seriously hold that nothing is right, reasonable, or happy on earth, but direct, intent, religious action of the mind and life; who would exclude everything that they call gaiety from the world; whose essential idea of a happy society is of one that has its entire employments divided between labour and religious exercises; of one that has no intercourse but what is strictly religious, commencing and closing with prayer; and, in fine, that suffers every free movement and buoyant affection to be bound down under the closest rigours of a puritanic and ascetic discipline. This with many, I suppose, is a perfect, happy community. These are the ideas that belong to it-business, prayer, reading, conversation— and nothing more. If there is anything more, it must be recreation; and this admitted, there really can be no serious difference of opinion; because all reflecting men must be as desirous as they can be, that the recreations of society should be simple, pure, and well regulated. But if they do exclude all amusements from their plan of life, as I believe many virtually do, then let me ask if they do not err on their own principle. For their principle is, that they would have society the most religious possible; that they would have a society in which there should be the highest energy of virtue, and the loftiest elevation of piety. But is this to be attained by the exclusion of all recreations? Will the mind or the heart rise to the highest action of which it is capable, by being continually kept upon the stretch-I do not say continually in action, but continually upon the stretch? Will the bow send the farthest arrow that is never unstrung-that, even when laid aside to rest, is never unstrung? It is a conceded point, that the greatest amount of bodily labour is accomplished by the judicious interposition of seasons of relaxation. I know not how it is possible reasonably to doubt that this is equally true of the mind and of the heart. Tell me of a mind or heart that is always the same-I mean not in principle, which it should bebut the same always in act, and exercise, and state; and you give me the surest criterion and the clearest definition of a dull mind and heart. Tell me of a community in which there is no cheerful or joyous recreation, and you tell me-you tell all the world-of a dull community.

Whether something of this dulness is not stealing over the national mind-whether intent occupation is not weighing it down to an unwonted and unnatural seriousness-whether the one idea of business is not absorbing all the enterprise and enthusiasm of the great body of our youth, is a question which I have sometimes revolved with myself, however trifling it may seem to others. I was riding in a coach one day last year, with some young men from the country. They were on their way, I believe, to one of the great city marts. The conversation turned upon amusements; and I confess I was struck with the manner, so different from that of former days, in which they expressed themselves on this subject, and that with a tone as if they expressed the feeling of the whole community. With all the gravity of syndics, they pronounced certain sports and games of the old time, which I am sure were held in very good repute not many years ago, to be "undignified. They had other things to do, besides playing with bat and ball! They had other things to think of, at their time of life;" for they were all twenty-one years of age, I believe-voters, I suppose, and trading on their own account.

The seriousness of the national mind, indeed, throws difficulties over

the whole subject of recreation. It makes relaxation dangerous, and leads one sometimes to doubt whether holiday sports can be, with safety, introduced among us. I fear that recreation with us is actually more abused than it is among any other people. It is rare and strange, and therefore is made too much of, brings with it undue excitement and unreasonable excess. If men partook of food but once in forty-eight hours, hunger would urge them to a madness of gratification. The Romans, I am inclined to believe, are the gravest and saddest people in the world. I should judge so from their general appearance. But the carnival, when it comes to relieve the long pent-up passion for amusement, is a scene of the wildest excess, folly, and debauchery, in Europe.

I am sensible, indeed, that our people cannot be amused with such trifles as many of those which seem to satisfy the populace of Europe. Punch and Judy could scarcely get an audience in America. I am glad to observe that Lyceums, scientific lectures, and reading, are becoming more and more common resorts and reliefs from the toils of life. But these are still serious employments. They do not directly promote cheerfulness. They do not promote health. They do not give buoyancy. The man who is always either working, or reading, or hearing lectures, never suffers the bow to be relaxed. The national mind, and body too, if thus treated, must lose strength. Would the Greeks ever have been what they were, without their races, their wrestlings, their gymnastic contests?

Domestic life, especially in our country towns, is in distressing need of reliefs and recreations. In the winter evenings, there are four or five hours of leisure, to be employed in some way. Suppose that two or three of these hours are spent in reading. That is very well, and it is very common, too. But would it not be well followed with some recreations-games, or music and dancing? Would it not be better than to sink down into a dull stupor, or to go to sleep? There is too much eating and too much sleeping in this country, I verily believe, because there is too little amusement. Yes, and worse evils than these spring from the same cause. What would not happy homes do-happy evenings at home, with music, entertainment, cheerfulness, hilarityto prevent many of our youth from straying into the paths of ruinous dissipation?

In fine, let me say that the influences under which a great people is to be trained up to intelligence, virtue, happiness, and glory, should be liberal and generous. Nothing should be omitted-nothing should be thought indifferent, which can contribute to the great end. The system of Providence is not a total-abstinence system. The plan of virtue is not a total-abstinence plan. The system of Providence is profusion: in nature, in life, in our affections, our passions, our powers, our capability, it is so-all is overflowing abundance. The plan of virtue, in this scene, is not, I repeat, total abstinence, but moderation. We are to use everything, enjoy everything, in the right place and in the right measure, and in the right season. We are not to extract enjoyment from life as men extract alcohol, and make it an intoxicating poison, bearing disease and misery in its train; but we are to take enjoyment as it is naturally mixed up with the scenes of life, with the fruits of nature, with the blessings and bounties of the whole creation.

In our position as a nation, in our natural situation as a country, things are arranged for us on a scale of equal magnificence, wealth, and beauty. Verily, we have a goodly heritage. We are placed amidst boundless plains, noble mountain-ranges, stupendous river-courses, lovely valleys, and scenes of perhaps never-surpassed beauty. May our national character take its impression and hue from these bounties of Providence, from this glory and goodliness of nature! May it be generous and liberal, may it be lofty and lowly, manly and beautiful, strong and graceful, powerful and free! May there be in us and among us, restraint without sourness, freedom without licentiousness, refinement without effeminacy, virtue without stoicism, and religion without superstition!

CHAPTER XXIV.

JOURNEY FROM PARIS TO LONDON-MALLE POSTE STEAMBOAT -AMERICAN BOATS AND SHIPS COMPARED WITH THE ENGLISH-GENERAL PROGRESS OF THINGS IN AMERICA-ENGLISH ECONOMY-PANORAMA OF LONDON-CHANTRY'S STUDIO-THE TOWER-TUNNEL-GREENWICH FAIR.

LONDON, March 6.-Once more in England! Once more in fatherland! Once more surrounded by the blessed accents of my native language! It takes a weight from the heart, a burden from the senses, a spell from existence. The air into which the sounds of a foreign speech are for ever rising, is the very atmosphere of exile.

I came to Calais in the malle poste, and from thence in a steamboat. The first I found a very agreeable conveyance; the last, far less so than our own. The English ideas of comfort do not seem to have reached their steamboats. And, indeed, is it not very curious that England should suffer itself to be so completely surpassed as she is by America in all water craft-to be surpassed in ship-building-to be surpassed on her own element! I do not profess to be a judge in these matters; I only know from constant observation, that in the beauty and sailing of our vessels, we leave the English far behind. That the self-styled mistress of the ocean should permit this, is very extraordinary; and one asks for a special cause. The cause which I assign in my own mind, is the prevalence in England of long-established ideas and usages; while in our country, every innovation that comes in the shape of improvement, finds favour. We may have our faults and difficulties, and I do not, for my part, think lightly of them; but certainly there is not, and never was a country, where improvement has opened for itself a career so broad, unobstructed, and free. It pervades everything, from the building of a farmhouse and the ordering of a village school, to the planting of states and the forming of their constitutions. It is the very beau ideal of the country. To make a thing better than it has been made before-this is every man's ambition, from the humblest labourer to the highest artisan, from the maker of a plough to the builder of a manufactory. The all-knowing and inquisitive spirit of

our people, however unbecoming and annoying at times, is of service here. Invention is not the prerogative of genius among us; it is an endowment of the whole people. While the mass of the people in Europe is content to do, each man like his father before him-each man to plough, and reap, and build, just as his father did—the aim of every man among us is to do better than those who went before him. I am struck with observing what sacrifices to public improvement are continually made, and what risks are taken, among a people prudent and calculating as we are said to be, and doubtless are. I remember the time, a few years ago, when it came to be a settled point, that the building of turnpikes was an unprofitable undertaking. Everybody knew that turnpike shares always turned out to be bad stock. Well, I said with myself, there will be no more turnpikes made. But not so, by any means. Still these enterprises were engaged in. The people would have better roads; and they had them, without that grand European requisite, the aid of government. Government does comparatively nothing for public improvements among us; and yet they constantly advance, with a rapidity unprecedented either in the history or experience of any other nation. Our reliance for everything of this nature is placed on voluntary individual exertion-to an extent that many among us think unwise-and yet the result shows that we may justly put great faith in individual intelligence and enterprise. are at this moment, according to the ratio of our population and means, building more railroads, and digging more canals; we are building more school-houses and colleges-nay, and we are, with nothing but the voluntary principle to help us, building more churches, than any other nation. We are building more churches than England, with all her immense ecclesiastical endowments and revenues. I know this, because I have seen it.

We

But to return to my steamboat-I observed that a considerable number of passengers carried a comfortable picknic box or basket with them, and spread their own table. With some, doubtless, this provision proceeded from a fastidious taste that feared some poisonous dirt would be found in the common fare of a steamboat. But with many, I presume, it arose from a habit, which presents a marked difference between the people of England and of America-I mean the habit of economy. In America we are ashamed of economy. It is this feeling which would forbid among us such a practice as that referred to, and not only this, but a great many more and better practices. In England, economy stands out prominently; it presides over the arrangements of a family; it is openly professed, and fears no reproach. A man is not ashamed to say of a certain indulgence, that he cannot afford it. A gentleman says to you, "I drive a pony chaise this year; I have put down my horse and gig, because I cannot pay the tax." A man whose income, and expenses, and style of living, far exceed almost anything to be found among us, still says of something quite beyond him, which his wealthier neighbour does, "We are not rich enough for that.' One of the most distinguished men in England said to me, when speaking of wines at his table, "The wine I should prefer is claret, but I cannot afford it; and so I drink my own gooseberry." I have heard that many families carry the principle so far, that they determine exactly how many dinners they can give in a year, and to how many guests

nay more, and how many dishes they can put upon the table, when they do entertain.

This frankness on the subject of economy is among us a thing almost unheard of. Not that we are more wealthy, but, as I conceive, less wise. The competition of domestic life among us is too keen to admit of any such confessions of internal weakness. We practise economy by stealth. Nor is that the worst of it; for one consequence of this habit of feeling is, that we practise too little. When a stranger looks upon the strife of business in our villages and cities, he imagines that he sees a very covetous people; but a nearer observation would show him that much of this eager, and absorbing, and almost slavish occupation, is necessary to sustain the heavy drains of domestic expenditure. It is extravagance at home that chains many a man to the counter and counting-room. And this extravagance is of his own choosing; because he knows no other way of distinguishing himself, but by the style of living. Would he but conceive that he might better elevate himself in society, by having a well-read library, by improving his mind and conversation, by cultivating some graceful but comparatively cheap accomplishment, he might live a wiser man, and die a richer. Who could hesitate to choose between such a family, and one whose house was filled with gorgeous furniture-where the wife and daughters are dressed in the gayest of the fashion, and the husband and father banishes himself the live-long day and half the night, from that pleasant mansion, to toil and drudge in the dusty warehouse? He sleeps in a very grand house; he lives in a counting-room!

March 8.-One of my first walks in London was to see the celebrated panorama in the Coliseum, as that is said to give a very good general idea of the city. It does indeed; and the painting, besides, is admirable; so much so, that one is tempted at first to believe that the houses, churches, and squares, are built of blocks—the relief to the eye is so perfect.

CHANTRY'S STUDIO.-There is more of that naturalness of expression and variety of character in his portraits, which we find in the collection of ancient busts, than I have seen in any studio on the Continent. The cast of "The Child" is there, which gave occasion to those inimitable lines of Mrs. Hemans, commencing

"Thou sleepest-but when shall thy waking be?"

and the model is touchingly simple and beautiful. My friend, Dr. Boott, introduced us to Chantry, and we had half an hour's conversation most agreeably sustained on his part. Here, too, we were introduced to Allan Cunningham, the author, who is the foreman in the studio.

April 3.-The Tower is more interesting from its associations, than from anything in its actual appearance. The stairs and passage from the Thames are still open, and certainly one cannot look without emotion upon the steps by which so many noble and princely victims have come up to this place of doom. We were shown the spot on which the scaffold was built for the execution of those who were in former days beheaded within the Tower. It is just in front of a small chapel, in which the condemned had the sacrament of the Supper administered to them before they suffered. Through that door, then, had passed