THE STRANGER Ir was one of spring's divinest evenings—an evening such as those which, in our youthful days, call forth our tenderest sympathies from their mysterious seclusion. It was an eve, whose soft and holy light stole upon the heart, like the declining loveliness of fading beauty. The daisy had closed its snowy lashes, the bee had ceased from its honied labours, and the zephyr was abroad in search of his favourite young wild-rose. The sound of the mill was no longer heard, and the silver waters were as still and as clear as the skies above them. There was a smile upon the face of nature, like that of some beautiful being, when she prepares to retire to the curtained solitude of her slumbers. merry gurgle of a little stream which flowed beside me, the tremulous lay of the nightingale, and the echoless stir of an occasional falling leaf, were each in unison with some chord that vibrated in my bosom. My heart was swelling with indefinable emotions, and my spirit was lost in its wanderings, amid the cheerless vacuity of my past existence. The It was in this state of mental agitation that I slowly ascended Ashdown Hill, from the top of which, I was aware that I should once more behold the village of my birth, and the seat of my innocence and child`hood. The scenes of my younger days, and the recollection of joys which then inspirited my guileless bosom, passed confesedly across my imagination; and the remembrance of her, whose early fate impelled me to quit the spot to which I was returning, seemed to dissolve the long years which had elapsed since I beheld her in the pride of her innocence, and the majesty of her loveliness. Her history and my own are brief. Her father had been an officer in the British army, and had fallen upon the field of battle, during the revolutionary war in America. Upon the news reaching England, his widow, together with her only child, a lovely girl of fifteen, retired to the peaceful seclusion of the village of Ashdown. Our families soon became intimate with each other, and henceforth I was a frequent visitor to the widow's cottage. At first, I believed my visits were so often repeated, from the delight with which I listened to her tales of camps and battles; but I soon felt that the real enchantress was her daughter, the beautiful Mary. We were nearly of the same age, and were each open to those feelings which create a paradise around the hearts that nourish them. I accompanied her in her evening walks, and her voice was sweeter to me than the twilight's holiest sigh. I met her in my morning rambles, and hailed her as the day-star of my happiness. The very ground on which she trod seemed sacred to me, and the flowers in her little garden were so bright and beautiful, that I fancied it an Eden; and she was the angel for whom it was preserved. Often, in that garden, did I listen to the sweet tones of her voice and her guitar, till my soul, filled with rich fancies, became a heaven; and the silver echoes of her warbling were the music that filled its chambers. We soon discovered, though each long thought it a secret confined to a single breast, that we were formed for each other; and a few years of happiness that passed by us, seemed only to strengthen our mutual PART XI. 38.-Fourth Edit. L VOL II. pe affection. But, alas! the destiny that reigned above us, came darkening on with the foreboding gloom of the thick thunder-cloud, and my beloved Mary fell a victim to the never failing bolt of heaven. She rished like the rose-bud, that falls beneath the blight ere half its beauties are disclosed; and the cold earth claimed one of the loveliest forms that man e'er looked upon. I shall not attempt to describe my anguish at the reflection, that every hope was blasted-that all my joys had vanished like the fairy illusions of a vision. I perceived that a life of activity could alone soften my sorrows, and I determined upon leaving my native country. I bade a long farewell to all my friends, and departed with the blessing of my nearly heart-broken parents. My destination was India: thither I arrived, and immediately entered the Company's ser vice. In about three years I received a letter, bearing the sad intelligence of the decease of my father; and the next packet, brought me the heart-rending information, of the dissolution of my dear mother. My soul became steeled against misfortune, and I felt that, to me, the world was a wilderness. Fearless of death, I rushed on amid the fiercest of the battle, and participated in actions that subsequently led to my promotion. At the expiration of twenty years, I retired from the service, with a handsome income; and after a few months of peaceful indolence, determined upon returning to my native land. On my arrival, my object was to visit Ashdown. For this purpose, I drove to the nearest town; and from thence, the distance being but three miles, set off on foot for the village. first I have before described my agitation in ascending the hill, which overlooked a spot, with which I had so many afflicting associations. Though the wide waste of time had absorbed the current of my gentlest affections, the image of my beloved Mary still haunted my imagination,—she was still the director of my destinies-and her spirit seemed to hover above me with the influence of a protecting angel. Other thoughts, likewise, stole upon me, that were tinctured with melancholy. I had met with a few friends in my youth, whose memories I ever cherished: they were beings who could sympathise with me; whose souls had never felt the impulses which direct the selfish and the mercenary. That I should again meet them, or that, perhaps, they too were inhabitants of the misty charnel-house, was a most painful uncertainty. On arriving at the summit of the hill, the broad, red sun was sinking fast into the western horizon; a few clouds of gold and burning crimson gave a grandeur to his departure, and his rays, darting from between them, fell upon the romantic village of Ashdown. Yes, there it stood~ my own dear, dear native village-the spot where I had first breathed, and where I had passed the sweetest moments of my existence. My first glance was directed to the roof beneath which I was born; and never shall I forget the sensation which that glance brought with it: my blood froze at the thought, that it was a dwelling which had no longer an inhabitant to welcome me. The parting tears of my dear parents, and their fixed gaze upon me, as I left them, burst upon my recollection; 66 and their agonizing sighs still hung upon my ear, like the breathings of an accusing spirit. "But," said I, we shall meet again in heavenand the same sun, which is now casting his last look upon their cold graves, will, ere long, shed his evening smile upon my own." My eye soon passed on to other objects. The village I perceived was much larger than when I left it; and in many places, where there was formerly a mud cottage with its thatched roof, there now stood a brick built house, roofed with glaring red tiles, or smooth blue slates. It delighted me, however, to behold its venerable church and flint tower, in all the roughness of their antiquity. There were also its rugged old bridge, and its market-place, just as I had left them; and on the green, were the same pool and the same old sign-post, round which I had gambolled in my days of boyhood. There was, I remembered, a path to the village through the churchyard; and, having descended the hill, I walked musingly between the rows of elms which led to it. It was here, that on a summer holiday, my little school-mates and myself, freed from the chilling frown of our tutor, assembled for our afternoon's enjoyments-it was here, that my young heart beat high as I vanquished them-and here, that I felt the dawning of that ambition, which imagination told me led to high-wrought destinies. I very shortly approached the church-yard, and entered it with feelings of reverence and awe. My soul sunk within me at the thought, that I was standing, perhaps, within a few yards of that spot, where all that remained of those who gave me birth, reposed in eternal silence and solitude. The dock and the nettle are waving over them, and, perhaps, the snake and the adder are winding their folds along th grassy furrows of their graves. the During the time that I was absorbed in these melancholy reflections, a short, elderly person approached me, and very civilly enquired if I wanted the vicar, as he had just left the church and had gone towards the parsonage. I replied in the negative, and told him I was a stranger to the village. At the same time, I enquired of him, whether there was any respectable inn in it, where I might repose for the night. He mentioned the White Lion, where, he said, I should be sure to meet with good accommodation. I soon found, from this man's conversation, that he was a son of old Mark Jenkins, from whom, it appeared, he inherited the office of sexton; and, as I discovered him to be very communicative, I observed that I should go on to the inn he had mentioned, and that if he were not engaged for the evening, I should be very glad if he would call on me, and we would drink the Vicar's health. He promised to do so, and we parted. I hastened across the green, and on arriving at the church-door, and perceiving it open, I entered. I had scarcely passed the porch, when a few villagers, who were in the gallery, began to sing the evening hymn. The solemnity of the time and place, in some degree soothed the agitation of my feelings; whilst the music, that stole upon my ears, appeared like the harmony of spirits speaking to me from another world. The beloved images of my departed friends flitted across my imagination, and I felt as though their voices were whispering to my soul, that they were gladdened at my return. Yes, if it be given to the pure beings that inherit yon starry heaven, to hold communion with those they love upon this grosser sphere, surely, in that holy moment, did the spirits of my dear pårents, and my angel Mary, breathe into my heart their fond remembrance and affection. As soon as the hymn was finished, the singers quitted the church; and I was left alone, in a place, with which were associated the sweetest pleasures of the spring-time of my existence. It was the same venerable looking hill that I had left it. Its high oaken pews, its painted tablets, and carved pulpit, were things that I could have spoken to-they were my earliest acquaintances, and I had known them in the purest hours of my innocence and happiness. The inexorable figure of decay had slightly passed upon them, but still they were identified with by-gone years. At every step I was met by objects that seemed to claim my recollection. The simple wooden font-the altar-and, on a marble tomb near it, the relics of armour, and the old rusty steel helmet, which had so often excited my boyish wonder. As I pondered upon the scenes, which these objects recalled to me, the shades of evening enveloped the aisles in a misty gloom, and the tolling of the curfew reminded me that it was time to hasten to the village. Here, the good people gazed at me, with that eager look of curiosity, which travellers so frequently experience on entering a hamlet to which they are strangers. Labour, with folded arms, reclined against the door of his humble cot; and the rosy-cheeked village maid, could scarce restrain her smiles as I passed her. In a few minutes I was at the door of the White Lion, whose landlord, in reply to my inquiries, very civilly told me that I could sleep there. My next desire was to be shown into a private room, and after leading me to the other end of the stone passage, I was ushered into a snug little parlour. I soon found, from the low bows, and rustic civility of the landlord, that I was considered by him as no ordinary personage. And indeed, I will not pretend to say, that the thoughts of returning to my birth place so much richer than I had left it, might not have induced me to assume an air of importance. Having ordered some refreshment, I seated myself by the fire-place, and fell into deep reflection upon the mutable life I had passed through. I could scarcely believe that the scenes of the last few hours were other than the illusions of a dream. Was it possible that I once more breathed the same air that gave me existence? And was it possible that I was so near the very spot, where I could once call a being by the sacred name of mother?--I was aroused from these reveries by a soft tap at the door, and the entrance of the landlord's daughter, a sweet, laughterloving, blue-eyed girl of sixteen, who introduced to me my new acquaintance, the sexton. He had exchanged his old dusty brown jacket, for a well-brushed blue coat, that reached nearly down to his ancles. Its immense pockets, and broad gilt buttons, showed that it belonged to the workmanship of other days; and his yellow leather breeches, and deep-red spotted waistcoat, were of a pattern that might not have feared to emulate the antiquity of his upper garment. He entered the room with his hat in his right hand, whilst the other was busily employed in smoothing his long black locks over a brow, on which nature had fixed the stamp of honesty. There was so much good-nature in his eye, and such a friendly familiarity in his smile, that cold indeed must have been that heart, which could have felt a reserve in the presence of such a benevolent looking being. I thanked him for his attention to his promise, and sent to the landlord, to desire him to bring us a little of the best liquor he could find in his cellar. This was soon brought, and, to the honour of the host of the White Lion be it spoken, it was as sparkling as the eye of his pretty daughter, and as smooth as his own civility. My companion and I soon became intimately acquainted. I found that he had a perfect recollection of most of my friends, and that he had some remembrance of myself. I soon discovered that most of my relations, and many of my early friends, were sleeping the long sleep of eternity. The mention of them seemed to shed a light upon my heart, like to the joys which had once illumined it; but the recollection of the rich harvest which death had gathered, flashed upon my mind, and that holy light vanished for ever. J. H. H. MR. MERTON, THE PLAGIARIST AND THE POETASTER. SEEING in a small publication, in the form of a half sheet of paper, a very pompous letter, affirming that some lines, that were published in a former number, belonged to the writer, and not to the person who set his name to them, and the subject of the dispute reminding me very strongly of the old rule, Focci, nauci, nihili, &c. the following Impromptu suggested itself. To levy on the rich-to bestow on the poor, But deprive him of his crust, who's starving for more, A FAIRY SONG. My veil is made of the mountain top's mist, That at op'ning of dawn on the ocean plays; My form is derived from the foam of the sea, L. W. Y. |