CHAPTER VII. UNEARNED RETIREMENT.. But unto us, it is A cell of ignorance; travelling abed ; To stride a limit.-SHAKSPEARE. AND a very pretty parsonage it was. Nothing could be more quietly gay. The house and garden ranged themselves up the side of a gentle hill, so as to have elevation sufficient to give effect to the prospect, without losing the advantage of a most perfect shelter. The river ran at foot, and from the farther bank of it rose a steep mount, covered from top to bottom by timber of all varieties. The water was smooth as a mirror; every thing around was tranquil, yet cheerful, from the scenery being dotted with cottages and gay gardens; in short, Nature seemed here to repose in all her elegance. The vicar was not at home, but was expected every instant; and having now ascertained by the superscription of an old letter on the table that Archer was his college friend, De Vere said he would wait for him: and he took his place in a window which seemed at once a seat for a painter, a poet, a philosopher, and a pious man. One would have thought it happiness enough merely to sit there. Such, perhaps, it would have been with the proper requisites of a disposition to be content within so very narrow a circle. Without it, it is not rock, or river, or luxuriant copse, or emerald margin that can bring back the mind from the field of its designed interest, the active business of life. From temporary care such a seclusion is a charming relief; and he who is worn out with fatigue and struggle in his journey through the world might think, and even find it exquisite. Others, however, who, like the owner-but let the owner, in this instance, speak for himself. De Vere knew Archer directly, as he let himself in at a little gate from the road-side; but was surprised to see, as he came up the walk, that he who had ever been so spruce and erect, so as to be almost a coxcomb at college, was now slovenly in his appearance and attire. An illmade and ill-brushed coat seemed to hang about him like a sack, and a slouch in his gait, amounting to stooping, had taken place of the brisk, lively mien De Vere had remembered. Before he got half-way up the rising ground that led to the house, he threw himself into a seat, the back of which had long been broken, and the whole going fast to decay. Here he reposed, with his head on his hand, and viewing his landscape with a lack-lustre eye, he yawned, and seemed little cheerful in his meditation. "Is it even so ?" said De Vere;" what can this mean? He seems melancholy, if not unhappy; yet I have not heard of any misfortune that has befallen him. But I will show myself." Archer scarcely rose when he first perceived De Vere; till making out who he was, his countenance lightened into a joy that was evidently sincere. "And is it you?" said he; "you, who love the gay, the busy, and the powerful; you who, I see, are sometimes at court, and come to visit a poor parson in his Siberia ?" "Siberia!" exclaimed De Vere; "I was just thinking what a delicious retreat you had acquired for your philosophy and your muse; both of which promised so much at Oxford." "Retreat!" said he, looking surprised. "Oh! ay! yes! but retreat from what?" He paused, when, not to lose the theme he was upon, De Vere observed, "Retreat from the world." "Where I have yet never been," interrupted Archer, with some quickness. "Surely," said De Vere," this delightful place is better than St. Bride's, in the city, or Allhallows, Barking, which I remember to have heard you were offered and refused; but I did not then know to what a paradise you gave the preference." "True! true," returned Archer; "I had then little ambition to preach to the lord-mayor and aldermen. I thought as you do of philosophy and the muses, and I have no right to complain; này, I ought to be, and, indeed, am-satisfied." The last sentence was uttered in a tone not quite cor responding with the sentiment; perhaps there was a little faltering as he brought out the words. "But come," added he, cheering himself, "come into my hermitage, and tell me how it is that I see you here, and where you are going-and have some refreshment. You will sup and take a bed with me, of course." De Vere said he must get to Castle Mowbray that evening, but he would take some of his brown loaf, which, with the remains of a clouded decanter of wine, and some used glasses, were still on the table. "I have a sad dawdling slut to wait upon me," said Archer, rather reddening at observing De Vere's examination of his dessert. "She does just as she pleases, and she generally pleases not to take away my dinner things till supper is ready: I beg you will excuse it." De Vere went on with his admiration of the beautiful window, and his commendation of the preference Archer had given to such a spot; "Surely much better," said De Vere, "than the air of the city, or even to be a courtchaplain." "I don't know that," said Archer, "when all road to ambition is cut off. I observe that even in the city a man may be followed as a preacher; and at court the very maudlin-prigs we used to laugh at have got on ;-while here-" "Come," said De Vere, seeing him fall into an uneasy pause, "I will not let you quarrel with a place I am absolutely in love with. One would think Virgil wrote those soft flowing lines here, Rura mihi et rigui placeant, in vallibus amnes, "Continue the line," said Archer, briskly, "and see how Virgil himself answers for me,— 'Fluvios amem sylvasque--inglorius.' 'Tis that inglorious that makes all the difference."Yes!" continued he," the place is well enough, and the boors that surround me are well enough; but shall I confess the truth? such an old friend will not laugh at, nay, he will pity me." De Vere assured him he would rather sympathize, and begged him to proceed. "I am tired of them," said Archer. "I am not in my place, and found it out before I had been settled six months." "Yet I think you took possession in spring,” observed De Vere, looking at the numerous blossoms out of doors. "True," said Archer; " and for some months I was in rapture with what is, I allow, very paradisiacal. But still monotony is monotony-I have sat in this window, till I am weary with beholding; and I have thumbed over Theocritus and Virgil, as the appropriate study for such a place, till I knew not what ideas their beautiful language excite. Yet I am afraid of changing them for Horace or Pope, or Boileau, because they take me into a world from which I feel cut off. I confess to you I never now open a book of philosophy on the contempt of the world but I think how bright the world might have been; how much I may have missed; what honour, perhaps profit, certainly pleasure (the pleasure of good society), and all because I fell in love with retreat, as you call it, without knowing what I was to retreat from." "Still there is your church," said De Vere, feeling, however, his friend's last remark very pointedly. Will "True! but what church? I cannot preach-that is, what I call preach-to the squire, for he would not understand me; and as for the rest of the congregation, what are the praises of a parcel of old women? they lead to a deanery? Will they bring me among the choice spirits of the age, or show me the actors or business of life? No! forgive me, if, being a man, I feel I ought to live with men, and not with stocks and stones." As it was neither De Vere's business nor intention to argue with a man who had evidently made a mistake, he did not attempt to reason about the real duty of his calling; but he could not help saying something of the strifes and struggles of the world which he seemed to covet, and the inefficacy of even success to ensure happiness. Archer answered with vivacity, "All very true, I have no doubt; and those who have gone through them might be glad to come here. But I have not gone through them; I know not even what they are, and cannot judge by other people's senses. Perhaps," added he, with a doubtful smile, and fixing a jaundiced eye on De Vere, "we uninitiated may even think we could do better than those who tell us of their woful experience. At any rate, we wish for an experience of our own." "What think you of your parishioner, the honest miller, who showed me the way hither?" asked De Vere. "What think you of his wife ?" said Archer. "She seems to have the hankering we are talking of," observed De Vere; "but as for him, he appears the twinbrother of his friend of Mansfield, and might sing with him,— 'How happy a state doth the miller possess, How much is said in that last line!" ""Tis the sum of all content," answered Archer; "and, to tell you the truth, I, his parson, have often proposed him to myself as an object of imitation in my philosophy. But somehow or another I could never make it out. The fellow labours and sings, and sings and labours, nay, has an aspiring wife to keep in good-humour, yet is always happy." 66 Ought not this to be a lesson to us both ?" said De Vere. "I own it; but I cannot follow it; and you will recollect, honest Gurney has no ideas, and therefore no wishes, beyond Dovedale, while I am like the Abyssinian prince, who was not content with his vale of happiness, till he could compare it with the vale of misery; so, till the world has broken my head, I cannot believe that it intends to do so. In short, I exclaim, with the poor girl in the Tempest, who was told, the first time she saw a man, to beware of him, for he was an evil spirit,— 'There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple If the ill spirit have so fair a house, De Vere found it useless to go on, and, indeed, to say truth, had no such fixed or definite notions himself upon the subject as to give him a right to be oracular. Archer had made him turn his eyes into his own bosom. He saw that the most beautiful retreat on earth was no asylum to those who had not earned, or were not prepared for it, and he resolved jealously to task himself upon all the theories and fancies which had before taken possession of him. His horses had now descended the hill above Dovedale, and he took leave of his friend, somewhat wiser himself, and leaving him somewhat happier, for this passing visit, |