Gentle Reader! if thou knowest not the pages of honest old Burton—we speak not of his melancholy end, which melancholy may have wrought, but of his honesty of purpose, and of his life,—thou wilt not be unacquainted with that excellent Poem of Wordsworth's,—“The Excursion, being a Portion of the Recluse.”—_If any know not the wisdom contained in it, forthwith let them study it!_—Acquainted with it or not, it is Betty Yewdale that is described in the following lines, as holding the lanthorn to guide the steps of old Jonathan, her husband, on his return from working in the quarries, if at any time he chanced to be beyond his usual hour. They are given at length;—for who will not be pleased to read them _decies repetita_? Much was I pleased, the grey-haired wanderer said, When to those shining fields our notice first You turned; and yet more pleased have from your lips, Gathered this fair report of them who dwell In that Retirement; whither, by such course Of evil hap and good as oft awaits A lone wayfaring Man, I once was brought. Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell While I was traversing yon mountain pass, 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, but I longed To reach it destitute of other hope. I looked with steadiness as sailors look, On the north-star, or watch-tower's distant lamp, And saw the light—now fixed—and shifting now— Not like a dancing meteor; but in line Of never varying motion, to and fro. It is no night fire of the naked hills, Thought I, some friendly covert must be near. With this persuasion thitherward my steps I turn, and reach at last the guiding light; Joy to myself! but to the heart of Her Who there was standing on the open hill, (The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) Alarm and disappointment! The alarm Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I came, And by what help had gained those distant fields. Drawn from her Cottage, on that open height, Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood Or paced the ground,—to guide her husband home, By that unwearied signal, kenned afar; An anxious duty! which the lofty Site Traversed but by a few irregular paths, Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance Detains him after his accustomed hour When night lies black upon the hills. ‘But come, Come,’ said the Matron,—‘to our poor abode; Those dark rocks hide it!’ Entering, I beheld A blazing fire—beside a cleanly hearth Sate down; and to her office, with leave asked, The Dame returned.—Or ere that glowing pile Of mountain turf required the builder's hand Its wasted splendour to repair, the door Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare, Frank conversation, make the evening's treat: