world. Instead of telling us of the dark deeds of men, or of showing the dark side of humanity, he tells us of every thing that is beautiful in country life. He looks upon the bright side of things, and, as a dutiful child, makes us wiser and happier, by telling us of nature and her God. It is entirely unreasonable to suppose that the city is the place for him who is writing for posterity. The only literature which can emanate from the city, is fictitious and political. The country is the place to study, to think, and to write; but the city is the place to sell the products of your mind.

The object of literature is to make man a wiser and happier being. The poet makes us happy because he tells us how we may become so. The historian points us to the past, -tells us of memorable deeds and strange events; and we learn as it were by experience, to become wise. The philosopher points out and explains the laws which regulate the universe, and we wonder at the greatness, and admire the wisdom, of God. It is

necessary that all these should be acquainted with the world, but it is not necessary that they should live in the midst of a noisy city.

It is the part of wisdom, after you have become acquainted with the world, to retire remote from its jar and din, and write, for the instruction of your fellow men, that which the feelings of your heart dictate.

The advantages to a literary man of a country life are innumerable. On the one hand he has the workmanship of the Almighty, from which he may gather lessons of sound wisdom. On the other, he beholds nothing but the workmanship of man. In one case he has mountains, valleys, and rivers, to inspire him with noble thoughts. In the other, his vision is bounded by "an eternal meal of brick." This is the difference between the advantages of a country and city life to the man of letters, and I think all must acknowledge that it is very wide.

THE DYING YEAR.

How solemn, and yet how beautiful is the following idea of the Poet:

"And the year,

On the earth his death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead

I have come forth under the blue canopy of Heaven, to listen to the admonitions of the dying year, and to enjoy the pensive pleasure which the present aspect of nature inspires.

I am alone, and on the hills. Faint and more faint, and less varied, are becoming the melodies of Summer. Of all the seasons, this

is the one I love most tenderly, for it reminds

me of a bright futurity. It is but a few days since the lily bloomed in the valley; the place where it burst into life and wasted its fragrance and beauty, is hid from human observation, for the leaves of Autumn are thick above its grave. Is it not an emblem of the loved and beautiful of earth? I do not weep, but alas! such was the fate of a much loved and only sister. An hundred years would not obliterate the memory of that grief.

They told me she was dead, and I went trembling to the room of sorrow. There she lay, beautiful as an angel. Closed were her dark blue eyes, and the impress of her parting smile was still upon her cheek, but her spirit had fled. For sixteen summers, she had been the joy of many hearts. Her innocence was like the lily, and her beauty like the budding rose. Her present and future home is the bosom of God.

What has become of the rose and the daisy, the butter-cup and violet, that were lately smiling so sweetly in yonder garden? The breath of Autumn passed over them, and they

fell trembling to the earth. Where lately we beheld the red-breast, the blue-bird, the thrush, the lark, the wren, the fly-catcher and humming-bird, fluttering from tree to bush and then to flower, no sounds do we now hear, save the dropping seeds, and the murmuring wind among dry leaves. Ah yes, the music is around me which attends the return of the old pilgrim Autumn. As he came over the northern hills, he sent before him a chilly wind, as his messenger, to warn Summer of his approach. Suddenly she paused, listened and sighed,—and, gathering up her flowing robe of green, she departed for the south; the laughing zephyrs of the valleys, the woods and the hills, were her companions. The swallow has gone but we know not where; the bee is preparing her little cottage, to shield herself from the severities of Winter. The wood-house of the farmer is almost full. The wife with the boys and girls, are in the orchard, gathering the mellow fruit. The husband is in the open field, ploughing and sowing his wheat. The great screw of the