ROOM IN THE INN. 77 



herd, all of them well and devotedly loved our pas- 

 time. It matters nothing to us ! They have left of 

 their attachment no relic in immortal rhymes. We 

 marvel, but do not upbraid them. They have written 

 on loftier themes, and sought therefore a loftier meed 

 of honour than the discourse of a few wandering 

 anglers could possibly confer. 



Hackle. You say truly. Man was their study 

 man, under the dominion of nature and his own fellow- 

 creatures man, with his heart, and its world of con- 

 flicting passions man that drops from the womb into 

 the cradle, and, springing from thence, gathers, with 

 the winds, power and knowledge, until the star of 

 independence settles upon his forehead, and he shivers 

 with one strong impulse all derogatory bonds, showing 

 himself what he is, a son of his Maker, in frame and 

 intellect equal to any king. 'Tis a theme exhaustless 

 and illimitable, as it is to reckon and compute the 

 surges of the sea ; they change in number, feature, 

 body and altitude, in sound and in transparency ; so 

 do men. The matter is not worn out, as some small 

 critics happen to imagine, who, to appear sagacious, 

 assume a knowledge of human nature, even the tithe 

 of whose workings is to them an incomprehensible 

 hieroglyph. Have they the key of a single heart, 

 among the plotting, careworn, joyous, jealous, and 

 distressful numbers, that throbs along the highway 

 of life ? Can they lay bare the actuating motives 

 for a solitary deed, performed by any being ? They 



