often beautiful in childhood, and bear a different character. The cunning of the man is innocent archness in the child. Ignorance in the one, is a gross and miserable condition; in the other, it is purity and bliss. The imperfections that are ludicrous or offensive in manhood, in infancy are inexpressibly engaging. The stammering of an adult, or his mistakes in acquiring a new language, are unpleasing to the most friendly ear, and even lower him in some degree in his own estimation. But the first imperfect sounds and broken words of a child, are as sweet as the irregular music of interrupted rivulets. They stir the heart like magic, and impel us as it were, in the sudden wantonness of affection, to shut the little rosy portals of the cherub's soul with a shower of impetuous kisses. The garrulity of age is not like the eager prattling of infancy. The child's artless talk can never weary us. Our ears are as tireless as his tongue. Timidity in manhood is degrading, but in a little child it is interesting and lovely, whether he flies from the object of alarm like a startled fawn, or nestles closer in his mother's lap. The coquetry of a woman is vanity and deceit, but in a child it is mere playfulness and innocent hilarity. Every thing connected with childhood changes its nature. Words of abuse become words of endearment. Imp and rogue, when applied to an infant, are soft and fond expressions that fall gracefully from the fairest lips. The drums and rattles of the child are objects of unalloyed delight, but the playthings of the man are grave and terrible delusions. They goad him with secret thorns that rankle in his heart for ever. Envy, avarice, and ambition, mingle their poison in his sweetest cup. Even his superior knowledge is but a source of evil. It surrounds him with temptations, while it throws a shadow upon all his hopes, and takes off the bloom from life. It is too little for his mind, and too much for his heart. The child, on the other hand, revels in his happy consciousness of present good, and foresees no future ill. He knows neither weariness nor discontent. Solitude' to him is sometimes 'blithe society,' and in the thickest crowds, he is as free and unconstrained as in his loneliest haunts. His ingenuous heart is never chilled by the glance of a human eye, nor can he fashion his innocent features into a false expression. His own eye is as lucid as the breeze-bared heavens. If he reads no sermons in stones,' he sees 'good in every thing.' He has universal faith. He discovers nothing evil, and sees none but friends. He gives up his whole being to gentle affections, and a sense of unequivocal enjoyment. He is not what cold age would make him, nothing, if not critical." To him the rise of the green curtain at the theatre reveals a real world. He has ever a tear for the distresses of the heroine, and breathes harder as he gazes, with all his soul in his eyes, on the hero's adventurous exploits. tricks and conundrums of the clown are never flat, or stale, or unprofitable to him, and he fitly testifies to their merit, when holding his lovely head aside (his cheek as round and blooming as a sun-kissed peach,) he claps his little palms together in an ecstacy of admiration, and then turns to the maternal face, as if assured of her hearty sympathy in his delight. The It is a sweet employment to watch the first glimmering of the human mind, and to greet the first signs of joy that give life and animation to the passive beauty of an infant's face, like the earliest streaks of sunshine upon opening flowers. But alas ! this pleasure is too often interrupted by the sad reflection, that the bright dawn of existence is succeeded by a comparatively clouded noon, and an almost starless night. Each year of our life is a step lower on the radiant ladder that leads to heaven, and when we at last descend into the horrible vault of death, our best hope is that we may rise again to a state resembling the happy purity of our childhood. What a holy thing is maternal love! Even its errors reflect honour upon human nature. The mother sees her own offspring through a sweet and peculiar medium, and traces a thousand charms that are undiscovered by less partial eyes, while she is blind to those defects that are palpable to others. The loved are ever lovely. So beautifully does true affection thus qualify every object to our desires ! There is a divine contagion in all beauteous things. We alternately colour objects with our own fancies and affections, or receive from them a kindred hue. "Like the sweet South, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Let This principle pervades all nature, physical and moral. those who would trace an expression of serenity and tenderness on a human face, watch a person of sensibility, as he gazes upon a painting by Claude or Raphael. In contemplating a fine picture, we drink in its spirit through our eyes. If a lovely woman would increase her charms, let her gaze long and ardently on all beauteous images. Let her not indulge those passions which deform the features, but cultivate, on the contrary, every soft affection. It will soon become an easy task, for one good feeling suggests and supports another. We insensibly and involuntarily adapt our aspect to our emotions, and long habits of thought and feeling leave a permanent impression on the countenance. Every one believes thus far in physiognomy, and acts more or less decidedly upon his belief. But even the effect upon the features of a transient emotion is truly wonderful. A fierce man often looks beautifully tender and serene when either caressing or caressed, and deceives us like the ocean in a calm, which at times seems "the gentlest of all gentle things." Who can wonder at the intensity of a mother's love, when even strangers hardened by a struggle with the world are often affected by the engaging ways of children ? There is not a more interesting sight in nature than the sudden smile which they sometimes call up in a countenance rendered habitually grave by the cares of business or ambition. I remember entering a well-known mercantile house in London, just as some unfavorable intelligence had been received. The head of the firm, with his hard but honest features, looked at once stern and anxious. A small hand twitched his coat behind. He turned slowly round, with a sullen and almost a savage brow. His eye fell upon the prettiest little human face that ever gleamed upon the earth. But the child's merry laughter was scarcely more delightful than the bland and beautiful smile that kindled on the merchant's care-worn cheek. His aspect underwent such an instantaneous and entire change, that he looked as if he had changed his nature also. Had a painter stamped his portrait on the canvass at that happy moment, it would have presented an exquisite illustration of amenity and love. Few, however, of his mercantile friends, would have recognized the man of business. He was single and childless; but the fondest parent could not have greeted his own offspring with a sweeter welcome. I have in some moods preferred the paintings of our own Gainsborough to those of Claude,-and for this single reason, that the former gives a peculiar and more touching interest to his landscapes by the introduction of sweet groups of children. These lovely little figures are moreover so thoroughly English, and have such an out-of-door's air, and seem so much a part of external nature, that an Englishman who is a lover of rural scenery, can hardly fail to be enchanted with the style of his celebrated countryman. His children have not been dandled in courts or drawing-rooms, nor tutored by fiddling and caper-cutting dancing masters. They have a natural grace about them that is always charming to an unsophisticated eye. They spring up into life and beauty like the flowers around them, that are the more lovely the less they are meddled with by an ambitious taste. They are The sweetest things that ever grew Beside a human door! When I revisited my dear native country, after an absence of many weary years, and a long dull voyage, my heart was filled with unutterable delight and admiration. The land seemed a perfect paradise. It was in the spring of the year. The blue vault of heaven, over which were scattered a few silver clouds-the clear atmosphere-the balmy vernal breeze-the quiet and picturesque cattle, browsing on luxuriant verdure, or standing kneedeep in a crystal lake-the blue hills sprinkled with snow-white sheep and sometimes partially shadowed by a wandering cloud— the meadows glowing with golden buttercups and bedropped with daisies the trim hedges of crisp and sparkling holly-the sound of near but unseen rivulets, and the songs of foliage-hidden birds -the white cottages almost buried amidst trees, like happy human nests-the ivy-covered church, with its old grey spire 'pointing up to heaven,' and its gilded vane gleaming in the light-the sturdy peasants with their instruments of healthy toil-the whitecapped matrons bleaching their newly-washed garments in the sun, and throwing them like snow-patches on green slopes or glossy garden shrubs—the sun-browned village girls, resting idly on their round elbows at small open casements, their faces in sweet keeping with the trellised flowers;—all formed a combination of enchantments that would mock the happiest imitative efforts of human art. But though the bare enumeration of the details of this English picture, will perhaps awaken many dear recollections in the reader's mind, I have omitted by far the most interesting feature of the whole scene-the rosy children loitering about the cottage gates, or tumbling gaily on the warm grass ! When the cottager of England ventures to link himself for life to the object of his honest affections, and anticipates without dismay, the ruddy family around,' he is rebuked by the Political Economists for what they consider his culpable imprudence. These unfeeling calculators seem to forget that a poor man is a human being. They might almost as well expect him to abstain entirely |