rheard another asking his
neighbour "who drew up the contract lines for him," and "where he had
got the whisky." The minister entered; and as he passed into the inner
room, we all rose. He stood for a moment in the doorway, and, beckoning
on one of the young men--him of the Catechism--they went in together,
and the door closed. They remained closeted together for about twenty
minutes or half an hour, and then the young man went out; and another
young man--he who had procured the contract lines and the whisky--took
his place. The interview in this second case, however, was much shorter
than the first; and a very few minutes served to despatch the business
of the third young man; and then the minister, coming to the doorway,
looked first at the old women and then at me, as if mentally determining
our respective claims to priority; and, mine at length prevailing--I
know not on what occult principle--I was beckoned in. I presented my
letter of introduction, which was graciously read; and though the nature
of the business did strike me as ludicrously out of keeping with the
place, and it did cost me some little trouble to suppress at one time a
burst of laughter, that would, of course, have been prodigiously
improper in the circumstances, I detailed to him in a few words my
little plan, and handed him my copy of verses. He read them aloud with
slow deliberation.

ODE TO THE NESS.

Child of the lake! whose silvery gleam
Cheers the rough desert, dark and lone,[11]--
A brown, deep, sullen, restless stream,
With ceaseless speed thou hurriest on.
And yet thy banks with flowers are gay;
The sun laughs on thy troubled breast;
And o'er thy tides the zephyrs play,
Though nought be thine of quiet rest.[12]

Stream of the lake! to him who strays,
Lonely, thy winding marge along,
Not fraught with lore of other days,
And yet not all unblest in song--
To him thou tell'st of busy men,
Who madly waste their present day.
Pursuing hopes, baseless as vain,
While life, untasted, glides away.

Stream of the lake! why hasten on?
A boist'rous ocean spreads before,
Where dash dark tides, and wild winds moan,
And foam-wreaths skirt a cheerless shore,
Nor bending flowers, nor waving fields,
Nor aught of rest is there for thee;
But rest to thee no pleasure yields;
Then haste and join the stormy sea!