76 PROSE AND POET11Y. 



lonely scene, when active trade shall resume her labours in the 

 morning. Turning the corners of those ancient lanes, an organ-peal 

 booming from the aisles of some time-honoured parish church, and 

 the thin small voices of the charity children singing the Evening 

 Hymn to the Creator, will every now and then break upon the ear 

 with singular solemnity, and whisper to the worldly that solitude 

 is the purest helpmate to religion. 



But it is at night that I most like to be a pedestrian : when the 

 full moon is riding in the clear sky, and that giant ant-hill, London, 

 is hushed and at rest, I love to wander towards the country, along 

 some one of those open roads which form the avenues of the metro- 

 polis in every direction. A candle in a parlour-window, or in a 

 bedroom, sets me a dreaming of all manner of sweet and gentle 

 scenes family happiness, love, wisdom, and a quiet prosperity, all 

 thd blessings in short which are attainable in this full land, and all 

 the felicity we would wish to those we cherish. How often have I 

 lingered with these idle fancies until the moon has waned, and I have 

 fled, as though from an enemy, when surprised by the first garish 

 streak of daybreak ! 



I was enjoying one of these, my favourite rambles, about the mid- 

 dle of last June, and stood at the foot of Highgate Hill, at midnight, 

 looking over the dark fields, and watching the masses of dun foliage 

 as they waved to and fro in the moonlight, when the sound of a 

 guitar, touched gently but sweetly, aroused my attention. A light, 

 from an open window in the roadside behind me, indicated the shrine 

 of the divinity whose honours were being celebrated. I crept nearer 

 to obtain a view of the minstrel ; but his music suddenly ceased. I 

 turned to the window ; the light had been extinguished, and the 

 muslin-robe, that had a moment before been flitting before it, was no 

 longer visible. But the sash remained open ; and, retouching his 

 instrument with a bolder hand, the serenader began his strain anew. 

 I soon discovered him : he was standing under a noble chesnut-tree ; 

 the moon was streaming full on his pale anxious face, which was 

 thickly hung with large black curling hair, that shone as if it could 

 shame satin in its brightness. That face was an animate picture; you 

 read the outlines of the history of a life beautifully expressed in its 

 features. You saw there, as in a mirror, the love and bravery that 

 youth was verging towards the ardour and enterprise that would 

 ennoble his career and that burning susceptibility so powerful 

 to urge all whom it animates foremost in the ranks of ecstasy or 

 despair. 



At first he sung an Italian Notturno but, soon changing the key, 

 he struck a wild prelude, invoked the name of Annabel two or three 

 times, and then gave forth a Spanish romance, so sweetly and so 

 distinctly, that every word and tone fell softly on the ear with the 

 most exquisite taste and fidelity. Here is a translation : 



ANNABEL. 



Have you seen the lightning, 



Fire-fed, arrowed, wild, 

 O'er a bulwark brightening, 



Rend the ruin'd mass ? 



