The moss-covered bucket that hangs There's no place like Home! there's no

a person passing close to the edge of
the bank that was in front. His face
was a careless and lingering one, and
had none of that gracefulness and ease
which distinguish a person with cer-
tain advantages of education from a
clown. His gait was rustic and awk-
ward. His form was ungainly and dis-
proportioned. Shoulders broad and
square, breast sunken, his head droop- 10
ing, his body of uniform breadth, sup-
ported by long and lank legs, were the
ingredients of his frame. His garb was
not ill adapted to such a figure. A
slouched hat, tarnished by the weather,
a coat of thick gray cloth, cut and
wrought, as it seemed, by a country
tailor, blue worsted stockings, and
shoes fastened by thongs and deeply
discolored by dust, which brush had
never disturbed, constituted his dress.

There was nothing remarkable in these appearances; they were frequently to be met with on the road and in the harvest field. I cannot tell why I gazed upon them, on this occasion, with more than ordinary attention, unless it were that such figures were seldom seen by me except on the road or field. This lawn was only traversed by men whose views were directed to the pleasures of the walk or the grandeur of the scenery.

agriculture, and indulged myself in airy speculations as to the influence of progressive knowledge in dissolving this alliance and embodying the dreams of the poets. I asked why the plough and the hoe might not become the trade of every human being, and how this trade might be made conducive to, or at least consistent with, the acquisition of wisdom and eloquence.

Weary with these reflections, I returned to the kitchen to perform some household office. I had usually but one servant, and she was a girl about my own age. I was busy near the chimney, and she was employed near the door of the apartment, when some one knocked. The door was opened by her, and she was immediately addressed 20 with, "Prythee, good girl, canst thou supply a thirsty man with a glass of buttermilk?" She answered that there was none in the house. "Ay, but there is some in the dairy yonder. Thou knowest as well as I, though Hermes never taught thee, that, though every dairy be a house, every house is not a dairy." To this speech, though she understood only a part of it, she replied by repeating her assurances that she had none to give. "Well, then," rejoined the stranger, "for charity's sweet sake, hand me forth a cup of cold water." The girl said she would go to the spring and fetch it. "Nay, give me the cup, and suffer me to help myself. Neither manacled nor lame, I should merit burial in the maw of carrion-crows if I laid this task upon thee." She gave him the cup, and he turned to go to the spring.

He passed slowly along, frequently pausing, as if to examine the prospect more deliberately, but never turning his eye towards the house, so as to allow me a view of his countenance. Presently he entered a copse at a small distance, and disappeared. My eye fol- 40 lowed him while he remained in sight. If his image remained for any duration in my fancy after his departure, it was because no other object occurred sufficient to expel it.

I continued in the same spot for half an hour, vaguely, and by fits, contemplating the image of this wanderer, and drawing from outward appearances those inferences, with respect to the in- 50 tellectual history of this person, which experience affords us. I reflected on the alliance which commonly subsists between ignorance and the practice of

I listened to this dialogue in silence. The words uttered by the person without affected me as somewhat singular; but what chiefly rendered them remarkable was the tone that accompanied them. It was wholly new. My brother's voice and Pleyel's were musical and energetic. I had fondly imagined that, in this respect, they were surpassed by none. Now my mistake was detected. I cannot pretend to communicate the impression that was made upon me by these accents, or to depict