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."

We are prepared by that character, so amply and beautifully drawn, to
pity her to the utmost demand that may be made on our pity--to judge her
leniently, even if in her desertion she finally give way to inordinate
and incurable grief. But we are not prepared to see her sinking from
depth to depth of despair, in wilful abandonment to her anguish, without
oft-repeated and long-continued passionate prayers for support or
deliverance from her trouble, to the throne of mercy. Alas! it is true
that in our happiness our gratitude to God is too often more selfish
than we think, and that in our misery it faints or dies. So is it even
with the best of us--but surely not all life long--unless the heart has
been utterly crushed--the brain itself distorted in its functions, by
some calamity, under which nature's self gives way, and falls into ruins
like a rent house when the last prop is withdrawn.

"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."

It must indeed, and it is depicted by a master's hand. But even were it
granted that sufferings, such as hers, might, in the course of nature,
have extinguished all heavenly comfort--all reliance on God and her
Saviour--the process and progress of such fatal relinquishment should
have been shown, with all its struggles and all its agonies; if the
religion of one so good was so unavailing, its weakness should have
been exhibited and explained, that we might have known assuredly why, in
the multitude of the thoughts within her, there was no solace for her
sorrow, and how unpitying Heaven let her die of grief.

This tale, too, is the very first told by the Pedlar to the Poet, under
circumstances of much solemnity, and with affecting note of preparation.
It arise