True, to look upon, you are a lumbering ungraceful lump of mortality. Yet how many delights is that apparently insensate log susceptible of, even as it lies! Man is a mysterious animal. There is a touch of the sublime about the creature, even in his inertness. Just as he lies there, what strange conceits, what wild fancies, may be busy at work beneath that ungraceful old hat! What dreams of poesy -half spontaneous, half reminiscentmay be passing through the head it hides ! What gorgeous visions-what enthusiastic dreams, till the mind gradually becomes more and more oblivious; the stream flows more sweetly, the leaves rustle more gently, the gale sighs in a softer cadence, and the hum of the bee falls drowsily and yet more drowsily on the ear, until an abrupt, unequivocal snore, puts poesy to flight, startles the dryads, hamadryads, and other sylvan deities around, inharmoniously announcing that the palace-gates of the soul are closed.

'Tis evening! The sultry sun has gone to bathe in the huge Pacific, and pensive twilight steals timidly over copse and "hedgerow green." The amorous dove coos in the wood, and in manifold directions, groups of human turtles are seen gliding stealthily along from the more open country to contiguous dim obscurities, there to transact a little comfortable courtship. But what says the poet, ladies, to this sort of work?

"Ah now, ye fair!

Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts; Dare not the infectious sigh; the pleading look Downcast and low, in meek submission drest, But full of guile. Let not the fervent tongue, Prompt to deceive, with adulation smooth, Gain on your purposed will. Nor in the bower Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch,

While evening draws her crimson curtains round,

Trust your soft moments with betraying man." Tut! the poet has made much ado about nothing. The greatest danger is of your catching cold from the evening damps. When your lover entertains you with talk of kisses, blisses, raptures, responsive souls, and other pleasant unintelligible jargon, all you have to do is to put on a Lucretia-looking countenance, and commence a series of inquiries respecting houses, furniture, pin-money, and other matters of practical import. It is per fectly wonderful how such a course will tranquillize his ardent passions, especially if he be of the small poetic tribe, who rarely mean what they say, more rarely know what they mean, and are generally gentlemen of excellent prospects without

a sixpence. The bard of the Seasons, however, has hardly used you well; his advice is most impertinent. Doubtless the hearty confidence of a brother-poet, blithe Robie Burns, who understood these matters as well as most people, and much better than Mr. James Thomson, will be more in accordance with your

taste.

"And sage experience bids me this declare If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure

spare,

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."

Summer is the season of wateringplaces. The citizen's wife saith unto the citizen, "Well! go I will-and there's an end of it!" The citizen thinketh to himself there is not an end of it, but he was born to obey, and go he must. Poor creature! heartily art thou to be pitied, even as a sensitive flower rudely transplanted to an uncongenial soil. He saw the sea yesterday, he sees it again to day, and he will lie down at night with the uncomfortable assurance that to-morrow will again find him amid shells and weed, instead of mud and merchandize. Look at him just now! You would think he had taken root where he stands. Is it that he has fallen into a trance of admiration, gazing on the blue and boundless deep? No such thing. A doubt has for the last hour occupied his vacant mind, as to whether the advancing tide will reach his toes or not, and there he patiently stands to solve the problem. He rather inclines to the opinion that it will not. It approaches within six inches-waversand then visibly retreats. Hurrah! he is in the right! and be trudges along the hot, monotonous sand, in search of health and happiness, felicitating himself as he goes, on the most excellent guess he has made. Further up the beach is seen his evil genius-that is, his wife, glistening in sarsenet and armed with a parasol, industriously employed in collecting cockle-shells and pebbles; whilst his eldest daughter, a child to whom he has ever behaved affectionately, repays his kindness by quoting to him Byron and others, on the magnificence of large bodies of salt water. Poor fellow! But, as the man says in the play, "there is another and a better world!" Despite of all its drawbacks, Summer is a pleasant season. Manifold are its delicious fruits and fragrant flowers, and lamb and green peas are more especially

its own. Pleasant to the olfactory department is the odour of the new-mown hay, and doubly delicious to the arid palate, the draught of nut-brown ale. To say nothing of the glorious rising or going down of the sun, look how he is employed for our good throughout the live-long day; not with the merry though transient glance of Spring-not the waning smile of Autumn; but ardently, untiringly-ripening the fragrant orange, luscious melon, the almost too exquisite pine. Or what is more, pouring his fierce favours on the thousand hills of "vine-clad France"-on the fruitful valleys of the glorious, the worshipped, the venerated Rhine-or the blooming banks of the blue Moselle, impregnating the glowing clusters of grapes with that mysterious juice, that has in all times and seasons been found a cordial for the heart of man-that nectarian draught, which, let the water-bibber say what he may, when quaffed in tolerable moderation, by people of generous spirits and clear consciences, exhilarates the inward man, breaks down the chilly barriers of worldly circumspection and restraint, and induces such a feeling of good-will and benignity to all created things, as is not to be obtained by swilling aqua pura by the gallon. But mightier quills have sung thy praise, O wine! Blessings on thee! and on the Summer sun that brings thee!

RURAL RETIREMENT.

BEFORE the solid structures of cities were laid, the race of man resided in the woods and fields, and the name of the golden age, we suppose, was given to this generation from contrast, as very little or no gold could have been current. A pastoral life, as it is the occupation of the great majority of mankind, appears also to be the most adapted to his nature, and the most fitted for the ends and purposes of his existence. "God made the country, but man made the town," is true in its obvious significa tion, and thoroughly correct in its moral analysis. Almost every dream of enjoyment-in fact, the very foundation of our castle-building, to ensure its permanency, should be laid in the country. The perspective of the career of rational and graceful pleasure must be bounded by the scenery of rural life-with some sweet cottage ornée embowered in its gardens and pleasure grounds, protected from the bleak north-easters by the

foliages of overhanging trees, through whose leaves the fervid rays of the sun can scarcely penetrate, and faintly quiver upon the walls, as if chasing one another in their radiant gambols. We are dreaming of gardens fenced with living hedges not wooden palings, so destructive of the picturesque, and such constant sources of trouble, annoyance, and expense-but the ever-verdant enclosure of shrubbery and coppice. In scenery like this, with some fair spirit for a ministering angel, to enhance the pleasures of life and to soothe its caresto extract the thorns, while she gathers and presents to us the roses of existence -a man's career might glide away in rapture, and his only complaint of life would arise from its brief and transitory course. A woman never appears to such advantage as in the country, away from the noise and tumult of the mighty Babel, where so many cares distract her; where the imperious demands of society hurry her away from her family; where the day is converted into a scene of bustle, and the hours which should be dedicated to repose and quiet are encroached upon. The proof of this is, that the votaries of fashion find themselves compelled, at the end of the season, to recur to rural scenery and retirement, from absolute exhaustion, and from utter inability to bear up under the heavy expenditure of life exacted by the calls of pleasure in town dissipations, the wear and tear of spirits, and the debilitating excitement by which body and mind are alike impaired.

From the time of Sultan Adam, the father of mankind, to the age of Diocletian, its master, and from this Roman emperor down to the English statesman and philosopher, Sir William Temple, how many sovereigns and sages have amused their leisure, and snatched brief but sweet intervals from the bustle and turmoil of war and politics, to brace their minds with a fresh tone, and recruit their wearied frames in the innocent and healthful pursuits of horticulture. In this country we have sunny spots and beautiful rivers -we have noble trees and exquisite flowers-and, above all, we have, in the women of our native land, with their elegant and accomplished minds, the beings who could throw a greenness over even the sandiest waste, and make of our scenery a garden of Eden.

THE RECEIPT FOR MAKING SHERBET.

AN EASTERN TALE.

(Translated from the French, for the Parterre.)

A good old Persian, having reached the end of a long and blameless life, experienced in his last moments intense anxiety about the destiny of his two sons, whom he left without fortune, trade, or protection. The eldest, who was twenty years of age, was named Osman; the other was two years younger, and bore the name of Zambri.

The last moments of the old man at length drew nigh, and as he was thinking less of his own sufferings than of the fate betiding his children, his ear was agreeably roused by the accents of a soft, melodious voice, that said to him, "Fear nothing, good old man, I will watch over thy children; die in peace, as thou hast lived. I bring a present to each of thy sons; let them make a good use of it; one day, perhaps, they will

meet each other again, and live in happiness." At these words a balsamic odour was diffused through the apartment, and a brilliant light, soft as a moonbeam, shewed to the old man the features of a youth, whose physiognomy had something celestial. It was a beneficent Genius, who, having deposited his gifts on the couch of the dying man, disappeared with the rapidity of lightning.

The old Persian summoned his two sons to his bed side; they came, hastily lighted a small lamp, and, approaching their father, heard the account of the vision with which he had just been honoured, and were shewn the presents of the Genius. On one side was a little box, covered with glittering spangles; on the other, a leaf of paper, carefully sealed. "Come, Osman, you are the eldest," said the father; "it is for you to choose."

Osman, enticed by the lustre of the box, eagerly seized it, and poor Zambri was obliged to be satisfied with the humble sheet of paper. The old man embraced and blessed his sons, and died

like one who sleeps in the arms of hope.

Having sincerely bewailed the loss of so kind a father, and having paid him the duties of an honourable sepulture, the two brothers were anxious to learn what assistance they might hope to derive from the presents of the Genius. Osman opened his little box, and found it filled with lozenges of different forms and colours. He was tempted to laugh at so miserable a donation, when he perceived these words written round the lid of the box:-Every time thou shalt eat one of these lozenges, thy imagination shall produce a poem, perfect as a whole, and sublime or elegant in its details; such, in short, as shall surpass the works of the best poet of Persia.

Osman was not wanting in vanity; the possession of so splendid a secret completely turned his head; myriads of illusions of glory and fortune overpowered him at once.

From the worth of the present the Genius had made to his brother, Zambri doubted not that his paper contained likewise some marvellous secret. He opened it, and read with surprise, not unmingled with grief-New receipt for making sherbet. A few lines only indicated the method of composing a liquor, of which a single drop in a bowl of sherbet would impart to it a flavour and perfume, until then unknown by the most luxurious Asiatics.

Osman was overjoyed, but Zambri was quite in despair. Osman did not wish to quit his brother, but the command of the Genius on this point was positive; so the two brothers affectionately embraced each other, and, shedding a few tears, separated. The elder took the road to Bagdad, where all the literati and poets of Asia were assembled to embellish the court of the Caliph. As to poor Zambri, he departed from the humble cottage of his father, taking with him only the poor receipt for making sherbet; leaving the direction of his path to chance, which often guides us as effectually as prudence.

Before his arrival at Bagdad, Osman had already eaten half-a-dozen lozenges, and consequently had produced half-adozen poems, before which the productions of the greatest oriental poets grew dim and insipid. But he soon learnt, it is not talent that leads to fortune, but patronage. He felt the necessity of connecting himself with men of letters and of the world; but he saw only men pre-occupied with their own concerns,

their pleasures, or their pretensions. Under what title should he present himself? Under that of a poet? The palace and the city were overflowing with them; every avenue to fame was already choked up. To consult his colleagues was to advise with his rivals; to ask praise of them, was to ask a miser for the key of his money chest. The critics were afraid to be the first to applaud, lest they should compromise their reputation. The men of the world waited for the decision of the critics, and the ignorant fancied they gave more peculiar evidence of discernment and delicacy by contempt than approbation. Besides, so many new books were constantly appearing, that scarcely anything was read. Notwithstanding all this, the works of Osman found a publisher; but they were scarcely even noticed amidst the multitude of productions of the same sort.

If

Having existed for four or five years at Bagdad, without obtaining more than a whispered encouragement from some wise men, who were without credit, precisely because they were wise, poor Osman began to lose the brilliant hopes that had formerly dazzled him. Nevertheless, by dint of eating lozenges, he did at length attract some attention. genius require a time to emerge from obscurity, scarcely is it known than it is repaid for that early injustice: it is run after, not for its own sake, but from vanity; envy will likewise sometimes seize upon it, as an instrument that may possibly serve its purposes. At length, however, nothing was talked of but the writings of Osman; they were read with avidity, and compared with those of esteemed poets, not to heighten Osman, but to humble men whose fame became importunate. At length, poor Osman, after languishing so long in oblivion, suddenly saw himself on a pinnacle, without having passed through the intermediate degrees between wretchedness and prosperity, obscurity and

renown.

The Caliph desired to see so great a genius; he was anxious to ornament his court with him. Osman was cumbered with honours; he sang the praise of the Caliph with a refinement far beyond the power of other poets to imitate; and the Caliph delighted in this refined praise so much the more, as it was food not often to be met with at court.

So much merit, and such surpassing happiness in particular, soon excited the