she has to expect from so much toil, is no more than to take some wretched fly in her web. The silk-worm, on the contrary, boasts herself to be one of the most happy creatures that live on the face of the earth; for, says she, I am sought after as if I were a precious diamond. I am exported from foreign countries; my ease and convenience are carefully attended to; and happy is he who best can lodge, entertain, and cherish me. If I labour, my pains are well bestowed; for, instead of flies like you, poor spider, I captivate kings. The proudest potentates, who value themselves most on their independence, scorn not to be decorated by my productions. I add ornament to beauty. The four corners of the earth divide my works with admiration, and the very altars which lead the mind to heaven glitter under embellishments that are the fruit of my industry.

The condition of human life, like that of the creatures mentioned, is a condition of labour, of anxiety, and

care.

On by far the greatest portion of mankind perpetually recurring toils are imposed by the necessity under which they are placed, of obtaining, by this means, the supply of their first and most pressing wants. Where that motive is wanting, its place is amply supplied by desires, passions, and other powerful principles of our mature. Or if any one would elude the general law of his being, by sinking into apathy and idleness, he will soon find that it is in this path, beyond all others, that he will have to encounter restless uneasiness, disquietude, and distraction of mind, in their worst and most forbidding forms.

In these circumstances, there is no question, that the first object for all who are so situated as, to have any command of their time, is anxiously to escape from a state of inaction: the next is, to endeavour that their activity be directed always to some useful purpose. It is not enough that

the motion of water prevents it from stagnating the stream which we view with pleasure is that which, murmuring gently down a channel from which it contracts no stain, receives on its clear surface, and reflects to the eye of the observer, a scenery rich in varied beauty, at once grateful to sense, and highly interesting to the best affections.

To the inexperienced mind of youth, when it first begins to direct its observation to the objects around it, it is extremely probable that the world will wear the aspect only of happiness. The gaiety of heart natural to that period of life, transferring a portion of its own brightness to outward things, it appears to itself to have been placed in a garden, stored with delights, where nothing is wanting but to put forth the hand in order to the full gratification of every desire. Resolved to taste the joys which seem on every side to court its acceptance, it is to be held by no restraint from grasping at the gilded phantoms which float before it. Disappointed repeatedly in its hopes, still is it not to be convinced but that there is something substantial in the felicity which it pur

sues.

With pertinacious assiduity it continues to tread in the rounds of pleasure, it climbs the difficult steeps of ambition, or it works in the mines of avarice, till at length a ray of purer light, when too late perhaps for any good purpose, darting into the soul, discovers to it the miserable truth that all these labours have been vain.

In such a moment of galling reflection, let not the fretted mind attempt to vindicate itself from the blame with which it is justly chargeable. That external things should be the object of 'our early, and even of a great regard, is perhaps no more than might be expected both from the constitution of our nature, and in respect of the present condition of society; but then there are certain stated limits beyond which that regard ought not to

be

be indulged, and which it cannot pass without our being guilty of misconduct. It is a wise and a good appointment of Providence, that the scenes and the objects amid which our life is to be spent, by which our first thoughts are to be called forth, and which are to serve for the exercise of our faculties, and the trial of our virtues, should have in them for us many attractions. Without this it is not easily to be conceived how the purposes of our existence should have been accomplished, or that activity kept alive which is the prime source of every thing that is valuable in life. An attachment which ought not to be extreme, due provision has been made, at the same time, however, for retaining within proper limits; and it is owing to ourselves, if the many indications we receive of the inconstancy and unsatisfying nature of those things which are too much the prevailing objects of pursuit, do not convince us that they are not to be rested on as the legitimate and ultimate aim of all our exertions. It may require more philosophy than falls to the share of every one, to hit precisely on the proper medium in this matter; from which there is an equal deviation, when a fanatic moroseness prohibits even the innocent enjoy ments of life, as when a too licentious spirit gives ample scope to every ir regularity. There is, however, such a thing undoubtedly as a just standard for the direction of human conduct in regard to those outward things with which it is so necessarily and closely connected; and on this being found, and duly adhered to, it may be affirmed with safety, that the greater half will depend, of all the virtue and all the happiness of mankind.

It was a great subject of inquiry among the ancient philosophers, wherein consists the true good of man. But if we are to judge by the results of those inquiries, we will be obliged to conclude that they were too frequent

ly carried on under the influence of a certain paradoxical spirit, rather than of a sincere desire for the discovery of truth. Whence else could have arisen opinions which, on the one side, allow to external things no effect at all upon happiness, or which, on the other, make them the sole, or chief principle of it. We are not surprised at instances of extremes in the actual conduct of life; nor need we wonder much if we should meet with examples of a most rapid transition from one such extreme to another; but as a merely speculative question, the point at issue, it is presumed, admits of a very easy and a very certain determination. The proper happiness of man is to be judged of by a regard to his whole nature. Even to the sensitive part of it, he may owe a great deal both of innocent and pleasing enjoyment. But his purest and most permanent delights, it evidently was intended that he should derive from the culture of the nobler powers of reason, from the exercise of the social affections, from the inward consciousness of a daily progress in the path of intellectual and moral improvement. The great secret for tasting with a due relish of all the joys which life has really to give, is to preserve always a just subordination in the degrees of attachment to different orders of them, never admitting into our minds any sentiment in respect of inferior gratifications, which the higher and better principles of our nature would scruple to approve. The soul of man was assuredly not formed for grovelling for ever in the dust. Neither, on the other hand, is it capable, in its present state, of bearing, uninterruptedly, the splendours of celestial light. It is in the middle path that the truly useful and respectable in human conduct is to be found it is there that a solid satisfaction is to be enjoyed,a satisfaction placed, in some measure, beyond the reach of accidents; for what circumstances of outward for

:

tune

latter, however, greatly predominate 2. and while spots of cultivated retirement are comparatively few, the romantic beauties of simple nature are abun dantly displayed. Every where may be seen rocks of immense size standing in the sea, and, in some places, at a great distance from the land; some are perforated by magnificent arches, of great magnitude and regularity; in others, there are deep caverns and subterranean recesses; some are cleft in two nearly to the bottom, and others present accuminated tops, exhibiting an endless variety of form and appearance. Although several places possess this combination of wildness and tranquillity, the most perfect instances of it occur in the island of Unst, and in the parishes of Northmaven and Dunrossness. Balta-sound is a bay two miles long, and about half a mile broad, so completely shut in by the island of Balta, that, seen from a dis. tance, it resembles a lake. Both side of this bay are in a state of high culs tivation, and sheltering hills rise gra

tent.

dually from the shore. About half a mile from the beach there is a commanding view of the northern ocean, beyond Balta, which it has nearly cut asunder; so that one can at once contemplate the serenity of villages and fields, and the tempestuous motion of a stormy sea. On the west side of the peninsula of Northmaven is a succession of high and precipitous rocks, and back from their edges are verdant plains of several miles in exThese plains are called the Villens of Ure. About two nundred and forty feet directly back from the brink of one of these rocks, are two very large caverns, called the holes of Seraada. They are separated from each other above, by a solid mass of rock covered with grass. The sea covers the bottom of the one nearest the edge of the precipice, to a considerable height; but it does not penetrate more than half way into the inner one, which is larger in circumference than the former, and has a beach in it. The distance through which the water flows in this subterranean vault, is above three hundred feet ; but I could not ascertain the height of the arch. Some years ago a boat passed under it, to bring off some wood which the sea had driven on the beach. In a fine summer evening the scene here is truly magnificent: the western ocean swelling on towards the land, the fishing boats almost disappearing on its distant waves, the wild screams of the sea-fowl among the rocks, the verdure of the fields, and these awful gulphs suddenly opening to view, arrest the attention, and excite in the mind the mingled emotiens of admiration and horror. Dunrossness presents many beautiful examples of this interesting species of contrast; and in this district there are fields which would not suffer by a comparison with any in Mid-Lothian.

Almost all the large islands are deeply intersected by tortuous bays, or voes, as they are called, which af

ford

ford facilities for internal communication, and excellent harbours for vessels. Several of these are very commodious, well sheltered from every wind, and sufficiently capacious to contain the navy of Britain. There are also a variety of lakes, some of which are interspersed with small islands; but none of them much exceed two miles in length. In general, they communicate with the sea by small streams, which the rains in winter sometimes augment so much as to render them hardly passable; but although some descend from a considerable height, there are no falls of water exceeding a few feet.

Numerous hills diversify the face of the country, and traverse it in different directions. The highest of them all is Rona's Hill, or Mons Ronaldi, in the parish of Northmaven. The accounts of the altitude of this mountain are very contradictory. To some, the barometer has indicated its height to be between fourteen and fifteen hundred feet. In the Statistical Account of Northmaven, it is stated, that "it was found, by geometrical mensuration, to be 3944 feet above the level of the sea. As these statements differ so widely, it is very probable that neither is correct: were I to judge from my experience of the effect produced in similar situations, I should be disposed to believe that it does not exceed two thousand feet, if indeed it be so much. In a clear day, the prospect from this hill is varied and extensive; and an excellent idea may be formed of the frequent intersections of water which occur.

There are several lofty headlands projecting into the sea, which present a grand and an imposing appearance. Noss-head, on the east side of Bressay, is perfectly mural, and is above six hundred feet high. It is also known by the name of Hang Cliff. Fitfulhead, in the southern extremity of the country, is a bold and extensive rock, and can be seen at a great distance off,

by vessels approaching Zetland from the south-west. The cliffs of Foula literally lose themselves in the clouds. This island lies about sixteen miles from Mainland, and is at all times a sublime object. It appears of a dark blue colour, and is frequently encircled with a belt of clouds, above which its tops can be distinctly perceived. It is two miles long, and rises gradually towards the west, where its perpendicular rocks are opposed to the whole force of the Atlantic Ocean.

The currents among the different islands are extremely rapid, and run in every direction, but the greatest streams occur at the northern and southern extremities of the country. Even in the calmest day, the agitation of the sea, in the course of the tide, off Scaw and Sumburghhead, resembles that produced by a storm, and when contrasted with the smooth surface which surrounds it, presents a spectacle truly astonishing.

The arable land bears a very small proportion to the uncultivated parts of the country; and it occurs chiefly on the sea coast, and on the sides of the bays. There are instances of internal cultivation, to a considerable extent, in the parishes of Dunrossness, Tingwall, and the island of Unst, although no where does it extend beyond two miles and a half from the sea. The absence, however, of trees, or shrubbery of any kind, except in a few gardens, to enliven and diversify the prospect, necessarily produces a great degree of uniformity in the scenery, which, on this account, soon ceases to attract the eye, or to engage the attention.

The climate of the Zetland islands. is very variable and damp, although by no means generally unwholesome to their inhabitants. Spring can scarcely be said to commence until April, and there is but little general warmth before the middle of June. The summer terminates for the most part with August, though sometimes it conti