The Middlebury people's press. [volume] (Middlebury, Vt.) 1841-1843, 1842-01-04

tale oil silent suffering, hardly cl othed
In bodily form. WORDSWORTH.
A village in the south of England is one of
the loveliest sights in nature; and it seems
the very resting-place of poetry. love and hap
piness. 1t glitters with its whitewashed cot
tages and garden walls among the green trees
mid which it is embowered like the golden
fruits of Spain, peeping from beneath the rich
foliage that does but partially conceal them.
It's meadows, its stream, IFS tapering church
spIre; its hedges, lis lanes of sweet-briar and
wild roses; its lattices, with their clustered
jessemine and honey -suckle; its gardens with
their bee hives; its orchards with their oderif-
erous blossoms; and above all, ITS simple vet
cheerful inhabitants, ignorant of the great
world, and unwilling to have that ignorance
enlightened; all combine to render a village
in the south of England the most delightful
spot IN tie universe. How sweet to retire from
tie world to such haven ofrepose; and there
TO cultivate only the purer affections of one
nature, and keep the soul divided, by rain.
bow zone, from the grosser atmosphere Of CON-
mon existence. There are many little para
discs of the kind | speak of and | should be
contented with any one of them; although, if
had my choice, should perhaps fix upon
WOODBURY. in preference to all the rest. My
prediction is the more singular, as all my
associations connected with the recollection of
that village are of peculiarly melancholy
cast. Even there the spoiler, Sorrow, had
found an entrance; and as his victims were
not unknown to me, will endeavor to recall
their story; it is simple one, but it suits well
the mournful temper of my mind, and l shall
therefore avail myself of this opportunity to
narrate it,
Let me paint her as first saw her. 1t was
in her cottagegarden on a bright summer
morning, when the dew was still sparkling on
the flowers. She held book in her hand but
she was not reading. She stood wrapped in
delightful reverie, with her eyes fixed on two
young rose bushes. knew not then that she
was my oldfriend's only child, yet l stopped
involuntarily to gaze upon her. had never
before seen aught so beautiful that too,
without the shadow of pretencc. | cannot
describe her features, but their combined ef
feet was irresistible. There was a world of
expression, an unfathomable depth of feeling
in her dark blue eye. saw tear start into it
but the thought that called it up was merely
transient, for smile gathered upon her lips
lIQultuldltiy ditcIWdfuS, dHu ClldStu away Will
its light the little harbinger of sorrow. At
that moment the gate was thrown open, and a
youth entered. He was her own lover; knew
it at glance. Adeeper crimson spread itself
over her cheek, and her smile kindled into one
of more intense delight. They stood togeth-
er; England could not have produced nobler
pair. They seated themselves in the sunshine;
the youth took the book and read aloud. 1t
was poetic page over which they hung. She
leaned her white arm on her lovers shoulder,
and gazed upon him with delighted and breath.
fcss attention. Who is it that has said there
is no happiness on earthl Had he seen Ed.
mund and Florence on that calm, blue morn.
ing, he would have confessed the absurdity of
his creed.
Edmund was the eldest son of the village
man 'toNell the country dear" Flor.
ence was the daughter of an old, respected
soldier, who had served in many a campaign