A PEACEFUL, recluse life, is suited to my temper—there is something in the soft breath of Nature—in the delicacy of smiling meadows and cultivated fields—in the sublimity of an aged wood—of broken ROCKS—of rivers pouring along their lucid waves, to which the heart always gives a ready reception—there is something within us congenial to these scenes; they impress the mind with ideas similar to what we feel in beholding one whom we tenderly esteem. I WAS making this observation to Mrs. _Holmes_, and she told me I was in love—“These are the very scenes,” said she, “which your beloved _Myra_ used to praise and admire, and for which you, by a secret sympathy, entertain the same predilection. The piece of embroidery which she worked at an early age, and which ornaments the Temple, I have seen you gaze upon several times—you seem to trace perfection in every part of it, because it was executed by the hand of _Myra_.” I ACKNOWLEDGE I have often gazed upon it (as Mrs. _Holmes_ terms it) but did not recollect it to be a piece of your work. I stole an opportunity to revisit it by myself and I instantly remembered it—I remembered when you finished it, and all the happy, inoffensive scenes of our childhood, returned fresh upon my heart. IT is the work _Myra_, said I to myself—Did not her fingers trace these beautiful expanding flowers?—Did she not give to this carnation its animated glow, and to this opening rose its languishing grace? Removed as I am—continued I in a certain interiour language that every son of nature possesses—Removed as I am, from the amiable object of my tenderest affection, I have nothing to do but to admire this offspring of industry and art—It shall yield more fragrance to my soul than all the _bouquets_ in the universe. I DID not care to pursue the thought—it touched a delicate string—at first, however, I flattered myself I should gain some consolation—but I lost in every reflection. I CONSIDERED the work as coming from your hand, and was delighted the more with it. A piece of steel that has been rubbed with a loadstone, retains the power of attracting small bodies of iron: So the beauties of this embroidery, springing from your hands, continue to draw my attention, and fill the mind with ideas of the artist. Farewel! LETTER XIV. _Harrington_ to _Worthy_. _Boston._ HOW incompetent is the force of words to express some peculiar sensations! Expression is feeble when emotions are exquisite.