An oddity crossed our path. "There waddles," said the Lauréat, "Mr. Onessimus Omnium, who thrice on every Sabbath takes the round of the Conventicles with his pockets stuffed full of bibles and psalm books, every one of which (chapter and verse pointed out!) he passes into the hands of forgetful old ladies and gentlemen whom he opines 'Consols, and not philosophy, console!' Pasted on the inside cover is his card, setting forth the address and calling of Onessimus! You may swear that somebody is dead in the neighbourhood, (the pious Lynx is hunting up the executors!) by seeing him out of 'the Alley' at this early time of the day."
Farther a-field, rambling amidst the rural scenes he has so charmingly described, we shook hands with Uncle Timothy's dear friend, the Author of a work "On the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature." * Happy old man! Who shall say that fortune deals harshly, if, in taking much away, she leaves us virtue?
On hearing that he is engaged upon another Work, to be entitled Man.
"Man!" comprehensive Volume!--busy Man-- A world of warring passions, hopes and fears; Good, evil--all within one little span! Pride, meanness; wisdom, folly; smiles and tears; Th' oppressor, the oppress'd; the coward, brave; Fate's foot-ball from the cradle to the grave! These records of thy studious days and eves, Thy musings and experience, are to me A moral, that this sure impression leaves; Man never yet was happy--ne'e?' can be! The feverish bliss, my friend, that dreamers feign, Binds him a prisoner faster to his chain. The miser to his treasure, and the proud To pride and its dominion;--to his gorge The glutton;--and the low promiscuous crowd To sordid sensualities, that forge The unseen fetters, which so firmly bind, Are all ignobly bound in body;--mind. He only is a free man, who, like thee, Does stand aloof, and mark the wild uproar That shakes the depths of life's tempestuous sea; And steers his fragile bark along the shore. The swelling canvass and the prosperous gale Herald the shipwreck's melancholy tale! Nature, all beauteous Nature!--thou hast sung In prose poetic, through each various scene; And when thy harp upon the willows hung, She kept thy form erect, thy brow serene; And breathed upon thy soul; and peace was there: The soft, still music of a mother's prayer. She gave thee truth, humility, content; A spirit to return for evil good; A grateful heart for bliss denied, or sent; And sweet companionship in solitude! Candour, that wrong offence nor takes, nor gives; A brother's boundless love for all that lives! Pursue thy solemn theme.--And when on a Man The curtain thou hast dropp'd, return once more To Nature. She has Beauties yet to scan, New Harmonies, Sublimities, in store! She will repay thy love; and weave, and spread, A garland--and a pillow--for thy head. Uncle Timothy.