never alone, for she is still accompanied with old songs, honest thoughts, and prayers, but short ones; yet they have their efficacy, in that they are not palled with ensuing idle cogitations.  Lastly, her dreams are so chaste, that she dare tell them; only a Friday’s dream is all her superstition; that she conceals for fear of anger.  Thus lives she; and all her care is she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuck upon her winding-sheet.”

The love of the country has been sung by poets, and echoed by philosophers; but the first have not attempted, and the last have been greatly puzzled to account for it.  I do not know that any one has ever explained, satisfactorily, the true source of this feeling, or of that soothing emotion which the sight of the country, or a lively description of rural objects hardly ever fails to infuse into the mind.  Some have ascribed this feeling to the natural beauty of the objects themselves; others to the freedom from care, the silence and tranquillity which scenes of retirement afford; others to the healthy and innocent employments of a country life; others to the simplicity of country manners, and others to a variety of different causes; but none to the right one.  All these, indeed, have their effect; but there is another principal one which has not been touched upon, or only slightly glanced at.  I will not, however, imitate Mr. Horne Tooke, who after enumerating seventeen different definitions of the verb, and laughing at them all as deficient and nugatory, at the end of two quarto volumes does not tell us what the verb really is, and has left posterity to pluck out “the heart of his mystery.”  I will say at once what it is that distinguishes this interest from others, and that is its abstractedness.  The interest we feel in human nature is exclusive, and confined to the individual; the interest we feel in external nature is common, and transferable from one object to all others of the same class.  Thus.

Rousseau in his Confessions relates, that when he took possession of his room at Annecy, he found that he could see “a little spot of green” from his window, which endeared his situation the more to him, because, he says, it was the first time he had had this object constantly before him since he left Boissy, the place where he was at school when a child. [7] Some such feeling as that here described will be found lurking at the bottom of all our attachments of this sort.  Were it not for the recollections habitually associated with them, natural objects could not interest the mind in the manner they do.  No doubt, the sky is beautiful, the clouds sail majestically along its bosom; the sun is cheering; there is something exquisitely graceful in the manner in which a plant or tree puts forth its branches; the motion with which they bend and tremble in the evening breeze is soft and lovely; there is music in the babbling of a brook; the view from the top of a mountain is full of grandeur; nor can we behold the ocean with indifference.  Or, as the Minstrel sweetly sings,