as
enthusiastic a lover of nature as myself--that he had seen many of the
finest portions of the kingdom, and had wandered through them with
Milton or Shakspeare, Herbert or Quarles, in his hand. He was one of
those who, reading with his own eyes and heart, and not through the
spectacles of critics, had not been taught to despise the last old poet,
nor to treat his rich and quaint versification, and his many manly and
noble thoughts, as the conceits and rhymes of a poetaster. His reverence
for the great names of our literature, and his just appreciation of
their works, won upon me greatly. I invited him to continue his walk;
and--so well was I pleased with him--to visit me at my rustic lodgment.

From that day, for some weeks, we daily walked together. I more and more
contemplated with admiration and esteem the knowledge, the fine taste,
the generous sentiments, the profound love of nature which seemed to
fill the whole being of the old man. But who and whence was he? He said
not a word on that subject, and I did not, therefore, feel freedom to
inquire. He might have secret griefs, which such a query might awaken. I
respect too much the wounded heart of humanity carelessly to probe it,
and especially the heart of a solitary being who, in the downward stage
of life, may, perchance, be the stripped and scathed remnant of a
once-endeared family. He stood before me alone. He entered into
reminiscences, but they were reminiscences connected with no near ties;
but had such ties now existed, he would in some hour of frank enthusiasm
have said so. He did not say it, and it was, therefore, sufficiently
obvious, that he had a history which he left down in the depths of his
heart, beyond the vision of all but that heart itself. And yet, whatever
were the inward memories of this venerable man, there was a buoyancy and
youthfulness of feeling about him which amply manifested that they had
not quenched the love and enjoyment of life in him.

On different days we took, during the most beautiful spring, strolls of
many miles into distant dales and villages, and on the wild brown moors.
Now we sate by a moorland stream, talking of many absorbing things in
the history of the poetry and the religion of our country, and I could
plainly see that my ancient friend had in him the spirit of an old
Covenanter, and that, had he lived in the days of contest between the
church of kings and the church of God, he would have gone to the field
or the