t all pretty. He was
dressed in black, and a large white cravat entirely hid his neck and
chin: his having been afflicted from childhood with salt-rhum, was
doubtless the cause of his chin being so completely buried in the
neckcloth. Upon the whole, he looked more like one of our American
Methodist parsons, than any one I have seen in this country. He entered
freely into conversation with us. He said he should be glad to attend my
lecture that evening, but that he had long since quit going out at
night. He mentioned having heard William Lloyd Garrison some years
before, and with whom he was well pleased. He said it had long been a
puzzle to him, how Americans could hold slaves and still retain their
membership in the churches. When we rose to leave, the old man took my
hand between his two, and with tears in his eyes said, "Go on your
Christian mission, and may the Lord protect and prosper you. Your
enslaved countrymen have my sympathy, and shall have my prayers." Thus
ended our visit to the Bard of Sheffield. Long after I had quitted the
presence of the poet, the following lines of his were ringing in my
ears:--

"Wanderer, whither dost thou roam?
Weary wanderer, old and grey,
Wherefore has thou left thine home,
In the sunset of thy day.
Welcome wanderer as thou art,
All my blessings to partake;
Yet thrice welcome to my heart,
For thine injured people's sake.
Wanderer, whither would'st thou roam?
To what region far away?
Bend thy steps to find a home,
In the twilight of thy day.
Where a tyrant never trod,
Where a slave was never known--
But where Nature worships God
In the wilderness alone."

Mr. Montgomery seems to have thrown his entire soul into his meditations
on the wrongs of Switzerland. The poem from which we have just quoted,
is unquestionably one of his best productions, and contains more of the
fire of enthusiasm than all his other works. We feel a reverence almost
amounting to superstition, for the poet who deals with nature. And who
is more capable of understanding the human heart than the poet? Who has
better known the human feelings than Shakspere; better painted than
Milton, the grandeur of Virtue; better sighed than Byron over the subtle
weaknesses of Hope? Who ever had a sounder taste, a more exact
intellect than Dante? or who has ever tuned his harp more in favour of
Freedom, than our own Whittier?

LETTER XII.

_Kirks