leatures of

landscape calm and settled security, an hereditary transm on of home-bred virtues and local attachment at speak deeply and touchingly for the mor aracter of the nation.

It is a pleasing sight on a Sunday morning, whe e bell is sending its sober melody across the qui elds, to behold the peasantry in their best finer th ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness, throng gtranquilly along the green lanes to church; bu is still more pleasing to see them in the evening thering about their cottage doors, and appearin exult in the humble comforts and embellishment ich their own hands have spread around them.

SUNDAY IN AN INN

(From "Bracebridge Hall")

T was a rainy Sunday in the gloomy month of November. I had been detained in the course a journey by a slight indisposition, from which was recovering; but I was still feverish, and was liged to keep within doors all day, in an inn of e small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a untry inn! whoever has had the luck to experience e, can alone judge of my situation. The rain ttered against the casements, the bells tolled for urch with a melancholy sound. I went to the

ndows in quest of something to amuse the eye, t it seemed as if I had been placed completely t of the reach of all amusement. The windows my bedroom looked out among tiled roofs and icks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room nmanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of

bout by travelers and stable-boys. In one corne as a stagnant pool of water surrounding an islan f muck; there were several half-drowned fowl] rowded together under a cart, among which was aiserable crestfallen cock, drenched out of all lif nd spirit, his drooping tail matted, as it wer to a single feather, along which the water trickle rom his back; near the cart was a half-dozin ow, chewing the cud, and standing patiently t e rained on, with wreaths of vapor rising fro er reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, tired of th oneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral hea ut of a window, with the rain dripping on it fro me eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-hous ard by, uttered something every now and then be ween a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen wend ramped backwards and forwards through the yard pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself verything, in short, was comfortless and forlor Excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks, assemble ke boon companions round a puddle, and makin riotous noise over their liquor.

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing a he people picking their way to church, with pett oats hoisted mid-leg high, and dripping umbrella he bells ceased to toll, and the streets becam ilent. I then amused myself with watching th aughters of a tradesman opposite, who, being con ned to the house for fear of wetting their Sunda nery, played off their charms at the front wi lows, to fascinate the chance tenants of the in They at length were summoned away by a vigilar inegar-faced mother, and I had nothing furthe vithout to amuse me.

The day continued lowering and gloomy; the slow

um, comumueu, monotonous patter, palier, pa

xcepting that now and then I was enlivened by dea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of rops upon a passing umbrella. It was quite reshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed phr of the day) when in the course of the morning orn blew, and a stage-coach whirled through treet with outside passengers stuck all over it, c ring under cotton umbrellas, and seethed togeth nd reeking with the steams of wet box-coats a pper Benjamins. The sound brought out fr heir lurking-places a crew of vagabond boys a agabond dogs, and the carroty-headed hostler, a hat nondescript animal yclept Boots, and all t ther vagabond race that infest the purlieus of nn; but the bustle was transient: the coach aga whirled on its way; and boy and dog, and hostl and Boots, all slunk back again to their holes; t treet again became silent, and the rain continu o rain on.

The evening gradually wore away. The travele ead the papers two or three times over. Som rew round the fire, and told long stories abou heir horses, about their adventures, their overturn nd breakings-down. They discussed the credits o ifferent merchants and different inns, and the tw ags told several choice anecdotes of pretty cham ermaids and kind landladies. All this passed a hey were quietly taking what they called their ightcaps; that is to say, strong glasses of brandy nd water or sugar, or some other mixture of the ind; after which they one after another rang for Boots and the chambermaid, and walked off to bed n old shoes cut down into marvellously uncomfortble slippers. There was only one man left,-a hort-legged, long-bodied plethoric fellow, with a

It upright in his chair, with the empty glas anding before him; and the candle seemed to fal eep too, for the wick grew long and black, and obaged at the end, and dimmed the little ligh at remained in the chamber. The gloom that nov evailed was contagious. Around hung the shape s and almost spectral box-coats of departed velers, long since buried in deep sleep. I only ard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-draw eathings of the sleeping toper, and the dripping the rain-drop, drop, drop-from the eaves o e house.

LAST INTERVIEW WITH SCOTT

T was at Sunnyside, on a glorious afternoon in June, 1855, that surrounded by scenery which ving has best described, he narrated to me (St ustin Allibone) the following account of his las terview with Scott:

"I was in London when Scott arrived after hi tack of paralysis, on his way to the continent in arch of health. I received a note from Lockhart gging me to come and take dinner with Scot d himself the next day. When I entered the om, Scott grasped my hand, and looked me stead stly in the face. 'Time has dealt gently with you y friend, since we parted,' he exclaimed:-he re rred to the difference in himself since we had met t dinner, I could see that Scott's mind was fail g. He was painfully conscious of it himself. He ould talk with much animation, and we would lis n with the most respectful attention; but there

keep up the conversation between ourselves, ti r Walter might talk as little as possible. Af nner he took my arm to walk upstairs, which d with difficulty. He turned and looked in 1 ce, and said, 'They need not tell a man his mi not affected when his body is as much impair mine.' This was my last interview with Sco heard afterwards that he was better; but I nev w him again."

THE ADMIRABLE EXPLOITS OF PETER THE HEADSTRONG

(From "A History of New York")

OW had the Dutchmen snatched a huge re past," and finding themselves wonderfull couraged and animated thereby, prepared to tak e field. Expectation, says the writer of the Stuy sant manuscript-Expectation now stood on stilts he world forgot to turn round, or rather stood ill, that it might witness the affray; like a fat und-bellied alderman, watching the combat of two ivalric flies upon his jerkin. The eyes of all mannd, as usual in such cases, were turned upon Fort ristina. The sun, like a little man in a crowd at puppet-show, scampered about the heavens, popng his head here and there, and endeavoring to t a peep between the unmannerly clouds that obuded themselves in his way. The historians filled eir ink-horns-the poets went without their dinrs, either that they might buy paper and gooseills, or because they could not get anything to t-antiquity scowled sulkily out of its grave, to e itself outdone-while even posterity stood mute,