“Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell, And night succeeded with unusual gloom, So that my feet and hands at length became Guides better than mine eyes—until a light High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, For human habitation.” Climbing the heights, however, he finds that the light proceeds from a lantern, held out by a woman to guide her husband homewards from the distant slate quarry. The poet proceeds to tell of his hospitable reception, the husband’s arrival, and the unusual beauty of the good-man’s face, adding— “From a fount Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, But honoured once, those features and that mien May have descended, though I see them here. In such a man, so gentle and subdued, Withal so graceful in his gentleness, A race illustrious for heroic deeds, Humbled, but not degraded, may expire.” Thus much for Jonathan Yewdale. His wife, Betty, is made to speak for herself—but to speak in language very different from that she really used, as may be seen in a still more remarkable work than that I quote from—_The Doctor_, namely, by Robert Southey, wherein Betty Yewdale, in her “oan mak’ o’ toke,” relates “The true story of the terrible knitters of Dent.” In _The Excursion_, however, she is made to speak thus— “‘Three dark mid-winter months Pass,’ said the Matron, ‘and I never see, Save when the sabbath brings its kind release, My helpmate’s face by light of day. He quits His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. And through Heaven’s blessing, thus we gain the bread For which we pray; and for the wants provide Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. Companions have I many; many friends, Dependants, comforters—my wheel, my fire, All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear, The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood, And the wild birds that gather round my porch. This honest sheep-dog’s countenance I read; With him can talk; nor seldom waste a word On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds Care not for me, he lingers round my door, And makes me pastime when our tempers suit;— But, above all, my thoughts are my support.’” This, no doubt is, as I have said, a very charming picture of humble house life in a lonely home; but the picture is drawn by a poet, and, in _his_ words—certainly not in those of the worthy dame from whose lips they are made thus melodiously to flow. I have conversed with many elderly people who knew this couple familiarly, and several have told me of the almost seraphic beauty of the old man’s features, lowered, as it was, by a lack of expression, denoting a weakness of mind and character, which, in the opinion of neighbours, perfectly justified Betty in maintaining full domestic supremacy and undisputed rule.