BITS OF BIOGRAPHY. 249 



His manners were modest and rustic : he conversed like a good- 

 humoured cottager, not overburthened with sense,, or made sulky by 

 circumstances. He was not merely resigned, but perfectly satisfied : 

 he wanted nothing but lots of Indian ink, and Brookman's black lead 

 pencils. Although in his way a reformer of the church, he knew no- 

 thing of Wickliffe he had never heard of Luther or Calvin. He 

 was, upon principle, an antagonist to episcopacy, and he thought that 

 the best way of pulling down the priests of Baal was to burn them 

 out of their high places. I had made him out in my mind's eyes a 

 Prometheus. I expected to have found him sublime; but he was 

 quite insignificant. 



On one topic he approached to rude eloquence : it was relative to 

 the kindness of his brother, who had taken the poor fellow's son 

 under his wing, and meant, if possible, to make an eagle of him. In 

 treating this subject he became slightly figurative ; but his metaphors 

 were not made out ; he could not manage them ; they were faintly 

 timidly bitten in upon the surface of a mist. There was no seeing 

 them clearly ; they melted when attempted to be understood. His 

 imagination was not merely muddy, it was mean. He grovelled in 

 the puddles of common-place. Of his orthography, this is a speci- 

 men, written under one of his most favourit epictorial subjects : 

 " Thay hould Harmett (the old hermit) hinn is fir-skeen Kap hand 

 Klooaak (in his fir-skin cap and cloak.") 



His advent to Bethlehem deeply chagrined Hatfield. The latter, 

 since Peg Nicholson's death, had been the principal character within 

 the walls, but since Martin's arrival he had ceased to be supremely 

 attractive : the York Minster incendiary, by his more recent atrocity, 

 had monopolized the visiting interest, and no man more deeply de- 

 plored the popularity of another than Hatfield did that of Martin. 



REVERIE. 



" Perchance, e'en now, the mighty deep 



Before thine eye is rolled, 

 And wandering where his billows sweep, 

 Thy soul flies back, like mine, to weep 



O'er pleasant times of old. 

 Perchance the waves, with silvery crest, 



That crisp and curl above, 

 Have kissed the sands thy foot hath pressed, 

 Or bathed with foam thy snowy breast, 



Or felt thy tears of love. 

 Perchance the winds that cool my brow 



Received thy latest breath, 

 And bear some sweet and solemn vow 

 Which human ear can never know, 



A fugitive from Death. 

 Far, oh ! the waves that darkly throng 



In crowds across the sea, 

 May only chaunt the requiem song 

 The dirge of mourning hearts prolong 



In anguish deep o'er thee." r**P C. 



M. M. No. 87- 2 B 



