For the poor man home, children,
fireside affection, mean more than for the rich man, because they are
his only wealth. This is the lesson which Wordsworth has so nobly
taught in his "_Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle_,"--
How, by heaven's grace this Clifford's heart was framed,
How he, long forced in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed and tamed.
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
People who live thus, in wise simplicity, undistracted by the numerous
illusions of an artificial life, have no difficulty in accepting
Christ's teaching that love is the supreme law of life, because love
means everything to them in the kind of life they lead. In the wisdom
of the heart they are more learned than the wisest Pharisee, who is
rarely "softened into feeling," whose whole social life indeed imposes
a restraint on feeling. What peasant father would not welcome a
returning prodigal, what peasant mother would not open her arms wide to
gather to her bosom a penitent daughter, recovered from the cruel snare
of cities? Certainly one is much more likely to find such acts of pure
feeling among peasant folk than among the rich and cultured, for the
peasant cares less for opinion, is less respectful of social etiquette,
and follows more closely in his actions the instincts of primal
affection.
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