– Repast there. – View, from the window, of two mountain summits; and the Solitary's description of the companionship they afford him. – Account of the departed inmate of the cottage. – Description of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's mind. – Leave the house.

 

In days of yore how fortunately fared

The Minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall,

Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts

Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise;

Now meeting on his road an armed knight,

Now resting with a pilgrim by the side

Of a clear brook; – beneath an abbey's roof

One evening sumptuously lodged; the next,

Humbly in a religious hospital;

Or with some merry outlaws of the wood;

Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell.

Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared;

He walked – protected from the sword of war

By virtue of that sacred instrument

His harp, suspended at the traveller's side;

His dear companion wheresoe'er he went

Opening from land to land an easy way

By melody, and by the charm of verse.

Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race

Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned, thoughts

From his long journeyings and eventful life,

Than this obscure Itinerant had skill

To gather, ranging through the tamer ground

Of these our unimaginative days;

Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise

Accoutred with his burthen and his staff;

And now, when free to move with lighter pace.

 

What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite school

Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes,

Looked on this guide with reverential love?

Each with the other pleased, we now pursued

Our journey, under favourable skies.

Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light

Unfailing: not a hamlet could we pass,

Rarely a house, that did not yield to him

Remembrances; or from his tongue call forth

Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard

Accompanied those strains of apt discourse,

Which nature's various objects might inspire;

And in the silence of his face I read

His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts,

And the mute fish that glances in the stream,

And harmless reptile coiling in the sun,

And gorgeous insect hovering in the air,

The fowl domestic, and the household dog –

In his capacious mind, he loved them all:

Their rights acknowledging he felt for all.

Oft was occasion given me to perceive

How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd

To happy contemplation soothed his walk;

How the poor brute's condition, forced to run

Its course of suffering in the public road,

Sad contrast! all too often smote his heart

With unavailing pity. Rich in love

And sweet humanity, he was, himself,

To the degree that he desired, beloved.

Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew

Greeted us all day long; we took our seats

By many a cottage-hearth, where he received

The welcome of an Inmate from afar,

And I at once forgot I was a Stranger.

– Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts,

Huts where his charity was blest; his voice

Heard as the voice of an experienced friend.

And, sometimes – where the poor man held dispute

With his own mind, unable to subdue

Impatience through inaptness to perceive

General distress in his particular lot;

Or cherishing resentment, or in vain

Struggling against it; with a soul perplexed,

And finding in herself no steady power

To draw the line of comfort that divides

Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven,

From the injustice of our brother men –

To him appeal was made as to a judge;

Who, with an understanding heart, allayed

The perturbation; listened to the plea;

Resolved the dubious point; and sentence gave

So grounded, so applied, that it was heard

With softened spirit, even when it condemned.

 

Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved,

Now as his choice directed, now as mine;

Or both, with equal readiness of will,

Our course submitting to the changeful breeze

Of accident. But when the rising sun

Had three times called us to renew our walk,

My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice,

As if the thought were but a moment old,

Claimed absolute dominion for the day.

We started – and he led me toward the hills,

Up through an ample vale, with higher hills

Before us, mountains stern and desolate;

But, in the majesty of distance, now

Set off, and to our ken appearing fair

Of aspect, with aërial softness clad,

And beautified with morning's purple beams.

 

The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress

Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time,

May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs

Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise

From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise;

And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease,

Shall lack not their enjoyment: – but how faint

Compared with ours! who, pacing side by side,

Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all

That we beheld; and lend the listening sense

To every grateful sound of earth and air;

Pausing at will – our spirits braced, our thoughts

Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown,

And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves.

 

Mount slowly, sun! that we may journey long,

By this dark hill protected from thy beams!

Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish;

But quickly from among our morning thoughts

'Twas chased away: for, toward the western side

Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance,

We saw a throng of people; – wherefore met?

Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose

On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield

Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual Wake,

Which the bright season favours. – Tabor and pipe

In purpose join to hasten or reprove

The laggard Rustic; and repay with boons

Of merriment a party-coloured knot,

Already formed upon the village-green.

– Beyond the limits of the shadow cast

By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight

That gay assemblage. Round them and above,

Glitter, with dark recesses interposed,

Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees

Half-veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver steam

Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs

By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast

Of gold, the Maypole shines; as if the rays

Of morning, aided by exhaling dew,

With gladsome influence could re-animate

The faded garlands dangling from its sides.

 

Said I, »The music and the sprightly scene

Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join

These festive matins?« – He replied, »Not loth

To linger I would here with you partake,

Not one hour merely, but till evening's close,

The simple pastimes of the day and place.

By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set,

The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed;

There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall contend:

But know we not that he, who intermits

The appointed task and duties of the day,

Untunes fall oft the pleasures of the day;

Checking the finer spirits that refuse

To flow, when purposes are lightly changed?

A length of journey yet remains untraced:

Let us proceed.« Then, pointing with his staff

Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent

He thus imparted: –

»In a spot that lies

Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed,

You will receive, before the hour of noon,

Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil,

From sight of One who lives secluded there,

Lonesome and lost: of whom, and whose past life,

(Not to forestall such knowledge as may be

More faithfully collected from himself)

This brief communication shall suffice.

 

Though now sojourning there, he, like myself,

Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage

Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract

Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant

Bears, on the humblest ground of social life,

Blossoms of piety and innocence.

Such grateful promises his youth displayed:

And, having shown in study forward zeal,

He to the Ministry was duly called;

And straight, incited by a curious mind

Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge

Of Chaplain to a military troop

Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they marched

In plaided vest, – his fellow-countrymen.

This office filling, yet by native power

And force of native inclination made

An intellectual ruler in the haunts

Of social vanity, he walked the world,

Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety;

Lax, buoyant – less a pastor with his flock

Than a soldier among soldiers – lived and roamed

Where Fortune led: – and Fortune, who oft proves

The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known

A blooming Lady – a conspicuous flower,

Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised;

Whom he had sensibility to love,

Ambition to attempt, and skill to win.

 

For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind,

Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth,

His office he relinquished; and retired

From the world's notice to a rural home.

Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past,

And she was in youth's prime. How free their love,

How full their joy! Till, pitiable doom!

In the short course of one undreaded year,

Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew

Two lovely Children – all that they possessed!

The Mother followed: – miserably bare

The one Survivor stood; he wept, he prayed

For his dismissal, day and night, compelled

To hold communion with the grave, and face

With pain the regions of eternity.

An uncomplaining apathy displaced

This anguish; and, indifferent to delight,

To aim and purpose, he consumed his days,

To private interest dead, and public care.

So lived he; so he might have died.

But now,

To the wide world's astonishment, appeared

A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn,

That promised everlasting joy to France!

Her voice of social transport reached even him!

He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired

To the great City, an emporium then

Of golden expectations, and receiving

Freights every day from a new world of hope.

Thither his popular talents he transferred;

And, from the pulpit, zealously maintained

The cause of Christ and civil liberty,

As one, and moving to one glorious end.

Intoxicating service! I might say

A happy service; for he was sincere

As vanity and fondness for applause,

And new and shapeless wishes, would allow.

 

That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) bound,

For one hostility, in friendly league,

Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves;

Was served by rival advocates that came

From regions opposite as heaven and hell.

One courage seemed to animate them all:

And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained

By their united efforts, there arose

A proud and most presumptuous confidence

In the transcendent wisdom of the age,

And her discernment; not alone in rights,

And in the origin and bounds of power

Social and temporal; but in laws divine,

Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed.

An overweening trust was raised; and fear

Cast out, alike of person and of thing.

Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane

The strongest did not easily escape;

And He, what wonder! took a mortal taint.

How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell

That he broke faith with them whom he had laid

In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope!

An infidel contempt of holy writ

Stole by degrees upon his mind; and hence

Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced;

Vilest hypocrisy – the laughing, gay

Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride.

Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls;

But, for disciples of the inner school,

Old freedom was old servitude, and they

The wisest whose opinions stooped the least

To known restraints; and who most boldly drew

Hopeful prognostications from a creed,

That, in the light of false philosophy,

Spread like a halo round a misty moon,

Widening its circle as the storms advance.

 

His sacred function was at length renounced;

And every day and every place enjoyed

The unshackled layman's natural liberty;

Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise.

I do not wish to wrong him; though the course

Of private life licentiously displayed

Unhallowed actions – planted like a crown

Upon the insolent aspiring brow

Of spurious notions – worn as open signs

Of prejudice subdued – still he retained,

'Mid much abasement, what he had received

From nature, an intense and glowing mind.

Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak,

And mortal sickness on her face appeared,

He coloured objects to his own desire

As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods

Of pain were keen as those of better men,

Nay keener, as his fortitude was less:

And he continued, when worse days were come,

To deal about his sparkling eloquence,

Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal

That showed like happiness. But, in despite

Of all this outside bravery, within,

He neither felt encouragement nor hope:

For moral dignity, and strength of mind,

Were wanting; and simplicity of life;

And reverence for himself; and, last and best,

Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him

Before whose sight the troubles of this world

Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea.

 

The glory of the times fading away –

The splendor, which had given a festal air

To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled

From his own sight – this gone, he forfeited

All joy in human nature; was consumed,

And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn,

And fruitless indignation; galled by pride;

Made desperate by contempt of men who throve

Before his sight in power or fame, and won,

Without desert, what he desired; weak men,

Too weak even for his envy or his hate!

Tormented thus, after a wandering course

Of discontent, and inwardly opprest

With malady – in part, I fear, provoked

By weariness of life – he fixed his home,

Or, rather say, sate down by very chance,

Among these rugged hills; where now he dwells,

And wastes the sad remainder of his hours,

Steeped in a self-indulging spleen, that wants not

Its own voluptuousness; – on this resolved,

With this content, that he will live and die

Forgotten, – at safe distance from ›a world

Not moving to his mind.‹«

These serious words

Closed the preparatory notices

That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile

The way, while we advanced up that wide vale.

Diverging now (as if his quest had been

Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall

Of water, or some lofty eminence,

Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide)

We scaled, without a track to ease our steps,

A steep ascent; and reached a dreary plain,

With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops

Before us; savage region! which I paced

Dispirited: when, all at once, behold!

Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale,

A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high

Among the mountains; even as if the spot

Had been from eldest time by wish of theirs

So placed, to be shut out from all the world!

Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn;

With rocks encompassed, save that to the south

Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge

Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close;

A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields,

A liquid pool that glittered in the sun,

And one bare dwelling; one abode, no more!

It seemed the home of poverty and toil,

Though not of want: the little fields, made green

By husbandry of many thrifty years,

Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house.

– There crows the cock, single in his domain:

The small birds find in spring no thicket there

To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales

The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops,

Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place.

 

Ah! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here!

Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease

Upon a bed of heath; – full many a spot

Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy

Among the mountains; never one like this;

So lonesome, and so perfectly secure;

Not melancholy – no, for it is green,

And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself

With the few needful things that life requires.

– In rugged arms how softly does it lie,

How tenderly protected! Far and near

We have an image of the pristine earth,

The planet in its nakedness: were this

Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat,

First, last, and single, in the breathing world,

It could not be more quiet: peace is here

Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale

Of public news or private; years that pass

Forgetfully; uncalled upon to pay

The common penalties of mortal life,

Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain.

 

On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay

In silence musing by my Comrade's side,

He also silent; when from out the heart

Of that profound abyss a solemn voice,

Or several voices in one solemn sound,

Was heard ascending; mournful, deep, and slow

The cadence, as of psalms – a funeral dirge!

We listened, looking down upon the hut,

But seeing no one: meanwhile from below

The strain continued, spiritual as before;

And now distinctly could I recognise

These words: – »Shall in the grave thy love be known,

In death thy faithfulness?« – »God rest his soul!«

Said the old man, abruptly breaking silence, –

»He is departed, and finds peace at last!«

 

This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains

Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band

Of rustic persons, from behind the hut

Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which

They shaped their course along the sloping side

Of that small valley, singing as they moved;

A sober company and few, the men

Bare-headed, and all decently attired!

Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge

Ended; and, from the stillness that ensued

Recovering, to my Friend I said, »You spake,

Methought, with apprehension that these rites

Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat

This day we purposed to intrude.« – »I did so.

But let us hence, that we may learn the truth:

Perhaps it is not he but some one else

For whom this pious service is performed;

Some other tenant of the solitude.«

 

So, to a steep and difficult descent

Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag,

Where passage could be won; and, as the last

Of the mute train, behind the heathy top

Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared,

I, more impatient in my downward course,

Had landed upon easy ground; and there

Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold

An object that enticed my steps aside!

A narrow, winding entry opened out

Into a platform – that lay, sheepfold-wise,

Enclosed between an upright mass of rock

And one old moss-grown wall; – a cool recess,

And fanciful! For where the rock and wall

Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed

By thrusting two rude staves into the wall

And overlaying them with mountain sods;

To weather-fend a little turf-built seat

Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread

The burning sunshine, or a transient shower;

But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands!

Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show

Of baby-houses, curiously arranged;

Nor wanting ornament of walks between,

With mimic trees inserted in the turf,

And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight,

I could not choose but beckon to my Guide,

Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance

Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed,

»Lo! what is here?« and, stooping down, drew forth

A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss

And wreck of party-coloured earthenware,

Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise

One of those petty structures. »His it must be!«

Exclaimed the Wanderer, »cannot but be his,

And he is gone!« The book, which in my hand

Had opened of itself (for it was swoln

With searching damp, and seemingly had lain

To the injurious elements exposed

From week to week,) I found to be a work

In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire,

His famous Optimist. »Unhappy Man!«

Exclaimed my Friend: »here then has been to him

Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place

Within how deep a shelter! He had fits,

Even to the last, of genuine tenderness,

And loved the haunts of children; here, no doubt,

Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports,

Or sate companionless; and here the book,

Left and forgotten in his careless way,

Must by the cottage-children have been found:

Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work!

To what odd purpose have the darlings turned

This sad memorial of their hapless friend!«

 

»Me,« said I, »most doth it surprise, to find

Such book in such a place!« – »A book it is,«

He answered, »to the Person suited well,

Though little suited to surrounding things:

'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been

To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here,

With one poor shepherd, far from all the world! –

Now, if our errand hath been thrown away,

As from these intimations I forebode,

Grieved shall I be – less for my sake than yours,

And least of all for him who is no more.«

 

By this, the book was in the old Man's hand;

And he continued, glancing on the leaves

An eye of scorn: – »The lover,« said he, »doomed

To love when hope hath failed him – whom no depth

Of privacy is deep enough to hide,

Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair,

And that is joy to him. When change of times

Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give

The faithful servant, who must hide his head

Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may,

A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood,

And he too hath his comforter. How poor,

Beyond all poverty how destitute,

Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven,

Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him

No dearer relique, and no better stay,

Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen,

Impure conceits discharging from a heart

Hardened by impious pride! – I did not fear

To tax you with this journey;« – mildly said

My venerable Friend, as forth we stepped

Into the presence of the cheerful light –

»For I have knowledge that you do not shrink

From moving spectacles; – but let us on.«

 

So speaking, on he went, and at the word

I followed, till he made a sudden stand:

For full in view, approaching through a gate

That opened from the enclosure of green fields

Into the rough uncultivated ground,

Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead!

I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress,

That it could be no other; a pale face,

A meagre person, tall, and in a garb

Not rustic – dull and faded like himself!

He saw us not, though distant but few steps;

For he was busy, dealing, from a store

Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings

Of red ripe currants; gift by which he strove,

With intermixture of endearing words,

To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping

As if disconsolate. – »They to the grave

Are bearing him, my Little-one,« he said,

»To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain;

His body is at rest, his soul in heaven.«

 

More might have followed – but my honoured Friend

Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank

And cordial greeting. – Vivid was the light

That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes;

He was all fire: no shadow on his brow

Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face.

Hands joined he with his Visitant, – a grasp,

An eager grasp; and many moments' space –

When the first glow of pleasure was no more,

And, of the sad appearance which at once

Had vanished, much was come and coming back –

An amicable smile retained the life

Which it had unexpectedly received,

Upon his hollow cheek. »How kind,« he said,

»Nor could your coming have been better timed;

For this, you see, is in our narrow world

A day of sorrow. I have here a charge« –

And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly

The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child –

»A little mourner, whom it is my task

To comfort; – but how came ye? – if yon track

(Which doth at once befriend us and betray)

Conducted hither your most welcome feet,

Ye could not miss the funeral train – they yet

Have scarcely disappeared.« »This blooming Child,«

Said the old Man, »is of an age to weep

At any grave or solemn spectacle,

Inly distressed or overpowered with awe,

He knows not wherefore; – but the boy to-day,

Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you also

Must have sustained a loss.« – »The hand of Death,«

He answered, »has been here; but could not well

Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen

Upon myself.« – The other left these words

Unnoticed, thus continuing. –

»From yon crag

Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale,

We heard the hymn they sang – a solemn sound

Heard anywhere; but in a place like this

'Tis more than human! Many precious rites

And customs of our rural ancestry

Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope,

Will last for ever. Oft on my way have I

Stood still, though but a casual passenger,

So much I felt the awfulness of life,

In that one moment when the corse is lifted

In silence, with a hush of decency;

Then from the threshold moves with song of peace,

And confidential yearnings, tow'rds its home,

Its final home on earth. What traveller – who –

(How far soe'er a stranger) does not own

The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go,

A mute procession on the houseless road;

Or passing by some single tenement

Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise

The monitory voice? But most of all

It touches, it confirms, and elevates,

Then, when the body, soon to be consigned

Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust,

Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne

Upon the shoulders of the next in love,

The nearest in affection or in blood;

Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt

Beside the coffin, resting on its lid

In silent grief their unuplifted heads,

And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint,

And that most awful scripture which declares

We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed!

– Have I not seen – ye likewise may have seen –

Son, husband, brothers – brothers side by side,

And son and father also side by side,

Rise from that posture: – and in concert move

On the green turf following the vested Priest,

Four dear supporters of one senseless weight,

From which they do not shrink, and under which

They faint not, but advance towards the open grave

Step after step – together, with their firm

Unhidden faces: he that suffers most,

He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps.

The most serene, with most undaunted eye! –

Oh! blest are they who live and die like these,

Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!«

 

»That poor Man taken hence to-day,« replied

The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile

Which did not please me, »must be deemed, I fear,

Of the unblest; for he will surely sink

Into his mother earth without such pomp

Of grief, depart without occasion given

By him for such array of fortitude.

Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark!

This simple Child will mourn his one short hour,

And I shall miss him; scanty tribute! yet,

This wanting, he would leave the sight of men,

If love were his sole claim upon their care,

Like a ripe date which in the desert falls

Without a hand to gather it.«

At this

I interposed, though loth to speak, and said,

»Can it be thus among so small a band

As ye must needs be here? in such a place

I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight

Of a departing cloud.« – »'Twas not for love« –

Answered the sick Man with a careless voice –

»That I came hither; neither have I found

Among associates who have power of speech,

Nor in such other converse as is here,

Temptation so prevailing as to change

That mood, or undermine my first resolve.«

Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said

To my benign Companion, – »Pity 'tis

That fortune did not guide you to this house

A few days earlier; then would you have seen

What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude,

That seems by Nature hollowed out to be

The seat and bosom of pure innocence,

Are made of; an ungracious matter this!

Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too

Of past discussions with this zealous friend

And advocate of humble life, I now

Will force upon his notice; undeterred

By the example of his own pure course,

And that respect and deference which a soul

May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched

In what she most doth value, love of God

And his frail creature Man; – but ye shall hear.

I talk – and ye are standing in the sun

Without refreshment!«

Quickly had he spoken,

And, with light steps still quicker than his words,

Led toward the Cottage.