The pleasure I received in reading these works--the tears I always shed over the Man of Feeling--prove to me that I was not so abandoned as I thought myself at this time, or at least, that we all have some good about us, however low we may stand in the estimation of the world. I think there is a double lesson to be learned from this: first, that all impressions, however trite and unimportant they may appear at the time they are being made, never should be deemed of small weight, because their effects are not seen immediately: and second, that we should be careful lest we do the greatest injustice to our fellow men, by looking on the surface of character only, which, from some accidental cause, may appear rough and disgusting, while the seeds of good feeling and honorable exertion lie hid from our sight, and only want opportunity to command our applause. With these few silent, voiceless friends, I took up my residence in the village of N----, a village of New-England. The pleasantness of the situation determined my location, for the advantages of study can be had in any place. There was a quiet air about this village, which enchanted me. It lay several miles from any other, on the banks of a river, upon a table-land. One long street extended through it, in a straight line. This street was very wide. The houses were not crowded upon the dusty path, but placed several rods back, with a green lawn in front, and painted white. It did not look like a business place--this was another good point--but it seemed like the residence of old and respectable families. There was fine scenery about it, too; high hills, and deep valleys, watered by swift and clear brooks. There was, and is, and ever will be, an air of easy comfort about this place, to strike strangers and foreigners. There is wealth without ostentation; hospitality without the appearance of obligation; and kindness and benevolence, ever to be remembered. Virtue is natural to a refined mind.