If I had found it difficult to rest on this eventful morning, so also had another—­even here—­in this most peaceful mansion.  The parsonage gate was at this early hour unclosed.  I entered.  Upon the borders of the velvet lawn, bathed in the dews of night, I beheld the gentle lady of the place; she was alone, and walking pensively—­now stooping, not to pluck, but to admire, and then to leave amongst its mates, some crimson beauty of the earth—­now looking to the mountains of rich gold piled in the heavens, one upon another, changing in form and colour, blending and separating, as is their wondrous power and custom, filling the maiden’s soul with joy.  Her back was toward me:  should I advance, or now retire?  Vain question, when, ere an answer could be given, I was already at the lady’s side.  Shall I tell of her virgin bashfulness, her blushes, her trembling consciousness of pure affection?  Shall I say how little her tongue could speak her love, and how eloquently the dropping tear told all!  Shall I describe our morning’s walk, her downward gaze—­my pride?—­her deep, deep silence, my impassioned tones, the insensibilty to all external things—­the rushing on of envious Time, jealous of the perfect happiness of man?  The heart is wanting for the task—­the pen is shaking in the tremulous hand.—­Beautiful vision! long associate of my rest, sweetener of the daily cares of life, shade of the heavenly one—­beloved Ellen! hover still around me, and sustain my aching soul—­carry me back to the earliest days of our young love, quicken every moment with enthusiasm—­be my fond companion once again, and light up the old man’s latest hour with the fire that ceased to burn when thou fleed’st heavenward!  Thou hast been near me often since we parted here!  Whose smile but thine has cheered the labouring pilgrim through the lagging day?  In tribulation, whose voice has whispered peace—­whose eye hath shone upon him, like a star, tranquil and steady in the gloomy night?  Linger yet, and strengthen and hallow the feeble words, that chronicle our love!

It would be impossible to conceive a woman more eminently fitted to fulfil the duties of her station, than the gentle creature whose heart it had been my happiness and fortune to make my own.  Who could speak so well of the daughter’s obedience as he who was the object of her hourly solicitude?  Who could behold her tenderness, her watchfulness and care and not revere the filial piety that sanctified the maid?  The poor, most difficult of mankind to please, the easily offended, the jealous and the peevish, were unanimous in their loud praise of her, whose presence filled the foulest hut with light, and was the harbinger of good.  It is well to doubt the indigent when they speak evil of their fellows; but trust them when, with one voice, they pray for blessings, as they did for her, who came amongst them as a sister and a child.  If a spotless mind be a treasure in the wife, if simplicity and truth, virtue and steadfast love, are to be prized in her who plights her troth to man, what had I more to ask—­what had kind nature more to grant?