon the recollections with which they are connected. Comparatively very little inherent beauty can be found in any; and those which we have regarded at one time as the fairest and most agreeable, we may have looked upon at another with indifference, or even dislike. The seasons of the year, and the time of the day, have often considerable influence in producing this contrariety of effect; and different minds are variously affected by the same circumstances. One man regards the bursting foliage of spring, and the universal verdure which then surrounds him, as the finest scenery which nature can afford; whilst another gazes with rapture on the mingled tints of autumn, and the varied shades of colour which then diversify the grove. One

delights to behold the rising sun throwing his beams across the smiling landscape, whilst another loves the parting ray that bids it a temporary farewel. But whatever may be the variety of taste, and without intruding upon you my own (perhaps antiquated) sentiments, I cannot but think that the associations which are connected with morning are much more exhilarating and more beneficial, than the melancholy feelings which the sombre shades of twilight produce. It is in the power of a creative fancy, to make the reflections which are excited much more agreeable than the images which lead to them. And it is in the morning, when the spirits are elated, and the disposition cheerful, that we separate those circumstances, which when combined with the objects which surround us give them a deforming aspect, and unite in the imagination what nature has kept distinct, adding to the intrinsic beauty of the scenery the most interesting associations and pleasing ideal connections.

you,

But in who are such an admirer of poetry, and so many of whose mental associations are connected with the descriptions contained in your favourite authors, and whose solitary musings are so often enlivened by the recollection of them, the indulgence in the pernicious habit of throwing away so valuable a portion of the day as the morning, carries with it an appearance of the greatest inconsistency. There are very few of our descriptive poets who have not given us some of the most pleasing proofs of the excellence of their compositions, in their pictures of morning scenery indeed this season possesses something that is really and peculiarly poetical. The beauties of the unfolding landscape, and the song of cheerfulness which echoes through the woods, are themes adapted for the exercise of the powers of the finest genius, and produce, without any effort of thought, a train of pleasing ideas, harmonious in themselves, and easily infused into the language which is necessary to express them. The morning affords