CHAPTER IV. UNEARNED RETIREMENT. But unto us, it is A cell of ignorance; travelling abed; To stride a limit. SHAKSPEARE. AND a very pretty parsonage it was. Nothing could be more quietly gay. The house and garden ranged themselves up the side of a gentle hill, so as to have elevation sufficient to give effect to the prospect, without losing the advantage of a most perfect shelter. The river ran at foot, and from the farther bank of it rose a steep mount covered from top to bottom by timber of all varieties. The water was smooth as a mirror; every thing around was tranquil, yet cheerful, from the scenery being dotted with cottages and gay gardens; in short, Nature seemed here to repose in all her elegance. The vicar was not at home, but was expected every instant; and having now ascertained by the superscription of an old letter on the table that Archer was his college friend, De Vere said he would wait for him; and he took his place in a window which seemed at once a seat for a painter, a poet, a philosopher, and a pious man. One would have thought it happiness enough merely to sit there. Such, perhaps, it would have been with the proper requisites of a disposition to be content within so very narrow a circle. Without it, it is not rock, or river, or luxuriant copse, or emerald margin, that can bring back the mind from the field of its designed interest, the active business of life. From temporary care, such a seclusion is a charming relief,--and he who is worn out with fatigue, and struggle in his journey through the world, might think, and even find it exquisite. Others, however, who like the owner-but let the owner, in this instance, speak for himself." De Vere knew Archer directly, as he let himself in at a little gate from the road side; but was surprised to see, as he came up the walk, that he who had ever been so spruce and erect, so as to be almost a coxconıb at college, was now slovenly in his appearance and attire. An ill-made, and ill-brushed coat, seemed to hang about him like a sack, and a slouch in his gait, amounting to stooping, had taken place of the brisk, lively mien, De Vere had remembered. Before he got half way up the rising ground that led to the house, he threw himself into a seat, the back of which had long been broken, and the whole going fast to decay. Here he reposed, with his head on his hand, and viewing his landscape with a lack-lustre eye, he yawned, and seemed little cheerful in his meditation. "Is it even so?" said De Vere, "what can this mean? He seems melancholy, if not unhappy; yet I have not heard of any misfortune that has befallen him. But I will shew myself." Archer scarcely rose, when he first perceived De Vere; till making out who he was, his countenance lightened into a joy that was evidently sincere. "And is it you?" said he, "you, who leave the gay, the busy, and the powerful; you who, I see, are sometimes at court, and come to visit a poor parson in his Siberia ?” "Siberia!" exclaimed De Vere, "I was just thinking what a delicious retreat you had acquired for your philosophy and your muse; both of which promised so much at Oxford.” "Retreat!" said he, looking surprised. "Oh! ay! yes! but retreat from what ?" He paused, when not to lose the theme he De Vere observed, "retreat from was upon, the world." "Where I have yet never been," interrupted Archer, with some quickness. Surely," said De Vere, "this delightful place is better than St. Bride's, in the city, or Allhallows, Barking, which I remember to have heard you were offered and refused; but I did not then know to what a paradise you gave the preference." "True! true" returned Archer, “I had then little ambition to preach to the lord mayor and aldermen. I thought as you do of philosophy and the muses, and I have no right to complain; nay, I ought to be, and, indeed, am -satisfied." The last sentence was uttered in a tone not quite corresponding with the sentiment; perhaps there was a little faltering as he brought out the words. "But come," added he, cheering himself, "come into my hermitage, and tell me how it is that I see you here, and where you are going-and have some refreshment. You will sup and take a bed with me of course." De Vere said he must get to Castle Mowbray that evening, but he would take some of his brown loaf, which, with the remains of a clouded decanter of wine, and some used glasses, were still on the table. “I have a sad dawdling slut to wait upon me," said Archer, rather reddening, at observing De Vere's examination of his dessert. "She does just as she pleases, and she generally pleases not to take away my dinner things till supper is ready: I beg you will excuse it.” De Vere went on with his admiration of the beautiful window, and his commendation of the preference Archer had given to such a spot; "surely much better," said De Vere, "than the air of the city, or even to be a court chaplain." "I don't know that," said Archer," when all road to ambition is cut off. I observe that even in the city a man may be followed as a preacher; and at court the very Maudlin prigs, we used to laugh at, have got on;-while here "Come," said De Vere, seeing him fall into an uneasy pause, "I will not let you quarrel |