ON THE LOVE OF COUNTRY By the waters of Babylon, we sat down and wept, when we remembered thee, Oh Sion !-PSALM CXXXVii. 1. THIS beautiful Psalm was written in commemoration of the Babylonish captivity, written, if we may judge, from the lively feelings it exhibits, soon after the period of that memorable event; and, in truth, it is not possible to read it without emotion : It tells a tale of sorrow with that simple melancholy which the heart can only feel, and the imagination never counterfeit: They hung up their harps on the willow trees, they could not sing the songs of their God, for they were in captivity, and heaviness of spirit. oppressed them; they thought of their country, and sat down by the waters of Babylon to weep. Whence, it may be asked, does this love of our country, this universal passion, proceed? Why are not other soils as grateful, and other heavens as gay? Why does the soul of man ever cling to that earth where it first knew pleasure, and pain, and, under the rough discipline of the passions, was roused to the dignity of moral life? Is it only that our country contains our kindred, and our friends? It cannot be this; the most friendless of human beings has a country which he admires and extols, and which he would, in the same circumstances, prefer to all others under heaven. Tempt him with the fairest face of nature, place him by living waters, under shadowy cedars of Lebanon, open to his view all the gorgeous allurements of the climates of the sun; he will love the rocks and deserts of his childhood better than all these, and thou canst not bribe his soul to forget the land of his nativity; he will sit down and weep by the waters of Babylon, when he remembers thee, Oh Sion. The love of our country has been ridiculed by some modern enthusiasts, as too narrow a field for the benevolence of an enlightened mind; they are for comprehending the whole human race in our affections, and deem any partiality shown to the particular country in which we happen to be born, as a narrow, and unphilosophical preference: Now, it would be difficult to say, whether complete selfishness, or universal philanthropy, is the most likely to mislead us from that sound practical goodness, in which the beauty of Christianity, and the merit of a Christian, consist. Our sphere of thoughts has hardly any limits, our sphere of action hardly any extent; we may speculate on worlds, we must act in families, in districts, and in kingdoms; and if we contract a distaste for the good we can do, because it is not equal to the good we can conceive, we only sacrifice deeds to words, and rule our lives by maxims of the most idle, and ostentatious sentiment. There is a crime committed against the country, in times of its adversity, which is certainly of the most sordid, and selfish nature; that men who derive not only protection, but opulence, from a country in the days of its prosperity, should, upon any appearance of alarm, be ever ready to retire with person, and property to other countries, is a principle subversive of all political union whatsoever. What nation could exist for a moment, if, in the day of danger, and war, when the kingdoms were gathered together against her, she saw her treasures dispersed, and her children fled ? Are we not all linked together by language, by birth, by habits, by opinions, by virtues, for worse, for better, for glory, for shame, for peace, for war, for plenty, for want? Will you shudder to interweave your destiny with the destiny of your country? Can you possibly think of your own security when your land is weary, and fainting because of her great afflictions? And when all whom you know, and love can die, and suffer, would you alone live, and rejoice? If I forget thee, Oh Jerusalem! let my right hand forget her cunning: If I do not remember thee in the time of my trouble, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth. H. Of old sat Freedom on the heights" BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON (1809-1892) The thunders breaking at her feet: Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, Then stept she down thro' town and field The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes ! ENGLISH BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE (1804-1864) ITALY has nothing like it, nor America. There never was such weather except in England, where, in requital of a vast amount of horrible east-wind between February and June, and a brown October and black November, and a wet, chill, sunless winter, there are a few weeks of incomparable summer, scattered through July and August, and the earlier portion of September, small in quantity, but exquisite enough to atone for the whole year's atmospherical delinquencies. After all, the prevalent sombreness may have brought out those sunny intervals in such high relief, that I see them, in my recollection, brighter than they really were: a little light makes a glory for people who live habitually in a gray gloom. The English, however, do not seem to know how enjoyable the momentary gleams of their summer are; they call it broiling weather, and hurry to the seaside with red, perspiring faces, in a state of combustion and deliquescence; and I have observed that even their cattle have similar susceptibilities, seeking the deepest shade, or standing mid-leg deep in pools and streams to cool themselves, at temperatures which our own cows would deem little more than |