As I stood viewing the change which the winter season had made in the appearance of nature, my mind reverted to the changes which as suddenly take place in the dispensations of Providence; and I recalled to my remembrance many who, during my short pilgrimage, had sunk from the heights of prosperity to the depths of adversity, and whose opening spring of plenty and of hope had been succeeded by the sterile and stormy winter—closing up the visions of their anticipated bliss in the gloom of disappointment and of woe. While thus musing on the mutations of nature and of Providence, I saw two lads approaching from a distant meadow, and when they drew near enough for me to trace their features, I recognized the children of the woodman whom I visited on the evening when his little daughter died.[30] They looked very sorrowful and dejected, and exclaimed, as soon as they recognized me, "O, Sir, we are again in trouble—we have lost father! Have you seen him, or heard of him? We have been walking about ever since daybreak, but we can't find him." They then gave me an account of the calamity which had befallen them.
After the interment of his daughter, he regained his usual flow of spirits, and felt resigned to the will of God; but within the last few weeks he had sunk into a low, desponding state, and often spoke of his decease as one who believed the hour of his departure was at hand; and yet health nerved his arm, and he was strong to labour. "Mother often told him," said the eldest son, "that he ought not to mistrust Providence, who had always provided food and raiment for us; nor yet to think that he was going to leave us. But she could not comfort him; for, after coming home at night, he would sit and weep, and talk to us till we all wept with him; and we knew not why, for we saw no danger coming. We were all well and happy except father."
He had gone to his work on the preceding day, at his usual hour, taking with him, in his bag and bottle, his refreshment, and was seen by his master about noon, walking away from the field in which he had been at work, with his dog by his side, but neither of them had been heard of since. "We fear, Sir," said the lad, who sobbed aloud as he spoke, wiping away at the same time the falling tears with the sleeve of his frock, "he has tumbled into some pit, and has perished in the snow; but, Sir, we cannot trace any marks of his footsteps, nor yet hear Trail bark nor howl. Farmer Pickford and his son have just been away searching for him in one direction, and we in another; and the whole village is up looking for him, but we can see nothing like him anywhere, and I feel assured that poor father is gone. O, Sir, if you could but come and speak a word of comfort to mother! She is so unhappy, she does nothing but wring her hands and cry, for she does not know what to do."
Having heard this tale of woe, I resolved to accompany the two lads to the cottage, and endeavour to soothe their mother's distress. The distracted wife was standing at the door, and, on seeing me, she clasped her hands in an agony of grief, and began to repeat to me the affecting tale. "I have thought, Sir, at times, he would not live long, for within the last two months his spirit and his prayer all seemed to prove that he was getting ripe for glory; but I did not expect to lose him so soon, nor in this way."
"You do not," I remarked, "suppose that he is murdered?"
"O no, Sir! He has tumbled into some pit and perished in the snow, which fell yesterday in larger and thicker flakes than I ever saw before; but I feared no danger, because he knows the parts so well. I expected him home sooner than usual, on account of the badness of the weather; and as I thought something warm would comfort him, I had got a stew ready, but"—she could add no more.
I was very much affected by the aspect of the interior of the cottage, which still showed the preparations made on the preceding evening for the poor woodman's return. The neat round table stood near the fire, covered with a clean cloth; a deep wooden trencher, with a spoon and salt-cellar made of the same material, were placed beside it; the oak chair was in readiness to receive its owner, and the small kettle was still hanging over the fire, which had been suffered to dwindle from the bright blaze into dying embers. I endeavoured to comfort her in this hour of her sorrow; but she was so overpowered with anguish, that words of consolation appeared to be of no avail; and after praying with her I left, with a promise that I would call again. The lines of the poet Thomson, with which I had been long familiar, now recurred to my recollection, and I could not repress the tear which their remembrance on the present occasion involuntarily caused:—
"Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste;
Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain.
How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame! How many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man!
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs! How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How many sink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty! How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse!
Whence, tumbling headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the tragic muse.
Even in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop
In deep retir'd distress! How many stand
Around the deathbed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish! Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life,
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless rambling impulse, learn to think;
The conscious heart of charity would warm,
And her wide wish benevolence dilate;
The social tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual bliss,
Refining still, the social passions work."
On my return to Fairmount, I found the Roscoes there; and, on entering the parlour, Mrs. Stevens said, "We have felt somewhat uneasy on your account. I hope nothing unpleasant has detained you."
"I have been, Madam, to the house of mourning, where grief is still raging unassuaged." I then narrated the melancholy tale, which deeply affected the whole party; and various plans were suggested for the recovery of the lost woodman.