AMONG the class of pensive pleasures, which, like mournful music, soothe our feelings while they awaken our sensibility, there is none more interesting than the contemplation of Ruins.

Yet it is infinitely more easy to experience this sensation than to define its origin. Nor is it always for our happiness to look for causes when we are satisfied with the effects. But this is a subject that peculiarly awakens our curiosity and inquiry, as it is in apparent opposition to every rule by which we are in general influenced. For, if PERFECTION be in every instance the source of admiration, whether in Nature or Art, it is here that IMPERFECTION, nay even DESOLATION, charms; and perhaps it is much more easy to say what it is not, than to define what it is.

Decrepid age, feeble, bending, tottering, in danger of falling with the least gust of wind at every step;—or some mutilated wretch deprived of a leg or an arm;—a house half pulled down, half standing forlorn, or ravaged and black with fire;—a garden whose fences are broken, and whose walks and wonted beauties are all choked and overrun with brambles and every reptile weed;—these all are Ruins! Yet in what different forms must they appear, before they can produce any thing like pleasure to the beholder? pleasure of that pensive kind so con. genial to a tender heart. It is, however, of no rustic origin: the vulgar cannot experience it: the peasant, scared and overcome with superstitious fears, passes with hasty steps the spot, where the pilgrim feet of taste and feeling will linger with untired delay.

To one of this cast, a fine Gothic moss‐clad ivied Ruin, whether it be abbey or baronial' castle, is an object beyoud measure interesting.

It is a beautiful record of ages past; a page of history illuminated by the pleasures of imagination; a theatre which the changing seasons and revolving years have decorated, softening every tint to harmony, and which the spectator can people with actors at his bidding. It is no regretted friend he mourns; no individual sorrow blends with the scene: it is a "tale of other times," united with the sympathies of our nature for the fate of the human race "now to the earth gone down."

It is Desolation clothed in the garb of beauty by the hand of Time, that fascinates his attention, and steals him from himself.

Hours uncounted pass away; the sun has set, and the rising moon still finds him on the battlement. All personal regard absorbed, danger unfelt, unthought of, every faculty is enchained by the new beauties that surround him, which the moon begins to illuminate with still more enchanting effect.

HERMITAGES ever convey romantic and pleasing ideas, and awaken a train of pensive feelings, and are ever found in the most secluded scenes.—Yet should we ask what renders them peculiarly interesting, it is not merely their situation, but that they have been the chosen retreats of the deeply unfortunate, and of characters the most singular; who perhaps having been engaged in adventures whose consequences have been fatal to their happiness, have at length been induced to retire from the world; and thus remote from its deceptions, time and reflection have softened their sorrows and purified their hearts. And from such sources have emanated the germs of every virtue,—mildness, gentleness, charity, devotion, and the purest sanctity of manners.

Men of the most elevated birth, and of the highest attainments, have been often known to devote themselves to the shade of the Hermitage; even the Courtier, aud the Hero who has led armies to victory! Public neglect and private wrong have alike contributed to the same resource. But to such characters Retirement brings the happiest advantages. They may be said to resemble a picture, where the drawing is fine, but the colouring, like the passions, too vivid, while every passing day, by imperceptible degrees, adds to its perfection.

The venerable Anchorite at length becomes both physician and divine. He studies for the benefit of others, and often affords them that consolation he feels the want of himself; and, while his own bosom is still sad and cheerless, has inspired with hope the unfortunate and the wanderer, whom chance has led to his lonely cell; a cave, perhaps, excavated from the side of a mountain, and completed with the roots of trees, which he has with infinite labour cut and arranged, with all the contrivances that his ingenuity could suggest, to shelter himself from the changes and rigour of the seasons.

There is always something peculiarly interesting in considering the manner by which a perfect recluse supplies the means of his existence. For in the world we are so dependent on each other, that such thoughts have even an air of novelty, every thing being supplied without any efforts of our own. The fortunate gradations of society make every thing easy; but in almost impenetrable woods and wilds, to discover modes of comfort as well as of existence, a solitary recluse must be a host in himself!

Perhaps, among all the little histories and tales of youth, that of Robinson Crusoe is in this respect the most interesting. Nothing can be conceived more natural, more simple. We take a part in the most trifling action, every feeling, every thought; our hearts are identified with poor Crusoe and his Cave. Yet as he was not a voluntary recluse, the comparison will not be allowed; as I fear the celebrated Hermits of the continent would think themselves degraded by being named in his company. For there is a certain dignity in voluntary seclusion, which must ever be the chief support of the soul of him who makes the sacrifice.

Hermitages then, even though never inhabited; yet as being dedicated to solitude, are a source of pensive pleasure; and when constructed with simplicity and judgement, and surrounded with romantic, wild, and interesting scenery, have an influence on the feelings, more seducing, and attractive, than the most polished architecture of Greece or Rome.

THE various subjects which have grown, as it were, out of the little Poems which compose these pages, and which I have so faintly and inadequately touched, will, however, serve to confirm the opinion that our pleasurable feelings are much more frequent than we ourselves are aware of, or are inclined to allow; seldom reflecting that even those tinted with melancholy have still irresistible attractions.

Listlessness and vacuity of mind are so abhorrent to our nature, so tedious, and sit so heavily on the springs of life, that any object which awakens interest and produces a succession of ideas, as contrasted to torpor and apathy, even though allied toPAIN, is PLEASING; and there is no object in nature which more completely answers this end, and calls every feeling into action, than a storm at sea when contemplated in safety from the land; even the very verge of danger is one of the most powerful sources of attraction.

The sea in such a state of agitation produces unceasing changes and perpetual variety, and the attention is sometimes so fixed and fascinated by the sublimity of the scene, that the soul seems almost incorporated into the very elements, and blended with the storm.

How sudden and frequent are those transtions in the Autumn, which make a marine re‐ sidence at that season so particularly interesting!

One day the sea is calm like a mirror, succeeded by a soft breeze and an evening of exquisite beauty;—we are never tired with watching its silver and beamy Iight, and though borrowed from the moon, it is often so beautifully reflected that it forms a fine emblem of that gratitude, which "by owing owes not, but still "pays, at once indebted and discharged*."

By the wonderful influence of an unseen power of the winds, of merely agitated air, how totally changed is the scene in a few short hours! The roaring of the sea is distinctly heard, though screened from our view by intervening cliffs and distance. To gratify our curiosity and witness the change, we must quit the shelter of our situation, and openly encounter the storm.

Heaven and Earth! what a scene presents itself! The whole ocean, far as the eye can reach, is covered with white foam, and forms a watery wilderness of terrors.

See! see! how those poor fishermen run to secure their boat, and drag it up the beach out of the surf, which would soon beat it to pieces! Alas! perhaps the subsistence of themselves and families depends on the security of their only treasure. Look how the waves dash over the Pier! the work of years and labour of hundreds; how firm the resistance; yet even now while we gaze, the jointed masses begin to sever, nor can unmoved sustain the dread assault of the raging element.

Let us stand further back, even here the spray covers us.

Look along the shore to the right near the Battery; how tremendous the swell! and see that ship with her tattered sail and broken mast driven so near the ledge of rocks; another is coming round the point, whose condition seems still worse.

How dreadfully she labours! Hark! a gun, 'tis a signal of distress; again did you not see the flash? Another! Oh! Heavens, will not some boat venture off to their assistance?— There is a small vessel seems endeavouring to reach the shore; how it is tost! and now seems dipping its sail into the sea; see just opposite the blazing beacon on the cliff. It is the smugglers' warning, the signal of those hardy and intrepid men, who despising danger in all its forms, and ruder than the winds and seas, often display a bravery and courage which would do honour to a nobler cause.

Their fire improves the picture, and while they are adding fresh fuel, as the winds scatter the lighted brands around them, they resemble one of those groups of banditti with which Salvator animates his wildest scenes.