of admiration, or throws what we have already seen into a new light; the woods, the farms, the hamlets, ay, whole valleys, great hills, broad rivers, objects with which we are already familiar perhaps, are ceaselessly assuming novel aspects. Even the minute beauties which we note one by one along the ascending pathway, the mountain flower, the solitary bird, the rare plant, all contribute their share of pleasure; the very obstacles in the track, the ravine, the precipice, the torrent, produce their own impression, and add to the exultation with which we reach at length the mountain-top, bringing with us a harvest of glowing sensations gathered by the way, all forming delightful accessories, to the greater and more exalted prospect awaiting us at the goal. Between an isolated view, though fine in its way, and the gradual ascent of a commanding height, there lies all the difference we find in the enjoyment of a single ode and that which we derive from a great poem; it is the Lycidas of Milton beside the Othello or Lear of Shakspeare; a sonnet of Petrarch compared with the Jerusalem of Torquato. So at least we thought this afternoon, as we slowly ascended our own modest hills, and remembered the noble mountains of other lands.
The country is looking very rich; the flowery character of summer has not yet faded. Buckwheat crops, in white and fragrant bloom, are lying on half the farms; the long leaves of the maize are still brilliantly green, and its yellow flowers unblighted; late oat-fields here and there show their own pallid green beside recently-cut stubble, which still preserves the golden color of the ripe wheat. In several meadows of the valley mowers were busy, hay-cocks stood about the fields, and loaded carts were moving about, carrying one back to the labors of midsummer, but these
