The Happy Villager.
MR. Jackson had been an eminent tradesman in the city of London, where he by trade acquired an independent fortune, and was now retired into the country to spend the remainder of his days amidst rural retreats, to enjoy the pleasures of rambling through woods and groves, by the side of purling and meandering streams, while the harmony of the feathered songsters would charm the ear, and lull the busy mind into the most tranquil repose.
The retreat Mr. Jackson had chosen was situated in the county of Worcester, and near to the place where he drew his first breath. His house was a well-designed mean between the vast piles raised for magnificence and those smaller ones in which convenience alone is considered. The walk from the back of the house led through a wood, by the side of a delightful stream, which meandered over grass from out of a deep hollow. A gush of water, which fell into it, gurgled through a rocky cavity; and in front you looked down on a fine lawn, terminated with a noble bank of hanging woods.
He would frequently ramble to a great distance from home, to survey the beauties of the surrounding country. He had already visited every neighbouring village, and therefore one day strayed farther than usual in pursuit of new objects. On a sudden he discovered a delightful valley, the appearance of which seemed to correspond with every thing descriptive of a rural scene.
It was surrounded on all sides by hills, at the feet of which were thickly scattered cottages, groves, and gardens, which seemed to be the abode of rural happiness. The silence of the scene was broken only by the dashings of a torrent, which, rushing from an eminence, precipitated, bellowing, into a cavern beneath. Having there vented its rage in foam, it then divided into a multitude of little rills, and forming serpentine sweeps, refreshed the meadows and surrounding gardens with its friendly streams.
However pleased Mr. Jackson was with the natural beauties of the place, he was no less struck with the neatness and simplicity of the many cottages that presented themselves to his view, every house having a garden, an orchard, and some well-cultivated ground about it. Their only fences were hedges of holly, which afforded a convincing proof of two things, the fertility of the soil, and the confidence each one had in his neighbour.
Mr. Jackson was so wholly employed in contemplating this pleasing scene, that he paid no attention to a storm that was gathering around him, till the lightning flashed in his face, the thunder rolled over his head, and the rain began to fall in torrents. He instantly ran to the nearest farm door, and having there knocked, gained immediate admittance.
It was an elderly woman that came to the door, and who, though old, was not decrepid, and appeared to have something venerable in her countenance. "Come in, sir," said she, "and I will make a fire to dry you. I am glad our cottage was so near to you; but you would have met with a kind reception in any of these cottages. There is hardly a house here which is not kept by some of our children or descendants."
Mr. Jackson had sufficient leisure, while the good woman was lighting the fire, to survey the apartment. Every thing appeared uncommonly neat, and it was easy to be seen, from the nature of the furniture, that necessity had no abode under that roof. The novelty of the whole scene, and the particular words the good old woman had dropped in conversation during the lighting of the fire, gave Mr. Jackson a strong desire to know further particulars.