Robert Southey to Grosvenor C. Bedford-Picture of the Prince of Darkness. and were they of leather, like a bat's, they would be shrivelled. I conclude, therefore, that wings he hath not. Yet do we find, from sundry reputable authors and divers histories, that he transporteth himself from place to place with exceeding rapidity. Now, as he cannot walk fast or fly, he must have some conveyance. Stage-coaches to the infernal regions there are none, though the road be much frequented. Balloons would burst at setting out, the air would be so rarefied with the heat; but horses he may have of a particular breed. I am learned in Dæmonology, and could say more, but this sufficeth. I should advise you not to copy the ballad, because the volume will soon be finished. I expect to bring it with me on Ash-Wednesday to town. I am better, but they tell me that constant exercise is indispensable, and that, at my age and with my constitution, I must either throw off the complaint now, or it will stick to me forever. Edith's health requires care; our medical friend dreads the effect of London upon both. When my time is out at our present house (at Midsummer), we must go to the sea a while. I thought I was like a Scotch fir, and could grow anywhere, but I am sadly altered, and my nerves are in a vile state. I am almost ashamed of my own feelings; but they depend not upon volition. These things throw a fog over the prospect of life. I cannot see my way; it is time to be in an office, but the confinement would be ruinous. You know not the alteration I feel. I could once have slept with the seven sleepers without a miracle; now the least sound awakes me, and with alarm. However, I am better. . . . God bless you. Yours affectionately, R. SOUTHEY. BOOK THE THIRD. SKETCHES OF NATURE, ART, AND TRAVEL IN LETTERS. I.-THE MORNING. Daniel Webster to Mrs. J. W. Page. RICHMOND, April 29, 1841.-Five o'clock A. M. Whether it be a favor or an annoyance, you owe this letter to my habit of early rising. From the hour marked at the top of the page you will naturally conclude that my companions are not now engaging my attention, as we have not calculated on being early travellers to-day. This city has a "pleasant seat." It is high, the James River runs below it, and when I went out an hour ago nothing was heard but the roar of the falls. The air is tranquil and its tem perature mild. It is morning, and a morning sweet and fresh and delightful. Everybody knows the morning in its metaphorical sense, applied to so many objects and on so many occasions. The health, strength, and beauty of early years lead us to call that period the "morning of life." Of a lovely young woman we say, she as the morning;" and no one doubts why Lucifer is is "bright Daniel Webster to Mrs. J. W. Page-The Morning. called "son of the morning." But the morning itself few people, inhabitants of cities, know any thing about. Among all our good people of Boston, not one in a thousand sees the sun rise once a year. They know nothing of the morning. Their idea of it is, that it is that part of the day which comes along after a cup of coffee and a beefsteak, or a piece of toast. With them morning is not a new issuing of light, a new bursting forth of the sun, a new waking up of all that has life, from a sort of temporary death, to behold again the works of God, the heavens and the earth; it is only a part of the domestic day, belonging to breakfast, to reading the newspapers, answering notes, sending the children to school, and giving orders for dinner. The first faint streak of light, the earliest purpling of the east which the lark springs up to greet, and the deeper and deeper coloring into orange and red, till at length the "glorious sun is seen, Regent of day;" this they never enjoy, for this they never see. Beautiful descriptions of the morning abound in all languages, but they are the strongest perhaps in those of the east, where the sun is so often an object of worship. King David speaks of taking to himself "the wings of the morning." This is highly poetical and beautiful. The "wings of the morning" are the beams of the rising sun. Rays of light are wings. It is thus said that the Sun of Righteousness shall arise," with healing in his wings;" a rising sun which shall scatter light, and health, and joy, throughout the universe. Milton has fine descriptions of morning, but not so many as Shakespeare, from whose writings pages of the most beautiful images, all founded on the glory of the morning, might be filled. I never thought that Adam had much advantage of us from |