How wide is this of the truth!--The sweet and tranquil joys of home are his, enhanced a thousand-fold by previous privation--the delights of connubial and filial love are more keenly felt by him, in the simplicity of nature, than by the luxurious citizen or the ermined noble; and though he has never heard the chant of the cathedral choir, or listened to the consecrated melody of an organ peal, the sublime transports of religion have thrilled his bosom beneath the solitary sky, amid the wild, or by the margin of the cataract that rolls its unvisited torrent over nameless cliffs. It is a mistaken belief that poverty and toil shut the shepherd's eyes from the loveliness of nature--nor is it true, that, because he is rude in speech, and possessed of little book-learning, he does not feel keenly, and translate faithfully, the beautiful language which she utters to the heart of man. Wordsworth has so exquisitely described what we are wishing to express, that we shall, without apology for the length of the quotation, repeat his words:--
"Grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Are things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts: Fields, where with cheerful spirits he has breathed The common air--the hills, which he so oft Has climb'd with vigorous steps--which have impress'd So many incidents upon his mind, Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear, Which, like a book, preserves the memory Of the dumb animals whom he has saved, Has fed or shelter'd; linking to such acts, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honourable gain;--these fields, these hills, Which are his living being, even more Than his own blood--what could they less?--have laid Strong hold on his affections, are to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love-- The pleasure which there is in life itself."