II n the summer of the year 18-, I took an excursion through part of the west of England; and after travelling on horseback several days, I resolved to tarry at the beautiful village of Stanmoor. Passing along, I stopped in front of a small but respectable looking inn, whose honeysuckled porch and tidy exterior promised to afford a tranquil and comfortable place of sojourn, and I made up my mind to rest for a season beneath its humble roof. Having taken my horse to the stable, and given the hostler instructions to take good care of him, I was shown into a neat small back room, which commanded a very beautiful view. As I stood gazing and musing while the homely-looking landlady was preparing my coffee, the lines of Milton's Morning Hymn recurred to my recollection; but never, till that moment, had they produced such an exciting effect: