heavy weight of admiration. Whoever looks at yonder church with deep porticos, lofty columns, and high flight of steps, will perceive what I am endeavoring to describe the wonderful character of poetry which moonlight sheds upon the images of a landscape. The shadows falling at angles across the building-the gleaming light which streams down on the whole-all strike the eye and the mind with unusual force. Have you ever been in the woods by moonlight? A scene always so full of romantic picturesqueness-the old heavy knotted vines, twisted and intertwined with each other, like anacondas-the fresh roof of green leaved branches, and the tall trees, with all their variety-the straight, slender sapling, that rises like a graceful girl— the immense oaks, striking their gnarled roots far and wide, and heaving abroad their sinewy arms like giants -the old stumps-the bowers-the verdant gladesravines-valleys and other recesses which awaken one's rapture so often, in a forest ramble; and then, peradventure, the brook-that beautiful roamer of the wood

that ever sweet and joyous daughter of the hillleaping and singing for ever and ever in its fairy journey-taking every shape and form to please the most sportive imagination-now lapsing like liquid glass, then foaming with mimic fury-now winding with noiseless tread by emerald banks, all fringed with flowers; now bubbling on stones, now pouring in a tiny cataract, and now sleeping in a silver lake. These images, always so grateful to the imagination, become, in the mellow moonlight, positively gifted with a fairy beauty; and the rover through a wood, under a bright summer moon, must feel himself drinking in true inspiration at every step. How perfectly still: how hushed is all around, but for the brook and the catydid, and the distant frog and tree-toad. In the shades, how mildly the floating fire-flies flash, gleaming so strangely with their moving red light in the pale moonbeams; and how the moonshine pours itself along the carpet of the wood, marking it with various shadows, and falling through the branches and every little opening of the trees, till it is all over sprinkled with the richest and loveliest of lustre. Then the sky at night! What a wonder; what a boundless profusion of magnificence. To what a stupendous

elevation it works up the mind! There is no object in creation, accessible to human eyes, half so immense in its wonders and splendors, half so calculated to lift the soul from earth, as the moon and sky at night, when the clouds are not so many as to obscure the gaze. Reflect upon it, dear reader, when next you look upon its blue tremulous bosom. Forget the last jam, the new opera, the contemplated excursion to the country, and feel what it is which overhangs you. That azure vault is endless distance. That silver spotted circle— those gems flashing in clusters—they are worlds, habitable worlds, suns, systems, created by the same hand which moulded thy pliant limbs, and gave thee eyes to regard, and mind to wonder at them. The beautiful earth on which thou creepest, a feeble evanescent insect, is nothing to these. It might be rent apart, and with all human pride and power be in an instant destroyed, yet this same star-paved road across the heavens would be shining thus still and splendid,

I never, in my life, since I can recollect, looked upon that sight without an involuntary elevation of mind. It never failed to strike me with holy awe; to overwhelm me with calm but oppressive wonder. In my lightest moments it has cast its spell on me, and touched me with sudden thought and silence, even when I have been roaming forth in mirth, with the young and lively. I remember one night at the theatre there was a riot; an unpopular performer was hissed by one party and supported by another. The house was excessively crowded, and it seemed with actual demons-such shouting, screaming, shrieking, yelling, and whooping --such swearing, cursing, quarrelling, and deadly blasphemous imprecations-such struggling, fighting, and diabolical passions were exhibited, that at length, wearied and disgusted, with a depressed heart and throbbing temples, half suffocated with the heated and smoky air, rendered more close and nauseous by the unusual crowd, I made my way to the saloon, and leaned from the window. The effect which the sight of the heavens had on me, I shall never forget. The deep pervading hushed stillness; the calm, holy light and order and beauty reigning there; the round moon, with a flashing diamond riding by her side, and the clusters of other

large and trembling stars glimmering along that azure tide, through the slowly moving silver clouds, all combined to charm me forth from the loathsome revel within. I stole out alone, and drank in the fresh air like new wine. There was a pale light in the east before I tore myself away. Nothing is more beautiful than moonlight loneliness in a city.

FAMILY TROUBLES.

"Let us no more contend, nor blame

Each other, blamed enough elsewhere; but strive
In offices of love, how we may lighten

Each other's burden in our share of woe."-Milton.

I AM particularly pleased with the kind manner in which a certain agreeable family of my acquaintance transact trivial circumstances and conversations with each other. If any thing is wrong among the little ones, the sister corrects it with a persuasive voice. The mother's rebuke is gentleness itself, and yet instantly attended to, and the children together are affectionate and social. Perhaps my admiration may have drawn my attention to what may not be deemed of importance to all my readers, although I know there must be some willing to leave, for a moment, the loftier events of the world, to muse upon this humble picture, just as a traveller among stupendous bridges, artificial roads, and gaudy palaces, will sometimes pause by a cottage in a secluded path way, with nothing to recommend it but the simple beauty of peace and nature.

One of the sweetest rewards of social endearments springs from the fact that the same participation of those we love which enhances our joys, also alleviates our sorrows. In the atmosphere of an affectionate home, therefore, the keen arrows of the world are blunted, while the flowers which would, peradventure, elsewhere fade away neglected, here bloom with more vivid beauty, none of their fragrance wasted, or their delicate colors overlooked. As for me, when I withdraw from the

merry circle or turn from the gay and crowded streets, I seem to shut myself up in a kind of tomb. There are no connecting links between me and the world. No light steps break the perpetual stillness. No familiar voice sends its welcome joy through my veins, banishing weariness and gloom; and the pleasant thoughts which flash on me from my book are like gems found in the desert by a lonely pilgrim.

This is a subject which, however common place, is nevertheless materially connected with the comfort of mankind. You may, in a measure, estimate a man's happiness by his degree of contentment in his family; and I fear the gentle beings mentioned above are an unusual instance of peace and harmony. You may find in many an apparent resemblance, but good breeding and pride often smooth over the surface, while indifference, or jealousy, or hatred lurk like monsters beneath. Real domestic bliss requires such a combination of favorable circumstances as to render its existence almost impossible. That several persons should be amiable, intelligent, good-humored, and of an affectionate disposition, is not wonderful, but that all the members of a household should be so, cannot very frequently be the case. A single individual often spoils the peace of a whole family. How frequently I have seen a charming circle gathered around the winter fire, the native liveliness of the pretty children breaking out innocently, and their conversation and actions such as in youth are natural and graceful, and all this sunshiny scene in a moment overclouded by the entrance of a scolding mother or an austere and tyrannical father; or intruded upon by the dark countenance and bitter discontent of some of those who are never happy themselves unless they are making every one around them miserable. Such a being in my eye is a criminal. The world is so thronged with dangers and disturbances, and so full of anguish and melancholy, that when I behold any group escaping, for a time, from the general wretchedness, and surrendering their souls to merriment and contentment, I pause to contemplate it as something rare and beautiful; and I look upon him who ruthlessly destroys that of which mortals have so little, as an enemy to his fellow creatures.

What should such a person think if, doomed to travel over a parched desert, some enemy should ruin the spring of cool water just as he was kneeling to drink. To many, life is this desert, and few are their fountains of happiness, and how cruel it is to sully those precious streams with unnecessary austerity or ill nature. When old age preaches to youth, let it reflect whether it does not itself sometimes fall into error. I have seen a lovely child suffer punishment simply because it did not act as if it were forty, and parents displaying the most pernicious example to their offspring by cross glances, cutting sarcasms, and open reproaches. I once knew a mistaken father who on a certain day of the week would not permit his children to utter a single word. It was a painful sight to behold their eyes, from which nature strove to shoot out the lustre of sprightliness and unshadowed innocence, casting down their pretty orbs with a forced seriousness more proper to broken health, withered hopes, and troubled age; and ever and anon, by a furtive look, contradicting the artificial gravity of their innocent sweet mouths, where smiles were as natural as fragrance to flowers. It reminded me of some free wild bird forced from the forest, and compelled to sit all day in a narrow close cage. Yet even he is not demanded to hold his little wings motionless, cast down his bright eyes, and hush the warblings that gush up in his throat. Do not fathers know, if their own hearts do not persuade them, that it is their best policy to possess themselves of the affections of their children? However pure and full of love may be their young hearts, they cannot be insensible to the distinction between happiness and misery: and what a reflection for a dying father, that he leaves behind him beings who, when he is in the grave, will only for the first time begin to enjoy the free blessing of existence !