numbers, and by sympathy. She too hath her deeps, that call unto deeps. Negation itself hath a positive more and less! and closed eyes would seem to obscure the great obscurity of midnight.

There are wounds which an imperfect solitude cannot heal. By imperfect I mean that which a man enjoyeth by himself. The perfect is that which he can sometimes attain in crowds, but nowhere so absolutely as in a Quaker meeting. Those first hermits did certainly understand this principle, when they retired into Egyptian solitudes, not singly, but in shoals, to enjoy one another's want of conversation. The Carthusian is bound to his brother by his agreeing spirit of uncommunicativeness. In secular occasions, what so pleasant as to be reading a book through a long winter evening, with a friend sitting by, say a wife, he, or she, too, (if that be probable,) reading another, without interruption, or oral communication? Can there be no sympathy without the gabble of words? Away with this inhuman, shy, single, shade-and-cavern-haunting solitariness! Give me, - Master a sympathetic solitude.

Zimmerman,

To pace alone in the cloisters or side aisles of some cathedral, time-stricken,

"Or under hanging mountains,

Or by the fall of fountains,"

is but a vulgar luxury, compared with that which those enjoy, who come together for the purposes of more complete, a`stracted solitude. This is the loneliness" to be felt." The abbey church of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so spirit-soothing, as the naked walls and benches of a Quaker meeting. Here are no tombs, no inscriptions,—

"sands, ignoble things,

Dropped from the ruined sides of kings;

but here is something which throws Antiquity herself into the foreground, Silence, - eldest of things, language of old Night, primitive discourser, - to which the insolent decays of mouldering grandeur have but arrived by a violent and, as we may say, unnatural progression.

"How reverend is the view of these hushed heads,
Looking tranquillity!"

Nothing-plotting, naught-caballing, unmischievous synod! convocation without intrigue! parliament without debate! –

What a lesson dost thou read to council and to consistory! If my pen treat of you lightly, as haply it will wander, yet my spirit hath gravely felt the wisdom of your custom, when sitting among you in deepest peace, which some outwelling tears would rather confirm than disturb, I have reverted to the times of your beginnings, and the sowings of the seed by Fox and Dewsbury. I have witnessed that which brought before my eyes your heroic tranquillity, inflexible to the rude jests and serious violence of the insolent soldiery, republican or royalist, sent to molest you; - for ye sat between the fires of two persecutions, the outcast and offscouring of church and presbytery. I have seen the reeling sea-ruffian, who had wandered into your receptacle, with the avowed intention of disturbing your quiet, from the very spirit of the place receive in a moment a new heart, and presently sit among ye as a lamb amid lambs. And I remember Penn

before his accusers, and Fox in the bail dock, where he was lifted up in spirit, as he tells us, and "the judge and the jury became as dead men under his feet."

RECIPROCAL INFLUENCE OF LITERATURE AND
MORALS. Prof. Frisbie.

THOSE Compositions in poetry and prose, which constitute the literature of a nation, the essay, the drama, the novel, it cannot be doubted, have a most extensive and powerful influence upon the moral feelings and character of the age. The very business of the authors of such works, is, directly or indirectly, with the heart. Even descriptions of natural scenery, owe much of their beauty and interest to the moral associations they awaken.

In like manner, fine turns of expression or thought, often operate more by suggestion than enumeration. But when feelings and passions are directly described, or imbodied in the hero, and called forth by the incidents of a story, it is then that the magic of fiction and poetry is complete, - that they enter in and dwell in the secret chambers of the soul, moulding it at will. In these moments of deep excitement, must not a bias be given to the character, and much be done to elevate and refine, or degrade and pollute, those sympathies and sentiments which are the sources of much of our virtue and happiness, or our guilt and misery?

The danger is that, in such cases, we do not discriminate the distinct action of associated causes. Even in what is presented to the senses, we are aware of the power of hal it

by a breadth of five miles, from north to south. Its circumference, allowing for various inequalities, is estimated at thirty miles; while the area of ground which it covers, is considered to measure no less than eighteen miles square.

The increase of London has been particularly favoured by the nature of its site. It stands at the distance of sixty miles from the sea, on the north bank of the Thames, on ground rising very gently towards the north; and so even and regular in outline, that among the streets, with few exceptions, the ground seems perfectly flat. On the south bank of the river, the ground is quite level; and, on all sides, the country appears very little diversified with hills, or any thing to interrupt the extension of the buildings.

The Thames, which is the source of greatness and wealth to the metropolis, is an object which commonly excites a great deal of interest among strangers. It is a placid, majestic stream of pure water, rising in the interior of the country, - at the distance of a hundred and thirty-eight miles above London, and entering the sea, on the east coast, about sixty miles below it. It comes flowing between low and fertile banks, out of a richly ornamented country on the west, and, arriving at the outmost houses of the metropolis, a short way above Westminster Abbey, it pursues a winding course between banks thickly clad with dwelling-houses, manufactories, and wharves, for eight or nine miles; its breadth being, here, from a third to a quarter of a mile. The tides affect it, for fifteen or sixteen miles above the city; but the salt water comes no farther than thirty miles below it. Such is the volume and depth of water, however, that vessels of seven or eight hundred tons reach the city, on its eastern quarter.

Most unfortunately, the beauty of this exceedingly useful and fine stream, is much hidden from the spectator, there being no quays or promenades, along its banks, as is the case with the Liffey, at Dublin. With the exception of the summit of St. Paul's. the only good points of sight, for the river, are the bridges, which cross it at convenient distances, and, by their length, convey an accurate idea of the breadth of the channel. During fine weather, the river is covered with numerous barges or boats, of fanciful and light fabric, suitable for quick rowing; and, by means of these pleasant conveyances, the Thames forms one of the chief thoroughfares.

London consists of an apparently interminable series of streets, composed of brick houses, which are commonly four

stories in height, and never less than three. The London houses are not by any means elegant in their appearance; they have, for the most part, a dingy, ancient aspect; and it is only in the western part of the metropolis that they assume any thing like a superb outline. Even at the best, they have a meanness of look, in comparison with houses of polished white freestone, which is hardly surmounted by all the efforts of art, and the daubings of plaster and stucco.

The greater part of the dwellings are small. They are mere slips of buildings, containing, in most instances, only two small rooms on the floor, one behind the other, often with a wide door of communication between, and a wooden stair, with balustrades, from bottom to top of the house. It is only in the more fashionable districts of the town, that the houses have sunk areas with railings in all the business parts, they stand close upon the pavements; so that trade may be conducted with the utmost facility and convenience. The lightness of the fabric of the London houses, affords an opportunity for opening up the ground stories as shops and warehouses. Where retail business is carried on, the whole of the lower part of the edifice, in front, is door and window, adapted to show goods to the best advantage to the passengers. The London shops seem to throw themselves into the wide expansive windows; and these, of all diversities of size and decoration, transfix the provincial visitor with their charms.

The exhibition of goods in the London shop-windows, is one of the greatest wonders of the place. Every thing which the appetite can suggest, or the fancy imagine, would appear there to be congregated. In every other city, there is an evident meagreness in the quantity and assortments. But, here, there is the most remarkable abundance, and that not in isolated spots, but along the sides of thoroughfares, miles in length. In whatever way you turn your eyes, this extraordinary amount of mercantile wealth is strikingly observable; if you even penetrate into an alley, or what you think an obscure court, there you see it in full force, and on a greater scale than in any provincial town whatsoever.

It is equally obvious to the stranger, that there is, here, a dreadful struggle for business. Every species of lure is tried to induce purchases; and modesty is quite lost sight of. A tradesman will cover the whole front of his house with a sign, whose gaudy and huge characters might be read, without the aid of a glass, at a mile's distance. He will cover