den had entirely deranged my day. I could not alter
it there without disturbing the economy of a family where I was as a
visitor, necessity having forced me to accept of an invitation from a
private family, the lodgings were so incommodious.

Amongst the Norwegians I had the arrangement of my own time, and I
determined to regulate it in such a manner that I might enjoy as much of
their sweet summer as I possibly could; short, it is true, but "passing
sweet."

I never endured a winter in this rude clime, consequently it was not the
contrast, but the real beauty of the season which made the present summer
appear to me the finest I had ever seen. Sheltered from the north and
eastern winds, nothing can exceed the salubrity, the soft freshness of
the western gales. In the evening they also die away; the aspen leaves
tremble into stillness, and reposing nature seems to be warmed by the
moon, which here assumes a genial aspect. And if a light shower has
chanced to fall with the sun, the juniper, the underwood of the forest,
exhales a wild perfume, mixed with a thousand nameless sweets that,
soothing the heart, leave images in the memory which the imagination will
ever hold dear.

Nature is the nurse of sentiment, the true source of taste; yet what
misery, as well as rapture, is produced by a quick perception of the
beautiful and sublime when it is exercised in observing animated nature,
when every beauteous feeling and emotion excites responsive sympathy, and
the harmonised soul sinks into melancholy or rises to ecstasy, just as
the chords are touched, like the AEolian harp agitated by the changing
wind. But how dangerous is it to foster these sentiments in such an
imperfect state of existence, and how difficult to eradicate them when an
affection for mankind, a passion for an individual, is but the unfolding
of that love which embraces all that is great and beautiful!

When a warm heart has received strong impressions, they are not to be
effaced. Emotions become sentiments, and the imagination renders even
transient sensations permanent by fondly retracing them. I cannot,
without a thrill of delight, recollect views I have seen, which are not
to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every nerve, which I shall
never more meet. The grave has closed over a dear friend, the friend of
my youth. Still she is present with me, and I hear her soft voice
warbling as I stray over the heath. Fate has separated me from anoth