s naturally from the sight of the ruined cottage near which
they, by appointment, have met; the narrator puts his whole heart into
it, and the listener is overcome by its pathos. No remark is made on
Margaret's grief, except that

"I turn'd aside in weakness, nor had power
To thank him for the tale which he had told.
I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall,
Review'd that woman's sufferings; and it seem'd
To comfort me, while, with a brother's love,
I bless'd her in the impotence of grief.
Then towards the cottage I return'd, and traced
Fondly, though with an interest more mild,
The sacred spirit of humanity,
Which, 'mid the calm, oblivious tendencies
Of nature--'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers,
And silent overgrowings, still survived."

Such musings receive the Pedlar's approbation, and he says,--

"My friend! enough to sorrow you have given.
The purposes of wisdom ask no more.
Be wise and cheerful, and no longer read
The forms of things with an unworthy eye.
She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here."

As the Poet, then, was entirely satisfied with the tale, so ought to be
all readers. No hint is dropped that there was anything to blame in the
poor woman's nine years' passion--no regret breathed that she had sought
not, by means offered to all, for that peace of mind which passeth all
understanding--no question asked, how it was that she had not communed
with her own afflicted heart, over the pages of that Book where it is
written, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I
will give you rest!" The narrator had indeed said, that on revisiting
her during her affliction,--

"Her humble lot of books,
Which in her 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."

But he does not mention the Bible.

What follows has always seemed to us of a questionable character:--

"I well remember that those very plumes,
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall,
By mist and silent rain-drops silver'd o'er,
As once I pass'd, into my heart convey'd
So still an image of tranquillity,
So calm and still, and look'd so beautiful
Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind,
_That what we feel of sorrow and