it is otherwise with respect to
nature. A flock of sheep is not a contemptible, but a beautiful sight.
The greatest number and variety of physical objects do not puzzle the
will, or distract the attention, but are massed together under one
uniform and harmonious feeling. The heart reposes in greater security on
the immensity of Nature's works, "expatiates freely there," and finds
elbow room and breathing space. We are always at home with Nature. There
is neither hypocrisy, caprice, nor mental reservation in her favours.
Our intercourse with her is not liable to accident or change, suspicion
or disappointment: she smiles on us still the same. A rose is always
sweet, a lily is always beautiful: we do not hate the one, nor envy the
other. If we have once enjoyed the cool shade of a tree, and been lulled
into a deep repose by the sound of a brook running at its foot, we are
sure that wherever we can find a shady stream, we can enjoy the same
pleasure again; so that when we imagine these objects, we can easily
form a mystic personification of the friendly power that inhabits them,
Dryad or Naiad, offering its cool fountain or its tempting shade. Hence
the origin of the Grecian mythology. All objects of the same kind being
the same, not only in their appearance, but in their practical uses, we
habitually confound them together under the same general idea; and
whatever fondness we may have conceived for one, is immediately placed
to the common account. The most opposite kinds and remote trains of
feeling gradually go to enrich the same sentiment; and in our love of
nature, there is all the force of individual attachment, combined with
the most airy abstraction. It is this circumstance which gives that
refinement, expansion, and wild interest, to feelings of this sort, when
strongly excited, which every one must have experienced who is a true
lover of nature.

It is the same setting sun that we see and remember year after year,
through summer and winter, seed-time and harvest. The moon that shines
above our heads, or plays through the checquered shade, is the same moon
that we used to read of in Mrs. Radcliffe's romances. We see no
difference in the trees first covered with leaves in the spring. The dry
reeds rustling on the side of a stream--the woods swept by the loud
blast--the dark massy foliage of autumn--the grey trunks and naked
branches of the trees in winter--the sequestered copse, and
wide-extended heath-