One silent steep along the northern wave Shall hold the patriarch's and the hero's grave; When fades the torch, when o'er the peaceful scene There through all time shall faithful Memory tell, HOLMES. The name first given by the English to Boston was TRIMOUNTAIN The three hills upon and around which the city is built are Beacon Hill, Fort Hill, and Copp's Hill. In the early records of the colony, it is mentioned, under date of May 6, 1635, that "a beacon is to be set on the Sentry Hill, at Boston, to give notice to the country of any danger; to be guarded by one man stationed near, and fired as occasion may be." The last beacon was blown down in 1789. The eastern side of Fort Hill was formerly "a ragged cliff, that seemed placed by nature in front of the entrance to the harbor for the purposes of defence, to which it was very soon applied, and from which it obtained its present name." Its summit is now a beautiful green enclosure. Copp's Hill was used as a burial-ground from a very early period. The part of it employed for this purpose slopes towards the water upon the northern side. HAY-MAKING SEASON. I BELIEVE few people have beheld the occupations of the hay field, which this beautiful season every where presents, without feeling a very pure and elevated delight. The mowers moving gracefully in concert, the grass falling sheer beneath the scythe, its grateful fragrance, the maidens raking or tedding the hay, the loading of the carts to remove it to the barn-yard, all excite a sensible pleasure in almost every mind. Whence arises the enjoyment which this rural occupation calls forth, both in the bystander and those who are engaged in it? It seems almost entirely the result of association. Something, indeed, may be attributed to the mere animal pleasure of a healthy employment in the open air, while breezes, freighted with sweet odors, breathe softly and shed their salubrious influence around; but if we consider the matter calmly and discriminatingly, we shall find that by far the deepest and most exhilarating sense of the emotion lies in suggestions and feelings chiefly of a moral and benevolent kind. How far there may be a pleasure of taste arising from the swinging motion of the mowers, moving as if actuated by one common impulse, independent of any other principle of the mind, I shall not pretend to determine. Mental operations are so recondite, and the seat and moving cause of inward emotion so mysterious, that, when we attempt to analyze, we may, in our ignorance, overlook some important element; but undoubtedly a chief part of our enjoyment arises from a secret sentiment of sympathy. A concerted movement implies a common will; and this, of itself, excites an agreeable sensation in the mind, when that will is directed to some useful object. The pleasure, too, arising from a scheme of utility successfully completed, is another moral element that enters into the feeling. The farmer has sown in hope, he is now reaping in joy, and we feel a sentiment of congratulation, even where we have no opportunity of expressing it. We place ourselves in his situation, and shadow forth to our imaginations what he must feel at this consummation of his labors. That this is a very principal part of our enjoyment, will appear obvious, if we only consider that the feeling is much enhanced by the luxuriance of the crop and the favorable nature of the weather. Let any man fancy to himself what would be his sensations, were he to see the very same operation going forward in a field overgrown with weeds, or where the hay was stinted in its growth, or withered by the drought; or if he saw the mowers plying their task, for some cause or other, in the midst of a storm: yet the movements are the same; the associations only are changed. The very same observations may be applied to the other labors of the hay field. It is the pleasure of sympathy, an excitement of the benevolent feeling in our breast; and it is a wise arrangement of our Creator, that all rural occupations, prosperously carried on, are attended with a similar feeling. It not only increases the sum of our enjoyments, but, in a very salutary manner, exercises the social virtues. Mr. Alison, in his work on the "Principles of Taste,' extends this view even to rural scenery. "A common English landscape," says he; "green meadows, with cattle, canals, or navigable rivers; well-fenced, well-cultivated fields; neat, clean, scattered cottages; humble, antique churches, with churchyard elms, and crossing hedge-rows, all seen under bright skies, and in good weather; there is much beauty, as every one will allow, in such a scene. "But in what does the beauty consist? Not certainly in the mere mixture of colors and forms; for colors more pleasing, and lines more graceful, (according to any theory of grace that may be preferred,) might be spread upon a board or a painter's palette, without attracting a second glance of the eye, or raising the least emotion in the mind; but, in the picture of human happiness that is presented to our imaginations and affections, in the visible and unequivocal signs of comfort, and cheerful and peaceful enjoyment, and of that secure and successful industry which insures its continuance, and of the piety with which it is exalted, and the simplicity by which it is contrasted with the guilt and the fever of a city life; in the images of health, and temperance, and plenty which it exhibits to every eye, and the glimpses which it affords to warmer imaginations, of those primitive or fabulous times, when man was uncorrupted by luxury and ambition, and of those humble retreats, in which we still delight to imagine that love and philosophy may find an unpolluted asylum." There is much good feeling, as well as sound philosophy, in this view, although there may, perhaps, be a somewhat undue but excusable leaning to the author's own peculiar theory. The beauty and general truth of the sentiment that follows, cannot fail to strike every mind, whether the philosophical view, which it is intended to establish, be adopted or not. "At all events, however, it is human feeling that excites our sympathy, and forms the object of our emotions. It is man that we see in the beauties of the earth which he inhabits; or, if a more sensitive and extensive sympathy connect us with the lower families of animated nature, and make us rejoice with the lambs that bleat on the uplands, or the cattle that ruminate in the valley, or even with the living plants that drink the bright sun and the balmy air, it is still the idea of enjoyment, of feelings that animate the existence of sentient beings, that calls forth all our emotions, and is the parent of all that beauty with which we invest the objects of the inanimate creation around us." Without determining whether or not there may be too much exclusiveness in this view of the origin of a sense of the beautiful, I shall add, that there is here a foundation for a deep and enlightened devotional sentiment. While our sympathies go forth towards our fellow-mortals, in the contemplation of the objects with which we are surrounded, we have but to take another step to connect this feeling with the Author of all that interests our affections and calls forth our emotions. Such, indeed, is the habitual feeling of the pious mind. He sees God in every thing; and, whenever his heart overflows with pleasure, it rises in gratitude and admiration to the Source of all pleasure, his taste acquiring new expansion, his sentiments additional force and elevation, and his enjoyments a warmer and brighter glow. SAC. PHIL. SEASONS. THE ENJOYMENTS OF THE POOR IN SPRING. Wherever we THIS is truly the glad season of the year. turn our eyes, Nature wears a smile of joy, as if, freed from the storms and the cold of winter, she revelled in the well enhanced luxury of spring. The lengthening day, the increasing warmth of the air, and the gradually deepening green of the awakened earth, excite in every breast a lively sense of gratitude, and pleasingly affect the imagination. A walk among the woods or fields, in a calm spring day, when the trees are bursting forth into beauty, and all the land is echoing with song, may well soothe the stormiest passions, and inspire that "vernal delight" which is "able to drive away all sadness but despair." The mind sympathizes with the joy of inanimate nature, and rejoices to behold the reviving beauty of the earth, as if itself had escaped from a period of gloom to bask in the sunshine of hope and enjoyment. We are familiar with the joys of spring as felt or sung by poets and other ardent lovers of nature. They form the burden of many a poetic strain, and excite to many a meditative reverie. They have inspired enthusiasm and deep delight ever since there was an eye to witness, or a mind to feel, the harmony and loveliness of this gorgeously arrayed and breathing world. They are the source of exquisite emotion to every mind in which dwells a sense of beauty or creative design. They also light the brow of care, and bring back the flush of health and hope to the pale and wasted cheek. And not |