VILLAGE CHARACTERS.-No. IV. OLD GWYN. 66 THE death bell! that sound always so impressive, always so affecting! that sound which falls so faintly on the ear when pacing the life-crowded city; but which, in the quiet village, carries its lesson home to the heart-The tolling of the death bell arrested my attention; and with the curiosity of the true villager, whether occupied or vacant, I inquired of whose death it was the melancholy announcement ? "Old Gwyn is gone," was the reply; and at first, I felt astonished, for it was only a day or two before, that I first heard of his illness. But recollecting the question, Are we not here now, and gone in a moment ?" I drew an involuntary sigh, which responded to the truth of the sentiment. But with that sorrowful general feeling was mingled one of particular respect for the deceased. No more, thought I, shall we meet in the moss-grown retreat; no more shall the half-contracted verse be cut short, no more the absorbing meditation be interrupted, by the abrupt encounter of old Gwyn. The thought was painful; for there was really something so pleasing in his manner, something so innocent and exhilarating in his conversation, that I could never once find it in my heart to quarrel with him for spoiling my song, or breaking the thread of solemn meditation. Let me proceed to set down all of interest respecting old Gwyn which my memory supplies. Before he came into our village, which was about twenty years ago, it appears that he had been a coachman. Scorn not the hero of this humble record! How many an obscure man is more worthy of the historic page than some even of the princes of this world! Having saved a little money, and married the housekeeper in the same family in which he had lived, he quitted servitude, and came hither to live on the united earnings of his wife and himself, which were sensibly increased by the bounty of his late master. He had thus enough to render him comfortable, and was able to entertain a friend occasionally. And thus situated, he was content and grateful. nearer march before my study window, and passed and re-passed him in all parts of the parish, without knowing who he was, or in what way occupied. Atlength, from passing in silence and with merely a casual glance at each other, we approached to nearer acquaintance by nodding; from nodding, we were brought a step nearer by exchanging the usual salutation of Good morning or Good evening; then we came still with cursory remarks on the weather; and, finally, meeting one day in a narrow path, we made a mutual halt, and I discovered that it was my own fault that we had not been better friends before, and that I was unacquainted with his occupation, (for occupation Gwyn still had,) and he knew that without it he must, like all other men, have been miserable. Therefore, when he threw up the reins, he did not sit in his great arm chair twirling his thumbs, nor did he devote the day to dreams of his ancient charioteership. No, he became a pedestrian; not, however, an idle stroller, who with vacant stare looks on the broad expanse of blue sky and beautiful green earth, as if it were still a mighty chaos; and who, when he returns, can render no account of his wanderings-can scarce tell if the sun itself illumined his path! It was otherwise with Gwyn. If he had been overtaken in a shower, he could tell you what part of the heavens it came from; what time it appeared on the horizon; how long it was in travelling from thence to the nadir; when the first drop fell; when the last, and in what direction it was gone. it had been a thunder storm, he could inform you when the first clap was heard, when the last, which was the loudest, and how many there had been ; nor did the flashes of the fierce red lightning, from which so many turn away their eyes with dread, escape unnumbered; they were noted down in the pages of Gwyn's memory, with a precision truly wonderful. But Gwyn's particular business was not with the "skyey influences;" the earth was his favourite study, and one to which he was never tired of recurring. If It was Gwyn's especial endeavour to discover what was sown in each field, and how it progressed, and whose crops of wheat or barley flourished best. This Not being an adept in making ac- information acquired, his next step was quaintance with strangers, I, for some to impart it to all who talked with him. time, saw Gwyn march and counter-Was a hedge broken down, either by Gwyn's sagacity here; but it was my own that was at fault. The small kitchen garden was so quickly and so completely metamorphosed that I could have fancied myself in a gay parterre, every thing was so tastefully and judiciously arranged. In this case, Gwyn had the double satisfaction of seeing my garden improved, and the old man benefited by his recommendation. Thus harmlessly, and in some measure usefully, spent old Gwyn his days of independence, careless of increasing his own wealth, and only anxious to serve his neighbours to the best of his ability. Frequently did I meet him in the evening, and listen to his little rural adventures till the sun had disappeared in the western sky, (for I could rarely get away before,) with a degree of but an obscure and feeble image. His was a feeling of universal benevolence which knew of no restraint or limitation. Deserved prosperity, shine on whom it might, delighted him; and his services were bestowed with most laudable impartiality. the unlicensed pilferer of the cottage, or by the licensed ravager of the mansion, you might be sure that Gwyn would report the trespass to the farmer. It was his also to turn out stray cattle from the pasture, his to close the gate negligently left, or wantonly thrown, open. Nothing in all his rounds escaped his notice; his acute observation compassed some of the largest matters, and did not exclude the most minute. I verily believe he could have told when such a mole hill was turned up in any paddock or field having a pathway through it, or enclosed by a hedge over or through which he could peep. But if Gwyn was great in the field, he was still greater in the garden. Not a garden in the village but received the impress of his feet and the benefit of his advice. He was a walking "Gar-pleasure of which my words can render dener's Gazette;" and no one went to him in vain for information connected with planting, sowing, pruning, or any of the most abstruse of garden mysteries. Weeds were a "favourite aversion" of his; and whilst he mildly observed, "These should not be here," the expression of his countenance said, very plainly, "You are an idle fellow," or, "You have not acquainted yourself with the good labourers of the village.' But if I could plead guilty to either of these accusations, Gwyn could not : to his industry I have already borne testimony; and his knowledge of the characters of the peasantry was extensive and accurate. Now, our parish is six miles in length and five in breadth; a fact important to record, as showing the extent of Gwyn's explorations. To obtain a thorough knowledge of every field in such an area as this, must cost a man some labour; to be able to point out the best field of corn among them all, required close observation; to report all the broken hedges thereon, needed constant survey; to drive therefrom all the stray cattle, and shut all the neglected gates, must require many a watchful glance and weary step. all these occupations, however, old Gwyn was indefatigable; and he had during their exercise contrived, as I before observed, so well to study the characters of our labourers, as to be able at once to point out and recommend the best. He once directed me to a poor decrepid old man by no means famous for his Adam-like skill, and whom none would employ. I confess that I doubted old In During the twenty years of his perambulations, Gwyn found companions at intervals; but he outwalked them all. In these partnerships, Gwyn was somewhat peremptory; his companions must walk where he led, and do what he required, or they were no comrades for him. Out of his own well-worn track he turned not for any one; and those who could not relish it, might shun it: thus, his perambulatory connexions were neither close nor permanent; and I was often amused with his brief and quaint histories of his peripatetic friends, some of whom being spring, summer, or autumn birds, took their flights at their respective seasons. These companionships, with one exception, lasted on an average about six weeks; the exception, about four months. This partner of Gwyn's strolls, was a widower, and by trade a blacksmith, and lived opposite to Gwyn. Having accumulated a small fortune by the side of his forge, and, perhaps, becoming tired of the puff of his bellows and the din of his hammer, he yielded both to his son; and his first subsequent occupation was to wander with old Gwyn. He did this very steadily for three months; and after that time, Gwyn was occasionally seen, as of old, alone; occasionally, accompanied by his friend. The latter, it appeared, was undecided, whether to make Gwyntion. I should think Frank's Shetland his companion for life, or to re-enter pony must have wondered, if wonder the silken bonds of wedlock. He de- belongs to horses, what could be going cided for the latter alternative; and on. For instead of his regular morning's when I again encountered Gwyn in the exercise, from which he was returned to "daisy-dappled dale," I could not sup- the paddock or the stable, to graze and press a significant smile. But Gwyn ruminate at pleasure for the rest of the did not return it: he evidently felt his day, he was called for at all hours to trot loss; his looks denoted that he felt the off here and there, where some acquaintfriendship of man to be but a dream. ance must not be overlooked, or some one had been nearly forgotten, or some very particular friend had requested to be reminded, the very day before the flower was to make its appearance. No sooner was any thing of the sort recollected or suggested, than off went Frank; for "his heart was in it." From that time, Gwyn walked without a companion; and now, he who walked the parish over and over, is literally walked over by the parish. In accordance with his eccentric wish, he "HIS HEART IS IN IT." IN the days when I was young, there was a certain flower introduced into the gardens of the curious, which has now become comparatively common; so much so, that few persons who can afford to have a conservatory, are satisfied without possessing the cactus grandiflorus, or night-flowering cactus. But forty years ago, it was a rare thing; and horticulturists thought little of travelling miles to witness the flowering of one. My uncle possessed one of the earliest specimens of this beautiful plant that were brought into England; and as the time of its flowering approached, invitations were issued to a large circle of acquaintance. Indeed, it was considered a matter of courtesy, that many with whom my uncle was not on terms of great intimacy, should be invited to share the gratifica Mrs. Rogers the housekeeper and old Anthony the gardener were not less busy; the former, in a grand display of her taste and skill in decorating the garden saloon, which opened into the conservatory, and preparing refreshments for the company; the latter, in re-arranging the plants, so as to widen the approach to the plant of distinction ; matting (or, as he would have it, "carpeting with mats") the conservatory, and disposing the lamps so as to cast the most favourable light on the expanding blossom. But old Anthony made a point of being in bed at nine o'clock: he had never been known to vary from his regular rule; and every body in the house concluded, that, when nine o'clock came, Anthony would either take his departure, and leave the spectators to enjoy the sight without him, or that he would drop asleep at his post. No such thing: nine o'clock came, and ten, and eleven; and there was Anthony, as brisk as a bee, watching the advance of the flower, and talking learnedly about the involucrum, and the pistils, and the petals, and the calyx, and the corolla. At midnight, the flower was completely opened, and Anthony's rapture was complete. Soon afterwards, the guests began to drop off, and by one o'clock the house was cleared; but Anthony was still watching the splendid flower, without a symptom of drowsiness. Whether he stayed in the conservatory all night, I cannot pretend to say; but when, after a short repose, Frank and I at six o'clock visited the scene of the last night's attraction, there was Anthony, watching the shrinking petals, as they closed to open no more, and moralizing on the transient nature of all worldly splendour and delights. “Well, Anthony," said Frank, "how have you managed to remain awake so long? I thought nothing could keep you out of bed after nine o'clock.' 66 Why, master, you see my heart was in it:' it was hardly worth while for an old man like me to set his heart upon a flower; but I did wish to see the opening of one that was so celebrated, and the like of which has never been seen in these parts. And you know, sir, when one's heart is in a matter, one does not mind getting over a few difficulties to accomplish it. When we say we cannot do a thing, it often means no more than that we do not set our minds upon trying to do it, and do not care whether or not the thing is done." "That is very true," said Frank; "both Samuel and I know, that if we set our minds upon learning any thing, the difficulties are sure to be surmounted. We try this way, and try that, and persevere till we accomplish it." 'Yes, master; and when your mind has been set upon any of your ingenious little contrivances, by way of amusement, I have heard you sawing and hammering away, by six o'clock in the morning, at it, at it, all day long, hardly liking to be called away to your meals. I have thought to myself, I wish I could make my boys, that are picking stones or weeding the garden, work half as hard as master Frank; we should get the work more completely done, and in much less time: but then his heart is in it, and I am afraid theirs is not. Even master Longley, who I must say is very different from either of you young gentlemen, for in general he lounges about, as if he did not know how to get rid of his time, and has to be called over and over again to make him leave his bed in time for breakfast; yet, if he is going out for a day's hunting, or any thing else on which his heart is set, he can wake of his own accord, rise with the sun, and move about as briskly as if he really felt the pleasure of activity. Depend upon it, young gentlemen, the way to make work of any kind easy, and the way to have it well done, is to have the heart in it." My uncle now made his appearance, and, after kindly inquiring of the old man how he found himself after the extraordinary fatigues of the night, took up the sentiment he had just uttered. "Yes, the way to do any thing easily and well, is to have the heart in it: and pray what are your hearts set upon, that led to the remark ?" "It was not so much, sir, about ourselves we were speaking, as of Anthony keeping so long awake, to watch the flowering of the cactus, which you know is so contrary to his usual habit; he tells us he has not been out of bed at ten o'clock for twenty years before." "I wish Anthony's early and regular habits were more generally prevalent than they are; there would be much more good done in the world, and much less mischief: you should not forget, that if Anthony likes to retire to rest early at night, he is habitually one of the first to bid the sun good morning." "Oh, yes, uncle; we were not making game of Anthony, I assure you. I hope his example of regularity has been of some use to us. We merely observed, how easily he could break through his habit, when induced by a motive with which he felt inclined to comply." "Ay, that's the secret of enterprize, a powerful motive acting upon a willing mind. I know a worthy man who, from an uneducated rustic, has risen to be one of the first practical chemists of his day. This man entered a well-known house in that line, merely as a drudging porter. Observation soon awakened native genius; he immediately conceived the design of effecting improvements in some of the most important and difficult processes of chemistry. He solicited and obtained permission to make the attempt, though little expectation was entertained of his succeeding. As his experiment, or rather one of his experiments, approached its crisis, he watched it four days and nights without intermission, partaking occasionally of a little bread and cheese and water, placed in silence by a fellow-servant, so close to his hand, that he could take it without withdrawing his eye from the process in which he was engaged. Complete success crowned his enterprize and perseverance; success, which not only raised the individual to eminence and affluence, but also conferred important benefits on mankind. But what particularly led me to mention the circumstance, was his own remark when relating it: During the progress of the operation, I was insensible to weariness, hunger, and inconvenience in general; for my heart was in it.'" "That is just what my sister Ellen says when she has her rest disturbed by attention to the children: she does not feel fatigue; for her heart is in it. She never seems to reckon it a privation or disappointment, to be kept from any party, if she considers it necessary for their welfare that she should stay at home. 'No,' she will say, if urged to go, 'pray do not press me, do not think about me; I could not find any pleasure in company, and I am sure I could not confer any; for my heart would be in the nursery.' 66 Yes," said my uncle, "I do not know a more lively illustration of the sentiment, that perfect love casts out fear, and casts out selfishness, than in the untiring devotedness, the willing privations and sacrifices, of a tender mother. Her heart is in the work; and she finds her delight where another would find only weariness and disgust. Where there is not this kind of devotedness, and in a high degree, the duties of a mother are never well performed." "I remember, uncle, when the captain was quizzing Mortimer, about his wife being so devoted to the nursery, you said you had known the wretchedness and ruin of several families to have originated in the heart of the mother having been set on pleasure and gaiety, to the neglect of her duties at home.' "Yes, Frank; such instances are but too common. I rejoice to think that dear Ellen's conduct, in this respect, is so totally opposite to that of many modern fine ladies. A mother who can satisfy herself, as having done her duty to her children, when she has provided for them well-recommended nurses and governesses, too plainly proves that her heart is not in her duty, but is set on something else at variance with it. A mother's duties cannot be delegated." My uncle's remark touched upon a subject on which I was particularly sensitive. My own dear mother, by ill health, was prevented paying as much personal attention to the affairs of the nursery as my aunt Tatnull bestowed on hers. I often felt a secret conviction, that this was a serious disadvantage to the comfort, health, tempers, and habits of us children; and the superiority which I ever willingly conceded to Frank and his family, I in a great measure ascribed to the greater advantages they enjoyed in that respect. Still I could not bear to admit a thought, or hear a remark, which in the slightest degree seemed to cast a reflection on my beloved mother. I have no doubt, that, on the occasion just alluded to, the mantling blush and glistening eye told my uncle that his remark had given me pain; for he looked at me, and continued "That, Samuel, does not apply to your good mother: she cannot do what she would; but she will and does do what she can, and therefore she does her duty. Her heart is with her children. Illness often presses down the springs of her energy and activity; but, whenever the pressure is removed, though but partially and temporarily, it is easy to see that her heart is in the right place. But there are mothers who cannot bear the confinement of the nursery, yet who may be met with at every place of gay resort, and to whom the appeal of Scripture might be justly addressed-' Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget,' Isa. xlix. 15. Your mother never forgets you, my boy." "Oh no, uncle; I am sure she does not: she is always thinking and caring about us, if she is ever so ill." My uncle then mentioned two melancholy facts which had come under his own observation, in which the duties and feelings of a mother were sacrificed to the indulgence of vicious propensities. In one instance, the wife of a tradesman in humble circumstances had in her youth acquired a fondness for the time-consuming, soul-absorbing, temper-ruining novel. She was a young woman of active habits, possessing sufficient knowledge of household affairs to make a plain man's home comfortable, and disposed to do so. Full employment, and the excitement of novelty in circumstances, for a time took her off in some degree from her favourite, but most injurious, pursuit. Novel-reading was not, as it had formerly been, the employment of hours together, and day after day; . but it was still resorted to, as an occasional, and, as it was deemed, harmless, recreation. But the cares of a family came on, and confined Mrs. M. more frequently to the house, while her husband was more habitually abroad on his business. Novel-reading is a poor preparative for solitude; and the young woman who has formed her tastes and habits on the model of the novel system, is not likely to regard her infant offspring in the light of the most interesting and agreeable society. To such a one solitude is irksome, and the duties |