VISITORS. 
157 
has heard of Homer, and, “ if it were not for books,” 
would “ not know what to do rainy days,” though per¬ 
haps he has not read one wholly through for many 
rainy seasons. Some priest who could pronounce the 
Greek itself taught him to read his verse in the testa¬ 
ment in his native parish far away; and now I must 
translate to him, while he holds the book, Achilles , re¬ 
proof to Patroclus for his sad countenance. — “ Why 
are you in tears, Patroclus, like a young girl ? ” — 
“ Or have you alone heard some news from Phthia ? 
They say that Menoetius lives yet, son of Actor, 
And Peleus lives, son of iEacus, among the Myrmidons, 
Either of whom having died, we should greatly grieve.” 
He says, “ That’s good.” He has a great bundle of white- 
oak bark under his arm for a sick man, gathered this 
Sunday morning. “ I suppose there’s no harm in going 
after such a thing to-day,” says he. To him Homer 
was a great writer, though what his writing was about 
he did not know. A more simple and natural man it 
would be hard to find. Vice and disease, which cast 
such a sombre moral hue over the world, seemed to 
have hardly any existence for him. He was about 
twenty-eight years old, and had left Canada and his 
father’s house a dozen years before to work in the 
States, and earn money to buy a farm with at last, per¬ 
haps in his native country. He was cast in the coarsest 
mould; a stout but sluggish body, yet gracefully carried, 
with a thick sunburnt neck, dark bushy hair, and dull 
sleepy blue eyes, which were occasionally lit up with 
expression. He wore a flat gray cloth cap, a dingy 
wool-colored greatcoat, and cowhide boots. He was a 
great consumer of meat, usually carrying his dinner to 
