CHAPTER I.

PROSPECTIVE.


If, as Wordsworth, that arch-priest of poesy, expresses it, I could place
the gentle reader "_atween the downy wings_" of some beneficent and
willing angel, in one brief instant of time should he be deposited on the
little hill that first discovers the smiling, quiet village of Ellendale.
He would imbibe of beauty more in a breath, a glance, than I can pour into
his soul in pages of spiritless delineation. I cannot charm the eye with
that great stream of liquid light, which, during the long and lingering
summer's day, issues from the valley like an eternal joy; I cannot
fascinate his ear, and soothe his spirit with nature's deep mysterious
sounds, so delicately slender and so soft, that silence fails to be
disturbed, but rather grows more mellow and profound; I cannot with a
stroke present the teeming hills, flushed with their weight of corn, that
now stands stately in the suspended air--now, touched by the lightest wind
that ever blew, flows like a golden river. As difficult is it to convey a
just impression of a peaceful spot, whose praise consists--so to
speak--rather in privatives than positives; whose privilege it is to be
still free, tranquil, and unmolested, in a land and in an age of ceaseless
agitation, in which the rigorous virtues of our fathers are forgotten, and
the land's integrity threatens to give way. If Ellendale be not the most
populous and active village, it is certainly the most rustic and winning
that I have ever beheld in our once _merry_ England. It is secreted from
the world, and lies snugly and closely at the foot of massive hills, which
nature seems to have erected solely for its covert and protection. It is
situated about four miles from the high-road, whence you obtain at
intervals short glimpses as it rears its tiny head into the open day. If