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 village school; but wandering thoughts were then That made him turn aside from wretchedness
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.
"We learn from Cæsar and other Roman writers, that the travelling merchants who frequented Gaul and other barbarous countries, either newly conquered by the Roman arms, or bordering on the Roman conquests, were ever the first to make the inhabitants of those countries familiarly acquainted with the Roman modes of life, and to inspire them with an inclination to follow the Roman fashions, and to enjoy Roman conveniencies. In North America, travelling merchants from the settlements have done and continue to do much more toward civilizing the Indian natives, than all the missionaries, Papist or Protestant,
When squire, and priest, and they who round them who have ever been sent among them.
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
How they had prosper'd; how they were o'er- Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound
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
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.
Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret
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,
Her eyelids droop'd, her eyes were downward cast; And she was left alone. She now, released
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
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
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