Communing with the glorious universe.

Full often wish'd he that the winds might rage
When they were silent; far more fondly now
Than in his earlier season did he love
Tempestuous nights-the conflict and the sounds
That live in darkness:-from his intellect
And from the stillness of abstracted thought
He ask'd repose; and, failing oft to win
The peace required, he scann'd the laws of light
Amid the roar of torrents, where they send
From hollow clefts up to the clearer air
A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun
Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus,
And vainly by all other means, he strove
To mitigate the fever of his heart.

In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought,
Thus was he rear'd; much wanting to assist
The growth of intellect, yet gaining more,
And every moral feeling of his soul
Strengthen'd and braced, by breathing in content
The keen, the wholesome air of poverty,
And drinking from the well of homely life.-
But, from past liberty, and tried restraints,
He now was summon'd to select the course
Of humble industry that promised best
To yield him no unworthy maintenance.
Urged by his mother, he essay'd to teach

Their manners, their enjoyments and pursuits,
Their passions and their feelings; chiefly those
Essential and eternal in the heart,

That, mid the simpler forms of rural life,
Exist more simple in their elements,
And speak a plainer language. In the woods,
A lone enthusiast, and among the fields,
Itinerant in this labour, he had pass'd
The better portion of his time; and there
Spontaneously had his affections thriven
Amid the bounties of the year, the peace
And liberty of nature; there he kept
In solitude and solitary thought
His mind in a just equipoise of love.
Serene it was, unclouded by the cares
Of ordinary life; unvex'd, unwarp'd
By partial bondage. In his steady course,
No piteous revolutions had he felt,
No wild varieties of joy and grief.
Unoccupied by sorrow of its own,
His heart lay open; and, by nature tuned
And constant disposition of his thoughts
To sympathy with man, he was alive
To all that was enjoy'd where'er he went,
And all that was endured; for in himself
Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness,
He had no painful pressure from without

A misery to him; and the youth resign'd

A task he was unable to perform.

That stern yet kindly spirit, who constrains The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks

The freeborn Swiss to leave his narrow vales,
(Spirit attach'd to regions mountainous
Like their own steadfast clouds,) did now impel
His restless mind to look abroad with hope.
An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on,
Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm,
A vagrant merchant bent beneath his load!
Yet do such travellers find their own delight
And their hard service, deem'd debasing now,
Gain'd merited respect in simpler times;

With coward fears. He could afford to suffer
With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came
That in our best experience he was rich,
And in the wisdom of our daily life.

dwelt

In rustic sequestration-all dependent
Upon the pedlar's toil-supplied their wants,
Or pleased their fancies with the wares he brought.
Not ignorant was the youth that still no few
Of his adventurous countrymen were led
By perseverance in this track of life

To competence and ease ;-for him it bore
Attractions manifold;-and this he chose.
His parents on the enterprise bestow'd
Their farewell benediction, but with hearts
Foreboding evil. From his native hills
He wander'd far; much did he see of men,*

At the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices of artificial society, I have ever been ready to pay homage to the aristocracy of nature; under a conviction that vigorous human-heartedness is the constituent principle of true taste. It may still, however, be satisfactory to have prose testimony how far a character, employed for purposes of imagination, is founded upon general fact. I, therefore, subjoin an extract from an author who had opportunities of being well acquainted with a class of men, from whom my own personal knowledge imboldened me to draw this portrait.

"It is farther to be observed, for the credit of this most useful class of men, that they commonly contribute, by their personal manners, no less than by the sale of their

wares, to the refinement of the people among whom they

travel. Their dealings form them to great quickness of wit and acuteness of judgment. Having constant occasion to recommend themselves and their goods, they ac quire habits of the most obliging attention and the most insinuating address. As in their peregrinations they have opportunity of contemplating the manners of various men and various cities, they become eminently skilled in the knowledge of the world. As they wander, each alone, through thinly-inhabited districts, they form habits of reflection and of sublime contemplation. With all these qualifications, no wonder, that they should often be, in remote parts of the country, the best mirrors of fashion, and censors of manners: and should contribute much to polish the roughness, and soften the rusticity of our peasantry. It is not more than twenty or thirty years, since a young man going from any part of Scotland to England, of purpose to carry the pack, was considered, as going to lead the life, and acquire the fortune of a gentleman. When, after twenty years' absence, in that honourable line of employment, he returned with his acquisitions to his native country, he was regarded as a gentleman to all intents and purposes."-Heron's Journey in Scotland, vol. i. p. 89.

For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, He had observed the progress and decay Of many minds, of minds and bodies too The history of many families,

Upon that cottage bench reposed his limbs,
Screen'd from the sun. Supine the wanderer lay,
His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut,
The shadows of the breezy elms above

thrown

By passion or mischance; or such misrule
Among the unthinking masters of the earth
As makes the nations groan.-This active course
He follow'd till provision for his wants
Had been obtain'd;-the wanderer then resolved
To pass the remnant of his days-untask'd
With needless services-from hardship free.
His calling laid aside, he lived at ease.
But still he loved to pace the public roads
And the wild paths; and by the summer's warmth
Invited, often would he leave his home
And journey far, revisiting the scenes
That to his memory were most endear'd.—
Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamp'd
By worldly-mindedness or anxious care;
Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refresh'd
By knowledge gather'd up from day to day ;-
Thus had he lived a long and innocent life.

The Scottish church, both on himself and those
With whom from childhood he grew up, had held
The strong hand of her purity; and still
Had watch'd him with an unrelenting eye.
This he remember'd in his riper age
With gratitude, and reverential thoughts.
But by the native vigour of his mind,
By his habitual wanderings out of doors,
By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works,
Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth,
He had imbibed of fear or darker thought
Was melted all away: so true was this,
That sometimes his religion seem'd to me
Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods;
Who to the model of his own pure heart
Shaped his belief as grace divine inspired,
Or human reason dictated with awe.
And surely never did there live on earth
A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports
And teasing ways of children vex'd not him;
Indulgent listener was he to the tongue

Of garrulous age; nor did the sick man's tale,
To his fraternal sympathy address'd,
Obtain reluctant hearing.

Plain his garb;
Such as might suit a rustic sire, prepared
For Sabbath duties; yet he was a man
Whom no one could have pass'd without remark.
Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs
And his whole figure breathed intelligence.
Time had compress'd the freshness of his cheek
Into a narrower circle of deep red,

But had not tamed his eye; that, under brows
Shaggy and gray, had meanings which it brought
From years of youth; which, like a being made
Of many beings, he had wondrous skill

To blend with knowledge of the years to come,
Human, or such as lie beyond the grave.

So was he framed; and such his course of life
Who now, with no appendage but a staff,
The prized memorial of relinquish'd toils,

Of my approaching steps, and in the shade
Unnoticed did I stand, some minutes' space.
At length I hail'd him, seeing that his hat
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim
Had newly scoop'd a running stream. He rose,
And ere our lively greeting into peace
Had settled," "Tis," said I," a burning day:
My lips are parch'd with thirst, but you, it seems,
Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word,
Pointing towards a sweet-brier, bade me climb
The fence where that aspiring shrub look'd out
Upon the public way. It was a plot

Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds
Mark'd with the steps of those, whom, as they

pass'd,

The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips,
Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems
In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap
The broken wall. I look'd around, and there,
Where too tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs
Join'd in a cold, damp nook, espied a well
Shrouded with willow flowers and plumy fern.
My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade return'd
Where sate the old man on the cottage bench;
And, while beside him, with uncover'd head,

I yet was standing, freely to respire,
And cool my temples in the fanning air,
Thus did he speak. "I see around me here
Things which you cannot see: we die, my friend,
Nor we alone, but that which each man loved
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth
Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon
Even of the good is no memorial left.—
The poets, in their elegies and songs
Lamenting the departed, call the groves,
They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,
And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak,
In these their invocations, with a voice
Obedient to the strong creative power
Of human passion. Sympathies there are
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth,
That steal upon the meditative mind,

And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood,
And eyed its waters till we seem'd to feel
One sadness, they and I. For them a bond
Of brotherhood is broken: time has been
When, every day, the touch of human hand
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up
In mortal stillness; and they minister'd
To human comfort. Stooping down to drink,
Upon the slimy footstone I espied
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl,
Green with the moss of years, and subject only
To the soft handling of the elements:
There let the relic lie-fond thought-vain words:
Forgive them ;-never-never did my steps
Approach this door but she who dwelt within
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her
As my own child. O, sir! the good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust

Burn to the socket. Many a passenger

Hath bless'd poor Margaret for her gentle looks,
When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn
From that forsaken spring: and no one came
But he was welcome; no one went away
But that it seem'd she loved him. She is dead,
The light extinguish'd of her lonely hut,
The hut itself abandon'd to decay,
And she forgotten in the quiet grave!

"I speak," continued he, " of one whose stock
Of virtues bloom'd beneath this lowly roof.
She was a woman of a steady mind,
Tender and deep in her excess of love,
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy
Of her own thoughts: by some especial care
Her temper had been framed, as if to make
A being-who by adding love to peace
Might live on earth a life of happiness.
Her wedded partner lack'd not on his side
The humble worth that satisfied her heart:
Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal
Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell
That he was often seated at his loom,
In summer, ere the mower was abroad
Among the dewy grass,-in early spring,
Ere the last star had vanish'd.-They who pass'd
At evening, from behind the garden fence
Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply,
After his daily work, until the light

Had fail'd, and every leaf and flower were lost
In the dark hedges. So their days were spent
In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy
Was their best hope,-next to the God in heaven.
"Not twenty years ago, but you I think
Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came
Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left
With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add
A worse affliction in the plague of war;
This happy land was stricken to the heart!
A wanderer then among the cottages
1, with my freight of winter raiment, saw
The hardships of that season; many rich
Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor;
And of the poor did many cease to be,
And their place knew them not.

abridged

Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret

Meanwhile,

Went struggling on through those calamitous years
With cheerful hope, until the second autumn,
When her life's helpmate on a sick-bed lay,
Smitten with perilous fever. In disease

He linger'd long: and when his strength return'd,
He found the little he had stored, to meet
The hour of accident or crippling age,
Was all consumed. A second infant now
Was added to the troubles of a time
Laden, for them and all of their degree,
With care and sorrow: shoals of artisans
From ill requitted labour turn'd adrift,
Sought daily bread from public charity,
They, and their wives and children-happier far
Could they have lived as do the little birds
That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite
That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks!
"A sad reverse it was for him who long

Had fill'd with plenty, and possess'd in peace,
This lonely cottage. At his door he stood,
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes
That had no mirth in them; or with his knife
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks-
Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook
In house or garden, any casual work
Of use or ornament; and with a strange,
Amusing, yet uneasy novelty,

He blended, where he might, the various tasks
Of summer, autumn, winter, and the spring.
But this endured not; his good humour soon
Became a weight in which no pleasure was:
And poverty brought on a petted mood
And a sore temper day by day he droop'd,
And he would leave his work-and to the town,
Without an errand, would direct his steps
Or wander here and there among the fields.
One while he would speak lightly of his babes,
And with a cruel tongue: at other times
He toss'd them with a false unnatural joy:
And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks
Of the poor, innocent children. Every smile,'
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees,
'Made my heart bleed.""
At this the wanderer paused;
And, looking up to those enormous elms,
He said, " 'Tis now the hour of deepest noon.-
At this still season of repose and peace,
This hour when all things which are not at rest
Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies
Is filling all the air with melody;

Why should a tear be in an old man's eye?
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind,
And in the weakness of humanity,

From natural wisdom turn our hearts away,
To natural comfort shut out eyes and ears,
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb
The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?"

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone:
But, when he ended, there was in his face
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,
That for a little time it stole away
All recollection, and that simple tale
Pass'd from my mind like a forgotten sound.
Awhile on trivial things we held discourse,
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite,
I thought of that poor woman as of one
Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed
Her homely tale with such familiar power,
With such an active countenance, an eye
So busy, that the things of which he spake
Seem'd present; and attention now relax'd,
A heartfelt chillness crept along my veins.
I rose; and, having left the breezy shade,
Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun,
That had not cheer'd me long-ere, looking round
Upon that tranquil ruin, I return'd,

And begg'd of the old man that, for my sake,
He would resume his story.-

He replied,
"It were a wantonness, and would demand
Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery
Even of the dead: contented thence to draw

A momentary pleasure, never mark'd
By reason, barren of all future good.
But we have known that there is often found
In mournful thoughts, and always might be found,
A power to virtue friendly: were 't not so,
I am a dreamer among men, indeed,
An idle dreamer! 'tis a common tale,

An ordinary sorrow of man's life,

A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed
In bodily form.-But without further bidding
I will proceed.

"While thus it fared with them,
To whom this cottage, till those hapless years,
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance
To travel in a country far remote;
And when these lofty elms once more appear'd,
What pleasant expectations lured me on

O'er the flat common !-With quick step I reach'd
The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch;
But, when I enter'd, Margaret look'd at me
A little while; then turn'd her head away
Speechless, and, sitting down upon a chair,
Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,

Nor how to speak to her. Poor wretch! at last
She rose from off her seat, and then,-O sir!
I cannot tell how she pronounced my name :-
With fervent love, and with a face of grief,
Unutterably helpless, and a look

That seem'd to cling upon me, she inquired
If I had seen her husband. As she spake
A strange surprise and fear came to my heart,
Nor had I power to answer ere she told
That he had disappear'd-not two months gone.
He left his house: two wretched days had past,
And on the third, as wistfully she raised
Her head from off her pillow, to look forth,
Like one in trouble, for returning light,
Within her chamber casement she espied
A folded paper, lying as if placed

To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly
She open'd-found no writing, but beheld
Pieces of money carefully enclosed,
Silver and gold. I shudder'd at the sight,'
Said Margaret, for I knew it was his hand
Which placed it there and ere that day was ended,
That long and anxious day! I learn'd from one
Sent hither by my husband to impart
The heavy news,—that he had join'd a troop
Of soldiers, going to a distant land.
He left me thus-he could not gather heart
To take a farewell of me; for he fear'd
That I should follow with my babes, and sink
Beneath the misery of that wandering life.'

"This tale did Margaret tell with many tears:
And, when she ended, I had little power
To give her comfort, and was glad to take
Such words of hope from her own mouth as served
To cheer us both:-but long we had not talk'd
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts
And with a brighter eye she look'd around
As if she had been shedding tears of joy.
We parted.-'Twas the time of early spring;
I left her busy with her garden tools;
And well remember, o'er that fence she look'd,
And, while I paced along the footway path,
Call'd out, and sent a blessing after me,

With tender cheerfulness; and with a voice
That seem'd the very sound of happy thoughts.
"I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale,
With my accustom'd load; in heat and cold,
Through many a wood, and many an open ground,
In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair,
Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befall;
My best companions now the driving winds,
And now the trotting brooks' and whispering trees,
And now the music of my own sad steps,
With many a shortlived thought that pass'd be-
tween,

And disappear'd.-I journey'd back this way,
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat
Was yellow and the soft and bladed grass,
Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread
Its tender verdure. At the door arrived,
I found that she was absent. In the shade,
Where now we sit, I waited her return.
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore
Its customary look,-only, it seem'd,
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,
Hung down in heavier tufts: and that bright weed,
The yellow stonecrop, suffer'd to take root
Along the window's edge, profusely grew,
Blinding the lower panes. I turn'd aside,
And stroll'd into her garden. It appear'd
To lag behind the season, and had lost

Its pride of neatness. Daisy flowers and thrift
Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er
The paths they used to deck :-carnations, once
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less
For the peculiar pains they had required,
Declined their languid heads, wanting support.
The cumbrous bindweed, with its wreaths and
bells,

Had twined about her two small rows of pease,
And dragg'd them to the earth.-Ere this an hour
Was wasted.-Back I turn'd my restless steps;
A stranger pass'd; and, guessing whom I sought,
He said that she was used to ramble far.-
The sun was sinking in the west; and now
I sate with sad impatience. From within
Her solitary infant cried aloud;

Then, like a blast that dies away self-still'd,
The voice was silent. From the bench I rose;
But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts.
The spot, though fair, was very desolate-
The longer I remain'd more desolate
And, looking round me, now I first observed
The corner-stones, on either side the porch,
With dull red stains discolour'd and stuck o'er
With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep
That fed upon the common, thither came
Familiarly; and found a couching-place
Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell
From these tall elms ;-the cottage clock struck
eight:-

I turn'd, and saw her distant a few steps.
Her face was pale and thin-her figure, too,
Was changed. As she unlock'd the door, she said,
'It grieves me you have waited here so long,
But, in good truth, I've wander'd much of late,
And, sometimes-to my shame I speak-have need
Of my best prayers to bring me back again.'
While on the board she spread our evening meal,

You look at me, and you have cause; to-day
I have been travelling far; and many days
About the fields I wander, knowing this
Only, that what I seek I cannot find;

And so I waste my time: for I am changed;
And to myself,' said she, have done much wrong
And to this helpless infant. I have slept
Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my tears
Have flow'd as if my body were not such
As others are; and I could never die.
But I am now in mind and in my heart
More easy, and I hope,' said she,' that God
Will give me patience to endure the things
Which I behold at home.' It would have grieved
Your very soul to see her; sir, I feel
The story linger in my heart; I fear
"Tis long and tedious; but my spirit clings
To that poor woman :-so familiarly
Do I perceive her manner, and her look
And presence, and so deeply do I feel
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks
A momentary trance comes over me;
And to myself I seem to muse on one
By sorrow laid asleep :-or borne away,
A human being destined to awake
To human life, or something very near
To human life, when he shall come again

For whom she suffer'd. Yes, it would have grieved
Your very soul to see her: evermore

The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books,
Which in the cottage window, heretofore
Had been piled up against the corner panes
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves
Lay scatter'd here and there, open or shut,
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babe
Had from its mother caught the trick of grief,
And sigh'd among its playthings. Once again
I turn'd towards the garden gate, and saw,
More plainly still, that poverty and grief
Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced
The harden'd soil, and knots of wither'd grass:
No ridges there appear'd of clear, black mould,
No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers,
It seem'd the better part were gnaw'd away
Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw,
Which had been twined about the slender stem
Of a young apple tree, lay at its root,
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep,
Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms,
And noting that my eye was on the tree,
She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone
Ere Robert come again.' Towards the house
Together we return'd; and she inquired
If I had any hope:-but for her babe
And for her little orphan boy, she said,
She had no wish to live, that she must die

Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom

Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung
Upon the selfsame nail; his very staff
Stood undisturb'd behind the door. And when,
In bleak December, I retraced this way,
She told me that her little babe was dead,

And, when she at her table gave me food,

She did not look at me. Her voice was low,
Her body was subdued. In every act
Pertaining to her house affairs, appear'd
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self occupied; to which all outward things
Are like an idle matter. Still she sigh'd,
But yet no motion of the breast was seen,
No heaving of the heart. While by the fire
We sate together, sighs came on my ear,
I knew not how, and hardly whence they came.
"Ere my departure, to her care I gave,
For her son's use, some tokens of regard,
Which with a look of welcome she received;
And I exhorted her to place her trust

In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer.
I took my staff, and when I kiss'd her babe
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then
With the best hope and comfort I could give;
She thank'd me for my wish ;-but for my hope
Methought, she did not thank me.

"I return'd,
And took my rounds along this road again
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower
Peep'd forth, to give an earnest of the spring.
I found her sad and drooping; she had learn'd
No tidings of her husband; if he lived,

She knew not that he lived; if he were dead,
She knew not he was dead. She seem'd the same
In person and appearance; but her house
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;

From her maternal cares, had taken up
Th' employment common through these wilds, and

gain'd,

By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself;
And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy
To give her needful help. That very time
Most willingly she put her work aside,
And walk'd with me along the miry road,
Heedless how far; and in such piteous sort
That any heart had ached to hear her, begg'd
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask
For him whom she had lost. We parted then-
Our final parting; for from that time forth
Did many seasons pass ere I return'd
Into this track again.

"Nine tedious years; From their first separation, nine long years, She linger'd in unquiet widowhood;

A wife and widow. Needs must it have been
A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my friend,
That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate
Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath day;
And, if a dog pass'd by, she still would quit
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench
For hours she sate; and evermore her eye
Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick. You see that path
Now faint, the grass has crept o'er its gray line
There, to and fro, she paced through many a day
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp
That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread