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EVERY country has views peculiar to itself, and every county in our own country has picturesque embellishments exclusively its own; nor are the diversified charms which nature exhibits in her different scenes of awful grandeur, subduing simplicity, or towering sublimity, more various, or greater in number, than the taste of her admirers. There is an evident association, although no rules can be laid down by which to explain it, between the scenery presented, and the temperament of the enamored beholder. The mild and gentle are not fascinated by the wild uproar of the dashing cataract, the bellowing crater, or the fearful ravine; nor are the bold and impetuous transported by the soft and easy landscape, the neat retired villa, or the unvarying summer skies of luscious Italy; and yet in each there are indescribable emotions, blending with their childhood scenes, and the places of their birth, which never can be erased by the views of any other country.

Allowing these desultory observations to pass for axioms, yet the admission must be made, that there are circumstances which not unfrequently throw a halo of beauty around the most unlovely spots, in our imagination, or which give to beauty itself an impressing power, such as causes its identity ever to stand before the mind's eye.

I feel the correctness of this admission while I write it. Years have not been able to wear out the impression, nor have scenes, of every grade and form, weakened the sensations which cause my mind to turn mechanically to the period and the spot to which I refer. A gentle draw upon memory suffices to bring the minutiae of my "tale's particulars" into being, or to cause, by a process which philosophy cannot explain, a kind of mental resuscitation of the buried feelings of departed years.

My tale may, indeed, be denominated trite, and much do I wish that such a charge were less correct than it is; I should then have the advantage of affording more pleasure, although of a painful kind, and of enjoying myself more gratification, in the conviction that fewer incidents of the same painful character were in being, than are now known to exist

--"But what avails mere wishes,
Good though they be, kindly expressed,
And felt as powerfully? Like a shadow
To a starving man, or painted fire

To one who freezes, or a limpid stream

On canvass gliding, to one parched with thirst-
They seem to mock, and add to misery."

In consequence of a degree of indisposition under which I was laboring, during my visit at a friend's, I was induced to accept the pressing invitation of the gentleman and his charming family, to prolong my stay at his hospitable mansion beyond the period I had intended. In order to afford me an opportunity of viewing the surrounding country, and, at the same time, advantage my health, he proposed, after we had taken breakfast one morning, a ride on horseback to the parsonage house of a neat village a few miles distant. I had before heard of the venerable person who resided there, and felt glad that an opportunity was now offered me to be introduced to his acquaintance. I accordingly expressed my readiness to join my friend in his ride.

It was, perhaps, as cheerful a morning as ever visited our world, since man's "first disobedience" infected universal nature with its moral evil, when

"Earth felt the wound, and nature from her seat
Sighing through all her works, gave sign of wo
'That all was lost."

The fairy hand of spring had thrown her many-colored mantle over creation. The time of the "singing of birds" had fully come, and in many a happy note, from the monotonous chirp of the sparrow to the lofty song of the mountain sky bird, were the praises of the glorious Being who "maketh the outgoings of the morning and evening to rejoice," poured forth.

A rich diversity of scenery and variety of conversation, gave to our animal spirits a buoyancy which extended its influence to every part of the system, and produced a frame of mind of the most happy and tranquillized order. My friend's acquaintance with the venerable person we were about to visit had been of long standing, and his estimation, founded on a knowledge of his character, was of the most exalted kind; hence he found a pleasure, by which I was happy to profit, in furnishing an interesting and detailed account of him. At every reference made to his views and exhibition of truth, his zeal, humility, his regards

and attention to the interests of his flock, and the affectionate respect in which he was held by all who knew him, my anxiety increased to meet him, and, unconsciously, I put my horse into quicker motion, and then, again, reined him in, to keep even with my friend.

The interesting and happy description of a country clergyman, which Goldsmith has given in his "Deserted Village," naturally entered my mind; and in almost all its characteristic traits, it seemed to find its counterpart, or fac-simile, in the person to whose brief history I was listening.

"A man he was to all the country dear"

beautifully applied, but happily the following lines did not

“And passing rich with forty pounds a year."

Yet even this scanty stipend, little as it was, exceeds, by four times ten pounds, what too many of those who fill the same office should possess those play-going, fox-hunting, card-playing race of patronized incumbents, or incumberers, and palmerworms to our country.

His stipend, of whom I write, did not reach the exorbitant sum of tens of thousands, nor tens of hundreds, a year; and yet it was sufficient, not only to place him (as all who fill the ministerial office should be placed) above anxiety of mind concerning the things of this world, but enabled him to exhibit, practically, the spirit applied to such by the apostle-" given to hospitality." Presently the tower of the village church appeared to rise out from a thick cluster of majestic trees, by which it was surrounded. Soon as we gained the entrance into the village, and as we rode along, I imagined I could discover the influence of the pious pastor even in the appearance of the people and things which I noticed; and, mentally, I exclaimed," O that all the ministers of the sanctuary in our land were of the same description! then would murmuring and dissatisfaction cease: the sacred office would no longer be the butt of ridicule or the theme of profane execration; then 'God, even our God, would bless us,' and all the people would turn unto him.”

The soliloquy would, perhaps, have been extended, had not a quick turn in the road changed our view; for suddenly to our sight

"The village preacher's modest mansion rose."

It was a neat, thatched building, of antibabel elevation, its loftiest apartments being its airy chambers. Upon every part of it, comfort and contentment seemed visibly impressed. It stood back about thirty yards from the roadside. A gravelled pathway ran along the whole width of the building, to a distance of somewhat more than four feet from the windows. From the centre

of this path, and leading directly from the door-way to the little palisade formed gate, was another of similar dimensions; while the intermediate space on either side was laid out tastefully in flower beds. On the south side of the dwelling were a few acres of pasture land, in which the supplies of his dairy fed and fattened; and in the corner of it were accommodations for his cow and a little galloway.

Having dismounted and secured our horses, we walked up to the house, and received a courteous salutation from Mrs. Goodall, the worthy lady of the vicar.

Shortly after we had taken our seats, Mr. Goodall himself appeared, and never shall I forget his form. It now stands before my imagination with only a little less vividness than that which actual vision could create. Years seemed to have produced a slight change in his manly form from an erect posture, and had silvered over his head with thinly scattered hairs, white as the blossoms of the hawthorn. His eye, that index of the soul, still retained its powers of silent eloquence, and threw over a counte nance of uncommon urbanity, a lustre of intelligence, such as that organ, when good, seldom fails to impart.

We were received by him with the courtesy of a gentleman and the openness of a friend. A variety of interesting conversation concerning the signs of the times, the providence of God, and the glory and extent of his kingdom in the world, engaged us for a while, in all which matters Mrs. Goodall took a sensible and modest part. After partaking of some refreshments, Mr. Goodall very politely conducted me to his study. Here again I was indulged with a survey of a choice and well-selected library, principally made up of the works of some of our most celebrated theologians, both of ancient and modern date.

Shakspeare, in his pithy description of the movements of time, declares that with some it "gallops withal." At the period in question, I found that with others, besides those the great bard has mentioned, time sometimes "gallops." With regret I perceived the hour had fully come when it became necessary I should say farewell to one whose fellow I shall not often meet again on earth. The good old man walked with us, through an angle of his paddock, to our horses, and then, with an affectionate pressure of the hand, and a kind invitation to visit him again, he commended us to the blessing of his Master, and left us to pursue our ride homewards.

There is a species of curiosity indulged in by some, which is execrable. It leads its possessors, in restless, prying scrutiny, to seek to dive into all the connections and particulars of every family, and with no higher motive, forsooth, than the pleasure of knowing the affairs of others better than they know their own.

Such littleness of conduct evinces great puerility of mind, and merits every degree of reprehension which can be directed against it; and yet, while I hold and publish this doctrine, I confess that I felt an irrepressible desire to know more of the amiable person I had just visited.

Every indulger in any particular vice has his own particular method of excuse or apology for what he does. So, too, have I, in reference to my present curiosity; it was not a desire to know, for the idle sake of knowing, but from a conviction that additional knowledge would give strength to my regards for the worthy object of them. But how to obtain that information was difficult to determine, or, rather, I could not conceive. All I could learn of Mr. Goodall from my friend I had already learned, and that, as I have intimated, was of such a nature as to lead to a desire of more, rather than to satisfy.

A few months after my visit to the parsonage, I was spending a cheerful hour with a gentleman of my acquaintance, when the estimable Mr. Goodall became the leading subject of our conversation. Now the object of my solicitude appeared likely to be gained, my hopes were afresh excited, and, after I had proposed a few general questions on the subject, I found that my expectations were not more flattering than solid. I soon obtained all the information I wished, which not only interested my mind very deeply, but furnished me with the means through which I now give the sequel of my tale.

Upwards of eighteen years had passed away, prior to my visit to Mr. Goodall's happy residence, since, in accordance with the convictions of his conscience, he had given up a cure which he held in another part of the country, and came to reside on the spot where the claims upon his service appeared the strongest. At this period his family consisted of one son and three lovely daughters. Death had, however, a few months before, entered his domestic circle, and torn away from his arms the wife of his youth-the amiable mother of his beloved children. The management of so important a charge he felt would exceed his ability, and distract his attention from the weighty obligations connected with his ministerial duties; and hence, at a proper time, he entered a second time into the marriage state, with the excellent lady I had once the pleasure to meet.

Years had passed away since Mr. Goodall's second union, and manhood began to brace the limbs of his son, while his daughters advanced fast towards womanhood, with every advantage which personal attractions and a liberal education could give.

As in the family of the "Vicar of Wakefield" there was an Olivia, so was there also in this. She was the youngest of the three, and, perhaps, the most lovely. But many a casket of pre

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