ke a
daguerreotype from that picture within, which I have borne with me in
all my wanderings. I am a boy again, once more conscious of the feeling,
half terror, half exultation, with which I used to announce the approach
of this very vagabond and his "kindred after the flesh."

The advent of wandering beggars, or "old stragglers," as we were wont
to call them, was an event of no ordinary interest in the generally
monotonous quietude of our farm-life. Many of them were well known; they
had their periodical revolutions and transits; we would calculate them
like eclipses or new moons. Some were sturdy knaves, fat and saucy; and,
whenever they ascertained that the "men folks" were absent, would order
provisions and cider like men who expected to pay for them, seating
themselves at the hearth or table with the air of Falstaff,--"Shall
I not take mine ease in mine inn?" Others, poor, pale, patient, like
Sterne's monk,(1) came creeping up to the door, hat in hand, standing
there in their gray wretchedness with a look of heartbreak and
forlornness which was never without its effect on our juvenile
sensibilities. At times, however, we experienced a slight revulsion of
feeling when even these humblest children of sorrow somewhat petulantly
rejected our proffered bread and cheese, and demanded instead a glass of
cider. Whatever the temperance society might in such cases have done,
it was not in our hearts to refuse the poor creatures a draught of
their favorite beverage; and was n't it a satisfaction to see their sad,
melancholy faces light up as we handed them the full pitcher, and, on
receiving it back empty from their brown, wrinkled hands, to hear them,
half breathless from their long, delicious draught, thanking us for the
favor, as "dear, good children"! Not unfrequently these wandering tests
of our benevolence made their appearance in interesting groups of man,
woman, and child, picturesque in their squalidness, and manifesting
a maudlin affection which would have done honor to the revellers at
Poosie-Nansie's, immortal in the cantata of Burns. (2) I remember some
who were evidently the victims of monomania,--haunted and hunted by some
dark thought,--possessed by a fixed idea. One, a black-eyed, wild-haired
woman, with a whole tragedy of sin, shame, and suffering written in her
countenance, used often to visit us, warm herself by our winter fire,
and supply herself with a stock of cakes and cold meat; but was never
known to