recesses, was a city of refuge to the miserable of every age and country. The solitary grandeur of her mountains harmonized with the frame of their mind. Weary of man, they often sought, and found, a shelter in the untenanted scenes of nature. These two little families were much united, for they had the "bond which no man breaketh," the bond of common principles. M. used to say, "We want no other chain of affection than the knowledge that we are Christians. As such we must weep and we may rejoice together; for we have been wrecked by the same storm, and are rescued by the same Redeemer." It was reasoning only fit for St. Foy, but her vallies seemed to clap their hands when they heard it.

It was upon the eve of their departure that M. and his young friend walked for the last time to the cottage of Mad. de N. She had been long familiar with the method of education which M. had adopted. This last scheme was more extraordinary than the rest, and she had reasons of the heart and head for venturing to condemn it. But M's principles so tempered his singularities, and the good in his object generally so completely swallowed up all that was dubious in the execution of his plans, that she was obliged to submit.

"His ignorance," said M. "so favours the deceit, and O. is so fair a theatre for it, that I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of forcing him to acknowledge how ill the duties and the couduct of mankind accord."" He might," she said, "learn it from himself."" Our own faults, said M." are the last which we make our preceptors." "He shall learn it from me," said Mad. de N.— "Mahomet did not know this woman," thought M.

The dialogue of the younger couple may be conceived. Such sayings are like some of the wines of the south, delicious in their proper soil, but they will not bear transporting. "I will write to my Emily whether this people have souls." "May Heaven," she answered, "take the charge of your own!"

They travelled slowly, for the suns of these vallies are the foes of activity and as they were not Englishmen, they did not feel themselves obliged to move as though they were running against time. Foreigners are much astonished at the celerity with which many English travellers make the circuit of Europe. "C'est un peuple hypocondriaque"-they sometimes say—" a people who travel to escape suicide." The fact is, that too many Englishmen carry through Europe

the persuasion, that no country is worth examining but their own; and, thus, the same prejudices which make travelling more essential to them than to any other nation, by haunting them as they move, make it often also more unprofitable.

"There are few men," says a French author, "who know how to take a walk :" if this be true, it will be scarcely disputed that there are still fewer who know how to make a journey. St. Foy, however, by the interest it was calculated to give its inhabitants in the scenes of nature, was a school in which such a lesson could scarcely fail to be learnt; and M. had studied every page in the great volume of the universe with a curious eye. He found

"Tongues in the trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.'

"There is something in the sweet hour of prime," he said, as they once met the ascending, day," which seems to give me another being. It appears like a new creation, and I almost expect to hear the morning stars again' shout together for joy.' The people of O, sleep long after the sun has quitted his eastern chamber."

"They can have no souls," said G.

"I am not surprised, continued M." that as the unenlightened nations see the orbs of heaven rolling in brightness, they are tempted to adore them. It is said that some of the tribes of America worship the sun as the image of God."

"It is an error," said G. " but so sublime an error, that the spaniard must be mistaken."

He lifted his eye to the Alps, which towered around him. A better philosophy was almost necessary to teach men that they are not the pillars on which the heavens are propped. "When one observes the immensity of their bases," he said, “ and the abruptness with which they terminate, we cannot but imagine that their heads soar far beyond the clouds in which we lose them.""They do,” replied M. "and in this they shadow out the true religion. Her base is as gigantic, and we should wonder if her summit were not wrapped in misteries which nothing but the eye of Heaven could penetrate."

Gustavus exclaimed, "such must be the religion of souls."

There was a pause, for there is something in moments such as these which disposes the mind to silence. But then again, the result of this is sometimes an abundance of the heart, out of which

the mouth will speak. "How much do I owe you," said Gustavus, "that you have taught me to enjoy moments such as these; and, what is more, to improve them! If ever my mind feels as it ought, it is at such seasons as these."

"I will repeat you some verses," said M. "which say the same thing. They were written on a winter's morning, when those who love the day are almost impatient of the slow steps by which it advances.

Sunk is that orb in endless sleep

Which us❜d to meet our op'ning eyes;

And

angry nature bids us weep

A polar night in southern skies.

Eye of the heav'ns! perhaps thy sight

Has sicken'd at a world of crime:

And (wrapp'd o'er us the pall of night,)
Thy rays will light some happier clime.

Perhaps thy last sad course was run

Through realms which fear and hate the day; Where ruffians curse the coming sun,

Where idlers sleep whole suns away.

E'en here thy burning view would see
Unblushing vice and passion rude,