'the world,' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules a passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence.
virtue and taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and the most delicate affections of each combine in real love.how then are we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?'
it was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of steep and dangerous road, alighted to walk.the road wound up an ascent, that was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, they entered the refreshing shade.a dewy coolness was diffused upon the air, which, with the bright verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, the mingled fragrance of flowers and of balm, thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines, beech, and chestnuts, that overshadowed them, rendered this a most delicious retreat.sometimes, the thick foliage excluded all view of the country; at others, it admitted some partial catches of the distant scenery, which gave hints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting, more impressive, than any that had been presented to the eye.the wanderers often lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy.