a corner; his eye-brows were large and shaggy, and
greatly resembled bramble bushes, in which his fox-like eyes had taken
refuge. Round these vulpine retreats were a labyrinthean maze of
those wrinkles, vulgarly called crow's-feet;--deep, intricate, and
intersected, they seemed for all the world like the web of a chancery
suit. Singular enough, the rest of the countenance was perfectly smooth
and unindented; even the lines from the nostril to the corners of the
mouth, usually so deeply traced in men of his age, were scarcely more
apparent than in a boy of eighteen.

His smile was frank--his voice clear and hearty--his address open,
and much superior to his apparent rank of life, claiming somewhat of
equality, yet conceding a great deal of respect; but, notwithstanding
all these certainly favourable points, there was a sly and cunning
expression in his perverse and vigilant eye and all the wrinkled
demesnes in its vicinity, that made me mistrust even while I liked my
companion; perhaps, indeed, he was too frank, too familiar, too degage,
to be quite natural. Your honest men soon buy reserve by experience.
Rogues are communicative and open, because confidence and openness cost
them nothing. To finish the description of my new acquaintance, I should
observe, that there was something in his countenance, which struck me
as not wholly unfamiliar; it was one of those which we have not, in all
human probability, seen before, and yet, which (perhaps from their very
commonness) we imagine we have encountered a hundred times.

We walked on briskly, notwithstanding the warmth of the day; in fact,
the air was so pure, the grass so green, the laughing noonday so full
of the hum, the motion, and the life of creation, that the sensation
produced was rather that of freshness and invigoration, than of languor
and heat.

"We have a beautiful country, Sir," said my hero of the box. "It is like
walking through a garden, after the more sterile and sullen features of
the Continent--a pure mind, Sir, loves the country; for my part, I am
always disposed to burst out in thanksgiving to Providence when I behold
its works, and, like the vallies in the psalm, I am ready to laugh and
sing."

"An enthusiast," said I, "as well as a philosopher!--perhaps (and I
believed it likely), I have the honour of addressing a poet also."

"Why, Sir," replied the man, "I have made verses in my life; in short,
there is little I have not done, for I was always