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 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 OF 
 
 SCOTTISH LIFE.
 
 Printed by George Ramsay & Co.
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF 
 
 SCOTTISH LIFE, 
 
 A SELECTION FROM 
 
 THE PAPERS OF THE LATE 
 
 ARTHUR AUSTIN. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH 
 
 AND T. CADELL, LONDON, 
 
 MDCCCXXII.
 
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 r 

 
 SOU! 
 
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 } R 
 
 !f$37 
 
 L<bZ 
 
 TO 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BARONET, 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT 
 
 OF ESTEEM AND ADMIRATION, 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, 
 
 THE EDITOR,
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Lily of Liddesdale S 
 
 Moss-Side 33 
 
 An Hour in the Manse 46 
 
 The Head-Stone 60 
 
 Sunset and Sunrise 67 
 
 The Lover's Last Visit 79 
 
 The Minister's Widow 91 
 
 The Snow-Storm 107 
 
 The Elder's Death-Bed 131 
 
 The Elder's Funeral 148 
 
 The Twins 159 
 
 The Poor Scholar 174 
 
 The Forgers 187 
 
 The Family-Tryst 203 
 
 Blind Allan 226 
 
 Lilias Grieve 245 
 
 The Covenanter's Marriage-Day 256 
 
 The Baptism 272 
 
 Simon Gray 281
 
 VH1 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Rainbow 313 
 
 The Omen 339 
 
 Consumption 355 
 
 TheShealing 369 
 
 Helen Eyre 391 
 
 NOTE. 
 The Elder's Funeral— The Snow Storm — and The Forgers, are 
 now republished. 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 96, line 11, for Wellington, read Wellesley. 
 Pages 268, line 21, and 262, lines 13 and 17, for Marion, read 
 Christian.
 
 LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 
 
 OF 
 
 SCOTTISH LIFE. 
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 The Country all around rang with the beauty -tof 
 Amy Gordon ; and although it was not known who first 
 bestowed upon her the appellation, yet now she bore 
 no other than the Lily of Liddesrlale. She was the on- 
 ly child of a shepherd, and herself a shepherdess. 
 Never had she been out of the valley in which she 
 was born ; but many had come from the neighbour- 
 ing districts just to look upon her as she rested with 
 her flock on the hill-side, as she issued smiling from 
 her father's door, or sat in her serener loveliness in the 
 kirk on Sabbat.' '-day. Sometimes there are living be- 
 ings in nature as beautiful as in romance ; reality sur- 
 passes imagination ; and we see breathing, brighten- 
 ing, and moving before our eyes, sights dearer to our 
 hearts than any we ever beheld in the land of sleep.
 
 4 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 It was thus that all felt who looked on the Lily of 
 Liddesdale. She had grown up under the dews, and 
 breath, and light of heaven, among the solitary hills ; 
 and, now that she had attained to perfect womanhood, 
 nature rejoiced in the beauty that gladdened the still- 
 ness of these undisturbed glens. Why should this 
 one maiden have been created lovelier than all others ? 
 In what did her surpassing loveliness consist ? None 
 could tell ; for had the most imaginative poet describ- 
 ed this maiden, something that floated around her, an 
 air of felt but unspeakable grace and lustre, would 
 have been wanting in his picture. Her face was 
 pale, yet tinged with such a faint and leaf-like crim- 
 son, that though she well deserved the name of the 
 Lily, yet was she at times also like unto the Rose. 
 When asleep, or in silent thought, she was like the 
 fairest of all the lilied brood ; but when gliding along 
 the braes, or singing her songs by the river side, she 
 might well remind one of that other brighter and more 
 dazzling Flower. Amy Gordon knew that she was 
 beautiful. She knew it from the eyes that in delight 
 met hers, from the tones of so many gentle voices, 
 from words of affection from the old, and love from 
 the young, from the sudden smile that met her when, 
 in the morning, she tied up at the little mirror her 
 long raven hair, and from the face and figure that 
 looked up to her when she stooped to dip her pitcher in 
 the clear mountain-well. True that she was of lowly 
 birth, and that her manners were formed in a shepherd's
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 5 
 
 hut, and among shepherdesses on the hill. But one 
 week passed in the halls of the highly born would have 
 sufficed to hide the little graceful symptoms of her hum- 
 ble lineage, and to equal her in elegance with those whom 
 in beauty she had far excelled. The sun and the rain 
 had indeed touched her hands, but nature had shaped 
 them delicate and small. Light were her footsteps 
 upon the verdant turf, and through the birch-wood 
 glades and down the rocky dells she glided or bound- 
 ed along, with a beauty that seemed at once native and 
 alien there, like some creature of another clime that still 
 had kindred with this, an Oriental antelope among the 
 roes of a Scottish forest. 
 
 Amy Gordon had reached her nineteenth summer 
 — and as yet she knew of love only as she had read of 
 it in old Border songs and ballads. These ancient 
 ditties were her delight — and her silent soul was filled 
 with wild and beautiful traditions. In them love 
 seemed, for the most part, something sad, and whe- 
 ther prosperous or unhappy, alike terminating in tears. 
 In them the young maiden was spoken of as dying in 
 her prime, of fever, consumption, or a pining heart ; 
 and her lover, a gallant warrior, or a peacefid shepherd, 
 killed in battle, or perishing in some midnight storm 
 In them, too, were sometimes heard blessed voices 
 whispering affection beneath the greenwood tree, or 
 among the shattered cliffs overgrown with light-wav- 
 ing trees in some long, deep, solitary glen. To Amy 
 Gordon, as she chaunted to herself, in the blooming
 
 b THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 or verdant desert, all these various traditionary lays, 
 love seemed a kind of beautiful superstition belong- 
 ing to the memory of the dead. In such tales she 
 felt a sad and pleasant sympathy ; but it was as with 
 something far remote — although at times the music of 
 her own voice, as it gave an affecting expression to feel- 
 ings embodied in such artless words, touched a chord 
 within her heart, that dimly told her that heart might 
 one day have its own peculiar and overwhelming love. 
 The Summer that was now shining had been calm 
 and sunny beyond the memory of the oldest shepherd. 
 Never had nature seemed so delightful to Amy's eyes 
 and to Amy's heart ; and never had she seemed so 
 delightful to the eyes and the hearts of all who beheld 
 her with her flock. Often would she wreathe the 
 sprigs of heather round her raven ringlets, till her 
 dark hair was brightened with a galaxy of richest 
 blossoms. Or dishevelling her tresses, and letting 
 fall from them that shower of glowing and balmy 
 pearls, she would bind them up again in simpler 
 braiding, and fix on the silken folds two or three wa- 
 ter-lilies, large, massy, and whiter than the snow. 
 Necklaces did she wear in her playful glee, of the 
 purple fruit that feed the small birds in the moors, 
 and beautiful was the gentle stain then visible over 
 the blue veins of her milk-white breast. So were 
 floating by the days of her nineteenth summer among 
 the hills. The evenings she spent by the side of her
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 7 
 
 grey-headed father— and the old man was blest. Her 
 nights past in a world of gentle dreams. 
 
 But though Amy Gordon knew not yet what it was 
 to love, she was herself the object of as deep, true, 
 tender, and passionate love, as ever swelled and kind- 
 led within a human breast. Her own cousin, Walter 
 Harden, now lived and would have died for her ; but 
 had not hitherto ventured to tell his passion. He was 
 a few years older than her, and had long loved her 
 with the gentle purity of a brother's affection. Amy 
 had no brother of her own, and always called Walter 
 Harden by that endearing name. That very name of 
 brother had probably so familiarized her heart towards 
 him, that never had she thought of him, even for a 
 single moment, in any other light. But although he 
 too called Amy sister, his heart burned with other 
 feelings, and he must win her to be his bride, and 
 possess her as his wife, or die. When she was a mere 
 child he had led her by the hand — when a fair girl he 
 had in his arms lifted her across the swollen burns, and 
 over the snow-drifts — now that she was a woman he 
 had looked on her in silence, but with a soul over- 
 charged with a thousand thoughts, hopes, and desires, 
 which he feared to speak of to her ear, for he knew, 
 and saw, and felt, in sorrow, that she loved him but as 
 a brother. He knew, however, that she loved none 
 else ; and in that — and that alone — was his hope, — so 
 he at last determined to woo the Lily of Liddesdale,
 
 8 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 and win her, in her beauty and fragrance, to bloom 
 within his house. 
 
 The Lily was sitting alone in a deep hollow among 
 the hills, with her sheep and lambs pasturing or play- 
 ing around her, while over that little secluded circle a 
 single hawk was hanging far up in the sky. She was 
 glad, but not surprised, to see her brother standing 
 beside her ; and when he sat down by her side and 
 took her hand into his, she looked upon him with a 
 gentle smile, and asked if he was going upon business 
 farther on among the hills. Walter Harden instantly 
 poured forth, in a torrent, the passion of his soul, be- 
 seeched her not to shut up her sweet bosom against 
 him, but to promise to become, before summer was 
 over, his wedded wife. He spoke with fervour but 
 trepidation — kissed her cheek — and then awaited, with 
 a fast throbbing and palpitating heart, his Amy's re- 
 
 There was no guile — no art — no hypocrisy, in the 
 pure and happy heart of the Lily of Liddesdale. She 
 took not away her hand from that of him who press- 
 ed it — she rose not up from the turf, although her 
 gentle side just touched his heart — she turned k T not away 
 her face so beautiful — nor changed the silvery sweet- 
 ness of her speech. Walter Harden was such a man, 
 as in a war of freemen defending their mountains against 
 a tyrant, would have advanced his plume in every scene 
 of danger, and have been chosen a leader among his 
 
 pastoral compeers. Amy turned her large beaming 
 
 1
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. U 
 
 hazel eyes upon his face, and saw that it was over- 
 shadowed. There was something in its expression too 
 sad and solemn, mingling with the flush of hope and 
 passion, to suffer her, with playful or careless words, 
 to turn away from herself the meaning of what she 
 had heard. Her lover saw in her kind, but unagitat- 
 ed silence, that to him she was but a sister ; and rising 
 to go, he said, « Blessed be thou all the days of thy life 
 — farewell — my sweet Amy — farewell." 
 
 But they did not thus part. They walked together 
 on the lonely hill-side — down the banks of the little 
 wimpling burn, — and then out of one small glen into 
 another, and their talk was affectionate and kind. 
 Amy heard him speak of feelings to her unknown, 
 and almost wondered that she could be so dear to 
 him, so necessary to his life, as he passionately vowed. 
 Nor could such vows be unpleasant to her ear, utter- 
 ed by that manly voice, and enforced by the silent 
 speech of those bold but gentle eyes. She concealed 
 nothing from him, but frankly confessed, that hither- 
 to she had looked upon him even as her own father's 
 son. " Let us be happy, Walter, as we have been so 
 long. I cannot marry you — oh — no — no — but since 
 you say it would kill you if I married another, then I 
 swear to you by all that is sacred, — yes, by the Bible 
 on which we have often read together, and by yonder 
 sun setting over the Windhead, that you never will 
 see that day." Walter Harden was satisfied ; he spoke 
 of love and marriage no more ; and on the sweet,
 
 10 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 fresh, airless, and dewy quiet of Evening, they walk- 
 ed together down into the inhabited vale, and parted, 
 almost like brother and sister, as they had been used 
 to do for so many happy years. 
 
 Soon after this, Amy was sent by her father to 
 the Priory, the ancient seat of the Elliots, with 
 some wicker baskets which they had made for the 
 young ladies there. A small plantation of willows 
 was in tlie corner of the meadow in which their 
 cottage stood, and from them the old shepherd and 
 his daughter formed many little articles of such 
 elegance and ingenuity, that they did not seem out 
 of place even in the splendid rooms of the Priory. 
 Amy had slung some of these pieces of rural work- 
 manship round her waist, while some were hanging 
 on her arms, and thus she was gliding along a footpath 
 through the old elm-woods that shelter the Priory, 
 when she met young George Elliot, the heir of that an- 
 cient family, going out with his angle to the river side. 
 The youth, who had but a short time before returned 
 from England, where he had been for several years, 
 knew at the first glance that the fair creature before 
 him could be no other than the Lily of Liddesdale. 
 With the utmost gentleness and benignity he called 
 her by that name, and after a few words of courtesy, 
 he smilingly asked her for one small flower basket to 
 keep for her sake. He unloosened one from her 
 graceful waist, and with that liberty which superior 
 rank justified, but, at the same time, with that tender-
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 11 
 
 ness which an amiable mind prompted, he kissed her 
 fair forehead, and they parted — she to the Priory, and 
 he down to the Linn at the Cushat-wood. 
 
 Never had the Boy beheld a creature so perfectly 
 beautiful. The silence and the songs of morning were 
 upon the dewy woods, when that vision rose before 
 him — his soul was full of the joy of youth — and when 
 Amy disappeared, he wondered how he could have 
 parted so soon — in a few moments — from that bright 
 and beaming Dryad. Smiles had been in her eyes and 
 round her pearly teeth while they spoke together, and 
 he remembered the soft and fragrant lock of hair that 
 touched his lips as he gently kissed her forehead. The 
 beauty of that living creature sank into his soul along 
 with all the sweet influences of nature now rejoicing 
 in the full, ripe, rich spirit of Summer, and in fancy 
 he saw that Lily springing up in every glade through 
 which he was now roaming, and when he had reached 
 the Linn, on the bank too of every romantic nook and 
 bay where the clear waters eddied or slept. " She 
 must recross the bridge on her way home," said the 
 enamoured Boy to himself, and fearing that Amy 
 Gordon might already be returning from the Priory, 
 he clambered up the face of the shrubby precipice ; 
 and, bounding over the large green mossy stones, and 
 through the entangling briars and brushwood, he soon 
 was at the Bridge, and sat down on a high bank, under 
 a cliff, commanding a view of the path by which the 
 fair maiden must approach on her homeward journey.
 
 12 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 The heart of the innocent Amy had fluttered, too, as 
 the tall, slim, graceful stripling had kissed her brow. 
 No rudeness — no insult — no pride — no haughty free- 
 dom had been in his demeanour towards her ; but she 
 felt gladly conscious in her mind, that he had been de- 
 lighted with her looks, and would, perhaps, think now 
 and then afterwards, as he walked through the woods, of 
 the shepherd's daughter, with whom he had not disdain- 
 ed to speak. Amy thought, while she half looked back, 
 as he disappeared among the trees, that he was just 
 such a youth as the old minstrels sang of in their war 
 or love ballads, — and that he was well worthy some 
 rich and noble bride, whom he might bring to his 
 Hall on a snow-white palfrey with silken reins, and 
 silver bells on its mane. And she began to recite to 
 herself, as she walked along, one of those old Border 
 tales. 
 
 Amy left her baskets at the Priory, and was near the 
 Bridge, on her return, when she beheld the young 
 Heir spring down from the bank before her, and come 
 forward with a sparkling countenance. "I must 
 have that sweet tress that hangs over thy sweeter 
 forehead," said he, with a low and eager voice, " and 
 I will keep it for the sake of the fairest Flower that 
 ever bloomed in my father's woods — even the Lily of 
 Liddesdale." The lock was given— for how could it 
 be refused ? And the shepherdess saw the young and 
 high-born Heir of the Priory put it into his breast. 
 She proceeded across the hill — down the long Falcon-
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 13 
 
 Glen — and through the Witch- wood — and still he was 
 by her side. There was a charm in his speech — and in 
 every word he said — and in his gentle demeanour — 
 that touched poor Amy's very heart ; and, as he gave 
 her assistance, although all unneeded, over the uneven 
 hollows, and the springs and marshes, she had neither 
 the courage, nor the wish, nor the power, to request 
 him to turn back to the Priory. They entered a small 
 quiet green circlet, bare of trees, in the bosom of a 
 coppice- wood ; and, the youth taking her hand, made 
 her sit down on the mossy trunk of a fallen yew, 
 and said : "Amy — my fair Amy — before we part — will 
 you sing me one of your old Border songs ? and let it 
 be one of love. Did not the sons of Nobles, long ago, 
 often love the daughters of them that dwelt in huts ?" 
 Amy Gordon sat there an hour with the loving, but 
 honourable Boy, and sang many a plaintive tune, and 
 recited many a romantic story. She believed every 
 word she uttered, whether of human lovers, or of the 
 affection of fairies, the silent creatures of the woods 
 and knowes, towards our race. For herself, she felt a 
 constant wild delight in fictions, which to her were all 
 as truths ; and she was glad and proud to see how 
 they held, in silent attention, him at whose request 
 she recited or sang. But now she sprang to her feet, 
 and beseeching him to forgive the freedom she had 
 used in thus venturing to speak so long in such a 
 presence, but, at the same time, remembering that a 
 lock of her hair was near his heart, and perceiving
 
 14 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 that the little basket she had let him take was half fill- 
 ed with wild flowers, the Lily of Liddesdale made a 
 graceful obeisance, and disappeared. Nor did the youth 
 follow her — they had sat together for one delightful 
 hour — and he returned by himself to the Priory. 
 
 From this day the trouble of a new delight was 
 in the heart of young Elliot. The spirit of inno- 
 cence was blended with that of beauty all over Amy, 
 the Shepherdess ; and it was their perfect union that 
 the noble boy so dearly loved. Yet what could she 
 be to him more than a gleam of rainbow light — 
 a phantom of the woods — an imagination that past 
 away into the silence of the far-off green pastoral 
 hills ? She belonged almost to another world — ano- 
 ther life. His dwelling, and that of his forefathers, 
 was a princely Hall. She, and all her nameless line, 
 were dwellers in turf-built huts. " In other times," 
 thought he, " I might have transplanted that Lily 
 into mine own garden ; but these are foolish fancies ! 
 Am I in love with poor Amy Gordon, the daughter 
 of a Shepherd?" As these thoughts were passing 
 through his mind, he was bounding along a ridge of 
 hills, from which many a sweet vale was visible ; and 
 he formed a sudden determination to visit the Cottage 
 of Amy's father, which he had seen some years ago 
 pointed out when he was with a gay party of Lords 
 and Ladies, on a visit to the ruins of Hermitage- 
 Castle. He bounded like a deer along ; and as he 
 
 11
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 15 
 
 descended into a little vale, lo ! on a green mound, 
 the Lily of Liddesdale herding her sheep ! 
 
 Amy was half terrified to see him standing in his 
 graceful beauty before her in that solitary place. In 
 a moment her soul was disquieted within her, and 
 she felt that it indeed Avas love. She wished that 
 she might sink into that verdant mound, from 
 which she vainly strove to rise, as the impassioned 
 youth lay down on the turf at her side, and telling 
 her to fear nothing, called her by a thousand tender 
 and endearing names. Never, till he had seen Amy, 
 had he felt one tremor of love ; but now his heart was 
 kindled, and in that utter solitude, where all was so 
 quiet and so peaceful, there seemed to him a preter- 
 natural charm over all her character. He burst out 
 into passionate vows and prayers, and called God to 
 witness, that if she would love him, he would forget 
 all distinction of rank, and marry his beautiful Amy, 
 and she should live yet in his own Hall. The words 
 were uttered, and there was silence. Their echo 
 sounded for a moment strange to his own ears ; but 
 he fixed his soul upon her countenance, and repeated 
 them over and over again with wilder emphasis, 
 and more impassioned utterance. Amy was confound- 
 ed with fear and perplexity ; but when she saw him 
 kneeling before her, the meek, innocent, humble girl, 
 could not endure the sight, and said, " Sir, behold in 
 me one willing to be your servant. Yes, willing is 
 poor Amy Gordon to kiss your feet. I am a poor
 
 16 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 man's daughter — Oh ! Sir, you surely came not hi- 
 ther for evil? No — no — evil dwells not in such a 
 shape. Away then — away then — my noble master — 
 for if Walter Harden were to see you ! — if my old Fa- 
 ther knew this, his heart would break I" 
 
 Once more they parted. Amy returned home in 
 the evening at the usual hour ; but there was no peace 
 now for her soul. Such intense and passionate love 
 had been vowed to her — such winning and delightful 
 expressions whispered into her heart by one so far above 
 her in all things, but who felt no degradation in equal- 
 ling her to him in the warmth and depth of his affection, 
 that she sometimes strove to think it all but one of her 
 wild dreams awakened by some verse or incident in 
 some old ballad. But she had felt his kisses on her 
 cheek — his thrilling voice was in her sovil — and she 
 was oppressed with a passion, pure, it is true, and 
 most innocently humble, but a passion that seemed 
 to be like life itself, never to be overcome, and that 
 could cease only when the heart he had deluded — for 
 what else than delusion could it be — ceased to beat. 
 Thus agitated, she had directed her way homewards 
 with hurried and heedless steps. She minded not the 
 miry pits — the quivering marshes — and the wet rushy 
 moors. Instead of crossing the little sinuous moor- 
 land streams at their narrow places, where her light 
 feet used to bound across them, she waded through 
 them in her feverish anxiety, and sometimes, after hur- 
 rying along the braes, she sat suddenly down, breath-
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 17 
 
 less, weak, and exhausted, and retraced in weeping be- 
 wilderment all the scene of fear, joy, endearments, ca- 
 resses, and wild persuasions, from which she had torn 
 herself away, and escaped. On reaching home, she went 
 to her bed trembling and shivering, and drowned in 
 tears — and could scarcely dare, much as she needed 
 comfort, even to say her prayers — Amy was in a high 
 fever — during the night she became delirious — and 
 her old Father sat by her bedside till morning, fear- 
 ing that he was going to lose his child. 
 
 There was grief over the great Strath and all its 
 glens, when the rumour spread over them that Amy 
 Gordon was dying. Her wonderful beauty had but 
 given a tenderer and brighter character to the love 
 which her unsullied innocence and simple goodness 
 had universally inspired ; and it was felt, even among 
 the sobbings of a natural affection, that if the Lily of 
 Liddesdale should die, something would be taken 
 away of which they all were proud, and from whose 
 lustre there was a diffusion over their own lives. Many 
 a gentle hand touched the closed door of her cottage, 
 and many a low voice inquired how God was dealing 
 with her — but where now was Walter Harden when his 
 Lily was like to fade ? He was at her bed's foot, as 
 her Father was at its head. Was she not his sister, 
 although she would not be his bride ? And when he 
 beheld her glazed eyes wandering unconsciously in 
 delirium, and felt her blood throbbing so rapidly in 
 her beautiful transparent veins, he prayed to God that 
 
 B
 
 18 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 Amy might recover, even although her heart were 
 never to be his, even although it were to fly to the bo- 
 som of him whose name she constantly kept repeat- 
 ing in her wandering phantasies. For Amy, although 
 she sometimes kindly whispered the name of Walter 
 Harden, and asked why her brother came not to see 
 her on her death-bed, yet far oftener spake beseeching- 
 ly and passionately as if to that other Youth, and 
 implored him to break not the heart of a poor simple 
 Shepherdess who was willing to kiss his feet. 
 
 Neither the Father of poor Amy nor Walter Har- 
 den had known before that she had ever seen young 
 George Elliot — but they soon understood, from the in- 
 nocent distraction of her speech, that the noble Boy 
 had left pure the Lily he loved, and Walter said, that 
 it belonged not to that line ever to injure the helpless. 
 Many a pang it gave her, no doubt, to think that his 
 Amy's heart, which all his life-long tenderness could 
 not win, had yielded itself up in tumultuous joy to one 
 __two— three meetings of an hour, or perhaps only a 
 few minutes, with one removed so high and so far from 
 her humble life and all its concerns. These were cold 
 sickening pangs of humiliation and jealousy, that might, 
 in a less generous nature, have crushed all love. But it 
 was not so with him ; and cheerfully would Walter Har- 
 den have taken that burning fever into his own veins, 
 so that it could have been removed from her's — cheer- 
 fully would he have laid down his own manly head on 
 that pillow, so that Amy could have lifted up her long
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 19 
 
 raven tresses, now often miserably dishevelled in her 
 ravings, and braiding them once more, walk out well and 
 happy into the sunshine of the beautiful day, rendered 
 more beautiful still by her presence. Hard would it 
 have "been to have resigned her bosom to any human 
 touch ; but hideous seemed it beyond all thought to 
 resign it to the touch of death. Let Heaven but avert 
 that doom, and his affectionate soul felt that it could 
 be satisfied. 
 
 Out of a long deep trance-like sleep Amy at last 
 awoke, and her eyes fell upon the face of Walter Har- 
 den. She regarded long and earnestly its pitying 
 and solemn expression, then prest her hand to her fore- 
 head and wept. " Is my father dead and buried — and 
 did he die of grief and shame for his Amy ? Oh ! that 
 needed not have been, for I am innocent. Neither 
 Walter, have I broken, nor will I ever break my pro- 
 mise unto thee. I remember it well — by the Bible — 
 and yon setting sun. But, I am weak and faint — Oh ! 
 tell me, Walter ! all that has happened ! Have 1 been 
 ill — for hours — or for days — or weeks— or months ? 
 For that I know not, — so wild and so 9trange, so sad 
 and so sorrowful, so miserable and so wretched, have 
 been my many thousand dreams !" 
 
 There was no concealment and no disguise. Amy 
 was kindly and tenderly told by her father and her 
 brother all that she had uttered, as far as they under- 
 stood it, during her illness. Nor had the innocent 
 creature anything more to tell. Her soul was after the
 
 20 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 fever calm, quiet, and happy. The form, voice, and 
 shape of that beautiful Youth were to her little more 
 now than the words and the sights of a dream. Sickness 
 and decay had brought her spirit back to all the humble 
 and tranquil thoughts and feelings of her lowly life. 
 In the woods, and among the hills, that bright and 
 noble being had for a time touched her senses, her 
 heart, her soul, and her imagination. All was new, 
 strange, stirring, overwhelming, irresistible, and para- 
 dise to her spirit. But it was gone — and might it stay 
 away for ever, so she prayed, as her kind brother lift- 
 ed up her head with his gentle hand, and laid it down 
 as gently on the pillow he had smoothed. " Walter ! I 
 will be your wife! for thee my affection is calm and deep, 
 -—but that other — Oh! that was only a passing dream !" 
 Walter leaned over her and kissed her pale lips. 
 " Yes ! Walter," she continued, " I once promised to 
 marry none other — but now I promise to marry thee 
 —if indeed God will forgive me for such words, ly- 
 ing as I am perhaps on my death-bed. I utter them 
 to make you happy. If I live, life will be dear to me 
 only for thy sake— if I die, walk thou along with my 
 father at the coffin's head, and lay thine Amy in the 
 mould. I am the Lily of Liddesdale, — you know 
 that was once the vain creature's name ! — and white, 
 pale, and withered enough indeed is, I trow, the poor 
 Lily now !" 
 
 Walter Harden heard her affectionate words with a 
 deep delight, but he determined in his soul not to
 
 THE LILY OE LIDDESDALE. 21 
 
 bind Amy down to these promises, sacred and fervent 
 as they were, if, on her complete recovery, he disco- 
 vered that they originated in gratitude, and not in 
 love. From pure and disinterested devotion of spirit 
 did he watch the progress of her recovery, nor did he 
 ever allude to young Elliot but in terms of respect 
 and admiration. Amy had expressed her surprise that 
 he had never come to inquire how she was during her 
 illness, and added, with a sigh, " Love at first sight 
 cannot be thought to last long. Yet surely he would 
 have wept to hear that I was dead." Walter then 
 told her that he had been hurried away to France, the 
 very day after she had seen him, to attend the death- 
 bed of his Father, and had not yet returned to Scot- 
 land — but that the Ladies of the Priory had sent a 
 messenger to know how she was every day, and that 
 to their kindness was owing many of the conveniences 
 she had enjoyed. Poor Amy was glad to hear that 
 she had no reason to think the noble boy would have 
 neglected her in her illness ; and she could not but 
 look with pride upon her lover, who was not afraid 
 to vindicate the character of one who she had con- 
 fessed had been but too dear to her only a few weeks 
 ago. This generosity and manly confidence on the 
 part of her cousin quite won and subdued her heart, 
 and Walter Harden never approached her now with- 
 out awakening in her bosom something of that delight- 
 ful agitation and troubled joy which her simple heart 
 had first suffered in the presence of her young noble
 
 22 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 lover. Amy was in love with Walter almost as much 
 as he was with her, and the names of brother and sis- 
 ter, pleasant as they had ever been, were now laid 
 aside. 
 
 Amy Gordon rose from her sick-bed, and even as 
 the flower whose name she bore, did she again lift up 
 her drooping head beneath the dews and the sunshine. 
 Again did she go to the hill-side, and sit and sing be- 
 side her flock. But Walter Harden was oftener with 
 her than before, and ere the harvest moon should hang 
 her mild, clear, unhaloed orb over the late reapers on 
 the upland grain-fields, had Amy promised that she 
 would become his wife. She saw him now in his own 
 natural light — the best, the most intelligent, the most 
 industrious, and the handsomest shepherd over all the 
 hills ; and when it was known that there was to be a 
 marriage between Walter Harden and Amy Gordon, 
 none felt surprised, although some, sighing, said, it was 
 seldom, indeed, that fortune so allowed those to wed 
 whom nature had united. 
 
 The Lily of Liddesdale was now bright and beauti- 
 ful as ever, and was returning homewards by herself 
 from the far-off hills during one rich golden sunset, 
 when, in a dark hollow, she heard the sound of horses' 
 feet, and in an instant young George Elliot was at 
 her side. Amy's dream was over — and she looked on 
 the beautiful youth with an unquaking heart. " I 
 have been far away — Amy — across the seas. My Fa- 
 ther — you may have heard of it, was ill — and I attend-
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 23 
 
 ed his bed. I loved him, Amy, — I loved my Father 
 — but he is dead;" and here the noble youth's tears 
 fell fast — " Nothing now, but the world's laugh, pre- 
 vents me making you my wife — yes — my wife — sweet- 
 est Lily — and what care I for the world ? for thou art 
 both earth and heaven to me." 
 
 The impetuous, ardent, and impassioned Boy scarce- 
 ly looked in Amy's face — he remembered her confusion, 
 her fear, her sighs, her tears, his half-permitted kisses, 
 his faintly repelled embraces, and all his suffered en- 
 dearments of brow, lip, and cheek, in that solitary 
 dell ; so with a powerful arm he lifted her upon an- 
 other steed, which, till now, she had scarcely observ- 
 ed — other horsemen seemed to the frightened, and 
 speechless, and motionless maiden to be near— and away 
 they went over the smooth turf like the wind, till her 
 eyes were blind with the rapid flight, and her head 
 dizzy. She heard kind words whispering in her ear ; 
 but Amy, since that fever, had never been so strong as 
 before, and her high-blooded palfrey was now carry- 
 ing her fleetly away over hill and hollow in a swoon. 
 
 At last she seemed to be falling down from a height, 
 but softly, as if borne on the wings of the air ; and as 
 her feet touched the ground, she knew that young El- 
 liot had taken her from that fleet courser, and looking 
 up, she saw that she was in a wood of old shadowy trees 
 of gigantic size, perfectly still, and far away from all 
 known dwellings both on hill and plain. But a cottage 
 was before her, and she and young Elliot were on the
 
 24 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 green in its front. It was thickly covered with honey- 
 suckle, and moss-roses that hung their beautiful full- 
 blown shining lamps high as the thatched roof — and 
 Amy's soul sickened at the still, secluded, lovely, and 
 lonely sight. " This shall be our bridal abode," whis- 
 pered her lover into her ear with panting breath. 
 " Fear me not — distrust me not — I am not base — but 
 my love to thee is tender and true. Soon shall we 
 be married — aye — this very evening must thou be 
 mine — and may the hand that now clasps thy sweet 
 waist wither, and the tongue that wooes thee be pal- 
 sied, if ever I cease to love thee as my Amy — my Lily 
 — my wedded wife !" 
 
 The wearied and half-fainting maiden could as yet 
 make no reply. The dream that she had believed was 
 gone for ever now brightened upon her in the intense 
 light of reality, and it was in her power to become 
 the wife of him for whom she had, in the innocence 
 and simplicity of her nature, once felt a consuming 
 passion that had brought her to the brink of the grave. 
 His warm breath was on her bosom — words charged 
 with bewitching persuasion went thrilling through her 
 heart-strings — and if she had any pride, (and what 
 human heart has it not,) it might well mingle now with 
 love, and impel her into the embrace that was now 
 open to clasp her close to a burning heart. 
 
 A stately and beautiful lady came smiling from the 
 cottage door, and Amy knew that it was the sister of 
 Elliot, and kneeled down before her. Last time
 
 THE LILY OF UDDESDALE. 25 
 
 the shepherdess had seen that lady it was when, with 
 a fearful step, she took her baskets into the hall, and 
 blushing scarcely lifted up her eyes, when she and her 
 high-born sisters deigned to commend her workman- 
 ship, and whisper into each other that the Lily of Lid- 
 desdale deserved her name. " Amy," said she, with 
 a gentle voice as she took her hand, " Amy Gordon ! 
 — my brother loves you — and he has won me to ac- 
 knowledge you as my sister. I can deny my brother 
 nothing — and his grief has brought low the pride — per- 
 haps the foolish pride, of my heart. Will you marry 
 him, Amy ? Will you, the daughter of a poor shepherd, 
 marry the young heir of the Priory, and the descendant, 
 Amy, of a noble race ? Amy — I see that thou art beau- 
 tiful — I know that thou art good — may God and my 
 mother forgive me this, but my sister must thou be — 
 behold my brother is at his shepherdess's feet !" 
 
 Amy Gordon had now nothing to fear. That sweet, 
 young, pure, noble Lady was her friend — and she 
 felt persuaded now that in good truth young Elliot 
 wished to make her his wife. Might she indeed 
 live the Lady of the Priory — be a sister to these beau- 
 tiful creatures — dwell among those ancient woods — 
 and all those spacious lawns and richest gardens — and 
 might she be, not in a dream, but in living reality, 
 the wife, of him on whose bosom her heart had 
 died with joy in that lonely dell, and love him and 
 yield him her love even unto the very hour till she 
 was dead ? Such changes of estate had been long ago,
 
 26 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 and sung of in many a ballad ; and was she to be the 
 one maiden of millions, the one born in hundreds of 
 years, to whom this blessed lot was to befall? But 
 these thoughts passed on and away like sun rays upon 
 a stream ; the cloud, not a dark one, of reality return- 
 ed over her. She thought of Walter Harden, and in an 
 instant her soul was fixed ; nor from that instant could 
 it be shaken by terror or by love, by the countenance 
 of death, or the countenance, far more powerful than 
 of death, that of the Youth before her, pale and flush- 
 ed alternately with the fluctuations of many passions. 
 Amy felt in her soul the collected voice, as it were, 
 of many happy and humble years among her hills, 
 and that told her not to forsake her own natural life. 
 The Flower that lived happily and beautifully in its 
 own secluded nook by the side of the lonely tarn, 
 or torrent, might lose much both of its fragrance and 
 its lustre, when transplanted into a richer soil and 
 more sheltered bed. Could she forget for ever her 
 father's ingle — the earthen floor — its simple furniture 
 of day and night ? Could she forget all the familiar 
 places round about the Hut where she was born ? 
 And if she left them all, and was taken up even in the 
 arms of love into another sphere of life, would not that 
 be the same, or worse than to forget them, and would 
 it not be sacrilege to the holiness of the many Sabbath 
 nights on which she had sat at her widowed father's 
 knees ? Yet might such thoughts have been destroyed 
 in her beating heart by the whispered music of young 
 
 12
 
 Till: LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 27 
 
 Elliot's eloquent and impassioned voice. But Walter 
 Harden, though ignorantof her present jeopardy, seem- 
 ed to stand before her, and she remembered his face 
 when he sat beside her dying bed, his prayers over 
 her when he thought she slept, and their oaths of fide- 
 lity mutually sworn before the great God. 
 
 " Will you, my noble and honoured Master, suffer 
 me, all unworthy as I am to be yours, to leave your 
 bosom. Sir, I am too miserable about you, to pretend 
 to feel any offence, because you will not let me go. I 
 might well be proud of your love, since, indeed, it 
 happens so that you do love me ; but let me kneel 
 down at your beautiful sister's feet, for to her I may 
 be able to speak — to you I feel that it may not be, for 
 humble am I, although unfortunately I have found 
 favour in your eyes." 
 
 The agitated youth released Amy from his arms, 
 and she flung herself down upon her knees before that 
 lovely Lady. 
 
 " Lady ! hear me speak — a simple uneducated girl 
 of the hills, and tell me if you would wish to hear me 
 break an oath sworn upon the Bible, and so to lose 
 my immortal soul ? So have I sworn to be the wife 
 of Walter Harden — the wife of a poor Shepherd ; and, 
 Lady, may I be on the left hand of God at the great 
 judgment-day, if ever I be forsworn. I love Walter 
 Harden. Do you counsel me to break his kind, faith- 
 ful heart ? O Sir, my noble young Master, how dare 
 a creature such as I to speak so freely to your beauti-
 
 28 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 ful sister ? how dare I keep my eyes open when you 
 are at your servant's feet ? Oh ! Sir — had I been born 
 a lady, I would have lived — died for you — gone with 
 you all over the world — all over the sea, and all the 
 islands of the sea. I would have sighed, wept, and 
 pined away, till I had won your love — for your love 
 would have been a blessed thing — that do I well 
 know from the few moments you stooped to let your 
 heart beat against the bosom of a low-born shepherd- 
 ess. Even now — dearly as I love Walter Harden — 
 fain would I lay me down and die upon this daisied 
 green, and be buried beneath it, rather than that 
 poor Amy Gordon should affect the soul of her young 
 master thus ; for never saw I, and never can I again 
 see, a youth so beautiful, so winning, so overwhelming 
 to a maiden's heart, as he before whom I now implore 
 permission to grovel in the dust. Send me away — 
 spurn me from you — let me crawl away out of your 
 presence — I can find my way back to my Father's 
 house." 
 
 It might have been a trying thing to the pride of 
 this high-minded and high-born youth, to be refused 
 in marriage by the daughter of one of his poorest 
 Shepherds ; so would it have been had he loved less ; 
 but all pride was extinguished, and so seemed for ever 
 and ever the light of this world's happiness. To plead 
 farther, he felt was in vain. Her soul had been given 
 to another, and the seal of an oath set upon it, never 
 to be broken, but by the hand of death. So he lift- 
 
 II
 
 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 29 
 
 ed her up in his arras, kissed her madly a hundred 
 times, cheek, brow, neck, and bosom, and then rushed 
 into the woods. Amy followed him with her stream- 
 ing eyes, and then turned again towards the beautiful 
 Lady who was sobbing audibly for her brother's sake. 
 
 " Oh ! weep not lady ! that I, poor Amy Gordon, 
 have refused to become the wife of your noble brother. 
 The time will come, and soon too, when he and you 
 and your fair sisters and your stately mother, will all 
 be thankful that I yielded not to entreaties that would 
 then have brought disgrace upon your house ! Never 
 — never would your mother have forgiven you — and 
 as for me, would not she have wished me dead and 
 buried rather than the bride of her only and darling 
 son ? You know that, simple and innocent as I am, I 
 now speak but the truth, and how, then, could your 
 noble brother have continued to love me, who had 
 brought dishonour, and disagreement, and distraction, 
 among those who are now all so dear to one another ? 
 O yes — yes — he would soon have hated poor Amy 
 Gordon, and, without any blame, perhaps, broken my 
 heart, or sent me away from the Priory back to my 
 Father's hut. Blessed be God, that all this evil has 
 not been wrought by me ! all — all — will soon be as 
 before." 
 
 She to whom Amy thus fervently spoke felt that 
 her words were not wholly without truth. Nor could 
 she help admiring the noble, heroic, and virtuous con- 
 duct of this poor shepherdess, whom all this world's
 
 30 THE LILY OF LIDDESDALE. 
 
 temptations would have failed to lure from the right 
 path. Before this meeting she had thought of Amy as 
 far her inferior indeed, and it was long before her pro- 
 per pride had yielded to the love of her brother, whose 
 passion she feared might otherwise had led to some 
 horrible catastrophe. Now that he had fled from them 
 in distraction, this terror again possessed her, — and 
 she whispered it to the pale trembling shepherdess. 
 " Follow him — follow him — gentle lady, into the 
 wood — lose not a moment — call upon him by name — 
 and that sweet voice must bring him back. But fear 
 not — he is too good to do evil — fear not — receive my 
 blessing — and let me return to my father's hut — it is 
 but a few miles, and that distance is nothing to one 
 who has lived all her life among the hills. My poor 
 father will think I have died in some solitary place." 
 
 The Lady wept to think that she, whom she had 
 been willing to receive as a sister, should return all 
 by herself so many miles at night to a lonely hut. But 
 her soul was sick with fear for her brother — so she 
 took from her shoulders a long rich Indian silk scarf 
 of gorgeous colours, and throwing it over Amy's fi- 
 gure, said, " Fair creature and good, keep this for my 
 sake — and now farewell." She gazed on the Lily for a 
 moment in delighted wonder at her graceful beauty, 
 as she bent on one knee, enrobed in that unwonted 
 garb, and then rising up, gathered the flowing drapery 
 around her, and disappeared. 
 
 " God in his infinite mercy be praised," cried Wal-
 
 THE I.ILY OF LTDDESDALE. 31 
 
 ter Harden, as he and the Old Man, who had been 
 seeking Amy for hours all over the hills, saw the Lily 
 gliding towards them up a little narrow dell, covered 
 from head to foot with the splendid raiment that shone 
 in a soft shower of moonlight. Joy and astonishment 
 for a while held them speechless — but they soon knew 
 all that had happened ; and Walter Harden lifted her 
 up in his arms and carried her home, exhausted now 
 and faint with fatigue and trepidation, as if she were 
 but a lamb rescvied from a snow-wreath. 
 
 Next moon was that which the reapers love — and 
 before it had waned Amy slept in the bosom of her 
 husband, Walter Harden. Years past on — and other 
 flowers besides the Lily of Liddesdale, were blooming 
 in his house. One summer evening, when the shep- 
 herd, his fair wife, and their children, were sitting to- 
 gether on the green before the door, enjoying probably 
 the sight and the noise of the imps much more than 
 the murmurs of the sylvan Liddel, which perhaps they 
 did not hear, a gay cavalcade rode up to the cottage, 
 and a noble-looking young man dismounting from his 
 horse, and gently assisting a beautiful lady to do the 
 same, walked up to her whom he had known only by 
 a name now almost forgotten — and with a beaming 
 smile said, " Fair Lily of Liddesdale — this is my wife, 
 the Lady of the Priory — come — it is hard to say which 
 of you should bear off the bell." Amy rose from her 
 seat with an air graceful as ever, but something more 
 matronly than that of Elliot's younger bride — and
 
 32 THE LILY OF LIDDES.DALE. 
 
 while these two fair creatures beheld each other with 
 mutual admiration, their husbands stood there equally 
 happy, and equally proud — George Elliot of the Priory 
 — and Walter Harden of the Glenfoot.
 
 MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 33 
 
 MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 Gilbert Ainslie was a poor man ; and he had 
 been a poor man all the days of his life, which were 
 not few, for his thin hair was now waxing grey. He 
 had been born and bred on the small moorland farm 
 which he now occupied ; and he hoped to die there, as 
 his father and grandfather had done before him, leaving 
 a family just above the more bitter Avants of this world. 
 Labour, hard and unremitting, had been his lot in life ; 
 but although sometimes severely tried, he had never 
 repined ; and through all the mist and gloom, and 
 even the storms that had assailed him, he had lived on 
 from year to year in that calm and resigned content- 
 ment which unconsciously cheers the hearthstone of 
 the blameless poor. With his own hands he had 
 ploughed, sowed, and reaped his often scanty harvest, 
 assisted, as they grew up, by three sons, who, even in 
 boyhood, were happy to work along with their father 
 in the fields. Out of doors or in, Gilbert Ainslie was 
 never idle. The spade, the shears, the plough-shaft, 
 the sickle, and the flail, all came readily to hands that 
 grasped them well ; and not a morsel of food was eaten 
 under his roof, or a garment worn there, that was not 
 
 c
 
 34 MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 honestly, severely, nobly earned. Gilbert Ainslie was 
 a slave, but it was for them he loved with a sober and 
 deep affection. The thraldom under which he lived 
 God had imposed, and it only served to give his cha- 
 racter a shade of silent gravity, but not austere ; to 
 make his smiles fewer, but more heartfelt; to calm 
 his soul at grace before and after meals ; and to kindle 
 it in morning and evening prayer. 
 
 There is no need to tell the character of the wife of 
 such a man. Meek and thoughtful, yet gladsome and 
 gay withal, her heaven was in her house ; and her 
 gentler and weaker hands helped to bar the door against 
 want. Of ten children that had been born to them, 
 they had lost three ; and as they had fed, clothed, and 
 educated them respectably, so did they give them who 
 died a respectable funeral. The living did not grudge 
 to give up, for a while, some of their daily comforts, 
 for the sake of the dead ; and bought, with the little 
 sums which their industry had saved, decent mourn- 
 ings, worn on Sabbath, and then carefully laid by. 
 Of the seven that survived, two sons were farm-ser- 
 vants in the neighbourhood, while three daughters and 
 two sons remained at home, growing, or grown up, a 
 small, happy, hard-working household. 
 
 Many cottages are there in Scotland like Moss-side, 
 
 and many such humble and virtuous cottagers as were 
 
 now beneath its roof of straw. The eye of the passing 
 
 traveller may mark them, or mark them not, but they 
 
 stand peacefully in thousands over all the land ; and 
 
 8
 
 MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 85 
 
 most beautiful do they make it, through all its wide 
 valleys and narrow glens, — its low holms encircled by 
 the rocky walls of some bonny burn,- — its green mounts 
 elated with their little crowning groves of plane-trees, 
 — its yellow cornfields, — its bare pastoral hillsides, and 
 all its heathy moors, on whose black bosom lie shining 
 or concealed glades of excessive verdure, inhabited by 
 flowers, and visited only by the far-flying bees. Moss- 
 side was not beautiful to a careless or hasty eye ; but 
 when looked onand surveyed, it seemedapleasant dwell- 
 ing. Its roof, overgrown with grass and moss, was al- 
 most as green as the ground out of which its weather- 
 stained walls appeared to grow. The moss behind it 
 was separated from a little garden, by a narrow slip 
 of arable land, the dark colour of which showed that 
 it had been won from the wild by patient industry, and 
 by patient industry retained. It required a bright sun- 
 ny day to make Moss-side fair ; but then it was fair 
 indeed ; and when the little brown moorland birds 
 were singing their short songs among the rushes and 
 the heather, or a lark, perhaps lured thither by some 
 green barley field for its undisturbed nest, rose ring- 
 ing all over the enlivened solitude, the little bleak farm 
 smiled like the paradise of poverty, sad and affecting 
 in its lone and extreme simplicity. The boys and girls 
 had made some plots of flowers among the vegetables 
 that the little garden supplied for their homely meals ; 
 pinks and carnations, brought from walled gardens of 
 rich men farther down in the cultivated strath,
 
 36 
 
 MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 grew here with somewhat diminished lustre ; a bright 
 show of tulips had a strange beauty in the midst of 
 that moor-land ; and the smell of roses mixed well 
 with that of the clover, the beautiful fair clover that 
 loves the soil and the air of Scotland, and gives the 
 rich and balmy milk to the poor man's lips. 
 
 In this cottage, Gilbert's youngest child, a girl about 
 nine years of age, had been lying for a week in a fever. 
 It was now Saturday evening, and the ninth day of 
 the disease. Was she to live or die ? It seemed as if 
 a very few hours were between the innocent creature 
 and Heaven. All the symptoms were those of approach- 
 ing death. The parents knew well the change that 
 comes over the human face, whether it be in infancy, 
 youth, or prime, just before the departure of the spi- 
 rit ; and as they stood together by Margaret's bed, it 
 seemed to them that the fatal shadow had fallen upon 
 her features. The surgeon of the parish lived some 
 miles distant, but they expected him now every mo- 
 ment, and many a wistful look was directed by tear- 
 ful eyes along the moor. The daughter, who was out 
 at service, came anxiously home on this night, the only 
 one that could be allowed her, for the poor must work 
 in their grief, and their servants must do their duty to 
 those whose bread they eat, even when nature is sick, — 
 sick at heart. Another of the daughters came in from 
 the potatoe-field beyond the brae, with what was to 
 be their frugal supper. The calm noiseless spirit of 
 life was in and around the house, while death seemed
 
 MOSS-SIDE. 37 
 
 dealing with one who, a few days ago, was like light 
 upon the floor, and the sound of music, that always 
 breathed up when most wanted ; glad and joyous in 
 common talk, — sweet, silvery, and mournful, when it 
 joined in hymn or psalm. One after the other, they 
 all continued going up to the bed-side, and then com- 
 ing away sobbing or silent, to see their merry little 
 sister, who used to keep dancing all day like a but- 
 terfly in a meadow-field, or like a butterfly with shut 
 Avings on a flower, trifling for a while in the silence 
 of her joy, now tossing restlessly on her bed, and 
 scarcely sensible to the words of endearment whis- 
 pered around her, or the kisses dropt with tears, in 
 spite of themselves, on her burning forehead. 
 
 Utter poverty often kills the affections ; but a deep, 
 constant, and common feeling of this world's hard- 
 ships, and an equal participation in all those struggles 
 by which they may be softened, unite husband and 
 wife, parents and children, brothers and sisters, in 
 thoughtful and subdued tenderness, making them hap- 
 py indeed while the circle round the fire is unbroken, 
 and yet preparing them every day to bear the separa- 
 tion, when some one or other is taken slowly or sud- 
 denly away. Their souls are not moved by fits and 
 starts, although, indeed, nature sometimes will wrestle 
 with necessity ; and there is a wise moderation both 
 in the joy and the grief of the intelligent poor, which 
 keeps lasting trouble away from their earthly lot, and 
 prepares them silently and unconsciously for Heaven.
 
 38 MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 " Do you think the child is dying ?" said Gilbert 
 with a calm voice to the surgeon, who, on his wearied 
 horse, had just arrived from another sick-bed, over the 
 misty range of hills; and had been looking stedfastly for 
 some minutes on the little patient. The humane man 
 knew the family well, in the midst of whom he was 
 standing, and replied, " While there is life there is 
 hope ; but my pretty little Margaret is, I fear, in the 
 last extremity." There was no loud lamentation at 
 these words — all had before known, though they 
 would not confess it to themselves, what they now 
 were told — and though the certainty that was in the 
 words of the skilful man made their hearts beat for a 
 little with sicker throbbings, made their pale faces paler, 
 and brought out from some eyes a greater gush of 
 tears, yet death had been before in this house, and 
 in this case he came, as he always does, in awe, but 
 not in terror. There were wandering and wavering 
 and dreamy delirious phantasies in the brain of the 
 innocent child ; but the few words she indistinctly 
 uttered were affecting, not rending to the heart, for 
 it was plain, that she thought herself herding her 
 sheep in the green silent pastures, and sitting wrap- 
 ped in her plaid upon the lown and sunny side of the 
 Birk-knowe. She was too much exhausted — there 
 was too little life— too little breath in her heart, to 
 frame a tune; but some of her words seemed to be 
 from favourite old songs ; and at last her mother 
 wept, and turned aside her face, when the child, whose
 
 MOSS-SIDE. 39 
 
 blue eyes were shut, and her lips almost still, breath- 
 ed out these lines of the beautiful twenty-third psalm : 
 
 The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want. 
 
 He makes me down to lie 
 In pastures green : he leadcth me 
 
 The quiet waters by. 
 
 The child was now left with none but her mother 
 by the bed-side, for it was said to be best so ; and 
 Gilbert and his family sat down round the kitchen 
 fire, for a while in silence. In about a quarter of an 
 hour, they began to rise calmly, and to go each to his 
 allotted work. One of the daughters went forth with 
 the pail to milk the cow, and another began to set out 
 the table in the middle of the floor for supper, cover- 
 ing it with a white cloth. Gilbert viewed the usual 
 household arrangements with a solemn and untroubled 
 eye ; and there was almost the faint light of a grateful 
 smile on his cheek, as he said to the worthy surgeon, 
 " You will partake of our fare after your day's travel 
 and toil of humanity." In a short silent half hour, 
 the potatoes and oat-cakes, butter and milk, were on 
 the board ; and Gilbert, lifting up his toil-hardened, 
 but manly hand, with a slow motion, at which the 
 room was as hushed as if it had been empty, closed 
 his eyes in reverence, and asked a blessing. There 
 was a little stool, on which no one sat, by the old 
 man's side. It had been put there unwittingly, when 
 the other scats were all placed in their usual order ;
 
 40 MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 but the golden head that was wont to rise at that part of 
 the table was now wanting. There was silence — 
 not a word was said — their meal was before them,— ■ 
 God had been thanked, and they began to eat. 
 
 While they were at their silent meal a horseman came 
 galloping to the door, and, with a loud voice, called out 
 that he had been sent express with a letter to Gilbert 
 Ainslie ; at the same time rudely, and with an oath, 
 demanding a dram for his trouble. The eldest son, 
 a lad of eighteen, fiercely seized the bridle of his 
 horse, and turned its head away from the door. The 
 rider, somewhat alarmed at the flushed face of the 
 powerful stripling, threw down the letter and rode 
 off. Gilbert took the letter from his son's hand, cast- 
 ing, at the same time, a half upbraiding look on his 
 face, that was returning to its former colour. " I 
 feared,"— said the youth, with a tear in his eye, — " I 
 feared that the brute's voice, and the trampling of the 
 horse's feet, would have disturbed her." Gilbert held 
 the letter hesitatingly in his hand, as if afraid, at that 
 moment, to read it ; at length, he said aloud to the 
 surgeon : " You know that I am a poor man, and debt, 
 if justly incurred, and punctually paid when due, is 
 no dishonour." Both his hand and his voice shook 
 slightly as he spoke ; but he opened the letter from 
 the lawyer, and read it in silence. At this moment his 
 wife came from her child's bed-side, and looking 
 anxiously at her husband, told him " not to mind 
 about the money, that no man, who knew him, would
 
 MOSS-SIDE. 41 
 
 arrest his goods, or put him into prison. Though, 
 dear me, it is cruel to be put to it thus, when our 
 bairn is dying, and when, if so it be the Lord's will, 
 she should have a decent burial, poor innocent, like 
 them that went before her." Gilbert continued read- 
 ing the letter with a face on which no emotion could 
 be discovered ; and then, folding it up, he gave it to 
 his wife, told her she might read it if she chose, and 
 then put it into his desk in the room, beside the poor 
 dear bairn. She took it from him, without reading 
 it, and crushed it into her bosom ; for she turned her 
 ear towards her child, and, thinking she heard it stir, 
 ran out hastily to its bed-side. 
 
 Another hour of trial past, and the child was still 
 swimming for its life. The very dogs knew there was 
 grief in the house, and lay without stirring, as if hid- 
 ing themselves, below the long table at the window. 
 One sister sat with an unfinished gown on her knees, 
 that she had been sewing for the dear child, and still 
 continued at the hopeless work, she scarcely knew 
 why; and often, often, putting up her hand to wipe 
 away a tear. " What is that ?" said the old man to his 
 eldest daughter : " What is that you are laying on the 
 shelf?" She could scarcely reply that it was a rib- 
 band and an ivory comb that she had brought for little 
 Margaret, against the night of the dancing-school 
 ball. And, at these words, the father could not re- 
 strain a long, deep, and bitter groan ; at which the 
 boy, nearest in age to his dying sister, looked up
 
 42 MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 weeping in his face, and letting the tattered book of 
 old ballads, which he had been poring on, but not 
 reading, fall out of his hands, he rose from his seat, 
 and, going into his father's bosom, kissed him, and 
 asked God to bless him ; for the holy heart of the boy 
 was moved within him ; and the old man, as he em- 
 braced him, felt that, in his innocence and simplicity, 
 he was indeed a comforter. " The Lord giveth, and 
 the Lord taketh away," said the old man j blessed be 
 the name of the Lord." 
 
 The outer-door gently opened, and he, whose pre- 
 sence had in former years brought peace and resigna- 
 tion hither, when their hearts had been tried, even as 
 they now were tried, stood before them. On the night 
 before the Sabbath, the minister of Auchindown never 
 left his Manse, except, as now, to visit the sick or 
 dying bed. Scarcely could Gilbert reply to his first 
 question about his child, when the surgeon came from 
 the bed-room, and said, " Margaret seems lifted up by 
 God's hand above death and the grave : I think she 
 will recover. She has fallen asleep ; and, when she 
 wakes, I hope — I believe — that the danger will be 
 past, and that your child will live." 
 
 They were all prepared for death ; but now they 
 were found unprepared for life. One wept that 
 had till then locked up all her tears within her heart ; 
 another gave a short palpitating shriek ; and the ten- 
 der-hearted Isobel, who had mused the child when it 
 was a baby, fainted away. The youngest brother
 
 MOSS-SI DK. 43 
 
 gave way to gladsome smiles ; and, calling out his dog 
 Hector, who used to sport with him and his little sis- 
 ter on the moor, he told the tidings to the dumb irra- 
 tional creature, whose eyes, it is certain, sparkled 
 with a sort of joy. The clock, for some days, had 
 been prevented from striking the hours ; but the si- 
 lent fingers pointed to the hour of nine ; and that, in 
 the cottage of Gilbert Ainslie, was the stated hour of 
 family worship. His own honoured minister took the 
 book ; 
 
 He waled a portion with judicious care : 
 
 And Let us worship God, he said, with solemn air. 
 
 A chapter was read — a prayer said ; — and so, too, was 
 sung a psalm ; but it was sung low, and with sup- 
 pressed voices, lest the child's saving sleep might be 
 broken ; and now and then the female voices trem- 
 bled, or some one of them ceased altogether ; for 
 there had been tribulation and anguish, and now 
 hope and faith were tried in the joy of thanksgiving. 
 
 The child still slept ; and its sleep seemed more 
 sound and deep. It appeared almost certain that the 
 crisis was over, and that the flower was not to fade. 
 " Children," said Gilbert, " our happiness is in the 
 love we bear to one another ; and our duty is in sub- 
 mitting to and serving God. Gracious, indeed, has 
 he been unto us. Is not the recovery of our little 
 darling, dancing, singing Margaret, worth all the 
 gold that ever was mined ? If we had had thousands 
 of thousands, would we not have filled up her grave
 
 44 MOSS-SIDE. 
 
 with the worthless dross of gold, rather than that she 
 should have gone down there with her sweet face 
 and all her rosy smiles ?" There was no reply ; but a 
 joyful sobbing all over the room. 
 
 " Never mind the letter, nor the debt, father," said 
 the eldest daughter. " We have all some little thing 
 of our own — a few pounds — and we shall be able to 
 raise as much as will keep arrest and prison at a 
 distance. Or if they do take our furniture out of the 
 house, all except Margaret's bed, who cares ? We will 
 sleep on the floor ■ and there are potatoes in the field, 
 and clear water in the spring. We need fear nothing, 
 want nothing ; blessed be God for all his mercies." 
 
 Gilbert went into the sick-room, and got the letter 
 from his wife, who was sitting at the head of the bed, 
 watching, with a heart blessed beyond all bliss, the calm 
 and regular breathings of her child. " This letter," said 
 he mildly, " is not from a hard creditor. Come with 
 me while I read it aloud to our children." The letter 
 was read aloud, and it was well fitted to diffuse plea- 
 sure and satisfaction through the dwelling of poverty. 
 It was from an executor to the will of a distant relative, 
 who had left Gilbert Ainslie L. 1500. " The sum," 
 said Gilbert, " is a large one to folks like us, but not, 
 I hope, large enough to turn our heads, or make us 
 think ourselves all lords and ladies. It will do more, 
 far more, than put me fairly above the world at last. 
 I believe, that, with it, I may buy this very farm, on 
 which my forefathers have toiled. But God, whose
 
 MOSS- SIDE. 45 
 
 Providence lias sent this temporal blessing, may he 
 send ns wisdom and prudence how to use it, and hum- 
 ble and grateful hearts to us all." 
 
 " You Avill be able to send me to school all the year 
 round now, father," said the youngest boy. " And 
 you may leave the flail to your sons now, father," said 
 the eldest. You may hold the plough still, for you 
 draw a straighter furrow than any of us ; but hard 
 work for young sinews ; and you may sit now often- 
 er in your arm-chair by the ingle. You will not need 
 to rise now in the dark, cold, and snowy winter morn- 
 ings, and keep threshing corn in the barn for hours by 
 candle-light, before the late dawning." 
 
 There was silence, gladness, and sorrow, and but little 
 sleep in Moss-side, between the rising and the setting of 
 the stars, that were now out in thousands, clear, bright, 
 and sparkling over the unclouded sky. Those who had 
 lain down for an hour or two in bed could scarcely be 
 said to have slept ; and when about morning little 
 Margaret awoke, an altered creature, pale, languid, 
 and unable to turn herself on her lowly bed, but with 
 meaning in her eyes, memory in her mind, affection 
 in her heart, and coolness in all her veins, a happy 
 groupe were watching the first faint smile that broke 
 over her features ; and never did one who stood there 
 forget that Sabbath morning, on which she seemed to 
 look round upon them all with a gaze of fair and sweet 
 bewilderment, like one half conscious of having been 
 rescued from the power of the grave.
 
 46 AN HOUH IN THE MANSE. 
 
 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 
 
 In a few weeks the annual Sacrament of the Lord's 
 Supper was to be administered in the parish of 
 Deanside; and the minister, venerable in old age, 
 of authority by the power of his talents and learning, 
 almost feared for his sanctity, yet withal beloved for 
 gentleness and compassion that had never been found 
 wanting when required either by the misfortunes or 
 errors of any of his flock, had delivered for several suc- 
 cessive Sabbaths, to full congregations, sermons on the 
 proper preparation of communicants in that awful 
 ordinance. The old man was a follower of Calvin ; 
 and many, who had listened to him with a resolution 
 in their hearts to approach the table of the Redeemer, 
 felt so awe-stricken and awakened at the conclusion of 
 his exhortations, that they gave their souls another 
 year to meditate on what they had heard, and by a 
 pure and humble course of life, to render themselves 
 less unworthy to partake the mysterious and holy bread 
 and wine. 
 
 The good old man received in the Manse, for a couple
 
 AN HOUR IN THE MANSF. 47 
 
 of hours every evening, such of his parishioners as 
 came to signify their wish to partake of the sacra- 
 ment ; and it was then noted, that though lie in 
 nowise departed, in his conversation with them at 
 such times, from the spirit of those doctrines which he 
 had delivered from the pulpit, yet his manner was 
 milder, and more soothing, and full of encouragement ; 
 so that many who went to him almost with quaking- 
 hearts, departed in tranquillity and peace, and looked 
 forward to that most impressive and solemn act of the 
 Christian faith, with calm and glad anticipation. The 
 old man thought truly and justly, that few, if any, 
 would come to the manse, after having heard him in 
 the kirk, without due and deep reflection; and, there- 
 fore, though he allowed none to pass through his 
 hands without strict examination, he spoke to them all 
 benignly, and with that sort of paternal pity, which a 
 religious man, about to leave this life, feels towards all 
 his brethren of mankind, who are entering upon, or 
 engaged in its scenes of agitation, trouble, and danger. 
 On one of those evenings, the servant showed into 
 the minister's study a tall, bold-looking, daric-visaged 
 man, in the prime of life, who, with little of the usual 
 courtesy, advanced into the middle of the room, and 
 somewhat abruptly declared the sacred purpose of his 
 visit. But before he could receive a reply, he looked 
 around and before him ; and there was something so so- 
 lemn in the old minister's appearance, as he sat like a 
 spirit, with his unclouded eyes fixed upon the intruder,
 
 48 AN HOUR IX THE MANSE. 
 
 that that person's countenance fell, and his heart was 
 involuntarily knocking against his side. An old large 
 Bible, the same that he read from in the pulpit, was 
 lying open before him. One glimmering candle 
 showed his beautiful and silvery locks falling over his 
 temples, as his head half stooped over the sacred 
 page ; a dead silence was in the room, dedicated to 
 meditation and prayer ; the old man, it was known, had 
 for some time felt himself to be dying, and had 
 spoken of the sacrament of this summer as the last he 
 could ever hope to administer ; so that altogether, in 
 the silence, the dimness, the sanctity, the unworldli- 
 ness of the time, the place, and the being before him, 
 the visitor stood like one abashed and appalled ; and 
 bowing more reverently, oi - , at least, respectfully, he 
 said, with a hurried and quivering voice, " Sir, I come 
 for your sanction to be admitted to the table of our 
 Lord." 
 
 The minister motioned to him with his hand to sit 
 down, and it was a relief to the trembling man to do 
 so, for he was in the presence of one who he felt saw 
 into his heart. A sudden change, from hardihood to 
 terror, took place within his dark nature ; he wished 
 himself out of the insupportable sanctity of that 
 breathless room ; and a remorse, that had hitherto 
 slept, or been drowned within him, now clutched his 
 heartstrings, as if with an alternate grasp of frost and 
 fire, and made his knees knock against each other 
 
 where he sat, and his face pale as ashes. 
 
 1
 
 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 49 
 
 " Norman Adams, saidst thou, that thou wilt take 
 into that hand, and put into those lips, the symbol of 
 the blood that was shed for sinners, and of the body 
 that bowed on the cross, and then gave up the ghost ? 
 If so, let us speak together, even as if thou wert com- 
 muning with thine own heart. Never, again, may I 
 join in that Sacrament, for the hour of my departure 
 is at hand. Say, wilt thou eat and drink death to 
 thine immortal soul ?" 
 
 The terrified man found strength to rise from his 
 seat, and staggering towards the door, said, " Pardon, 
 forgive me, I am not worthy." " It is not I who can 
 pardon, Norman. That power lies not with man ; 
 but sit down — you are deadly pale — and though, I 
 fear, an ill-living and a dissolute man, greater sinners 
 have repented, and been saved. Approach not now 
 the table of the Lord, but confess all your sins before 
 him in the silence of your own house, and upon your 
 naked knees on the stone-floor every morning and 
 every night ; and if this you do faithfully, humbly, 
 and with a contrite heart, come to me again when the 
 Sacrament is over, and I will speak words of comfort 
 to you, if, then, I am able to speak, if, Norman, it 
 should be on my death-bed. This will I do for the 
 sake of thy soul, and for the sake of thy father, Nor- 
 man, whom my soul loved, and who was a support to 
 me in my ministry for many long long years, even for 
 two score and ten, for we were at school together ; 
 and had your father been living now, he would, like 
 
 n
 
 50 AN HOUE IN THE MANSE. 
 
 myself, have this very day finished his eighty-fifth 
 year. I send you not from me in anger, but in pity, 
 and love. Go, my son, and this very night begin your 
 repentance, for if that face speak the truth, your heart 
 must be sorely charged." 
 
 Just as the old man ceased speaking, and before the 
 humble, or at least affrighted culprit had risen to go, 
 another visitor of a very different kind was shown into 
 the room. A young beautiful girl, almost shrowded 
 in her cloak, with a sweet pale face, on which sadness 
 seemed in vain to strive with the natural expression of 
 the happiness of youth. 
 
 " Mary Simpson," said the kind old man, as she 
 stood with a timid curtesy near the door ; " Mary 
 Simpson, approach, and receive from my hands the 
 token for which thou comest. Well, dost thou know 
 the history of thy Saviour's life, and rejoicest in the 
 life and immortality brought to light by the gospel. 
 Young and guileless, Mary, art thou, and dim as my 
 memory now is of many things, yet do I well remem- 
 ber the evening, when first beside my knee, thou 
 heardst read how the Divine Infant was laid in a man- 
 ger, — how the wise men from the east came to the 
 place of his Nativity, — and how the angels were heard 
 singing in the fields of Bethlehem all the night long." 
 
 Alas ! every word that had thus been uttered sent a 
 pang into the poor creature's heart, and without lifting 
 her eyes from the floor, and in a voice more faint and 
 hollow than belonged to one so young, she said, '* Oh !
 
 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 51 
 
 Sir, I come not as an intending Communicant ; yet the 
 Lord my God knows that I am rather miserable than 
 guilty, and he will not suffer my soul to perish, though 
 a baby is now within me, the child of guilt, and sin, and 
 horror. This, my shame, come I to tell you; but for the 
 father of my babe unborn, cruel though he has been to 
 me, Oh! cruel, cruel, indeed, — yet shall his name go 
 down with me in silence to the grave. I must not, must 
 not breathe his name in mortal ears ; but I have looked 
 round me in the wide moor, and when nothing that 
 could understand was by, nothing living but birds, and 
 bees, and the sheep I was herding, often have I whis- 
 pered his name in my prayers, and beseeched God, 
 and Jesus, to forgive him all his sins." 
 
 At these words, of which the passionate utterance 
 seemed to relieve her heart, and before the pitying and 
 bewildered old man could reply, Mary Simpson raised 
 her eyes from the floor, and fearing to meet the face 
 of the minister, which had heretofore never shone upon 
 her but with smiles, and of which the expected frown 
 was to her altogether insupportable, she turned them 
 wildly round the room, as if for a dark resting-place, 
 and beheld Norman Adams rooted to his seat, leaning 
 towards her with his white ghastly countenance, and 
 his eyes starting from their sockets, seemingly in wrath, 
 agony, fear, and remorse. That terrible face struck 
 poor Mary to the heart, and she sunk against the wall, 
 and slipped down, shuddering upon a chair. 
 
 " Norman Adams, I am old and weak, but do you
 
 52 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 
 
 put your arm round that poor lost creature, and keep 
 her from falling down on the hard floor. I hear it is 
 a stormy night, and she has walked some miles hither ; 
 no wonder she is overcome. You have heard her 
 confession. But it was not meant for your ear ; so, 
 till I see you again, say nothing of what you have now 
 heard." 
 
 " O Sir ! a cup of water, for my blood is either leav- 
 ing my heart altogether, or it is drowning it. Your 
 voice, Sir, is going far, far away from me, and I am 
 sinking down. Oh ! hold me, — hold me up ! Is it a 
 pit into which I am falling ? — Saw I not Norman 
 Adams ? — Where is he now ?" " 
 
 ^The poor maiden did not fall off the chair, although 
 Norman Adams supported her not ; but her head lay 
 back against the wall, and a sigh, long and dismal, 
 burst from her bosom that deeply affected the old 
 man's heart, but struck that of the speechless and 
 motionless sinner, like the first toll of the prison bell 
 that warns the felon to leave his cell and come forth 
 to execution. 
 
 The minister fixed a stern eye upon Norman, for, 
 from the poor girl's unconscious words, it was plain 
 that he was the guilty wretch who had wrought all 
 this misery. " You knew, did you not, that she had 
 neither father nor mother, sister nor brother, scarcely 
 one relation on earth to care for or watch over her ; 
 and yet you have used her so? If her beauty was a 
 temptation unto you, did not the sweet child's inno-
 
 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 53 
 
 cence touch your hard and selfish heart with pity ; or 
 her guilt and grief must surely now wring it with re- 
 morse. Look on her — white — cold — breathless — still 
 as a corpse; and yet, thou bold bad man, thy footsteps 
 would have approached the Table of thy Lord." 
 
 The child now partly awoke from her swoon, and 
 her dim opening eyes met those of Norman Adams. 
 She shut them with a shudder, and said, sickly and 
 with a quivering voice, " O spare, spare me, Norman : 
 Are we again in that dark fearful wood ? Tremble not 
 for your life on earth, Norman, for never, never will I 
 tell to mortal ears that terrible secret ; but spare me, 
 spare me, else our Saviour, with all his mercy, will 
 never pardon your unrelenting soul. These are cruel- 
 looking eyes ; you will not surely murder poor Mary 
 Simpson, unhappy as she is, and must for ever be — yet 
 life is sweet ! She beseeches you on her knees to spare 
 her life !" — and, in the intense fear of phantasy, the 
 poor creature struggled off the chair, and fell down 
 indeed in a heap at his feet. 
 
 " Canst thou indeed be the son of old Norman 
 Adams, the industrious, the temperate, the mild, and 
 the pious ? who so often sat in this very room which 
 your presence has now polluted, and spake with me 
 on the mysteries of life and of death. Foul ravisher, 
 what stayed thy hand from the murder of that child, 
 when there were none near to hear her shrieks in the 
 dark solitude of the great pine-wood ?" 
 
 Norman Adams smote his heart and fell down too
 
 54 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 
 
 on his knees beside the poor ruined orphan. He put 
 his arm round her, and, raising her from the floor, said, 
 " No, no, my sin is great, too great for heaven's for- 
 giveness ; but, O Sir, say not, — say not that I would 
 have murdered her ; for, savage as my crime was, yet 
 may God judge me less terribly than if I had taken 
 her life." 
 
 In a little while they were both seated with some 
 composure, and silence was in the room. No one 
 spoke, and the old grey haired man sat with eyes fix- 
 ed, without reading, on the open Bible. At last he 
 broke silence with these words out of Isaiah, that 
 seemed to have forced themselves on his heedless 
 eyes. " Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be 
 as white as snow ; though they be red like crimson, 
 they shall be as wool." 
 
 Mary Simpson wept aloud at these words; and 
 seemed to forget her own wrongs and grief in com- 
 miseration of the agonies of remorse and fear that were 
 now plainly preying on the soul of the guilty man. 
 " I forgive you Norman, and will soon be out of the 
 way, no longer to anger you with the sight of me." 
 Then fixing her streaming eyes on the minister, she 
 besought him not to be the means of bringing him to 
 punishment, and a shameful death, for that he might 
 repent, and live to be a good man and respected in 
 the parish ; but that she was a poor orphan for whom 
 few cared, and who, when dead, would have but a 
 small funeral.
 
 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE 55 
 
 " I will deliver myself up into the hands of justice," 
 said the offender, " for I do not deserve to live. Mine 
 was an inhuman crime, and let a violent and shame- 
 ful death be my doom." 
 
 The orphan girl now stood up as if her strength had 
 been restored, and stretching out her hands passion- 
 ately, with a flow of most affecting and beautiful lan- 
 guage, inspired by a meek, single, and sinless heart, 
 that could not bear the thought of utter degradation 
 and wretchedness befalling any one of the rational 
 children of God, implored and beseeched the old man 
 to comfort the sinner before them, and promise that 
 the dark transaction of guilt should never leave the 
 concealment of their own three hearts. " Did he not 
 save the lives of two brothers once who were drowning 
 in that black mossy loch, when their own kindred, at 
 work among the hay, feared the deep sullen water, and 
 all stood aloof shuddering and shrieking, till Norman 
 Adams leapt in to their rescue, and drew them by the 
 dripping hair to the shore, and then lay down beside 
 them on the heather, as like to death as themselves? 
 I myself saw it done ; I myself heard their mother call 
 down the blessing of God on Norman's head, and then 
 all the haymakers knelt down and prayed. When 
 you, on the Sabbath, returned thanks to God for that 
 they were saved, Oh ! kind Sir, did you not name, in 
 the full kirk, him who, under Providence, did deliver 
 them from death, and who, you said, had thus showed 
 himself to be a Christian indeed ? May his sin against
 
 56 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 
 
 me be forgotten, for the sake of those two drowning 
 boys, and their mother who blesses his name unto this 
 day." 
 
 From a few questions solemnly asked, and solemnly 
 answered, the minister found that Norman Adams had 
 been won by the beauty and loveliness of this poor 
 orphan shepherdess, as he had sometimes spoken to her 
 when sitting on the hillside with her flock, but that 
 pride had prevented him from ever thinking of her in 
 marriage. It appeared that he had also been falsely in- 
 formed, by a youth whom Mary disliked for his brutal 
 and gross manners, that she was not the innocent girl 
 that her seeming simplicity denoted. On returning 
 from a festive meeting, where this abject person had 
 made many mean insinuations against her virtue, Nor- 
 man Adams met her returning to her master's house, 
 in the dusk of the evening, on the foot-path leading 
 through a lonely wood ; and, though his crime was of 
 the deepest dye, it seemed to the minister of the reli- 
 gion of mercy, that by repentance, and belief in the 
 atonement that had once been made for sinners, he, 
 too, might perhaps hope for forgiveness at the throne 
 of God. 
 
 " I warned you, miserable man, of the fatal nature 
 of sin, when first it brought a trouble over your coun- 
 tenance, and broke in upon the peaceful integrity of 
 your life. Was not the silence of the night often ter- 
 rible to you, when you were alone in the moors, and 
 the whisper of your own conscience told you, that 
 -every wicked thought was sacrilege to your father's
 
 AN HOUK IN THE MANSE. 57 
 
 dust? Step by step, and almost imperceptibly, per- 
 haps, did you advance upon the road that leadeth to 
 destruction; but look back now, and -what a long 
 dark journey have you taken, standing, as you are, on 
 the brink of everlasting death. Once you were kind, 
 gentle, generous, manly, and free, but you trusted to 
 the deceitfulness of your own heart ; you estranged 
 yourself from the house of the God of your fathers, 
 and what has your nature done for you at last, but 
 6unk you into a wretch, savage, selfish, cruel, coward- 
 ly, and in good truth a slave ? A felon are you, and 
 forfeited to the hangman's hands. Look on that poor 
 innocent child, and think what is man without God. 
 What would you give now, if the last three years of 
 your reckless life had been past in a dungeon dug- 
 deep into the earth, with hunger and thirst gnawing 
 at your heart, and bent down under a cart-load of 
 chains ? Yet look not so ghastly, for I condemn you 
 not utterly ; nor, though I know your guilt, can I 
 know what good may yet be left uncorrupted and un- 
 extinguished in your soul. Kneel not to me, Nor- 
 man ; fasten not so your eyes upon me ; lift them up- 
 wards, and then turn them in upon your own heart, 
 for the dreadful reckoning is between it and God." 
 
 Mary Simpson had now recovered all her strength, 
 and she knelt down by the side of the groaner. Deep 
 was the pity she now felt for him, who to her had 
 shown no pity ; she did not refuse to lay her light arm 
 tenderly upon his neck. Often had she prayed to God 
 to save his soul, even among her rueful sobs of shame
 
 58 AN HOUR IN THE MANSE. 
 
 in the solitary glens ; and now that she beheld his sin 
 punished with a remorse more than he could bear, 
 the orphan would have willingly died, to avert from 
 his prostrate head the wrath of the Almighty. 
 
 The old man wept at the sight of so much inno- 
 cence, and so much guilt, kneeling together before 
 God, in strange union and fellowship of a common 
 being. With his own fatherly arms he lifted up 
 the orphan from her knees, and said, '.' Mary Simp- 
 son, my sweet and innocent Mary Simpson, for 
 innocent thou art, the elders will give thee a tok- 
 en, that will, on Sabbath-day, admit thee (not for 
 the first time, though so young) to the communion- 
 table. Fear not to approach it ; look at me, and 
 on my face, when I bless the elements, and be 
 thou strong in the strength of the Lord. Norman 
 Adams, return to your home. Go into the chamber 
 where your father died. Let your knees wear out the 
 part of the floor on which he kneeled. It is somewhat 
 worn already ; you have seen the mark of your father's 
 knees. Who knows, but that pardon and peace may 
 descend from Heaven even upon such a sinner as 
 thou. On none such as thou have mine eyes ever 
 looked, in knowledge, among all those who have lived 
 and died under my care, for three generations. But 
 great is the unknown guilt that may be hidden even 
 in the church-yard of a small quiet parish like this ! 
 Dost thou feel as if God-forsaken ? Or, Oh ! say it 
 unto me, canst thou, my poor son, dare to hope for 
 repentance?"
 
 AN HOUH IN THE MANSE. 59 
 
 The pitiful tone of the old man's trembling voice, 
 and the motion of his shaking- and withered hands, as 
 he lifted them up almost in an attitude of benediction, 
 completed the prostration of that sinner's spirit. All 
 his better nature, which had too long been oppressed 
 under scorn of holy ordinances, and the coldness of 
 infidelity, and the selfishness of lawless desires that 
 insensibly harden the heart they do not dissolve, now 
 struggled to rise up and respect its rights. " When I 
 remember what I once was, I can hope — when I think 
 what I now am, I only, only fear." 
 
 A storm of rain and wind had come on, and Mary 
 Simpson slept in the manse that night. On the en- 
 suing Sabbath she partook of the Sacrament. A wo- 
 ful illness fell vipon Norman Adams ; and then for a 
 long time no one saw him, or knew where he had gone. 
 It was said that he was in a distant city, and that he 
 was a miserable creature, that never again could look 
 upon the sun. But it was otherwise ordered. He re- 
 turned to his farm, greatly changed in face and per- 
 son, but even yet more changed in spirit. 
 
 The old minister had more days allotted to him than 
 he had thought, and was not taken away for some sum- 
 mers. Before he died, he had reason to know that 
 Norman Adams had repented in tears of blood, in 
 thoughts of faith, and in deeds of charity ; and he did 
 not fear to admit him, too, in good time, to the holy 
 ordinance, along with Mary Simpson, then his wife, 
 and the mother of his children.
 
 60 THE HEAD-STONE. 
 
 THE HEAD-STONE. 
 
 The coffin was let down to the bottom of the grave, 
 the planks were removed from the heaped- up brink, the 
 first rattling clods had struck their knell, the quick 
 shovelling was over, and the long, broad, skilfully- 
 cut pieces of turf were aptly joined together, and 
 trimly laid by the beating spade, so that the new- 
 est mound in the church-yard was scarcely distin- 
 guishable from those that were grown over by the 
 undisturbed grass and daisies of a luxuriant spring. 
 The burial was soon over ; and the party, with one 
 consenting motion, having uncovered their heads in 
 decent reverence of the place and occasion, were 
 beginning to separate, and about to leave the 
 church-yard. Here, some acquaintances, from dis- 
 tant parts of the parish, who had not had an oppor- 
 tunity of addressing each other in the house that had 
 belonged to the deceased, nor in course of the few 
 hundred yards that the little procession had to move 
 over from his bed to his grave, were shaking hands 
 quietly but cheerfully, and inquiring after the welfare
 
 THE HEAD-STONE. 61 
 
 of each other's families. There, a small knot of neigh- 
 bours were speaking, without exaggeration, of the re- 
 spectable character which the deceased had borne, 
 and mentioning to one another little incidents of his 
 life, some of them so remote as to be known only to 
 the grey-headed persons of the groupe. While a few 
 yards farther removed from the spot, were standing 
 together parties who discussed ordinary concerns, al- 
 together unconnected with the funeral, such as the 
 state of the markets, the promise of the season, or 
 change of tenants ; but still with a sobriety of manner 
 and voice, that was insensibly produced by the influ- 
 ence of the simple ceremony now closed, by the quiet 
 graves around, and the shadow of the spire and grey 
 walls of the house of God. 
 
 Two men yet stood together at the head of the 
 grave, with countenances of sincere but unimpassion- 
 ed grief. They were Brothers, the only sons of him 
 who had been buried. And there was something in 
 their situation that naturally kept the eyes of many 
 directed upon them, for a longer time, and more in- 
 tently, than would have been the case, had there been 
 nothing more observable about them than the common 
 symptoms of a common sorrow. But these two Bro- 
 thers, who were now standing at the head of their 
 father's grave, had for some years been totally estrang- 
 ed from each other, and the only words that had passed 
 between them, during all that time, had been uttered
 
 62 THE HEAD-STONE. 
 
 within a few days past, during the necessary prepara- 
 tions for the old man's funeral. 
 
 No deep and deadly quarrel was between these Bro- 
 thers, and neither of them could distinctly tell the 
 cause of this unnatural estrangement. Perhaps dim 
 jealousies of their father's favour — selfish thoughts that 
 will sometimes force themselves into poor men's hearts, 
 respecting temporal expectations — unaccommodating 
 manners on both sides — taunting words that mean 
 little when uttered, but which rankle and fester in re- 
 membrance — imagined opposition of interests, that, 
 duly considered, would have been found one and the 
 same — these, and many other causes, slight when 
 single, but strong when rising up together in one 
 baneful band, had gradually but fatally infected their 
 hearts, till at last they who in youth had been seldom 
 separate, and truly attached, now met at market, and, 
 miserable to say, at church, with dark and averted 
 faces, like different clansmen during a feud. 
 
 Surely if any thing could have softened their hearts 
 towards each other, it must have been to stand silently, 
 side by side, while the earth, stones, and clods, were 
 falling down upon their father's coffin. And doubt- 
 less their hearts were so softened. But pride, though 
 it cannot prevent the holy affections of nature from be- 
 ing felt, may prevent them from being shown ; and 
 these two Brothers stood there together, determined 
 not to let each other know the mutual tenderness that, 
 in spite of them, was gushing up in their hearts, and
 
 THE HEAD-STONE. 63 
 
 teaching them the unconfessed folly and wickedness of 
 their causeless quarrel. 
 
 A Head-stone had been prepared, and a person 
 came forward to plant it. The elder Brother directed 
 him how to place it — a plain stone, with a sand-glass, 
 skull, and cross-bones, chiselled not rudely, and a few 
 words inscribed. The younger Brother regarded the 
 operation with a troubled eye, and said, loudly enough 
 to be heard by several of the bystanders, " William, this 
 was not kind in you ; — you should have told me of this. 
 I loved my father as well as you could love him. You 
 were the elder, and, it may be, the favourite son ; but 
 1 had a right in nature to have joined you in ordering 
 this Head-stone, had I not ?" 
 
 During these words, the stone was sinking into the 
 earth, and many persons who were on their way from 
 the grave returned. For a while the elder Brother 
 said nothing, for he had a consciousness in his heart 
 that he ought to have consulted his father's son in de- 
 signing this last becoming mark of affection and re- 
 spect to his memory, so the stone was planted in si- 
 lence, and now stood erect, decently and simply among 
 the other unostentatious memorials of the humble 
 dead. 
 
 The inscription merely gave the name and age of 
 the deceased, and told that the stone had been erected 
 " by his affectionate sons." The sight of these 
 words seemed to soften the displeasure of the angry 
 man, and he said, somewhat more mildly, " Yes, we
 
 64 THE HEAD-STONE. 
 
 were his affectionate sons, and since my name is on 
 the stone, I am satisfied, Brother. We have not drawn 
 together kindly of late years, and perhaps never may ; 
 but I acknowledge and respect your worth ; and here, 
 before our own friends, and before the friends of our 
 father, with my foot above his head, I express my 
 willingness to be on better and other terms with you, 
 and if we cannot command love in our hearts, let us, 
 at least. Brother, bar out all unkindness." 
 
 The minister, who had attended the funeral, and 
 had something intrusted to him to say publicly before 
 he left the church-yard, now came forward, and asked 
 the elder Brother, why he spake not regarding this 
 matter. He saw that there was something of a cold 
 and sullen pride rising up in his heart, for not easily 
 may any man hope to dismiss from the chamber of his 
 heart even the vilest guest, if once cherished there. 
 With a solemn and almost severe air, he looked upon 
 the relenting man, and then, changing his counte- 
 nance into serenity, said gently, 
 
 Behold how good a thing it is, 
 
 And how becoming well, 
 Together such as brethren are 
 
 In unity to dwell. 
 
 The time, the place, and this beautiful expression of 
 a natural sentiment, quite overcame a heart, in which 
 many kind, if not warm, affections dwelt ; and the 
 man thus appealed to bowed down his head and
 
 THE HEAD-STONE. 65 
 
 wept. " Give me your hand, Brother ;" and it was 
 given, while a murmur of satisfaction arose from all 
 present, and all hearts felt kindlier and more humanely 
 towards each other. 
 
 As the Brothers stood fervently, but composedly, 
 grasping each other's hands, in the little hollow that 
 lay between the grave of their mother, long since dead, 
 and of their father, whose shroud was haply not yet still 
 from the fall of dust to dust, the minister stood beside 
 them with a pleasant countenance, and said, " I must 
 fulfil the promise I made to your father on his death- 
 bed. I must read to you a few words which his 
 hand wrote at an hour when his tongue denied its 
 office. I must not say that you did your duty to your 
 old father ; for did he not often beseech you, apart 
 from one another, to be reconciled, for your own sakes 
 as Christians, for his sake, and for the sake of the 
 mother who bare you, and Stephen, who died that you 
 might be born ? When the palsy struck him for the 
 last time, you were both absent, nor was it your fault 
 that you were not beside the old man when he died. 
 As long as sense continued with him here, did he 
 think of you two, and of you two alone. Tears were 
 in his eyes ; I saw them there, and on his cheek too, 
 when no breath came from his lips. But of this no 
 more. He died with this paper in his hand ; and he 
 made me know that I was to read it to you over his 
 grave. I now obey him. 
 
 " My sons, if you will let my bones lie quiet in the 
 
 E
 
 66 THE HEAD-STONE. 
 
 grave, near the dust of your mother, depart not from 
 my burial till, in the name of God and Christ, you 
 promise to love one another as you used to do. Dear 
 boys, receive my blessing." 
 
 Some turned their heads away to hide the tears that 
 needed not to be hidden, — and when the Brothers had 
 released each other from a long and sobbing embrace, 
 many went up to them, and, in a single word or two, 
 expressed their joy at this perfect reconcilement. The 
 Brothers themselves walked away from the church- 
 yard, arm in arm with the Minister to the Manse. On 
 the following Sabbath, they were seen sitting with 
 their families in the same pew, and it was observed, 
 that they read together off the same Bible when the 
 minister gave out the text, and that they sang to- 
 gether, taking hold of the same psalm-book. The 
 same psalm was sung, (given out at their own request,) 
 of which one verse had been repeated at their father's 
 grave ; a larger sum than usual was on that Sabbath 
 found in the plate for the poor, for Love and Charity 
 are sisters. And ever after, both during the peace and 
 the troubles of this life, the hearts of the Brothers 
 were as one, and in nothing were they divided.
 
 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 
 
 67 
 
 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 
 
 " This is the Evening on which, a few days ago, we 
 agreed to walk to the Bower at the Waterfall, and look 
 at the perfection of a Scottish Sunset. Every thing on 
 earth and heaven seems at this hour as beautiful as our 
 souls could desire. Come then, my sweet Anna, come 
 along, for, by the time we have reached the Bower, 
 with your gentle steps, the great bright orb will be 
 nearly resting its run on what you call the Ruby Moun- 
 tain. Come along, and we can return before the dew has 
 softened a single ringlet on your fair forehead." With 
 these words, the happy husband locked kindly within 
 his own the arm of his young English wife; and even 
 in the solitude of his unfrequented groves, where no 
 eye but his own now beheld her, looked with pride 
 on the gracefulnesss and beauty, that seemed so con- 
 genial with the singleness and simplicity of her soul. 
 
 They reached the Bower just as the western heaven 
 was in all its glory. To them while they stood to- 
 gether gazing on that glow of fire that burns without 
 consuming, and in whose mighty furnace the clouds and
 
 68 SUNSET AND SUNBISE. 
 
 the mountain-tops are but as embers, there seemed to 
 exist no sky but that region of it in which their spirits 
 were entranced. Their eyes saw it, — their souls felt it ; 
 but what their eyes saw or their souls felt they knew 
 not in the mystery of that magnificence. The vast 
 black bars, — the piled up masses of burnished gold, — 
 the beds of softest saffron and richest purple, lying 
 surrounded with continually fluctuating dyes of crim- 
 son, till the very sun himself was for moments un- 
 heeded in the gorgeousness his light had created, — 
 the show of storm but the feeling of calm over all 
 that tumultuous yet settled world of cloud that had 
 come floating silently and majestically together, and 
 yet, in one little hour was to be no more ; — what might 
 not beings endowed with a sense of beauty, and great- 
 ness, and love, and fear, and terror, and eternity, feel 
 when drawing their breath together, and tu rning their 
 stedfast eyes on each other's faces, in such a scene as 
 this ? 
 
 But from these high and bewildering imaginations, 
 their souls returned insensibly to the real world in which 
 their life lay; and still feeling the presence of that splen- 
 did Sunset, although now they looked not towards it, 
 they let their eyes glide, in mere human happiness, 
 over the surface of the inhabited earth. The green fields 
 that, in all varieties of form, lay stretching out before 
 them, the hedge-rows of hawthorn and sweet-briar, 
 the humble coppices, the stately groves, and, in the 
 distance, the dark pine forest loading the mountain
 
 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 69 
 
 side, were all their own, — and so too were a hundred 
 cottages, on height or holloAv, shelterless or buried in 
 shelter, and all alike dear to their humble inmates, on 
 account of their cheerfulness or their repose. God had 
 given to them this bright and beautiful portion of the 
 earth, and he had given them along with it hearts and 
 souls to feel and understand in what lay the worth 
 of the gift, and to enjoy it with a deep and thoughtful 
 gratitude. 
 
 " All hearts bless you, Anna ; and do you know that 
 the Shepherd Poet, whom we once visited in his Sheal- 
 ing, has composed a Gaelic song on our marriage, and 
 it is now sung by many a pretty Highland girl, both in 
 cottage and on hillside. They wondered, it is said., 
 why I should have brought them an English lady ; 
 but that was before they saw your face, or heard how 
 sweet may be an English voice even to a Highland ear. 
 They love you, Anna; they would die for you, Anna, 
 for they have seen you with your sweet body in silk 
 and satin, with a jewel on your forehead, and pearls 
 in your hair, moving to music in your husband's he- 
 reditary hall ; and they have seen you too in russet 
 garb, and ringlets unadorned, in their own smoky 
 cottages, blyth and free as some native shepherdess 
 of the hills. To the joyful and the sorrowful art thou 
 alike dear ; and all my tenantry are rejoiced when you 
 appear, whether on your palfrey on the heather, or 
 walking through the hay or harvest field, or sitting 
 by the bed of sickness ; or welcoming, with a gentle
 
 70 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 
 
 stateliness, the old withered mountaineer to his chief- 
 tain's gate." 
 
 The tears fell from the lady's eyes at these kind, 
 loving, and joyful words ; and, with a sob, she leaned 
 her cheek on her husband's bosom. " Oh ! whv — 
 why should I be sad in the midst of the undeserved 
 goodness of God ? Since the farthest back time I re- 
 collect in the darkness of infancy, I have been per- 
 fectly happy. I have never lost airy dear friend, as so 
 many others have done. My father and mother live, 
 and love me well ; blessings be upon them now, and 
 for ever ! You love me, and that so tenderly, that at 
 times my heart is like to break. But my husband — 
 forgive me — pity me — but upbraid me not, when I 
 tell you, that my soul, of late, has often fainted with- 
 in me, as now it does, — for oh ! husband ! husband ! — 
 the fear of death is upon me ; and as the sun sank 
 behind the mountain, I thought that moment of a large 
 burial-place, and the vault in which I am to be inter- 
 red." 
 
 These words gave a shock to her husband's heart, 
 and, for a few moments, he knew not how to cheer 
 and comfort her. Almost before he could speak, and 
 while he was silently kissing her forehead, his young 
 wife, somewhat more composedly said, " I strive 
 against it — I close my eyes to contain — to crush the 
 tears that I feel gushing up from my stricken heart ; 
 but they force their way through, and my face is often 
 ruefully drenched in solitude. Well may I weep to
 
 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 71 
 
 leave this world — thee — my parents — the rooms in 
 which, for a year of perfect bliss, I have walked, sat, 
 or slept in thy bosom — all these beautiful woods, and 
 plains, and hills, which I have begun to feel every 
 day more and more as belonging unto me, because I 
 am thy wife. But, husband ! beyond far far beyond 
 them all, except him of whose blood it is, do I weep 
 to leave our baby that is now unborn. May it live to 
 comfort you — to gladden your eyes when I am gone 
 
 yea, to bring tears sometimes into them, when its 
 
 face or form may chance to remember you of the mo- 
 ther who bore it, and died that it might see the day." 
 The Lady rose up with these words from her hus- 
 band's bosom; and, as a sweet balmy whispering 
 breath of wind came from the broom on the river's 
 bank, and fanned her cheeks, she seemed to revive 
 from that desponding dream ; and, with a faint smile, 
 looked all round the sylvan Bower. The cheerful 
 hum of the bees, that seemed to be hastening their 
 work among the honey -flowers before the fall of dark, 
 
 the noise of the river that had been unheard while 
 
 the sun was setting, — the lowing of the kine going lei- 
 surely homewards before their infant drivers, — and the 
 loud lofty song of the blackbird in his grove, — these, 
 and a thousand other mingling influences of nature, 
 touched her heart with joy, — and her eyes became alto- 
 gether free from tears. Her husband, who had been 
 deeply affected by words so new to him from her lips, 
 seized these moments of returning peace to divert her
 
 72 SUNSET AND 6UNRISE. 
 
 thoughts entirely from such causeless terrors. " To 
 this Bower I brought you, to show you what a Scottish 
 landscape was, the day after our marriage, — and, 
 from that hour to this, every look, smile, word, and 
 deed of thine, has been after my own heart, except 
 these foolish tears. But the dew will soon be on the 
 grass, — so come, my beloved, — nay, I will not stir 
 unless you smile. There, Anna ! you are your beautiful 
 self again I" And they returned cheerful and laughing 
 to the hall ; the lady's face being again as bright as if 
 a tear had never dimmed its beauty. The glory of the 
 sunset was almost forgotten in the sweet, fair, pensive 
 silence of the twilight, now fast glimmering on to one 
 of those clear summer nights which divide, for a few 
 hours, one day from another with their transitory 
 pomp of stars. 
 
 Before midnight, all who slept awoke. It was 
 hoped that an heir was about to be born to that an- 
 cient house ; and there is something in the dim and 
 solemn reverence which invests an unbroken line of 
 ancestry, that blends easily with those deeper and more 
 awful feelings with which the birth of a human crea- 
 ture, in all circumstances, is naturally regarded. Ten- 
 derly beloved by all as this young and beautiful Lady 
 was, who coming a stranger among them, and as they 
 felt from another land, had inspired them insensibly 
 with a sort of pity mingling with their pride in her 
 loveliness and virtue, it may well be thought that now 
 the house was agitated, and that its agitation was soon
 
 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 73 
 
 spread from cottage to cottage to a great distance round. 
 Many a prayer, therefore, was said for her ; and God 
 was beseeched soon to make her, in his mercy, a joy- 
 ful mother. No fears, it was said, were entertained 
 for the lady's life ; but, after some hours of intolerable 
 anguish of suspense, her husband, telling an old ser- 
 vant whither he had gone, walked out into the open 
 air, and, in a few minutes, sat down on a tombstone, 
 without knowing that he had entered the little church- 
 yard, which, with the parish church, was within a few 
 fields and groves of the house. He looked around him ; 
 and nothing but graves — graves — graves. " This 
 stone was erected, by her husband, in memory of Ag- 
 nes Ilford, an Englishwoman, who died in child-bed, 
 aged nineteen." This inscription was every letter of 
 it distinctly legible in the moonlight ; and he held his 
 eyes fixed upon it — reading it over and over with a 
 shudder ; and then rising up, and hurrying out of the 
 church-yard, he looked back from the gate, and 
 thought he saw a female figure all in white with an 
 infant in her arms, gliding noiselessly over the graves 
 and tombstones. But he looked more stedfastly — 
 and it was nothing. He knew it was nothing ; but 
 he was terrified ; and turned his face away from the 
 church-yard. The old servant advanced towards him ; 
 and he feared to look him in the face, lest he should 
 know that his wife was a corpse. 
 
 " Life or death ?" at length he found power to utter. 
 " My honoured lady lives, but her son breathed only a
 
 74 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 
 
 few gasps — no heir, no heir. I was sent to tell you 
 to come quickly to my lady's chamber." 
 
 In a moment the old man was alone, for, recovering 
 from the torpidity of fear, his master had flown off 
 like an arrow, and now with soft footsteps was stealing 
 along the corridor towards the door of his wife's apart- 
 ment. But as he stood within a few steps of it, com- 
 posing his countenance and strengthening his heart, 
 to behold his beloved Anna lying exhausted, and too 
 probably ill, ill indeed, — his own mother, like a sha- 
 dow, came out of the room, and not knowing that she 
 was seen, clasped her hands together upon her breast, 
 and lifting up her eyes with an expression of despair, 
 exclaimed, as in a petition to God, " Oh ! my poor 
 son ! — my poor son ! what will become of him !" She 
 looked forward, and there was her son before her, 
 with a face like ashes, tottering and speechless. She 
 embraced and supported him — the old and feeble sup- 
 ported the young and the strong. " I am blind, and 
 must feel my way ; but help me to the bed-side that 
 I may sit down and kiss my dead wife. I ought to 
 have been there, surely, when she died." 
 
 The Lady was dying, but not dead. It was thought 
 that she was insensible, but when her husband said, 
 "Anna—Anna!" she fixed her hitherto unnoticing 
 eyes upon his face, and moved her lips as if speaking, 
 but no words were heard. He stooped down and kiss- 
 ed her forehead, and then there was a smile over all 
 her face, and one word, " Farewell !" At that faint and 
 
 4
 
 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 75 
 
 loving voice he touched her lips with his, and he must 
 then have felt her parting breath ; for when he again 
 looked on her face, the smile upon it was more deep, 
 placid, stedfast, than any living smile, and a mortal 
 silence was on her bosom that was to move no more. 
 
 They sat together, he and his mother, looking on the 
 young, fair, and beautiful dead. Sometimes he was 
 distracted, and paced the room raving, and with a 
 black and gloomy aspect. Then he sat down per- 
 fectly composed, and looked alternately on the counte- 
 nance of his young wife, bright, blooming, and smiling 
 in death ; and on that of his old mother, pale, wither- 
 ed, and solemn in life. As yet he had no distinct 
 thoughts of himself. Overwhelming pity for one so 
 young, so good, so beautiful, and so happy, taken sud- 
 denly away, possessed his disconsolate soul ; and he 
 would have wept with joy to see her restored to life, 
 even although he were to live with her no more, 
 though she were utterly to forget him ; for what would 
 that be to him, so that she were but alive ! He felt 
 that he could have borne to be separated from her by 
 seas, or by a dungeon's walls ; for in the strength of 
 his love he would have been happy, knowing that she 
 was a living being beneath Heaven's sunshine. But 
 in a few days is she to be buried ! — And then was he 
 forced to think upon himself, and his utter desolation, 
 changed in a few hours from a too perfect happiness, 
 into a wretch whose existence was an anguish and a 
 curse.
 
 70 SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 
 
 At last he could not sustain the sweet, sad, beauti- 
 ful sight of that which was now lying stretched upon 
 his marriage-bed ; and he found himself passing along 
 the silent passages, with faint and distant lamentations 
 meeting his ear, but scarcely recognised by his mind, 
 until he felt the fresh air, and saw the grey dawn of 
 morning. Slowly and unconsciously he passed on into 
 the woods, and walked on and on, without aim or ob- 
 ject, through the solitude of awakening nature. He 
 heard or heeded not the wide ringing songs of all the 
 happy birds ; he saw not the wild flowers beneath his 
 feet, nor the dew diamonds that glittered on every leaf 
 of the motionless trees. The ruins of a lonely hut on 
 the hillside were close to him, and he sat down in 
 stupefaction, as if he had been an exile in some foreign 
 country. He lifted up his eyes, and the Sun was ris- 
 ing, so that all the eastern heaven was tinged with the 
 beautifulness of joy. The turrets of his own ances- 
 tral Mansion were visible among the dark umbrage of 
 its ancient grove ; fair were the lawns and fields that 
 stretched away from it towards the orient light, and 
 one bright bend of the river kindled up the dim 
 scenery through which it rolled. His own family 
 Estate was before his eyes, and as the thought rose 
 within his heart, " all that I see is mine," yet felt he 
 that the poorest beggar was richer far than he, and that 
 in one night he had lost all that was worth possessing. 
 He saw the Church Tower, and thought upon the place 
 of graves. " There will she be buried, — there will she 
 
 1
 
 SUN6ET AND SUNRISE. 77 
 
 be buried," he repeated with a low voice, while a groan 
 of mortal misery startled the little moss-wren from a 
 crevice in the ruin. He rose up, and the thought of 
 suicide entered into his sick heart. He gazed on the 
 river, and murmuring aloud in his hopeless wretched- 
 ness, said, " Why should I not sink into a pool and be 
 drowned ? But oh ! Anna, thou who wert so meek and 
 pure on earth, and who art now bright and glorious in 
 heaven, what would thy sainted and angelic spirit feel 
 if I were to appear thus lost and wicked at the judg- 
 ment-seat?" 
 
 A low voice reached his ear, and, looking round, he 
 beheld his old, faithful, white-headed servant on his 
 knees, — him who had been his father's foster-brother, 
 and who, in the privilege of age and fidelity and love 
 to all belonging to that House, had followed him unre- 
 garded,— had watched him as he wrung his hands, 
 and had been praying for him to God while he con- 
 tinued sitting in that dismal trance upon that mould- 
 ering mass of ruins. " Oh ! my young master, par- 
 don me for being here I wished not to overhear 
 
 yovir words ; but to me you have ever been kind, even 
 as a son to his father — Come, then, with the old man, 
 back into the hall, and forsake not your mother who 
 is sore afraid." 
 
 They returned, without speaking, down the glens, 
 and through the old woods, and the door was shut 
 upon them. Days and nights past on, and then a 
 bell tolled; and the church-yard, that had sounded
 
 78 SUNSET AND SUNKISE. 
 
 to many feet, was again silent. The woods around 
 the Hall were loaded with their summer glories ; the 
 river flowed on in its brightness ; the smoke rose 
 up to Heaven from the quiet cottages; and nature 
 continued the same, — bright, fragrant, beautiful, and 
 happy. But the Hall stood uninhabited ; the rich 
 furniture now felt the dust ; and there were none to 
 gaze on the pictures that graced the walls. He who 
 had been thus bereaved went across seas to distant 
 countries, from which his tenantry, for three springs, 
 expected his return ; but their expectations were never 
 realized, for he died abroad. His remains were brought 
 home to Scotland, according to a request in his will, 
 to be laid by those of his wife ; and now they rest to- 
 gether, beside the same simple Monument.
 
 THE LOVEllS LAST VISIT. 79 
 
 THE LOVER'S LAST VISIT. 
 
 The window of the lonely cottage of Hilltop was 
 beaming far above the highest birch-wood, seeming 
 to travellers at a distance in the long valley below, who 
 knew it not, to be a star in the sky. A bright fire was 
 in the kitchen of that small tenement ; the floor was 
 washed, swept, and sanded, and not a footstep had 
 marked its perfect neatness ; a small table was co- 
 vered, near the ingle, with a snow-white cloth, on 
 which was placed a frugal evening meal ; and in hap- 
 py, but pensive mood sat there all alone the Wood- 
 cutter's only daughter, a comely and gentle creature, 
 if not beautiful ; such an one as diffuses pleasure 
 round her in the hay field, and serenity over the seat 
 in which she sits attentively on the Sabbath, listening 
 to the word of God, or joining with mellow voice in 
 his praise and worship. On this night, she expected 
 a visit frcm her lover, that they might fix their mar- 
 riage-day ; and her parents, satisfied and happy that 
 their child was about to be wedded to a respectable 
 shepherd, had gone to pay a visit to their nearest 
 neighbour in the glen.
 
 80 THE LOVElt's LAST VISIT. 
 
 A feeble and hesitating knock was at the door, not 
 like the glad and joyful touch of a lover's hand ; and 
 cautiously opening it, Mary Robinson beheld a female 
 figure wrapped up in a cloak, with her face concealed 
 in a black bonnet. The stranger, whoever she might 
 be, seemed wearied and worn out, and her feet bore 
 witness to a long day's travel across the marshy moun- 
 tains. Although she could scarcely help considering 
 her an unwelcome visitor at such an hour, yet Mary 
 had too much sweetness of disposition — too much hu- 
 manity, not to request her to step forward into the 
 hut ; for it seemed as if the wearied woman had lost 
 her way, and had come towards the shining window 
 to be put right upon her journey to the low country. 
 The stranger took off her bonnet on reaching the 
 fire ; and Mary Robinson beheld the face of one whom, 
 in youth, she had tenderly loved ; although for some 
 years past, the distance at which they lived from each 
 other had kept them from meeting, and only a letter 
 or two, written in their simple way, had given them a 
 few notices of each other's existence. And now Mary 
 had opportunity, in the first speechless gaze of recog- 
 nition, to mark the altered face of her friend, — and 
 her heart was touched with an ignorant compassion. 
 " For mercy's sake ! sit down, Sarah ! and tell me 
 what evil has befallen you ; for you are as white as a 
 ghost. Fear not to confide any thing to my bosom : 
 we have herded sheep together on the lonesome braes 
 — we have stripped the bark together in the more
 
 THE LOVElt's LAST VISIT. 81 
 
 lonesome woods; — we have played, laughed, sung, 
 danced together ; — we have talked merrily and gaily, 
 but innocently enough surely of sweethearts together ; 
 and Sarah, graver thoughts, too, have we shared, for, 
 when your poor brother died away like a frosted 
 flower, I wept as if I had been his sister ; nor can I 
 ever be so happy in this world as to forget him. Tell 
 me, my friend, why are you here ? and why is your 
 sweet face so ghastly ?" 
 
 The heart of this unexpected visitor died within her 
 at these kind and affectionate inquiries. For she had 
 come on an errand that was likely to dash the joy 
 from that happy countenance. Her heart upbraided her 
 with the meanness of the purpose for which she had 
 paid this visit ; but that was only a passing thought ; 
 for was she, innocent and free from sin, to submit, not 
 only to desertion, but to disgrace, and not trust her- 
 self and her wrongs, and her hopes of redress to her 
 whom she loved as a sister, and whose generous na- 
 ture she well knew, not even love, the changer of so 
 many things, could change utterly ; though, indeed, 
 it might render it colder than of old to the anguish of 
 a female friend ? 
 
 " Oh ! Mary, I must speak, — yet must my words 
 make you grieve, far less for me than for yourself. 
 Wretch, that I am, — I bring evil tidings into the 
 dwelling of my dearest friend ! These ribbands — they 
 are worn for his sake — they become well, as he thinks, 
 the auburn of your bonny hair ;— -that blue gown is 
 
 F
 
 82 the lover's last visit. 
 
 wore to-night because he likes it ; — but, Mary, will 
 you curse me to my face, when I declare before the 
 God that made us, that that man is pledged unto me 
 by all that is sacred between mortal creatures ; and 
 that I have here in my bosom written promises and 
 oaths of love from him who, I was this morning told, 
 is in a few days to be thy husband. Turn me out of 
 the hut now if you choose, and let me, if you choose, 
 die of hunger and fatigue, in the woods where we have 
 so often walked together ; for such death would be 
 mercy to me, in comparison with your marriage with 
 him who is mine for ever, if there be a God who heeds 
 the oaths of the creatures he has made." 
 
 Mary Robinson had led a happy life, but a life of 
 quiet thoughts, tranquil hopes, and meek desires. 
 Tenderly and truly did she love the man to whom 
 she was now betrothed ; but it was because she had 
 thought him gentle, manly, upright, sincere, and 
 one that feared God. His character was unimpeach- 
 ed, — to her his behaviour had always been fond, af- 
 fectionate, and respectful ; that he was a fine-look- 
 ing man, and could show himself among the best of 
 the country round at church, and market, and fair- 
 day, she saw and felt with pleasure and with pride. 
 But in the heart of this poor, humble, contented, and 
 pious girl, love was not a violent passion, but an af- 
 fection sweet and profound. She looked forwards to 
 her marriage with a joyful sedateness, knowing that 
 she would have to toil for her family, if blest with
 
 THE LOVEIl's LAST VISIT. 8tf 
 
 children ; but happy in the thought of keeping her 
 husband's house clean, — of preparing his frugal meals, 
 and welcoming him when wearied at night to her 
 faithful,, and affectionate, and grateful bosom. 
 
 At first, perhaps, a slight flush of anger towards 
 Sarah tinged her cheek ; then followed in quick suc- 
 cession, or all blended together in one sickening pang, 
 fear, disappointment, the sense of wrong, and the cruel 
 pain of disesteemiug and despising one on whom her 
 heart had rested with all its best and purest affections. 
 But though there was a keen struggle between many 
 feelings in her heart, her resolution was formed during 
 that very conflict ; and she said within herself, " If it 
 be even so, neither will I be so unjust as to deprive 
 poor Sarah of the man who ought to marry her, nor 
 will I be so mean and low-spirited, poor as I am, and 
 dear as he has been unto me, as to become his wife." 
 
 While these thoughts were calmly passing in the 
 soul of this magnanimous girl, all her former affection 
 for Sarah revived ; and, as she sighed for herself, 
 she wept aloud for her friend. " Be quiet, be quiet, 
 Sarah, and sob not so as if your heart were breaking. 
 It need not be thus with you. Oh ! sob not so sair ! 
 You surely have not walked in this one day from the 
 heart of the parish of Montrath?" — " I have indeed done 
 so, and I am as weak as the wreathed snaw. God 
 knows, little matter if I should die away ; for, after 
 all, I fear he will never think of me for his wife, and 
 you, Mary, will lose a husband with whom you would
 
 84 the lover's last visit. 
 
 have been happy. I feel, after all, that I must appear 
 a mean wretch in your eyes." 
 
 There was silence between them ; and Mary Robin- 
 son, looking at the clock, saw that it wanted only 
 about a quarter of an hour from the time of tryst. 
 n Give me the oaths and promises you mentioned out 
 of your bosom, Sarah, that I may show them to Ga- 
 briel when he comes. And once more I promise, by 
 all the sunny and all the snowy days we have sat to- 
 gether in the same plaid on the hillside, or in the 
 lonesome charcoal plots and nests o' green in the woods, 
 that if my Gabriel, — did I say my Gabriel ? — has for- 
 saken you and deceived me thus, never shall his lips 
 touch mine again, — never shall he put ring on my 
 finger,— never shall this head lie in his bosom, — no, 
 never, never ; notwithstanding all the happy, too hap- 
 py hours and days I have been with him, near or at 
 a distance, — on the corn-rig, — among the meadow- 
 hay, — in the singing- school, — at harvest-home, — in 
 this room, and in God's own house. So help me 
 God, but I will keep this vow !" 
 
 Poor Sarah told, in a few hurried words, the story 
 of her love and desertion, — how Gabriel, whose busi- 
 ness as a shepherd often took him into Montrath pa- 
 rish, had wooed her, and fixed every thing about their 
 marriage, nearly a year ago. But that he had be- 
 come causelessly jealous of a young man whom she 
 scarcely knew ; had accused her of want of virtue, 
 and for many months had never once come to see her.
 
 THE LOVElfs LAST VISIT. 85 
 
 '* This morning, for the first time, I heard, for a cer- 
 tainty, from one who knew Gabriel well, and all his con- 
 cerns, that the banns had been proclaimed in the church 
 between him and you ; and that, in a day or two, you 
 were to be married. And though I felt drowning, I 
 determined to make a struggle for my life, — for Oh ! 
 Mary, Mary, my heart is not like your heart ; it wants 
 your wisdom, your meekness, your piety : and if I am 
 to lose Gabriel, will I destroy my miserable life, and 
 face the wrath of God sitting in judgment upon sin- 
 ners." 
 
 At this burst of passion Sarah hid her face with her 
 hands, as if sensible that she had committed blasphemy. 
 Mary seeing her wearied, hungry, thirsty, and fever- 
 ish, spoke to her in the most soothing manner ; led 
 her into the little parlour called the Spence, then re- 
 moved into it the table, with the oaten cakes, butter 
 and milk ; and telling her to take some refreshment, 
 and then lie down in the bed, but on no account to 
 leave the room till called for, gave her a sisterly kiss, 
 and left her. In a few minutes the outer-door opened, 
 and Gabriel entered. 
 
 The lover said, " How is my sweet Mary ?" with a 
 beaming countenance ; and gently drawing her to his 
 bosom, he kissed her cheek. Mary did not — could not 
 — wished not— at once to release herself from his en- 
 folding arms. Gabriel had always treated her as the wo- 
 man who was to be his wife ; and though at this time 
 her heart knew its own bitterness, yet she repelled not
 
 86 THE LOVERS LAST VISIT. 
 
 endearments that were so lately delightful, and suf- 
 fered him to take her almost in his arms to their ac- 
 customed seat. He held her hand in his, and began 
 to speak in his usual kind and affectionate language. 
 Kind and affectionate it was, for though he ought not 
 to have done so, he loved her, as he thought, better 
 than his life. Her heart could not in one small short 
 hour forget a whole year of bliss. She could not yet 
 fling away with her own hand what, only a few minutes 
 ago, seemed to her the hope of paradise. Her soul sick- 
 ened within her, and she wished that she were dead, or 
 never had been born. 
 
 " O Gabriel ! Gabriel ! well indeed have I loved 
 you ; nor will I say, after all that has passed between 
 us, that you are not deserving, after all, of a better love 
 than mine. Vain were it to deny my love either to 
 you, or to my own soul. But look me in the face — 
 be not wrathful — think not to hide the truth either 
 from yourself or me, for that now is impossible, — but 
 tell me solemnly, as you shall answer to God at the 
 judgment-day, if you know any reason why I must 
 not be your wedded wife ?" She kept her mild moist 
 eyes fixed upon him ; but he hung down his head, 
 and uttered not a word, for he was guilty before her, 
 before his own soul, and before God. 
 
 " Gabriel, never could we have been happy; for 
 you often often told me, that all the secrets of your heart 
 were known unto me, yet never did you tell me this. 
 How could you desert the poor innocent creature that
 
 the lover's last visit. 87 
 
 loved you ; and how could you use me so, who loved 
 you perhaps as well as she, but whose heart God will 
 teach, not to forget you, for that may I never do, but 
 to think on you with that friendship and affection 
 which innocently I can bestow upon you, when you 
 are Sarah's husband. For, Gabriel, I have this night 
 sworn, not in anger or passion — no no — but in sor- 
 row and pity for another's wrongs — in sorrow also, 
 deny it will I not, for my own, to look on you from 
 this hour, as on one whose life is to be led apart from 
 my life, and whose love must never more meet with 
 my love. Speak not unto me, look not on me with 
 beseeching eyes. Duty and religion forbid us ever to 
 be man and wife. But you know there is one, be- 
 sides me, whom you loved before you loved me, and, 
 therefore, it may be better too ; and that she loves you, 
 and is faithful, as if God had made you one, I say 
 without fear, I who have known her since she was a 
 child, although fatally for the peace of us both, we have 
 long lived apart. Sarah is in the house, and I will 
 bring her unto you in tears, but not tears of penitence, 
 for she is as innocent of that sin as I am, who now 
 speak." 
 
 Mary went into the little parlour, and led Sarah for- 
 ward in her hand. Despairing as she had been, yet 
 when she had heard from poor Mary's voice speaking so 
 fervently, that Gabriel had come, and that her friend was 
 interceding in her behalf, — the poor girl had arranged 
 her hair in a small looking-glass,— tied it up with a rib-
 
 88 the lover's last visit. 
 
 band which Gabriel had given her, and put into the 
 breast of her gown a little gilt broach that contained 
 locks of their blended hair. Pale but beautiful, for Sa- 
 rah Pringle was the fairest girl in all the country, she 
 advanced with a flush on that paleness of reviving 
 hope, injured pride, and love that was ready to for- 
 give all and forget all, so that once again she could 
 be restored to the place in his heart that she had lost. 
 M What have I ever done, Gabriel, that you should 
 fling me from you ? May my soul never live by the 
 atonement of my Saviour, if I am not innocent of that 
 sin, yea, of all distant thought of that sin with which 
 you, even you, have in your hard-heartedness charged 
 me. Look me in the face, Gabriel, and think of all I 
 have been unto you, and if you say that before God, 
 and in your own soul, you believe me guilty, then 
 will I go away out into the dark night, and, long be- 
 fore morning, my troubles will be at end." 
 
 Truth was not only in her fervent and simple 
 words, but in the tone of her voice, the colour of her 
 face, and the light of her eyes. Gabriel had long shut 
 up his heart against her. At first, he had doubted her 
 virtue, and that doubt gradually weakened his affec- 
 tion. At last, he tried to believe her guilty, or. to for- 
 get her altogether, when his heart turned to Mary 
 Robinson, and he thought of making her his wife. 
 His injustice — his wickedness — his baseness — which 
 he had so long concealed, in some measure, from him- 
 self, by a dim feeling of wrong done him, and after-
 
 the lover's last visit. 89 
 
 wards by the pleasure of a new love, now appeared to 
 him as they were, and without disguise. Mary took 
 Sarah's hand and placed it within that of her contrite 
 lover, for had the tumult of conflicting passions allow- 
 ed him to know his own soul, such at that moment 
 he surely was ; saying with a voice as composed as 
 the eyes with which she looked upon them, " I restore 
 you to each other; and I already feel the comfort of 
 being able to do my duty. I will be bride's-maid. 
 And I now implore the blessing of God upon your 
 marriage. Gabriel, your betrothed will sleep this 
 night in my bosom. We will think of you, better 
 perhaps, than you deserve. It is not for me to tell 
 you what you have to repent of. Let us all three 
 pray for each other this night, and evermore when we 
 are on our knees before our Maker. The old people 
 will soon be at home. Good night, Gabriel." He 
 kissed Sarah — and, giving Mary a look of shame, hu- 
 mility, and reverence, he went home to meditation and 
 repentance. 
 
 It was now Midsummer ; and before the harvest had 
 been gathered in throughout the higher valleys, or 
 the sheep brought from the mountain-fold, Gabriel and 
 Sarah were man and wife. Time past on, and a bloom- 
 ing family cheered their board and fireside. Nor did 
 Mary Robinson, the Flower of the Forest, (for so the 
 Wood-cutter's daughter was often called, ) pass her life 
 in single blessedness. She, too, became a wife and mo- 
 ther; and the two families, who lived at last on ad-
 
 90 THE LOVER'S LAST VISIT. 
 
 jacent farms, were remarkable for mutual affection, 
 throughout all the parish; and more than one inter- 
 marriage took place between them, at a time when the 
 worthy parents had almost entirely forgotten the try- 
 ing incident of their youth.
 
 THE MINISTER S WIDOW. 
 
 91 
 
 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 
 
 The dwelling of the Minister's Widow stood within 
 a few fields of the beautiful village of Castle-Holm, 
 about an hundred low-roofed houses that had taken 
 the name of the parish of which they were the little 
 romantic capital. Two small regular rows of cottages 
 faced each other, on the gentle acclivity of a hill, se- 
 parated by a broomy common of rich pasturage, 
 through which hurried a translucent loch-born rivu- 
 let, with here and there its shelves and waterfalls 
 overhung by the alder or weeping birch. Each straw- 
 roofed abode, snug and merry as a bee-hive, had be- 
 hind it a few roods of garden ground ; so that, in 
 spring, the village was covered with a fragrant cloud of 
 blossoms on the pear, apple, and plum trees ; and in 
 autumn was brightened with golden fruitage. In the 
 heart of the village stood the Manse — and in it had she, 
 who was now a widow, passed twenty years of priva- 
 cy and peace. On the death of her husband, she had 
 retired with her family — three boys, to the pleasant 
 cottage which she now inhabited. It belonged to the
 
 92 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 
 
 old lady of the Castle, who was patroness of the pa- 
 rish, and who accepted, from the minister's widow, of 
 a mere trifle as a nominal rent. On approaching the 
 village, strangers always fixed upon Sunny-side for the 
 Manse itself; for an air of serenity and retirement 
 brooded over it as it looked out from below its shelter- 
 ing elms, and the farm-yard with its corn- stack 
 marking the homestead of the agricultural tenant was 
 there wanting. A neat gravel- walk winded away, 
 without a weed, from the white gate by the road side, 
 through lilacs and laburnums ; and the unruffled and 
 unbroken order of all the breathing things that grew 
 around, told that a quiet and probably small family 
 lived within those beautiful boundaries. 
 
 The change from the Manse to Sunny-side had been 
 with the widow a change from happiness to resignation. 
 Her husband had died of a consumption ; and for near- 
 ly a year she had known that his death was inevit- 
 able. Both of them had lived in the spirit of that Chris- 
 tianity which he had preached ; and therefore the last 
 year they passed together, in spite of the many bitter 
 tears which she who was to be the survivor shed 
 when none were by to see, was perhaps on the whole 
 the best deserving of the name of happiness, of the 
 twenty that had passed over their earthly union. To 
 the dying man death had lost all his terrors. He sat 
 beside his wife, with his bright hollow eyes and emaci- 
 ated frame, among the balmy shades of his garden, 
 and spoke with fervour of the many tender mercies 
 
 4
 
 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 
 
 God had vouchsafed to them here, and of the promises 
 made to all who believed in the gospel. They did not 
 sit together to persuade, to convince, or to uphold each 
 other's faith, for they believed in the things that were 
 unseen, just as they believed in the beautiful blossom- 
 ed arbour that then contained them in its shading si- 
 lence. Accordingly, when the hour was at hand, in 
 which he was to render up his spirit into the hand of 
 God, he was like a grateful and wearied man falling 
 into a sleep. His widow closed his eyes with her own 
 hands, nor was her soul then disquieted within her. 
 In a few days she heard the bell tolling, and from her 
 sheltered window looked out, and followed the funeral 
 with streaming eyes but an unweeping heart. With a 
 calm countenance, and humble voice, she left and bade 
 farewell to the sweet Manse, where she had so long been 
 happy — and as her three beautiful boys, with faces dim- 
 med by natural grief, but brightened by natural glad- 
 ness, glided before her steps, she shut the gate of her 
 new dwelling with an undisturbed soul, and moved her 
 lips in silent thanksgiving to the God of the fatherless 
 and the widow. 
 
 Her three boys, each one year older than the other, 
 grew in strength and beauty, the pride and flower of 
 the parish. In school they were quiet and composed ; 
 but in play-hours they bounded in their glee together 
 like young deer, and led the sportful flock in all their 
 excursions through wood or over moor. They resem- 
 bled, in features and in voice, both of their gentle pa-
 
 94 THE MINISTER'S AVIDOW. 
 
 rents ; but nature had moulded to quite another cha- 
 racter their joyful and impetuous souls. When sitting 
 or walking with their mother, they subdued their 
 spirits down to suit her equable and gentle content- 
 ment ; and behaved towards her with a delicacy and 
 thoughtfulness, which made her heart to sing for jov. 
 So too did they sit in the kirk on Sabbath, and during 
 all that day the fountain of then joy seemed to subside 
 and to lie still. They knew to stand solemnly with their 
 mother, now and then on the calm summer evenings 
 beside their father's grave. They remembered well 
 his pale kind face— his feeble walk— his bendinc 
 frame — his hand laid in blessing on their young heads 
 — and the last time they ever heard him speak. The 
 glad boys had not forgotten their father; and that 
 they proved by their piety unto her whom most on 
 earth had their father loved. But their veins were 
 filled with youth, health, and the electricity of joy ; 
 and they carried without and within the house such 
 countenances as at any time coming upon their mo- 
 ther's eyes on a sudden, was like a torch held up in 
 the dim melancholy of a mist, diffusing cheerfulness 
 and elevation. 
 
 Years past on. Although the youngest was but a 
 boy, the eldest stood on the verge of manhood, 
 for lie had entered his seventeenth year, and was 
 bold, straight, and tall, with a voice deepening in its 
 tone, a graver expression round the gladness of his 
 t yes and a sullen mass of coal-black hair hanging over
 
 THE MINISTER^ WIDOW. 95 
 
 the smooth whiteness of his open forehead. But why 
 describe the three beautiful brothers ? They knew 
 that there was a world lying at a distance that called 
 upon them to leave the fields, and woods, and streams, 
 and lochs of Castle- Holm ; and, born and bred in 
 peace as they had been, their restless hearts were yet all 
 on fire, and they burned to join a life of danger, strife, 
 and tumult. No doubt it gave their mother a sad 
 heart to think that all her three boys who she knew 
 loved her so tenderly could leave her all alone, and 
 rush into the far-off world. But who shall curb nature ? 
 Who ought to try to curb it when its bent is strong ? She 
 reasoned a while, and tried to dissuade. But it Avas 
 in vain. Then she applied to her friends ; and the 
 widow of the minister of Castle-Holm, retired as his 
 life had been, was not without friends of rank and 
 power. In one year her three boys had their wish, — 
 in one year they left Sunny-side, one after the other; 
 William to India, — Edward to Spain, — and Harry to 
 a Man-of-War. 
 
 Still was the widow happy. The house that so 
 often used to be ringing with joy was now indeed too 
 too silent ; and that utter noiselessness sometimes made 
 her heart sick when sitting by herself in the solitary 
 room. But by nature she was a gentle, meek, resign- 
 ed, and happy being ; and had she even been other- 
 wise, the sorrow she had suffered, and the spirit of re- 
 ligion which her whole life had instilled, must have re- 
 conciled her to what was now her lot. Great cause had 
 
 «'
 
 96 the minister's widow. 
 
 she to be glad. Far away as India was, and seeming- 
 ly more remote in her imagination, loving letters came 
 from her son there in almost every ship that sailed for 
 Britain ; and if, at times, something delayed them, she 
 came to believe in the necessity of such delays, and, 
 without quaking, waited till the blessed letter did in 
 truth appear. Of Edward, in Spain, she often heard, 
 — though for him she suffered more than for the others. 
 Not that she loved him better, for, like three stars, 
 each possessed alike the calm heaven of her heart ; but 
 he was with Wellington, and the regiment, in which he 
 served, seemed to be conspicuous in all skirmishes, and 
 in every battle. Henry, her youngest boy, who left 
 her before he had finished his fourteenth year, she 
 often heard from ; his ship sometimes put into port ; 
 and once, to the terror and consternation of her loving 
 and yearning heart, the young midshipman stood be- 
 fore her, with a laughing voice, on the floor of the par- 
 lour, and rushed into her arms. He had got leave of 
 absence for a fortnight ; and proudly although sadly 
 too did she look on her dear boy when he was sitting 
 in the kirk with his uniform on, and his war-weapons by 
 his side,— a fearless and beautiful stripling, on whom 
 many an eye was insensibly turned even during ser- 
 vice. And, to be sure, when the congregation were dis- 
 missed, and the young sailor came smiling out into the 
 church-yard, never was there such a shaking of hands 
 seen before. The old men blessed the gallant boy,— 
 many of the mothers looked at him not without tears ,-
 
 the jiixisteh's widow. 97 
 
 and the young maidens, who had heard that he had 
 been in a bloody engagement, and once nearly ship- 
 wrecked, gazed upon him with unconscious blushes, 
 and bosoms that beat with innocent emotion. A bless- 
 ed week it was indeed that he was then with his mo- 
 ther ; and never before had Sunny-side seemed so well 
 to deserve its name. 
 
 To love, to fear, and to obey God, was the rule of 
 this widow's life. And the time was near at hand 
 when she was to be called upon to practise it in every 
 silent, secret, darkest corner and recess of her afflict- 
 ed spirit. Her eldest son, William, fell in storming 
 a fort in India, as he led the forlorn hope. He was 
 killed dead in a moment, and fell into the trench with 
 all his lofty plumes. Edward was found dead at Ta- 
 lavera, with the colours of his regiment tied round his 
 body. And the ship in which Henry was on board, 
 that never would have struck her flag to any human 
 power sailing on the sea, was driven by a storm on a 
 reef of rocks, — went to pieces during the night, — and 
 of eight hundred men not fifty were saved. Of that 
 number Henry was not, — but his body was found 
 next day on the sand, along with those of many of the 
 crew, and buried, as it deserved, with all honours, and 
 in a place where few but sailors slept. 
 
 In one month, one little month, did the tidings of 
 the three deaths reach Sunny-side. A Government 
 letter informed her of William's death, in India, and 
 added, that, on account of the distinguished charac-
 
 98 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 
 
 ter of the young soldier, a small pension would be 
 settled on his mother. Had she been starving of 
 want, instead of blest with competence, that word 
 would have had then no meaning to her ear. Yet 
 true it is, that a human — an earthly pride, cannot be 
 utterly extinguished, even by severest anguish, in a 
 mother's heart, yea even although her best hopes are 
 garnered up in heaven ; and the weeping widow could 
 not help feeling it now, when, with the black wax be- 
 low her eyes, she read how her dead boy had not 
 fallen in the service of an ungrateful state. A few 
 days afterwards, a letter came from himself, written in 
 the highest spirits and tenderest affection. His mo- 
 ther looked at every word, — every letter, — every dash 
 of the pen ; — and still one thought, one thought only, 
 was in her soul, " the living hand that traced these 
 lines, where, what, is it now ?" But this was the first 
 blow only ; ere the new-moon was visible, the widow 
 knew that she was altogether childless. 
 
 It was in a winter hurricane that her ) oungest boy 
 had perished ; and the names of those whose health 
 had hitherto been remembered at every festal Christ- 
 mas, throughout all the parish, from the Castle to the 
 humblest hut, were now either suppressed within 
 the heart, or pronounced with a low voice and a 
 sigh. During three months, Sunny-side looked almost 
 as if uninhabited. Yet the smoke from one chimney 
 told that the childless widow was sitting alone at her 
 fireside ; and when her only servant was spoken to at 
 
 4
 
 THE MINISTER^ WIDOW. 99 
 
 church, or on the village green, and asked how her 
 mistress was bearing these dispensations, the an- 
 swer was, that her health seemed little, if at all im- 
 paired, and that she talked of coming to divine ser- 
 vice in a few weeks, if her strength would permit. 
 She had been seen, through the leafless hedge, stand- 
 ing at the parlour window, and had motioned with 
 her hand to a neighbour who, in passing, had un- 
 covered his head. Her weekly bounty to several poor 
 and bed-ridden persons had never suffered but one 
 week's intermission. It was always sent to them on 
 Saturday night ; and it was on a Saturday night that 
 all the parish had been thrown into tears, with the 
 news that Henry's ship had been wrecked, and the 
 brave boy droAvned. On that evening she had for- 
 gotten the poor. 
 
 But now the Spring had put forth her tender buds 
 and blossoms, — had strewn the black ground under the 
 shrubs with flowers, — and was bringing up the soft, 
 tender, and beautiful green over the awakening face 
 of the earth. There was a revival of the spirit of life, 
 and gladness over the garden, and the one encircling 
 field of Sunnyside ; and so likewise, under the grace of 
 God, was there a revival of the soul that had been 
 sorrowing within its concealment. On the first sweet 
 dewy Sabbath of May, the widow was seen closing 
 behind her the little white gate, which for some months 
 her hand had not touched. She gave a gracious, but 
 mournful smile, to all her friends, as she passed on
 
 100 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 
 
 through the midst of them, along with the minister, 
 who had joined her on entering the church-yard ; 
 and although it was observed that she turned pale as 
 she sat down in her pew, with the Bibles and Psalm- 
 books that had belonged to her sons lying before her, 
 as they themselves had enjoined when they went away, 
 yet her face brightened even as her heart began to 
 burn within her at the simple music of the psalm. 
 The prayers of the congregation had some months 
 before been requested for her, as a person in great 
 distress ; and during service, the young minister, ac- 
 cording to her desire, now said a few simple words, that 
 intimated to the congregation, that the childless widow 
 was, through his lips, returning thanks to Almighty 
 God, for that he had not forsaken her in her trouble, 
 but sent resignation and peace. 
 
 From that day she was seen, as before, in her house, 
 in her garden, along the many pleasant walks all about 
 
 f 
 
 the village, and in the summer evenings, though not 
 so often as formerly, in the dwellings of her friends, 
 both high and low. From her presence a more gentle 
 manner seemed to be breathed over the rude, and a 
 more heartfelt delicacy over the refined. Few had 
 suffered as she had suffered ; all her losses were such 
 as could be understood, felt, and wept over by all 
 hearts ; and all boisterousness or levity of joy would 
 have seemed an outrage on her, who, sad and melan- 
 choly herself, yet wished all around her happy, and 
 often lighted up her countenance with a grateful smile,
 
 THE MINISTERS WIDOW. 101 
 
 at the sight of that pleasure which she could not but 
 observe to be softened, sobered, and subdued for her 
 sake. 
 
 Such was the account of her, her sorrows, and her 
 resignation, which I received on the first visit I paid 
 to a family near Gastle-Holm, after the final consum- 
 mation of her grief. Well known to me had all the 
 dear boys been ; their father and mine had been 
 labourers in the same vineyard ; and as I had always 
 been a welcome visitor, when a boy, at the Manse of 
 Castle-Holm, so had I been, when a man, at Sunny- 
 side. Last time I had been there, it was during the 
 holidays, and I had accompanied the three boys on 
 their fishing excursions to the Lochs in the moor ; and 
 in the evenings pursued with them their humble and 
 useful studies: so I could not leave Castle-Holm with- 
 out visiting Sunnyside, although my heart misgave 
 me, and I wished 1 could have delayed it till another 
 summer. 
 
 I sent word that I was coming to see her, and I 
 found her sitting in that well-known little parlour, 
 where I had partaken the pleasure of so many merry 
 evenings, with those whose laughter was now extin- 
 guished. We sat for a while together speaking of 
 ordinary topics, and then utterly silent. But the re- 
 straint she had imposed upon herself she either thought 
 unnecessary any longer, or felt it to be impossible ; 
 and rising up, went to a little desk, from which she 
 brought forth three miniatures, and laid them down
 
 102 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 
 
 upon the table before us, saying, " Behold the faces 
 of my three dead boys !" 
 
 So bright, breathing, and alive did they appear, that 
 for a moment I felt impelled to speak to them, and to 
 whisper their names. She beheld my emotion, and 
 said unto me, " Oh ! could you believe that they are 
 all dead ! Does not that smile on Willy's face seem 
 as if it were immortal ! Do not Edward's sparkling 
 eyes look so bright as if the mists of death could never 
 have overshadowed them ! and think — Oh ! think, that 
 ever Henry's golden hair should have been draggled 
 in the brine, and filled full, full, I doubt not, of the 
 soiling sand !" 
 
 I put the senseless images one by one to my lips, 
 and kissed their foreheads — for dearly had I loved 
 these three brothers ; and then I shut them up and re- 
 moved them to another part of the room. I wished to 
 speak, but I could not ; and, looking on the face of 
 her who was before me, I knew that her grief would 
 find utterance, and that not until she had unburthen- 
 ed her heart could it be restored to repose. 
 
 " They would tell you, Sir, that I bear my trials 
 well ; but it is not so. Many, many unresigned and 
 ungrateful tears has my God to forgive in me, a poor, 
 weak, and repining worm. Almost every day, al- 
 most every night, do I weep before these silent and 
 beautiful phantoms ; and when I wipe away the 
 breath and mist of tears from their faces, there are 
 they smiling continually upon me ! Oh ! death is a
 
 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 103 
 
 shocking thought when it is linked in love with crea- 
 tures so young as these ! More insupportable is gushing 
 tenderness, than even dry despair ; and, methinks, I 
 could bear to live without them, and never to see 
 them more, if I could only cease to pity them ! But 
 that can never be. It is for them I weep, not for my- 
 self. If they were to be restored to life, would I not 
 lie down with thankfulness into the grave ? William 
 and Edward were struck down, and died, as they 
 thought, in glory and triumph. Death to them was 
 merciful. But who can know, although they may 
 try to dream of it in horror, what the youngest of 
 them, my sweet Harry, suffered, through that long 
 dai'k howling night of snow, when the ship was go- 
 ing to pieces on the rocks !" 
 
 That last dismal thought held her for a while silent ; 
 and some tears stood in drops on her eye-lashes, but 
 seemed again to be absorbed. Her heart appeared 
 unable to cling to the horrors of the shipwreck, al- 
 though it coveted them ; and her thoughts reverted to 
 other objects. " I walk often into the rooms where 
 they used to sleep, and look on their beds till 1 think 
 I see their faces lying with shut eyes on their pil- 
 lows. Early in the morning, do I often think I hear 
 them singing — I waken from troubled unrest, as if 
 the knock of their sportive hands were at my door 
 summoning me to rise. All their stated hours of 
 study and of play — when they went to school and re- 
 turned from it — when they came into meals— when
 
 104 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 
 
 they said their prayers — when they went leaping' at 
 night to bed as lightsomely, after all the day's fatigue, 
 as if they had just risen. Oh ! — Sir — at all these 
 times, and many, and many a time besides these, do I 
 think of them whom you loved." 
 
 While thus she kept indulging the passion of her 
 grief, she observed the tears I could no longer con- 
 ceal ; and the sight of my sorrow seemed to give, for 
 a time, a loftier character to hers, as if my weakness 
 made her aware of her own, and she had become 
 conscious of the character of her vain lamentations. 
 " Yet, why should I so bitterly weep ? Pain had not 
 troubled them — passion had not disturbed them — vice 
 had not polluted them. May I not say, <c My children 
 are in heaven with their father" — and ought I not, 
 therefore, to dry up all these foolish tears now and for 
 evermore ?" 
 
 Composure was suddenly shed over her counte- 
 nance, like gentle sun-light over a cheerless day, and 
 she looked around the room as if searching for some 
 pleasant objects that eluded her sight. " See," said 
 she, " yonder are all their books, arranged just as 
 Henry arranged them on his unexpected visit. Alas ! 
 too many of them are about the troubles and battles of 
 the sea ! But it matters not now. You are looking at 
 that drawing. It was done by himself, — that is the 
 ship he was so proud of, sailing in sunshine and a 
 pleasant breeze. Another ship indeed was she soon 
 after, when she lay upon the reef! But as for the
 
 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 105 
 
 books, I take them out of their places and dust them, 
 and return them to their places, every week. I used 
 to read to my boys, sitting round my knees, out of many 
 of these books, before they could read themselves, — 
 but now I never peruse them, for their cheerful stories 
 are not for me. But there is one Book I do read, and 
 without it I should long ago have been dead. The 
 more the heart suffers, the more does it understand 
 that Book. Never do I read a single chapter, without 
 feeling assured of something more awful in our na- 
 ture than I felt before. My own heart misgives me ; 
 my own soul betrays me ; all my comforts desert me 
 in a panic ; but never yet once did I read one whole 
 page of the New Testament that I did not know that 
 the eye of God is on all his creatures, and on me like 
 the rest, though my husband and all my sons are dead, 
 and I may have many years yet to live alone on the 
 earth." 
 
 After this we walked out into the little avenue, now 
 dark with the deep rich shadows of summer beauty. 
 We looked at that beauty, and spoke of the surpassing 
 brightness of the weather during all June, and ad- 
 vancing July. It is not in nature always to be sad; 
 and the remembrance of all her melancholy and even 
 miserable confessions was now like an uncertain echo, 
 as I beheld a placid smile on her face, a smile of such 
 perfect resignation, that it might not falsely be called 
 a smile of joy. We stood at the little white gate; and 
 with a gentle voice, that perfectly accorded with that
 
 106 THE MINISTER'S WIDOW. 
 
 expression, she bade God bless me ; and then with 
 composed steps, and now and then turning up, as she 
 walked along, the massy flower-branches of the labur- 
 num as bent with their load of beauty they trailed 
 upon the ground, she disappeared into that retirement, 
 which, notwithstanding all I had seen and heard, I 
 could not but think deserved almost to be called hap- 
 py, in a world which even the most thoughtless know 
 is a world of sorrow.
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. JOT 
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 In Summer there is beauty in the wildest moors of 
 Scotland, and the wayfaring man who sits down for 
 an hour's rest beside some little spring that flows un- 
 heard through the brightened moss and water-cresses, 
 feels his weary heart revived by the silent, serene, and 
 solitary prospect. On every side sweet sunny spots of 
 verdure smile towards him from among the melan- 
 choly heather — unexpectedly in the solitude a stray 
 sheep, it may be with its lambs, starts half-alarmed at 
 his motionless figure — insects large, bright, and beau- 
 tiful come careering by him through the desert air — 
 nor does the Wild want its own songsters, the grey 
 linnet, fond of the blooming furze, and now and then 
 the lark mounting up to Heaven above the summits 
 of the green pastoral hills. During such a sunshiny 
 hour, the lonely cottage on the waste seems to stand 
 in a paradise ; and as he rises to pursue his journey,
 
 108 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 the traveller looks back and blesses it with a mingled 
 emotion of delight and envy. There, thinks he, abide 
 the children of Innocence and Contentment, the two 
 most benign spirits that watch over human life. 
 
 But other thoughts arise in the mind of him who 
 may chance to journey through the same scene in the 
 desolation of Winter. The cold bleak sky girdles the 
 moor as with a belt of ice — life is frozen in air and on 
 earth. The silence is not of repose but extinction— 
 and should a solitary human dwelling catch his eye 
 half-buried in the snow, he is sad for the sake of them 
 whose destiny it is to abide far from the cheerful 
 haunts of men, shrouded up in melancholy, by poverty 
 held in thrall, or pining away in unvisited and untend- 
 ed disease. 
 
 But, in good truth, the heart of human life is but 
 imperfectly discovered from its countenance ; and be- 
 fore we can know what the summer, or what the win- 
 ter yields for enjoyment or trial to our country's pea- 
 santry, we must have conversed with them in their 
 fields and by their firesides ; and made ourselves ac- 
 quainted with the powerful ministry of the Seasons, 
 not over those objects alone that feed the eye and the 
 imagination, but over all the incidents, occupations, 
 and events that modify or constitute the existence of 
 the poor. 
 
 I have a short and simple story to tell of the winter- 
 life of the moorland cottager — a story but of one even- 
 ing — with few events and no signal catastrophe — but
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 109 
 
 which may haply please those hearts whose delight it 
 is to think on the humble under-plots that are carry- 
 ing on in the great Drama of Life. 
 
 Two cottagers, husband and wife, were sitting by 
 their cheerful peat-fire one winter evening, in a small 
 lonely hut on the edge of a wide moor, at some miles 
 distance from any other habitation. There had been, 
 at one time, several huts of the same kind erected 
 close together, and inhabited by families of the poor- 
 est class of day-labourers who found work among the 
 distant farms, and at night returned to dwellings which 
 were rent-free, with their little gardens won from the 
 waste. But one family after another had dwindled 
 away, and the turf-built huts had all fallen into ruins, 
 except one that had always stood in the centre of this 
 little solitary village, with its summer-walls covered 
 with the richest honeysuckles, and in the midst of the 
 brightest of all the gardens. It alone now sent up its 
 smoke into the clear winter sky — and its little end- 
 window, now lighted up, was the only ground star 
 that shone towards the belated traveller, if any such 
 ventured to cross, on a winter night, a scene so dreary 
 and desolate. The affairs of the small household were 
 all arranged for the night. The little rough poney 
 that had drawn in a sledge, from the heart of the 
 Black-Moss, the fuel by whose blaze the cotters were 
 now sitting cheerily, and the little Highland cow, 
 whose milk enabled them to live, were standing ami- 
 cably together, under cover of a rude shed, of which
 
 110 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 one side was formed by the peat-stack, and which was 
 at once byre, and stable, and hen-roost. Within, the 
 clock ticked cheerfully as the fire-light reached its old 
 oak-wood case across the yellow-sanded floor — and a 
 small round table stood between, covered with a snow- 
 white cloth, on which were milk and oat-cakes, the 
 morning, mid-day, and evening meal of these frugal 
 and contented cotters. The spades and the mattocks 
 of the labourer were collected into one corner, and 
 showed that the succeeding day was the blessed Sab- 
 bath — while on the wooden chimney-piece was seen 
 lying an open Bible ready for family worship. 
 
 The father and the mother were sitting together 
 without opening their lips, but with their hearts over- 
 flowing with happiness, for on this Saturday-night 
 they were, every minute, expecting to hear at the 
 latch the hand of their only daughter, a maiden of 
 about fifteen years, who was at service with a farmer 
 over the hills. This dutiful child was, as they knew, 
 to bring home to them " her sair-won penny fee," 
 a pittance which, in the beauty of her girl-hood, she 
 earned singing at her work, and which, in the benig- 
 nity of that sinless time, she would pour with tears in- 
 to the bosoms she so dearly loved. Forty shillings 
 a-year were all the wages of sweet Hannah Lee — but 
 though she wore at her labour a tortoise-shell comb in 
 her auburn hair, and though in the kirk none were 
 more becomingly arrayed than she, one half, at least, 
 of her earnings were to be reserved for the holiest of
 
 THE SXOW-ST011M. Ill 
 
 all purposes, and her kind innocent heart was glad- 
 dened when she looked on the little purse that was, 
 on the long-expected Saturday -night, to be taken from 
 her bosom, and put, with a blessing, into the hand of 
 her father, now growing old at his daily toils. 
 
 Of such a child the happy cotters were thinking in 
 their silence. And well indeed might they be called 
 happy. It is at that sweet season that filial piety is 
 most beautiful. Their own Hannah had just outgrown 
 the mere unthinking gladness of childhood, but had 
 not yet reached that time, when inevitable selfishness 
 mixes with the pure current of love. She had begun 
 to think on what her affectionate heart had felt so 
 long ; and when she looked on the pale face and bend- 
 ing frame of her mother, on the deepening wrinkles 
 and whitening hairs of her father, often would she lie 
 weeping for their sakes on her midnight bed — and 
 wish that she were beside them as they slept, that she 
 might kneel down and kiss them, and mention their 
 names over and over again in her prayer. The pa- 
 rents whom before she had only loved, her expanding 
 heart now also venerated. With gushing tenderness 
 was now mingled a holy fear and an awful reverence. 
 She had discerned the relation in which she an only 
 child stood to her poor parents now that they were 
 getting old, and there was not a passage in Scripture 
 that spake of parents or of children, from Joseph sold 
 into slavery, to Mary weeping below the Cross, that
 
 112 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 was not written, never to be obliterated, on her un- 
 corrupted heart. 
 
 The father rose from his seat, and went to the door 
 to look out into the night. The stars were in thou- 
 sands — and the full moon was risen. It was almost 
 light as day, and the snow, that seemed encrusted with 
 diamonds, was so hardened by the frost, that his 
 daughter's homeward feet would leave no mark on its 
 surface. He had been toiling all day among the dis- 
 tant Castle-woods, and, stiff and wearied as he now 
 was, he was almost tempted to go to meet his child — 
 but his wife's kind voice dissuaded him, and returning 
 to the fireside, they began to talk of her whose image 
 had been so long passing before them in their silence. 
 " She is growing up to be a bonny lassie," said the 
 mother ; " her long and weary attendance on me dur- 
 ing my fever last spring kept her down awhile — but 
 now she is sprouting fast and fair as a lily, and may 
 the blessing of God be as dew and as sunshine to our 
 sweet flower all the days she bloometh upon this 
 earth." " Aye, Agnes," replied the father, " we are 
 not very old yet — though we are getting older — and a 
 few years will bring her to woman's estate, and what 
 thing on this earth, think ye, human or brvite, would 
 ever think of injuring her? Why, I was speaking 
 about her yesterday to the minister as he was riding 
 by, and he told me that none answered at the Exami- 
 nation in the Kirk so well as Hannah. Poor thing — 
 I well think she has all the Bible by heart — indeed,
 
 THIC SNOW-sTOKM. 118 
 
 she has read but little else— only some stories, too true 
 ones, of the blessed martyrs, and some o' the auld sangs 
 o Scotland, in which there is nothing but what is good, 
 and which, to be sure, she sings, God bless her, sweet- 
 er than any laverock." "Aye — were we both to die this 
 very night she would be happy. Not that she would 
 forget us all the days of her life. But have you not seen, 
 husband, that God always makes the orphan happy ? 
 None so little lonesome as they ! They come to make 
 friends o' all the bonny and sweet things in the world 
 around them, and all the kind hearts in the world 
 make friends o' them. They come to know that God 
 is more especially the Father o' them on earth whose 
 parents he has taken up to heaven — and therefore it is 
 that they for whom so many have fears, fear not at all 
 for themselves, but go dancing and singing along like 
 children whose parents are both alive ! Would it not 
 be so with our dear Hannah ? So douce and thought- 
 ful a child — but never sad nor miserable — ready it is 
 true to shed tears for little, but as ready to dry them 
 up and break out into smiles ! I know not why it is, 
 husband, but this night my heart warms towards her be- 
 yond usual. The moon and stars are at this moment 
 looking down upon her, and she looking up to them, 
 as she is glinting homewards over the snow. I wish 
 she were but here, and taking the comb out o' her bon- 
 ny hair and letting it all fall down in clusters before 
 the fire, to melt away the cranreuch !" 
 
 While the parents were thus speaking of their daugh- 
 
 ti
 
 114 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 ter, a loud sugh of wind came suddenly over the cot- 
 tage, and the leafless ash-tree under whose shelter it 
 stood, creaked and groaned dismally as it passed by. 
 The father started up, and going again to the door, saw 
 that a sudden change had come over the face of the 
 night. The moon had nearly disappeared, and was just 
 visible in a dim, yellow, glimmering den in the sky. All 
 the remote stars were obscured, and only one or two 
 faintly seemed in a sky that half an hour before was 
 perfectly cloudless, but that was now driving with 
 rack, and mist, and sleet, the whole atmosphere being 
 in commotion. He stood for a single moment to 
 observe the direction of this unforeseen storm, and 
 then hastily asked for his staff. " I thought I had been 
 more weather-wise — A storm is coming down from the 
 Cairnbrae-hawse, and we shall have nothing but a wild 
 night." He then whistled on his dog — an old sheep- 
 dog, too old for its former labours — and set ofF to meet 
 his daughter, who might then, for ought he knew, be 
 crossing the Black-moss. The mother accompanied 
 her husband to the door, and took a long frightened 
 look at the angry sky. As she kept gazing, it became 
 still more terrible. The last shred of blue was ex- 
 tinguished — the wind went whirling in roaring ed- 
 dies, and great flakes of snow circled about in the mid- 
 dle air, whether drifted up from the ground, or driven 
 down from the clouds, the fear-stricken mother knew 
 not, but she at least knew, that it seemed a night of 
 danger, despair, and death. " Lord have mercy on
 
 THE SNOW-STORM 1 1 5 
 
 us, James, what will become of our poor bairn !" But 
 her husband heard not her words, for he was already 
 out of sight in the snow-storm, and she was left to the 
 terror of her own soul in that lonesome cottage. 
 
 Little Hannah Lee had left her master's house, soon 
 as the rim of the great moon was seen by her eyes, that 
 had been long anxiously watching it from the window, 
 rising, like a joyful dream, over the gloomy mountain- 
 tops ; and all by herself she tripped along beneath the 
 beauty of the silent heaven. Still as she kept ascend- 
 ing and descending the knolls that lay in the bosom of 
 the glen, she sung to herself a song, a hymn, or a 
 psalm, without the accompaniment of the streams, now 
 all silent in the frost ; and ever and anon she stopped 
 to try to count the stars that lay in some more beauti- 
 ful part of the sky, or gazed on the constellations that 
 she knew, and called them, in her joy, by the names 
 they bore among the shepherds. There were none to 
 hear her voice, or see her smiles, but the ear and eye 
 of Providence. As on she glided, and took her looks 
 from heaven, she saw her own little fireside — her pa- 
 rents waiting for her arrival — the Bible opened for 
 worship — her own little room kept so neatly for her, 
 with its mirror hanging by the window, in -which to 
 braid her hair by the morning light — her bed prepar- 
 ed for her by her mother's hand — the primroses in her 
 garden peeping through the snow — old Tray, who 
 ever welcomed her home with his dim white eyes — 
 the poney and the cow ; — friends all, and inmates of
 
 116 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 that happy household. So stepped she along, while 
 the snow diamonds glittered around her feet, and the 
 frost wove a wreath of lucid pearls round her fore- 
 head. 
 
 She had now reached the edge of the Black-moss, 
 which lay half way between her master's and her fa- 
 ther's dwelling, when she heard a loud noise coming 
 down Glen-Scrae, and in a few seconds she felt on her 
 face some flakes of snow. She looked up the glen, 
 and saw the snow-storm coming down, fast as a flood. 
 She felt no fears ; but she ceased her song ; and 
 had there been a human eye to look upon her there, 
 it might have seen a shadow on her face. She con- 
 tinued her course, and felt bolder and bolder 
 every step that brought her nearer to her parents' 
 house. But the snow-storm had now reached the 
 Black-moss, and the broad line of light that had lain in 
 the direction of her home, was soon swallowed up, 
 and the child was in utter darkness. She saw no- 
 thing but the flakes of snow, interminably intermin- 
 gled, and furiously wafted in the air, close to her head ; 
 she heard nothing bvit one wild, fierce, fitful howl. 
 The cold became intense, and her little feet and hands 
 were fast being benumbed into insensibility. 
 
 " It is a fearful change," muttered the child to 
 herself; but still she did not fear, for she had been 
 born in a moorland cottage, and lived all her days 
 among the hardships of the hills. ** What will become 
 
 of the poor sheep !" thought she, — but still she scarce- 
 
 4
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 1 IT 
 
 \y thought of her own danger, for innocence, and 
 youth, and joy, are slow to think of aught evil befall- 
 ing themselves, and thinking benignly of all living- 
 things, forget their own fear in their pity for others' 
 sorrow. At last, she could no longer discern a single 
 mark on the snow, either of human steps, or of sheep- 
 tract, or the foot-print of a wild-fowl. Suddenly, too, 
 she felt out of breath and exhausted, — and, shedding 
 tears for herself at last, sank down in the snow. 
 
 It was now that her heart began to quake with 
 fear. She remembered stories of shepherds lost in the 
 snow, — of a mother and a child frozen to death on 
 that very moor, — and, in a moment, she knew that 
 she was to die. Bitterly did the poor child weep, for 
 death was terrible to her, who, though poor, enjoyed 
 the bright little world of youth and innocence. The 
 skies of heaven were dearer than she knew to her,— 
 so were the flowers of earth. She had been happy at 
 her work, — -happy in her sleep, — happy in the kirk on 
 Sabbath. A thousand thoughts had the solitary child, 
 — and in her own heart was a spring of happiness, 
 pure and undisturbed as any fount that sparkles un- 
 seen all the year through in some quiet nook among the 
 pastoral hills. But now there was to be an end of all 
 this, — she was to be frozen to death — and lie there till 
 the thaw might come ; and then her father would find 
 her body, and carry it away to be buried in the kirk- 
 yard. 
 
 The tears were frozen on her cheeks as soon as
 
 118 THE SNOW-STOUM. 
 
 shed, — and scarcely had her little hands strength to 
 clasp themselves together, as the thought of an over- 
 ruling and merciful Lord came across her heart. Then, 
 indeed, the fears of this religious child were calmed, 
 and she heard without terror the plover's wailing cry, 
 and the deep boom of the bittern sounding in the moss. 
 " I will repeat the Lord's Prayer." And drawing her 
 plaid more closely around her, she whispered, be- 
 neath its ineffectual cover ; " Our Father which art in 
 Heaven, hallowed be thy name, — thy kingdom come, 
 — thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven." Had 
 human aid been within fifty yards, it could have been 
 of no avail — eye could not see her — ear could not hear 
 her in that howling darkness. But that low prayer 
 was heard in the centre of eternity, — and that little 
 sinless child was lying in the snow, beneath the all- 
 seeing eye of God. 
 
 The maiden having prayed to her Father in Heaven 
 — then thought of her father on earth. Alas ! they 
 were not far separated ! The father was lying but a 
 short distance from his child ; — he too had sunk down 
 in the drifting snow, after having, in less than an 
 hour, exhausted all the strength of fear, pity, hope, 
 despair, and resignation, that could rise in a father's 
 heart blindly seeking to rescue his only child from 
 death, thinking that one desperate exertion might en- 
 able them to perish in each other's arms. There they 
 lay, within a stone's throw of each other, while a huge 
 snow-drift was every moment piling itself up into a
 
 THE SNOW-STOKM. 119 
 
 more insurmountable barrier between the dying parent 
 and his dying child. 
 
 There was all this while a blazing fire in the cot- 
 tage — a white spread table — and beds prepared for 
 the family to lie down in peace. Yet was she who 
 sat therein more to be pitied than the old man and the 
 child stretched upon the snow. " I will not go to 
 seek them — that would be tempting Providence — and 
 wilfully putting out the lamp of life. No ! I will abide 
 here, and pray for their souls !" Then, as she knelt 
 down, looked she at the useless fire burning away so 
 cheerfully, when all she loved might be dying of cold 
 — and, unable to bear the thought, she shrieked out a 
 prayer, as if she might pierce the sky up to the very 
 throne of God, and send with it her own miserable 
 soul to plead before him for the deliverance of her 
 child and husband. She then fell down in blessed for- 
 getfulness of all trouble, in the midst of the solitary 
 cheerfulness of that bright-burning hearth — and the 
 Bible, which she had been trying to read in the pauses 
 of her agony, remained clasped in her hands. 
 
 Hannah Lee had been a servant for more than six 
 months — and it was not to be thought that she was 
 not beloved in her master's family. Soon after she had 
 left the house, her master's son, a youth of about eigh- 
 teen years, who had been among the hills looking af- 
 ter the sheep, came home, and was disappointed to find 
 that he had lost an opportunity of accompanying Han- 
 nah part of the way to her father's cottage. But the
 
 120 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 hour of eight had gone by, and not even the company 
 of young William Grieve could induce the kind-heart- 
 ed daughter to delay setting out on her journey a few 
 minutes beyond the time promised to her parents. " I 
 do not like the night/' said William — " there will be 
 a fresh fall of snow soon, or the witch of Glen Scrae 
 is a liar, for a snow cloud is hanging o'er the Birch- 
 tree-linn, and it may be down to the Black-moss as 
 soon as Hannah Lee." So he called his two sheep- 
 dogs that had taken their place under the long-table 
 before the window, and set out, half in joy, half in 
 fear, to overtake Hannah, and see her safely across the 
 Black-moss. 
 
 The snow began to drift so fast, that before he had 
 reached the head of the glen, there was nothing to be 
 seen but a little bit of the wooden rail of the bridge 
 across the Sauch-burn. William Grieve Avas the most 
 active shepherd in a large pastoral parish — he had oft- 
 en past the night among the wintry hills for the sake 
 of a few sheep, and all the snow that ever fell from 
 heaven would not have made him turn back when 
 Hannah Lee was before him ; and as his terrified heart 
 told him, in imminent danger of being lost — As he ad- 
 vanced, he felt that it was no longer a walk of love or 
 friendship, for which he had been glad of an excuse. 
 Death stared him in the face, and his young soid, now 
 beginning to feel all the passions of youth, was filled 
 with frenzy. He had seen Hannah every day — at 
 the fireside — at work— in the kirk — on holidays— at
 
 THE SNOW-STOKM. 121 
 
 prayers — bringing supper to his aged parents — smil- 
 ing and singing about the house from morning till 
 night. She had often brought his own meal to him 
 among the hills — and he now found that though he 
 had never talked to her about love_, except smilingly 
 and playfully, that he loved her beyond father or 
 mother or his own soul. et I will save thee, Hannah," 
 he cried with a loud sob, "or lie down beside thee in 
 the snow — and we will die together in our youth." A 
 wild whistling wind went by him, and the snow-flakes 
 whirled so fiercely round his head, that he staggered 
 on for a while in utter blindness. He knew the path 
 that Hannah must have taken, and went forwards 
 shouting aloud, and stopping every twenty yards to 
 listen for a voice. He sent his well-trained dogs over 
 the snow in all directions — repeating to them her name, 
 " Hannah Lee," that the dumb animals might, in their 
 sagacity, know for whom they were searching ; and 
 as they looked up in his face, and set off to scour the 
 moor, he almost believed that they knew his meaning, 
 (and it is probable they did,) and were eager to find in 
 her bewilderment the kind maiden by whose hand 
 they had so often been fed. Often went they off into 
 the darkness, and as often returned, but their looks 
 showed that every quest had been in vain. Mean- 
 while the snow was of a fearful depth, and falling 
 without intermission or diminution. Had the young 
 shepherd been thus alone, walking across the moor on 
 his ordinary business, it is probable that he might
 
 122 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 have been alarmed for his own safety — nay that, 
 in spite of all his strength and agility, he might have 
 sunk down beneath the inclemency of the night and 
 perished. But now the passion of his soul carried him 
 with supernatural strength along, and extricated him 
 from wreath and pitfal. Still there was no trace of 
 poor Hannah Lee — and one of his dogs at last came 
 close to his feet, worn out entirely, and afraid to leave 
 its master — while the other was mute, and, as the 
 shepherd thought, probably unable to force its way 
 out of some hollow or through some floundering drift. 
 Then he all at once knew that Hannah Lee was dead 
 — and dashed himself down in the snow in a fit of 
 passion- It was the first time that the youth had ever 
 been sorely tried — all his hidden and unconscious love 
 for the fair lost girl had flowed up from the bottom of 
 his heart — and at once the sole object which had blessed 
 his life and made him the happiest of the happy, was 
 taken away and cruelly destroyed — so that sullen, 
 wrathful, baffled, and despairing, there he lay cursing 
 his existence, and in too great agony to think of prayer, 
 " God," he then thought, " has forsaken me, and why 
 should he think on me, when he suffers one so good 
 and beautiful as Hannah to be frozen to death ?" God 
 thought both of him and Hannah — and through his 
 infinite mercy forgave the sinner in his wild turbulence 
 of passion. William Grieve had never gone to bed 
 without joining in prayer — and he revered the Sab- 
 bath-day and kept it holy. Much is forgiven to the
 
 THE SNOW-STOUM. 123 
 
 human heart, by him who so tearfully framed it ; and 
 God is not slow to pardon the love which one human 
 being bears to another, in his frailty — even though that 
 love forget or arraign his own unsleeping providence* 
 His voice has told us to love one another — and Wil- 
 liam loved Hannah in simplicity, innocence, and truth. 
 That she should perish was a thought so dreadful, 
 that, in its agony, God seemed a ruthless being — 
 " blow — blow — blow — and drift us up for ever — we 
 cannot be far asunder — O Hannah — Hannah — think 
 ye not that the fearful God has forsaken us?" 
 
 As the boy groaned these words passionately through 
 his quivering lips, there was a sudden lowness in the 
 air, and he heard the barking of his absent dog, while 
 the one at his feet hurried off in the direction of the 
 sound, and soon loudly joined the cry. It was not a 
 bark of surprise — or anger — or fear — but of recogni- 
 tion and love. William sprung up from his bed in 
 the snow, and with his heart knocking at his bosom 
 even to sickness, he rushed headlong through the drifts, 
 with a giant's strength, and fell down half dead with 
 joy and terror beside the body of Hannah Lee. 
 
 But he soon recovered from that fit, and lifting the 
 cold corpse in his arms, he kissed her lips, and her 
 cheeks, and her forehead, and her closed eyes, till, as 
 he kept gazing on her face in utter despair, her head 
 fell back on his shoulder, and a long deep sigh came 
 from her inmost bosom. " She is yet alive, thank 
 God !" — and as that expression left his lips for the first
 
 124 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 time that night, he felt a pang of remorse : " I said, O 
 God, that thou hadst forsaken us — I am not worthy to 
 be saved ; but let not this maiden perish, for the sake 
 of her parents, who have no other child." The dis- 
 tracted youth prayed to God with the same earnest- 
 ness as if he had been beseeching a fellow-creature, in 
 whose hand was the power of life and of death. The 
 presence of the Great Being was felt by him in the 
 dark and howling wild, and strength was imparted to 
 him as to a deliverer. He bore along the fair child in 
 his arms, even as if she had been a lamb. The snow- 
 drift blew not — the wind fell dead — a sort of glimmer, 
 like that of an upbreaking and disparting storm, ga- 
 thered about him — his dogs barked, and jumped, and 
 burrowed joyfully in the snow — and the youth, strong 
 in sudden hope, exclaimed, " With the blessing of 
 God, who has not deserted us in our sore distress, will 
 I carry thee, Hannah, in my arms, and lay thee down 
 alive in the house of thy father." At this moment 
 there were no stars in heaven, but she opened her dim 
 blue eyes upon him in whose bosom she was uncon- 
 sciously lying, and said, as in a dream, " Send the rib- 
 band that ties up my hair, as a keepsake to William 
 Grieve." " She thinks that she is on her death-bed, 
 and forgets not the son of her master. It is the voice 
 of God that tells me she will not now die, and that, 
 under His grace, I shall be her deliverer." 
 
 The short-lived rage of the storm was soon over, 
 nnd William could attend to the beloved being on his
 
 THE SNOW-STOHM. 125 
 
 bosom. The warmth of his heart seemed to infuse life 
 into her's ; and as he gently placed her feet on the 
 snow, till he muffled her up in his plaid, as well as in 
 her own, she made an effort to stand, and with ex- 
 treme perplexity and bewilderment faintly inquired, 
 where she was, and what fearful misfortune had be- 
 fallen them ? She was, however, too weak to walk ; 
 and as her young master carried her along, she mur- 
 mured, " O William ! what if my father be in the 
 moor ? — For if you who need care so little about me, 
 have come hither, as I suppose, to save my life, you 
 may be sure that my father sat not within doors dur- 
 ing the storm." As she spoke it was calm below, but 
 the wind was still alive in the upper air, and cloud, 
 rack, mist, and sleet, were all driving about in the 
 sky. Out shone for a moment the pallid and ghostly 
 moon, through a rent in the gloom, and by that uncer- 
 tain light, came staggering forward the figure of a man. 
 " Father — Father," cried Hannah — and his grey hairs 
 were already on her cheek. The barking of the dogs 
 and the shouting of the young shepherd had struck his 
 ear, as the sleep of death was stealing over him, and 
 with the last effort of benumbed nature, he had roused 
 himself from that fatal torpor, and prest through the 
 snow-wreath that had separated him from his child. 
 As yet they knew not of the danger each had endured, 
 —but each judged of the other's suffering from their 
 own, and father and daughter regarded one another
 
 126 THE SNOW-STOBM. 
 
 as creatures rescued, and hardly yet rescued, from 
 death. 
 
 But a few minutes ago, and the three human beings 
 who loved each other so well, and now feared not to 
 cross the Moor in safety, were, as they thought, on 
 their death-beds. Deliverance now shone upon them 
 all like a gentle fire, dispelling that pleasant but deadly 
 drowsiness ; and the old man was soon able to assist 
 William Grieve in leading Hannah along through the 
 snow. Her colour and her warmth returned, and her 
 lover — for so might he well now be called — felt her 
 heart gently beating against his side. Filled as that 
 heart was with gratitude to God, joy in her deliver- 
 ance, love to her father, and purest affection for her 
 master's son, never before had the innocent maiden 
 known what was happiness — and never more was she 
 to forget it. The night was now almost calm, and fast 
 returning to its former beauty — when the party saw 
 the first twinkle of the fire through the low window 
 of the Cottage of the Moor. They soon were at the 
 garden gate — and to relieve the heart of the wife and 
 mother within, they talked loudly and cheerfully — 
 naming each other familiarly, and laughing between, 
 like persons who had known neither danger nor dis- 
 tress. 
 
 No voice answered from within — no footstep came 
 to the door, which stood open as when the father had 
 left it in his fear, and now he thought with affright 
 that his wife, feeble as she was, had been unable to
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 127 
 
 support the loneliness, and had followed him out into 
 the night, never to be brought home alive. As they 
 bore Hannah into the house, this fear gave way to 
 worse, for there upon the hard clay floor lay the mo- 
 ther upon her face, as if murdered by some savage 
 blow. She was in the same deadly swoon into which 
 she had fallen on her husband's departure three hours 
 before. The old man raised her up, and her pulse was 
 still — so was her heart — her face pale and sunken — 
 and her body cold as ice. " I have recovered a daugh- 
 ter," said the old man, " but I have lost a wife ;" and 
 he carried her, with a groan, to the bed, on which he 
 laid her lifeless body. The sight was too much for 
 Hannah, worn out as she was, and who had hitherto 
 been able to support herself in the delightful expecta- 
 tion of gladdening her mother's heart by her safe ar- 
 rival — She, too, now swooned away, and, as she was 
 placed on the bed beside her mother, it seemed, in- 
 deed, that death, disappointd of his prey on the wild 
 moor, had seized it in the cottage, and by the fireside. 
 The husband knelt down by the bed-side, and held his 
 wife's icy hand in his, while William Grieve, appalled 
 and awe-stricken, hung over his Hannah, and inward- 
 ly implored God that the night's wild adventure might 
 not have so ghastly an end. But Hannah's young 
 heart soon began once more to beat — and soon as she 
 came to her recollection, she rose up with a face whiter 
 than ashes and free from all smiles, as if none had ever
 
 128 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 played there, and joined her father and young master in 
 their efforts to restore her mother to life. 
 
 It was the mercy of God that had struck her down 
 to the earth, insensible to the shrieking winds, and 
 the fears that would otherwise have killed her. Three 
 hours of that wild storm had passed over her head, and 
 she heard nothing more than if she had been asleep in 
 a breathless night of the summer dew. Not even a 
 dream had touched her brain, and when she opened 
 her eyes which, as she thought, had been but a mo- 
 ment shut, she had scarcely time to recal to her recol- 
 lection the image of her husband rushing out into the 
 storm, and of a daughter therein lost, till she beheld 
 that very husband kneeling tenderly by her bed-side, 
 and that very daughter smoothing the pillow on which 
 her aching temples reclined. But she knew from the 
 white stedfast countenances before her that there had 
 been tribulation and deliverance, and she looked on 
 the beloved beings ministering by her bed, as more 
 fearfully dear to her from the unimagined danger from 
 which she felt assured they had been rescued by the 
 arm of the Almighty. 
 
 There is little need to speak of returning recollec- 
 tion, and returning strength. They had all now 
 power to weep, and power to pray. The Bible had 
 been lying in its place ready for worship — and the fa- 
 ther read aloud that chapter in which is narrated our 
 Saviour's act of miraculous power, by which he saved 
 Peter from the sea. Soon as the solemn thoughts
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 129 
 
 awakened by that act of mercy so similar to that which 
 had rescued themselves from death had subsided, and 
 they had all risen up from prayer, they gathered them- 
 selves in gratitude round the little table which had 
 stood so many hours spread — and exhausted nature 
 was strengthened and restored by a frugal and simple 
 meal partaken of in silent thankfulness. The whole 
 story of the night was then calmly recited — and when 
 the mother heard how the stripling had followed her 
 sweet Hannah into the storm, and borne her in his 
 arms through a hundred drifted heaps — and then look- 
 ed upon her in her pride, so young, so innocent, and 
 so beautiful, she knew, that were the child indeed to 
 become an orphan, there was One, who, if there was 
 either trust in nature, or truth in religion, would 
 guard and cherish her all the days of her life. 
 
 It was not nine o'clock when the storm came down 
 from Glen Scrae upon the Black-moss, and now in a 
 pause of silence the clock struck twelve. Within 
 these three hours William and Hannah had led a life 
 of trouble and of joy, that had enlarged and kindled 
 their hearts within them — and they felt that hence- 
 forth they were to live wholly for each other's sakes. 
 His love was the proud and exulting love of a deliver- 
 er who, under Providence, had saved from the frost 
 and the snow, the innocence and the beauty of which 
 his young passionate heart had been so desperately 
 enamoured— and he now thought of his own Hannah 
 Lee ever more moving about in his father's house, not 
 as a servant, but as a daughter — and when some few 
 
 i
 
 ISO THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 happy years had gone by, his own most beautiful and 
 most loving wife. The innocent maiden still called 
 him her young master — but was not ashamed of the 
 holy affection which she now knew that she had long 
 felt for the fearless youth on whose bosom she had 
 thought herself dying in that cold and miserable 
 moor. Her heart leapt within her when she heard 
 her parents bless him by his name — and when he took 
 her hand into his before them, and vowed before that 
 Power who had that night saved them from the snow, 
 that Hannah Lee should ere long be his wedded wife 
 — she wept and sobbed as if her heart woidd break in 
 a fit of strange aud insupportable happiness. 
 
 The young shepherd rose to bid them farewell — 
 " My father will think I am lost/' said he, with a 
 grave smile, " and my Hannah's mother knows what 
 it is to fear for a child." So nothing was said to de- 
 tain him, and the family went with him to the door. 
 The skies smiled as serenely as if a storm had never 
 swept before the stars — the moon was sinking from 
 her meridian, but in cloudless splendour — and the hol- 
 low of the hills was hushed as that of heaven. Dan- 
 ger there was none over the placid night-scene — the 
 happy youth soon crossed the Black-moss, now perfectly 
 still — and, perhaps, just as he was passing, with a 
 shudder of gratitude, the very spot where his sweet 
 Hannah Lee had so nearly perished, she was lying 
 down to sleep in her innocence, or dreaming of one 
 now dearer to her than all on earth but her parents.
 
 THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED. 131 
 
 THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED. 
 
 It was on a fierce and howling winter day that I 
 was crossing the dreary moor of Auchindown, on my 
 way to the Manse of that parish, a solitary pedestrian. 
 The snow, which had been incessantly falling for a 
 week past, was drifted into beautiful but dangerous 
 wreaths, far and wide, over the melancholy expanse — 
 and the scene kept visibly shifting before me, as the 
 strong wind that blew from every point of the com- 
 pass struck the dazzling masses, and heaved them up 
 and down in endless transformation. There was some- 
 thing inspiriting in the labour with which, in the 
 buoyant strength of youth, I forced my way through 
 the storm — and I could not but enjoy those gleamings 
 of sunlight that ever and anon burst through some un- 
 expected opening in the sky, and gave a character of 
 cheerfulness, and even warmth to the sides or summits 
 of the stricken hills. Sometimes the wind stopt of a 
 
 sudden, and then the air was as silent as the snow 
 
 not a murmur to be heard from spring or stream, now 
 all frozen up over those high moorlands. As the mo-
 
 132 the elder's death-bed. 
 
 mentary cessations of the sharp drift allowed my eyes 
 to look onwards and around, I saw here and there up 
 the little opening valleys, cottages just visible beneath 
 the black stems of their snow-covered clumps of trees, 
 or beside some small spot of green pasture kept open 
 for the sheep. These intimations of life and happiness 
 came delightfully to me in the midst of the desolation ; 
 and the barking of a dog, attending some Shepherd in 
 his quest on the hill, put fresh vigour into my limbs, 
 telling me that, lonely as I seemed to be, I was sur- 
 rounded by cheerful though unseen company, and that 
 I was not the only wanderer over the snows. 
 
 As I walked along, my mind was insensibly filled 
 with a crowd of pleasant images of rural winter-life, 
 that helped me gladly onwards over many miles of 
 moor. I thought of the severe but cheerful labours of 
 the barn — the mending of farm-gear by the fireside — 
 the wheel turned by the foot of old age, less for gain 
 than as a thrifty pastime — the skilful mother, making 
 rt auld claes look amaist as weel's the new" — the bal- 
 lad unconsciously listened to by the family all busy at 
 their own tasks round the singing maiden — the old 
 traditionary tale told by some wayfarer hospitably 
 housed till the storm should blow by — the unexpected 
 visit of neighbours on need or friendship — or the foot- 
 step of lover undeterred by snow-drifts that have bu- 
 ried up his flocks ; — but above all, I thought of those 
 hours of religious worship that have not yet escaped 
 from the domestic life of the Peasantry of Scotland —
 
 tiik elder's dkath-bed- 138 
 
 of the sound of psalms that the depth of snow cannot 
 deaden to the ear of Him to whom they are chanted — 
 and of that sublime Sabbath-keeping which, on days 
 too tempestuous for the kirk, changes the cottage of 
 the Shepherd into the Temple of God. 
 
 With such glad and peaceful images in my heart, I 
 travelled along that dreary moor, with the cutting 
 wind in my face, and my feet sinking in the snow, or 
 sliding on the hard blue ice beneath it — as cheerfully 
 as I ever walked in the dewy warmth of a summer 
 morning, through fields of fragrance and of flowers. 
 And now I could discern, within half an hour's walk, 
 before me, the spire of the church, close to which stood 
 the Manse of my aged friend and benefactor. My heart 
 burned within me as a sudden gleam of stormy sun- 
 light tipt it with fire — and I felt, at that moment, an 
 inexpressible sense of the sublimity of the character of 
 that grey-headed Shepherd who had, for fifty years, 
 abode in the wilderness, keeping together his own 
 happy little flock. 
 
 As I was ascending a knoll, I saw before me on 
 horseback an old man, with his long white hairs beaten 
 against his face, who nevertheless advanced with a 
 calm countenance against the hurricane. It was no 
 other than my father, of whom I had been thinking— 
 for my father had I called him for many years — and 
 for many years my father had he truly been. My 
 surprise at meeting him on such a moor— on such a 
 day, was but momentary, for I knew that he was a
 
 134 the elder's death-bed. 
 
 Shepherd who cared not for the winter's wrath. As 
 he stopped to take my hand kindly into his, and to 
 give his blessing to his long-expected visitor, the 
 wind fell calm — the whole face of the sky was soften- 
 ed, and brightness, like a smile, went over the blush- 
 ing and crimsoned snow. The very elements seemed 
 then to respect the hoary-head of fourscore — and after 
 our first greeting was over, when I looked around, in 
 my affection, I felt how beautiful was winter. 
 
 " I am going," said he, (C to visit a man at the point 
 of death — a man whom you cannot have forgotten — 
 whose head will be missed in the kirk next Sabbath by 
 all my congregation — a devout man, who feared God 
 all his days, and whom, on this awful trial, God will 
 assuredly remember. I am going, my son, to the 
 Hazel-Glen." 
 
 I knew well in childhood that lonely farm-house, so 
 far off among the beautiful wild green hills — and it 
 was not likely that I had forgotten the name of its 
 possessor. For six years' Sabbaths I had seen the 
 Elder in his accustomed place beneath the pulpit — 
 and, with a sort of solemn fear, had looked on his 
 stedfast countenance during sermon, psalm, and prayer. 
 On returning to the scenes of my infancy, I now met 
 the Pastor going to pray by his death-bed — and with 
 the privilege which nature gives us to behold, even in 
 their last extremity, the loving and the beloved, I 
 turned to accompany him to the house of sorrow, re- 
 signation, and death
 
 the elder's death-bed. 135 
 
 And now, for the first time, I observed, walking 
 close to the feet of his horse, a little boy of about ten 
 years of age, who kept frequently looking up in the 
 Pastor's face, with his blue eyes bathed in tears. A 
 changeful expression of grief, hope, and despair, made 
 almost pale cheeks, that otherwise were blooming in 
 health and beauty, — and I recognized, in the small 
 features and smooth forehead of childhood, a resem- 
 blance to the aged man whom we understood was now 
 lying on his death-bed. " They had to send his 
 grandson for me through the snow, mere child as he 
 is," said the Minister to me, looking tenderly on the 
 boy ; " but love makes the young heart bold — and 
 there is One who tempers the wind to the shorn 
 lamb." I again looked on the fearless child with 
 his rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and yellow hair, so un- 
 like grief or sorrow, yet now sobbing aloud as his 
 heart would break. " I do not fear but that my grand- 
 father will yet recover, soon as the Minister has said 
 one single prayer by his bed-side. I had no hope, or 
 little, as I was running by myself to the Manse over 
 hill after hill, but I am full of hopes now that we are 
 together ; and oh ! if God suffers my grandfather to 
 recover, I will lie awake all the long winter nights 
 blessing him for his mercy. I will rise up in the 
 middle of the darkness, and pray to him in the cold 
 on my naked knees !" and here his voice was choked, 
 while he kept his eyes fixed, as if for consolation and
 
 136 the elder's de.\th-bed. 
 
 encouragement, on the solemn and pitying counte- 
 nance of the kind-hearted pious Old Man. 
 
 We soon left the main-road, and struck off through 
 scenery that, covered as it was with the bewildering 
 snow, I sometimes dimly and sometimes vividly re- 
 membered; our little guide keeping ever a short dis- 
 tance before us, and with a sagacity like that of in- 
 stinct, showing us our course, of which no trace was 
 visible, save occasionally his own little foot-prints as 
 he had been hurrying to the Manse. 
 
 After crossing, for several miles, morass, and frozen 
 rivulet, and drifted hollow, with here and there the 
 top of a stone-wall peeping through the snow, or the 
 more visible circle of a sheep-bught, we descended 
 into the Hazel-Glen, and saw before us the solitary 
 house of the dying Elder. 
 
 A gleam of days gone by came suddenly over my 
 soul. The last time that I had been in this Glen was 
 on a day of June, fifteen years before, a holiday, the 
 birth-day of the king. A troop of laughing school- 
 boys, headed by our benign Pastor, we danced over 
 the sunny braes, and startled the linnets from their 
 nests among the yellow broom. Austere as seemed to 
 us the Elder's Sabbath-face when sitting in the kirk, 
 we school-boys knew that it had its week-day smiles 
 — and we flew on the wings of joy to our annual Fes- 
 tival of curds and cream in the farm-house of that 
 little sylvan world. We rejoiced in the flowers and 
 the leaves of that long, that interminable summer-day ;
 
 the elder's death-bed. 187 
 
 its memory was with our boyish hearts from June to 
 June; and the sound of that sweet name, " Hazel- 
 Glen," often came upon us at our tasks, and brought 
 too brightly into the school-room the pastoral imagery 
 of that mirthful solitude. 
 
 As we now slowly approached the cottage, through 
 a deep snow-drift, which the distress within had pre- 
 vented the household from removing, we saw, peeping 
 out from the door, brothers and sisters of our little 
 guide, who quickly disappeared, and then their mo- 
 ther showed herself in their stead, expressing, by her 
 raised eyes and arms folded across her breast, how 
 thankful she was to see, at last, the Pastor beloved in 
 joy and trusted in trouble. 
 
 Soon as the venerable Old Man dismounted from 
 his horse, our active little guide led it away into the 
 humble stable, and we entered the cottage. Not a 
 sound was heard but the ticking of the clock. The 
 matron, who had silently welcomed us at the door, 
 led us, with suppressed sighs and a face stained with 
 weeping, into her father's sick-room, which even in 
 that time of sore distress was as orderly as if health 
 had blessed the house. I could not help remarking 
 some old china ornaments on the chimney-piece — and 
 in the window was an ever-blowing rose-tree, that al- 
 most touched the lowly roof, and brightened that end 
 of the apartment with its bloss jms. There was some- 
 thing tasteful in the simple furniture ; and it seemed 
 as if grief could not deprive the hand of that matron
 
 138 the elder's death-bed. 
 
 of its careful elegance. Sickness, almost hopeless sick- 
 ness, lay there, surrounded with the same cheerful 
 and beautiful objects which health had loved; and she, 
 who had arranged and adorned the apartment in her 
 happiness, still kept it from disorder and decay in her 
 sorrow. 
 
 With a gentle hand she drew the curtain of the bed, 
 and there, supported by pillows as white as the snow 
 that lay without, reposed the Dying Elder. It was 
 plain that the hand of God was upon him, and that his 
 days on the earth were numbered. 
 
 He greeted his Minister with a faint smile, and a 
 slight inclination of the head — for his daughter had so 
 raised him on the pillows, that he was almost sitting 
 up in his bed. It was easy to see that he knew him- 
 self to be dying, and that his soul was prepared for the 
 great change ; — yet, along with the solemn resignation 
 of a Christian who had made his peace with God and 
 his Saviour, there was blended on his white and sunk- 
 en countenance an expression of habitual reverence 
 for the minister of his faith — and I saw that he could 
 not have died in peace without that comforter to pray 
 by his death-bed. 
 
 A few words sufficed to tell who was the stranger — 
 and the dying man, blessing me by name, held out to 
 me his cold shrivelled hand in token of recognition. 
 I took my seat at a small distance from the bed-side, 
 and left a closer station for those who were more dear. 
 The Pastor sat down near his head — and by the bed,
 
 THE ELDERS DEATH-BED. 139 
 
 leaning on it with gentle hands, stood that matron, his 
 daughter-in-law ; a figure, that would have graced 
 and sainted a higher dwelling, and whose native beauty 
 was now more touching in its grief. But Religion up- 
 held her whom nature was bowing down ; not now 
 for the first time were the lessons taught by her father 
 to be put into practice, for I saw that she was clothed 
 in deep mourning — and she behaved like the daughter 
 of a man whose life had not been only irreproachable 
 but lofty, with fear and hope fighting desperately but 
 silently in the core of her pure and pious heart. 
 
 While we thus remained in silence, the beautiful 
 boy, who, at the risk of his life, had brought the 
 Minister of Religion to the bed-side of his beloved 
 grandfather, softly and cautiously opened the door, 
 and, with the hoar-frost yet unmelted on his bright 
 glistering ringlets, walked up to the pillow, evidently 
 no stranger there. He no longer sobbed — he no long- 
 er wept — for hope had risen strongly within his in- 
 nocent heart, from the consciousness of love so fear- 
 lessly exerted, and from the presence of the Holy Man 
 in whose prayers he trusted, as in the intercession of 
 some superior and heavenly nature. There he stood, 
 still as an image in his grandfather's eyes, that, in their 
 dimness, fell upon him with delight. Yet, happy as 
 was the trusting child, his heart was devoured by fear 
 — and he looked as if one word might stir up the flood 
 of tears that had subsided in his heart. As he crossed 
 the dreary and dismal moors, he had thought of a
 
 140 the elder's death-bed. 
 
 corpse, a shroud, and a grave ; he had been in terror, 
 lest death should strike in his absence the old man, 
 with whose grey hairs he had so often played ; but 
 now he saw him alive, and felt that death was not able 
 to tear him away from the clasps and links and fet- 
 ters of his grandchild's embracing love. 
 
 " If the storm do not abate," said the sick man, 
 after a pause, " it will be hard for my friends to carry 
 me over the drifts to the kirk-yard." This sudden 
 approach to the grave, struck, as with a bar of ice, the 
 heart of the loving boy — and with a long deep sigh, 
 he fell down with his face like ashes on the bed, while 
 the old man's palsied right hand had just strength to 
 lay itself upon his head. " Blessed be thou, my little 
 Jamie, even for his own name's sake who died for us 
 on the tree !" The mother, without terror, but with an 
 averted face, lifted up her loving-hearted boy, now in 
 a dead fainting-fit, and carried him into an adjoining 
 room, where he soon revived : but that child and that 
 old man were not to be separated ; in vain was he ask- 
 ed to go to his brothers and sisters ; pale, breathless, 
 and shivering, he took his place as before, with eyes 
 fixed on his grandfather's face, but neither weeping 
 nor uttering a word. Terror had frozen up the blood 
 of his heart ; but his were now the only dry eyes in 
 the room ; and the Pastor himself wept, albeit the grief 
 of fourscore is seldom vented in tears. 
 
 " God has been gracious to me, a sinner," said the 
 dying man. " During thirty years that I have been
 
 THE ELDER'S DEATH-BED. 141 
 
 an Elder in your Kirk, never have I missed sitting 
 there one Sabbath. When the mother of my children 
 was taken from me — it was on a Tuesday she died — 
 and on Saturday she was buried. We stood together 
 when my Alice was let down into the narrow house 
 made for all living. On the Sabbath I joined in the 
 public worship of God — she commanded me to do so 
 the night before she went away. I could not join in 
 the psalm that Sabbath, for her voice was not in the 
 throng. Her grave was covered up, and grass and 
 flowers grew there ; so was my heart ; but Thou, 
 whom, through the blood of Christ, I hope to see this 
 night in Paradise, knowest, that from that hour to 
 this day never have I forgotten Thee !" 
 
 The old man ceased speaking — and his grandchild, 
 now able to endure the scene, for strong passion is its 
 own support, glided softly to a little table, and bring- 
 ing a cup in which a cordial had been mixed, held it 
 in his small soft hands to his grandfather's lips. He 
 drank, and then said, " Come closer to me, Jamie, and 
 kiss me for thine own and thy father's sake ;" and as 
 the child fondly pressed his rosy lips on those of his 
 grandfather, so white and withered, the tears fell over 
 all the old man's face, and then trickled down on the 
 golden head of the child at last sobbing in his bosom. 
 
 " Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in thy 
 infancy, and me in my old age ; but, Jamie, forget not 
 thou thy father nor thy mother, for that thou knowest 
 and feelest is the commandment of God."
 
 142 the elder's death-bed. 
 
 The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He 
 had gradually stolen closer and closer unto the old lov- 
 ing man, and now was lying, worn out with sorrow, 
 drenched and dissolved in tears, in his grandfather's 
 bosom. His mother had sunk down on her knees, and 
 hid her face with her hands. " Oh ! if my husband 
 knew but of this — he would never, never desert his 
 dying father !" and I now knew that the Elder was 
 praying on his death-bed for a disobedient and wicked 
 son. 
 
 At this affecting time the minister took the Family- 
 Bible on his knees, and said, " Let us sing to the praise 
 and glory of God, part of the fifteenth Psalm," and he 
 read, with a tremulous and broken voice, those beau- 
 tiful verses : 
 
 Within thy tabernacle, Lord, 
 
 Who shall abide with thee ? 
 And in thy high and holy hill 
 
 Who shall a dweller be ? 
 The man that walketh uprightly, 
 
 And worketh righteousness, 
 And as he thinketh in his heart, 
 
 So doth he truth express. 
 
 The small congregation sung the noble hymn of the 
 Psalmist to " Plaintive martyrs, worthy of the name." 
 The dying man himself, ever and anon, joined in the 
 holy music — and when it feebly died away on his 
 quivering lips, he continued still to follow the tune 
 with the motion of his withered hand, and eyes de-
 
 THE ELDEll\s DEATH-BED. 143 
 
 voutly and humbly lifted up to Heaven. Nor was the 
 sweet voice of his loving grandchild unheard; as if 
 the strong fit of deadly passion had dissolved in the 
 music, he sang with a sweet and silvery voice that to 
 a passer by had seemed that of perfect happiness — a 
 hymn sung in joy upon its knees by gladsome child- 
 hood before it flew out among the green hills, to quiet 
 labour or gleesome play. As that sweetest voice came 
 from the bosom of the old man, where the singer lay 
 in affection, and blended with his own so tremulous, 
 never had I felt so affectingly brought before me the 
 beginning and the end of life, the cradle and the 
 grave. 
 
 Ere the psalm was yet over, the door was opened, 
 and a tall fine-looking man entered, but with a lower- 
 ing and dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in 
 misery, and remorse. Agitated, confounded, and awe- 
 struck by the melancholy and dirge-like music, he sat 
 down on a chair — and looked with a ghastly face to- 
 wards his father's death-bed. When the psalm ceased, 
 the Elder said with a solemn voice, " My son — thou 
 art come in time to receive thy father's blessing. May 
 the remembrance of what will happen in this room, 
 before the morning again shine over the Hazel-Glen, 
 
 win thee from the error of thy ways. Thou art here 
 to witness the mercy of thy God and thy Saviour, 
 
 whom thou hast forgotten." 
 
 The Minister looked, if not with a stern, yet with 
 
 an upbraiding countenance, on the young man who
 
 144 the elder's death-bed. 
 
 had not recovered his speech, and said, " William ! for 
 three years past your shadow has not darkened the 
 door of the House of God. They who fear not the 
 thunder, may tremble at the still small voice — now is 
 the hour for repentance — that your father's spirit may 
 carry up to Heaven tidings of a contrite soul saved from 
 the company of sinners !" 
 
 The young man, with much effort, advanced to the 
 bed-side, and at last found voice to say, u Fathei' — I 
 am not without the affections of nature — and I hur- 
 ried home soon as I heard that the Minister had been 
 seen riding towards our house. I hope that you will 
 yet recover — and if I have ever made you unhappy, I 
 ask your forgiveness — for though I may not think as 
 you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart. 
 Father ! I may have been unkind, but I am not cruel. 
 I ask your forgiveness." 
 
 " Come nearer to me, William ; kneel down by the 
 bed-side, and let my hand find the head of my belov- 
 ed son — for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou 
 wert my first-born, and thou art my only living son. 
 All thy brothers and sisters are lying in the church- 
 yard, beside her whose sweet face thine own, William, 
 did once so much resemble. Long wert thou the joy, 
 the pride of my soul — aye, too much the pride, for there 
 was not in all the parish such a man, such a son, as 
 my own William. If thy heart has since been changed, 
 God may inspire it again with right thoughts. Could 
 I die for thy sake — could I purchase thy salvation 
 
 11
 
 the elder's death-bed. 145 
 
 with the outpouring of thy father's blood — but this 
 the Son of God has done for thee, who hast denied him ! 
 I have sorely wept for thee — aye, William, when there 
 was none near me — even as David wept for Absalom 
 — for thee, my son, my son !" 
 
 A long deep groan was the only reply ; but the 
 whole body of the kneeling man was convulsed ; and 
 it was easy to see his sufferings, his contrition, his re- 
 morse, and his despair. The Pastor said, with a stern- 
 er voice, and austerer countenance than were natural- 
 to him, U Know you whose hand is now lying on 
 your rebellious head ? But what signifies the word fa- 
 ther to him who has denied God, the Father of us all?" 
 " Oh ! press him not so hardly," said the weeping 
 wife, coming forward from a dark corner of the room, 
 where she had tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, 
 and shame ; " spare, oh ! spare my husband — he has 
 ever been kind to me ;" and with that she knelt down 
 beside him, with her long, soft, white arms mournful- 
 ly and affectionately laid across his neck. " Go thou, 
 likewise, my sweet little Jamie," said the Elder, " go 
 even out of my bosom, and kneel down beside thy 
 father and thy mother, so that I may bless you all at 
 once, and with one yearning prayer." The child did 
 as that solemn voice commanded, and knelt down 
 somewhat timidly by his father's side ; nor did that 
 unhappy man decline encircling with his arm the 
 child too much neglected, but still dear to him as his 
 
 K
 
 146 THE ELDERS DEATH-BED. 
 
 own blood, in spite of the deadening and debasing 
 influence of infidelity. 
 
 " Put the Word of God into the hands of my son, 
 and. let him read aloud to his dying father the 25th, 
 26th, and 27th verses of the eleventh chapter of the 
 Gospel according to St John." The Pastor went up 
 to the kneelers, and, with a voice of pity, condolence, 
 and pardon, said, " There was a time when none, 
 William, could read the Scriptures better than couldst 
 thou— can it be that the son of my friend hath forgot- 
 ten the lessons of his youth ?" He had not forgotten 
 them — there was no need for the repentant sinner to 
 lift up his eyes from the bed-side. The sacred stream 
 of the Gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and the 
 waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he 
 said, " Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and 
 the life: he that believeth in me, though he were 
 dead, yet shall he live : And whosoever liveth, and be- 
 lieveth in me, shall never die. Belie vest thou this ? 
 She saith unto him, Yea, Lord : I believe that thou 
 art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come in- 
 to the world." 
 
 " That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying 
 man triumphantly ; nor, William, hast thou an un- 
 believer's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou 
 hast now read, and thy father will die happy !" "I 
 do believe; and as thou forgivest me, so may I be for- 
 given by my Father who is in heaven," 
 
 l]
 
 the elder's death-bed. 147 
 
 The Elder seemed like a man suddenly inspired 
 with a new life. His faded eyes kindled — his pale 
 cheeks glowed — his palsied hands seemed to wax 
 strong — and his voice was clear as that of manhood in 
 its prime. " Into thy hands, Oh God, I commit my 
 spirit." — And so saying, he gently sunk back on his 
 pillow ; and I thought I heard a sigh. There was 
 then a long deep silence, and the father, and mother 
 and child, rose from their knees. The eyes of us all 
 were turned towards the white placid face of the 
 Figure now stretched in everlasting rest ; and without 
 lamentations, save the silent lamentations of the re- 
 signed soul, we stood around the Death-bed of the 
 Elder.
 
 H'8 THE ELDER'S 1UNERAL. 
 
 THE ELDER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 How beautiful to the eye and to the heart rise up, 
 in a pastoral region, the green silent hills from the 
 dissolving snow-wreaths that yet linger at their feet ! 
 A few warm sunny days, and a few breezy and melt- 
 ing nights, have seemed to create the sweet season of 
 Spring out of the Winter's bleakest desolation. We 
 can scarcely believe that such brightness of verdure 
 could have been shrouded in the snow, blending it- 
 self, as it now does, so vividly with the deep blue of 
 heaven. With the revival of nature our own souls feel 
 restored. Happiness becomes milder — meeker — and 
 richer in pensive thought ; while sorrow catches a 
 faint tinge of joy, and reposes itself on the quietness 
 of earth's opening breast. Then is youth rejoicing — 
 manhood sedate — and old age resigned. The child 
 shakes his golden curls in his glee — he of riper life 
 hails the coming year with temperate exultation, and 
 the eye that has been touched with dimness, in the ge- 
 neral spirit of delight forgets or fears not the shadows 
 of the grave.
 
 THE ELDER'S FUNERAL. 149 
 
 On such a vernal day as this did we, who had visit- 
 ed the Elder on his death-bed, walk together to his 
 house in the Hazel-Glen, to accompany his body to 
 the place of burial. On the night he died it seemed 
 to be the dead of Winter. On the day he was buried 
 it seemed to be the birth of Spring. The old Pastor 
 and I were alone for a while as we pursued our path 
 up the glen, by the banks of the little burn. It had 
 cleared itself off from the melted snow, and ran so 
 pellucid a race, that every stone and pebble was visi- 
 ble in its yellow channel. The willows, the alders, and 
 the birches, the fairest and the earliest of our native 
 hill trees, seemed almost tinged with a verdant light, 
 as if they were budding ; and beneath them, here and 
 there, peeped out, as in the pleasure of new existence, 
 the primrose lonely, or in little families and flocks. 
 The bee had not yet ventured to leave his cell, yet the 
 flowers reminded one of his murmur. A few insects 
 were dancing in the air, and here and there some little 
 moorland bird, touched at the heart with the warm 
 sunny change, was piping his love-sweet song among 
 the braes. It was just such a day as a grave medita- 
 tive man, like him we were about to inter, would hav 
 chosen to walk over his farm in religious contentment 
 with his lot. That was the thought that entered the 
 Pastor's heart, as we paused to enjoy one brighter gleam 
 of the sun in a little meadow-field of peculiar beauty. 
 " This is the last day of the week — and on that day 
 often did the Elder walk through this little happy
 
 150 the elder's funeral. 
 
 kingdom of his own, with some of his grandchildren 
 beside and around him, and often his Bible in his 
 hand. It is, you feel, a solitary place — all the vale is 
 one seclusion — and often have its quiet bounds been a 
 place of undisturbed meditation and prayer." 
 
 We now came in sight of the cottage, and beyond 
 it the termination of the Glen. There the high hills 
 came sloping gently down ; and a little waterfall, 
 in the distance, gave animation to a scene of perfect 
 repose. We were now joined by various small par- 
 ties coming to the funeral through openings among 
 tha hills ; all sedate, but none sad, and every greeting 
 was that of kindness and peace. The Elder had died 
 full of years ; and there was no need why any out of 
 his own household should weep. A long life of piety 
 had been beautifully closed ; and, therefore, we were 
 all going to commit the body to the earth, assured, as 
 far as human beings may be so assured, that the soul 
 was in Heaven. As the party increased on our ap- 
 proach to the house, there was even cheerfulness 
 among us. We spoke of the early and bright promise 
 of Spring — of the sorrows and the joys of other fami- 
 lies — of marriages and births — of the new schoolmas- 
 ter — of to-morrow's Sabbath. There was no topic of 
 which, on any common occasion, it might have been 
 fitting to speak, that did not now perhaps occupy 
 for a few moments, some one or other of the group, 
 till we found ourselves ascending the green sward be- 
 fore the cottage, and stood below the bare branches of
 
 THE EI-DEUS FUNERAL. 151 
 
 the sycamores. Then we were all silent, and, after a 
 short pause, reverently entered into the house of death. 
 
 At the door the Son received us with a calm, hum- 
 ble, and untroubled face; and in his manner towards 
 the old Minister, there was something that could not 
 be misunderstood, expressing penitence, gratitude, and 
 resignation. We all sat down in the large kitchen ; 
 and the Son decently received each person at the door, 
 and showed him to his place. There were some old grey 
 heads — more becoming grey — and many bright in 
 manhood and youth. But the same solemn hush was 
 over them all ; and they sat all bound together in one 
 uniting and assimilating spirit of devotion and faith. 
 Wine and bread was to be sent round — but the Son 
 looked to the old Minister, who rose, lifted up his with- 
 ered hand, and began a blessing and a prayer. 
 
 There was so much composure and stillness in the 
 old man's attitude, and something so affecting in his 
 voice, tremulous and broken, not in grief but age, 
 that no sooner had he begun to pray, than every heart 
 and every breath at once were hushed. All stood mo- 
 tionless, nor could one eye abstain from that placid and 
 patriarchal countenance, with its closed eyes, and long 
 silvery hair. There was nothing sad in his words, 
 but they were all humble and solemn, and at times 
 even joyful in the kindling spirit of piety and faith. 
 He spoke of the dead man's goodness as imperfect in 
 the eyes of his Great Judge, but such, as we were 
 taught, might lead, through intercession, to the king-
 
 152 THE ELDER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 cloni of heaven. Might the blessing of God, he pray- 
 ed, which had so long rested on the head now coffined, 
 not forsake that of him who was now to be the father 
 of this house. There was more — more joy, we were 
 told, m heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than 
 over ninety and nine just persons which need no re- 
 pentance. Fervently, too, and tenderly, did the old 
 man pray for her, in her silent chamber, who had lost 
 so kind a parent, and for all the little children round her 
 knees. Nor did he end his prayer without some allu- 
 sion to his own grey hairs, and to the approaching day 
 on which many then present would attend his burial. 
 Just as he ceased to speak, one solitary stifled sob 
 Avas heard, and all eyes turned kindly round to a little 
 boy who was standing by the side of the Elder's Son. 
 Restored once more to his own father's love, his heart 
 had been insensibly filled with peace since the old 
 man's death. The returning tenderness of the living 
 came in place of that of the dead, and the child yearn- 
 ed towards his father now with a stronger affection, re- 
 lieved at last from all his fear. He had been suffered 
 to sit an hour each day beside the bed on which his 
 grandfather lay shrouded, and he had got reconciled to 
 the cold, but silent and happy looks of death. His mo- 
 ther and his Bible told him to obey God without repin- 
 ing in all things ; and the child did so with perfect sim- 
 plicity. One sob had found its way at the close of that 
 pathetic prayer ; but the tears that bathed his glisten- 
 ing cheeks were far different from those that, on the
 
 THE ET.DEB's FUNLKAt.. 153 
 
 day and night of his grandfather's decease, had burst 
 from the agony of a breaking heart. The old Minis- 
 ter laid his hand silently upon his golden head — there 
 was a momentary murmur of kindness and pity over 
 the room — the child was pacified — and again all was 
 repose and peace. 
 
 A sober voice said that all was ready, and the son 
 and the minister led the way reverently out into the 
 open air. The bier stood before the door, and was 
 lifted slowly vip with its sable pall. Silently each 
 mourner took his place. The sun was shining plea- 
 santly, and a gentle breeze passing through the syca- 
 more, shook down the glittering rain-drops upon the 
 funeral velvet. The small procession, with an instinc- 
 tive spirit, began to move along ; and as I cast up my 
 eyes to take a farewell look of that beautiful dwelling, 
 now finally left by him who so long had blessed it, I 
 saw at the half open lattice of the little bed-room win- 
 dow above, the pale weeping face of that stainless ma- 
 tron, who was taking her last passionate farewell of 
 the mortal remains of her father, now slowly receding 
 from her to the quiet field of graves. 
 
 We proceeded along the edges of the hills, and 
 along the meadow-fields, crossed the old wooden-bridge 
 over the burn, now widening in its course to the plain, 
 and in an hour of pensive silence, or pleasant talk, we 
 found ourselves entering, in a closer body, the little 
 gate-way of the church-yard. To the tolling of the 
 bell we moved across the green mounds, and arranged
 
 154 the elder's funeral. 
 
 ourselves, according to the plan and order which our 
 feelings suggested, around the bier and its natural 
 supporters. There was no delay. In a few minutes 
 the Elder was laid among the mould of his forefathers, 
 in their long-ago chosen spot of rest. One by one 
 the people dropt away, and none were left by the new 
 made grave but the Son and his little Boy, the Pas- 
 tor and myself. As yet nothing was said, and in that 
 pause I looked around me, over the sweet burial- 
 ground. 
 
 Each tombstone and grave over which I had often 
 walked in boyhood, arose in my memory, as I looked 
 stedfastly upon their long-forgotten inscriptions ; and 
 many had since then been erected. The whole cha- 
 racter of the place was still simple and unostentatious, 
 but from the abodes of the dead, I could see that there 
 had been an improvement in the condition of the liv- 
 ing. There was a taste visible in their decorations, 
 not without much of native feeling, and occasionally 
 something even of native grace. If there was any 
 other inscription than the name and age of the poor 
 inhabitants below, it was in general some short text 
 of Scripture ; for it is most pleasant and soothing to 
 the pious mind, when bereaved of friends, to com- 
 memorate them on earth by some touching expression 
 taken from that Book, which reveals to them a life in 
 Heaven. 
 
 There is a sort of gradation, a scale of forgetfulness, 
 in a country church-yard, where the processes of na-
 
 THE ELDEll's FUNERAL. 155 
 
 ture are suffered to go on over the green place of bu- 
 rial, that is extremely affecting in the contemplation. 
 The soul goes from the grave just covered up, to that 
 which seems scarcely joined together, on and on to 
 those folded and bound by the undisturbed verdure of 
 many many unremembered years. It then glides at 
 last into nooks and corners where the ground seems 
 perfectly calm and waveless, utter oblivion having 
 smoothed the earth over the long mouldered bones. 
 Tombstones on which the inscriptions are hidden in 
 green obliteration, or that are mouldering, or falling 
 to a side, are close to others which last week were 
 brushed by the chisel : — constant renovation and con- 
 stant decay — vains attempts to adhere to memory — 
 and oblivion now baffled and now triumphant, smiling 
 among all the memorials of human affection, as they 
 keep continually crumbling away into the world of 
 undistinguishable dust and ashes. 
 
 The church-yard, to the inhabitants of a rural parish, 
 is the place to which, as they grow older, all their 
 thoughts and feelings turn. The young take a look of 
 it every Sabbath- Day, not always perhaps a careless 
 look, but carry away from it, unconsciously, many 
 salutary impressions. What is more pleasant than the 
 meeting of a rural congregation in the church-yard 
 before the minister appears ? What is there to shudder 
 at in lying down, sooner or later, in such a peaceful and 
 sacred place, to be spoken of frequently on Sabbath 
 among the groupes of which we used to be one, and
 
 156 the elder's funeral. 
 
 our low burial-spot to be visited, at such times, as 
 long as there remains on earth any one to whom our 
 face was dear 1 To those who mix in the strife and 
 dangers of the world, the place is felt to be uncertain 
 wherein they may finally lie at rest. The soldier — 
 the sailor — the traveller, can only see some dim grave 
 dug for him, when he dies, in some place obscure — 
 nameless — and unfixed to imagination. All he feels is 
 that his burial will be — on earth — or in the sea. But 
 the peaceful dwellers who cultivate their paternal 
 acres, or tilling at least the same small spot of soil, 
 shift only from a cottage on the hillside to one on 
 the plain, still within the bounds of one quiet parish, — 
 they look to lay their bones at last in the burial-place 
 of the kirk in which they were baptized, and with them 
 it almost literally is but a step from the cradle to the 
 grave. 
 
 Such were the thoughts that calmly followed each 
 other in my reverie, as I stood beside the Elder's 
 grave, and the trodden grass was again lifting up its 
 blades from the pressure of many feet, now all — but a 
 few — departed. What a simple burial had it been ! 
 Dust was consigned to dust — no more. Bare, naked, 
 simple, and austere, is in Scotland the service of the 
 grave. It is left to the soul itself to consecrate, by its 
 passion, the mould over which tears, but no words, 
 are poured. Surely there is a beauty in this ; for the 
 heart is left unto its own sorrow— according as it is a 
 friend— a brother — a parent — or a child, that is cover- 
 
 10
 
 THE ELUKIl's FUNERAL. 157 
 
 ed up from our eyes. Yet call not other rites, how- 
 ever different from this, less beautiful or pathetic. 
 For willingly does the soul connect its grief with any 
 consecrated ritual of the dead. Sound or silence — 
 music — hymns — psalms — sable garments, or raiment 
 white as snow, all become holy symbols of the soul's 
 affection ; nor is it for any man to say which is the 
 most natural, which is the best of the thousand shows 
 and expressions, and testimonies of sorrow, resigna- 
 tion, and love, by which mortal beings would seek to 
 express their souls when one of their brethren has re- 
 turned to his parent dust. 
 
 My mind was recalled from all these sad yet not un- 
 pleasant fancies by a deep groan, and I beheld the El- 
 der's son fling himself down upon the grave, and kiss 
 it passionately, imploring pardon from God. " I dis- 
 tressed my father's heart in his old age — I repented 
 — and received thy forgiveness even on thy death- 
 bed ! But how may I be assured that God will forgive 
 me for having so sinned against my old grey-headed 
 father, when his limbs were weak and his eye-sight 
 dim !" The old Minister stood at the head of the 
 grave, without speaking a word, with his solemn and 
 pitiful eyes fixed upon the prostrate and contrite 
 man. His sin had been great, and tears that till 
 now had, on this day at least, been compressed with- 
 in his heart by the presence of so many of his 
 friends, now poured down upon the sod as if they 
 would have found their way to the very body of his
 
 158 THE ELDERS FUNERAL. 
 
 father. Neither of us offered to lift him up, for we 
 felt awed by the rueful passion of his love, his remorse, 
 and his penitence ; and nature, we felt, ought to have 
 her way. " Fear not, my son" — at length said the 
 old man, in a gentle voice — " fear not, my son, but 
 that you are already forgiven. Dost thou not feel 
 pardon within thy contrite spirit ?" He rose up from 
 his knees with a faint smile, while the Minister, with 
 his white head yet uncovered, held his hands over him 
 as in benediction ; and that beautiful and loving child, 
 who had been standing in a fit of weeping terror at his 
 father's agony, now came up to him, and kissed his 
 cheek — holding in his little hand a few faded prim- 
 roses which he had unconsciously gathered together 
 as they lay on the turf of his grandfather's grave.
 
 THE TWINS. 159 
 
 THE TWINS. 
 
 The Kirk of Auchindown stands, with its Burial- 
 ground, on a little green hill, surrounded by an irre- 
 gular and straggling village, or rather about an hun- 
 dred hamlets clustering round it, with their fields and 
 gardens. A few of these gardens come close up to 
 the church-yard wall, and in Spring-time, many of 
 the fruit-trees hang rich and beautiful over the adja- 
 cent graves. The voices and the laughter of the chil- 
 dren at play on the green before the parish-school, or 
 their composed murmur when at their various lessons 
 together in the room, may be distinctly heard all over 
 the burial-ground,— so may the song of the maidens 
 going to the well ; — while all around, the singing of 
 birds is thick and hurried ; and a small rivulet, as if 
 brought there to be an emblem of passing time, glides 
 away beneath the mossy wall, murmuring continually 
 a dreamlike tune aroufl d the dwellings of the dead. 
 
 In the quiet of the evening, after the Elder's Fune- 
 ral, my venerable friend and father took me with him 
 into the church-yard. We walked to the eastern cor-
 
 160 THE TWINS. 
 
 ner, where, as we approached, I saw a Monument 
 standing almost by itself, and even at that distance, 
 appearing to be of a somewhat different character 
 from any other over all the burial-ground. And now 
 we stood close to, and before it. 
 
 It was a low Monument, of the purest white mar- 
 ble, simple, but perfectly elegant and graceful 
 withal, and upon its unadorned slab lay the sculp- 
 tured images of two Children asleep in each other's 
 arms. All round it was a small piece of greenest 
 ground, without the protection of any rail, but obvi- 
 ously belonging to the Monument. It shone, without 
 offending them,- among the simpler or ruder burial 
 beds round about it, and although the costliness of the 
 materials, the affecting beauty of the design, and the 
 delicacy of its execution, all showed that there slept 
 the offspring neither of the poor nor low in life, yet 
 so meekly and sadly did it lift up its unstained little 
 walls, and so well did its unusual elegance meet and 
 blend with the character of the common tombs, that 
 no heart could see it without sympathy, and without 
 owning that it was a pathetic ornament of a place fill- 
 ed with the ruder memorials of the very humblest 
 dead. 
 
 " There lie two of the sweetest Children," said the 
 old Man, " that ever delighted a mother's soul — two 
 English boys — scions of a noble stem. They were of 
 a decayed family of high lineage ; and had they died 
 in their own country a hundred years ago, they Avould
 
 THE TWINS. 
 
 161 
 
 have been let down into a vault with all the pomp of 
 religion. Methinks, fair flowers, they are now sleep- 
 ing as meetly here. 
 
 " Six years ago I was an old man, and wished to 
 have silence and stillness in my house, that my com- 
 munion with Him before whom I expected every day 
 to be called might be undisturbed. Accordingly my 
 Manse, that used to ring with boyish glee, was now 
 quiet ; when a Lady, elegant, graceful, beautiful, 
 young, and a widow, came to my dwelling, and her 
 soft, sweet, silver voice told me that she was from 
 England. She was the relict of an officer slain in 
 war, and having heard a dear friend of her husband's, 
 who had lived in my house, speak of his happy and 
 innocent time here, she earnestly requested me to re- 
 ceive beneath my roof her two sons. She herself lived 
 with the bed-ridden mother of her dead husband ; 
 and anxious for the growing minds of her boys, she 
 sought to commit them for a short time to my care. 
 They and their mother soon won an old man's heart, 
 and I could say nothing in opposition to her request 
 but that I was upwards of threescore and ten years. 
 But I am living still — and that is their Monument." 
 
 We sat down, at these words, on the sloping head- 
 stone of a grave just opposite to this little beautiful 
 structure, and, without entreaty, and as if to bring 
 back upon his heart the delight of old tender re- 
 membrances, the venerable Man continued fervently 
 thus to speak. 
 
 i
 
 162 THE TWINS. 
 
 " The Lady left them with me in the Manse — sure- 
 ly the two most beautiful and engaging creatures that 
 ever died in youth. They were Twins. Like were 
 they unto each other, as two bright-plumaged doves 
 of one colour, or two flowers with the same blossom 
 and the same leaves. They were dressed alike, and 
 whatever they wore, in that did they seem more espe- 
 cially beautiful. Their hair was the same, a bright 
 auburn — their voices were as one — so that the Twins 
 were inseparable in my love, whether I beheld them, 
 or my dim eyes were closed. From the first hour 
 they were left alone with me, and without their mo- 
 ther, in the Manse, did I begin to love them, nor were 
 they slow in returning an old man's affection. They 
 stole up to my side, and submitted their smooth, glossy, 
 leaning heads to my withered and trembling hand, 
 nor for a while could I tell, as the sweet beings came 
 gliding gladsomely near me, which was Edward and 
 which was Henry ; and often did they, in loving 
 playfulness, try to deceive my loving heart. But they 
 could not defraud each other of my tenderness ; for 
 whatever the one received, that was ready to be be- 
 stowed upon the other. To love the one more than 
 the other was impossible. 
 
 " Sweet creatures ! it was not long before I learned 
 to distinguish them. That which seemed to me, at 
 first, so perfectly the same, soon unfolded itself out in- 
 to many delightful varieties, and then I wondered how 
 I ever could have mistaken them for one another.
 
 THE TWIN'S. 163 
 
 Different shadows played upon their hair ; that of the 
 one being silky and smooth, and of the other slightly 
 curled at the edges, and clustering thickly when he 
 flung his locks back in playfulness or joy. His eyes, 
 though of a hazle-hue like that of his brother, were 
 considerably lighter, and a smile seemed native there; 
 while those of the other seemed almost dark, and fitter 
 for the mist of tears. Dimples marked the cheeks of 
 the one, but those of the other were paler and smooth. 
 Their voices too, when I listened to them and knew 
 their character, had a faint fluctuating difference of in- 
 flection and tone — like the same instrument blown up- 
 on with a somewhat stronger or weaker breath. Their 
 very laugh grew to be different unto my ear — that of 
 the one freer and more frequent, that of the other 
 mild in its utmost glee. And they had not been many 
 days in the Manse, before I knew in a moment, dim as 
 my eyes had long been, the soft, timid, stealing step 
 of Edward, from the dancing and fearless motion of 
 Henry Howard." 
 
 Here the old man paused, not as it seemed from any 
 fatigue in speaking so long, but as if to indulge more 
 profoundly in his remembrance of the children whom 
 he had so tenderly loved. He fixed his dim eyes on 
 their sculptured images with as fond an expression, as 
 if they had been alive and had lain down there to sleep— 
 and when, without looking on me whom he felt to have 
 been listening with quiet attention, he again began to
 
 164 THE TWINS. 
 
 speak, it was partly to tell me the tale of these fair 
 sleepers, and partly to give vent to his loving grief. 
 
 " All strangers, even many who thought they knew 
 them well, were pleasantly perplexed with the faces 
 and figures of the bright English Twins. The poor 
 beggars, as they went their rounds, blessed them, 
 without knowing whether it was Edward or Henry 
 that had bestowed his alms. The mother of the cot- 
 tage children with whom they played confused their 
 images in her loving heart, as she named them in her 
 prayers. When only one was present, it gave a start 
 of strange delight to them who did not know the 
 Twine, to see another creature so beautifully the same 
 come gliding in upon them, and join his brother in a 
 share of their suddenly bestowed affection. 
 
 " They soon came to love, with all their hearts, 
 the place wherein they had their new habitation. 
 Not even in their own merry England had their 
 young eyes ever seen brighter green fields, — trees 
 more umbrageous — or, perhaps, even rural gardens 
 more flowery and blossoming, than those of this Scot- 
 tish village. They had lived, indeed, mostly in a 
 town ; and, in the midst of the freshness and balmi- 
 nes$ of the country, they became happier and more 
 gleesome — it was said by many, even more beautiful. 
 The affectionate creatures did not forget their mother. 
 Alternately did they write to her every week — and 
 every week did one or other receive from her a letter, 
 in which the sweetest maternal feelings were traced in
 
 THE TWINS. 
 
 165 
 
 small delicate lines, that bespoke the hand of an ac- 
 complished lady. Their education had not been ne- 
 glected ; and they learnt every thing they were 
 taught with a surprising quickness and docility — alike 
 amiable and intelligent. Morning and evening, too, 
 did they kneel down with clasped hands — these lovely 
 Twins — even at my feet, and resting on my knees ; 
 and melodiously did they murmur together the hymns 
 which their mother had taught them, and passages se- 
 lected from the Scriptures, — many of which are in the 
 affecting, beautiful, and sublime ritual of the English 
 Church. And always, the last thing they did, before 
 going to sleep in each other's arms, was to look at their 
 mother's picture, and to kiss it with fond kisses, and 
 many an endearing name." 
 
 Just then, two birds alighted softly on the white 
 marble Monument, and began to trim their plumes. 
 They were doves from their nest in the belfry of the 
 spire, from which a low, deep, plaintive murmuring 
 was now heard to come, deepening the profound si- 
 lence of the burial-ground. The two bright birds 
 walked about for a few minutes round the images of 
 the children, or stood quietly at their feet ; and then, 
 clapping their wings, flew up and disappeared. The 
 incident, though, at any other time, common and un- 
 interesting, had a strange effect upon my heart now, 
 and seemed dimly emblematic of the innocence and 
 beauty of the inhabitants of that tomb, and of the flight 
 of their sinless souls to heaven.
 
 166 THE TWINS. 
 
 " One evening in early Autumn, (they had been 
 with me from the middle of May,) Edward, the elder, 
 complained, on going to bed, of a sore throat, and I 
 proposed that his brother should sleep in another bed. 
 I saw them myself, accordingly, in separate places of 
 repose. But on going, about an hour afterwards, into 
 their room, there I found them locked, as usual, in each 
 other's arms — face to face — and their innocent breath 
 mingling from lips that nearly touched. I could not 
 find heart to separate them, nor could I have done so, 
 without awaking Edward. His cheeks were red and 
 flushed, and his sleep broken and full of starts. Early 
 in the morning I was at their bed-side. Henry was 
 lying apart from his brother, looking at him with a 
 tearful face, and his little arm laid so as to touch his 
 bosom. Edward was unable to rise — his throat was 
 painful, his pulse high, and his heart sick. Before even- 
 ing he became slightly delirious, and his illnesss was 
 evidently a fever of a dangerous and malignant kind. 
 He was, I told you, a bold and gladsome child, when 
 not at his tasks, dancing and singing almost every 
 hour; but the fever quickly subdued his spirit, the 
 shivering fits made him weep and wail, and rueful, in- 
 deed, was the change which a single night and day 
 had brought forth. 
 
 " His brother seemed to be afraid more than chil- 
 dren usually are of sickness, which they are always 
 slow to link with the thought of death. But he told 
 me, weeping, that his eldest brother had died of a fe- 
 
 10
 
 THE TWINS. 167 
 
 ver, and that his mother was always alarmed about 
 that disease. " Did I think," asked he, with wild 
 eyes, and a palpitating heart, " did I think that Ed- 
 ward was going to die ?" I looked at the affectionate 
 child, and taking him to my bosom, I felt that his own 
 blood was beating but too quickly, and that fatal had 
 been that night's sleeping embrace in his brother's bo- 
 som. The fever had tainted his sweet veins also — 
 and I had soon to lay him shivering on his bed. In 
 another day he too was delirious — and too plainly 
 chasing his brother into the grave. 
 
 " Never in the purest hours of their healthful hap- 
 piness had their innocent natures seemed to me more 
 beautiful than now in their delirium. As it increased, 
 all vague fears of dying left their souls, and they kept 
 talking as if to each other of every thing here or in Eng- 
 land that was pleasant and interesting. Now and then 
 they murmured the names of persons of whom I had 
 not formerly heard them speak — friends who had 
 been kind to them before I had known of their exist- 
 ence, and servants in their mother's or their father's 
 household. Of their mother they spoke to themselves, 
 though necessarily kept apart, almost in the very same 
 words, expecting a visit from her at the Manse, and 
 then putting out their little hands to embrace her. 
 All their innocent plays were acted over and over 
 again on the bed of death. They were looking into 
 the nests of the little singing birds, which they never 
 injured, in the hedgerows and the woods. And the
 
 168 THE TWINS. 
 
 last intelligible words that I heard Edward utter were 
 these — " Let us go, brother, to the church-yard, and 
 lie down on the daisies among the little green mounds !" 
 
 " They both died within an hour of each other. I 
 lifted up Henry, when I saw he too was dead, and 
 laid him down beside his brother. There lay the 
 Twins, and had their mother at that hour come into 
 the room, she would have been thankful to see that 
 sight, for she would have thought that her children 
 were in a calm and refreshing sleep !" 
 
 My eyes were fixed upon the sculptured images of 
 the dead — lying side by side, with their faces up to 
 heaven, their little hands folded as in prayer upon their 
 bosoms, and their eyelids closed. The old man drew 
 a sigh almost like a sob, and wept. They had been 
 intrusted to his care — they had come smiling from an- 
 other land — for one summer they were happy — and 
 then disappeared, like the other fading flowers, from 
 the earth. I wished that the old man would cease 
 his touching narrative — both for his sake and my own. 
 So I rose, and walked up quite close to the Monu- 
 ment, inspecting the spirit of its design, and marking 
 the finish of its execution. But he called me to him, 
 and requesting me to resume my seat beside him on 
 the gravestone, he thus continued. 
 
 " I had written to their mother in England that her 
 
 children were in extreme danger, but it was not possible 
 
 that she could arrive in time to see them die, not even 
 
 to see them buried. Decay was fast preying upon 
 
 11
 
 THE TWINS. 109 
 
 them, and the beauty of death was beginning to disap- 
 pear. So we could not wait the arrival of their 
 mother, and their grave was made. Even the old 
 grey-headed sexton wept, for in this case of mortality 
 there was something to break in upon the ordinary te- 
 nor of his thoughts, and to stir up in his heart feelings 
 that he could not have known existed there. There 
 was sadness indeed over all the parish for the fair 
 English Twins, who had come to live in the Manse af- 
 ter all the other boys had left it, and who, as they were 
 the last, so were they the loveliest of all my flock. The 
 very sound or accent of their southern voices, so pretty 
 and engaging to our ears in the simplicity of childhood, 
 had won many a heart, and touched, too, the imagina- 
 tions of many with a new delight ; and therefore, on 
 the morning when they were buried, it may be said 
 there was here a fast-day of grief. 
 
 " The dead children were English — in England had 
 all their ancestors been born ; and I knew, from the 
 little I had seen of the mother, that though she had 
 brought her mind to confide her children to the care 
 of a Scottish Minister in their tender infancy, she 
 was attached truly and deeply to the ordinances of her 
 own Church. I felt that it would be accordant with 
 her feelings, and that afterwards she would have satis- 
 faction in the thought, that they should be buried ac- 
 cording to the form of the English funeral-service. I 
 communicated this wish to an Episcopalian Clergyman 
 in the City, and lie came to my house. He arranged
 
 170 THE TWINS. 
 
 the funeral, as far as possible in the circumstances, ac- 
 cording to that service ; and although, no doubt, there 
 was a feeling of curiosity mingled in many minds with 
 the tenderness and awe which that touching and solemn 
 ceremonial awakened, yet it was witnessed, not only 
 without any feelings of repugnance or scorn, but, I 
 may in truth say, with a rational sympathy, and with 
 all the devout emotions embodied in language so scrip- 
 tural and true to nature. 
 
 " The bier was carried slowly aloft upon men's 
 shoulders, towards the church-yard gate. I myself walk- 
 ed at their little heads. Some of the neighbouring gen- 
 try — my own domestics — a few neighbours — and some 
 of the school-children, formed the procession. The 
 latter, walking before the coffin, continued singing a 
 funeral psalm all the way till we reached the church- 
 yard gate. It was a still gentle autumnal day, and 
 now and then a withered leaf came rustling across the 
 path of the weeping choristers. To us, to whom 
 that dirge-like strain was new, all seemed like a pen- 
 sive, and mournful, and holy dream. 
 
 " The Clergyman met the bier at the gate, and pre- 
 ceded it into the Kirk. It was then laid down — and 
 while all knelt — I keeping my place at the heads of 
 the sweet boys — he read, beautifully, affectingly, and 
 solemnly, — a portion of the funeral service. The 
 children had been beloved and admired, while alive, as 
 the English Twins, and so had they always been call- 
 ed ; and that feeling of their having belonged, as it
 
 THE TWINS. 171 
 
 were, to another country, not only justified but made 
 pathetic to all now assembled upon their knees, the 
 ritual employed by that Church to which they, and 
 their parents, and all their ancestors, had belonged. A 
 sighing — and a sobbing too, was heard over the si- 
 lence of my Kirk, when the Clergyman repeated these 
 words, " As soon as thou scatterest them, they are 
 even as a sleep, and fade away suddenly like the 
 grass. 
 
 " In the morning it is green and groweth up : but 
 in the evening it is cut down, dried up, and wither- 
 ed." 
 
 While the old man was thus describing their burial, 
 the clock in the steeple struck, and he paused a moment 
 at the solemn sound. Soon as it had slowly told the 
 hour of advancing evening, he arose from the grave- 
 stone, as if his mind sought a relief from the Weight of 
 tenderness, in a change of bodily position. We stood 
 together facing the little Monument — and his nar- 
 rative was soon brought to a close. 
 
 " We were now all collected together round the 
 grave. The silence of yesterday, at the Elder's Fu- 
 neral, was it not felt by you to be agreeable to all 
 our natural feelings? So were the words which 
 were now spoken over these Children. The whole 
 ceremony was different, but it touched the very same 
 feelings in our hearts. It lent an expression, to what, 
 in that other case, was willing to be silent. There 
 was a sweet, a sad, and a mournful consistency in the
 
 172 THE TWINS. 
 
 ritual of death, from the moment we receded from the 
 door of the Manse, accompanied by the music of that 
 dirge sung by the clear tremulous voices of the young 
 and innocent, till we entered the Kirk with the coffin 
 to the sound of the priest's chaunted verses from Job 
 and St John, during the time when we knelt round 
 the dead children in the House of God, also during our 
 procession thence to the grave-side, still attended with 
 chaunting, or reciting, or responding voices; and, 
 finally, at the moment of dropping of a piece of earth 
 upon the coffin, (it was from my own hand,) while the 
 priest said, " We commit their bodies to the ground, 
 earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure 
 and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, 
 through our Lord Jesus Christ." 
 
 " Next day their Mother arrived at the Manse. She 
 knew, before she came, that her children were dead 
 and buried. It is true that she wept ; and at the first 
 sight of their grave, for they both lay in one coffin, 
 her grief was passionate and bitter. But that fit soon 
 passed away. Her tears were tears of pity for them, 
 but as for herself, she hoped that she was soon to see 
 them in Heaven. Her face pale, yet flushed — her 
 eyes hollow, yet bright, and a general languor and 
 lassitude over her whole frame, all told that she was 
 in the first stage of a consumption. This she knew 
 and was happy. But other duties called her back to 
 England, for the short remainder of her ljfe. She 
 herself drew the design of that Monument with her
 
 THE TWINS. 173 
 
 own hand, and left it with me when she went away. 
 I soon heard of her death. Her husband lies buried 
 near Grenada, in Spain , she lies in the chancel of 
 the Cathedral of Salisbury, in England; and there sleep 
 her Twins in the little burial-ground of Auchindown, 
 a Scottish Parish.
 
 174 THE POOR SCHOLAR 
 
 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 The vernal weather, that had come so early in the 
 year, as to induce a fear that it would not be lasting, 
 seemed, contrary to that foreboding of change, to be- 
 come every day more mild and genial ; and the spirit 
 of beauty, that had at first ventured out over the 
 bosom of the earth with timid footsteps, was now 
 blending itself more boldly with the deep verdure of 
 the ground, and the life of the budding trees. Some- 
 thing in the air, and in the great, wide, blue, bending 
 arch of the unclouded sky, called upon the heart to 
 come forth from the seclusion of parlour or study, 
 and partake of the cheerfulness of nature. 
 
 We had made some short excursions together up the 
 lonely glens, and over the moors, and also through the 
 more thickly inhabited field-farms of his Parish, and 
 now the old Minister proposed that we should pay a 
 visit to a solitary Hut near the head of a dell, which, 
 although not very remote from the Manse, we had not 
 yet seen. And I was anxious that we should do so, 
 as, from his conversation, I understood that we should
 
 THE POOK SCHOLAR. 175 
 
 see there a family — if so a widow and her one son 
 could be called — that would repay us by the interest 
 we could not fail to feel in their character, for the 
 time and toil spent on reaching their secluded and 
 guarded dwelling. 
 
 " The poor widow woman/' said the minister, " who 
 lives in the Hut called Braehead, has as noble a soul as 
 ever tenanted a human bosom. One earthly hope 
 alone has she now — but I fear it never will be fulfill- 
 ed. She is the widow of a common cottar who lived 
 and died in the Hut which she and her son now inha- 
 bit. Her husband was a man of little education, but 
 intelligent, even ingenious, simple, laborious, and 
 pious. His duties lay all within a narrow circle, and 
 his temptations, it may be said, were few. Such as 
 they were, he discharged the one and withstood the 
 other. Nor is there any reason to think, that, had 
 they both been greater, he would have been found 
 wanting. He was contented with meal and water all 
 his days ; and so fond of work, that he seemed to love 
 the summer chiefly for the length of its labouring 
 days. He had a slight genius for mechanics ; and, 
 during the long winter evenings, he made many ar- 
 ticles of curious workmanship, the sale of which add- 
 ed a little to the earnings of his severer toil. The 
 same love of industry excited him from morning to 
 night ; but he had also stronger, tenderer, and dearer 
 motives ; for if his wife and their one pretty boy should 
 outlive him, he hoped, that,, though left poor, they
 
 176 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 would not be left in penury, but enabled to lead, with- 
 out any additional hardships, the usual life, at least, of 
 the widow and the orphans of honest hard-working 
 men. Few thought much about Abraham Blane while 
 he lived, except that he was an industrious and blame- 
 less man ; but, on his death, it was felt that there 
 had been something far more valuable in his character ; 
 and now I myself, who knew him well, was pleasingly 
 surprised to know that he had left his widow and boy 
 a small independence. Then the memory of his long 
 summer days, and long winter nights, all ceaselessly 
 employed in some kind of manual labour, dignified 
 the lowly and stedfast virtue of the unpretending and 
 conscientious man. 
 
 " The widow of this humble-hearted and sim- 
 ple-minded man, whom we shall this forenoon vi- 
 sit, you will remember, perhaps, although then nei- 
 ther she nor her husband were much known in the pa- 
 rish, as the wife of the basket-maker. Her father 
 had been a clergyman — but his stipend was one of the 
 smallest in Scotland, and he died in extreme poverty. 
 This, his only daughter, who had many fine feelings 
 and deep thoughts in her young innocent and simple 
 heart, was forced to become a menial servant in a 
 farm house. There subduing her heart to her situa- 
 tion, she married that inoffensive and good man ; and 
 all her life has been — maid, wife, and widow, — the 
 humblest among the humble. But you shall soon have 
 an opportunity of seeing what sense, what feeling,
 
 THE rOOR SCHOLAR. 177 
 
 what knowledge, and what piety, may all live together, 
 without their owner suspecting them, in the soul of 
 the lonely widow of a Scottish cottar ; for except that 
 she is pious, she thinks not that she possesses any 
 other treasure ; and even her piety she regards, like a 
 true Christian, as a gift bestowed. 
 
 " But well worthy of esteem, and, to speak in the 
 language of this world's fancies, of admiration, as you 
 will think this poor solitary widow, perhaps you will 
 think such feelings bestowed even more deservedly 
 on her only son. He is now a boy only of sixteen 
 years of age, but, in my limited experience of life, 
 never knew I such another. From his veriest infancy 
 he showed a singular capacity for learning ; at seven 
 years of age he could read, write, and was even an 
 arithmetician. He seized upon books with the same avi- 
 dity with which children, in general, seize upon play- 
 things. He soon caught glimmerings of the meaning 
 even of other languages ; and, before he was ten years 
 old, there were in his mind clear dawnings of the scho- 
 lar, and indications not to be doubted of genius and in- 
 tellectual power. His father was dead — but his mother, 
 who was no common woman, however common her 
 lot, saw with pure delight, and with strong maternal 
 pride, that God had given her an extraordinary child 
 to bless her solitary hut. She vowed to dedicate him 
 to the ministry, and that all her husband had left 
 should be spent upon him, to the last farthing, to quali- 
 fy him to be a preacher of God's word. Such ambi- 
 
 M
 
 178 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 tion, if sometimes misplaced, is almost always neces- 
 sarily honourable. Here it was justified by the ex- 
 celling talents of the boy — by his zeal for knowledge 
 — which was like a fever in his blood — and by a 
 childish piety, of which the simple, and eloquent, and 
 beautiful expression has more than once made me 
 shed tears. But let us leave the manse, and walk to 
 Braehead. The sunshine is precious at this early 
 season ; let us enjoy it while it smiles I" 
 
 We crossed a few fields — a few coppice woods, — an 
 extensive sheep pasture, and then found ourselves on 
 the edge of a moorland. Keeping the shelving heather 
 ridge of hills above us, we gently descended into a nar- 
 row rushy glen, without any thing that could be call- 
 ed a stream, but here and there crossed and intersected 
 by various runlets. Soon all cultivation ceased, and 
 no houses were to be seen. Had the glen been a long 
 one, it would have seemed desolate, but on turning 
 round a little green mount that ran almost across it, we 
 saw at once an end to our walk, and one Hut, with a 
 peat- stack close to it, and one or two elder, or, as we 
 call them in Scotland, bourtrie-bushes, at the low ga- 
 ble-end. A little smoke seemed to tinge the air over 
 the roof uncertainly — but except in that, there was no- 
 thing to tell that the hut was inhabited. A few sheep 
 lying near it, and a single cow of the small hill-breed, 
 seemed to appertain to the hut, and a circular wall be- 
 hind it apparently enclosed a garden. We sat down 
 together on one of those large mossy stones that often
 
 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 179 
 
 lie among the smooth green pastoral hills, like the re- 
 lics of some building utterly decayed — and my vener- 
 able friend, whose solemn voice was indeed pleasant 
 in this quiet solitude, continued the simple history of 
 the Poor Scholar. 
 
 " At school he soon outstripped all the other boys, 
 but no desire of superiority over his companions seem- 
 ed to actuate him — it was the pure native love of 
 knowledge. Gentle as a lamb, but happy as a lark, 
 the very wildest of them all loved Isaac Blane. He 
 procured a Hebrew Bible and a Greek Testament, 
 both of which he taught himself to read. It was more 
 than affecting — it was sublime and awful to see the so- 
 litary boy sitting by himself on the braes shedding 
 tears over the mysteries of the Christian faith. His 
 mother's heart burned within her towards her son ; 
 and if it was pride, you will allow that was pride of a 
 divine origin. She appeared with him in the kirk 
 every Sabbath, dressed not ostentatiously, but still in a 
 way that showed she intended him not for a life of 
 manual labour. Perhaps at first some half thought 
 that she was too proud of him ; but that was a sugges- 
 tion not to be cherished, for all acknowledged that he 
 was sure to prove an honour to the parish in which he 
 was born. She often brought him to the Manse, and 
 earth did not contain a happier creature than her, 
 when her boy answered all my questions, and modest- 
 ly made his own simple, yet wise remarks on the sa-
 
 180 THE POOE SCHOLAR. 
 
 cred subjects gradually unfolding before his under- 
 standing and his heart. 
 
 " Before he was twelve years of age he went to Col- 
 lege — and his mother accompanied him to pass the 
 winter in the city. Two small rooms she took near 
 the Cathedral, and while he was at the classes, or read- 
 ing alone, she was not idle, but strove to make a 
 small sum to help to defray their winter expences. 
 To her that retired cell was a heaven when she looked 
 upon her pious and studious boy. His genius was 
 soon conspicuous; for four winters he pursued his 
 studies in the University — returning always in sum- 
 mer to this hut, the door of which during their ab- 
 sence was closed. He made many friends, and fre- 
 quently, during the three last summers, visitors came 
 to pass a day at Braehead, in a rank of life far above 
 his own. But in Scotland, thank God, talent, and 
 learning, and genius, and virtue, when found in the 
 poorest hut, go not without their admiration and their 
 reward. Young as he is, he has had pupils of his own 
 — his mother's little property has not been lessened at 
 this hour by his education — and besides contribut- 
 ing to the support of her and himself, he has brought 
 neater furniture into that lonely Hut, and there has 
 he a library, limited in the number but rich in the 
 choice of books, such as contain food for years of 
 silent thought to the Poor Scholar — if years indeed ai-e 
 to be his on earth." 
 
 We rose to proceed onwards to the Hut, across one 
 
 U
 
 THE POOR oCHOLAE. 181 
 
 smooth level of greenest herbage, and up one inter- 
 vening knowe a little lower than the mount on which 
 it stood. Why, thought I, has the old Man always 
 spoken of the Poor Scholar, as if he had been speaking 
 of one now dead ? Can it be, from the hints he has 
 dropped, that this youth, so richly endowed, is under 
 the doom of death, and the fountain of all those clear 
 and fresh gushing thoughts about to be sealed? I 
 asked, as we walked along, if Isaac Blane seemed 
 marked out to be one of those sweet flowers " no 
 sooner blown than blasted," and who perish away like 
 the creatures of a dream ? The old Man made answer 
 that it was even so — that he had been unable to at- 
 tend College last winter — and that it was to be feared 
 he was now far advanced in a hopeless decline. Simple 
 is he still as a very child — but with a sublime sense of 
 duty to God and man — of profound affection and hu- 
 manity never to be appeased towards all the brethren 
 of our race. Each month — each week — each day has 
 seemed visibly to bring him new stores of silent feeling 
 and thought — and even now, boy as he is, he is fit for 
 the Ministry. But he has no hopes of living to that 
 day — nor have I. The deep spirit of his piety is 
 now blended with a sure prescience of an early 
 death. Expect, therefore, to see him pale — emaciat- 
 ed — and sitting in the hut like a beautiful and bless- 
 ed ghost." 
 
 We entered the Hut, but no one was in the room. 
 The clock ticked solitarily — and on a table, beside a
 
 182 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 nearly extinguished peat fire, lay the open Bible, and 
 a small volume, which, on lifting it up, I found to be a 
 Greek Testament. " They have gone out to walk, or 
 to sit down for an hour in the warm sunshine," said 
 the old Man. — " Let us sit down and wait their re- 
 turn. It will not be long." A long, low sigh was 
 heard in the silence, proceeding, as it seemed, from a 
 small room adjoining that in which we were sitting, 
 and of which the door was left half-open. The Mini- 
 ster looked into that room, and, after a long earnest 
 gaze, stept softly back to me again, with a solemn 
 face, and taking me by the hand, whispered to me to 
 come with him to that door, which he gently moved. 
 On a low bed lay the Poor Scholar, dressed as he had 
 been for the day, stretched out in a stillness too mo- 
 tionless and profound for sleep, and with his fixed face 
 up to heaven. We saw that he was dead. His mo- 
 ther was kneeling, with her face on the bed, and co- 
 vered with both her hands. Then she lifted up her 
 eyes and said, " O Merciful Redeemer, who wrought 
 that miracle on the child of the Widow of Nain, 
 comfort me, comfort me, in this my sore distress! 
 I know that my Son is never to rise again until 
 the great Judgment-day. But not the less do I 
 bless thy holy name — for thou didst die to save us 
 sinners \" 
 
 She arose from her knees, and, still blind to every 
 other object, went up to his breast. " I thought thee 
 lovelier, when alive, than any of the sons of the child-
 
 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 183 
 
 ren of men — but that smile is beyond the power of a 
 mother's heart to sustain." And stooping down, she 
 kissed his lips, and cheeks, and eyes, and forehead, 
 with a hundred soft, streaming, and murmuring kisses, 
 and then stood up in her solitary hut, alone and child- 
 less, with a long mortal sigh, in which all earthly 
 feelings seemed breathed out, and all earthly ties 
 broken. Her eyes wandered towards the door, and 
 fixed themselves with a ghastly and unconscious gaze 
 for a few moments on the grey locks and withered 
 countenance of the old holy Man, bent towards her 
 with a pitying and benignant air, and stooped, too, in 
 the posture of devotion. She soon recognized the 
 best friend of her Son, and leaving the bed on which 
 his body lay, she came out into the room, and said, 
 " You have come to me at a time when your pre- 
 sence was sorely needed. Had you been here but 
 a few minutes sooner, you would have seen my Isaac 
 die!" 
 
 Unconsciously we were all seated ; and the Widow 
 turning fervently to her venerated friend, said, " He 
 was reading the Bible — he felt faint — and said feebly, 
 " Mother, attend me to my bed, and when I he down, 
 put your arm over my breast and kiss me." I did just 
 as he told me ; and on wiping away a tear or two 
 vainly shed by me on my dear boy's face, I saw that 
 his eyes, though open, moved not, and that the lids 
 were fixed. He had gone to another world. See — 
 Sir ! there is the Bible lying open at the place he was
 
 184 THE FOOK SCHOLAR. 
 
 reading — God preserve my soul from repining — only 
 a few few minutes ago." 
 
 The Minister took the Bible on his knees, and lay- 
 ing his right hand, without selection, on part of one 
 of the pages that lay open, he read aloud the follow- 
 ing verses : 
 
 " Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the 
 kingdom of Heaven. 
 
 ** Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be 
 comforted." 
 
 The Mother's heart seemed to be deeply blest for a 
 while by these words. She gave a grateful smile to 
 the old Man, and sat silent, moving her lips. At 
 length she again broke forth : 
 
 " Oh ! Death, whatever may have been our 
 thoughts or fears, ever comes unexpectedly at last ! 
 My son often — often told me, that he was dying, and 
 I saw that it was so ever since Christmas. But how 
 could I prevent hope from entering my heart ? His 
 sweet happy voice — the calmness of his prayers — his 
 smiles, that never left his face whenever he looked or 
 spoke to me — his studies, still pursued as anxiously as 
 ever — the interest he took in any little incident of our 
 retired life — all forced me to believe at times that he 
 was not yet destined to die. But why think on all these 
 things now ? Yes ! I will always think of them, till I 
 join him and my husband in Heaven I" 
 
 It seemed now as if the Widow had only noticed 
 me for the first time. Her soul had been so engrossed
 
 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 185 
 
 with its passion of grief, and with the felt sympathy 
 and compassion of my venerable friend. She asked 
 me if I had known her son ; and I answered, that if I 
 had, I could not have sat there so composedly, but 
 that I was no stranger to his incomparable excellence, 
 and felt indeed for her grievous loss. She listened to 
 my words, but did not seem to hear them, and once 
 more addressed the old Man. " He suffered much 
 sickness, my poor boy. For although it was a con- 
 sumption, that is not always an easy death. But soon 
 as the sickness and the racking pain gave way to our 
 united prayers, God and our Saviour made us happy, 
 and sure he spake then as never mortal spake, kind- 
 ling into a happiness that was beautiful to see, 
 when I beheld his face marked by dissolution, and 
 knew even in those inspired moments, for I can 
 call them nothing else, that ere long the dust was to 
 lie on those lips now flowing over with heavenly 
 music !" 
 
 We sat for some hours in the Widow's Hut, and 
 the Minister several times prayed with her, at her own 
 request. On rising to depart, he said that he would 
 send up one of her dearest friends to pass the night 
 with her, and help her to do the last offices to her son. 
 But she replied that she wished to be left alone for 
 that day and night, and would expect her friend in 
 the morning. We went towards the outer door, and 
 she, in a sort of sudden stupor, let us depart without 
 any farewell words, and retired into the room where her
 
 186 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 son was lying. Casting back our eyes, before our de- 
 parture, we saw her steal into the bed beside the dead 
 body, and drawing the head gently into her bosom, 
 she lay down with him in her arms, and as if they had 
 in that manner fallen asleep.
 
 THE FORGE KS 187 
 
 THE FORGERS. 
 
 " Let us sit down on this stone seat/' said my aged 
 friend, the pastor, " and I will tell you a tale of tears, 
 concerning the last inhabitants of yonder solitary house, 
 just visible on the hill-side, through the gloom of those 
 melancholy pines. Ten years have passed away since 
 the terrible catastrophe of which I am about to speak ; 
 and I know not how it is, but methinks, whenever I 
 come into this glen, there is something rueful in its 
 silence, while the common sounds of nature seem to 
 my mind dirge-like and forlorn. Was not this very 
 day bright and musical as we walked across all the 
 other hills and valleys ; but now a dim mist over- 
 spreads the sky, and, beautiful as this lonely place 
 must in truth be, there is a want of life in the verdure 
 and the flowers, as if they grew beneath the darkness 
 of perpetual shadows." 
 
 As the old man was speaking, a female figure, bent 
 Avith age and infirmity, came slowly up the bank be- 
 low us with a pitcher in her hand, and when she 
 reached a little well, dug out of a low rock all covered
 
 188 THE FORGERS. 
 
 with moss and lichens, she seemed to fix her eyes upon 
 it as in a dream, and gave a long, deep, broken sigh. 
 
 " The names of her husband and her only son, both 
 dead, are chiselled by their own hands on a smooth 
 stone within the arch of that fountain, and the child- 
 less widow at this moment sees nothing on the face of 
 the earth but a few letters not yet overgrown with the 
 creeping time-stains. See ! her pale lips are moving 
 in prayer, and, old as she is, and long resigned in her 
 utter hopelessness, the tears are not yet all shed or 
 dried up within her broken heart, — a few big drops 
 are on her withered cheeks, but she feels them not, 
 and is unconsciously weeping with eyes that old age 
 has of itself enough bedimmed." 
 
 The figure remained motionless beside the well; 
 and, though I knew not the history of the griefs that 
 stood all embodied so mournfully before me, I felt 
 that they must have been gathering together for many 
 long years, and that such sighs as I had now heard 
 came from the uttermost desolation of the human 
 heart. At last she dipped her pitcher in the water, 
 lifted her eyes to Heaven, and, distinctly saying, « O 
 Jesus, Son of God ! whose blood was shed for sinners, 
 be merciful to their souls !" she turned away from the 
 scene of her sorrow, and, like one seen in a vision, 
 disappeared. 
 
 " I have beheld the childless widow happy," said the 
 pastor, " even her who sat alone, with none to com- 
 fort her, on a floor swept by the hand of death of all
 
 THE FORGERS. 189 
 
 its blossoms. But her whom we have now seen I dare 
 not call happy, even though she puts her trust in God 
 and her Saviour. Her's is an affliction which faith it- 
 self cannot assuage. Yet religion may have softened 
 even sighs like those, and, as you shall hear, it was re- 
 ligion that set her free from the horrid dreams of mad- 
 ness, and restored her to that comfort which is always 
 found in the possession of a reasonable soul." 
 
 There was not a bee roaming near us, nor a bird 
 singing in the solitary glen, when the old Man gave 
 me these hints of a melancholy tale. The sky was 
 black and lowering, as it lay on the silent hills, and 
 enclosed us from the far-off world, in a sullen spot that 
 was felt to be sacred unto sorrow. The figure which 
 had come and gone with a sigh was the only dweller 
 here ; and I was prepared to hear a doleful history of 
 one left alone to commune with a broken heart in the 
 cheerless solitude of nature. 
 
 " That house, from whose chimnies no smoke has 
 ascended for ten long years," continued my friend, 
 •* once showed its windows bright with cheerful fires ; 
 and her whom we now saw so woe-begone, I remem- 
 ber brought home a youthful bride, in all the beauty 
 of her joy and innocence. Twenty years beheld her 
 a wife and a mother, with all their most perfect hap- 
 piness, and with some, too, of their inevitable griefs. 
 Death passed not by her door without his victims, 
 and, of five children, all but one died, in infancy, 
 childhood, or blooming youth. But they died in na-
 
 190 THE FORGERS. 
 
 ture's common decay , — peaceful prayers were said 
 around the bed of peace ; and when the flowers grew 
 upon their graves, the mother's eyes could bear to 
 look on them, as she passed on with an unaching heart 
 into the house of God. All but one died, — and bet- 
 ter had it been if that one had never been born. 
 
 " Father, mother, and son now come to man's estate, 
 survived, and in the house there was peace. But sud- 
 denly poverty fell upon them. The dishonesty of a 
 kinsman, of which I need not state the particulars, 
 robbed them of their few hereditary fields, which now 
 passed into the possession of a stranger. They, how- 
 ever, remained as tenants in the house, which had 
 been their own ; and for a while, father and son bore 
 the change of fortune seemingly undismayed, and 
 toiled as common labourers on the soil still dearly be- 
 loved. At the dawn of light they went out together, 
 and at twilight they returned. But it seemed as if 
 their industry was in vain. Year after year the old 
 Man's face became more deeply furrowed, and more 
 seldom was he seen to smile ; and his son's counte- 
 nance, once bold and open, was noAV darkened with 
 anger and dissatisfaction. They did not attend pub- 
 lic worship so regularly as they used to do ; when I 
 met them in the fields, or visited them in their dwell- 
 ing, they looked on me coldly, and with altered eyes ; 
 and I grieved to think how soon they both seemed to 
 have forgotten the blessings Providence had so long 
 permitted them to enjoy, and how sullenly they now
 
 THE FORGEBS. 191 
 
 struggled with its decrees. But something worse 
 than poverty was now disturbing both their hearts. 
 
 " The unhappy old Man had a brother who at this 
 time died, leaving an only son, who had for many 
 years abandoned his father's house, and of whom all 
 tidings had long been lost. It was thought by many 
 that he had died beyond seas ; and none doubted, 
 that, living or dead, he had been disinherited by his 
 stern and unrelenting parent. On the day after the 
 funeral, the old Man produced his brother's will, by 
 which he became heir to all his property, except an 
 annuity to be paid to the natural heir, should he ever 
 return. Some pitied the prodigal son, who had been 
 disinherited — some blamed the father — some envied 
 the good fortune of those who had so ill borne adver- 
 sity. But in a short time the death, the will, and the 
 disinherited, were all forgotten, and the lost lands be- 
 ing redeemed, peace, comfort, and happiness were 
 supposed again to be restored to the dwelling from 
 which they had so long been banished. 
 
 " But it was not so. If the furrows on the old 
 Man's face were deep before, when he had to toil 
 from morning to night, they seemed to have sunk in- 
 to more ghastly trenches, now that the goodness of 
 Providence had restored a gentle shelter to his declin- 
 ing years. When seen wandering through his fields 
 at even-tide, he looked not like the Patriarch musing 
 tranquilly on the works and ways of God ; and when 
 my eyes met his during divine service, which he now
 
 192 THE FORGERS. 
 
 again attended with scrupulous regularity, I some- 
 times thought they were suddenly averted in consci- 
 ous guilt ; or closed in hypocritical devotion, I 
 scarcely know if I had any suspicions against him in 
 my mind or not ; but his high bald head, thin silver 
 hair, and countenance with its fine features so intelli- 
 gent, had no longer the same solemn expression which 
 they once possessed, and something dark and hidden 
 seemed now to belong to them, which withstood his 
 forced and unnatural smile. The son, who, in the 
 days of their former prosperity, had been stained by 
 no vice, and who, during their harder lot, had kept 
 himself aloof from all his former companions, now be- 
 came dissolute and profligate, nor did he meet with 
 any reproof from a father whose heart would once 
 have burst asunder at one act of wickedness in his 
 beloved child. 
 
 " About three years after the death of his father, 
 the disinherited son returned to his native parish. He 
 had been a sailor on board various ships on foreign 
 stations — but hearing by chance of his father's death, 
 he came to claim his inheritance. Having heard, on 
 his arrival, that his uncle had succeeded to the pro- 
 perty, he came to me and told me, that the night be- 
 fore he left his home, his father stood by his bed-side, 
 kissed him, and said, that never more would he own 
 such an undutiful son — but that he forgave him all 
 his sins — at death would not defraud him of the plea- 
 sant fields that had so long belonged to his humble an-
 
 the i<'oiu;krs. 193 
 
 cestors and hoped to meet reconciled in Heaven. 
 
 " My uncle is a villain/' said he, fiercely, " and I will 
 cast anchor on the green bank where I played when a 
 boy, even if I must first bring his 'grey head to the 
 scaffold !" 
 
 " I accompanied him to the house of his uncle. It 
 was a dreadful visit. The family had just sat down to 
 their frugal mid-day meal ; and the old man, though 
 for some years he could have had little heart to 
 pray, had just lifted up his hand to ask a blessing. 
 Our shadows, as we entered the door, fell upon the ta- 
 ble — and turning his eyes, he beheld before him on the 
 floor the man whom he fearfully hoped had been bu- 
 ried in the sea. His face was indeed, at that moment, 
 most unlike that of prayer, but he still held up his lean, 
 shrivelled, trembling hand. " Accursed hypocrite," 
 cried the fierce mariner, " dost thou call down the 
 blessing of God on a meal won basely from the or- 
 phan ? But, lo ! God, whom thou hast blasphemed, has 
 sent me from the distant isles of the ocean, to bring 
 thy white head into the hangman's hands !" 
 
 ** For a moment all was silent — then a loud stifled 
 gasping was heard, and she whom you saw a little 
 while ago, rose shrieking from her seat, and fell down 
 on her knees at the sailor's feet. The terror of that 
 unforgiven crime, now first revealed to her know- 
 ledge, struck her down to the floor. She fixed her 
 bloodless face on his before whom she knelt — but she 
 spoke not a single word. There was a sound in her 
 
 N
 
 194 THE FORGERS. 
 
 convulsed throat like the death-rattle. " I forged the 
 will," said the son, advancing towards his cousin with 
 a firm step, " my father could not — I alone am guilty 
 — I alone must die." The wife soon recovered the 
 power of speech, but it was so unlike her usual voice, 
 that I scarcely thought, at first, the sound proceeded 
 from her white quivering lips. " As you hope for 
 mercy at the great judgment day, let the old man 
 make his escape — hush, hush, hush — till in a few days 
 he has sailed away in the hold of some ship to Ame- 
 rica. You surely will not hang an old grey-headed 
 man of threescore and ten years !" 
 
 " The sailor stood silent and frowning. There seem- 
 ed neither pity nor cruelty in his face; he felt himself 
 injured; and looked resolved to right himself, happen 
 what would. " I say he has forged my father's will. 
 As to escaping, let him escape if he can. I do not wish 
 to hang him ; though I have seen better men run up 
 to the fore-yard arm before now, for only asking their 
 own. But no more kneeling, woman — Holla! where 
 is the old man gone ?" 
 
 " We all looked ghastlily around, and the wretched 
 wife and mother, springing to her feet, rushed out of 
 the house. We followed, one and all. The door of 
 the stable was open, and, the mother and son entering, 
 loud shrieks were heard. The miserable old man had 
 slunk out of the room unobserved during the passion 
 that had struck all our souls, and had endeavoured to 
 commit suicide. His own son cut him down, as he
 
 THE FOHGERS. 195 
 
 hung suspended from a rafter in that squalid place, 
 and, carrying him in his arms, laid him down upon 
 the green bank in front of the house. There he lay 
 with his livid face, and blood-shot protruded eyes, 
 till, in a few minutes, he raised himself up, and fixed 
 them upon his wife, who, soon recovering from a faint- 
 ing fit, came shrieking from the mire in which she had 
 fallen down. " Poor people !" said the sailor with a 
 gasping voice, " you have suffered enough for your 
 crime. Fear nothing ; the worst is now past : and 
 rather would I sail the seas twenty years longer, than 
 add another pang to that old man's heart. Let us be 
 kind to the old man." 
 
 " But it seemed as if a raven had croaked the dire- 
 ful secret all over the remotest places among the hills ; 
 for, in an hour, people came flocking in from all quar- 
 ters, and it was seen, that concealment or escape was 
 no longer possible, and that father and son were des- 
 tined to die together a felon's death." 
 
 Here the pastor's voice ceased ; and I had heard 
 enough to understand the long deep sigh that had 
 come moaning from that bowed-down figure beside 
 the solitary well. " That was the last work done by 
 the father and son, and finished the day before the fa- 
 tal discovery of their guilt. It had probably been en- 
 gaged in as a sort of amusement to beguile then- un- 
 happy minds of ever-anxious thoughts, or perhaps as a 
 solitary occupation, at which they could unburthen 
 their guilt to one another undisturbed. Here, no
 
 196 THE FORGEHS. 
 
 doubt, in the silence and solitude, they often felt re- 
 morse, perhaps penitence. They chiselled out their 
 names on that slab, as you perceive ; and hither, as 
 duly as the morning and evening shadows, comes the 
 ghost whom we beheld, and, after a prayer for the 
 souls of them so tenderly beloved in their innocence, 
 and doubtless even more tenderly beloved in their 
 guilt and in their graves, she carries to her lonely hut 
 the water that helps to preserve her hopeless life, from 
 the well dug by dearest hands, now mouldered away, 
 both flesh and bone, into the dust." 
 
 After a moment's silence the old man continued, — 
 for he saw that I longed to hear the details of that 
 dreadful catastrophe, and his own soul seemed likewise 
 desirous of renewing its grief, — " The prisoners were 
 condemned. Hope there was none. It was known, 
 from the moment of the verdict — guilty, — that they 
 would be executed. Petitions were, indeed, signed by 
 many many thousands ; but it was all in vain, — and 
 the father and the son had to prepare themselves for 
 death. 
 
 " About a week after condemnation I visited them 
 in their cell. God forbid, I should say that they were 
 resigned. Human nature could not resign itself to 
 such a doom ; and I found the old man pacing up and 
 down the stone-floor, in his clanking chains, with hur- 
 ried steps, and a countenance of unspeakable horror. 
 The son was lying on his face upon his bed of straw, 
 and had not lifted up his head, as the massy bolts
 
 THE FORiiKKS. 197 
 
 were withdrawn, and the door creaked sullenly on its 
 hinges. The father fixed his eyes upon me for some 
 time, as if I had been a stranger intruding upon his 
 misery ; and, as soon as he knew me, shut them with a 
 deep groan, and pointed to his son. " I have murder- 
 ed William — I have brought my only son to the scaf- 
 fold, and I am doomed to hell !" I gently called on 
 the youth by name, but he was insensible — he was ly- 
 ing in a fit. " I fear he will awake out of that fit," 
 cried the old man with a broken voice. " They have 
 come upon him every day since our condemnation, 
 and sometimes during the night. It is not fear for 
 himself that brings them on — for my boy, though 
 guilty, is brave — but he continues looking on my face 
 for hours, till at last he seems to lose all sense, and 
 falls down in strong convulsions, often upon the stone 
 floor, till he is all covered with blood." The old man 
 then went up to his son, knelt down, and, putting aside 
 the thick clustering hair from his forehead, continued 
 kissing him for some minutes, with deep sobs, but 
 eyes dry as dust. 
 
 " But why should I recal to my remembrance, or 
 describe to you, every hour of anguish that I witness- 
 ed in that cell ? For several weeks it was all agony and 
 despair — the Bible lay unheeded before their ghastly 
 eyes — and for them there was no consolation. The 
 old man's soul was filled but with one thought — that 
 he had deluded his son into sin, death, and eternal 
 punishment. He never slept ; but visions, terrible as
 
 198 THE FORGERS. 
 
 those of sleep, seemed often to pass before him, till I 
 have seen the grey hairs bristle horribly over his tem- 
 ples, and big drops of sweat plash down upon the floor. 
 I sometimes thought, that they would both die before 
 the day of execution ; but their mortal sorrows, though 
 they sadly changed both face and frame, seemed at last 
 to give a horrible energy to life, and every morning 
 that I visited them, they were stronger, and more 
 broadly awake in the chill silence of their lonesome 
 prison-house. 
 
 " I know not how a deep change was at last wrought 
 upon their souls, but two days before that of execu- 
 tion, on entering their cell, I found them sitting calm 
 and composed by each other's side, with the Bible open 
 before them. Their faces, though pale and haggard, 
 had lost that glare of misery, that so long had shone 
 about their restless and wandering eyes, and they look- 
 ed like men recovering from a long and painful sick- 
 ness. I almost thought I saw something like a faint 
 smile of hope. " God has been merciful unto us," 
 said the father, with a calm voice — " I must not think 
 that he has forgiven my sins, but he has enabled me to 
 look on my poor son's face — to kiss him— to fold him 
 in my arms — to pray for him — to fall asleep with him 
 in my bosom, as I used often to do in the days of his 
 boyhood, when, during the heat of mid-day, I rested 
 from labour below the trees of my own farm. We have 
 found resignation at last, and are prepared to die." 
 
 (< There were no transports of deluded enthusiasm
 
 THE FORGERS. 199 
 
 in the souls of these unhappy men. They had never 
 doubted the truth of revealed religion, although they 
 had fatally disregarded its precepts ; and now that re- 
 morse had given way to penitence, and nature had 
 become reconciled to the thought of inevitable death, 
 the light that had been darkened, but never extinguish- 
 ed in their hearts, rose up anew ; and knowing that 
 their souls were immortal, they humbly put their faith 
 in the mercy of their Creator and their Redeemer. 
 
 n It was during that resigned and serene hour, that 
 the old Man ventured to ask for the mother of his 
 poor unhappy boy. I told him the truth calmly, and 
 calmly he heard it all. On the day of his condemna- 
 tion, she had been deprived of her reason, and, in the 
 house of a kind friend, whose name he blessed, now 
 remained in merciful ignorance of all that had befallen, 
 believing herself, indeed, to be a motherless widow, 
 but one who had long ago lost her husband, and all 
 her children, in the ordinary course of nature. At 
 this recital his soul was satisfied. The son said no- 
 thing, but wept long and bitterly. 
 
 " The day of execution came at last. The great 
 city lay still as on the morning of the Sabbath-day ; 
 and all the ordinary business of life seemed, by one 
 consent of the many thousand hearts beating there, to 
 be suspended. But as the hours advanced, the fre- 
 quent tread of feet was heard in every avenue ; the 
 streets began to fill with pale, anxious, and impatient 
 faces ; and many eyes were turned to the dials on the
 
 200 THE FORGERS. 
 
 steeples, watching the silent progress of the finger of 
 time, till it should reach the point at which the cur- 
 tain was to be drawn up from before a most mourn- 
 ful tragedy. 
 
 " The hour was faintly heard through the thick 
 prison walls by us, who were together for the last 
 time in the condemned cell. I had administered to 
 them the most awful rite of our religion, and father 
 and son sat together as silent as death. The door of 
 the dungeon opened, and several persons came in. 
 One of them, who had a shrivelled bloodless face, and 
 small red fiery eyes, an old man, feeble and tottering, 
 but cruel in his decrepitude, laid hold of the son with 
 his palsied fingers, and began to pinion his arms with 
 a cord. No resistance was offered ; but, straight and 
 untrembling, stood that tall and beautiful youth, while 
 the fiend bound him for execution. At this mournful 
 sight, how could I bear to look on his father's face ? 
 Yet thither were mine eyes impelled by the agony 
 that afflicted my commiserating soul. During that 
 hideous gaze, he was insensible of the executioner's 
 approach towards himself; and all the time that the 
 cords were encircling his own arms, he felt them not, 
 — he saw nothing but his son standing at last before 
 him, ready for the scaffold. 
 
 " I dimly recollect a long dark vaulted passage, and 
 the echoing tread of footsteps, till all at once we stood 
 in a crowded hall, with a thousand eyes fixed on these 
 two miserable men. How unlike were they to all be-
 
 THE FOHUERs. 201 
 
 side ! They sat down together within the shadow of 
 death. Prayers were said, and a psalm was sung, in 
 which their voices were heard to join, with tones that 
 wrung out tears from the hardest or the most careless 
 heart. Often had I heard those voices singing in my 
 own peaceful church, before evil had disturbed, or 
 misery broken them ; — but the last word of the psalm 
 was sung, and the hour of their departure was come. 
 " They stood at last upon the scaffold. That long 
 street, that seemed to stretch away interminably from 
 the old Prison-house, was paved with uncovered heads, 
 for the moment these ghosts appeared, that mighty 
 crowd felt reverence for human nature so terribly 
 tried, and prayers and blessings, passionately ejacu- 
 lated, or convulsively stiffled, went hovering over all 
 the multitude, as if they feared some great calamity to 
 themselves, and felt standing on the first tremor of an 
 earthquake. 
 
 " It was a most beautiful summer's day on which 
 they were led out to die ; and as the old man raised 
 his eyes, for the last time, to the sky, the clouds lay 
 motionless on that blue translucent arch, and the sun 
 shone joyously over the magnificent heavens. It seem- 
 ed a day made for happiness or for mercy. But no 
 pardon dropt down from these smiling skies, and the 
 vast multitude were not to be denied the troubled 
 feast of death. Many who now stood there wished 
 they had been in the heart of some far-off wood or 
 glen ; there was shrieking and fainting, not only among
 
 202 THE FORGERS. 
 
 maids, and wives, and matrons, who had come there 
 in the mystery of their hearts, but men fell down in 
 their strength, — for it was an overwhelming thing to 
 behold a father and his only son now haltered for a 
 shameful death. " Is my father with me on the scaf- 
 fold? — give me his hand, for I see him not." I join- 
 ed their hands together, and at that moment the great 
 bell in the Cathedral tolled, but I am convinced neither 
 of them heard the sound For a moment there seem- 
 ed to be no such thing as sound in the world ; — and 
 then all at once the multitude heaved like the sea, and 
 uttered a wild yelling shriek — Their souls were in 
 eternity— and I fear not to say, not an eternity of 
 grief."
 
 THE FAMIJ.Y-TBYST. 
 
 203 
 
 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 The fire had received an addition of a large ash- 
 root and a heap of peats, and was beginning both to 
 crackle and blaze ; the hearth-stone was tidily swept 
 — the supper-table set — and every seat, bench, chair, 
 and stool occupied by its customary owner, except the 
 high-backed, carved, antique oaken armed-chair be- 
 longing exclusively to the Goodman. Innocence, 
 labour, contentment, and mirth were here all assem- 
 bled together in the wide low-roofed kitchen of this 
 sheltered farm-house, called, from its situation in a 
 low woody dell, The How ; and all that was want- 
 ing to make the happiness complete w r as Abel Alison 
 himself, the master and father of the family. It seem- 
 ed to them that he was rather later than usual in re- 
 turning from the city, whither he went every market- 
 day. But though it was a boisterous night in April, 
 with a good drift of snow going, they had no appre- 
 hensions whatever of his safety ; and when they heard 
 the trampling of his horse's feet on the gravel, up 
 sprung half-a-dozen creatures of various sizes to hail
 
 204 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 him at the door, and to conduct the colt, for so they 
 continued to call a horse now about fifteen years old, 
 to his fresh-strawed stall in the byre. All was right — 
 Abel entered with his usual smile, his wife helped him 
 off with his great-coat, which had a respectable sprink- 
 ling of snow, and stiffening of frost; he assumed his 
 usual seat, or, as his youngest son and namesake, who 
 was the wit of the family, called it, his throne, and 
 supper immediately smoking on the board, a blessing 
 was said, and a nourish of wooden spoons ensued. 
 
 Supper being over, and a contented silence prevail- 
 ing, with an occasional whispered remark of merriment 
 or affection circling round, Abel Alison rested himself 
 with more than his usual formality against the back of 
 his chair, and putting on not an unhappy, but a grave 
 face, told his wife, and family, and servants, all to 
 make up their minds to hear some very bad news 
 nearly affecting themselves. There was something 
 too anxiously serious in his look, voice, and attitude, 
 to permit a thought of his wishing to startle them for 
 a moment by some false alarm. So at once they were 
 all hushed — young and old — and turned towards their 
 father with fixed countenances and anxious eyes. 
 
 " Wife — and children — there is no need, surely, to 
 go round about the bush — I will tell you the worst in 
 a word. I am ruined. That is to say, all my pro- 
 perty is lost — gone — and we must leave the How. 
 There is no help for it — we must leave the How." 
 
 His wife's face grew pale, and for a short space she
 
 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 205 
 
 said nothing- A slight convulsive motion went over 
 all the circle as if they had been one body, or an elec- 
 tric shock had struck them all sitting together with 
 locked hands. " Leave the How !" one voice sobbing 
 exclaimed — it was a female voice — but it was not re- 
 peated, and it was uncertain from whom it came. 
 " Why, Abel," — said his wife calmly, who had now 
 perfectly recovered herself, " if we must leave the 
 How, we must leave a bonny sheltered spot, where 
 we have seen many happy days. But what then ? 
 surely there may be contentment found many a where 
 else besides in this cheerful room, and round about 
 our birken banks and braes. For mysel, I shall not 
 lose a night's rest at the thought, if you, Abel, can 
 bear it — and, God bless you, I have known you bear 
 a severer blow than this !" 
 
 Abel Alison was a free, warm-hearted man, of a 
 happy disposition, and always inclined to look at every 
 thing in a favourable light. He was also a most in- 
 dustrious hard-working man. But he could not al- 
 ways say " nay," — and what he earned with a month's 
 toil he had more than once lost by a moment's easy 
 good-nature. He had some time before imprudently 
 become surety for an acquaintance, who had no such 
 rightful claim upon him — that acquaintance was a man 
 of no principle — and Abel was now ruined — utterly 
 and irretrievably ruined. Under such circumstances, 
 he could not be altogether without self-reproach — and 
 the kind magnanimity of his wife now brought the
 
 206 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 tear into his eye. " Aye — aye — I was just the old 
 man in that foolish business. I should have remem- 
 bered you, Alice — and all my bairns. But I hope — 
 I know you will forgive me — for having thus been 
 the means of bringing you all to poverty." 
 
 Upon this, Abel's eldest son — a young man about 
 twenty years of age, stood up, and first looking with the 
 most respectful tenderness upon his Father, and then 
 with a cheerful smile upon all around, said, " Father, 
 never more utter these words — never more have these 
 thoughts. You have fed us — clothed us — educated 
 us— taught us what is our duty to God and man. It 
 rests with ourselves to practise it. We all love you — 
 Father — we are all grateful — we would all lay down 
 our lives to save yours. But there is no need for 
 that now. What has happened ? Nothing, Are we 
 not all well — all strong — cannot we all work ? As 
 God is my witness, and knows my heart, I now de- 
 clare, before you, Father, that this is not a visitation, 
 but it is a blessing. Now it will be tried whether we 
 love you, Father — whether you have prayed every 
 morning and every night for more than twenty years 
 for ungrateful children — whether your toil in sun and 
 rain, and snow, has been thankless toil — or whether 
 we will not all rally round your grey head, and find 
 it a pleasant shelter — a smooth pillow— and a plente- 
 ous board ;"— and with that he unconsciously planted 
 his foot more firmly on the floor, and stretched out 
 his right arm, standing there a tall, straight, powerful
 
 THE FAMII.Y-TRYST. 207 
 
 stripling, in whom there was visible protection and 
 succour for his parents and their declining age, 
 
 One spirit kindled over all — not a momentary flash 
 of enthusiasm, not a mere movement of pity and love 
 towards their Father, which might give way to dissa- 
 tisfaction and despondency, — but a true, deep, clear 
 reconcilement of their souls to their lot, and a resolu- 
 tion not to be shaken in its unquaking power by any 
 hardships either in anticipation or reality. Abel 
 Alison saw and felt this, and his soul burned within 
 him. " We shall all go to service — no shame in that. 
 But we shall have time enough to consider of all these 
 points before the term-day. We have some weeks be- 
 fore us at the How — and let us make the most of them. 
 Wife, children, are you all happy ?" 
 
 " All — all — perfectly happy — happier than ever," 
 — was the general burst of the reply. 
 
 " Stir up that fire — my merry little Abel," — said 
 the mother, — " and let us have a good, full, bright 
 blaze on your father's face — God bless him !" 
 
 Abel brandished an immense poker in both hands, 
 and after knitting his brows, and threatening to aim a 
 murderous blow on the temples of the beautiful little 
 Alice on her stool close to the ingle, and at her father's 
 feet, a practical joke that seemed infinitely amusing, he 
 gave the great ash root a thump that sent a thousand 
 sparkling gems up the wide chimney, and then plac- 
 ing the poker under it like a lever, he hoisted up the 
 burning mass, till a blaze of brightness dazzled all
 
 208 THE FAMILY-TKYST. 
 
 their eyes, and made Luath start up from his slumbers 
 on the hearth. 
 
 " Come, Alice" — said the father, for we must not 
 
 be cheated out of our music as well as our money 
 
 " let us have your song as usual, my bonny linnet 
 
 something that suits the season — cheerful and mourn- 
 ful at the same time — " Auld lang syne" or " Loch- 
 aber no more." " I will sing them baith — Father — 
 first the ane and then the ither" — and as her sweet 
 silver pipe trilled plaintively along, now and then 
 other voices, and among them that of old Abel's him- 
 self, were heard joining in the touching air. 
 
 " What think you o' the singing this night — my gude 
 dog, Luath ?" quoth little cunning Abel, taking the 
 dumb creature's offered paw into his hand. " But do 
 you know, Luath — you greedy fellow, who have often 
 stolen my cheese and bread on the hill when my head 
 was turned — though you are no thief either Luath — 
 I say, Sir, do you know that we are all going to be 
 — starved ? Come — here is the last mouthful of cake 
 you will ever have all the days of your life — hence- 
 forth you must eat grass like a sheep. Hold your 
 nose — Sir — there — one — two — three ! Steady — snap 
 — swallow ! Well catched ! Digest that and be thank- 
 ful." 
 
 " Children," said the old Man, " suppose we make a 
 Family-Tryst, which, if we be all alive, let us religious- 
 ly keep — aye — religiously, for it will be a day either of 
 fast or of thanksgiving. Let us all meet on the term- 
 
 11
 
 THE KAMILY-TltVST. 209 
 
 day, that is, I believe, the twelfth of May come a twelve- 
 month, on the green plot of ground beside the Shaw 
 Linn, in which we have for so many years washed our 
 sheep. It is a bonny, lown, quiet spot, where nobody 
 will come to disturb us. We will all meet together 
 before the gloaming, and compare the stories of our 
 year's life and doings, and say our prayers together 
 in the open air, and beneath the moon and stars." 
 The proposal was joyfully agreed to by all. 
 
 Family worship was now performed. Abel Alison 
 prayed as fervently, and with as grateful a heart as he 
 had done the night before. For his piety ^did not keep 
 an account current of debtor and creditor with God. 
 All was God's — of his own he had nothing. God had 
 chosen to vary to him the mode and place of his few 
 remaining years on earth. Was that a cause for re- 
 pining ? God had given him health, strength, a loving 
 Avife, dutiful children, a good conscience. No palsy 
 had stricken him — no lever devoured him — no blind- 
 ness darkened his path. Only a few grey hairs were 
 as yet sprinkled among the black. His boys could 
 bear being looked at and spoken to in any com- 
 pany, gentle or simple ; and his daughters, they were 
 like the water-lilies, that are serene in the calm 
 clear water, but no less serene among the black and 
 scowling waves. So Abel Alison and all his family 
 lay down on their beds ; and long before midnight 
 they were all fast asleep. 
 
 The time came when the farm — the bonny farm of
 
 210 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 the How was given up, and another family took posses- 
 sion. Abel's whole stock was taken by the new tenant, 
 who was a good, and honest, and merciful man, at a 
 fair valuation. With the sum thus got, Abel paid all his 
 debts— that large fatal one — and his few small ones 
 at the Carpenter's shop, the Smithy, and Widow An- 
 derson's, the green, grey, black, brown, and white 
 grocer of the village ; and then he and his family were 
 left without a shilling. Yet none pitied them — they 
 were above pity. They would all have scorned either 
 to beg or borrow, for many of their neighbours were 
 as poor, and not a great many much richer than them- 
 selves after all ; and therefore they set their cheerful 
 faces against the blast, and it was never felt to touch 
 them. The eldest son immediately hired himself at 
 high wages, for his abilities, skill, and strength were 
 well known, as head servant with the richest far- 
 mer in the next parish — which was famous for its agri- 
 culture. The second son, who was of an ingenious 
 and thoughtful cast of character, engaged himself as 
 one of the under gardeners at Pollock-Castle — and the 
 third, Abel the wag, became a shepherd with an old 
 friend of his father's, within a few hundred yards of 
 the How. The eldest daughter went into service in 
 the family of the Laird of Southfield, one of the most 
 respectable in the parish. The second was kindly 
 taken into the Manse as a nurse to the younger chil- 
 dren, and a companion to the elder — and Alice, who, 
 from her sweet voice, was always called the Linnet,
 
 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 211 
 
 became a shepherdess along with her brother Abel. 
 The mother went to the Hall to manage the dairy— 
 the Baronet being a great man for cheese and butter— 
 and the lather lived with her in a small cottage near 
 the Hall-gate, employing himself in every kind of 
 work that offered itself, for he was a neat-handed man, 
 and few things, our of doors or in, came amiss to his 
 fingers, whether it required a delicate touch or a strong 
 blow. Thus were they all settled to their hearts' con- 
 tent before the hedgerows were quite green — and 
 though somewhat scattered, yet were they all within 
 two hours' journey of each other, and their hearts were 
 all as close together as when inhabiting the sweet, lown, 
 bird-nest-like cottage of the How. 
 
 The year with all its seasons fleeted happily by — 
 the long warm months of summer, when the night 
 brings coolness rather than the shut of light — the fit- 
 ful, broken, and tempestuous Autumn — the Winter, 
 whose short, but severe days of toil in the barn, and 
 cheerful fireside-nights, with all their work, and all 
 their amusements — soon — too soon, it is often felt, 
 give way to the open weather and active life of Spring 
 — the busy, working, enlivening Spring itself — were 
 now flown by — and it was now the day of the Farni* 
 ly- Tryst, the dear Twelfth Day of the beautiful but 
 capricious month of May. 
 
 Had any one died whose absence would clamp the 
 joy and hilarity of the Family-Tryst, and make it a 
 meeting for the shedding of tears ? No. A kind God
 
 212 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 had counted the beatings of every pulse, and kept the 
 blood of them all in a tranquil flow. The year had 
 not passed by without many happy greetings — they 
 had met often and often — at church — at market — on 
 chance visits at neighbours' houses — and not rarely at 
 the cottage at the Hall-gate. There had been nothing 
 deserving the name of separation. Yet, now that the 
 hour of the Family-Tryst was near at hand, all their 
 hearts bounded within them, and they saw before them 
 all day, that smooth verdant plat, and heard the de- 
 lightful sound of that Waterfall. 
 
 The day had been cheerful, both with breezes and 
 with sunshine, and not a rain-cloud had shown itself in 
 the sky. Towards the afternoon the wind fell, and na- 
 ture became more serenely beautiful every minute as 
 the evening was coming on with its silent dews. The 
 Parents came first to the Trysting-place, cheered, as 
 they approached it down the woody glen, by the deep- 
 ening voice of the Shaw-linn. Was that small turf- 
 built Altar, and the circular turf-seat that surrounded 
 it, built by fairy hands ? They knew at once that 
 some of their happy children had so employed a few 
 leisure evening hours, and they sat down on the little 
 mound with hearts overflowing with silent — perhaps 
 speechless gratitude. 
 
 But they sat not long there by themselves— beloved 
 faces, at short intervals, came smiling upon them — 
 one through the coppice-wood, where there was no 
 path — another across the meadow — a third appeared
 
 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 213 
 
 with a gladsome shout on the cliff of the waterfall — 
 a fourth seemed to rise out of the very ground before 
 them — and last of all came, preceded by the sound of 
 laughter and of song, with which the calm air was 
 stirred, Abel and Alice, the fairies who had reared 
 that green grassy Altar, and who, from their covert in 
 the shade, had been enjoying the gradual assemblage. 
 " Blessings be to our God — not a head is wanting," 
 said the Father, unable to contain his tears — " this 
 night could I die in peace !" 
 
 Little Abel and Alice, who, from their living so 
 near the spot, had taken upon themselves the whole 
 management of the evening's ceremonial, brought 
 forth from a bush where they had concealed them, a 
 basket of bread and cheese and butter, a jar of milk, 
 and another of honey — and placed them upon the turf 
 —as if they had been a rural gift to some rural deity. 
 " I thought you would be all hungry," said Abel, 
 " after your trudge — and as for Simon there, the jolly 
 gardener, he will eat all the kibbock himself, if I do 
 not keep a sharp eye upon him. Simon was always a 
 sure hand at a meal. But, Alice, reach me over the 
 milk-jar. Ladies and gentlemen, all your very good 
 healths — Our noble selves." This was felt to be very 
 fair wit of Abel's — and there was an end to the old 
 Man's tears. 
 
 " I vote," quoth Abel, " that every man (beginning 
 with myself, who will be the oldest man among you 
 when I have lived long enough) give an account of
 
 214 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 himself, and produce whatever of the ready rhino he 
 may have made, found, or stolen, since he left the 
 How. However, I will give way to my Father — now 
 for it, Father — let us hear if you have been a good 
 boy." " Will that imp never hold its tongue ?" cried 
 the mother, making room for him at the same time 
 on the turf seat by her side — and beckoning him with 
 a smile, which he obeyed, to occupy it. 
 
 " Well then," quoth the Father, " I have not been 
 sitting with my hands folded, or leaning on my el- 
 bows. Among other small matters, I have helped to 
 lay about half-a-mile of high road on the Macadam 
 plan, across the lang quagmire on the Mearns Muir, 
 so that nobody need be sucked in there again for fifty 
 years to come at the very soonest. With my own 
 single pair of hands I have built about thirty rood of 
 stone-dike five feet high, with two rows of through- 
 stones, connecting Saunders Mill's garden- wall with 
 the fence round the Fir Belt. I have delved to some 
 decent purpose on some half score of neighbours' kail- 
 yards, and clipped their hedges round and straight, 
 not forgetting to dock a bit off the tails o' some o' the 
 peacocks and outlandish birds on that queer auld- 
 fashioned terrace at Mallets-Heugh. I cannot have 
 mown under some ten braid Scots acres of rye-grass 
 and meadow hay together, but finding my back stiff 
 in the stooping, I was a stooker and a bandster on the 
 Corn-rigs. I have threshed a few thrieves in the 
 minister's barn— prime oats they were, for the glebe
 
 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 215 
 
 had been seven years in lea. I have gone some dozen 
 times to Lesmahago for the clear-lowing coals, a drive 
 of forty miles back and forward I'se warrant it. I 
 have feDed and boughed about forty ash-trees, and 
 lent a hand now and then in the saw-pit. I also let 
 some o' the daylight into the fir wood at Hallside, 
 and made a bonny bit winding walk along the burn- 
 side for the young ladies' feet. So, to make a long 
 story short, there is a receipt (clap a bit o' turf on't, 
 Abel, to keep it frae fleeing off the daisies) from the 
 Savings Bank, for L. 25, 13s. signed by Baillie Trum- 
 bell's ain hand. That is a sight gude for sair een ! 
 Now, Mrs Alison, for I must give you the title you 
 bear at the Hall, what say you ?" 
 
 " I have done nothing but superintend the mak- 
 ing o' butter and cheese, the one as rich as Dutch, 
 and the other preferable to Stilton. My wages are 
 just fifteen pounds, and there they are. Lay them 
 down beside your Father's receipt. But I have more 
 to tell. If ever we are able to take a bit farm of our 
 own again, my Lady has promised to give me the 
 Ayrshire Hawkie, that yields sixteen pints a-day for 
 months at a time, o' real rich milkness. She would 
 bring L. 20 in any market. So count that L. 35, my 
 bonny bairns. Speak out my Willy, no fear but you 
 have a good tale to tell." 
 
 " There is a receipt for thirty pounds, lent this 
 blessed day, at five per cent, to auld Laird Shaw — as 
 safe as the ground we tread upon. My wages are
 
 216 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 forty pounds a-year — as you know — and I have twice 
 got the first prize at the Competition o' Ploughmen — 
 thanks to you father for that. The rest of the money 
 is gone upon fine clothes and upon the bonny lasses on 
 a Fair-day. Why should not we have our enjoyments 
 in this world as well as richer folk ?" " God bless you, 
 Willy," said the old Man ; " you would not let me nor 
 your mother part with our Sunday's clothes-, when 
 that crash came upon us — though we were willing to 
 do so, to right all our creditors. You became surety 
 for the amount — and you have paid it — I know that. 
 Well — it may not be worth speaking about — but it is 
 worth thinking about — Willy — and a Father need not 
 be ashamed to receive a kindness from his own flesh 
 and blood." 
 
 " It is my turn now," said Andrew, the young gar- 
 dener. " There is twelve pounds — and next year it 
 will be twenty. I am to take the flower-garden into 
 my own hand — and let the Paisley florists look after 
 their pinks, and tulips, and anemones, or I know 
 where the prizes will come after this. There's a 
 bunch o' flowers for you, Alice — if you put them in 
 water they will live till the Sabbath-day, and you may 
 put some of them into your bonnet. Father, William 
 said he had to thank you for his ploughmanship — so 
 have I for my gardening. And wide and rich as the 
 flower-garden is that I am to take now under my own 
 hand, do you think I will ever love it better, or sa weel, 
 as the bit plot on the bank-side, with its bower in the 
 
 10
 
 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 217 
 
 corner, the birks hanging ower it without keeping off 
 the sun, and the clear burnie wimpling away at its 
 foot ? There I first delved with a small spade o' my 
 ain — you put the shaft in yourself — Father — and, 
 trust me, it will be a while before that piece o' wood 
 gangs into the fire." 
 
 " Now for my speech," — said Abel, — " short and 
 sweet is my motto. I like something pithy. Lo ami 
 behold a mowdiwart's skin, with five and forty shill- 
 ings in silver ! It goes to my heart to part with them. 
 Mind, father, I only lend them to you. And if you 
 do not repay them with two shillings and better of in- 
 terest next May-day, Old Style, I will put the affair 
 into the hands of scranky Pate Orr, the writer at 
 Thorny-Bank. But, hold — will you give me what is 
 called heritable security ? That means land, doesn't 
 it ? Well, then, turf is land — and I thus fling down 
 the mowdiwart purse on the turf — and that is lending 
 money on heritable security." A general laugh re- 
 warded this ebullition of genius from Abel, who re- 
 ceived such plaudits with a face of cunning solem- 
 nity, — and then the eldest daughter meekly took up 
 the word and said — " My wages were nine pounds — 
 there they are !" " Oh ! ho," cried Abel, " who gave 
 you, Agnes, that bonny blue spotted silk handkerchief 
 round your neck, and that bonny but gae droll pat- 
 tern'd goun ? You had not these at the How — may be 
 you got them from your sweetheart;" — and Agnes
 
 218 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 blushed in her innocence like the beautiful flower, 
 " Celestial rosy red. Love's proper hue." 
 
 The little Nourice from the Manse laid down on the 
 turf without speaking, but with a heartsorae smile, her 
 small wage of four pounds — and, last of all, the little, 
 fair-haired, blue-eyed, snowy-skinned Alice the shep- 
 herdess, with motion soft as light, and with a voice sweet 
 as an air-harp, placed her wages too beside the rest — 
 " There is a golden guinea — it is to be two next year, 
 and so on till I am fifteen. Every little helps." And 
 her father took her to his heart, and kissed her glis- 
 tening ringlets and her smiling eyes, that happily shut 
 beneath the touch of his loving lips, 
 
 By this time the sun had declined — and the sweet 
 sober gloaming was about to melt into the somewhat 
 darker beauty of a summer night. The air was now 
 still and silent, as if unseen creatures that had been 
 busy there had all gone to rest. The mavis that had 
 been singing loud, and mellow, and clear, on the 
 highest point of a larch, now and then heard by the 
 party in their happiness, had flitted down to be near 
 his mate on her nest within the hollow root of an old 
 ivy-wreathed yew-tree. The snow-white coney look- 
 ed out from the coppice, and bending his long ears to- 
 wards the laughing scene, drew back unstartled into 
 the thicket. " Nay — nay — Luath," whispered Abel, 
 patting his dog, that was between his knees, " you 
 must not kill the poor bit white rabbit. But if a 
 maukin would show herself, I would let thee take a
 
 THE FAMILY-TKYST. 219 
 
 brattle after her through the wood. For she could 
 only cock her fud at a' thy yelping, and land thee in 
 a net o' briars to scratch thy hide and tangle thy tail 
 in. You canna catch a maukin — Luath — they're ower 
 soople for you, you fat lazy tyke." 
 
 The old man now addressed his children with a fer- 
 vent voice, and told them that their dutiful behaviour 
 to him, their industrious habits, their moral conduct in 
 general, and their regard to their religious duties, all 
 made them a blessing to him, for which he never could 
 be sufficiently thankful to the Giver of all mercies. 
 " Money," said he, " is well called the root of all evil 
 
 but not so now. There it lies — upon that turf — an 
 
 offering from poor children to their poor parents. It is 
 a beautiful sight — my bairns — but your parents need 
 it not. They have enough. May God for ever bless 
 you — my dear bairns. — That night at the How, I said 
 this meeting would be either a fast or a thanksgiving ; 
 and that we would praise God with a prayer, and also 
 the voice of psalms. No house is near — no path by 
 which any one will be coming at this quiet hour. So 
 let us worship our Maker — here is the Bible." 
 
 " Father," said the eldest son, " will you wait a few 
 minutes — for I am every moment expecting two dear 
 friends to join us ? Listen, I hear footsteps, and the 
 sound of voices round the corner of the coppice. They 
 are at hand." 
 
 A beautiful young woman, dressed almost in the 
 same manner as a farmer's daughter, but with a sort of
 
 220 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 sylvan grace about her, that seemed to denote a some- 
 what higher station, now appeared, along with a youth, 
 who might be her brother. Kindly greetings were 
 interchanged, and room being made for them, they 
 formed part of the circle round the Altar of turf. A 
 sweet surprise was in the hearts of the party at this 
 addition to their number, and every face brightened 
 with a new delight. " That is bonny Sally Mather 
 of the Burn-House," whispered little Alice to her 
 brother Abel. " She passed me ae day on the brae, 
 and made me the present of a comb for my hair you 
 ken, when you happened to be on the ither side o' the 
 wood ! Oh ! Abel, has nae she the bonniest and the 
 sweetest een that ever you saw smile ?" 
 
 This young woman, who appeared justly so beauti- 
 ful in the eyes of little Alice, was even more so in 
 those of her eldest brother. She was sitting at his 
 side, and the wide earth did not contain two happier 
 human beings than these humble, virtuous, and sin- 
 cere lovers. Sally Mather was the beauty of the pa- 
 rish ; and she was also an heiress, or rather now the 
 owner of the Burn-House, a farm worth about a hun- 
 dred a-year, and one of the pleasantest situations in a 
 parish remarkable for the picturesque and romantic 
 character of its scenery. She had received a much 
 better education than young women generally do in 
 her rank of life, her father having been a common far- 
 mer, but, by successful skill and industry, having been 
 enabled, in the decline of life, to purchase the farm
 
 THE FAMII.Y-TRYST. 221 
 
 which he had improved to such a pitch of beautiful 
 cultivation. Her heart William Alison had won — and 
 now she had been for some days betrothed to him as 
 his bride. He now informed his parents, and his 
 brothers and sisters of this ; and proud was he, and 
 better than proud, when they all bade God bless her, 
 and when his father and mother took her each by the 
 hand, and kissed her, and wept over her in the ful- 
 ness of their exceeding joy. 
 
 "■ We are to be married at mid-summer ; and, father 
 and mother, before the winter sets in, there shall be a 
 dwelling ready for you, not quite so roomy as our old 
 house at the How, but a bonny bield for you, I hope, 
 for many a year to come. It is not a quarter of a mile 
 from our own house, and we shall not charge you a 
 high rent for it, and the two three fields about it. 
 You shall be a farmer again, Father, and no fear of 
 ever being turned out again, be the lease short or 
 long." 
 
 Fair Sally Mather joined her lover in this request 
 with her kindly smiling eyes, and what greater hap- 
 piness could there be to such parents than to think of 
 passing the remainder of their declining life near such 
 a son, and such a pleasant being as their new daugh- 
 ter ? " Abel and I," cried little Alice, unable to re- 
 press her joyful affection, " will live with you again 
 — I will do all the work about the house that I am 
 strong enough for, and Abel, you ken, is as busy 
 as the unwearied bee, and will help my Father about
 
 222 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 the fields, better and better every year. May we 
 come home to you from service, Abel and I ?" 
 " Are you not happy enough where you are?" asked 
 the Mother, with a loving voice. " Happy or not 
 happy," quoth Abel, " home we come at the term, as 
 sure as that is the cuckoo. Harken how the dunce 
 keeps repeating his own name, as if any body did not 
 know it already. Yonder he goes — with his titling at 
 his tail — people talk of the cuckoo never being seen 
 — why, I cannot open my eyes without seeing either 
 him or his wife. Well, as I was saying — Father — home 
 Alice and I come at the term. Pray, what wages ?" 
 
 But what brought the young Laird of Southfield 
 here ? thought the Mother — while a dim and remote 
 suspicion, too pleasant, too happy, to be true, past 
 across her maternal heart. Her sweet Agnes was a 
 servant in his father's house— and though that father 
 was a laird, and lived on his own land, yet he was in 
 the very same condition of life as her husband, Abel 
 Alison — they had often sat at each other's table — and 
 her bonny daughter was come of an honest kind, and 
 would not disgrace any husband either in his own 
 house, or a neighbour's, or in his seat in the kirk. Such 
 passing thoughts were thickening in the Mother's 
 breast, and perhaps not wholly unknow r n also to the 
 Father's, when the young man, looking towards Agnes, 
 who could not lift up her eyes from the ground, said, 
 *« My Father is willing and happy that I should mar- 
 ry the daughter of Abel Alison. For he wishes me
 
 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 223 
 
 no other wife than the virtuous daughter of an honest 
 man. And I will be happy — if my Agnes make as 
 good a wife as her mother." 
 
 A perfect blessedness now filled the souls of Abel 
 Alison and his wife. One year ago, and they were, 
 what is called, utterly ruined — they put their trust in 
 God — and now they received their reward. But their 
 pious and humble hearts did not feel it to be a reward, 
 for in themselves they were conscious of no desert. 
 The joy came from Heaven, undeserved by them, and 
 with silent thanksgiving and adoration did they re- 
 ceive it, like dew into their opening spirits. 
 
 " Rise up, Alice, and let us have a dance," and with 
 these words little Abel caught his unreluctant sister 
 round the waist and whirled her off into the open 
 green, as smooth as a floor. The young gardener took 
 from his pocket a German-flute, and began warbling 
 away, with much flourishing execution, the gay lively 
 air of " Oure the water to Charlie," and the happy 
 children, who had been one winter at the dancing- 
 school, and had often danced by themselves on the fairy 
 rings on the hill-side, glided through the gloaming in 
 all the mazes of a voluntary and extemporaneous duett. 
 And then, descending suddenly and beautifully from 
 the very height of glee into a composed gladness, left 
 off the dance in a moment, and again seated them- 
 selves in the applauding circle. 
 
 " I have dropped my library out of my pocket," 
 said Abel, springing up again—" yonder it is lying 
 
 11
 
 224 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 
 
 on the green. That last touch of the Highland Fling 
 jerked it out. Here it is — bonny Robbie Burns — the 
 Twa Dogs — the Vision — the Cottar's Saturday Night 
 — and many — many a gay sang — and some sad anes, 
 which I leave to Alice there, and other bits o' tender- 
 hearted lassies — but fun and frolic for my money." 
 
 " I would not give my copy o' Allan Ramsay," re- 
 plied Alice, " for a stall fu' of Burns' s, — at least gin 
 the Saturday Night was clipped out. When did he 
 ever make sic a poem as the Gentle Shepherd ? Tell 
 me that, Abel ? Dear me, but is na this sweet quiet 
 place, and the linn there, and the trees, and this green 
 plat, just as bonnie as Habbie's How ? Might na a 
 bonny poem be made just about ourselves a' sitting 
 here sae happy — and my brother going to marry 
 bonny Sally Mather, and my sister the young laird o' 
 Southfield ? I'se warrant, if Allan Ramsay had been 
 alive, and one of the party, he would have put us a' 
 into a poem — and aiblins called it the Family-Tryst." 
 " I will do that myself," said Abel — K I am a dab at 
 verse. I made some capital ones just yesterday after- 
 noon — I wrote them down on my sclate below the sum 
 total ; but some crumbs had fallen out o' my pouch on 
 the sclate, and Luath, licking them up, licked out a" 
 my fine poems. — I could greet to think o't." 
 
 But now the moon showed her dazzling crescent 
 right over their heads, — as if she had issued gleaming 
 forth from the deep blue of that very spot of heaven in 
 which she hung ; and fainter or brighter, far and wide
 
 THE FAMILY-TRYST. 225 
 
 over the firmament, was seen the great host of stars. The 
 Old Man reverently uncovered his head; and, looking 
 up to the diffused brilliancy of the magnificent arch 
 of heaven, he solemnly exclaimed, " The heavens de- 
 clare the glory of God ; and the firmament showeth 
 forth his handy work. Day unto day uttereth speech, 
 and night unto night sheweth knowledge. My child- 
 ren let us kneel down and pray." They did so ; and, 
 on rising from that prayer, the mother, looking to- 
 wards her husband, said, " I have been young, and 
 now am old ; yet have I not seen the righteous for- 
 saken, nor his seed begging bread."
 
 226 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 Allan Bruce and Fanny Raeburn were in no re- 
 spect remarkable among the simple inhabitants of the 
 village in which they were born. They both bore a 
 fair reputation in the parish, and they were both belov- 
 ed by their own friends and relations. He was sober, 
 honest, active, and industrious, — exemplary in the 
 common duties of private life, — possessed of the hum- 
 ble virtues becoming his humble condition, and unstain- 
 ed by any of those gross vices that sometimes deform 
 the character of the poor. She was modest, good tem- 
 pered, contented, and religious — and much is contain- 
 ed in these four words. Beauty she was not thought 
 to possess — nor did she attract attention ; but what- 
 ever charm resides in pure health, innocence of heart, 
 and simplicity of manners, that belonged to Fanny 
 Raeburn ; while there was nothing either about her 
 face or figure to prevent her seeming even beautiful in 
 the eyes of a lover. 
 
 These two humble and happy persons were be- 
 trothed in marriage. Their affection had insensibly
 
 BLIND ALLAN. ^~7 
 
 grown without any courtship, for they had lived daily 
 in each other's sight; and, undisturbed by jealousy or 
 rivalry, by agitating hopes or depressing fears, their 
 hearts had been tenderly united long before their 
 troth was solemnly pledged ; and they now looked 
 forward with a calm and rational satisfaction to the 
 happy years, which they humbly hoped might be 
 stored up for them by a bountiful Providence. Their 
 love was without romance, but it was warm, ten- 
 der, and true ; they were prepared by its strength to 
 make any sacrifice for each other's sakes ; and, had 
 death taken away either of them before the wedding- 
 day, the survivor might not perhaps have been cla- 
 morous in grief, or visited the grave of the depart- 
 ed with nightly lamentations, but not the less would 
 that grief have been sincere, and not the less faithful 
 would memory have been to all the images of the 
 past. 
 
 Their marriage-day was fixed — and Allan Bruce 
 had rented a small cottage, with a garden sloping 
 down to the stream that cheered his native vil- 
 lage. Thither, in about two months, he was to take 
 his sweet and affectionate Fanny — she was to work 
 with her needle as before — and he in the fields. No 
 change was to take place in their lives, but a change 
 from contentment to happiness ; and if God prolong- 
 ed to them the possession of health, and blessed them 
 with children, they feared not to bring them decently 
 up, and to afford sunshine and shelter to the living
 
 228 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 flowers that might come to gladden their house. Such 
 thoughts visited the souls of the lovers, — and they 
 were becoming dearer and dearer to one another every 
 hour that brought them closer to their marriage-day. 
 At this time Allan began to feel a slight dimness in 
 his sight, of which he did not take much notice, at- 
 tributing it to some indisposition brought on by the 
 severity of his winter's work. For he had toiled late 
 and early, during all weathers, and at every kind of 
 labour, to gain a sum sufficient to furnish respectably 
 his lowly dwelling, and also to array his sweet bride 
 in wedding-clothes of which she should not need to 
 be ashamed. The dimness, however, each succeeding 
 day, darkened and deepened, till even his Fanny's 
 face was indistinctly discerned by him, and he lost al- 
 together the smile which never failed to brighten it 
 whenever he appeared. Then he became sad and dis- 
 pirited, for the fear of blindness fell upon him, and he 
 thought of his steps being led in his helplessness by 
 the hand of a child. He prayed to God to avert this 
 calamity from him — but if not, to bestow upon him 
 the virtue of resignation. He thought of the differ- 
 ent blind men whom he had known, and as far as he 
 knew, they all seemed happy. That belief pacified 
 his soul, when it was about to give way to a passion- 
 ate despair ; and every morning at sunrise when the 
 fast advancing verdure of spring seemed more dim 
 and glimmering before his eyes, he felt his soul more 
 and more resigned to that final extinction of the day's
 
 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 229 
 
 blessed light, which he knew must be his doom before 
 the earth was covered with the flowers and fragrance 
 of June. 
 
 It was as he had feared ; and Allan Bruce was now 
 stone-blind. Fanny's voice had always been sweet to 
 his ear, and now it was sweeter still when heard in 
 the darkness. Sweet had been the kisses which breath- 
 ed from Fanny's lips, while his eyes delighted in their 
 rosy freshness. But sweeter were they now when 
 they touched his eyelids, and he felt upon his cheeks 
 her fast trickling tears. She visited him in his father's 
 house, and led him with her gently guiding hands in- 
 to the adjacent fields, and down along the stream 
 which he said he liked to hear murmuring by ; and 
 then they talked together about themselves, and on 
 their knees prayed to God to counsel them what to do 
 in their distress. 
 
 These meetings were always happy meetings to 
 them both, notwithstanding the many mournful 
 thoughts with which they were necessarily attend- 
 ed ; but to Allan Bruce they yielded a support that 
 did not forsake him in his hours of uncompanioned 
 darkness. His love, which had formerly been joyful 
 in the warmth of youth, and in the near prospect of 
 enjoyment, was now chastened by the sad sense of his 
 unfortunate condition, and rendered thereby a deep 
 and devout emotion which had its comfort in its own 
 unwitnessed privacy and imperishable truth. The 
 tones of his Fanny's voice were with him on his mid-
 
 230 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 night bed, when his affliction was like to overcome his 
 fortitude ; and to know that he was still tenderly be- 
 loved by that gentle and innocent friend, was a thought 
 that gave light to darkness, and suffered sleep to fall 
 balmily on lids that shut up eyes already dark as in 
 profoundest slumber. The meek fold of her pitying 
 embrace was Avith him in the vague uncertainty of his 
 dreams ; and often he saw faces in his sleep beaming 
 consolation upon him, that always assumed at last 
 Fanny's features, and as they grew more distinct, 
 brightened up into a perfect likeness of his own faithful 
 and disinterested maiden. He lay down with her 
 image, because it was in his evening prayers ; he rose 
 up with her image, or it came gliding in upon him, 
 as he knelt down at his bed-side in the warm beams 
 of the unseen morning light. 
 
 Allan and Fanny were children of poor parents ; 
 and when he became blind, they, and indeed all their 
 friends and relations, set their faces against this mar- 
 riage. This they did in kindness to them both, for 
 prudence is one of the best virtues of the poor, and to 
 indulge even the holiest affections of our nature, seems 
 to them to be sinful, if an infliction from God's hand 
 intimates that such union would lead to sorrow and 
 distress. The same thoughts had taken possession of 
 Allan's own soul ; and loving Fanny Raeburn, with 
 a perfect affection, why should he wish her, in the 
 bright and sunny days of her youthful prime, to be- 
 come chained to a Blind Man's steps, kept in comtant
 
 BLIND ALLAN. 231 
 
 poverty and drudgery for his sake, and imprisoned in 
 a lonesome hut, during the freedom of her age, and 
 the joyfulness of nature ringing over the earth ? " It 
 has pleased God," said the Blind Man to himself, " that 
 our marriage should not be. Let Fanny, if she 
 chooses, some time or other, marry another, and be 
 happy." And as the thought arose, he felt the bit- 
 terness of the cup, and wished that he might soon be 
 in his grave. 
 
 For, while his eyes were not thus dark, he saw 
 many things that gave him pleasure, besides his Fanny, 
 well as he loved her ; nor had his been an absorbing 
 passion, although most sincere. He had often been 
 happy at his work, with his companions, in the amuse- 
 ments of his age and condition, with the members of 
 his own family, without thinking even of his dear 
 Fanny Raeburn. She was not often, to be sure, en- 
 tirely out of his thoughts, for the consciousness of 
 loving her, and of being beloved, accompanied his 
 steps, although he scarcely knew it, just as one who 
 lives on a lake side, or by the murmur of a stream, 
 may feel the brightness and the shadows of the one, 
 and hear the constant music of the other, mingling as 
 a remembrance or a dream with the impressions, 
 thoughts, passions, and feelings of his ordinary hu- 
 man life. But now, what had been less pleasant or 
 necessary to him all faded away, and he saw in his 
 darkness one image only — Fanny Raeburn — he heard 
 in his darkness one sound only— Fanny Raeburn's
 
 232 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 voice. Was she to smile in another man's house? 
 Surely, that could not be ; for her smiles were his, 
 and to transfer them to another, seemed to him to be 
 as impossible, as for a mother to forget her own child- 
 ren, and pour with equal fondness her smiles upon the 
 face of another who belonged not to her blood. Yet such 
 transference, such forgetfulness, such sad change had 
 been, that he well knew, even in " the short and simple 
 annals of the poor," which alone he had read ; and who 
 would blame, who would pity, who would remember 
 the case of the deserted, and forsaken poor Blind 
 Man? 
 
 Fanny Raeburn had always been a dutiful child, 
 and she listened to the arguments of her parents with 
 a heavy but composed heart. She was willing to obey 
 them in all things in which it was her duty to obey- 
 but here she knew not what was her duty. To give 
 up Allan Bruce was a thought far worse to her than 
 to give up life. It was to suffer her heartstrings to 
 be hourly torn up by the roots. If the two were 
 willing to be married, why should any one else inter- 
 fere ? If God had stricken Allan with blindness after 
 their marriage, would any one have counselled her to 
 leave him ? Or pitied her because she had to live with 
 her own blind husband ? Or would the fear of pover- 
 ty have benumbed her feelings? Or rather would it 
 not have given new alacrity to her hands, and new 
 courage to her heart ? So she resolved, meekly and 
 calmly, to tell Allan that she would be his wife, and
 
 BLIND ALLAN. 233 
 
 that she believed that such was, in spite of this inflic- 
 tion, the will of God. 
 
 Allan Bruce did not absent himself, in his blindness, 
 from the House of God. One Sabbath, after divine 
 service, Fanny went up to him in the church-yard, 
 and putting her arm in his, they walked away to- 
 gether, seemingly as cheerful as the rest of the con- 
 gregation, only with somewhat slower and more cau- 
 tious steps. They proceeded along the quiet meadow- 
 fields by the banks of the stream, and then across the 
 smooth green braes, till they gently descended into a 
 holm, and sat down together in a little green bower, 
 which a few hazels, mingling with one tall weeping 
 birch, had of themselves framed; a place where they had 
 often met before Allan was blind, and where they had 
 first spoken of a wedded life. Fanny could have al- 
 most wept to see the earth, and the sky, and the 
 whole day, so beautiful, now that Allan's eyes were 
 dark ; but he whispered to her, that the smell of the 
 budding trees, and of the primroses that he knew were 
 near his feet, was pleasant indeed, and that the sing- 
 ing of all the little birds made his heart dance within 
 him — so Fanny sat beside her blind lover in serene 
 happiness, and felt strengthened in her conviction that 
 it was her duty to become his wife. 
 
 " Allan — I love you so entirely — that to see you 
 happy is all that I desire on earth. Till God made 
 you blind — Allan — I knew not how my soul could be 
 knit unto yours — I knew not the love that was in my
 
 234 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 heart. To sit by you with my work — to lead you out 
 thus on pleasant Sabbaths — to take care that your feet 
 do not stumble — and that nothing shall ever offer 
 violence to your face — to suffer no solitude to surround 
 you — but that you may know, in your darkness, that 
 mine eyes, which God still permits to see, are always 
 upon you — for these ends, Allan, will I marry thee, my 
 beloved — thou must not say nay — for God would not 
 forgive me if I became not thy wife." And Fanny 
 fell upon his neck and wept. 
 
 There was something in the quiet tone of her voice 
 — something in the meek fold of her embrace — some- 
 thing in the long weeping kiss that she kept breathing 
 tenderly over his brow and eyes — that justified to the 
 Blind Man his marriage with such a woman. " Let 
 us be married, Fanny, on the day fixed before I lost 
 my sight. Till now I knew not fully either your 
 
 heart or my own — now I fear nothing. Would my 
 
 best friend — I could but see thy sweet face for one 
 single moment now— but that can never be !" — " All 
 things are possible to God — and although to human 
 skill your case is hopeless — it is not utterly so to my 
 heart — yet if ever it becomes so, Allan, then will I 
 love thee better even than I do now, if indeed my 
 heart can contain more affection than that with which 
 it now overflows." 
 
 Allan Bruce and Fanny Raebum were married. 
 And although there was felt, by the most careless 
 heart, to be something sad and solemn in such nup-
 
 BLIND ALLAN. 235 
 
 tials, yet Allan made his marriage-day one of sober 
 cheerfulness in his native village. Fanny wore her 
 white ribbands in the very way that used to be pleas- 
 ant to Allan's eyes ; and blind as he now was, these 
 eyes kindled with a joyful smile, when he turned the 
 clear sightless orbs towards his bride, and saw her 
 within his soul arrayed in the simple white dress 
 which he heard all about him saying so well be- 
 came her sweet looks. Her relations and his own 
 partook of the marriage-feast in their cottage — there 
 was the sound of music and dancing feet on the little 
 green plat at the foot of the garden, by the river's 
 side — the bride's youngest sister, who was henceforth 
 to be an inmate in the house, remained when the par- 
 ty went away in the quiet of the evening — and peace, 
 contentment, and love, folded their wings together 
 over that humble dwelling. 
 
 From that day Allan and his wife were perfectly 
 happy — and they could not help wondering at their 
 former fears. There was, at once, a general determi- 
 nation formed all over the parish to do them every 
 benefit. Fanny, who had always been distinguished 
 for her skill and fancy as a sempstress, became now 
 quite the fashionable dress-maker of the village, and 
 had more employment offered than she could accept. 
 So that her industry alone was more than sufficient for 
 all their present wants. But Allan, though blind, 
 was not idle. He immediately began to instruct him- 
 self in various departments of a blind man's work. —
 
 236 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 A loom was purchased ; and in a few weeks he was 
 heard singing to the sound of his fly-shuttle as merry 
 as the bull-finch in the cage that hung at the low 
 window of his room. He was not long in finding out 
 the way of plaiting rush-rugs and wicker-baskets — 
 the figures of all of which were soon, as it were, visi- 
 ble through his very fingers ; and before six months 
 were over, Allan Bruce and his wife were said to be 
 getting rich, and a warm blessing broke from every 
 heart upon them, and their virtuous and unrepining 
 industry. 
 
 Allan had always been fond of music, and his voice 
 was the finest tenor in all the kirk. So he began in 
 the evenings of winter to teach a school for sacred 
 music — and thus every hour was turned to account. 
 Allan repined not now — nay at times he felt as if his 
 blindness were a blessing — for it forced him to trust 
 to his own soul — to turn for comfort to the best and 
 purest human affections — and to see God always. 
 
 Whatever misgivings of mind Allan Bruce might 
 have experienced — whatever faintings and sickenings 
 and deadly swoons of despair might have overcome 
 his heart, — it was not long before he was a freedman 
 from all their slavery. He was not immured, like many 
 as worthy as he, in an Asylum ; he was not an incum- 
 brance upon a poor fathei*, sitting idle and in the way 
 of others, beside an ill-fed fire, and a scanty board ; 
 he was not forced to pace step by step along the lamp- 
 lighted streets and squares of a city, forcing out beau-
 
 BLIND ALLAN. 237 
 
 tiful music to gain a few pieces of coin from passers 
 by entranced for a moment by sweet sounds plaintive 
 or jocund; he was not a boy-led beggar along the 
 high-way under the sickening sunshine or the chilling 
 sleet, with an abject hat abjectly protruded with a cold 
 heart for colder charity ; — but he was, although he 
 humbly felt and acknowledged that he was in no- 
 thing more worthy than these, a man loaded with 
 many blessings, warmed by a constant ingle, laughed 
 round by a flock of joyful children, love-tended and 
 love-lighted by a wife who was to him at once music 
 and radiance, — while his house stood in the mid- 
 dle of a village of which all the inhabitants were his 
 friends, and of all whose hands the knock was known 
 when it touched his door, and of all whose voices the 
 tone was felt when it kindly accosted him in the wood, 
 in the field, in the garden, by the river's side, by the 
 hospitable board of a neighbour, or in the Church- 
 yard assemblage before entering into the House of 
 God. 
 
 Thus did years pass along. Children were born to 
 them — lived — were healthy — and well-behaved. A 
 blessing rested upon them and all that belonged to 
 them, and the name of " Blind Allan" carried with it 
 far and near an authority that could belong only to 
 virtue, piety, and faith tried by affliction and found to 
 stand fast. 
 
 Ten years ago, when they married, Allan Bruce 
 and Fanny Raeburn were among the poorest of the
 
 238 
 
 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 poor, and had it pleased God to send sickness amonjr 
 them, hard had been their lot. But now they lived in 
 a better house— with a larger garden— and a few fields, 
 with two cows of their own— Allan had workmen un- 
 der him, a basket-maker now on a considerable scale 
 
 and his wife had her apprentices too, the best dress- 
 maker all the country round. They were rich. Their 
 children were at school,— and all things, belonging 
 both to outer and inner life, had prospered to their 
 hearts' desire. Allan could walk about many fa- 
 miliar places unattended; but that seldom happen- 
 ed, for Avhile his children were at school he was enjrajr- 
 ed in his business ; and when they came home, there 
 was always a loving contest among them who should 
 be allowed to take hold of their father's hand when 
 he went out on his evening walk. Well did he know 
 the tread of each loving creature's footstep — their very 
 breath when their voices were silent. One touch of a 
 head as it danced past him, or remained motionless by 
 his side — one pressure of an arm upon his knee — one 
 laugh from a corner, was enough to tell him which of 
 his children was there ; and in their most confused 
 noise and merriment, his ear would have known if one 
 romping imp had been away. So perfectly accustomed 
 had he long been to his situation, that it might almost 
 be said that he was unconscious of being blind, or that 
 he had forgotten that his eyes once saw. Long had 
 Allan Bruce indeed been the happiest of the blind. 
 It chanced at this time, that, among a party who 
 
 10
 
 11LIND ALLAN. 239 
 
 were visiting his straw manufactory, there was a sur- 
 geon celebrated for his skill in operations upon the 
 eye, who expressed an opinion that Allan's sight might 
 be at least partially restored, and offered not only to 
 perform the operation, but if Allan would reside for 
 some weeks in Edinburgh, to see him every day, till 
 it was known whether his case was or was not a hope- 
 less one. Allan's circumstances were now such as to 
 make a few weeks, or even months confinement of no 
 importance to him ; and though he said to his wife 
 that he was averse to submit to an operation that 
 might disturb the long formed quiet and contentment 
 of his mind by hopes never to be realized, yet those 
 hopes of once more seeing Heaven's dear light gra- 
 dually removed all his repugnance. His eyes were 
 couched, and when the bandages were removed, and 
 the soft broken light let in upon him, Allan Bruce 
 was no longer among the number of the blind. 
 
 There was no uncontroulable burst of joy in the 
 soul of Allan Bruce when once more a communication 
 was opened between it and the visible world. For he 
 had learned lessons of humility and temperance in all 
 his emotions during ten years of blindness, in which 
 the hope of light was too faint to deserve the name. 
 He was almost afraid to believe that his sight was re- 
 stored. Grateful to him was its first uncertain and 
 wavering glimmer, as a draught of water to a wretch 
 in a crowded dungeon. But he knew not whether
 
 240 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 it was to ripen into the perfect day, or gradually to 
 fade back again into the depth of his former darkness. 
 
 But when his Fanny — she on whom he had so loved 
 to look when she was a maiden in her teens, and who 
 would not forsake him in the first misery of that great 
 affliction, but had been overjoyed to link the sweet 
 freedom of her prime to one sitting in perpetual dark 
 — when she, now a staid and lovely matron, stood be- 
 fore him with a face pale in bliss, and all drenched in 
 the floodlike tears of an unsupportable happiness — 
 then truly did he feel what a heaven it was to see ! 
 And as he took her to his heart, he gently bent back 
 her head, that he might devour with his eyes that be- 
 nign beauty which had for so many years smiled up- 
 on him unbeheld, and which now that he had seen 
 once more, he felt that he could even at that very mo- 
 ment die in peace. 
 
 In came with soft steps, one after another, his five 
 loving children, that for the first time they might be 
 seen by their Father. The girls advanced timidly, 
 with blushing cheeks and bright shining hair, while 
 the boys went boldly up to his side, and the eldest, 
 looking in his face, exclaimed with a shout of joy, 
 " Our Father sees ! — our Father sees!" — and then 
 checking his rapture, burst into tears. Many a vision 
 had Allan Bruce framed to himself of the face and fi- 
 gure of one and all of his children. One, he had 
 been told, was like himself — another the image of its 
 mother — and Lucy, he understood, was a blended 
 
 11
 
 BLIND ALLAN. 241 
 
 likeness of them both. But now he looked upon them 
 with the confused and bewildered joy of parental love, 
 seeking to know and distinguish in the light the 
 separate objects towards whom it yearned ; and not 
 till they spoke did he know their Christian names. 
 But soon, soon, did the sweet faces of all his children 
 seem, to his eyes, to answer well, each in its different 
 loveliness, to the expression of the voices so long fami- 
 liar to his heart. 
 
 Pleasant, too, no doubt, was that expansion of heart, 
 that followed the sight of so many old friends and 
 acquaintances, all of whom, familiar as he had long 
 been with them in his darkness, one day's light now 
 seemed to bring farther forward in his affection. They 
 came towards him now with brighter satisfaction — 
 and the happiness of his own soul gave a kinder ex- 
 pression to their demeanour, and represented them 
 all as a host of human beings rejoicing in the joy of 
 one single brother. Here was a young man, who, 
 when he saw him last, was a little school-boy — here a 
 man beginning to be bent with toil, and with a thought- 
 ful aspect, who had been one of his own joyous and 
 laughing fellow-labourers in field or at fair — here a 
 man on whom, ten years before, he had shut his eyes 
 in advanced but vigorous life, now sitting, with a 
 white head, and supported on a staff — all this change 
 he knew before, but now he saw it ; and there was 
 thus a somewhat sad, but an interesting, delightful, 
 and impressive contrast and resemblance between the 
 
 Q
 
 242 BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 past and the present, brought immediately before him 
 by the removal of a veil. Every face around him — 
 every figure — was instructive as well as pleasant ; and 
 humble as his sphere of life was, and limited its range, 
 quite enough of chance and change was now submit- 
 ted to his meditation, to give his character, which had 
 long been thoughtful, a still more solemn cast, and a 
 temper of still more homely and humble wisdom. 
 
 Nor did all the addition to his happiness come from 
 human life. Once more he saw the heavens and the 
 earth. By men in his lowly condition, nature is not 
 looked on very often perhaps with poetical eyes. But 
 all the objects of nature are in themselves necessarily 
 agreeable and delightful; and the very colours and 
 forms he now saw filled his soul with bliss. Not for 
 ten dark years had he seen a cloud, and now they 
 were piled up like castles in the summer heaven. Not 
 for ten dark years had he seen the vaulted sky, and 
 there it was now bending majestically in its dark, 
 deep, serene azure, full of tenderness, beauty, and 
 power. The green earth, with all its flowers, was 
 now visible beneath his feet. A hundred gardens 
 blossomed — a hundred hedge-rows ran across the 
 meadow and up the sides of the hills — the dark grove 
 of sycamore, shading the village church on its mount, 
 stood tinged with a glitter of yellow light — and from one 
 extremity of the village to the other, calm, fair, and 
 unwavering, the smoke from all its chimneys went up 
 to heaven on the dewy morning-air. He felt all this
 
 BLIND ALLAN'. 243 
 
 just by opening his eye-lids. And in his gratitude to 
 God he blessed the thatch of his own humble house, 
 and the swallows that were twittering beneath its 
 eaves. 
 
 Such, perhaps, were some of the feelings which Al- 
 lan Bruce experienced on being restored to sight. 
 But faint and imperfect must be every picture of man's 
 inner soul. This, however, is true, that Allan Bruce 
 now felt that his blindness had been to him, in many 
 respects, a blessing. It had touched all hearts with 
 kindness towards him and his wife when they were 
 poor — it had kept his feet within the doors of his 
 house, or within the gate of his garden, often when 
 they might otherwise have wandered into less happy 
 and innocent places — it turned to him the sole undi- 
 vided love of his sweet contented Fanny — it gave 
 to the filial tenderness of his children something of 
 fondest passion — and it taught him moderation in 
 all things, humility, reverence, and perfect resignation 
 to the Divine Will. It may, therefore, be truly said, 
 that when the blameless man once more lifted up his 
 seeing eyes, in all things he beheld God. 
 
 Soon after this time, a small Nursery-garden be- 
 tween Roslin and Lasswade, — a bank sloping down 
 gently to the Esk — was on sale, and Allan Bruce was 
 able to purchase it. Such an employment seemed pe- 
 culiarly fitted for him, and also compatible with his 
 other profession. He had acquired, during his blind- 
 ness, much useful information from the readings of
 
 244) BLIND ALLAN. 
 
 his wife or children ; and having been a gardener in 
 his youth, among his many other avocations, he had 
 especially extended his knowledge respecting flowers, 
 shrubs, and trees. Here he follows that healthy, 
 pleasant, and intelligent occupation. Among his other 
 assistant Gardeners there is one man with a head white 
 as snow, but a ruddy and cheerful countenance, who, 
 from his self-importance, seems to be the proprietor of 
 the garden. This is Allan's Father, who lives in a 
 small cottage adjoining — takes care of all the garden- 
 ing tools — and is master of the bee-hives. His old 
 mother, too, is sometimes seen weeding; but oftener 
 with her grandchildren, when in the evenings, after 
 school, they are playing on the green plat by the Sun 
 Dial, with flowers garlanded round their heads, or 
 feeding the large trout in the clear silvery well near 
 the roots of the celebrated Pear Tree.
 
 I I I (A.- GR1KVK. 245 
 
 LILIAS GRIEVE. 
 
 There was fear and melancholy in all the glens and 
 valleys that lay stretching around, or down upon St 
 Mary's Loch, for it was the time of religious persecu- 
 tion. Many a sweet cottage stood untenanted on the 
 hill side and in the hollow ; some had felt the fire and 
 been consumed, and violent hands had torn off the 
 turf-roof from the green shealing of the shepherd. In 
 the wide and deep silence and solitariness of the moun- 
 tains it seemed as if human life were nearly extinct. 
 Caverns and clefts in which the fox had kenneled were 
 now the shelter of Christian souls — and when a lonely 
 figure crept stealingly from one hiding-place to an- 
 other, on a visit of love to some hunted brother in 
 faith, the crows would hover over him, and the hawk 
 shriek at human steps now rare in the desert. When 
 the babe was born there might be none near to bap- 
 tize it, or the minister, driven from his kirk, perhaps 
 poured the sacramental water upon its face from some 
 pool in the glen whose rocks guarded the persecuted 
 family from the oppressor. Bridals now were unfre-
 
 246 
 
 LILIAS GRIEVE. 
 
 quent, and in the solemn sadness of love. Many died 
 before their time of minds sunken and of broken 
 hearts. White hair was on heads long before they 
 were old ; and the silver locks of ancient men were 
 often ruefully soiled in the dust and stained with their 
 martyred blood. 
 
 But this is the dark side of the picture. For, even 
 in their caves were these people happy. Their child- 
 ren were with therm even like the wild-flowers that 
 blossomed all about the entrances of their dens. And 
 when the voice of psalms rose up from the profound si- 
 lence of the solitary place of rocks, the ear of God was 
 open, and they knew that their prayers and praises were 
 heard in Heaven. If a child was born, it belonged un- 
 to the faithful ; if an old man died, it was in the re- 
 ligion of his forefathers. The hidden powers of their 
 souls were brought forth into the light, and they knew 
 the strength that was in them for these days of trial. 
 The thoughtless became sedate — the wild were tamed 
 — the unfeeling made compassionate — hard hearts were 
 softened, and the wicked saw the error of their ways. 
 All deep passion purifies and strengthens the soul, 
 and so was it now. Now was shown and put to the 
 proof, the stern, austere, impenetrable strength of 
 men, that would neither bend nor break — the calm, 
 serene determination of matrons, who, with meek eyes, 
 and unblanched cheeks, met the scowl of the mur- 
 derer — the silent beauty of maidens, who, with smiles 
 received their death — and the mysterious courage of
 
 LILIAS GB1KVE. 
 
 247 
 
 children, who, in the inspiration of innocent and spot- 
 less nature, kneeled down among the dew-drops on 
 the green sward, and died fearlessly by their parents' 
 sides. Arrested were they at their work, or in their 
 play, and with no other bandage over their eyes, but 
 haply some clustering ringlet of their sunny hair, did 
 many a sweet creature of twelve summers ask just to 
 be allowed to say her prayers, and then go unappalled 
 from her cottage-door to the breast of her Redeemer. 
 
 In those days had old Samuel Grieve and his spouse 
 suffered sorely for their faith. But they left not their 
 own house, willing to die there, or to be slaughtered, 
 whenever God should so appoint. They were now 
 childless ; but a little grand-daughter, about ten years 
 old, lived with them, and she was an orphan. The 
 thought of death was so familiar to her, that although 
 sometimes it gave a slight quaking throb to her heart 
 in its glee, yet it scarcely impaired the natural joy ful- 
 ness of her girlhood, and often unconsciously, after the 
 gravest or the saddest talk with her old parents, would 
 she glide off with a lightsome step, a blythe face, and 
 a voice humming sweetly some cheerful tune. The 
 old people looked often upon her in her happiness, 
 till their dim eyes filled with tears ; while the grand- 
 mother said, " If this nest were to be destroyed at 
 last, and our heads in the mould, who would feed 
 this young bird in the wild, and where would she 
 find shelter in which to fauld her bonnie wings?" 
 
 Lilias Grieve was the Shepherdess of a small flock.
 
 248 
 
 I.ILIAS GKIEVE. 
 
 among the green pasturage at the head of St Mary's 
 Loch, and up the hill side, and over into some of the 
 little neighbouring glens. Sometimes she sat in that 
 beautiful church-yard, with her sheep lying scattered 
 around her upon the quiet graves, where, on still 
 sunny days, she could see their shadows in the water 
 of the Loch, and herself sitting close to the low walls 
 of the House of God. She had no one to speak to, 
 but her Bible to read ; and day after day the rising 
 sun beheld her in growing beauty, and innocence that 
 could not fade, happy and silent as a Fairy upon the 
 knowe, with the blue heavens over her head, and the 
 blue lake smiling at her feet. 
 
 " My Fairy," was the name she bore by the cottage 
 fire, where the old people were gladdened by her glee, 
 and turned away from all melancholy thoughts. And 
 it was a name that suited sweet Lilias well ; for she 
 was clothed in a garb of green, and often, in her joy, 
 the green graceful plants that grow among the hills 
 were wreathed round her hair. So was she drest one 
 Sabbath-day, watching her flock at a considerable 
 distance from home, and singing to herself a Psalm 
 in the solitary moor — when in a moment a party of 
 soldiers were upon a mount on the opposite side of a 
 narrow dell. Lilias was invisible as a green linnet 
 upon the grass, but her sweet voice had betrayed her, 
 and then one of the soldiers caught the wild gleam of 
 her eyes, and as she sprung frightened to her feet, he 
 called out " A roe — a roe — see how she bounds along
 
 I.ILIAS ©EIKVE. 249 
 
 the bent/' and the ruffian took aim at the child with 
 his musquet, half in sport, half in ferocity. Lilias 
 kept appearing and disappearing, while she flew as on 
 wings across a piece of black heathery moss full of pits 
 and hollows — and still the soldier kept his musquet at 
 its aim. His comrades called to him to hold his hand, 
 and not shoot a poor little innocent child, but he at 
 length fired, and the bullet was heard to whiz past her 
 fern-crowned head, and to strike a bank which she 
 was about to ascend. The child paused for a mo- 
 ment, and looked back, and then bounded away over 
 the smooth turf; till like a cushat, she dropt into a 
 little birchen glen, and disappeared. Not a sound 
 of her feet was heard — she seemed to have sunk into 
 the ground — and the soldier stood, without any effort 
 to follow her, gazing through the smoke towards the 
 spot where she had vanished. 
 
 A sudden superstition assailed the hearts of the par- 
 ty, as they sat down together upon a ledge of stone. 
 " Saw you her face, Riddle, as my ball went whizzing 
 past her ear — curse me, if she be not one of those hill 
 Fairies, else she had been dead as a herring — but I be- 
 lieve the bullet glanced off her yellow hair as against a 
 buckler." " By St George, it was the act of a gal- 
 lows-rogue to fire upon the creature, Fairy or not 
 Fairy, and you deserve the weight of this hand, the 
 hand of an Englishman, you brute — for your cruelty" 
 — and up rose the speaker to put his threat into exe- 
 cution, when the other retreated some distance, and
 
 250 LILIAS GRIEVE. 
 
 began to load his musquet — but the Englishman ran 
 upon him, and, with a Cumberland gripe and trip, 
 laid him upon the hard ground with a force that drove 
 the breath out of his body, and left him stunned and 
 almost insensible. " That serves him right, Allan 
 Sleigh — shiver my timbers, if I would fire upon a pet- 
 ticoat. As to Fairies, why, look ye, 'tis a likely place 
 enow for such creatures — if this be one, it is the first 
 I ever saw — but as to your mermaids, I have seen a 
 score of them, at different times, when I was at sea. 
 As to shooting at them— no — no — we never tried 
 that, or the ship would have gone to the bottom. 
 There have I seen them sitting on a rock, with a 
 looking-glass, combing their hair, that wrapped round 
 them like a net, and then down into a coral cave in a 
 jifFey to their mermans — for mermaid, fairy, or mere 
 flesh and blood woman, they are all the same in that 
 respect — take my word for it." 
 
 The fallen ruffian now rose somewhat humbled, and 
 sullenly sat down among the rest. " Why," quoth 
 Allan Sleigh, " I wager you a week's pay you don't 
 venture fifty yards, without your musket, down yon- 
 der shingle where the fairy disappeared ;" — and the 
 wager being accepted, the half-drunken fellow rushed 
 on towards the head of the glen, and was heard crash- 
 ing away through the shrubs. In a few minutes he 
 returned — declaring with an oath that he had seen her 
 at the mouth of a cave where no human foot could 
 reach, standing with her hair all on fire, and an angry 
 
 10
 
 LILIAS GK1KVE. 251 
 
 countenance, and that he had tumbled backwards into 
 
 the burn and been nearly drowned " Drowned I" 
 
 cried Allan Sleigh. " Aye drowned — why not ? a 
 hundred yards down that bit glen the pools are as 
 black as pitch and as deep as hell, and the water roars 
 like thunder — drowned — why not, you English son of 
 a deer-stealer ?" " Why not — because who was ever 
 drowned that was born to be hanged?" And that jest 
 caused universal laughter — as it is always sure to do, 
 often as it may be repeated, in a company of ruffians, 
 such is felt to be its perfect truth and unanswerable 
 simplicity. 
 
 After an hour's quarrelling, and gibing, and mutiny, 
 this disorderly band of soldiers proceeded on their 
 way down into the head of Yarrow, and there saw in 
 the solitude the house of Samuel Grieve. Thither they 
 proceeded to get some refreshment, and ripe for any 
 outrage that any occasion might suggest. The old 
 man and his wife hearing a tumult of many voices and 
 many feet came out, and were immediately saluted with 
 many opprobrious epithets. The hut was soon rifled 
 of any small articles of wearing apparel, and Samuel, 
 without emotion, set before them whatever provisions 
 he had, butter, cheese, bread, and milk — and hoped 
 they would not be too hard upon old people, who 
 were desirous of dying, as they had lived, in peace. 
 Thankful were they both in their parental hearts that 
 their little Lilias was among the hills ; and the Old 
 Man trusted, that if she returned before the soldiers
 
 252 LILIAS GRIEVE. 
 
 were gone, she would see from some distance their 
 muskets on the green before the door, and hide her- 
 self among the brakens. 
 
 The soldiers devoured their repast with many oaths, 
 and much hideous and obscene language, which it 
 was sore against the Old Man's soul to hear in his 
 own hut ; but he said nothing, for that would have 
 been wilfully to sacrifice his life. At last one of the 
 party ordered him to return thanks in words impious 
 and full of blasphemy, which Samuel calmly refused 
 to do, beseeching them, at the same time, for the sake 
 of their own souls, not so to offend their great and 
 bountiful Preserver. " Confound the old canting 
 Covenanter, I will prick him with my bayonet if he 
 won't say grace;" and the blood trickled down the 
 Old Man's cheek, from a slight wound on his fore- 
 head. The sight of it seemed to awaken the dor- 
 mant blood-thirstiness in the tiger-heart of the sol- 
 dier, who now swore, if the Old Man did not instant- 
 ly repeat the words after him, he would shoot him 
 dead. And, as if cruelty were contagious, almost the 
 whole party agreed that the demand was but reason- 
 able, and that the old hypocritical knave must preach 
 or perish. " Damn him," cried one of them in a fury, 
 " here is the Word of God, a great musty Bible, stink- 
 ing of greasy black leather, worse than a whole tan- 
 yard. If he won't speak, I will gag him with a ven- 
 geance. Here, old Mr Peden the prophet, let me 
 cram a few chapters of St Luke down your maw. St 
 
 11
 
 LILIAS GRIEVE. 253 
 
 Luke was a physician, I believe. Well, here is a dose 
 of him. Open your jaws." And with these words 
 he tore a handful of leaves out of the Bible, and ad- 
 vanced towards the Old Man, from whose face his 
 terrified wife was now wiping off the blood. 
 
 Samuel Grieve was nearly fourscore ; but his sinews 
 were not yet relaxed, and in his younger days he had 
 been a man of great strength. When, therefore, the 
 soldier grasped him by the neck, the sense of receiv- 
 ing an indignity from such a slave made his blood 
 boil, and, as if his youth had been renewed, the grey- 
 headed man, with one blow, felled the ruffian to the 
 floor. 
 
 That blow sealed his doom. There was a fierce tu- 
 mult and yelling of wrathful voices, and Samuel 
 Grieve was led out to die. He had witnessed such 
 butchery of others— and felt that the hour of his 
 martyrdom was come. " As thou didst reprove Simon 
 Peter in the garden, when he smote the High Priest's 
 servant, and saidst, ' The cup which my Father hath 
 given me, shall I not drink it ?' — So now, O my Re- 
 deemer, do thou pardon me, thy frail and erring fol- 
 lower, and enable me to drink this cup !" With these 
 words the Old Man knelt down unbidden ; and, after 
 one solemn look to Heaven, closed his eyes, and fold- 
 ed his hands across his breast. 
 
 His wife now came forward, and knelt down beside 
 the Old Man. " Let us die together, Samuel ; but 
 oh ! what will become of our dear Lilias ?" " God tern-
 
 254 LII.TAS GRIEVE. 
 
 pers the wind to the shorn lamb/' said her husband, 
 opening not his eyes, but taking her hand into his, 
 " Sarah — be not afraid." Oh ! Samuel, I remem- 
 ber, at this moment, these words of Jesus, which you 
 this morning read. " Forgive them, Father, they know 
 not what they do !" — « We are all sinners together," 
 said Samuel, with a loud voice — " we two old grey- 
 headed people on our knees, and about to die, both for- 
 give you all as we hope ourselves to be forgiven. We 
 are ready — be merciful, and do not mangle us. Sa- 
 rah, be not afraid." 
 
 It seemed that an angel was sent down from Hea- 
 ven to save the lives of these two old grey-headed 
 folk. With hair floating in sunny light, and seeming- 
 ly wreathed with flowers of heavenly azure, with eyes 
 beaming lustre, and yet streaming tears, with white 
 arms extended in their beauty, and motion gentle and 
 gliding as the sunshine when a cloud is rolled away, 
 came on over the meadow before the hut the same 
 green-robed Creature that had startled the soldiers with 
 her singing in the moor, and crying loudly, but still 
 sweetly, " God sent me hither to save their lives." 
 She fell down beside them as they knelt together; 
 and then, lifting up her head from the turf, fixed her 
 beautiful face, instinct with fear, love, hope, and the 
 spirit of prayer, upon the eyes of the men about to 
 shed that innocent blood. 
 
 They all stood heart- stricken ; and the execution- 
 ers flung down their muskets upon the green-sward.
 
 LILIAS GRIEVE. 255 
 
 ** God bless you, kind good soldiers, for this," ex- 
 claimed die child, now weeping and sobbing with joy, 
 " Aye — aye — you \\ ill be all happy to-night, when 
 you lie down to sleep. If you have any little daugh- 
 ters or sisters like me, God will love them for your 
 mercy to us, and nothing, till you return home, will 
 hurt a hair of their heads. Oh ! I see now that soldiers 
 are not so cruel as we say !" " Lilias, your grandfather 
 speaks unto you ; — his last words are — leave us — leave 
 us — for they are going to put us to death. Soldiers, 
 kill not this little child, or the waters of the loch will 
 rise up and drown the sons of perdition. Lilias, 
 give us each a kiss — and then go into the house." 
 
 The soldiers conversed together for a few minutes, 
 and seemed now like men themselves condemned to 
 die. Shame and remorse for their coward cruelty 
 smote them to the core — and they bade them that 
 were still kneeling to rise up and go their ways, — 
 then, forming themselves into regular order, one 
 gave the word of command, and, marching off, they 
 soon disappeared. The Old Man, his Wife, and little 
 Lilias, continued for some time on their knees in 
 prayer, and then they all three went into their hut— 
 the child between them, — and a withered hand of each 
 laid upon its beautiful and its fearless head.
 
 256 the covenanter's marriage.day. 
 
 THE COVENANTER'S MARRIAGE-DAY. 
 
 The Marriage Party were to meet in a little lone- 
 some dell, well known to all the dwellers round St 
 Mary's Loch. A range of bright green hills goes 
 southward from its shores, and between them and 
 the high heathery mountains lies a shapeless scene of 
 cliffs, moss, and pasture, partaking both of the beauty 
 and the grandeur between which it so wildly lies. 
 All these cliffs are covered with native birch-trees, 
 except a few of the loftiest that shoot up their bare 
 points in many fantastic forms; that moss, full of 
 what the shepherds call " hags," or hollows worn by 
 the weather, or dug out for fuel, waves, when the wind 
 goes by, its high rich-blossomed and fragrant heath ; 
 and that pasturage, here and there in circular spots of 
 emerald verdure, affords the sweetest sustenance to 
 the sheep to be found among all that mountainous 
 region. It was in one of these circles of beautiful 
 herbage, called by the Shepherds " The Queen-Fairy's 
 Parlour," that Mark Kerr and Christian Lindsay, who 
 had been long betrothed, were now to be made man and
 
 the covenanter's MAUKIAGE-DAY. 257 
 
 wile. It was nearly surrounded by large masses, or 
 ledges of loose rocks, piled to a considerable height 
 upon each other by some strong convulsion, and all 
 adorned with the budding and sweet breathing birches, 
 while the circle was completed by one overshadowing 
 cliff that sheltered it from the north blast, and on 
 whose airy summit the young hawks were shrilly and 
 wildly crying in their nest. 
 
 The bridegroom Avas sitting there with his bride, 
 and her bridesmaid ; and by and by, one friend after 
 another appeared below the natural arch that, all drop- 
 ping with wild flowers, formed the only entrance into 
 this lonely Tabernacle. At last they all stood up in a 
 circle togethei — shepherds decently apparelled,— 
 shepherdesses all dressed in raiment bleached whiter 
 than the snow in the waters of the mountain- spring, 
 and the grey-headed Minister of God, who, driven 
 from his kirk by blood-thirsty persecution, prayed 
 and preached in the wilderness, baptized infants with 
 the water of the running brook, and joined in wed- 
 lock the hands of those whose hearts longed to be 
 united in those dark and deadly times. Few words 
 were uttered by the gracious old man ; but these few 
 were solemn and full of cheer, impressed upon the hearts 
 of the wedded pair, by the tremulous tones of a voice 
 that was not long for this world, by the sanctity of his 
 long white locks unmoved by a breath of air,-and by 
 the fatherly and apostolical motion of his uplifted 
 hand, that seemed to conduct down upon them who 
 
 R
 
 258 the covenanter's marriage-day. 
 
 stood in awe before him the blessing of that God who 
 delighteth in a humble heart. The short ceremony was 
 now closed, — and Mark Kerr and Christian Lindsay 
 were united, till death should sunder them on earth to 
 reunite them in heaven. 
 
 Greetings were interchanged, — and smiles went 
 round, with rosy blushes, and murmuring and whis- 
 pering voices of irreproachable mirth. What though 
 the days were dark, and the oppressor strong ? Here 
 was a place unknown to his feet; and now was a 
 time to let the clear sparkling fountain of nature's 
 joy well up in all hearts. Sadness and sorrow over- 
 shadowed the land ; but human life was not yet wholly 
 a waste ; and the sweet sunshine that now fell down 
 through a screen of fleecy clouds upon the Queen- 
 Fairy's Parlour, was it not to enliven and rejoice all 
 their souls ? Was it not to make the fair bride fairer 
 in her husband's eyes — her smile brighter, and the 
 ringlets more yellow as they hung over a forehead that 
 wore its silken snood no longer, but in its changed co- 
 vering gracefully showed that Marion Lindsay was now 
 a wife ? The tabor and the pipe were heard ; and 
 footsteps, that left no print on the hard smooth ver- 
 dant floor, kept time to the merry measures. Perhaps 
 the old man would have frowned on such pastime — 
 perhaps Covenanters ought not to have indulged in 
 promiscuous dancing — perhaps it may be said to be 
 false that they did so ; — but the Minister had gone now 
 to his own hiding-place. These Covenanters were
 
 THE COVENANTER'S MARRIAGE-DAY. 259 
 
 young, and this occasion was a happy one ; and dance 
 they did, most assuredly, wicked as it may have been, 
 and improper as it may be to record such wickedness. 
 The young hawks were not a little alarmed ; and an 
 old ram, who happened to put in his twisted horns 
 below the arch, got a fright, that made him bound 
 backwards out of the enchanted circle. The hill black- 
 bird wondered ; but he himself joined the dance upon 
 the birchen spray — and although no great songster, he 
 did his best, and chirped cheerfully his mellow notes 
 in the din of the general happiness. 
 
 But as the evening hours were advancing, the Par- 
 ty kept dropping away one by one, or in pairs, just 
 as it had gathered ; and the Fairy Queen had her Par- 
 lour all to herself undisturbed, if she chose at night to 
 hold a court beneath the lamp of the Moon. 
 
 Where had the young married pair their bridal 
 chamber ? Mark Kerr had a shealing on the moun- 
 tain-side, from which was just visible one bay of St 
 Mary's Loch. The walls were built of turf, and the 
 roof of heather — and surrounded as it was on all sides 
 by large stones, wooded cliffs, knowes, and uneven 
 eminences, it was almost as likely to escape notice as 
 the nest of a bird, or the lair of a roe. Thither he 
 took his bride. Her little bridesmaid had a small 
 covert of her own, distant only a few roods, and the 
 friends could see each other standing at the door of 
 each shealing, through the intercepting foliage of the
 
 260 THE COVENANTElt's MARRIAGE-DAY. 
 
 waving birches that hung down their thin and inef- 
 fectual veil till it swept the blooming heather. 
 
 On a small seat, framed of the roots of decayed trees, 
 Mark Kerr was now sitting with his own sweet Christ- 
 ian ; when he gently raised her head from his bosom, 
 and told her to go into the shealing, for he saw people 
 on the hillside, whose appearance, even at that dis- 
 tance, he did not like. Before a quarter of an hour 
 had elapsed a party of soldiers were at hand. Mark 
 knew that he had been observed for some time ; and 
 to attempt escape with his bride was impossible. So 
 he rose up at their approach, and met them with a 
 steady countenance, although there were both fear and 
 sorrow in his heart. Marion had obeyed him, and 
 the shealing was silent. 
 
 " Is your name Mark Kerr ?" " Yes — that is my 
 
 name." " Were you at Yarrow-Ford when a prisoner 
 
 was rescued and a soldier murdered ?" " I was — but 
 
 did all I could to save that soldier's life." " You wolf, 
 
 you mangled his throat with your own bloody fangs — 
 
 but we have traced you to your den, and the ghost of 
 
 Hugh Gemmel, who was as pleasant either with lad or 
 
 lass as any boy that ever emptied a cup or had a fall 
 
 upon heather, will shake hands with you by moonlight 
 
 by and by. You may meet either in the church-yard, 
 
 down by the Loch, where your canting Covenanters 
 
 will bury you, or down at Yarrow-Kirk, where Hugh 
 
 was put to bed with the worms, in his red coat, like a 
 
 soldier as he was. By the Holy God of Israel — (is not 
 
 11
 
 THE COVENANTER'S MARRIAGE-DAY. 261 
 
 that a lump of your own slang?) — this bayonet shall 
 drink a stoup of your heart's blood." 
 
 Mark Kerr knew, in a moment, that there was no 
 hope of life. He had confessed being present on the 
 occasion charged against him ; and a sentence of death, 
 which an angel's intercession could not have got re- 
 versed, was glaring in the eyes of all the soldiers. 
 Each man seemed to kindle into fiercer fury as he 
 caught the fiery eyes around him. Their oaths and 
 execrations exasperated them all into frenzy ; and a wild 
 and perturbed sense of justice demanding expiation of 
 their murdered comrade's blood, made them deaf and 
 blind to every thing but the suggestions of their own 
 irritated and inflamed hearts. A horrid sympathy pos- 
 sessed them all ; and they were as implacable as a 
 herd of wolves famished and in sight of their prey. 
 There was no mercy in any one face there, else Mark 
 Kerr would have appealed to that man, for his life was 
 now sweet and precious, and it was a hard thing to 
 die. " I know his face. He is the very man that stab- 
 bed Hugh when he was down with his own bayonet. 
 How do you like that, sirrah ?" — and one of the sol- 
 diers thrust his long bayonet through Mark's shoulder, 
 till the point was seen at his back, and then drew it 
 out smeared with blood, and returned it to its sheath, 
 with a grin of half-glutted vengeance. The wounded 
 man staggered at the blow and sat down, nearly faint- 
 ing, upon the seat where a few minutes before his 
 bride had leant her head upon his bosom. But he
 
 262 the covenantee's marriage-day. 
 
 uttered not a word, and kept his eyes fixed, not re- 
 proachfully, but somewhat sadly and with a faint ex- 
 pression of hope, on the men who seemed determined 
 to be his executioners. The pain, the sickness, the 
 sudden blasting of all his hopes, almost unmanned his 
 resolute heart ; and Mark Kerr would have now done 
 much to save his life, — and something, perhaps, even 
 at the expence of Conscience and Faith. But that 
 weak mood was of short duration, — and the good and 
 brave man braced up his heart to receive the doom of 
 death. 
 
 Meanwhile one of the soldiers had entered the sheal- 
 ing, and brought out Marion in his grasp. A loud 
 shout of laughter and scornful exultation followed. 
 " Ho— ho — my Heath-Cock, you have got your bonny 
 hen ! — Catch a Covenanter without his comfort — Is 
 your name Grace, my bonny bairn ?" Marion looked 
 around, and saw Mark sitting pale and speechless, 
 with his breast covered with clotted blood. She 
 made no outcry, for grief, and pity, and consterna- 
 tion, struck her dumb. She could not move, for the 
 soldier held her in his arms. But she looked in the 
 ruffian's face with such an imploring countenance, that 
 unconsciously he let her go, and then she went up tot- 
 tering to poor Mark, and with her white bridal gown 
 wiped off the gore from his breast, and kissed his 
 clayey and quivering lips. She then ran to the spring 
 that lay sparkling among its cresses, within a few yards 
 o£ the shealing, and brought a handful of cold water, 
 
 10
 
 the covenanter's MARHIAGE-DAY. 268 
 
 which she sprinkled tenderly over his face. The hu- 
 man soul is a wild and terrible thing when inflamed 
 with cruelty and revenge. The soldiers saw little 
 more in all this than a subject for loathsome scurrility 
 and ferocious merriment ; and as Christian looked wild- 
 ly round upon them., one asked, " Are you his sister — 
 his cousin — or his drab ?" " Oh ! soldiers — soldiers — 
 I am his wife — this blessed day was I married to him. 
 If any of you are married men, think of your wives 
 now at home — remember the day they were brides, 
 and do not murder us quite — if, indeed, my Mark is 
 not already murdered." " Come, come, Mrs Sweet- 
 lips, no more whining — you shall not want a husband. 
 I will marry you myself, and so I daresay will the 
 serjeant there, and also the corporal. Now you have 
 had indulgence enough — so stand back a bit; and 
 do you, good Master Paleface, come forward, and 
 down upon your marrow bones." Mark, with great 
 difficulty, rose up, and knelt down as he was or- 
 dered. 
 
 He had no words to say to his bride ; nor almost 
 did he look at her — so full was his soul of her image, 
 and of holy grief for the desolation in which she would 
 be left by his death. The dewy breath of her gentle 
 and pure kisses was yet in his heart ; and the happy 
 sighs of maidenly tenderness were now to be changed 
 into groans of incurable despair. Therefore it was, 
 that he said nothing as he knelt down, but his pallid
 
 264 THE covenantee's marriage-day. 
 
 Jips moved in prayer, and she heard her name indis- 
 tinctly uttered between those of God and Christ. 
 
 Christian Lindsay had been betrothed to him for 
 several years, and nothing but the fear of some ter- 
 rible evil like this had kept them so long separate. 
 Dreadful, therefore, as this hour was, their souls were 
 not wholly unprepared for it, although there is always 
 a miserable difference between reality and mere ima- 
 gination. She now recalled to her mind, in one com- 
 prehensive thought, their years of innocent and youth- 
 ful affection ; and then the holy words so lately utter- 
 ed by the Old Man in that retired place, alas ! called 
 by too vain a name, " The Queen-Fairy's Parlour !" 
 The tears began now to flow — they both wept — for 
 this night was Mark Kerr's head to lie, not on her 
 bosom, but in the grave, or unburied on the ground. 
 In that agony, what signified to her all the insulting, 
 hideous, and inhuman language of these licentious 
 murderers ? They fell off her soul, without a stain, 
 like polluted water off the plumage of some fair sea- 
 bird. And as she looked on her husband upon his 
 knees, awaiting his doom, him the temperate, the mer- 
 ciful, the gentle, and the just, and then upon those 
 wrathful, raging, fiery-eyed, and bloody-minded men, 
 are they, thought her fainting heart, of the same kind? 
 are they framed by one God ? and hath Christ alike 
 died for them all ? 
 
 She lifted up her eyes, full of prayers, for one mo- 
 ment to heaven, and then, with a cold shudder of de-
 
 THE COVENANTER'S MARRIAGE-DAY. 265 
 
 sertion, turned them upon her husband, kneeling with 
 a white fixed countenance, and half dead already with 
 the loss of blood. A dreadful silence had succeeded 
 to that tumult ; and she dimly saw a number of men 
 drawn up together without moving, and their deter- 
 mined eyes held fast upon their victim. " Think, 
 my lads, that it is Hugh Gemmel's Ghost that com- 
 mands you now," said a deep hoarse voice — "no mer- 
 cy did the holy men of the mountains show to him 
 when they smashed his skull with large stones from 
 the channel of the Yarrow. Now for revenge." 
 
 The soldiers presented their muskets — the word 
 was given — and they fired. At that moment Christ- 
 ian Lindsay had rushed forward and flung herself 
 down on her knees beside her husband, and they both 
 fell, and stretched themselves out mortally wounded 
 upon the grass. 
 
 During all this scene, Marion Scott, the bridesmaid, 
 a girl of fifteen, had been lying affrighted among the 
 brackens within a hundred yards of the murder. 
 The agony of grief now got the better of the agony 
 of fear, and, leaping up from her concealment, she 
 rushed into the midst of the soldiers, and, kneeling 
 down beside her dear Christian Lindsay, lifted up her 
 head, and shaded the hair from her forehead. " Oh ! 
 Christian, your eyes are opening — do you hear me — 
 do you hear me speaking ?" " Yes, I hear a voice- 
 is it yours Mark ? — speak again." " Oh ! Christian, 
 it is only my voice — poor Marion's." " Is Mark dead
 
 266 the covenanter's marriage-day. 
 
 —quite dead ?" And there was no reply ; but 
 Christian must have heard the deep gasping sobs that 
 were rending the child's heart. Her eyes, too, open- 
 ed more widely, and misty as they were, they saw, 
 indeed, close by her, the huddled up, mangled, and 
 bloody body of her husband. 
 
 The soldiers stood, like so many beasts of prey, who 
 had gorged their fill of blood ; their rage was abated 
 — and they offered no violence to the affectionate child, 
 as she continued to sit before them, with the head of 
 Christian Lindsay in her lap, watering it with tears, 
 and moaning so as to touch, at last, some even of 
 their hardened hearts. When blood is shed it soon 
 begins to appear a fearful sight to the shedders — and 
 the hand soon begins to tremble that has let out hu- 
 man life. Cruelty cannot sustain itself in presence of 
 that rueful colour, and remorse sees it reddening into 
 a more ghastly hue. Some of the soldiers turned 
 away in silence, or with a half- suppressed oath — others 
 strayed off among the trees, and sat down together ; and 
 none would now have touched the head of pretty little 
 Marion. The man whom they had shot deserved 
 death — so they said to one another — and he had got 
 it ; but the woman's death was accidental, and they 
 were not to blame because she had run upon their 
 fire. So, before the smell and the smoke of the 
 gunpowder had been carried away by the passing 
 breeze from that place of murder, all were silent, 
 and could hardly bear to look one another in the face.
 
 THE COVENANTER'S MARRIAGE-DAY. 267 
 
 Their work had been lamentable indeed. For now they 
 began to see that these murdered people were truly 
 bridegroom and bride. She was lying there dressed 
 with her modest white bridal garments and white rib- 
 bands, now streaked with many streams of blood from 
 mortal wounds. So, too, was she who was support- 
 ing her head. It was plain that a bridal party had 
 been this very day — and that their hands had pre- 
 pared for a happy and affectionate newly wedded pair 
 that bloody bed, and a sleep from which there was 
 to be no awaking at the voice of morn. They 
 stood looking appalled on the bodies, while, on the 
 wild flowers around them, which the stain of blood 
 had not yet reached, loudly and cheerfully were mur- 
 muring the mountain -bees. 
 
 Christian Lindsay was not quite dead, and she at last 
 lifted herself up a little way out of Marion's lap, and 
 then falling down with her arms over her husband's 
 neck, uttered a few indistinct words of prayer, and ex- 
 pired. 
 
 Marion Scott had never seen death before, and it 
 was now presented to her in its most ghastly and fear- 
 ful shape. Every horror she had ever heard talked of 
 in the hiding places of her father and relations was 
 now realized before her eyes, and for anything she 
 knew, it was now her turn to die. Had she dreamed 
 in her sleep of such a trial, her soul would have died 
 within her, — and she would have convulsively shriek- 
 ed aloud on her bed. But the pale, placid, happy-
 
 268 the covenanter's marriage-day. 
 
 looking face of dead Christian Lindsay., whom she had 
 loved as an elder sister, and who had always been so 
 good to her from the time she was a little child, in- 
 spired her now with an utter fearlessness — and she 
 could have knelt down to be shot by the soldiers with- 
 out one quickened pulsation at her heart. But now 
 the soldiers were willing to leave the bloody green, and 
 their leader told Marion she might go her ways and 
 bring her friends to take care of the dead bodies. 
 No one, he said, would hurt her. And soon after, 
 the party disappeared. 
 
 Marion remained for a while beside the dead. Their 
 wounds bled not now. But she brought water from 
 the little spring and washed them all decently, and 
 left not a single stain upon either of their faces. She 
 disturbed, as little as possible, the position in which 
 they lay ; nor removed Christian's arms from her hus- 
 band's neck. She lifted one of the arms up for a 
 moment to wipe away a spot of blood, but it fell down 
 again of itself, and moved no more. 
 
 During all this time the setting sunlight was giving 
 a deeper tinge to the purple heather, and as Marion 
 lifted up her eyes to heaven she saw in the golden 
 west the last relics of the day. All the wild was silent 
 — not a sound was there but that of the night-hawk. 
 And the darkening stillness touched Marion's young 
 soul with a trembling superstition, as she looked at the 
 dead bodies, then up to the uncertain sky and over the 
 glimmering shades of the solitary glen. The poor
 
 THE COVENANTEES MARRIAGE-DAY. 269 
 
 girl was half afraid of the deepening hush, and the 
 gathering darkness- Yet the spirits of those she had 
 so tenderly loved would not harm her j they had gone 
 to Heaven. Could she find heart to leave them thus 
 lying together? — Yes — there was nothing, she thought, 
 to molest the dead. No raven inhabited this glen; 
 nothing but the dews would touch them, till she 
 went to the nearest hiding-place, and told her father 
 or some other friends of the murder. 
 
 Before the Moon had risen, the same party that on 
 the morning had been present at their marriage, had 
 assembled on the hillside before the shealing where 
 Mark Kerr and Christian Lindsay were now lifted 
 up together on a heather-couch, and lying cold and 
 still as in the grave. The few maids and matrons 
 who had been in that happy scene in the Queen- 
 Fairy's Parlour had not yet laid aside their white 
 dresses, and the little starry ribband-knots, or bride's 
 favours, were yet upon their breasts. The old Mi- 
 nister had come from his cave, and not for many 
 years had he wept till now ; but this was a case even 
 for the tears of an old religious man of fourscore. 
 
 To watch by the dead all night, and to wait for some 
 days till they could be coffined for burial, was not 
 to be thought of in such tunes of peril. That would 
 have been to sacrifice the living foolishly for the dead. 
 The soldiers had gone. But they might— no doubt 
 would return and scatter the funeral. Therefore it 
 was no sooner proposed than agreed to in the afflicted
 
 270 the covenanter's marriage-day. 
 
 souls of them all, that the bridegroom and his bride 
 should be buried even that very night in the clothes 
 in which they had that morning been -wedded. A bier 
 was soon formed of the birch tree boughs ; and with 
 their faces meekly looking up to Heaven, now filled 
 with moonlight, they were borne along in sobbing- 
 silence, up the hills and down along the glens, till the 
 party stood together in the lone burial-ground, at the 
 head of St Mary's Loch. A grave was dug for them 
 there, but that was not their own burial-place. For 
 Mark Kerr's father and mother lay in the church-yard 
 of Melrose, and the parents of Christian Lindsay slept in 
 that of Bothwell, near the flow of the beautiful Clyde. 
 The grave was half filled with heather, and gently were 
 they let down together, even as they were found lying 
 on the green before their shealing, into that mournful 
 bed. The Old Man afterwards said a prayer — not 
 over them — but with the living. Then sitting down 
 on the graves, and on the grave-stones, they spoke of 
 the virtues of the dead. They had, it is true, been 
 cut off in their youthful prime ; but many happy 
 days and years had been theirs — their affection for each 
 other had been a pleasant solace to them in toil, po- 
 verty, and persecution. This would have been a per- 
 plexing day to those who had not faith in God's per- 
 fect holiness and mercy. But all who mourned now to- 
 gether were wholly resigned to his dispensations, and 
 soon all eyes were dried. In solemn silence they 
 all quitted the church-yard, and then the funeral
 
 THE COVENANTER'S MARRIAGE-DAY. 271 
 
 party, which a few hours ago had been a marriage one, 
 dissolved among the hills and glens and rocks, and 
 left Mark Kerr and Christian Lindsay to everlasting 
 rest.
 
 272 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 It is a pleasant and impressive time, when, at the 
 close of divine service, in some small country church, 
 there takes place the gentle stir and preparation for a 
 Baptism. A sudden air of chearfulness spreads over 
 the whole congregation ; the more solemn expression 
 of all countenances fades away ; and it is at once felt, 
 that a rite is about to be performed, which, although 
 of a sacred and awful kind, is yet connected with a 
 thousand delightful associations of purity, beauty, and 
 innocence. Then there is an eager bending of smiling 
 faces over the humble galleries — an unconscious rising 
 up in affectionate curiosity — and a slight murmuring 
 sound in which is no violation of the Sabbath sanctity 
 of God's House, when in the middle passage of the 
 church the party of women is seen, matrons and maids, 
 who bear in their bosoms, or in their arms, the help- 
 less beings about to be made members of the Christian 
 Communion. 
 
 There sit, all dressed becomingly in white, the fond 
 and happy baptismal group. The babies have been
 
 THE BAPTISM. 273 
 
 entrusted, for a precious hour, to the bosoms of young 
 maidens, who tenderly fold them to their yearning 
 hearts, and with endearments taught by nature are 
 stilling, not always successfully, their plaintive cries. 
 Then the proud and delighted girls rise up, one after 
 the other, in sight of the whole congregation, and 
 hold up the infants, arrayed in neat caps and long 
 flowing linen, into their fathers' hands. For the poor- 
 est of the poor, if he has a heart at all, will have his 
 infant well dressed on such a day, even although it 
 should scant his meal for weeks to come, and force 
 him to spare fuel to his winter fire. 
 
 And now the fathers are all standing below the 
 pulpit with grave and thoughtful faces. Each has 
 tenderly taken his infant into his toil-hardened hands, 
 and supports it in gentle and stedfast affection. They 
 are all the children of poverty, and, if they live, are 
 destined to a life of toil. But now poverty puts on 
 its most pleasant aspect, for it is beheld standing be- 
 fore the altar of religion with contentment and faith. 
 This is a time, when the better and deeper nature of 
 every man must rise up within him ; and when he 
 must feel, more especially, that he is a spiritual and 
 immortal being making covenant with God. He is 
 about to take upon himself a holy charge ; to promise 
 to look after his child's immortal soul ; and to keep 
 its little feet from the paths of evil, and in those of 
 innocence and peace. Such a thought elevates the 
 lowest mind above itself — diffuses additional tender-
 
 274 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 ness over the domestic relations, and makes them, 
 who hold up their infanta to the baptismal font, better 
 fathers, husbands, and sons, by the deeper insight which 
 they then possess into their nature and their life. 
 
 The Minister consecrates the water — and as it falls 
 on his infant's face, the father feels the great oath in 
 his soul. As the poor helpless creature is wailing in 
 his arms, he thinks how needful indeed to human in- 
 fancy is the love of Providence ! And when after de- 
 livering each his child into the arms of the smiling 
 maiden from whom he had received it, he again takes 
 his place for admonition and advice before the pulpit, 
 his mind is well disposed to think on the perfect beauty 
 of that religion of whom the Divine Founder said, 
 " Suffer little children to be brought unto me, for of 
 such is the kingdom of Heaven !" 
 
 The rite of Baptism had not thus been performed 
 for several months in the Kirk of Lanark. It was 
 now the hottest time of persecution ; and the inhabit- 
 ants of that parish found other places in which to 
 worship God and celebrate the ordinances of religion. 
 It was now the Sabbath-day, — and a small congrega- 
 tion of about a hundred souls had met for divine ser- 
 vice in a place of worship more magnificent than any 
 temple that human hands had ever built to Deity. 
 Here, too, were three children about to be baptized. 
 The congregation had not assembled to the toll of the 
 bell, — but each heart knew the hour and observed it ; 
 for there are a hundred sun-dials among the hills,
 
 THE BAPTISM. 275 
 
 woods, moors, and fields, and the shepherd and the 
 peasant see the hours passing by them in sunshine and 
 shadow. 
 
 The church in which they were assembled was 
 hewn, by God's hand, out of the eternal rocks. A 
 river rolled its way through a mighty chasm of cliffs, 
 several hundred feet high, of which the one side pre- 
 sented enormous masses, and the other corresponding 
 recesses, as if the great stone girdle had been rent by a 
 convulsion. The channel was overspread with pro- 
 digious fragments of rock or large loose stones, some 
 of them smooth and bare, others containing soil and 
 verdure in their rents and fissures, and here and there 
 crowned with shrubs and trees. The eye could at 
 once command a long stretching vista, seemingly 
 closed and shut up at both extremities by the coales- 
 cing cliffs. This majestic reach of river contained 
 pools, streams, rushing shelves and waterfalls innumer- 
 able ; and when the water was low, which it now was 
 in the common drought, it was easy to walk up this 
 scene, with the calm blue sky overhead, an utter and 
 sublime solitude. On looking up, the soul was bowed 
 down by the feeling of that prodigious height of un- 
 scaleable and often overhanging cliff. Between the 
 channel and the summit of the far extended precipices 
 were perpetually flying rooks and wood-pigeons, and 
 now and then a hawk, filling the profound abyss with 
 their wild cawing, deep murmur, or shrilly shriek. 
 Sometimes a heron would stand erect and still on some
 
 276 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 little stone island, or rise up like a white cloud along 
 the black walls of the chasm, and disappear. Winged 
 creatures alone could inhabit this region* The fox 
 and wild cat chose more accessible haunts. Yet here 
 came the persecuted Christians and worshipped God, 
 whose hand hung over their heads those magnificent 
 pillars and arches, scooped out those galleries from 
 the solid rock, and laid at their feet the calm water in 
 its transparent beauty, in which they could see them- 
 selves sitting in reflected groups, with their Bibles in 
 their hands. 
 
 Here, upon a semicircular ledge of rocks, over a 
 narrow chasm, of which the tiny stream played in a 
 murmuring waterfall, and divided the congregation 
 into two equal parts, sat about a hundred persons, all 
 devoutly listening to their Minister, who stood before 
 them on what might well be called a small natural 
 Pulpit of living stone. Up to it there led a short flight 
 of steps, and over it waved the canopy of a tall grace- 
 ful birch tree. This pulpit stood on the middle of the 
 channel, directly facing that' congregation, and sepa- 
 rated from them by the clear deep sparkling pool into 
 which the scarce heard water poured over the black- 
 ened rock. The water, as it left the pool, separated 
 into two streams, and flowed on each side of that 
 Altar, thus placing it in an island, whose large mossy 
 stones were richly embowered under the golden blos- 
 soms and green tresses of the broom. Divine service 
 was closed, and a row of maidens, all clothed in purest
 
 THE BAPTISM. 277 
 
 white, came gliding off from the congregation, and 
 crossing the stream on some stepping stones, arranged 
 themselves at the foot of the pulpit, with the in- 
 fants about to be baptized. The fathers of the in- 
 fants, just as if they had been in their own Kirk, had 
 been sitting there during worship, and now stood up 
 before the Minister. The baptismal water, taken from 
 that pellucid pool, was lying consecrated in a small 
 hollow of one of the upright stones that formed one 
 side or pillar of the pulpit, and the holy rite proceed- 
 ed. Some of the younger ones in that semicircle kept 
 gazing down into the pool, in which the whole scone 
 was reflected, and now and then, in spite of the grave 
 looks, or admonishing whispers of their elders, letting 
 a pebble fall into the water, that they might judge of 
 its depth from the length of time that elapsed before 
 the clear air-bells lay sparkling on the agitated surface. 
 The rite was over, and the religious service of the day 
 closed by a Psalm. The mighty rocks hemmed in the 
 holy sound, and sent it in a more compacted volume, 
 clear, sweet, and strong, up to Heaven. When the 
 Psalm ceased, an echo, like a spirit's voice, was heard 
 dying away high up among the magnificent architec- 
 ture of the cliffs, and once more might be noticed in 
 the silence the reviving voice of the waterfall. 
 
 Just then a large stone fell from the top of the cliff 
 into the pool, a loud voice was heard, and a plaid hung 
 over on the point of a Shepherd's staff. Their watchful 
 Sentinel had descried danger, and this was his warning.
 
 278 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 Forthwith the congregation rose. There were paths 
 dangerous to unpractised feet, along the ledges of the 
 rocks, leading up to several caves and places of con- 
 cealment. The more active and young assisted the 
 elder — more especially the old Pastor, and the women 
 with the infants ; and many minutes had not elapsed, 
 till not a living creature was visible in the channel of 
 the stream, but all of them hidden, or nearly so, in 
 the clefts and caverns. 
 
 The Shepherd who had given the alarm had lain 
 down again in his plaid instantly on the green sward 
 upon the summit of these precipices. A party of sol- 
 diers were immediately upon him, and demanded what 
 signals he had been making, and to whom ; when one 
 of them, looking over the edge of the cliff, exclaimed, 
 " See, see ! Humphrey, we have caught the whole 
 Tabernacle of the Lord in a net at last. There they 
 are, praising God among the stones of the river Mouss. 
 These are the Cartland Craigs. By my soul's salva- 
 tion, a noble Cathedral !" " Fling the lying Sentinel 
 over the cliffs. Here is a canting Covenanter for you, 
 deceiving honest soldiers on the very Sabbath-day. 
 Over with him, over with him — out of the gallery into 
 the pit." But the Shepherd had vanished like a sha- 
 dow ; and mixing with the tall green broom and bush- 
 es, was making his unseen way towards a wood. " Sa- 
 tan has saved his servant ; but come, my lads — follow 
 me — I know the way down into the bed of the stream 
 — and the steps up to Wallace's cave. They are called
 
 THE BAPTISM. 279 
 
 the « Kittle Nine Stanes." The hunt's up We'll be 
 
 all in at the death. Halloo — my boys — halloo !" 
 
 The soldiers dashed down a less precipitous part of 
 the wooded banks, a little below the f craigs," and 
 hurried up the channel. But when they reached the 
 altar where the old grey-haired minister had been 
 seen standing, and the rocks that had been covered 
 with people, all was silent and solitary — not a crea- 
 ture to be seen. " Here is a Bible dropt by some of 
 them," cried a soldier, and, with his foot, spun it away 
 into the pool. " A bonnet — a bonnet," — cried another 
 — " now for the pretty sanctified face that rolled its de- 
 mure eyes below it." But, after a few jests and oaths, 
 the soldiers stood still, eyeing with a kind of mysterious 
 dread the black and silent walls of the rock that hem- 
 med them in, and hearing only the small voice of the 
 stream that sent a profounder stillness through the 
 heart of that majestic solitude. " Curse these coward- 
 ly Covenanters — what, if they tumble down upon our 
 heads pieces of rock from their hiding-places ? Ad- 
 vance ? Or retreat ?" There was no reply. For a 
 slight fear was upon every man ; musquet or bayonet 
 could be of little use to men obliged to clamber up 
 rocks, along slender paths, leading, they knew not 
 where ; and they were aware that armed men, now- 
 a-days, worshipped God, — men of iron hearts, who 
 feared not the glitter of the soldier's arms — neither 
 barrel nor bayonet — men of long stride, firm step, and 
 broad breast, who, on the open field, would have over-
 
 280 THE BAPTISM. 
 
 thrown the marshalled line, and gone first and fore- 
 most if a city had to be taken by storm. 
 
 As the soldiers were standing together irresolute, a 
 noise came upon their ears like distant thunder, but 
 even more appalling ; and a slight current of air, as if 
 propelled by it, past whispering along the sweet- 
 briars, and the broom, and the tresses of the birch- 
 trees. It came deepening, and rolling, and roaring on, 
 and the very Cartland Craigs shook to their foun- 
 dation as if in an earthquake. " The Lord have 
 mercy upon us — what is this ?" And down fell many 
 of the miserable wretches on their knees, and some on 
 their faces, upon the sharp pointed rocks. Now, it 
 was like the sound of many myriad chariots rolling 
 on their iron axles down the stony channel of the tor- 
 rent. The old grey-haired minister issued from the 
 mouth of Wallace's Cave, and said, with a loud voice, 
 " The Lord God terrible reigneth." A water-spout 
 had burst up among the moorlands, and the river, in 
 its power, was at hand. There it came — tumbling 
 along into that long reach of cliffs, and in a moment 
 filled it with one mass of waves. Huge agitated 
 clouds of foam rode on the surface of a blood-red tor- 
 rent. An army must have been swept off by that 
 flood. The soldiers perished in a moment — but high 
 up in the cliffs, above the sweep of destruction, were 
 the Covenanters — men, women, and children, uttering 
 prayers to God, unheard by themselves, in that rag- 
 ing thunder.
 
 SIMON GRAY. 281 
 
 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 No man's life seemed to promise a calmer course 
 and a more serene close than that of the Reverend 
 Simon Gray. He had for many years possessed the 
 entire affection and respect of all the inhabitants of his 
 parish. A few words from him calmed angry blood, 
 settled quarrels, and allayed animosity. In his kirk, 
 in his manse, in his neighbour's house, in the field, 
 and by the way-side, he was, in good truth, the mini- 
 ster of peace. In his own family his happiness was 
 perfect. His wife was, in all things, after his own 
 heart ; and two sons and one daughter, just reaching 
 man and woman's estate, had scarcely ever given their 
 parents distress, and seemed destined for a life of re- 
 spectability and happiness. But it is with the hum- 
 ble as with the high in this world ; their possessions 
 are equally insecure ; and the same lesson may be 
 learnt from the life of the lowliest peasant, as from 
 that of the loftiest king. From the cottage and from 
 the palace the same warning voice is heard to say, 
 " Call no man happy till he dies."
 
 282 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 Simon Gray's eldest son, a youth of distinguished 
 talents, and even more tenderly beloved than admired 
 by all who knew him, was drowned in a moorland 
 loch in his father's parish, one warm summer evening, 
 when his parents were sitting at no great distance, in a 
 hollow among the hills. They heard his cries, but 
 could do nothing to save him, when, rushing to the 
 water's weedy and rushy edge, they saw him sinking 
 in miserable entanglement among the long strong roots 
 of the water-lilies. Of the shock their hearts and 
 whole being then got, nothing need be said; but 
 from that evening, well as they were both thought to 
 support it, every one in the parish felt that they never 
 were the same people as before, that their faces never 
 wore such bright smiles, and that the minister and his 
 wife often looked to each other when in company, with 
 tearful eyes, as if an accidental word or allusion had 
 awakened in their hearts a remembrance too tender or 
 too terrible. Michael would have been, had he lived, his 
 father's successor ; and some thought that the manse 
 never looked exactly like itself since that fatal event. 
 
 But this was but the beginning of Simon's sorrows. 
 His other son was a clerk in a commercial house in 
 the neighbouring city, and in the unreserved confi- 
 dence of his employers. Regularly every Saturday did 
 he walk out to the Manse — stay over the Sabbath — 
 and next morning before breakfast appear at his desk. 
 But one dark and stormy winter evening, in the mid- 
 dle of the week, he unexpectedly entered his father's 
 
 11
 
 SIMON GRAY. 283 
 
 study, and flinging himself down upon his kness, de- 
 clared that he was a ruined and lost man — that he 
 had formed a guilty connection with a woman who 
 had led him on to his destruction, — and that he had 
 embezzled his benefactor's money — done worse — for- 
 ged his name, and that, unless he could make his 
 escape, he must expiate his crime on a scaffold. 
 
 Simon Gray lifted up his son from his knees, and 
 folded him to his heart. " My poor wretched boy — 
 thy life is in jeopardy ! Oh ! that I knew how to save 
 my son ! Stephen — Stephen — what would signify the 
 breaking of my heart if thou wast but safe ! Speak 
 not — my sweet boy — of thy crimes, great as they are. 
 I am thy father, and can now think but of thy 
 death, and thy life. Fly, Stephen, and take with thee 
 thy father's blessing. Perhaps all thy money is gone 
 — I will give thee enough to pursue thy journey — 
 and so also may I be able to repay all thou hast em- 
 bezzled. O, Stephen — Stephen — my beloved boy, 
 who hast so often sat in thine innocence on my knees, 
 and whom so often I have put to bed after thy 
 prayers, has it indeed come to this ?" And father and 
 son knelt down together and prayed unto their God. 
 It was a black stormy night, and Stephen went away 
 without seeing his mother or sister. He went away 
 
 but he never returned. He made his escape to 
 
 America, and died, in a few weeks after his arrival, of 
 the yellow fever. 
 
 The miserable father knew not how to break the
 
 284 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 matter to his wife and daughter. They saw his afflic- 
 tion, — and he told them he feared Stephen was a pro- 
 fligate. But next night, the outer door opened loudly, 
 and two officers of justice entered the manse. Now, 
 all concealment was at an end ; and next day it was 
 known, not only to the inmates of the manse, but to 
 all the inhabitants of the parish, that Stephen Gray 
 Was a criminal, and had fled to a foreign land. 
 
 Over the grave of the eldest son, his parents could 
 shed tears of a resigned sadness; but for him who 
 died untended beyond the sea, their grief was bitter and 
 inconsolable. No one ever uttered Stephen's name, 
 although there was not a house in all the parish where 
 his cheerful laugh had not been welcome. Ill as he 
 had behaved, dishonestly and vilely, affection for his 
 memory was in every heart. But a grave look or a 
 sigh was all in which any one could show this sorrow 
 and sympathy now ; and the minister of Seatoun un- 
 derstood the silence of his parishioners, for his dead 
 son had been a felon — aye, Stephen, the gay, witty, 
 fearless, and affectionate Stephen had been a felon. 
 He had written a letter to his father on his death-bed 
 — a few words — but they were impressed for ever on 
 his father's soul, and often did he repeat them in his 
 sleep, as the tears forced their way through his closed 
 eyelids, and drenched his heaving breast. 
 
 The terror struck into the heart of Stephen's Sister 
 by the sudden bursting in of the officers of justice in- 
 to the manse, in some degree affected her intellects ;
 
 SIMON GRAY. 285 
 
 her memory from that night was impaired, and after 
 her brother's death in America had been communi- 
 cated to her, she frequently forgot it, and weeping, 
 implored to know if he had not lately written home. 
 " He must be dead, or he would have written;" and 
 she kept walking about the house, from one room to 
 another, repeating these words with a wailing voice 
 and sorely wringing her hands. That could not last 
 long ; without any disease, she lay down on her bed, 
 and never more rose. She was buried by the side of 
 her brother Michael, — and now Simon Gray was 
 childless. 
 
 Misfortunes, it is said, come in clouds ; and indeed 
 one is often not the forerunner merely, but the cause 
 of another, till a single loss appears, on reflection, to 
 have been the source of utter misery, ruin, and deso- 
 lation. Each of these deaths took away a portion of 
 Simon Gray's fortitude ; but still, after a few months, 
 he had carried over his whole awakened heart upon 
 the survivor. Now there was no one left for a pa- 
 rent's love ; and it was buried below the last slab that 
 laid its weight on his family burial-place. To be sure, 
 poor Stephen was not there — but he had his me- 
 morial too, beside his brother and sister, for his 
 crimes had not divided him from one loving heart — 
 and few but his parents' eyes looked on the stone that 
 bore his name and the number of his years. 
 
 Under all these afflictions, Simon's wife seemed to 
 bear herself up to the wonder of all who beheld her.
 
 286 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 She attended to every thing about the house as be- 
 fore ; none of her duties to the poor or rich among 
 her parishioners were neglected ; and but for her, it 
 was said, that her husband must have sunk under his 
 sorrows. But little do we know of each other's hearts. 
 Simon Gray was disconsolate — miserable — despairing : 
 but his health did not suffer — and he was able to dis- 
 charge his ordinary duties as before, after a short sus- 
 pension. She who administered comfort to him, some- 
 times in vain, needed it more even than himself; for 
 her grief preyed inwardly, in the midst of that serene 
 resignation, and struck in upon her very heart. Her 
 strength decayed — she drew her breath with pain — 
 and although no one, not even her medical attendants, 
 feared immediate danger, yet one day she was found 
 dead, sitting in a bower in the garden, to which she 
 had retired to avoid the noon-day sun. Death had 
 come gently into that bower, and touched her heart, 
 perhaps in a slumber. Her head was reclining against 
 the green leaves, and the Bible had not even fallen 
 out of her hand. 
 
 The calamities that had befallen the Minister of 
 Seatoun were as great as heart or imagination can con- 
 ceive. Yet such calamities have been borne by many 
 human beings, who have so far recovered from their 
 shock as afterwards to enjoy some satisfaction in their 
 existence. Men have we all known, with cheerful 
 countenances, and apparently placid minds, whose 
 best enjoyments have been sorely cut down ; and who,
 
 SIMON GRAY. 287 
 
 at one time, no doubt, thought and felt that for them, 
 never more could there be one glimpse of joy upon 
 this earth. But necessity is to many afflicted spirits, 
 although a stern yet a sure comforter. The heart in 
 its agonies of grief is rebellious, and strives to break 
 asunder the fetters of its fate. But that mood cannot 
 be sustained. It is irrational and impious, and the 
 soul can find true rest only in resignation and sub- 
 mission. Then mingled motives to better and calmer 
 thoughts arise. — Men see the wisdom and the virtue of 
 a temperate sorrow,— the folly and the wickedness of 
 outrageous grief. They begin to wish to obey the 
 laws that ought to regulate the feelings of mortal 
 creatures. In obeying them there is consolation, and 
 a lightening of the sore burden of their distress. 
 Then come blessed thoughts of the reward of the 
 righteous who have gone to God — remembrances of 
 all their beauty, innocence, or goodness, while they so- 
 journed with us here ; — and hope, faith, and belief 
 that we shall yet meet them face to face, and be no 
 more severed. Thus does time cure the wounds of 
 the heart, just as it covers the grave with verdure and 
 with flowers. We cannot, if we would, live without 
 often sorrowing; but neither can we, if we would, 
 sorrow always. God is kinder to us than we are to 
 ourselves, and he lifts us up when, in blind passion, we 
 woidd fain lie grovelling hopelessly in the dust. 
 
 So is it with many. — perhaps with most men— but 
 it is not so with all. It was not so with him of whom
 
 288 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 we now speak. The death of his children he bore 
 with resignation,, and thought of them in peace. But 
 when his soul turned from them to their mother it was 
 suddenly disquieted ; and day after day, week after 
 week, and month after month, was it drawn with a 
 more sickening and disconsolate passion of grief to her 
 grave. An overwhelming tenderness for ever drown- 
 ed his soul — haunted was he for ever by her image, 
 dressed as he had never seen her, but as he knew she 
 now was drest, — in a shroud. The silence of his room 
 
 of the whole house — of the garden — the glebe — and 
 
 all the fields around, was insupportable : he prayed to 
 forget her ; and then, with a gush of tears, he prayed 
 that he might never cease for one moment to think of 
 her while he lived. Why, some one might have ask- 
 ed, was this man so distressed, so distracted, so infa- 
 tuated in his grief? Who was she that had been taken 
 from him ? Did all the beauty of the skies, all the 
 gladness of the earth, all affection, love, joy, and thought 
 centre but in her alone ? Had the mercy of God, and 
 his bounty to this being whom he still supported, been 
 utterly extinguished when the eyes of her whom he 
 loved were closed in death ? Who and what may she 
 have been that must thus madly and hopelessly be for 
 ever deplored ? 
 
 To an indifferent heart, these questions could not 
 have been satisfactorily answered. She who had died, 
 and who was thus ceaselessly bewailed, was but one of 
 
 many many, most worthy when known to be beloved, 
 
 10
 
 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 5289 
 
 but who, undistinguished among their fellow-crea- 
 tures, live, and die, and go to Heaven- Simon Gray had 
 married her when they were both young, both hum- 
 ble, as indeed they always had been, and both poor. 
 She brought to him pure affection, a heart full of ten- 
 derness and pity, a disposition as sweet as ever tinged 
 a woman's cheek with smiles, cheerfulness never ob- 
 scured, simple thoughts reconciled in joy to a simple 
 life, and a faith in religion as perfect as in the light of 
 the outer day. In her quiet and narrow neighbour- 
 hood she was thought not without her beauty ; and 
 whatever that might have been, it sufficed to delight 
 the heart and soul of Simon Gray, when she became 
 his bride. For twenty years never had they been a 
 whole day apart. No change had ever taken place 
 in their affection, but such change as nature gracious- 
 ly brings when new loves and new duties arise to 
 bless the wedded life. Simon Gray never thought of 
 comparing his wife with others. In herself she was 
 a bliss to him. God gave her to him, and perhaps 
 he thought in his soul that he might be resigned were 
 God to take her away. Such was the spirit that 
 breathed over his constant thoughts, and actions, and 
 discourses ; and in him it was unaffected and sincere. 
 But who knows his own soul ? God did take her 
 away, and then it was known to him how ungrateful 
 and how miserably weak was his heart, how charged 
 haunted and torn with vain passion and lamentation ,
 
 290 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 with outcries of grief that have no comfort, with reck- 
 lessness and despair. 
 
 He seemed now to be without any object in this 
 world. His very zeal in the cause he sincerely loved 
 was deadened, — and he often durst not say the things 
 he ought when preaching of the loving kindness of 
 his God. The seat below the pulpit, and close to it 
 where for so many years he had seen the composed and 
 attentive faces of his beloved wife and children, was 
 now often empty, — or people in it he cared not for, — 
 indeed he cared less and less every Sabbath for the con- 
 gregation he had long so truly loved, and the bell that 
 formerly sent a calm joy into his heart, ringing through 
 the leafy shelter of the summer trees or tinkling in the 
 clear winter sky, now gave pangs of grief, or its sound 
 was heard with indifference and apathy. He was in many 
 things unconsciously a changed man indeed, — and in 
 some where he perceived and felt the change, with un- 
 availing self-upbraiding and with fear and trembling be- 
 fore his Creator and Redeemer. This sore and sad altera- 
 tion in their Minister was observed with grief and com- 
 passion by all his parishioners. But what could they 
 do for him ? They must not obtrude themselves too 
 often on the privacy, the sanctity of sorrow ; but he 
 was remembered in their prayers, and many an eye 
 wept, and many a voice faultered, when by the cot- 
 tage firesides they talked of their poor Minister's af- 
 flictions, and the woeful change that had been wrought 
 in so short a time within that Manse, which had so
 
 SIMON GRAY. 291 
 
 long stood like the abode of an almost perfect blessed- 
 ness. 
 
 A rueful change was indeed beginning to take place 
 in the state of Simon Gray's soul, of which no one out 
 of the Manse could have had any suspicion, and which 
 for a while was not suspected even by his own attached 
 and faithful servants. Without comfort, under the 
 perpetual power of despondency and depression, hope- 
 less, and not wishing for hope, afraid at last of the un- 
 companioned silence of his solitary hearth, and with 
 a mind certainly weakened in some degree by that 
 fever of grief, Simon Gray dimly turned his thoughts to 
 some means of alleviating his miseries, be they what 
 they might, and he began to seek sleep during the night 
 from the influence of dangerous drugs. These often 
 gave him nights unhaunted by those beloved spectres 
 whose visits were unsupportable to his soul. They occa- 
 sioned even thoughts and fancies alien and remote from 
 what he so loved and feared ; and now and then touch- 
 ed his disconsolate spirit with something like a gleam of 
 transitory gladness. One moment to be happy, was 
 something that his weakened mind conceived to be a 
 gain. Afraid and terrified with his own thoughts, 
 great relief was it to be placed, even for the shortest 
 time, out of their tormenting power. The sentence 
 of death was then, as it were, remitted, — or, at least, 
 a respite granted, or the hope of a respite. And when 
 his fire was out — the Manse dark and silent, and the 
 phantoms about to return, he flew to this medicine in
 
 292 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 an agony, and night after night, till at last it followed 
 regularly the unhappy man's prayers, and Simon 
 Gray, so that his loss might be buried in oblivion, re- 
 signed himself into that visionary or insensible sleep. 
 
 No doubt his mental sufferings were often thus re- 
 lieved ; but the sum of his misery was increased. Hor- 
 rid phantasies sometimes assailed him, — his health suf- 
 fered, — a deep remorse was added to his other agonies, 
 
 the shame, the perturbation of despicable vice, and 
 
 the appalling conviction brought in flashes upon his 
 understanding, that it too was weakened, and that his 
 life might terminate in imbecility or madness. 
 
 He had now several separate states of existence, 
 that came by degrees into ghastly union. One was 
 his own natural, widowed, childless, forlorn, uncom- 
 panioned, and desolate condition — without one glimpse 
 of comfort, and unendurable altogether to his cold and 
 sickened heart. From that he flew, in desperation, 
 into a world of visions. Then the dead seemed re- 
 animated — the silent burst into song — and sunshine 
 streamed, as of yore, through the low windows of the 
 Manse, and fragrance from the clambering honey- 
 suckle filled every room. The frenzied man forgot 
 his doom, and whenever a door opened, he looked to see 
 hia wife and children. The potent drugs then blessed 
 his brain ; and his countenance beamed with smiles 
 sad to behold, born of that lamentable delusion. But 
 ere long this spell began to dissolve. Then came hor- 
 rid hints of the truth. One corpse after another lay
 
 / 
 
 SIMON GRAY. 293 
 
 before him — he knew them, and went up to close their 
 eyes — then a sense of his own pitiable prostration of 
 mind came over him, and still unable to know certain- 
 ly whether he was or was not a childless widower, he 
 would burst out into a long hysterical laugh, strike 
 his burning forehead, and then fling himself down on 
 bed or floor, to him alike, or sit in his lonely room, 
 in utter stupefaction, and with cheeks bathed in 
 tears. The servants would come in, and look upon 
 him in pity, and then go their ways, without uttering 
 a word. 
 
 The whole manners and appearance of the Minister 
 of Seatoun were now visibly changed to the most care- 
 less eye. His sedate and gentle demeanour was convert- 
 ed into a hurried and distracted wildness. Sometimes 
 he was observed in black melancholy and despair, — 
 and then again in a sort of aimless and unbecoming 
 glee. His dress was not the same, — his countenance 
 had the wrinkles but not the paleness of grief, — his 
 hand trembled, and his voice sounded not like the 
 voice of the same man. A miserable rumour spread 
 over the parish. The austere expressed dissatisfaction, 
 
 the gentle pitied, — the thoughtless smiled ; — but all 
 
 confessed that such a change had never been known 
 before as that which had taken place in the Minister of 
 Seatoun, — and that, alas ! his life was likely to end in 
 disgrace as well as sorrow. His degradation could 
 not be concealed. Simon Gray the simple, the tern-
 
 29^ SIMON GIIAY. 
 
 perate, the pious, and the just, was now a wine-bibber 
 and a drunkard. 
 
 The Manse now stood as if under bann of excommu- 
 nication. All the gravel walks, once so neat, were 
 overgrown with weeds ; the hedges were unpruned ; 
 cattle browzed often in the garden ; and dust and cob- 
 webs stained and darkened every window. Instead 
 of the respectable farmers of the parish, the elders, 
 or some of the few neighbouring gentry, being seen 
 entering or leaving the Manse, none but men of doubt- 
 fid reputation, or bad, opened the gate — strangers of 
 mean appearance, and skulking demeanour, haunted 
 it, and lingered about at twilight — and not unfre- 
 quently the noise, clamour, and quarrelling of drunk- 
 en revelry startled the passer by from bounds where- 
 in, at such hours formerly, all had been silent, except, 
 perhaps, the sweet sound of the evening psalm. 
 
 It was not possible that all respect could easily or 
 soon be withdrawn from a man once so universally 
 and so deservedly honoured. His vice proceeded from 
 the weakness of his heart, that had lived too much on 
 its own love and on its own happiness, and when these 
 stays were removed fell down into this humiliation. 
 Many excuses, — many palliations, — many denials were 
 framed for him, and there was often silence at his name. 
 After almost all respect was gone, affection remained 
 nearly as strong as before, for that Simon Gray had 
 been a good man none denied, and now too were joined 
 to the affection for him a profound pity and pure com-
 
 SIMON GRAY. 295 
 
 passion. " Was he not a widower? Was he not child- 
 less ? Surely few had been tried as he had been tried, 
 — and it was easy to see that the poor man's grief had 
 affected his brain. The minister is not in his right 
 mind, — but we trust in God that he may get better." 
 Such were the words of many and the wishes of all. 
 For he had no enemies, — and he had for nearly twenty 
 years been a friend to them all, both in things tempo- 
 ral and things eternal. 
 
 But the hour of his ruin was fast approaching. 
 Perhaps the miserable man knew that he was lost. 
 Perhaps he took an insane pleasure in looking forward 
 to his utter destruction. He was now the abject slave 
 of his vice — whatever passed within his troubled and 
 often clouded mind, he seemed often to have no shame 
 now — no desire of concealment, but was seen in the 
 open day-light, in presence of old age that mourned, 
 and childhood that could only wonder, a rueful spec- 
 tacle of degradation, laughing or perhaps weeping, 
 with his senses drowned or inflamed, ignorant of him- 
 self and of his profession, and seemingly forgetful 
 even of the name of his parish, and of the house in 
 whose quiet secrecy he had passed so many years of 
 temperance, happiness, and virtue. 
 
 A melancholy confusion was now in all his mind. 
 Subjects once familiar to him were now almost for- 
 gotten ; truths once clear to him as sunshine were 
 now no more known ; the great doctrines of Christi- 
 anity which he had so long taught with simplicity and
 
 296 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 fervour, became to his weakened and darkened under- 
 standing words without meaning; even the awful 
 events of his Saviour's life, from the hour when he 
 was laid in the manger, till he died on the cross, were 
 at times dimly recognized, for all now was glimmer- 
 ing and ghastly in the world of his memory. One 
 night he was seen sitting beside the graves of his wife 
 and children. The infatuated man fixed on them his 
 glazed and wild eyes, and muttered unintelligible la- 
 mentations and blessings. Most sad — most shocking 
 — most terrible, was it to behold such a man in such 
 a place, in such pitiable degradation. For one year 
 had not yet elapsed since Simon Gray had been lead- 
 ing a life of innocent simplicity, a perfect model of 
 what ought to be the simple and austere minister of a 
 simple and austere church. There he was seen by a few, 
 now wringing his hands, now patting the tombstone 
 on his wife's grave, now kneeling down, now kissing 
 it, now lifting up his convulsed face to Heaven, alter- 
 nately yielding to a wailing tenderness, and a shud- 
 dering horror — forgetful now of every thing but the 
 dim confusion of all those deaths and his own miseries, 
 and now seemingly assailed with a dreadful conscious- 
 ness of his miserable degradation, till, with a horrid 
 groan, long, low, and deep of mortal grief, he rose 
 up from the ground, gazed ghastly round all over the 
 tombstones with a bewildered eye, glared upon the 
 little kirk and its spire now bright with the light of 
 the setting sun, and then, like a wandering and punish-
 
 SIMON GRAY. 297 
 
 ed ghost, disappeared into the shady and neglected 
 garden of the Manse. 
 
 Enslaved as Simon Gray now was to his vice, or, 
 indeed, disease, yet such was the solemn and awful 
 power over his mind which the Sabbath-day possess- 
 ed, that he had never once polluted or violated its 
 sanctity. In cases of furious insanity, it has been 
 known that patients whose lives had been religious 
 have felt the influence of strong habitual association, 
 and kept a wild Sabbath even in their cells. With 
 the Minister of Seatoun this mysterious force had hi- 
 therto imposed a saving restraint. His congregation 
 was sadly thinned, but still he performed divine ser- 
 vice ; and no one at least could say that they had ever 
 seen the Avretched man under the dominion of the sin, 
 that so easily beset him, in the pulpit. But that hour 
 now came ; and he was ruined past all earthly re- 
 demption. 
 
 Next day the Elders went to the Manse. His ser- 
 vants made no opposition to their entrance, nor did 
 they deny that their Minister was at home. They had 
 not, indeed, seen him since the evening before ; but 
 they had heard his footsteps and his voice,, and knew 
 that he was not dead. So the Elders walked up stairs 
 to his room, and found him sitting near the window, 
 looking out upon the church-yard, through and below 
 the rich flowery foliage of the horse-chesnuts and 
 sycamores that shadowed both Manse and Kirk. He 
 was fully awakened to the horrors of his situation, and
 
 298 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 for a while spoke not a word. " Come down with me 
 into the parlour," he said ; and they did so. They all 
 sat down, and there was yet silence. They feared to 
 turn their eyes upon him, as he stood by himself in the 
 midst of them — pallid, ghastly, shuddering, — the big 
 burning tears of guilt, and shame, and despair, falling 
 down upon the floor. " Lost am I in this world and 
 the next ! I have disgraced the order to which I be- 
 long — I have polluted the church — I have insulted 
 the God who made me, and the Saviour who redeem- 
 ed me ! Oh ! never was there a sinner like unto me !" 
 He dashed himself down on the floor — and beseeched 
 that no one would lift him up. " Let me hear your 
 voices, while I hide my face. What have you to say 
 unto your wretched minister ? Say it quickly — and 
 then leave me lying on the floor. Lift me not up I" 
 
 His body lay there, in this prostration of the spirit, 
 before men who had all known him, loved him, re- 
 spected him, venerated him, not more than one year 
 ago. Much of that was for ever gone now ; but 
 much remained unextinguishable in their hearts. 
 Some of them were austere, and even stern men, of 
 his own age, or older than he; but there are times 
 and occasions when the sternest become the most 
 compassionate. So was it now. They had come not 
 to upbraid or revile, — not even to rebuke. They 
 brought with them sorrow and tribulation, and even 
 anguish in their souls. For they knew that his mini- 
 stry was at an end; that Simon Gray was now no-
 
 SIMON GRAY. 299 
 
 thing unto them but a fallen and frail being, whose 
 miseries, they themselves fallen and frail too were 
 by nature called upon to pity— and they wished, if 
 possible, to give comfort and advice, and to speak with 
 him of his future life. Why should they be stern or 
 cruel to this man ? They had sat often and often at 
 his simple board when his wife and family graced and 
 blessed it ; — he, too, had often and often familiarly and 
 brotherly sat in all their houses, humble, but scarcely 
 more humble than his own — he had joined some of 
 them in wedlock — baptized their children — remem- 
 bered them in his public prayers when any of them had 
 been threatened with death — he had prayed, too, by 
 their bedsides in their own houses — he had given them 
 worldly counsel — and assisted them in their worldly 
 trials — and was all this to be forgotten now? And 
 were they to harden their hearts against him ? Or, were 
 not all these things to be remembered with a grateful 
 distinctness ; and to soften their hearts ; and even to 
 bedew their faces with tears ; and to fill their whole 
 souls with pity, sorrow, affection, and the sadness of 
 brotherly love towards him who so good in many 
 things, had, at last, been weighed in the balance and 
 found w r anting ? They all felt alike now, however 
 different their dispositions and characters. They did 
 not long suffer him to lie on the floor — they lifted him 
 up — tried to comfort him — wept along with him,— 
 and when the miserable man implored one of the 
 number to offer a prayer for him, they all solemnly
 
 300 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 knelt down, and hoped that God, who was now called 
 upon to forgive his sins, would extend his mercy to 
 all the fellow- sinners who were then together upon 
 their knees. 
 
 Simon Gray was no more a Minister of the Church 
 of Scotland, and he left the parish. It was thought 
 by many that he was dead — that shame and remorse, 
 and the disease that clung close to his soid, had killed 
 him at last. But it was not so. The hour was not 
 yet come, and his death was destined to be of a differ- 
 ent kind indeed. 
 
 The unfortunate man had a brother who, for many 
 years, had lived on a great sheep-farm in Strathglass, 
 a wild district of the northern Highlands. He had al- 
 ways stood high in the esteem and love of this unedu- 
 cated, but intelligent farmer — he had visited him occa- 
 sionally with his wife and children for a few days, and 
 had received similar visits in return. This good and 
 worthy man had grieved for Simon's bereavement, and 
 his subsequent frailties ; and now he opened the door 
 of his house, and of his heart, to his degraded, and re- 
 morseful, and repentant brother. His own wife, his 
 sons, and his daughters, needed not to be told to treat 
 with tenderness, respect, and pity, the most unfortu- 
 nate man ; and on the evening, when he came to their 
 house, they received him with the most affectionate 
 warmth, and seemed, by the cheerfulness of their man- 
 ners, not even to know of the miserable predicament 
 in which he stood. Happy were all the yourt g people
 
 SIMON GRAY. 301 
 
 to see their uncle in the Highlands, although at first they 
 felt sad and almost surprised to observe that he was 
 dressed just like their father, in such clothes as be- 
 come, on decent occasions, a hard working labouring 
 man, a little raised above the wants of the world. 
 
 Even before the heart of poor Simon Gray had 
 time to be touched, or at least greatly revived, by the 
 unrestrained kindness of all those worthy people, the 
 very change of scenery had no inconsiderable effect in 
 shrouding in oblivion much of his past misery. Here, 
 in this solitary glen, far, far away from all who had 
 witnessed his vices and his degradation, he felt reliev- 
 ed from a load of shame that had bowed him to the 
 earth. Many long miles of moor — many great moun- 
 tains — many wide straths and glens — many immense 
 lakes — and a thousand roaring streams and floods 
 were now between him and the manse of Seatoun — the 
 kirk where he had been so miserably exposed — and 
 the air of his parish, that lay like a load on his eyes 
 when they had dared to lift themselves up to the sun- 
 shine. Many enormous belts and girdles of rock se- 
 parated him from all these ; he felt safe in his solitude 
 from the power of excommunication ; and there was 
 none to upbraid him with their black silent coun- 
 tenances as he walked by himself along the heathery 
 shores of a Highland loch, or plunged into a dark 
 pine-forest, or lay upon the breast of some enor- 
 mous mountain, or sat by the roar of some foaming ca- 
 taract. And when he went into a lonely shealing, or a
 
 302 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 smoky hut, all the dwellers there were unknown to 
 him — and, blessed be God, he was unknown to them ; 
 — their dress, their gaze, their language, their proffered 
 food and refreshment, were all new — they bore no re- 
 semblance to what he had seen and heard in his for- 
 mer life. That former life was like a far off, faint, 
 and indistinct, dream. But the mountain — the forest 
 — the glen — the cataract — the loch — the rocks — the 
 huts — the deer — the eagles — the wild Gaelic dresses — 
 and that wilder speech — all were real, — they constitut- 
 ed the being of his life now ; and, as the roar of the 
 wind came down the glens, it swept away the remem- 
 brance of his sins and his sorrows. 
 
 But a stronger, at least a more permanent power 
 was in his brother's house, and it was that from which 
 his recovery or restoration was ultimately to proceed. 
 
 The sudden desolation of his heart that in so brief 
 a period had been robbed of all it held dear, had con- 
 verted Simon Gray from temperance almost austere, 
 into a most pitiable state of vicious indulgence ; and his 
 sudden restoration now to domestic comfort and objects 
 of interest to a good man's human feelings, began to 
 work almost as wonderful a conversion from that 
 wretched habit to his former virtue. New eyes were 
 upon him — new hearts opened towards him — new 
 voices addressed him with kindness — new objects were 
 presented to his mind. The dull, dreary, silent, for- 
 saken, and haunted Manse, where every room swarm- 
 ed with unendurable thoughts, was exchanged for an 
 
 10
 
 SIMON GllAV. 303 
 
 abode entirely free from all recollections and associa- 
 tions, either too affecting, or too afflicting. The simple 
 gladness that reigned in his brother's house stole in- 
 sensibly into his soul, reviving and renovating it with 
 feelings long unknown. There was no violent or ex- 
 travagant joy in which he could not partake, and that 
 might form a distressing and galling contrast with his 
 own grief. A homely happiness was in the house, in 
 every room, and about every person, and he felt him- 
 self assimilated, without effort of his own, in some 
 measure to the cheerful, blameless, and industrious 
 beings with whom it was now his lot to associate. 
 He had thought himself lost, but he felt that yet 
 might he be saved ; he had thought himself excom- 
 municated from the fellowship of the virtuous, but he 
 felt himself treated, not only with affection, but re- 
 spect by his excellent brother, all his nephews and 
 nieces, and the servants of the house. His soul hoped 
 that its degradation was not utter and irretrievable. 
 Human beings, he began to see, could still love, still 
 respect, even while they pitied him ; and this feeling 
 of being not an outcast from his kind, encouraged 
 him humbly to lift his eyes up to God, and less rue- 
 fully, and not with such bitter agony, to prostrate him- 
 self in prayer. 
 
 He thus found himself lifted out of the den of per- 
 dition ; — and, escaped into the clear unhaunted light, 
 he felt unspeakable horror at the thought of volunta- 
 rily flinging himself back again among these dreadful
 
 30-1 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 agonies. His brother rejoiced to behold the change so 
 unexpectedly sudden in all his habits ; and, when 
 they went out together in the evenings to walk among 
 the glens, that simple man laid open to Simon all his 
 heart — spoke to him of all his affairs — requested his ad- 
 vice — and behaved towards him with such entire and 
 sincere respect and affection, that the fallen man felt 
 entitled again to hold up his head, and even enjoyed 
 hours of internal peace and satisfaction, which at first he 
 was afraid to suffer, lest they might be the offspring of 
 apathy or delusion. But day after day they more fre- 
 quently returned and more lastingly remained ; and 
 then Simon Gray believed that God was, indeed, ac- 
 cepting his repentance, and that his soul might yet 
 not be utterly lost. 
 
 Simon Gray went out with the servants to their 
 work, himself a servant. He worked for his brother 
 and his children, and while his body was bent, and 
 his hands were busy, his heart was at rest. The past 
 could not take direful possession of him when labour- 
 ing in the fields, or in the garden, or in the barn, or 
 searching for the sheep in snow or tempest, with his 
 brother or his nephews. The pure fresh air blew 
 around his temples — the pure fresh water was his 
 drink — toil brought hunger which the simple meal 
 appeased — and for every meal that his brother blest, 
 did he himself reverently return thanks to God. So 
 was it settled between them ; and Simon Gray, on 
 such occasions, in fervid eloquence, expressed his heart. 
 
 11
 
 SIMON GRAY. 305 
 
 He rose with the light or the lark — all his toils were 
 stated — all his hours of rest; and in a few months he 
 was even like one who, from his boyhood, had been a 
 Shepherd or a tiller of the earth. 
 
 In tiiis humble, laborious, and, it maybe said, happy 
 life, years past over his head, which was now getting 
 white. Suffice it to say, that once more Simon Gray 
 was as temperate as a hermit. He knew — he remem- 
 bered — he repented all his former shameful transgres- 
 sions. But now they were to him only as a troubled 
 dream. Now, too, could he bear to think on all his 
 former life before he was tried and fell — of his belov- 
 ed Susanna and the children sleeping by her side in 
 Seatoun church-yard — and of that dear, but guilty 
 boy, who died in a foreign land. In his solitary 
 labours in the field, or on his chaff bed, his mind, 
 and his heart, and his soul were often in the happy 
 Manse of former years. He walked in the garden 
 and down the burn-side, through the birchwood, and 
 by the little waterfall, with his wife, and boys and 
 girl — and then could he bear to think of the many 
 many Sabbaths he had officiated in his own kirk, on 
 all the baptisms, and that other greater Sacrament, ad- 
 ministered, on beautiful weather, in the open air, and 
 beneath the shadow of that wide-armed sycamore. 
 Calmly, now, and with an untroubled spirit, did he think 
 on all these things ; for he was reconciled to his present 
 lot, which, he knew, must never be changed, and to 
 his humbled heart came soothingly and sweet all the 
 
 u
 
 306 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 voices of the dead, and all the shadows of the past. He 
 knew now the weakness of his own soul. Remorse 
 and penitence had brought up all its secrets before 
 him; and in resignation and contentment, morning 
 and evening, did he for all his gracious mercies praise 
 God. 
 
 Simon had taught his brother's children, and they 
 all loved him as their very father. Some of their faces 
 were like the faces of their dead cousins — and some of 
 them bore the very same voices. So seemed it that 
 his very children were restored to him — the power of 
 the grave was weakened over his heart — and though 
 he sometimes felt, and said himself, that the living, 
 though like the dead, were not his own blessed crea- 
 tures, yet he gave them up all of a father's heart that 
 was not buried in those graves which had so quick- 
 ly, one after the other, employed the old sexton's 
 spade. And often, no doubt, when his heart was per- 
 fectly calm and happy, did he love his brother's chil- 
 dren even as he had loved his own. 
 
 Many years thus passed away, and with them al- 
 most all tradition, in this part of the country, of Simon's 
 degradation from the clerical order. It had faded in 
 simple hearts occupied with their own feelings; and 
 when he was in company with others at church or 
 market, not even those who knew all the circumstances 
 of his case could be said to remember them — they saw 
 before them only a plain, simple, grave, and contented 
 person like themselves, in a humble walk of life. Si-
 
 SIMON GRAY. 307 
 
 mon's own mind had been long subdued to his lot. He 
 felt himself to be what he appeared ; and he was dis- 
 tinguishable from his brother, whom in aspect and 
 figure he greatly resembled, only by an air of superior 
 intelligence and cultivation. His hands were, like his 
 brother's, hardened by the implements of labour — his 
 face was as embrowned by the sun — and his dress, 
 on week-day and Sabbath, alike plain, and in all re- 
 spects that of a respectable tenant. It seemed now 
 that he was likely to terminate his blameless life in 
 peace. 
 
 His brother was now obliged to go to the Lowlands 
 on the affairs of his farm, and so many years having 
 elapsed since Simon's degradation, he felt an irresist- 
 ible desire to revisit, once before he died, the neigh- 
 bourhood at least of his dear parish once his own, if 
 not the dear parish itself. Many must have now for- 
 gotten him ; and indeed ten years, at his period of life, 
 and all his severe miseries, had done the work of 
 twenty — so although but sixty years of age, he seem- 
 ed at least a man of threescore and ten. Accord- 
 ingly he accompanied his brother to the Lowlands — 
 once more walked about the streets and squares of 
 the City, where so many changes had taken place 
 that he scarcely knew his way, and where the very 
 population itself seemed entirely changed. He felt 
 comforted that no eye rested upon him ; and next day 
 —a fine clear bright frost, and the ground covered 
 with snow — he went with his brother to a village dis-
 
 308 SIMON* GRAY. 
 
 tant about ten miles only from his own Manse of Sea- 
 toun. But a river and two ranges of hills lay between 
 — so there was little danger of his meeting any one 
 who would recognize him to have been the minister of 
 that parish. Simon was happy, but thoughtful, and 
 his nearness to the place of his former life did not, he 
 thought, affect him so powerfully, at least not so over- 
 whelmingly as he had expected. A party of farmers from 
 different districts dined together, and after dinner one 
 of them, whose treatment of Simon, though not abso- 
 lutely insulting, had been rude and boisterous all day, 
 began to indulge in very brutal talk, and to swallow li- 
 quor with an evident design to produce intoxication. 
 Simon endeavoured to avoid all conversation with this 
 person, but on one occasion could not avoid gently re- 
 monstrating with him on his grossness. He also kind- 
 ly dissuaded him from drinking too much, a sin of 
 which, from bitter experience, he had known the mi- 
 serable effects, and of which he had in many others 
 wrought the cure. But his remonstrance enraged the 
 young farmer, who, it seems, came from the parish of 
 Seatoun, and knew Simon's whole history. He burst 
 out into the most ferocious invectives against his re- 
 prover, and soon showed that he was but too inti- 
 mately acquainted with all the deplorable and degrad- 
 ing circumstances of the case. In the coarsest terms 
 he informed the whole company who they had got 
 amongst them ; directed their attention to the solemn 
 hypocrisy of his countenance ; assured them that his
 
 ►N gray. 309 
 
 incontinence I <. : been confined to drinking; and 
 
 that even in the Highlands, the old sinner had cor- 
 rupted the menials in his brother's house, and was 
 the reproach of all Lowlanders that visited Strath- 
 glass. 
 
 This sudden, unprovoked, and unexpected brutality 
 annihilated Simon's long gathered fortitude. The 
 shocking, coarse, and unfeeling words were not all false 
 — and they brought upon his troubled and sickening 
 heart not the remembrance of his woeful transgression, 
 but it may be said its very presence. Ten years of 
 penitence, and peace, and virtue, and credit, were at 
 once destroyed, — to him they were as nothing, — and 
 he was once more Simon Gray the sinner, the drunk- 
 ard, the disgraced, the degraded, the madman. He 
 looked around him, and it seemed as if all eyes were 
 fixed upon him with pity, or contempt, or scorn. He 
 heard malicious whisperings — curious interrogatories 
 — and stifled laughter ; and, loud over all, the outra- 
 geous and brutal merriment of his insulter, the tri- 
 umphant peal of self-applauding brutality, and the 
 clenched hand struck upon the table in confirmation of 
 the truth of his charge, and in defiance of all gainsay- 
 ers. Simon Gray saw — heard no more. He rushed 
 out of the room in an agony of shame and despair, and 
 found himself standing alone in the darkness. 
 
 He thanked God that it was a wild, stormy, winter- 
 night. The farmers had not ventured to mount their 
 horses in that snow-drift — but Simon turned his face
 
 310 SIMON GEAY. 
 
 to the flaky blast, and drove along knee-deep, turning a 
 deaf ear to his brother's voice which he heard shouting 
 his name. He knew not whither he was thus rushing 
 
 for as yet he had no determined purpose in his mind. 
 
 One wish alone had he at this hour — and that was to 
 fall down and die. But the snow was not so deep a 
 short way out of the village, and the energy which his 
 despair had given his limbs enabled him to pursue his 
 solitary race through the howling darkness of the 
 night. He noticed nothing but the tops of the hedges 
 on each side that marked out the road ; — and without 
 aim or object, but a dim hope of death, or a passion for 
 the concealing and hiding darkness, he thus travelled 
 several miles, till he found himself entering upon a 
 wide common or moor. " I am on the edge of the 
 moor," he exclaimed to himself, " the moor of my own 
 parish — my own Seatoun. — No eye can see me — 
 blessed be God no eye can see me, — but mine eyes can 
 see the shape of the small swelling hills and mounts 
 covered though they be with snow, and neither moon 
 nor stars in heaven. Yes, I will walk on, now that I 
 am here, right on to the kirk of Seatoun, and will fall 
 down upon my knees at the door of God's House, 
 and beseech Him, after all my repentance, to restore to 
 peace my disconsolate, my troubled, and despairing 
 soul." 
 
 There had been but little change for ten years in that 
 pastoral parish. The small wooden bridge across the 
 Ewe-bank stood as it did before, and, as his feet made
 
 SIMON GEAY. 311 
 
 it shake below him, Simon's heart was filled with 
 a crowd of thoughts. He was now within a 
 few hundred yards of the Manse that had so long 
 been his own, and he stood still, and trembled, and 
 shivered, as the rush of thoughts assailed him from 
 the disturbed world of the past. He moved on. A 
 light was in the parlour window — the same room in 
 which he used to sit with his wife and children. Per- 
 haps he wept by himself in the darkness. But he hur- 
 ried on — he passed the mouth of the little avenue — 
 the hedges and shrubs seemed but little grown— 
 through a pale glimmer in the sky, while a blast had 
 blown away some clouds from before the yet hidden 
 moon, he saw the spire of his own Kirk. The little 
 gate was shut — but he knew well to open the latch. 
 With a strange wild mixture of joy and despair he 
 reached the door of the Kirk, and falling down pros- 
 trate in the pelting snow, he kissed the cold stone b>v 
 neath his cheek, and, with a breaking heart, ejaculat- 
 ed, " Oh God ! am I forgiven — and wilt thou take me, 
 through the intercession of thy Son, at last into thy 
 holy presence ?" 
 
 It snowed till midnight — and the frost was bitter 
 cold. Next morning was the Sabbath ; and the old 
 Sexton, on going to sweep the little path from the 
 church-yard gate to the door of the church, found 
 what was seemingly a corpse, lying there half-covered 
 with the drift. He lifted up the head ; and well did 
 he know the face of his former minister. The hair
 
 312 SIMON GRAY. 
 
 was like silver that formerly had been a bright 
 brown ; but the expression of the dead man's counte- 
 nance was perfectly serene — and the cold night had 
 not been felt by Simon Gray.
 
 THE RAINBOW. 318 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 A solitary Pedestrian was roaming over the glens 
 and mountains in a wild district of the Northern High- 
 lands of Scotland, when a Rainbow began to form it- 
 self over part of the magnificent landscape. He was, 
 not without reason, a melancholy and grief-haunted 
 man ; and the growing beauty of that Apparition in- 
 sensibly touched his heart with a delighted happiness 
 to which he had for a considerable time been a stran- 
 ger. As the varied brightness of the arch which as yet 
 was scarcely united, but showed only several glow- 
 ing fragments, gradually became more vivid, his 
 whole being felt a sympathetic exhilaration — despond- 
 ency and sorrow faded away, and he once more ex- 
 ulted in the natural freedom of the prime of life. 
 While he was gazing, the Rainbow became perfect, and 
 bound the earth and heaven together in a span of joy. 
 The glory illuminated two mountains, and the glen 
 between them opening up beneath that effulgence ap- 
 peared to be a majestic entrance into another and more 
 magnificent world. The sides of these two mountains,
 
 314 THE KAINBOW. 
 
 rent with chasms and tumbling torrents, were steeped 
 in the beautiful stains of the arch, so that the rocks 
 seemed clothed with purple, and the waterfalls to roll 
 down in gold. As the Rainbow began to dissolve, the 
 summit of the arch gave way, and the gorgeous co- 
 lours, forsaking the sky, embodied themselves in a mass 
 of splendour on each side of that wide glen. For a 
 few moments the edge of each mountain was veiled and 
 hidden in that radiance ; but it gradually melted away 
 into colourless air, the atmosphere was again open, 
 and a few showery clouds seen hanging opposite the sun, 
 were all that remained to tell of the vanished Rainbow. 
 But all the green fields and all the woods were glitter- 
 ing in freshened beauty — the birds were singing — the 
 cattle lowing on the hills — and the raven and the 
 kite were aloft in heaven. There was a jubilee — and 
 the lonely man who had been sitting on a rock, en- 
 tranced in that vision, rose up and inwardly said, 
 " Let my way lie up that glen whose glorious portal 
 has vanished — let me walk beneath what was like a 
 triumphal arch but a moment ago, into the solitary 
 magnificence of nature." 
 
 The Eremite pursued his way up the wooded banks 
 of a stony torrent, and on reaching the summit of the 
 cliffs saw before him a long expanse of black sullen 
 moor — which he crossed — and a beautiful vale sudden- 
 ly expanded below his feet, with cultivated fields, woods, 
 and groves, and among many huts sprinkled about like 
 rocks, one Mansion to which they all seemed to apper-
 
 THE RAINBOW. 315 
 
 tain, and which, without any grandeur, yet suited in its 
 unpretending and venerable solemnity the character of 
 that lonely and lovely place. He descended into the 
 vale, and happy he knew not why, walked along the 
 widening stream, till he found himself in a lawn, and 
 close by the Mansion which he had discerned from the 
 hill above, but which had till now been concealed by a 
 grove. At this moment, just as he was about to turn 
 back, two Ladies stood close beside him, and with a 
 slight embarrassment the stranger explained to them 
 how unconsciously he had been led to intrude upon their 
 privacy, and after that salutation, was about to retire. 
 But the impression which elegant and cultivated minds 
 make on each other in a moment, when unexpectedly 
 brought together in a situation calculated to show 
 something of their character, now prevented so sud- 
 den a parting, — and they who had thus casually met, 
 having entered into conversation, began in a few mi- 
 nutes to feel almost like friends. The stranger, who had 
 been led into this vale by a sort of romantic impulse, 
 could not help feeling as if this meeting were almost an 
 adventure. And it was no doubt an impressive thing to 
 a young Englishman wandering among the Highland 
 mountains, to form an acquaintance in this way with 
 two such persons as those with whom he was now 
 engaged in pleasant conversation. They seemed to 
 be Mother and Daughter ; — and when, after about half 
 an hour's walk, the stranger found himself in a spaci- 
 ous and elegant room, the guest of a high-bred and
 
 316 THE ItAINBOW. 
 
 graceful Lady in a widow's weeds, and, apparently 
 with one beautiful daughter in her retirement, he 
 could scarcely help thinking that the vague imagina- 
 tion which had led him thither under the Rainbow's 
 arch, might have some influence even on the com- 
 plexion of his future life. He had long been a me- 
 lancholy man ; and minds of that character are often 
 the most apt to give way to sudden emotions of glad- 
 ness. He closed up all remembrance of one fatal in- 
 cident in his life under a heap of fresh-springing and 
 happy thoughts and feelings ; and animated by the 
 novelty of his situation, as well as by the interesting 
 character of those whose hospitality he was now shar- 
 ing, never had he felt so free from anxiety and sorrow, 
 and so like his former self, nor so capable of the enjoy- 
 ment of life and every thing around him that was 
 beautiful and enlivening. As the evening drew on, 
 his heart was sad to think that, as he had come a 
 stranger, so like a stranger must he be departing ; but 
 these few hours had sunk into his heart, and he would 
 remember them as long as he lived, and in the re- 
 motest parts of the earth. 
 
 Does it require long time, days, weeks, months, and 
 years, to enable human beings to love one another ? 
 Does the human heart slowly and suspiciously lay up 
 one kind thought after another, till the measure of 
 its affection be full ? May gentle words and kindling 
 smiles pass from the lips, and yet the heart remain 
 cold and untouched, and willing to lose sight of, and
 
 THE RAINBOW. 317 
 
 to forget, the object of its transitory tenderness? It 
 may be so with many, for the accidents of time teach 
 different lessons, all equally necessary and wholesome 
 perhaps to different hearts ; but before human nature 
 has been sorely afflicted, tried, or deceived, its temper is 
 open to kindness and to joy ; and attracted by the 
 sympathies of a common nature, why may not those 
 who are strangers to-day, be friends to-morrow ? Nor 
 does the deepest affliction always close up the foun- 
 tains of love in the human soul. The saddest turn 
 often in sudden restoration to the gay and joyful ; like 
 light streaming in upon a prisoner through the bars of 
 his dungeon, is the smile on faces not yet bedimmed ' 
 by grief, to the man of many miseries ; and he who 
 hugs his sorrow close to his soul, will often at once 
 lay down that rueful burthen to which he has long 
 clung with infatuated despair, at the sight of youth, 
 beauty, and innocence, rejoicing before him in untam- 
 ed, fearless, and triumphant bliss. There are often, 
 also, sudden revelations of sympathy made between 
 human beings by a word, a tone, a look, or a smile ; 
 truth is then conveyed suddenly and easily into their 
 spirits, and from that moment they rest assured of 
 each other's affection, and each other's worth, as much 
 as if they had been mutually known for years. If 
 there were not these strong and prevailing tenden- 
 cies in our nature, the paths of human life would be 
 barren, indeed ; or the friendships that spring up over 
 them would, in general, be sown by the hand of in-
 
 318 THE IiATNBOW. 
 
 terest or self-love. But nature follows other proces- 
 ses ; and love and friendship, at first sight, often spring 
 up as necessarily as flowers expand from bud into 
 blossom, in the course of a few sunny and dewy hours 
 of one vernal morning. 
 
 The young English stranger felt this when the hour 
 of his departure was come, and when the Mother and 
 Daughter accompanied him down the vale, in the dusk 
 of the evening, on his way from Glen-Creran, never 
 more to return. Little was said as they walked along, 
 and they who, a few hours before, had not known of 
 each other's existence, were now about to say farewell 
 with sighs, almost with tears. At length the stran- 
 ger paused, and said, " Never will I forget this day, 
 this glen, and those from whom I now part. I will 
 remember them all, when my soul is sad, which it 
 ever must be as long as I live. Take the blessing of 
 a wounded heart. Ladies, farewell ;" and his eyes, 
 dim with emotion, at that moment met those of that 
 beautiful maiden, turned upon him with a heavenly ex- 
 pression of pity, and at last even stained with irrepres- 
 sible tears. A black scowl was in the heavens, and 
 darkened the green mount on which they stood ; a 
 long dreary sigh of wind came rustling down the vale, 
 and there was a low muttering of distant thunder. 
 " This will be a night of storms," said the Lady, 
 looking kindly towards the stranger. " It is not 
 Highland hospitality to let a guest depart at dark, and 
 
 in tempest — you must return with us to our house ;" 
 
 11
 
 THE KAINBOW- 319 
 
 and a huge thunderous cloud, that overshadowed halt" 
 the vale, was an argument not to be resisted; — so the 
 party returned together ; and just as they reached the 
 house, the long loud rattle was heard along the hills, 
 and the river, swollen on a sudden by the deluging 
 rain, roared along the swinging woods, till the whole 
 valley was in a tumult. It was a true Highland night; 
 and the old house rocked like a ship at sea. 
 
 But the walls of the Mansion (which had once 
 been a sort of castle) were thick and massy, and the 
 evening past happily along within, while the thunder 
 and the woods, and the torrents, and the blasts, were 
 all raging without in one united and most dismal 
 howl. These Ladies had not past all their lives in a 
 Highland glen, and they conversed with their guest 
 about foreign countries which they had all visited. 
 The harp was touched, and the wild Gaelic airs sound- 
 ed still more wildly among the fitful pauses of the 
 storm. She who played and sung was no sorceress 
 inhabiting an enchanted castle ; but she was a young, 
 graceful, and beautiful girl of nineteen, innocent as 
 beautiful, and therefore a more powerful sorceress 
 than any that ever wound the invisible lines of her 
 spell round a Knight of Romance. At the con- 
 clusion of one air, a Chieftain's Lament, the mother 
 heaved a deep sigh ; and in the silence that ensued, 
 the artless girl said to the stranger, who was standing 
 beside her, entranced by the wailing strain, " My poor 
 dead brother used to love that air, — I ought not to have
 
 320 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 sung it." But that mood passed away; and before 
 retiring to rest, the stranger said gaily, " Your wan- 
 dering guest's name is Ashton." " We are Stewarts," 
 was the reply ; and in an hour the house was buried 
 in sleep. 
 
 The stranger alone was wakeful. Not for several 
 years had he been so happy as during this day and 
 evening ; and the image of that lovely girl beside her 
 harp, sweetly singing, while the wild night was 
 roaring in the glen, could not leave his thoughts. Even 
 when, towards morning, he fell asleep, she was in his 
 dreams ; and then it seemed as if they had long been 
 friends — as if they were betrothed — and had fixed 
 their marriage-day. From these visions he aw r oke, 
 and heard the sound of the mountain torrent roaring 
 itself to rest, and the trees swinging less fiercely in 
 the weakened blast. He then recollected where he 
 was — his real condition returned upon him — and that 
 sweet maiden was then to him only a phantom once 
 seen, and to smile upon him no more. He rose at 
 sunrise, and, from the window, contemplated the gra- 
 dual dying away of the storm — the subsiding of the tor- 
 rent that became visibly less and less every minute — the 
 calm that slowly settled on the woods— the white mists 
 rolling up the mountain's side — till, at last, a beautiful, 
 calm, serene, and sunny day took possession of the 
 sky, and Glen-Creran lay below, in smiling and joyful 
 beauty, a wild paradise, where the world might be 
 forgotten, and human life pass away like a dream. 
 
 10
 
 THE RAINBOW. 321 
 
 It was the Sabbath-day, and Glen-Creran that, a 
 few hours ago, had been as loud as the sea, was now 
 not only hushed in the breathing repose of nature, but 
 all rural labour was at rest ; and it might almost have 
 been said, that the motionless clouds, the deep blue 
 vault, the fragrant air, and the still earth, were all 
 united together in one sweet spirit of devotion. No 
 shepherd shouted on the mountain — no reapers were 
 in the half-shorn fields, — and the fisherman's net was 
 hung up to dry in the sunshine. When the party met 
 again in the parlour whose wide window opening 
 down to the floor let in the pure fragrance of the roses 
 and honeysuckles, and made the room a portion, as it 
 were, of the rich wooded scenery, there was blended 
 with the warmth and kindliness of the morning salu- 
 tation, a solemn expression belonging to the hallowed 
 day, and to the religious state of feeling which it in- 
 spired. The subdued and almost melancholy air of 
 the Matron was now more touching and impressive, 
 as she was dressed in darker widow's weeds for the 
 house of God ; and the sweet countenance of Mary 
 Stuart, which, the night before, had beamed with 
 almost a wild gladness, was now breathed over by a 
 pensive piety, so truly beautiful at all times on a wo- 
 man's features. The Kirk was some miles distant ; 
 but they were prepared to walk to it ; and Edward 
 Ashton, without speaking on the subject at all, ac- 
 companied them on their way to Divine service. 
 
 To an Englishman, who had never before seen a 
 
 x
 
 322 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Highland Sabbath, the scene was most delightful, 
 as the" opening of every little glen brought upon 
 him some new interesting groupe, journeying tran- 
 quilly towards Appin Kirk. Families were coming 
 down together into the wider strath, from their green 
 nests among the solitude ; and friendly greetings 
 were interchanging on all sides, in that wild tongue 
 which, to his ear, seemed so well suited to a land of 
 mountains. The many coloured Highland tartan mixed 
 with the pure white of dresses from the Lowlands ; and 
 that mingling of different costumes in the same groupe 
 gave intimation of the friendly intercourse now subsist- 
 ing constantly between the dwellers of hill and of plain. 
 No haughty equipages came sweeping by. Almost 
 all the assembling congregation were on foot — here 
 and there an old man on a rough mountain poney — 
 there perhaps man and wife on a stronger steed — and 
 there a cart with an invalid, or the weak or aged, 
 with a due accompaniment of children. The distinc- 
 tion of ranks was still visible, but it was softened 
 down by one pervading spirit of humble Christianity. 
 So trooped they along to the House of God — the clear 
 tinkle of the bell was heard — the seats were filled — 
 and the whole vale echoed to the voice of psalms. 
 Divine service was, at this tune, performed in the 
 English language, and the Kirk was decently silent in 
 sincere and unostentatious devotion. 
 
 During service the Englishman chanced to fix his 
 eyes on a small marble monumental slab in the wall
 
 THE RAINBOW. 323 
 
 above the seat, and lie read these words — Sacred 
 to the Memory of Charles Stuart, late Cap- 
 tain in the Forty-second Regiment, who died 
 at Vienna, 3d August 17 — A mortal sickness 
 instantly struck his heart, and in that agony, which 
 was indeed almost a swoon of the soul, he wished 
 that he were dead, or buried in solitude many thou- 
 sand miles away from the place where he now sate. 
 He fixed his eyes upon the countenances — first of the 
 mother — and then of her daughter, and a resemblance, 
 which he had not discovered before, now grew upon 
 him stronger and stronger, to one in his grave, and 
 whom he once would have sacrificed his own life 
 to reanimate. He was sitting in the House of God 
 with the mother and sister of the man whose blood he 
 had shed ! The place — the name — the day of the 
 month — left no possibility of doubt. And now many 
 other corroborative circumstances came upon him in 
 that ghastly fit. He remembered the daughter saying 
 after that lament sung to the harp, " I ought not to 
 have sung it ; — for my poor dead brother used to de- 
 light in that air." The murderer of that poor dead 
 brother had come wandering to a solitary mansion 
 among the mountains, impelled by some evil spirit, and 
 was now sitting below his monument along with her 
 who had given him birth. But every one was intent 
 on the service of God — and his white face, white as 
 a sheet, was observed by none. By degrees he felt 
 the blood circulating again from his stricken heart
 
 324 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 — he began to breathe more freely, and had just 
 strength to stand up when the congregation rose to 
 prayer. He saw glimmering and unsteady beside 
 him the meek placid countenances of the widow and 
 her daughter — and turned away his eyes from them, 
 to fix them again on that inscription to which they were 
 drawn by a hideous spell. He heard not the closing 
 benediction — but was relieved in some degree by the 
 fresh air that whispered through the trees, as he found 
 himself walking by the side of his almost unseen 
 companions through the church-yard. " I fear, sir, 
 you are ill," said Mary Stuart, in a sweet and hur- 
 ried tone of voice — and no other answer was given but 
 a long deep groan, that sounded as if it rose up in 
 pangs from the bottom of a broken heart. 
 
 They walked along together in sorrow, fear, and 
 astonishment, at this sudden change in the looks of 
 their new friend, whose eyes, when they ventured to 
 look towards either of them, were wild and ghastly, 
 and every glance accompanied with a deeper and bit- 
 terer sigh. " For the love of God — let us, if pos- 
 sible, retire from the crowd — and lead me to some re- 
 tired place, that I may utter a few words, and then 
 hide myself for ever from your faces." 
 
 They walked along a footpath that winded through 
 a coppice wood, and crossing a plank over a rivulet, 
 in a few moments they were in a little glen, as lone- 
 ly as if it had been far among the mountains. " No 
 houses are in this direction," said the mother some-
 
 THE HAIXJHIW. '.'>25 
 
 what agitated and alarmed, she knew not why — 
 and they sat down together on a seat that had been 
 cut out of the turf by the hands of some shepherd, or 
 schoolboy, in his hours of play. " Mary, bring some 
 water from that pool — Mr Ashton looks as if about to 
 faint. My dear sir, are you better now ?" — and the 
 beautiful girl bathed his forehead with the cold lim- 
 pid water, till he felt the sickness depart, and lus soul 
 revive. 
 
 He rose up from the seat, and looking stedfastly on 
 their countenances, and then lifting his eyes to Hea- 
 ven, he sunk down on his knees before them — and 
 said, " My name is now Ashton, but it was not al- 
 ways so — hateful, horrible, and accursed, must that 
 other name be to your ears — the name of Edward Sit- 
 well." 
 
 The mother uttered a faint shriek, and her head 
 fell back, while the daughter sat down by her side, 
 and clasped her anns with loud sobs round her neck. 
 The stranger remained upon his knees, with his hands 
 clasped, and his eyes fixed upon them who now be- 
 held him not, for many a wild thought was hurrying 
 through their hearts. At length the widow looked 
 towards him with a dim and changeful expression, and 
 then covering her eyes with both her hands, indistinct- 
 ly said, " Fatal— fatal name indeed— has God brought 
 before me, on his bended knees, the man beneath 
 whose sword my dear Charles died ! Oh ! God of 
 mercy, teach me how I should feel in this wild and
 
 326 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 most sudden trial." " Pray for me — pray for me to 
 God — and also intercede for me with your mother 
 when I am far away — for believe me when I say, 
 that I have not had many happy days since that fatal 
 event,"— and rising from the ground, the stranger was 
 about to depart. But there was something so irre- 
 sistibly detaining in the pity that was fast streaming 
 from the eyes of poor Mary Stuart, to whom he 
 had addressed himself, that he stood rivetted to the 
 spot ; and he thought, too, that the face of the mo- 
 ther began to look with less horror upon him, and 
 seemed clouded with a humane and Christian compas- 
 sion. He said nothing in his own vindication — he 
 uttered a few words in praise of the dead — and stand- 
 ing before them, with his pale cheeks, and convulsed 
 sobs, and quivering lips, the sincerity of his sorrow 
 and contrition could not but affect their souls, and 
 bring over their gradually subsiding aversion a deep 
 feeling of sympathy for him who felt so profoundly 
 his own guilt. " Go not away from us, till we have both 
 forgiven you — yes — receive his mother's forgiveness, 
 and may your soul find rest from remorse, as mine 
 has found rest from grief." 
 
 Three years had elapsed since the death of her son 
 abroad in that duel, and the soul of this excellent wo- 
 man had reached the ultimate stage of resignation. 
 When, therefore, she recovered from that cold damp 
 feeling of horror and aversion breathed over her by the 
 presence of one whom, when the tidings of her son's
 
 THE RAINBOW. 3^7 
 
 death first came to her, she had thought of almost as a 
 murderer, she began to reflect on the few words he 
 had uttered, and on the profound passion manifest in 
 all his behaviour. In spite of her natural repug- 
 nance, she could not help feeling that he might have 
 fallen in that quarrel instead of her beloved son — that 
 there were no circumstances dishonourable or cruel at- 
 tending it — and that by his own confession the day be- 
 fore, when ignorant into whose house he had wander- 
 ed, he had for a long time led a life of melancholy and 
 despondence, arising from the remembrance of that 
 event. His mild and gentle manners — his intelligent 
 and cultivated mind — and the unequivocal symptoms 
 of sensibility and humane emotions which his whole 
 looks, conversation, and deportment had exhibited, 
 pleaded for him not in vain; and when she looked 
 upon him once more in the calmness of exhausted 
 passion, the mother, who through his means had been 
 deprived of an only son, felt that she had wronged 
 him by the violence of her feelings, and that it would 
 be right, generous, forgiving, and pious, to raise him 
 up from that fit of passion, and to look on him as 
 an erring brother, to whom she knew her brave boy 
 had been reconciled on his death-bed, and who had held 
 his hand when he breathed his last. There was some- 
 thing, too, in the sacred influence of the Sabbath-day 
 that at once softened and comforted her heart ; he had 
 walked with her and her Daughter to worship God in 
 that little humble kirk, and ought she not now to prac-
 
 328 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 tise those lessons of perfect forgiveness of all injuries, 
 be they what they might, enjoined by that religion in 
 which it was her blessing to believe ? " Why should I 
 have looked," thought she, " with such abhorrence and 
 creeping of the blood on this young man ? My boy is 
 in his grave — I trust in heaven — God has been merci- 
 ful unto me — and therefore let me now still my beat- 
 ing heart, and administer comfort, since he needs it so 
 much, to one whom not chance, but Providence, has 
 brought to be my guest." Such thoughts, when they 
 had once entered her heart, found a permanent abode 
 there — she was restored to a tranquillity wonderful 
 even to herself — and taking Edward Ashton by the 
 hand, she told him with a faint smile, that he must not 
 so leave them, and plunge alone into the dreary solitude 
 of those black mountains, but accompany them back 
 to the house, and as they had joined together in the 
 public worship of God, so would they that night kneel 
 down together before going to rest, and beseech Him to 
 be merciful to them who were all alike sinners. 
 
 During all this time, Mary Stuart had stood pale 
 and breathless as a statue, drinking in every word her 
 mother uttered, marking every tone of her voice, and 
 every change of expression upon her countenance. 
 She had been a mere girl when her brother went 
 abroad, and though she remembered him well, and 
 had loved him with all the tender enthusiasm of child- 
 hood, yet her growing thoughts and feelings towards 
 
 a thousand new objects, calculated by their nature to 
 
 10
 
 THE RAINBOW. 329 
 
 interest and delight her heart, had grown over that 
 early affliction ; and when she looked at her brother's 
 picture on the wall of her bed-room, or the inscription 
 on the marble slab in the Kirk, it was with a perfectly 
 calm spirit, without vain repining or regret, and with 
 a pleasant revival of old remembrances otherwise half 
 obliterated. When, therefore, she saw her mother 
 once more reconciled to the presence of their guest, 
 and willing that one so mournfully connected with 
 their fate in life, and so strangely brought to them, 
 should not wander off for ever thus forlorn and 
 despairing, her soul rejoiced within her, the for- 
 mer brightness of her visage was restored, and once 
 more the smile was seen that mantles from a heart 
 made happy, without and almost against its will, in 
 the power of its purity and innocence. 
 
 As they walked back through Glen-Creran to the 
 Old Mansion, the character of the weather — of the 
 scenery — of the day, seemed to them all to have un- 
 dergone a change. A more sober music was in the 
 rills ; the sky was not so dazzlingly clear ; a dim sha- 
 dow crept over the sweet Loch-Phoil — and, as if a 
 hawk had been in the air, the voice of every bird was 
 silent in the woods. Few words were uttered, but 
 these few became always less and less unhappy ; and 
 as the Lady and her Daughter once more welcomed 
 the English guest beneath their gate, it was with a pro- 
 found feeling, in which aversion, dislike, or repug- 
 nance had no share — all these had vanished — although,
 
 330 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 when they sat down together in the parlour, there was 
 first an utter silence, and then several sobs and a gush 
 of tears. A few hours ago he was an interesting 
 stranger about to pass away into oblivion — now he 
 was one whom they could never forget — and whom 
 they both felt must be for ever regarded by them, now 
 that the first startling agony was over, with affection 
 for his own sake, with pity for his misfortune, and 
 with sympathy for the contrition which he endured 
 for an act which he, more than themselves or others, 
 regarded as a heinous crime. 
 
 The Mother and Daughter retired to their own room 
 early in the evening, and Edward Ashton was left to 
 his own thoughts. He went out into the glen, and 
 walked about the beautiful calm woods till his soul 
 was soothed with the untroubled solitude. He had 
 seen those whom in all the world he had most feared 
 ever to see — and gentle looks and kind words had 
 flowed mutually from each other's hearts. They were 
 both perfectly happy — their grief had passed away — 
 and he began to hope, that, after his long penance, 
 for him too there was to be peace. Across all these 
 thoughts came insensibly the image of sweet Mary 
 Stuart, and he almost ventured to ask himself, " Does 
 she love any one — or has her gentle heart been left to 
 itself in her native solitude?" This was a passing 
 dream — but it passed away only to return ; and when 
 he met her again, just as the heavens were beginning 
 to show their stars, he felt towards her an affection so 
 
 11
 
 the rainbow :}:il 
 
 tender and profound, that he wondered how a day 
 could have produced it ; but then he considered what 
 a day that had been, and he wondered no more. 
 
 All the domestics now came into the room, some of 
 them old grey-haired people, who had been faithful 
 servants to several generations, and Mary Stuart read 
 to them several chapters from the Bible. It was a 
 calm and happy scene ; and as a halo, in old pictures, 
 is drawn round the heads of saints, it might well seem 
 to him who looked on her, and listened to her gentle 
 voice, that a halo now encircled the fair temples of 
 Mary Stuart, a3 they bent down with their cluster- 
 ing ringlets over the Word of God. 
 
 His thoughts, during the wild solitude of the night 
 before, had been many and almost all pleasant, for he 
 had lain in a chamber within an old Tower of the Man- 
 sion, like an adventurer of the days of old in the Land 
 of Faery ; but during this night they were all most 
 solemn under the weight of mere humanity, and while 
 his fancy slept, it may be said, that his heart was 
 broad awake. His hand had deprived that mother of 
 her only son — that sweet maiden of her only brother 
 — and might it not be in his power to supply to each 
 her separate loss ? His own heart had hitherto con- 
 ceived no deep affection — but had loved phantoms alone 
 of its own creation. He had led a wandering, restless, 
 and wretched life, for several years, and now, when 
 the light of joy seemed to be breaking from a distance 
 like the far-off and faint streak of the doubtful dawn,
 
 332 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 his spirit expanded within him, and he dared to look 
 forward to a bright futurity. Had not that fatal 
 quarrel been forced upon him by the impetuous cha- 
 racter of his antagonist ? Had he not received from 
 him perfect forgiveness, and manly acknowledgment 
 of his courage and his honour ? None reproached 
 him for a quarrel that had not been of his own seeking, 
 and he had long used his skill for the defence only of 
 his own life. But two accomplished swordsmen had 
 held each other at the point, and the young Highland 
 chieftain had received his death-wound. This night was 
 as still and breathless as the preceding night had been 
 loud and stormy ; and so, in some measure, was it 
 with the heart of Edward Ashton. His thoughts, and 
 feelings, and passions, had worked themselves to rest 
 — a tranquillity, to which he had too long been a 
 stranger, took possession of his mind, and in the 
 morning he cast a rejoicing look over the awakened 
 beauty and magnificence of nature. 
 
 The Lady, in whose hospitable house he slept, had 
 thought all night long alternately of him and of her 
 son. The melancholy life he had for some years been 
 leading in his solitary wanderings touched her heart 
 with the profoundest pity, and she wondered if his 
 parents were dead, or if he had a father or a mother 
 who suffered him thus to cherish his unwitnessed and 
 unparticipated grief. Many a one who had been in- 
 volved in the same fatality easily and soon forgot it, 
 and led the same cheerful or careless life as before,
 
 THE rainbow. 333 
 
 without blame from others, or remorse of their own 
 consciences ; but his whole youth was tinged with 
 sadness, and the solemnity of age was affectingly 
 blended with the natural candour of his prime. How 
 was it possible to refuse affection to such a man ? And 
 her last thought, before sinking into the world of dreams, 
 was that her son had expired with a cold hand clasped 
 in his, and with his head on a pillow which his care 
 had smoothed. 
 
 As for Mary Stewart, when she " lay down in her 
 loveliness," she tried to banish from her closed eyes the 
 image of the stranger. Yet why should she not think 
 of him ? What was he — or could be to her, but one 
 who, when far away, would remember her in sorrow, 
 as the sister of the man whose death lay heavy on his 
 soul ? She felt the tears on her cheek, and wiped them 
 away in the silent darkness ; once more she prayed 
 that God would send peace to his heart ; and when 
 the touch of the morning light awakened her from dis- 
 turbed sleep, to him her earliest thought unconsciously 
 turned, and he was not forgotten in her orisons. 
 
 The rich and cheerfid beauty of the early autumn 
 covered all the glen — and it was not easy for the 
 wanderer to leave the heaven that to him lay both 
 within and without the house. Sometimes he ascend- 
 ed by himself to the mountain-tops, and waited till 
 the wreathed mist rose up in the early sun-light, and 
 revealed far below the motionless silence of the wood- 
 ed glen. He sat alone by the mountain-cataracts, and
 
 334 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 traversed the heathery shores of the great wide inland 
 lochs, or the rocky margin of arms of the sea. Valleys 
 that stretched off into the dim and distant day short- 
 ened beneath his feet ; and he enjoyed the stern silence 
 of the black pine Forest, darkening for leagues the 
 base of some mighty mountain. The belling of the 
 red deer came to him in the desert, as the echo of his 
 footsteps roused up their antlered heads ; and he strain- 
 ed his eyes to catch a sight of the eagle whose wild 
 shriek he heard in the blue hollow of the sky. These 
 were his day's wild penance in the uncompanioned soli- 
 tude of nature. But hours of a sweet and human 
 happiness were now often his ; for he walked with fair 
 Mary Stuart alone, or with her mother, through co- 
 verts by the streamlet's banks — along green meadow- 
 fields — glades where the young fawn might be seen at 
 play — and into cottages where many a blythe and 
 weather-beaten face welcomed the visits of them whose 
 visits were ever of kindness, charity, or love. 
 
 Thus day after day passed along, and still Edward 
 Ashton was in Glen-Creran. He had narrated all the 
 circumstances of her son's death to the mother — and 
 she felt, too truly, that her wild and headstrong 
 Charles had sought his doom ! But not the less on 
 that account did her maternal heart weep blessings on 
 her dead son, while it yearned with indescribable emo- 
 tions of tenderness and pity towards him who did jus- 
 tice to all his virtues, and who was willing to let all 
 blame rest on his own head, rather than that any of it
 
 THE KAINBOW. 335 
 
 should alight on him who was in his grave. " O, sir, 
 — if my dear Charles and you had met as friends, well 
 would you have loved one another ! Had he been 
 alive now — and you had come here an unconnected 
 stranger, you would have crossed the moors and 
 mountains together after the roe or the red deer. But 
 his life has passed away, even as that shadow that is 
 now passing over into Glenco — See, it is gone !" 
 
 They were sitting alone in the woods — no living 
 thing near them but the squirrel leaping from tree to 
 tree, — no sound but that of the cushat mixing with the 
 murmur of the waterfall. Edward Ashton looked 
 stedfastly in her face, and said, " Why am I linger- 
 ing here ? — need I say it ? Your daughter Mary I do 
 most tenderly love ; if I can gain her affection, could 
 you bear to look on me as your son-in-law ? If not, I 
 will leave Glen-Creran to-night." He spoke with 
 great emotion, although suppressed ; for to be pitied, 
 and even esteemed was still far different indeed from 
 being received as a son into the bosom of a family 
 whose dearest peace he had been the means of break- 
 ing. He waited in terror for the first words of the re- 
 ply, and they at once raised up his soul into a heaven 
 of joy. " If I saw you married to my Mary, then 
 could I lay down my head and die in peace. I feel as 
 if God had sent you here to be our comforter." His 
 soul was satisfied, and he gave a history of himself and 
 his family — telling how he had changed his name for 
 that of a kinsman, to whose estate he had succeeded-
 
 336 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 " England is the country where I ought to live — but 
 if your sweet daughter can be won, every year will we 
 visit Glen-Creran. But, alas ! all my hopes are but a 
 dream. She never can be made to love me !" The 
 Lady looked upon him with a pleasant countenance, 
 and an encouraging smile. " My daughter's heart 
 is free — and it is impossible but that she must soon 
 love you." They rose up, and returned in silence to 
 the house. 
 
 That evening Edward Ashton and Mary Stuart 
 walked up the wild and lonely Glenure, and before 
 they reached home, there was a clear moon to light 
 them through the fragrant birch-woods. Her heart 
 was given up entirely, with all its calm, pure, and in- 
 nocent thoughts and feelings, to him who was now her 
 lover ; it knew no disguise, nor had it one single emo- 
 tion to veil or conceal. No passion agitated sweet 
 Mary Stuart, no wild dreams of imagination, no en- 
 thusiastic transports of the fancy ; but his smile was 
 light, and his voice was music to her soul ; and in the 
 serene depth of an affection which had been growing 
 within her heart, even from the very first moment she 
 beheld the stranger in the Pine Grove, would she now 
 have willingly gone with him to the uttermost parts of 
 the earth, or laid down her young and happy life for 
 his sake. When he folded her to his heart, as they 
 mutually pledged their faith, her tears fell down in 
 showers, and the kisses that then touched her eyes 
 and cheek thrilled with unutterable happiness through
 
 THE RAINBOW. 937 
 
 her innocent and virgin heart. But dear to her as lie 
 then was, she felt, when about to part from him in a few 
 days afterwards, that he was then far dearer ; she then 
 thought of being his wife in a vision of delight, for she 
 was now deeply in love ; and her soul sickened as the 
 shadow fell on the sun-dial in the garden, that told 
 the hour was come in which he must take his depar- 
 ture, for some months, from Glen-Creran. 
 
 Mary Stuart, except the year she had lived abroad 
 with her Mother after her brother's death, had led a 
 solitary life in the Highlands. Her heart had slept in 
 peaceful dreams, and had been as undisturbed as that 
 of a child. But now it was overflowing with a pure 
 passion, and her eyes beheld no longer the shadows 
 and mists of her native mountains, her ears heard no 
 longer the murmurs of her native stream. Edward 
 Ashton was now to her all in all — and her former life, 
 happy as she had thought it, seemed now a vapid and 
 empty dream. 
 
 The sun was high in Heaven, and with his full ra- 
 diance smote the distant clouds that were dissolving 
 into a gentle shower, over the woody termination of 
 the Glen. u What a beautiful Rainbow !" said Mary 
 Stuart, with the tears in her eyes — as her Lover 
 kissed them off, about to say farewell. " A Rainbow 
 brought me here, and as I am going away, lo ! again 
 shines in all its beauty the fair Arch of Promise !" 
 These were his last words at parting, and they were 
 remembered by Mary Stuart, and often repeated by 
 
 Y
 
 338 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 her, as she wandered through the solitary woods, think- 
 ing on her betrothed Edward. The hours, though 
 they seemed to linger cruelly, at last had chased one 
 another down the channel of time, like the waters of a 
 changeful rivulet ; and the morning of Mary Stuart's 
 Wedding- Day shone over Glen-Creran. A happy day 
 it was all among the mountains of Appin, and also over 
 the beautiful Vale of Lorton in England, where, be- 
 tween their Christmas carols, many a cup went round, 
 among his tenantry, to the young Squire and his Scot- 
 tish Bride.
 
 L'HE OMKX. 
 
 339 
 
 THE OMEN. 
 
 There was a cheerful and even noisy Evening 
 Party in the parlour of Crofthead, the humble residence 
 of a Scottish Laird, who inherited a small estate from 
 a long line of obscure ancestors. The family consist- 
 ed of himself, wife, and only daughter, and about half 
 a dozen servants belonging to the house, the dairy, 
 and the farm. A good many neighbours had now been 
 gathered together at a tea-drinking; and the table, on 
 this occasion, exhibited various other liquids, in tall 
 green bottles, and creaked on its old legs under the 
 weight of a world of viands. Not a few pretty girls 
 and good-looking young men were judiciously distri- 
 buted round the board ; and from the frequent titter- 
 ings and occasional hearty bursts of laughter, it could 
 not be doubted that much delicate wit and no little 
 broad humour was sported during the festive hour. 
 The young ladies from the Manse were in excellent 
 spirits, and the comely daughters of Mr M'Fayden, a 
 retired Glasgow manufacturer, lent themselves both to 
 the jammed cookies and the jocularity of the even-
 
 340 THE OMEN. 
 
 ing with even more than their usual animation. But 
 though she was somewhat more silent than her wont, 
 and had even a slight shade of sadness on her face not 
 quite congenial with the scene of merriment, not one 
 of them all looked so well as the Daughter of the good 
 Old People; and her simply braided auburn hair, with 
 no other oniament than a pink ribband, had an ap- 
 pearance that might well be called elegant, when 
 gently moving among the richly adorned love-locks 
 and ringlets that waved so seducingly round the brows 
 and cheeks of the other more ambitious and unmerci- 
 ful young ladies. There was not one in the whole 
 parish, high or low, rich or poor, that could for a mo- 
 ment be compared with " sweet Jane Nasmyth ;" 
 this was so universally allowed, that she had even no 
 rivals ; and indeed had her beauty excited the envy of 
 her companions, her unpretending manners, and the 
 simplicity of her whole character, would have extin- 
 guished that feeling, and converted it into willing ad- 
 miration and affectionate regard. " Sweet Jane Na- 
 smyth" she was always called ; and that expression, 
 although at first hearing it may not seem to denote 
 much, was indeed just the one she deserved in her 
 loveliness that courted not the eyes which it won, and 
 in her goodness which flowed on uninterruptedly in 
 its own calm and unconscious course of home-born 
 happiness. 
 
 It was now a beautiful moonlight night, and Jane 
 Nasmyth contrived to leave the merry party, whether
 
 THE OMEN. -Hi 
 
 unobserved or not is uncertain, and glide away through 
 the budding lilacs into a small Arbour in the garden- 
 It could not be supposed that she went there to sit 
 alone and read the stars ; a friend joined her in the 
 bower, and she allowed herself to be taken into his 
 bosom. For two years had she been tenderly and 
 truly beloved by Arthur Crawford, a young man of 
 an ancient but decayed family, and now a Lieutenant 
 in the Navy. He was to join his ship next day — and 
 as the frigate to which he belonged had a fighting 
 character, poor Jane, although it was not the first 
 time she had parted from him, was now, more than 
 she had ever been, depressed and disturbed. The 
 din of merriment came from the bright uncurtain- 
 ed windows of the cottage-parlour to the lovers in 
 their Arbour ; and the Sailor gaily said, " How could 
 you leave so joyful a party to come and weep here ?" 
 In a few minutes Jane Nasmyth dried her tears ; for 
 she was not one who gave way needlessly to de- 
 sponding thoughts ; and the manly tenderness and 
 respectful affection of her lover restored her heart 
 almost to its usual serenity, so that they were both 
 again quite cheerful and happy. He had often sailed 
 away, and often returned; he had been spared both 
 in battle and in shipwreck; and while that remem- 
 brance comforted her heart, it need not be said that it 
 likewise sent through all its strings a vibration of 
 more thrilling and profounder love. 
 
 It was a mild night in Spring, and the leaves yet
 
 342 THE OMEN. 
 
 upfolded might almost be heard budding in the 
 bower, as the dews descended upon them with genial 
 influence. A slight twittering of the birds in their new 
 built nests was audible, as if the happy creatures were 
 lying awake in the bright breathless night ; and here 
 and there a moth, that enjoys the darkened light, 
 went by on its noiseless wings. All was serenity and 
 peace below, and not a stain was round the moon — no 
 dimness over the stars. " We shall have fair weather 
 for a fortnight at least, Jane, for there is no halo yon- 
 der;" and as she looked up at these words, her head 
 continued to rest upon her sailor's bosom. To think 
 on waves and storms at such a moment was natural, 
 but to fear them was impossible ; her soul was strong 
 in the undisturbed quiet of nature, and all her accus- 
 tomed feelings of trust in Providence now gathered 
 upon it, and she knew her Sailor would return well 
 and happy to her arms — and that she would then be- 
 come his Wife. 
 
 " I will cut two little branches off this Rose-tree, 
 and plant them side by side on yonder bank that first 
 catches the morning light. Look at them, now and 
 then, when I am away, and let them be even, as our- 
 selves, united where they grow." The cuttings from 
 the Rose-bush were accordingly placed in the ground. 
 Nor did these Lovers think, that in this half playful, 
 half serious mood there was any thing foolish, in per- 
 sons at their time of life. To be sure they were rather 
 too old for such trifling ; for Arthur was twenty-two
 
 THE OMEN. 343 
 
 years of age, and Jane wanted but a few months of 
 nineteen. But we all become wiser as we get old ; and 
 perhaps the time came when these rose-plants were suf- 
 fered to blossom unheeded, and to cover the ground 
 about them with a snow-shower of fragrance, enjoyed 
 only by the working bees. At present they were put 
 into the mould as carefully as if on their lives had de- 
 pended the lives of those who planted them ; and 
 Jane watered them, unnecessarily, in a vernal night 
 of dew, with a shower of tears. " If they grow 
 — bud — and blossom, that will be a good omen — if 
 not, I must not allow myself to have any foolish fears !" 
 The parting kiss was given, and the last mutual 
 benedictions, and then Arthur Crawfurd, clearing his 
 voice, said, " I hear the fun and frolic is not yet over, 
 nor likely to be so soon. Why don't you ask me to 
 join the party ?" It was well known that they were 
 betrothed, and that the marriage was to take place on 
 his return from this cruize, so, with a blush, Jane intro- 
 duced him into the parlour. " I presume, Lieutenant," 
 said one, " you have come here in a balloon." " Well, 
 Jane," said another, ** I declare that I never missed 
 you out of the room — were you giving orders about 
 supper — or have you been in the garden to see if the 
 cresses are fit to be cut ?" The Sailor was, during this 
 time, shaking the Old Man by the hand so firmly, that 
 the w r ater stood in his eyes, and he exclaimed, " Why, 
 Arthur, your fist is like a vice. It would not do for 
 you to shake hands with any of the young lasses
 
 344 THE OMEN. 
 
 there — you would make the blood tingle in their fin- 
 gers. Sit down, my dear son, and while the younkeis 
 are busy among themselves, let us hear what the 
 French and Spaniards are about, and if it be true that 
 Lord Nelson is going to give them a settling again." 
 So passed the evening by ; — charades and songs lent 
 their aid, and after a breaking up of the party, which 
 lasted about half an hour in finding and fitting on 
 straw bonnets, shawls and shoes, the laughter and 
 voices of one and all, as they receded from the cottage 
 up the hill, or down the vale, died away, and Croft- 
 head was buried in silence and in sleep. 
 
 Days and weeks passed on, while Jane Nasmyth 
 sat in her cottage, or walked about the adjacent fields, 
 and her lover was sailing far and wide upon the seas. 
 There were many rumours of an expected engage- 
 ment, and her heart fluttered at the sight of every 
 stranger. But her lover's letters came, if not regular- 
 ly, yet in pleasant numbers, and their glad and cheer- 
 ful tone infused confidence into her heart. When he 
 was last away, they were lovers ; but now their mar- 
 riage was fixed, and his letters now were written as 
 to his bride, overflowing with gratitude and delighted 
 affection. When she was reading them, he seemed to 
 be talking before her — the great distance of land and 
 sea between them vanished — and as he spoke of his 
 ship of which he was so proud, she almost expected, 
 on lifting up her eyes, to see its masts towering up be- 
 fore her, with all their glorious flags and ensigns. But
 
 THE OMEN. 34-") 
 
 they were streaming to the wind above the foam of 
 the ocean, and her eyes saw only the green shade of 
 the sheltering Sycamore, — her ears heard only the 
 deep murmur of the working bees, as if a whole hive 
 had been in that tent-like Tree. 
 
 Nor did Jane Nasmyth forget to visit, many times 
 every day, the two Roses which her lover had planted, 
 and to which he had told her to look as an omen of 
 his state when far at sea. To the bank on which they 
 grew she paid her earliest visit along with the beams 
 of the morning sun; and there, too, she marked the 
 first diamonds of the evening dew. They grew to her 
 heart's desire ; and now that the year was advanced, 
 they showed a few flower-buds, and seemed about to 
 break out into roses, slender as were their bending 
 stems. That one which bore her lover's name hung over 
 her own, as if sheltering it with its flexile arch, and 
 when weighed down by the rain-drops, or by the breeze, 
 it touched gently the leaves of its companion, and seem- 
 ed to intertwine with it in a balmy embrace. The 
 heart can accumulate love and delight upon any object 
 whatever ; but these plants were in themselves beau- 
 tiful, and every leaf swarmed, not with poetic visions, 
 but with thoughts of such deep human tenderness, 
 that they were seldom looked at without a gush of tears. 
 They were perfectly unlike all the other shrubs and 
 flowers in that garden ; and had they been dug up, it 
 would have been felt as sacrilege ; had they withered, 
 the omen would have struck through her very life.
 
 346 THE OMEN. 
 
 But they did not wither ; and nothing touched them 
 but the bee or the butterfly, or haply for a moment the 
 green linnet, the chaffinch, or the red-cap, half ba- 
 lanced on the bending spray, and half supported by 
 his fluttering wings. 
 
 Crofthead was a cottage in a sheltered vale — but it 
 was not far inland, and by ascending a green hill be- 
 hind it, Jane Nasmyth could, on clear days, get a 
 glimpse of the blue ocean. The sight even of the 
 element on which her lover now dwelt was delightful 
 to her eyes, and if a white sail shone forth through 
 the sun-light, her heart felt a touch of dear emotion. 
 Sometimes, too, when walking in the vale, she would 
 gaze with love on the beautiful white sea-mew that 
 came floating on the sea-born air into the fields of the 
 quiet earth. As the creature alighted on the green 
 turf, and folding its wings sat there motionless, or 
 walked as if pleased with the soft pressure of the grass 
 beneath its feet, she viewed it as a silent messenger 
 from the sea, that perhaps might have flown round 
 her lover's ship. Its soft plumes bore no marks of 
 the dashing waves ; its eyes, although wild, weregentle; 
 its movement was calm as if it had never drifted with 
 the rapid tides, or been driven through the howling 
 tempest ; and as it again rose up from the herbage 
 and the wild-flowers, and hovering over her head for 
 a" little while, winged its way down the vale over the 
 peaceful woods, she sent her whole soul with it to the 
 
 11
 
 the omen. 347 
 
 ocean, and heaved a deep sigh unconsciously as it dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 The summer was now over, and the autumn at 
 hand. The hay fields were once more green with 
 springing herbage — and bands of reapers were wait- 
 ing for a few sunny days, till they might be let loose 
 in joyful labour upon the ripened grain. Was the 
 Amethyst frigate never to finish her cruize ? Septem- 
 ber surely would not pass away without seeing her in 
 harbour, and Arthur Crawfurd at Crofthead. Poor 
 Jane was beginning to pine now for her lover's re- 
 turn ; and one afternoon, on visiting, almost unhap- 
 py, the Rose trees, she thought that they both were 
 drooping. She forgot that September mornings have 
 often their frost in Scotland ; and on seeing a few 
 withered leaves near the now wasted blossoms, she 
 remembered Arthur's words about the omen, and 
 turned away from the bank with a shudder of foolish 
 fear. But a trifle will agitate a wiser and older heart 
 than that of Jane Nasmyth, and reason neither awak- 
 ens nor lulls to sleep the passions of human beings, 
 which obey, in the darkness of their mystery, many 
 unknown and incomprehensible laws. " What if he 
 be dead !" thought she, with a sick pang tugging at 
 her heart — and she hastened out of the garden, as if a 
 beast of prey had been seen by her, or an adder lying 
 couched among the bushes. 
 
 She entered the house in a sort of panic, of which 
 she was ashamed as soon as she saw the cheerful and
 
 348 THE OMEN. 
 
 happy faces of her parents, who were sitting together 
 listening, according to their usual custom, to an old 
 spectacled neighbour busy at a Newspaper, the Edin- 
 burgh Evening Courant, a copy of which made visits 
 to about a dozen of the most respectable families in 
 the parish. The old worthy was Emeritus School- 
 master, and was justly proud of his elocution, which 
 was distinct and precise, each syllable being made 
 to stand well out by itself, while, it was generally 
 admitted, that Mr Peacock had a good deal of the 
 English accent which he had acquired about forty 
 years ago at Inverness. He did not think it worth 
 while to stop very long at the end of a paragraph, 
 or article, but went on in a good business-like style, 
 right through politics, stocks, extraordinary acci- 
 dents, state of the weather, births, deaths, and mar- 
 riages, a pleasing and instructive medley. Just as 
 Jane had taken her seat, the good old proser had got 
 to ship-news, and he announced, without being in the 
 least aware of what he was about, " Foundered in 
 the late tremendous gale, off the llzard, his 
 Majesty's Frigate Amethyst. All the Crew 
 perished ! 
 
 After the first shock of horror, the old people rose 
 from their seats, and tried to lift up their daughter, 
 who had fallen down, as if stone-dead, with great vio- 
 lence on the floor. The Schoolmaster, petrified and 
 rooted to his chair, struck his forehead in agony, and 
 could only ejaculate, " God forgive me — God forgive
 
 THE OMEN'. 349 
 
 me !" After many long drawn sighs, and many alarm- 
 ing relapses into that deadly swoon, Jane opened her 
 eyes ; and, looking round with a ghastly wildness, 
 saw the newspaper lying on the floor Avhere it had 
 dropped from the old man's trembling hands. Crawl- 
 ing with a livid face towards the object of her hor- 
 ror, she clutched it convulsively with her feeble fin- 
 gers, and with glazed eyes instinctively seizing on 
 the spot, she read, as if to herself, the dreadful words 
 over and over again — and then, as if her intellect 
 was affected, kept repeating a few of them. " Foun- 
 dered" — " Tremendous gale" — " Every soul perish- 
 ed." " Oh i great and dreadful God — my Arthur is 
 drowned at last !" 
 
 Some of the kind domestics now came into the 
 room, and with their care, for her parents were near- 
 ly helpless, the poor girl w T as restored to her senses. 
 She alone wept not — for her heart was hardened, and 
 she felt a band of cold iron drawn tight round her 
 bosom. There was weeping and sobbing, loud and 
 unrestrained with all others, for Arthur Crawfurd, the 
 beautiful and brave, was beloved by every one in 
 the parish, from the child of six years to old peo- 
 ple of fourscore. Several young men, too, belonging 
 to the parish, had served on board that ship; and 
 they were not now forgotten, although it was for the 
 young Lieutenant, more than for them of their own 
 rank, that now all the servants wept. 
 
 Jane Nasmyth was a maiden of a perfectly pious 

 
 350 THE OMEN. 
 
 mind ; but no piety can prevent nature from shriek- 
 ing aloud at the first blow of a great calamity. She 
 wished herself dead — and that wish she expressed as 
 soon as she found her voice. Her old father knelt down 
 on the floor at one side of his child, and her old mo- 
 ther at another, while the latter had just strength to 
 say : " Our Father which art in Heaven — hallowed 
 be thy name — thy kingdom come — thy will be done 
 on earth as it is in Heaven." The poor girl shut her 
 eyes with a groan ; but she could not repeat a single 
 one of these words. Then was the floor, indeed, 
 drenched with tears. They fell down in big drops — 
 in plashing showers from old eyes, that had not seem- 
 ed before to contain so much moisture. And in that 
 mortal silence no sound was now heard, but one low 
 quivering voice saying, at intervals, " All the crew 
 perished — all the crew perished. Woe is me — woe is 
 me — Arthur is drowned at last I" 
 
 They lifted her from the floor — and to her own 
 wonder, she fell not down, but could stand unsupport- 
 ed on her feet. " Take me up stairs to my bed, Mo- 
 ther — let me lie down there — and perhaps I may be 
 better. I said that I wished to die. Oh ! these were 
 wicked words. May I live to do my duty to my dear 
 parents in their old age. But, oh ! this sickness is 
 mortal — mortal indeed : but let me put my trust in 
 God and my Redeemer, and pray to them — my pa- 
 rents — to forgive my impious words I" 
 
 They supported her steps — and she asked to go to
 
 THli OMEN. 351 
 
 the window just to take one look out into the calm 
 and beautiful afternoon — for not a breath was stirring, 
 and the western sun diffused over the scene a bright 
 but softened repose. " Oh ! merciful God — there is 
 Arthur's ghost — I saw it pass by — it waved its hand 
 — bright and smiling were its eyes — take me away— 
 take me away, for I feel that visions beset my brain !" 
 They half lifted her in their arms towards the door — 
 while she continued to say faintly, " It smiled — yes, 
 it smiled — but Arthur's body is mangled, and bruis- 
 ed, and crushed by timber, and stones, and rocks — ly- 
 ing on the sand somewhere, while I was singing or 
 laughing in my miserable delusion — his face gnawed 
 by sea-monsters," — and then her voice was choked, 
 and she could speak no more. 
 
 The door burst open ; and there entered, no ghost, 
 but the bold, glad, joyful, living sailor himself, who 
 clasped Jane to his bosom. So sudden was his en- 
 trance, that he had not time to observe the dismay 
 and grief that had been trampling on all now beside 
 him — nor did he, during that blest embrace, feel that 
 his betrothed maiden was insensible to his endear- 
 ments. Joy had taken possession of all his being — all 
 his perceptions ; and he saw nothing — felt nothing — 
 but his Jane and, her bosom prest closely to his own. 
 " Have I broken in upon a dish of gossip ? Well, no 
 
 rival in the room — so far good What, all silent — 
 
 pale faces — tears — what is the matter ? Is this a wel- 
 come ?" But so many death-like or agitated counte-
 
 352 THE OMEN. 
 
 nances soon told him that some strong passion pervad- 
 ed the party — and he began to have his own undefin- 
 ed fears — for he had not yet visited his own father's 
 house. All was soon explained; and Jane having 
 been revived into tolerable composure, the servants 
 retired, but not before shaking hands one and all with 
 the Lieutenant; and the old Schoolmaster, too, who felt 
 himself to blame, although sent for on purpose to read 
 aloud the News, and certainly not answerable for erro- 
 neous nautical intelligence, feeling rather uneasy in 
 the room, promised to call next evening, took up his 
 old-fashioned chapeau, and making a bow worthy of a 
 distinguished pedagogue, made the best of his way out 
 and beyond the premises. 
 
 Arthur Crawfurd coming in upon them in the trans- 
 port of his joy, could not easily bring home to his 
 heart a perfect understanding of the scene that had 
 just preceded his arrival. He never perhaps knew 
 the full terror that had nearly deprived his sweet 
 Jane of life ; but he knew enough to lay an eternal 
 obligation of tenderness towards her upon his inmost 
 soul. " Instead of foundering, the Amethyst is in as 
 good trim as any frigate in the fleet — but she had to 
 scud for some leagues under bare poles — for the squall 
 came upon us like a sheet of iron. A large ship, name 
 unknown, went down near our stern." — " And all on 
 board perished !" exclaimed Jane in a dewy voice of 
 pity. " They did indeed !" " Oh ! many eyes now are 
 weeping, or doomed to weep, for that ship, while mine 
 
 10
 
 THE OMEN. 
 
 353 
 
 are dried. Her name will be known soon enough !" 
 And as she looked on her lover, once more did the 
 maiden give way to the strong imagination of the doom 
 which she felt he had narrowly escaped. " Come, 
 cheer up, Jane — my life is in God's hand — and with 
 him it rests whether I die on my bed in the cottage at 
 last, or, like many a better man, in battle or wreck. 
 But you are willing to marry a Sailor — for better or 
 worse — a longer or shorter date — and no doubt I shall 
 be as happy as any of my mess-mates. Not one of 
 them all has such a sweetheart as thou art — a dutiful 
 daughter makes a loving wife." 
 
 After an hour's talk and silence — during which 
 Jane Nasmyth had scarcely recovered from a slight 
 hysteric, her father proposed returning thanks to God 
 for Arthur's return. The sailor was a man of gay 
 and joyous character, but in religion he was not only 
 a firm but impassioned believer. He had not allowed 
 the temptations of a life, which with too many is often 
 wild and dissipated, to shake his faith in Christianity ; 
 the many hardships and dangers which he had en- 
 countered and escaped had served to deepen all his re- 
 ligious impressions ; so that a weak person would have 
 called him methodistical or superstitious. He was 
 neither; but he had heard God in the great deep, and 
 he did not forget the voice in the silence of the green 
 and stedfast earth. So he knelt down to prayer with 
 a humble and grateful spirit, and as he felt his own 
 Jane breathing by his side, on her knees, and knew 
 
 z
 
 354 THE OMEN. 
 
 that she was at the same time weeping for joy at his 
 return, neither was he ashamed also to weep ; for there 
 are times, and this was one of them, when a brave 
 man need not seek to hide his tears either before his 
 fellow creatures or his Creator. 
 
 After they had risen from their fervent prayer, and 
 a short silent pause had ensued, " How," said the 
 sailor, " are our two Rose-bushes ? Did they hang 
 their heads, do you think, because false rumour sank 
 the good ship Amethyst ? Come — Jane — let us go and 
 see." And as some hundreds of swallows were twit- 
 tering on the house-top in the evening sunshine, col- 
 lected there with a view either of flying across seas to 
 some distant country, or of plunging down to the bot- 
 tom of some loch near at hand, (probably the former,) 
 the lovers walked out into the open air — unlatched the 
 little white gate canopied with an arch of honeysuckle, 
 that guarded a garden into which there were no in- 
 truders, and arm in arm proceeded to the " Bank 
 of the Two Roses." They had nothing now of that 
 sickly and dying appearance which they had show- 
 ed to Jane's eyes a few hours ago ; no evil omen 
 was there now, — but they seemed likely to live for 
 many years, and every season to put forth their flowers 
 in greater number and in richer beauty.
 
 CONSUMPTION. 355 
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 The Moss-Roses are still clustered in their undo* 
 eaying splendour above the Porch of Calder-Cot- 
 tage ; the bees are murmuring in their joy around 
 the Hive on its green sward rich with its white and 
 purple clover ; the turtle doves are cooing on the roof, 
 with plumage brightening in the sunshine ; while over 
 all is shed a dim and tender shadow from the embower- 
 ing Sycamore, beneath whose shelter was built, many 
 long years ago, the little humble Edifice. In its low 
 simplicity it might be the dwelling of the poor ; but 
 the heart feels something in its quiet loveliness that 
 breathes of the spirit of cultivated life. A finer cha- 
 racter of beauty pervades the still seclusion, than the 
 hand of labour ever shed over its dwelling in the gra- 
 titude of its Sabbath-hours ; all around seems minister- 
 ing to the joy, and not to the necessities of existence ; 
 and as the eye dwells on the gorgeous ornaments 
 which sun, and air, and dew have showered in profu- 
 sion over the blooming walls, the mind cannot but 
 think of some delicate and gentle spirit retired from
 
 356 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 the world it had adorned, and enjoying in the twilight 
 of life the sweetness and serenity of Nature. 
 
 Such were its inmates a few short months ago. 
 The sound of music was heard far down the romantic 
 banks of the Calder, when, in the silence of evening, 
 the harp was touched within tnese humble walls, or 
 there arose a mingled voice as of spirits hymning 
 through the woods. But the strings of the harp are 
 now silent, and the young lips that sung those heaven- 
 ly anthems are covered with the dust. 
 
 The Lady who lived there in her widowhood was 
 sprung of gentle blood ; and none who had but for a 
 moment looked on her pale countenance, and her 
 figure majestic even under the burden of pain, could 
 ever again forget that image, at once so solemn and so 
 beautiful. Although no deep lines disturbed the meek 
 expression of that fading face, and something that al- 
 most seemed a smile still shone over her placid fea- 
 tures, yet had that Lady undergone in her day hard- 
 ships, and troubles, and calamities that might have 
 broken the heart, and laid low the head of manhood 
 in its sternest pride. She had been with her husband 
 in famine, battle, and shipwreck. When his mortal 
 wound came, she sat by his bed-side — her hand closed 
 his eyes and wrought his shroud, — and she was able 
 to gaze with a stedfast eye on all the troops marching 
 with reversed arms, and with slow step, to melancholy 
 music, when the whole army was drawn up at his fu- 
 neral on the field of battle. Perhaps, then, she wish-
 
 CONSUMPTION. 357 
 
 ed to die. But two children were at her knees, and 
 another at her bosom ; and on her return to her native 
 country, she found heart to walk through the very 
 scenes where she had been most blest before these in- 
 fants were born, and to live in the very dwelling to 
 which he who was now buried had brought her a 
 young and happy bride. Such had been his last re- 
 quest—and seventeen years of resignation and peace 
 had now passed over the head of the widow — whose 
 soul was with her husband at morning and at evening 
 prayers — during hours of the day when there were 
 many present — and during hours of the night when 
 there were none but the eye of God to witness her 
 uncomplaining melancholy. Her grief was calm, but 
 it was constant — it repined not, but it wasted away 
 — and though all called her happy, all knew that 
 her life was frail, and that one so sad and sorrowful 
 even in her happiness was not destined by God for 
 old age. Yet for her none felt p*ity — a higher feeling 
 arose in every heart from the resignation so perfectly 
 expressed in every motion, look, and tone — and beau- 
 tiful as she was on earth, there came across the souls 
 of all who beheld her a thought of one yet more beau- 
 tiful in heaven. 
 
 Her three Daughters, although their health had al- 
 ways been delicate, were well, cheerful, and happy ; 
 but some said, that whenever they were met walking 
 alone, a solemn, if not a mournful expression was on 
 their countenances ; and whether it was so or not, they
 
 358 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 certainly shunned society rather than sought it, and 
 seldom partook of the innocent amusements natural to 
 youth, and to which youth lends so much grace and 
 attraction. No one ever saw any of them unamiable, 
 or averse from the gladness of others ; but a shade of 
 sadness was now perceptible over all their demeanour, 
 and they seemed bound together by some tie even more 
 strict than that of sisterly affection. The truth was, 
 that they felt God had given them but a short life, 
 and that when the bier of one was carried into the 
 church-yard, that of the other would not be long of 
 following it to the place of rest. 
 
 Their Mother died first, and her death had been 
 long foreseen by them ; for they, who spoke together 
 of their own deaths, were not likely to deceive them- 
 selves with respect to that of one so dear to them all. 
 She was ready and willing to die ; but tears were on 
 her cheek only a few hours before her decease, for the 
 sake of her three daughters, left to themselves, and to 
 drop away, as she well knew, one after the other, in that 
 fatal disease which they inherited from their father. 
 Her death was peaceful — almost happy — but, resigned 
 as she was, it could not but be afflicting to her part- 
 ing spirit to see those three beautiful spectres gliding 
 round her bed-side, with countenances and persons 
 that plainly told they were fast hastening on to the 
 tomb. 
 
 The funeral of the Mother was conducted as it deserv- 
 ed to be — for humble as she was in heart, yet she had
 
 CONSUMPTION. 359 
 
 been highly born ; and many attended her body to the 
 grave who had almost forgotten her when alive in her 
 simple retirement. But these were worldly mourners, 
 who laid aside their sorrow with their suits of sable — 
 many who had no right to walk near her coffin felt 
 they had a right to weep over her grave, and for many 
 Sabbaths after her burial, groupes collected beside the 
 mound, and while many of them could not but weep, 
 none left it without a sigh and a blessing. When her 
 three daughters, after the intermission of a few Sab- 
 baths, were again seen walking, arm in arm, into the 
 church, and taking their seats in their own pew, the 
 whole congregation may be said to have regarded the 
 Orphans with a compassion, which was heightened into 
 an emotion at once overcoming and consoling, when it 
 was visible to all who looked upon them, that ere long 
 they would be lying side by side near their Mother's 
 grave. 
 
 After her death, the three Orphans were seldomer 
 seen than before ; and, pale as their sweet faces had 
 seemed when they used to dress in white, they seemed 
 even paler now contrasted with their black mourning 
 garments. They received the visits of their few dear 
 friends with warmest gratitude, and those of ordinary 
 condolement with a placid content ; they did not ap- 
 pear wearied of this world, but resigned to leave it ; 
 smiles and the pressure of affectionate hands were still 
 dear to them ; and, if they kept themselves apart from 
 society, it was not because they could not sympathize
 
 3C0 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 with its hilarity, its amusements, and its mirth, but 
 because they were warned by feelings close upon their 
 brain and heart, that they were doomed soon to lay 
 their heads down into the dust. Some visitors, on 
 first entering their parlour, in which every thing was 
 still as elegantly and gracefully arranged as ever, won- 
 dered why the fair Sisters should so seldom be seen out 
 of their own dwelling; but not one, even the most 
 thoughtless and unfeeling, ever left them without far 
 different thoughts, or without a sorrowful conviction 
 that they were passing, in perfect resignation, the re- 
 mainder of their life, which, in their own hearts, they 
 knew to be small. So, week after week, visits of idle 
 ceremony were discontinued ; and none now came to 
 Cakler-Cottage except those who had been dear to 
 their dead Mother, and were dear, even for that reason, 
 had there been no other, to the dying Orphans. 
 
 They sat in their beauty within the shadow of death. 
 But happiness was not therefore excluded from Cakler- 
 Cottage. It was even a sublime satisfaction to know 
 that God was to call them away from their mortal 
 being unsevered ; and that while they all three knelt 
 in prayer, it was not for the sake of one only who 
 was to leave the survivors in tears, but for themselves 
 that they were mutually beseeching God, that he would 
 be pleased to smooth the path by which they were 
 walking hand in hand to the grave. When the sun 
 shone, they still continued to wander along the shaded 
 banks of their beloved Calder, and admire its quiet
 
 CONSUMPTION. 3()1 
 
 junction with the wide-flowing Clyde. They did not 
 neglect their flower-garden, although they well knew 
 that their eyes were not to be gladdened by the blos- 
 soms of another Spring. They strewed, as before, 
 crumbs for the small birds that had built their nests 
 among the roses and honeysuckles on the wall of their 
 cottage. They kept the weeds from overgrowing the 
 walks that were soon to be trodden by their feet no 
 more ; and they did not turn their eyes away from the 
 shooting flowers which they knew took another spring- 
 to bring them to maturity, and would be disclosing 
 their fragrant beauty in the sunshine that shone on 
 then* own graves. Nor did their higher cares lose any 
 of the interest or the charm which they had possessed 
 during their years of health and hope. The old people 
 whom their charity supported were received with as 
 kind smiles as ever, when they came to receive their 
 weekly dole. The children whom they clothed and sent 
 to school met with the same sweet voices as before, 
 when on the Saturday evenings they visited the ladies 
 of Calder-Cottage ; and the innocent mirth of all about 
 the house, the garden, the fields, or the adjacent huts, 
 seemed to be pleasant to their ears, when stealing un- 
 expectedly upon them from happy persons engrossed 
 with their own joys, and unaware that the sound of 
 their pastimes had reached those whose own earthly 
 enjoyments were so near a close. 
 
 These were the last lingering shadows and sounds 
 and odours of life ; and the time had not yet come
 
 362 
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 upon either of these Orphans when they could not be 
 enjoyed. But they had other comforts ; and if it had 
 been ever most delightful to them to read and study 
 the word of God, when they let fall upon the holy 
 page eyes bright with the dewy light of health yet 
 undecaying, it was now more than delightful — it was 
 blessed — to peruse it now together, when they had to 
 give the Bible by turns into each other's hands, that 
 their eye-sight might not get dim, nor their voice fal- 
 ter, which would have been, had the same dying Chris- 
 tian read aloud one chapter to the end. When the old 
 Minister visited them, he found them always cheerful 
 and composed — during his stay they were even joyful 
 in their resignation ; and at parting, if tears were ever 
 shed, it was by the aged for the young who wept not 
 for themselves, except when they thought how that be- 
 nign Old Man had stood by their mother's death-bed, 
 and when she had lost her utterance, let her spirit as- 
 cend upon his prayers to heaven. 
 
 Caroline was the first to die. Her character, un- 
 like that of both her sisters, had been distinguished by 
 great spirit and vivacity, and when they were present, 
 had always diffused something of its own glad light over 
 the serene composure of the one, and the melancholy 
 stillness of the other, without seeming ever to be in- 
 consistent with them ; nor did her natural and irrepres- 
 sible buoyancy altogether forsake her even to the very 
 last. With her the disease assumed its most beautiful 
 show. Her light blue eyes sparkled with astonishing
 
 consumption. ;3(j;j 
 
 brilliancy — her cheeks, that had always hitherto been 
 pale, glowed with a rose-like lustre — although she 
 knew that she was dying, and strove to subdue her 
 soul down to her near fate, yet, in spite of herself, the 
 strange fire that glowed in the embers of her life, 
 kindled it often into a kind of airy gladness, so that a 
 stranger would have thought her one on whom open- 
 ing existence was just revealing the treasures of its 
 joy, and who was eager to unfold her wings, and sail 
 on into the calm and sunny future. Her soul, till 
 within a few days of her death, was gay in the ex- 
 hilaration of disease ; and the very night before she 
 died, she touched the harp with a playful hand, and 
 warbled, as long as her strength would permit, a few 
 bars of a romantic tune. No one was with her when 
 she died, for she had risen earlier than her sisters, and 
 w r as found by them, when they came down to the par- 
 lour, leaning back with a smiling face, on the sofa, 
 with a few lilies in her hand, and never more to have 
 her head lifted up in life. 
 
 The youngest had gone first, and she was to be fol- 
 lowed by Emma the next in age. Emma, although so 
 like her sister who was now dead, that they had al- 
 ways been thought by strangers to be Twins, had a 
 character altogether different. Her thoughts and feel- 
 ings ran in a deeper channel ; nature had endowed her 
 with extraordinary talents, and whatever she attempt- 
 ed, serious acquisition or light accomplishment, in that 
 she easily excelled. Few, indeed, is the number of
 
 364 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 women that are eminently distinguished among their 
 sex, and leave names to be enrolled in the lists of fame. 
 Some accidental circumstances of life or death have 
 favoured those few ; and their sentiments, thoughts, 
 feelings, fancies, and opinions, retain a permanent ex- 
 istence. But how many sink into the grave in all their 
 personal beauty, and all their mental charms, and are 
 heard of no more ! Of them no bright thoughts are 
 recorded, no touching emotions, no wild imaginations. 
 All their fine and true perceptions, all their instinctive 
 knowledge of the human soul, and all their pure specu- 
 lation on the mystery of human life, vanish for ever and 
 aye with the parting breath. A fair, amiable, intelli- 
 gent young maiden has died and is buried. That is all. 
 And her grave lies in its unvisited rest. Such an one 
 was Emma Beatoun. Her mother, her sisters, and a 
 few dear friends, knew what treasures of thought were 
 in her soul — what gleams of genius — and what light 
 of unpretending wisdom. But she carried up her pure 
 and high thoughts with her to heaven ; nor did any of 
 them survive her on earth, but a few fragments of 
 hymns set by herself to plaintive music, which no 
 voice but her own, so deep and yet so sweet, so mel- 
 low yet so mournful, could ever have fitly sung. 
 
 The sufferings of this Sister were heavy indeed, 
 and she at last prayed to be relieved. Constant sick- 
 ness, interrupted only by fits of racking pain, kept the 
 fair Shadow for the last weeks of her life to bed, and 
 
 nothing seemed to disturb her so much, as the inces- 
 
 Jl
 
 CONSUMI'TION. 365 
 
 sant care of her dying sister, who seemed to forget her 
 own approaching doom in the tenderest ministrations 
 of love. Emma's religious thoughts had long been of 
 an almost dark and awful character, and she was pos- 
 sessed by a deep sense of her own utter unworthiness 
 in the sight of God. It was feared, that as her end 
 drew near, and her mind was weakened by continu- 
 al suffering, her last hours might be visited with vi- 
 sions too trying and terrible ; but the reverse was 
 the case, and it seemed as if God, to reward a life of 
 meekness, humility, and wisdom, removed all fear 
 from her soul, and showed her the loving, rather than 
 the awful mysteries of her Redeemer; On her dead 
 face there sat a smile, just as pleasant and serene as 
 that which had lighted the countenance of Caroline, 
 when she fell asleep for ever with the lilies in her 
 hand. The old Nurse, who had been with them since 
 their infancy, alone observed that she had expired, for 
 there had been no sigh, and the pale emaciated fingers 
 moved not as they lay clasped together across her 
 breast. 
 
 Louisa, the eldest, was now left alone, and although 
 her health had always been the most delicate, there 
 seemed, from some of the symptoms, a slight hope 
 that she might yet recover. That fatal hectic flush 
 did not stain her cheeks ; and her pulse, although very 
 faint, had not the irregularity of alarming fever. But 
 there are secrets known but to the dying themselves ; 
 and all the encouraging kindness of friends was re-
 
 366 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 ceived by her as sweet proofs of affection, but never 
 once touched her heart with hope. The disease of 
 which both her sisters had died was in the blood of 
 her father's family, and she never rose up from her 
 bed, or her couch, or the grey osier-seat in the sunny 
 garden, without feeling a deathlike lassitude that could 
 not long endure. Indeed she yearned for the grave ; 
 and hers was a weariness that could only find entire 
 relief in the perfect stillness of that narrow house. 
 
 Had Louisa not felt death within her bosom, there 
 were circumstances that could not have failed to make 
 her desire life, even after her Mother and Sisters had 
 been taken away. For she had been betrothed, for a 
 year past, to one who would have made her happy. 
 He received an account of the alarming state of the 
 Sisters at Pisa, whither he had gone for the establish- 
 ment of his own health, and he instantly hurried 
 home to Scotland. Caroline and Emma were in their 
 graves ; but he had the mournfid satisfaction to be 
 with his own Louisa in her last days. Much did he, 
 at first, press her to go to Italy, as a faint and forlorn 
 hope; but he soon desisted from such vain persua- 
 sions. " The thought is sweet to lay our bones with- 
 in the bosom of our native soil. The verdure and 
 the flowers I loved will brighten around my grave — 
 the same trees whose pleasant murmurs cheered my 
 living ear will hang their cool shadows over my dust, 
 and the eyes that met mine in the light of affection 
 will shed tears over the sod that covers me, keeping
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 367 
 
 my memory green within their spirits !" He who had 
 been her lover — but was now the friend and brother 
 of her soul, had nothing to say in reply to these na- 
 tural sentiments. " After all, they are but fancies — 
 Henry — but they cling to the heart from which they 
 sprung — and to be buried in the sweet church-yard of 
 Blantyre is now a thought most pleasant to my soul." 
 In dry summer weather, a clear rivulet impercepti- 
 bly shrinks away from its sandy bed, till on some 
 morning we miss the gleam and the murmur alto- 
 gether — and find the little channel dry. Just in this 
 ■way was Louisa wasting — and so was her life pure and 
 beautiful to the last. The day before she died, she 
 requested in a voice that could not be denied, that 
 her Brother would take her into the church-yard, 
 that she might see the graves of her Mother and 
 Sisters all lying together, and the spot whose daisies 
 were soon to be disturbed. She was carried thither 
 in the sunshine, on her sick chair, for the distance 
 was only a very few hundred yards, and her attend- 
 ants having withdrawn, she surveyed the graves with 
 a beaming countenance, in presence of her weeping 
 Friend. " Methinks," said she, " I hear a hymn — and 
 children singing in the church ! No — no — it is only 
 the remembered sound of the psalm I heard the last 
 Sabbath I had strength to go there. Oh ! sweet was 
 it now as the reality itself!" He who was to have 
 been her Husband was wholly overcome, and hid his 
 face in despair. " I go — my beloved — to that holy
 
 368 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 place where there is neither marrying nor giving in 
 marriage — but we shall meet there, purified from every 
 earthly stain. Dry up your tears and weep no more. 
 Kiss — Oh kiss me once before I die !" He stooped 
 down, and she had just strength to put her arms round 
 his neck, when, with a long sigh, — she expired.
 
 THE SHEALING. S69 
 
 THE SHEALING. 
 
 An enormous thunder- cloud had lain all day over 
 Ben-Nevis, shrouding its summit in thick darkness, 
 blackening it sides and base, wherever they were be- 
 held from the surrounding country, with masses of 
 deep shadow, and especially flinging down a weight 
 of gloom upon that magnificent Glen that bears the 
 same name with the Mountain, till now the afternoon 
 was like twilight, and the voice of all the streams was 
 distinct in the breathlessness of the vast solitary hollow. 
 The inhabitants of all the straths, vales, glens, and 
 dells, round and about the Monarch of Scottish moun- 
 tains, had, during each successive hour, been expect- 
 ing the roar of thunder and the deluge of rain ; but 
 the huge conglomeration of lowering clouds would not 
 rend asundei*, although it was certain that a calm blue 
 sky could not be restored till all that dreadful assem- 
 blage had melted away into torrents, or been driven 
 off by a strong wind from the sea. All the cattle on 
 the hills, and on the hollows, stood still or lay down 
 in their fear, — the wild deer sought in herds the shel- 
 
 a a
 
 370 THE SHEALING. 
 
 ter of the pine-covered cliffs — the raven hushed his 
 hoarse croak in some grim cavern, and the eagle left 
 the dreadful silence of the upper heavens. Now and 
 then the shepherds looked from their huts, while the 
 shadow of the thunder-clouds deepened the hues of 
 their plaids and tartans ; and at every creaking of the 
 heavy branches of the pines, or wide-armed oaks in 
 the solitude of their inaccessible birth place, the hearts 
 of the lonely dwellers quaked, and they lifted up their 
 eyes to see the first wide flash — the disparting of the 
 masses of darkness — and paused to hear the long loud 
 rattle of heaven's artillery shaking the foundation of 
 the everlasting mountains. But all was yet silent. 
 
 The peal came at last, and it seemed as if an earth- 
 quake had smote the silence. Not a tree — not a blade 
 of grass moved, but the blow stunned, as it were, the 
 heart of the solid globe. Then was there a low, wild, 
 whispering, wailing voice, as of many spirits all join- 
 ing together from every point of heaven, — it died 
 away — and then the rushing of rain was heard through 
 the darkness ; and, in a few minutes, down came all 
 the mountain torrents in their power, and the sides of 
 all the steeps were suddenly sheeted, far and wide, with 
 waterfalls. The element of water was let loose to run 
 its rejoicing race — and that of fire lent it illumination, 
 whether sweeping in floods along the great open 
 straths, or tumbling in cataracts from cliffs overhang- 
 ing the eagle's eyrie. 
 
 Great rivers were suddenly flooded — and the little
 
 THE SIIEALING. 371 
 
 mountain rivulets, a few minutes before only silver 
 threads, and in whose fairy basins the minnow played, 
 were now scarcely fordable to shepherds' feet. It was 
 time for the strongest to take shelter, and none now 
 would have liked to issue from it ; for while there was 
 real danger to life and limb in the many raging tor- 
 rents, and in the lightning's flash, the imagination and 
 the soul themselves were touched with awe in the long 
 resounding glens, and beneath the savage scowl of the 
 angry sky. It was such a storm as becomes an a?ra 
 among the mountains; and it was felt that before 
 next morning there would be a loss of lives — not only 
 among the beasts that perish, but among human be- 
 ings overtaken by the wrath of that irresistible tem- 
 pest. 
 
 It was not a time to be abroad ; yet all by herself 
 was hastening down Glen-Nevis, from a Shealing far 
 up the River, a little Girl, not more than twelve years 
 of age— in truth, a very child. Grief and fear, not for 
 herself, but for another, bore her along as upon wings, 
 through the storm ; she crossed rivulets from which, 
 on any other occasion, she would have turned back 
 trembling ; and she did not even hear many of the 
 crashes of thunder that smote the smoking hills. Some- 
 times at a fiercer flash of hghtning she just lifted her 
 hand to her dazzled eyes, and then, unappalled, hur- 
 ried on through the hot and sulphureous air. Had she 
 been a maiden of that tender age from village or city, 
 her course would soon have been fatally stopt short ;
 
 372 THE SHEALING. 
 
 but she had been born among the hills, had first learn- 
 ed to walk among the heather, holding by its bloom- 
 ing branches, and many and many a solitary mile had 
 she tripped, young as she was, over moss and moor, 
 glen and mountain, even like the roe that had its lair 
 in the coppice beside her own beloved Shealing. 
 
 She had now reached the gateway of the beautiful 
 hereditary Mansion of the Camerons — and was pass- 
 ing by, when she was observed from the windows, 
 and one of the shepherds who had all come down 
 from the mountain-heights, and were collected toge- 
 ther, (not without a quech of the mountain-dew, or 
 water of life,) in a large shed, was sent out to bring the 
 poor Girl instantly into the house. She was brought 
 back almost by force, and then it was seen that she 
 was in tears. Her sweet face was indeed all dripping 
 with rain, but there was other moisture in her fair 
 blue eyes, and when she was asked to tell her story, 
 she could scarcely speak. At last she found voice to 
 say, " That old Lewis Cameron, her grandfather, was 
 dying — that he could scarcely speak when she left him 
 in the Shealing — and that she had been running as fast 
 as she could to Fort William for the Priest." " Come, 
 my good little Flora, with me into the parlour — and 
 one of the shepherds will go for Mr Macdonald — you 
 would be drowned in trying to cross that part of the 
 road where the Nevis swirls over it out of the Salmon 
 Pool — come and I will put some dry clothes on you 
 — you are just about the size of my own Lilias." The
 
 THE SHEALIJJG. 373 
 
 child was ill to persuade — for she thought on the old 
 Man lying by himself in the Shealing at the point of 
 death — but when she saw one of the shepherds whom 
 she knew setting off with rapid steps, her wild heart 
 was appeased, and she endeavoured to dry up her 
 tears. Nothing, however, could induce her to go in- 
 to the parlour, or put on the young lady's clothes. 
 She stood before the wide blazing peat and wood fire 
 in the kitchen — and her spirits became a little better, 
 when she had told her tale in Gaelic to so many peo- 
 ple belonging to her own condition, and who all 
 crowded round her with sympathizing hearts, and 
 fixed faces, to hear every thing about poor old dying 
 Lewis Cameron. 
 
 Old Lewis was well known all round the broad base 
 of Ben-Nevis. What his age was nobody precisely 
 knew, but it was ascertained that he could not be un- 
 der ninety — and many maintained that he had out- 
 lived an hundred years. He recollected the famous 
 old Lochiel of the first Rebellion — had fought in the 
 strength and prime of manhood at Culloden — and had 
 charged the French on the Heights of Abraham. He 
 had ever since that battle been a pensioner ; and al- 
 though he had many wounds to show both of bullets 
 and the bayonet, yet his iron frame had miraculously 
 retained its strength, and his limbs much of their ac- 
 tivity till the very last. His hair was like snow, but 
 his face was ruddy still — and his large withered hand 
 had still a grasp that could hold down the neck of the
 
 374 THE SHEALING. 
 
 dying red deer to the ground. He had lived for thir- 
 ty years in a Shealing built by himself among a wild 
 heap of sheltering rocks, and for the last five his little 
 orphan grand-daughter, the only one of his blood alive, 
 had been his companion in his solitude. Old Lewis 
 was the best angler in the Highlands, and he knew 
 all the streams, rivers, and lochs. Many thousand 
 grouse had tumbled on the heath beneath his unerr- 
 ing aim ; and the roe was afraid to show her face out 
 of a thicket. But the red deer was his delight — he 
 had been Keeper to Lochiel once — and many a long 
 day, from sunrise to sunset, had he stalked like a 
 shadow over ranges of mountains till he found him- 
 self at night far away from his Shealing. He was a 
 guide, too, to botanists, mineralogists, painters, poets, 
 and prosers. Philosophers, men of science, lovers of 
 the muse, hunters of the picturesque, men eager af- 
 ter parallel roads and vitrified forts, and town gentle- 
 men sent from garrets to describe, for the delight and 
 instruction of their fellow citizens, the grand features of 
 nature — all came right to old Lewis Cameron. Many 
 a sweat did he give them, panting in pursuit of know- 
 ledge, over the large loose stones, and the pointed 
 crags, and up to the middle in heather beneath the 
 sultry sun, toiling up the perpendicular sides of hill 
 and mountain. But, above all, he loved the young 
 Sassenach, when, with their rifles, they followed with 
 him the red deer over the bent, and were happy if, at
 
 THE SHEALING. 375 
 
 nightfall, one pair of antlers lay motionless on the hea- 
 ther. 
 
 Such was old Lewis Cameron, who was now 
 thought to be lying at the point of death. And 
 it was not surprising that the shepherds now col- 
 lected together during the storm, and indeed every 
 person in the house felt a deep interest in the old man's 
 fate. " Aye, his hour is come — his feet will never 
 touch the living heather again," was the expression 
 in which they all joined. They did not fear to speak 
 openly before little Flora, who was now standing be- 
 side the fire, with her long yellow hair let loose, and 
 streaming all wet over her shoulders — for the death 
 of the oldest man in all the glens was an event to be 
 looked for, and the child knew as well as they did 
 that her grandfather's hour was come. .. Many and 
 many a time did she go to the window to look if the 
 priest was coming up the glen, and at last she began to 
 fear that the rain and the wind, which was now begin- 
 ning to rise, after the hush of the thundery air, would 
 hinder him from coming at all, and that the old Man 
 would die alone and unconfessed in his Shealing. " No- 
 body is with him — poor old Man — never, never may 
 I see him alive again — but there is no need for me to 
 wait here — I will run home — the waters cannot be 
 much higher than when I came down the glen." 
 Flora now wept in passion to return to the Shealing 
 -—and tying up that long wet yellow hair, was ready 
 to start out into the wild and raging weather.
 
 376 THE SHEALING. 
 
 It happened that the Minister of the parish — young 
 Mr Gordon — was in the house, and one of the shep- 
 herds went to call him out from the parlour, that he 
 might persuade Flora to be contented where she was, 
 as certain death would be in her attempt to go up 
 Glen-Nevis. He did all he could to soothe her agita- 
 tion, but in vain — and as the good priest, Mr Macdo- 
 nald, did not appeal', he began to think that old Lewis 
 should not be left so long on his death-bed. He 
 therefore addressed himself to two of the most active 
 shepherds, and asked if they had any objections to 
 take Flora to the Shealing. They immediately rose 
 up — on with their plaids — and took their staffs into 
 their hands; Flora's face smiled faintly through its 
 tears ; and Mr Gordon mildly said, " What is easy to 
 you, shepherds, cannot be difficult to me — I will go 
 with you." The young minister was a Highlander 
 born — had in his boyhood trod the mountains of Ba- 
 denoch and Lochaber — and there was not a shepherd 
 or huntsman far or near that could leave him behind 
 either on level or height. So they all issued forth in- 
 to the hurricane, and little Flora was as safe under 
 their care as if she had been sitting in the kirk. 
 
 The party kept well up on the sides of the moun- 
 tain, for the Nevis overflowed many parts of the Glens, 
 and the nameless torrents, that in dry weather exist 
 not, were tumbling down in reddened foam from every 
 scaur- The river was often like a lake ; and cliffs cover- 
 ed with tall birches, or a few- native pines, stood islanded
 
 THE SHEALIXC. 377 
 
 here and there, pei*haps with a shrieking heron waiting 
 on a high bough for the subsiding of the waters. 
 Now a shepherd, and now the minister, took Flora 
 in his arms, as they breasted together the rushing 
 streams — and the child felt, that had she been allowed 
 to go by herself, the Nevis would have soon swept her 
 down into the salt Linnhe Loch. In an hour all the 
 wild part of the journey was over ; — their feet were on 
 a vast heathery bosom of a hill, down which only 
 small rills oozed out of gushing springs, and soon lost 
 themselves again — and after a few minutes easy walk- 
 ing, during which Flora led the way, she turned 
 about to the minister, and pointing with her little 
 hand, cried, " Yonder's the Shealing, Sir — my grand- 
 father, if alive, will bless your face at his bed-side." 
 
 Mr Gordon knew all the country well, and he had 
 often before been at the head of Glen-Nevis. But he had 
 never beheld it, till now, in all its glory. He stood 
 on a bend of the river, which was seen coming down 
 from the cataract several miles distant among its mag- 
 nificent cliffs and dark pine forests. That long and 
 final reach of the glen gleamed and thundered before 
 him — a lurid light from the yet agitated heavens fell 
 heavily on the discoloured flood — the mountains of 
 heather that inclosed the glen were black as pitch in 
 the gloom — but here and there a wet cliff shone forth 
 to some passing gleam, as bright as a beacon. The 
 mass of pines was ever and anon seen to stoop and 
 heave below the storm, while the spray of that catar-
 
 378 THE SHEALING. 
 
 act went half-way up the wooded cliffs, and gave a 
 slight tinge of beauty, with its blue and purple mist, to 
 the grim and howling solitude. High above all — and 
 as if standing almost in another world, was seen now 
 the very crest of Ben-Nevis — for although fast-rolling 
 clouds, and mist, and steam, girdled his enormous 
 sides, all vapours had left his summit, and it shot up 
 proudly and calmly into its pure region of settled 
 sky. 
 
 But Mr Gordon had not come here to admire the 
 grandeur of nature — it had struck his soul as he 
 looked and listened — but now he was standing at the 
 door of the Shealing. Rocks lay all around it — but 
 it was on a small green plat of its own — and over the 
 door, which could not be entered even by little Flora 
 without stooping, was extended the immense antlers of 
 an old deer, which Lewis had shot twenty years ago in 
 the Forest of Lochiel, the largest ever seen before or 
 since in all the Highlands. Floi'a came out, with 
 eager eyes and a suppressed voice, " Come in, Sir — 
 come in, Sir — my Father is alive, and is quite, quite 
 sensible." 
 
 The young minister entered the Shealing — while the 
 two shepherds lay down on their plaids below some 
 overhanging rocks, where the ground was just as dry as 
 the floor of a room. " Welcome — welcome, Sir — you 
 are not just the one I have been hoping for, — but if 
 he does not arrive till I am gone, I trust that, although 
 we are of different creeds, God will receive my poor
 
 THE SIIEALING. 379 
 
 sinful soul out of your hands. You are a good pious 
 minister of his word — Mr Gordon, I am a Catholic, 
 and you a Protestant — but through Him who died for 
 us we surely may alike hope to be saved. That was 
 a sore pang, Sir — say a prayer — say a prayer." 
 
 The old Man was stretched, in his Highland garb, 
 (he had never worn another,) on a decent clean bed, 
 that smelt sweet and fresh of the heather. His long 
 silvery locks, of which it was thought he had for many 
 years been not a little proud, and which had so often 
 waved in the mountain winds, were now lying still — 
 the fixed and sunken look of approaching death was 
 on a face, which, now that its animation was calmed, 
 seemed old, old, indeed — but there was something 
 majestic in his massy bulk, stretched out beneath an 
 inexorable power, in that Shealing little larger than a 
 vaulted grave. He lay there like an old chieftain of 
 the elder time — one of Ossian's heroes unfortunate in 
 his later age — and dying ingloriously at last with a 
 little weeping Malvina at his heather couch. The 
 open chimney, if so it might be called, black with 
 smoke, let in a glimmer of the sky — a small torch 
 made of the pine-wood was burning close to the nearly 
 extinguished peat embers, and its light had, no doubt, 
 been useful when the shadow of the thunder-cloud 
 darkened the little window, that consisted of a single 
 pane. But through that single pane the eye could dis- 
 cern a sublime amphitheatre of woodland cliffs, and it
 
 380 THE SHEALING. 
 
 almost seemed as if placed there to command a view 
 of the great Cataract. 
 
 Mr Gordon prayed — while little Flora sat down on 
 the foot of the bed., pale, but not weeping, for awe had 
 hushed her soul. Not a word was in his prayer which 
 might not have comforted any dying Christian, of any 
 creed, in any part of the earth. God was taking back 
 the life he had given, and an immortal soul was about 
 to go to judgment. The old man had made small 
 show of religion — but he had never violated its ordi- 
 nances — and that he was a good Catholic was acknow- 
 ledged, otherwise he would not have been so well be- 
 loved and kindly treated by Mr Macdonald, a man of 
 piety and virtue. Now and then a groan came from 
 his ample chest, and a convulsion shook all his frame 
 — for there was no general decay of nature — some 
 mortal malady had attacked his heart. " Bless you — 
 bless you — my dear young boy," said the ancient 
 white haired image — " this is a hard struggle — a can- 
 non ball is more merciful." Then Flora wept, and 
 went up to his head, and wiped the big drops 
 from his brow, and kissed him. " This is my little 
 Flora's kiss — I am sure ; but my eyes are dim, and I 
 see thee not. My bonny roe, thou must trot away 
 down, when I am dead, to the low country — down to 
 some of my friends about the Fort, — this bit Shealing 
 will be a wild den soon — and the raven will sit upon 
 the deer's horns when I am gone. My rifle keeps 
 him on the cliff now— but God forgive me ! — what
 
 THE SIIEALING. 381 
 
 thoughts are these for a" dying man — God forgive 
 
 
 me 
 
 Old Lewis Cameron sat up on his heather-bed ; 
 and, looking about, said, " I cannot last long ; but it 
 comes in fits ; now I have no pain. Was it not kind 
 in that fearless creature to run down the glen in that 
 thunder-storm ? I was scarcely sensible when I 
 knew, by the silence of the Shealing, that she was 
 gone. In a little, I sat up, as I am doing now, and I 
 saw her, through that bit window, far down the glen. 
 I knew God would keep down the waters for her 
 sake — she was like a sea-mew in a storm !" Flora 
 went out, and brought in the shepherds. They were 
 awe-struck on seeing the gigantic old man sitting up 
 with his long white hair and ghostlike face — but he 
 stretched out his hand to them — and they received his 
 blessing. " Flora, give the minister and the lads 
 some refreshment — eat and drink at my death — eat 
 and drink at my funeral. Aye — I am a pensioner of 
 the King's — and I will leave enough to make Auld 
 Lewis Cameron's Funeral as cheerful a ane as ever 
 gathered together in a barn, and likewise leave Flora, 
 there, enough to make life blythe when she is a wo- 
 man." Flora brought out the goat-milk cheese, the 
 barley cakes, and the whisky jar ; and, old Lewis 
 himself having blessed the meal, Mr Gordon, the shep- 
 herds, and little Flora too, sat down and ate. 
 
 Old Lewis looked at them with a smile. " My eye- 
 sight is come back to me. — I see my Flora there as
 
 382 THE SHEAL1NG. 
 
 bonny as ever. — Taste the whisky, Mr Gordon — it is 
 sma' still, and will do harm to no man. Mr Gordon, 
 you may wonder — no, you will not wonder, to hear a 
 dying man speaking thus. But God has given me 
 meat and drink for a hundred years, and that is the 
 last meal I shall ever bless. I look on you all as 
 fellow Christians, now supported by the same God 
 
 that fed me. Eat — drink — and be merry This is 
 
 the very day of the month on which General Wolfe 
 was killed — a proper day for an old soldier to die. 
 I think I see the General lying on the ground, for 
 I was near him as an orderly serjeant. Several 
 Indian warriors were by, with long black hair and 
 outlandish dresses. I saw Wolfe die — and just be- 
 fore he died, our line gave a shout, that brought 
 the fire into his dim eyes, for the French were flying 
 before our bayonets ; and Montcalm himself, though 
 our General did not know that, was killed, and Que- 
 bec, next day, was ours. I remember it all like yes- 
 terday." The old man's white face kindled, and he 
 lifted up his long sinewy arm as he spoke, but it fell 
 down upon the bed, for its strength was gone. But 
 he had a long interval of ease between the paroxysms, 
 and his soul, kindling over the recollections of his long 
 life, was anxious to hold communion till the very last, 
 with those whose fathers he had remembered chil- 
 dren. His was a long look back through the noise 
 and the silence of several generations. " Great chan- 
 ges, they say, are going on all over the world now. 
 
 10
 
 THE SHEALINC. 383 
 
 I have seen some myself in my day — but oh my heart 
 is sad, to think on the changes in the Highlands them- 
 selves. Glens that could once have sent out a hundred 
 bayonets, belong entirely now to some fat Lowland gra- 
 zier. Confound such policy, says auld Lewis Came- 
 ron." With these words he fell back, and lay exhaust- 
 ed on his heather-bed. " Hamish Fraser, take the 
 pipes, and gang out on the green, and play ' Lochiel's 
 awa' to France.' That tune made many a bluidy hand 
 on that day — the Highlanders were broken — when 
 Donald Fraser, your grandfather, blew up ' Lochiel's 
 awa* to France.' — He was sitting on the ground with 
 a broken leg, and och but the Camerons were red wud 
 with shame and anger, and in a twinkling there was a 
 ci'y that might have been heard frae them to the top 
 of Ben-Nevis, and five hundred bayonets were brought 
 down to the charge, till the Mounseers cried out for 
 quarter. But we gi'ed them nane — for our souls w r ere 
 up, and we were wet-shod in bluid. 1 was among 
 the foremost wi' my broad-sword, and cut them down 
 on baith sides o' me like windle-straes. A broad- 
 sword was ance a deadly weapon in these hands, but 
 they are stiff now, and lying by my side just like the 
 stone image o' that man in Elgin church-yard on a 
 Tomb-stane." 
 
 Hamish Fraser did as he was desired — and the wild 
 sound of that martial instrument filled the great Glen 
 from stream to sky, and the echoes rolled round 
 and round the mountain-tops, as if the bands of fifty
 
 384 THE SHEALING. 
 
 regiments were playing a prelude to battle. " Weel 
 blawn and weel fingered baith," quoth old Lewis, 
 " the chiel plays just like his grandfather." 
 
 The music ceased, and Hamish Fraser, on coming 
 back into the Shealing, said, " I see two men on horse- 
 back coming up the glen — one is on a white horse." 
 " Aye — blessed be God that is the good priest — now 
 will I die in peace. My last earthly thoughts are gone 
 by — he will show me the Salvation of Christ — the 
 road that leadeth to Eternal Life. My dear son — 
 good Mr Gordon — I felt happy in your prayers and 
 exhortations. But the minister of my own holy reli- 
 gion is at hand — and it is pleasant to die in the faith 
 of one's forefathers. When he comes — you will leave 
 us by ourselves — even my little Flora will go with 
 you into the air for a little. The rain — is it not over 
 and gone ? And I hear no wind — only the voice of 
 streams." 
 
 The sound of horses' feet was now on the turf be- 
 fore the door of the Shealing — and Mr Macdonald came 
 in with a friend. The dying man looked towards his 
 Priest with a happy countenance, and blessed him in 
 the name of God — of Christ — and of his blessed Mo- 
 ther the undefiled Virgin. He then uttered a few in- 
 distinct words addressed to the person who accom- 
 panied him — and there was silence in the Shealing. 
 
 " I was from home when the messenger came to my 
 house — but he found me at the house of Mr Christie 
 the Clergyman of the English Church at Fort-Wil-
 
 THE 6HEALING. 
 
 385 
 
 liam, and he would not suffer me to come up the glen 
 alone— so you now see him along with me, Lewis." 
 The dying man said, " This indeed is Christian Cha- 
 rity. Here, in a lonely Shealing, by the death-bed of 
 a poor old man, are standing three Ministers of God — 
 each of a different persuasion — a Catholic — an Episco- 
 pal — and a Presbyter All of you have been kind to 
 
 me for several years — and now you are all anxious for 
 the salvation of my soul. God has indeed been mer- 
 ciful to me a sinner." 
 
 The Catholic Priest was himself an old man — al- 
 though thirty years younger than poor Lewis Came- 
 ron — and he was the faithful Shepherd of a small 
 flock. He was revered by all who knew him for the 
 apostolical fervour of his faith, the simplicity of his 
 manners, and the blamelessness of his life. A humble 
 man among the humble, and poor in spirit in the huts 
 of the poor. But he had one character in the High- 
 land glens, where he was known only as the teacher and 
 comforter of the souls of his little flock — and another 
 in the wide world, where his name was not undistin- 
 guished among those of men gifted with talent and rich 
 in erudition. He had passed his youth in foreign coun- 
 tries — but had returned to the neighbourhood of his 
 birth-place as his life was drawing towards a close, and 
 for several years had resided in that wild region, esteem- 
 ing his lot, although humble, yet high, if through him 
 a few sinners were made repentant, and resignation 
 brought by his voice to the dying bed. 
 
 Bb
 
 386 THE SHEALING. 
 
 With this good man had come to the lonely Shealing 
 Mr Christie, the Episcopalian Clergyman, who had re- 
 ceived his education in an English University, and 
 brought to the discharge of his duties in this wild re- 
 gion a mind cultivated by classical learning, and rich 
 in the literature and philosophy of Greece and Rome. 
 Towards him, a very young person, the heart of the 
 old Priest had warmed on their very first meeting ; 
 and they really loved each other quite like father and 
 son. The character of Mr Gordon, although unlike 
 theirs in almost all respects, was yet not uncongenial. 
 His strong native sense, his generous feelings, his ar- 
 dent zeal, were all estimated by them as they deserv- 
 ed; and while he willingly bowed to their superior 
 talents and acquirements, he maintained an equality 
 with them both, in that devotion to his sacred duties, 
 and Christian care of the souls of his flock, without 
 which a minister can neither be respectable nor happy. 
 In knowledge of the character, customs, modes of 
 thinking and feeling, and the manners of the people, 
 he was greatly superior to both his friends ; and his 
 advice, although always given with diffidence, and 
 never but when asked, was most useful to them in 
 the spiritual guidance of their own flock. 
 
 This friendly and truly Christian intercourse hav- 
 ing subsisted for several years between these three mi- 
 nisters of religion, the blessed effects of it were visible, 
 and were deeply and widely felt in the hearts of the 
 inhabitants of this district. All causes of jealousy,
 
 THE SHEALING. 387 
 
 dislike, and disunion, seemed to vanish into air, be- 
 tween people of these different persuasions, when they 
 saw the true regard which they whom they most ho- 
 noured and revered thus cherished for one another ; 
 and when the ordinary unthinking prejudices were 
 laid aside, from which springs so much embitterment 
 of the very blood, an appeal was then made, and 
 seldom in vain, to deeper feelings in the heart, and 
 nobler principles in the understanding, which other- 
 wise would have remained inoperative. Thus the 
 dwellers in the glens and on the mountains, without 
 ceasing to love and delight in their own mode of wor- 
 ship, and without losing a single hallowed association 
 that clung to the person of the Minister of God, to 
 the walls of the house in which he was worshipped, to 
 the words in which the creature humbly addressed the 
 Creator, or to the ground in which they were all finally 
 to be laid at rest, yet all lived and died in mutual tolera- 
 tion and peace. Nor could there be a more affecting 
 example of this than what was now seen even in the 
 low and lonely Shealing of poor old Lewis Cameron. 
 His breath had but a few gasps more to make — but 
 his Shealing was blessed by the presence of those men 
 whose religion, different as it was in many outward 
 things, and often made to be so fatally different in es- 
 sentials too, was now one and the same, as they stood 
 beside that death-bed, with a thousand torrents sound- 
 ing through the evening air, and overshadowed in their 
 devotion by the gloom of that stupendous Mountain.
 
 388 THE SHEALTNG. 
 
 All but the grey-haired Priest now left the Sheal- 
 ing, and sat down together in a beautiful circlet of 
 green, inclosed with small rocks most richly ornament- 
 ed by nature, even in this stormy clime, with many a 
 graceful plant and blooming flower, to which the art 
 of old Lewis and his Flora had added blossoms from 
 the calmer gardens at the Fort. These and the hea- 
 ther perfumed the air — for the rain, though dense and 
 strong, had not shattered a single spray, and every 
 leaf and every bloom lifted itself cheerfully up begem- 
 med with large quivering diamond drops. There sat 
 the silent party — while death was dealing with old 
 Lewis, and the man of God giving comfort to his pe- 
 nitent spirit. They were waiting the event in peace 
 — and even little Flora, elevated by the presence of 
 these holy men, whose office seemed now so especially 
 sacred, and cheered by their fatherly kindness to hei*- 
 self, sat in the middle of the group, and scarcely shed 
 a tear. 
 
 In a little while, Mr Macdonald came out from the 
 Shealing, and beckoned on one of them to approach. 
 They did so, one after the other, and thus singly took 
 their last farewell of the ancient man. His agonies 
 and strong convulsions were all over — he was now 
 blind — but he seemed to hear their voices still, and to 
 be quite sensible. Little Flora was the last to go in — 
 and she staid the longest. She came out sobbing, as 
 if her heart would break, for she had kissed his cold 
 lips, from which there was no breath, and his eyelids
 
 THE SHEALING. 
 
 389 
 
 that fell not down over the dim orbs. " He is dead — he 
 is dead !" said the child j and she went and sat down, 
 with her face hidden by her hands, on a stone at some 
 distance from the rest, a little birch tree hanging its 
 limber sprays over her head, and as the breeze touch- 
 ed them, letting down its clear dew-drops on her yel- 
 low hair. As she sat there, a few goats, for it was 
 now the hour of evening when they came to be milk- 
 ed from the high cliffy pastures, gathered round her ; 
 and her pet lamb, which had been frisking unheeded 
 among the heather, after the hush of the storm, went 
 bleating up to the sobbing Shepherdess, and laid its 
 head on her knees. 
 
 The evening had sunk down upon the glen, but the 
 tempest was over, and though the torrents had not yet 
 begun to subside, there was now a strong party, and 
 no danger in their all journeying homewards together. 
 One large star arose in heaven — and a wide white 
 gbmmer over a breaking mass of clouds told that the 
 moon was struggling through, and in another hour, if 
 the upper current of air flowed on, would be appar- 
 ent. No persuasion could induce little Flora to leave 
 the Shealing — and Hamish Fraser was left to sit with 
 her all night beside the dead. So the company depart- 
 ed — and as they descended into the great Glen, they 
 heard the wild wail of the Pipe, mixing with the 
 sound of the streams and the moaning of cliffs and ca- 
 verns. It was Hamish Fraser pouring out a Lament on 
 the green before the Shealing — a mournful but mar-
 
 390 THE SHEALING. 
 
 tial tune which the old soldier had loved, and which, 
 if there were any superstitious thoughts in the soul of 
 him who was playing, might be supposed to soothe 
 the spirit yet lingering in the dark hollow of his na- 
 tive Mountains.
 
 HELEN EYRE. *<)l 
 
 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 In a beautiful Town in the south of Scotland, dis- 
 tinguished by the noble river that sweeps by its gar- 
 dens, its majestic bridge, its old crumbling tower, and 
 a Grandee's princely domains that stretch with their 
 single gigantic trees, and many spacious groves, all 
 around the clustered habitations, resided, for one-half 
 year, an English Officer of Cavalry and a young and 
 lovely woman, who was — not his wife. He was the 
 youngest son of a noble family, and, with some of the 
 vices, possessed many of the virtues of his profession. 
 That he was a man of weak principles, he showed by 
 having attached to him, by the tenderest ties, one who, 
 till she had known him, had been innocent, happy, 
 and respected ; that he was not a man of bad prin- 
 ciples, he showed by an attention to her as gentle, 
 refined, and constant as ever husband paid to wife. 
 He loved her truly and well. She was his mistress 
 — degraded — despised — looked on with curious and 
 scornful eyes — unspoken to but by his voice, solitary 
 indeed when he was absent, and revived by his pre-
 
 392 
 
 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 sence into a troubled and miserable delight, that even 
 more than her lonely agonies told her that she was for 
 ever and irretrievably lost. She was his mistress — 
 that was known to the grave who condemned, to the 
 gay who connived, and to the tender-hearted who 
 pitied them both, her and her seducer ; but though she 
 knew that such was her odious name, yet when no 
 eyes were upon her but those of Marmaduke Stanley, 
 she forgot or cared not for all that humiliation, and 
 conscious of her own affection, fidelity, and, but for 
 him, innocence too, she sometimes even admitted into 
 her heart a throb of joy and of pride in the endear- 
 ments and attachment of him whom all admired and so 
 many had loved. To be respectable again was impos- 
 sible — but to be true to the death unto her seducer, if 
 not her duty, was now her despair — and while she 
 prayed to God for forgiveness, she also prayed that, 
 when she died, her head might be lying on his guilty 
 but affectionate bosom. To fly from him, even if it were 
 to become a beggar on the high-way, or a gleaner in 
 the field, often did her conscience tell her ; but though 
 conscience spoke so, how could it act, when envelop- 
 ed and fettered in a thousand intertwisted folds of af- 
 fections and passions, one and all of them as strong as 
 the very spirit of life ? 
 
 Helen Eyre prayed that she might die : and her 
 prayer was granted. He who should have been her hus- 
 band, had been ordered suddenly away to America, — 
 and Helen was left behind, (not altogether friendless,)
 
 HELEN EYRE. 393 
 
 as her health was delicate, and she was about to become 
 a mother. They parted with many tears — as husband 
 and wife would have parted — but dearly as she loved 
 her Marmaduke, she hoped that he might never see her 
 more, and in a few years forget that such a creature had 
 ever been. She blessed him before he went away even 
 upon her knees, in a fit of love, grief, fear, remorse, and 
 contrition ; and as she beheld him wave his white 
 plumes towards her from a distance, and then disap- 
 pear among the trees, she said, " Now I am left alone 
 for repentance, with my God !" 
 
 This unfortunate young creature gave birth to a 
 child ; and after enjoying the deep delight of its mur- 
 muring lips for a few days, during which the desire 
 of life revived within her, she expired with it asleep 
 in her bosom. Small, indeed, was the funeral of the 
 English officer's fair English mistress. But she was 
 decently and quietly laid in her grave ; for, despised 
 as she had been when living, she was only pitied 
 now, and no one chose to think but of her youth, 
 her beauty, her pale and melancholy face, her humble 
 mien, and acts of kindness and charity to the poor, 
 whom she treated always as her superiors — for they, 
 though in want, might be innocent, and she had gone 
 far astray. Where, too, thought many, who saw the 
 funeral pass by, where are her relations at this mo- 
 ment ? No doubt, so pretty and elegant a being must 
 have had many who once loved and were proud of her 
 — but sucli thoughts past by with the bier, — she wai
 
 394 
 
 HELEN EY"RE. 
 
 buried, and a plain stone laid over her, according to 
 her own desire : " Here lies Helen Eyre, an Or- 
 phan, Aged Twenty-two Years." 
 
 There was one true Christian who had neither been 
 afraid nor ashamed to visit Helen Eyre during the 
 few last weeks of her life, when it seemed almost cer- 
 tain that life was near its close. This was Mrs Mont- 
 gomery, the widow of a country gentleman of good 
 family, who had for some years resided in the town. 
 This excellent woman knew Marmaduke Stanley, and 
 was not a stranger to the circumstances of this unfor- 
 tunate and guilty connection. On his departure she 
 had promised to take care that Helen Eyre should be 
 looked after in her illness,— and, when the hand of 
 death lay upon the poor friendless Orphan, she was 
 frequently with her at her bedside, administering 
 comfort and consolation. Such kindness from such a 
 person, at such a time, supported the soul of the dying 
 mother when it was most disconsolate ; it quieted all the 
 natural fears of dissolution ; and when she, whose own 
 life had been a model of all that was good and beauti- 
 ful and lofty in the female character, bent down over 
 the penitent sinner and kissed her fair young brow, 
 now cold and clammy in the death-throes, that 
 Christian kiss seemed to assure her that she might be 
 forgiven; and, if God, as we believe, beholds the 
 creatures he has made, it was registered in Heaven. 
 
 Mrs Montgomery took the infant into her own 
 house — and had written, to inform its father of what
 
 HELEN EYRE. 395 
 
 had happened, when she read in a newspaper that, in a 
 skirmish, Major Marmaduke Stanley had been killed. 
 She then opened a letter he had left with her on his 
 departure — and found that he had bequeathed his small 
 fortune of four thousand pounds to Mrs Montgomery, 
 that she might settle it properly on the mother of his 
 child if she survived, if not, upon the infant. 
 
 The infant Orphan was christened Helen Eyre, 
 after its mother, whom, frail as she had been, there 
 was no need that her child, at least, should ever dis- 
 own. No one wished to have the baby that now be- 
 longed to none. And this excellent lady, from no 
 whim, no caprice, no enthusiasm, but touched at the 
 heart with its utter and forlorn helplessness, by sorrow 
 for its poor mother's transgression and early fate, and 
 by something of a maternal affection for its dead fa- 
 ther, resolved to adopt Helen Eyre as her own child, 
 and to educate her in a woman's accomplishments, 
 and a Christian's faith. Some smiled — some disdain- 
 ed — and a few even blamed — the kindness that could 
 rescue an orphan from an orphan's fate. Many, too, 
 wondered, they knew not why, when it was known 
 that Major Stanley had left all his fortune to Mrs 
 Montgomery for behoof of the child. But in a few 
 months it was felt by every one, whatever they might 
 choose to acknowledge, that the brave soldier had had 
 a good heart, and that he had committed the interests 
 of his Orphan, even before she was born, to one whose
 
 396 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 character was summed up in that one word — a Christ- 
 ian. 
 
 It often seems as if those children who have fewest 
 to love them in the world grow up the most worthy 
 of love. Here was an Orphan — born in sin, in shame, 
 
 and in sorrow— and now left alone on the earth who 
 
 grew up beautiful to all eyes, and captivating to all 
 hearts. Before five summers had shone upon her 
 blue eyes, the child was noticeable among all other 
 children. Her mother had been lovely, and there 
 was a time, too, it was said, when her presence had 
 been welcome in the halls even of the noble, who had 
 visited her parents in their pleasant dwelling beside their 
 own Church. Her father, however deficient in more 
 solid worth, had been the ornament of polished life ; 
 and it seemed as if nature preserved in this small and 
 beautiful and graceful image the united attractions of 
 both the unfortunate dead. The very loneliness of the 
 sweet child, without a natural home in the world, 
 could not but interest every good heart ; but her ex- 
 ceeding beauty made an impression almost like that 
 of love even upon the heartless — and **. English 
 Helen" — so she was familiarly called, to distinguish 
 her from another child of the same Christian name at 
 school, was a favourite with all. Besides, she was 
 the adopted daughter of Mrs Montgomery, and that 
 added a charm even to her beauty, her sweetness, and 
 her innocence. 
 
 The heart of Helen Eyre expanded, month after 
 
 11
 
 HKLEX liYUK. 397 
 
 month, in the joy of its innocence, and felt the holy 
 voice of nature whispering to it new feelings of love 
 and affection. The children with whom she played had 
 fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, and many 
 other friends. She had none. She loved the Lady 
 who was so good to her, and by whose bed she slept 
 at night on her own small couch. But she knew that 
 it was not her mother with whom she lived. She had 
 been told that both father and mother were dead ; 
 and sometimes the sweet child wept for those she had 
 never seen, and of whom she knew nothing but that 
 they had both been buried long ago. Something sad 
 and melancholy, therefore, mixed itself with youth's 
 native gladness, and a corresponding expression set- 
 tled itself about her eyes, and often smoothed the 
 dimples on her smiling cheeks. " English Helen's" 
 own heart told her what she had often heard her 
 childish companions say, that she was an orphan ; 
 but she knew that though that was something mourn- 
 ful, it could not be wicked, and that, therefore, people 
 would pity her more — not love her less — because her 
 father had been killed in the wars, and her mother 
 had died soon after she was born of a broken heart. 
 
 One day Helen Eyre had wandered with some of 
 her companions into the church-yard, near the Old 
 Tower, and, attracted by the murmuring blossoms of a 
 shady horse-chesnut tree, that bung its branches over 
 several tombs and grave-stones, in a corner near the 
 river side, she tripped into the shade, and letting fall
 
 398 HELEN EYRE, 
 
 her eyes upon a grey slab, she read there her own 
 name, the inscription on her mother's grave. She 
 went home drowned in tears, and asked her guardian, 
 if that was not the stone under which her mother 
 was buried. The good old Lady went with her to 
 the church-yard, and they sat down together upon 
 that stone. Helen was now ten years old ; and per- 
 haps had heard, although she scarcely knew that she 
 had, some dim intimations in the language of her play- 
 fellows, which they themselves had not understood, 
 that she was " a natural child." Mrs Montgomery 
 spoke to her about her parents ; and while the sweet 
 child kept her weeping eyes fixed upon her face, as 
 she spoke in a bewildered and perplexing grief, she 
 came to know at last that her mother had been guilty 
 of a great sin, but had been forgiven by God, and had 
 died happy. The child was told, too, although that 
 she could scarcely believe, that some might love her- 
 self less for that reason; but that the truly good 
 would love her the more, if she continued to be what 
 she now was, innocent, sweet tempered, and obe- 
 dient to God's holy laws. " Your mother, Helen, 
 was a kind, gentle, and religious being ; and you must 
 always think so, when you weep for her, here beside 
 her grave, or elsewhere. When you are older, I will 
 tell you more about her, and about your birth. But 
 my beloved, my good, and my beautiful child, for 
 I do not fear to call thee so, even to thy sweet face- 
 be not ashamed — hold up your head, Helen, among
 
 HELEN EYRE. ttiVj 
 
 your companions, and my hands, as long as I live, 
 will dress for thee that guileless bosom, and tend the 
 flowing of that glossy hair. I am your mother now, 
 Helen, are you not willing to be my child ?" The or- 
 phan could make no reply, for her little heart was full, 
 almost to breaking — and she could only kiss the hand 
 that took hers gently into it, and bathe it with happy 
 and affectionate tears. They left the church-yard ; 
 and before they reached the sweet cottage on the 
 river's side, Helen was gazing with delight on the 
 queen butterflies, as they for a moment expanded their 
 rich, brown, mottled, and scarlet wings on the yellow 
 lustre of the laburnums, and then glanced, careering 
 away over the fruit trees into other gardens, or up 
 into the sunshine of the open day. 
 
 In Scotland there prevails, it is believed, a strong 
 feeling of an indefinite kind towards those whose birth 
 has been such as that of poor Helen Eyre. This feel- 
 ing is different in different minds ; but, perhaps, in 
 very few, such as seems reconcileable with a true 
 Christian spirit. Scorn and aversion towards the inno- 
 cent, however modified, or restrained by better feel- 
 ings, is not surely, in any circumstances, a temper of 
 mind any where expressly recommended, or indirectly 
 instilled by any passages in the New Testament ; and 
 with reverence be it spoken, if we could imagine our- 
 selves listening to the Living Christ, we should not ex- 
 pect to hear from his lips lessons of contumely, or hard- 
 heartedness to poor, simple, innocent, orphan children.
 
 400 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 The morality of society is not to be protected by the en- 
 couragement of any feelings which Christianity con- 
 demns ; and as such is the constitution of this world, 
 that the innocent often suffer for the guilty, that 
 is an awful consideration to deter from vice, but sure- 
 ly it is no reason for adding to the misfortunes of 
 virtue. In coarse and vulgar minds this feeling to- 
 wards illegitimate children is a loathing repugnance, 
 and a bitter and angry scorn. And the name by which 
 they call them is one that comes from their mouths 
 steeped in inhuman pride, as if there were in it an odi- 
 ous contamination. Alas ! who are they that thus turn 
 away with loathing from beings formed by God in his 
 own image ? Are they all pure — and innocent — and 
 aloof from transgression ? Or may not in such cases the 
 scorn of the despicable, the mean, the cruel, the ig- 
 norant, and the licentious, fall upon the head of the 
 generous, the just, the pure, the intelligent, the re- 
 fined and the pious? It is often so. Now, society has 
 its own laws, and they are often stern enough ; but 
 let them never, with the good, prevail against the laws 
 of nature ; and let every mind that entertains the feel- 
 ing now alluded to, be cautious, in justice to itself and 
 to a fellow creature, and in due reverence of a common 
 Creator, to separate from it all undeserved virulence, 
 all unchristian contumely — all unbrotherly or unsister- 
 ly hatred, and then they will know to how little it 
 amounts, and how easily it must be forgotten in the 
 contemplation of excellence ; — and then, inc., will they
 
 HELEN EYRE. 4 01 
 
 feel a far deeper compassion for them in whose minds 
 that other rooted passion of contempt so rankly grows. 
 There were many who wondered that Mrs Montgome- 
 ry could have adopted such an Orphan. And with that 
 coarse wonder they turned away from that noble, high- 
 born, high-bred, and, what was far better, tender- 
 hearted, compassionate, and pious lady, and from the 
 beautiful creature at her side rejoicing in protected in- 
 nocence and awakened intelligence, beneath the light 
 of her gracious affection. 
 
 As Helen Eyre grew out of her sweet girlhood in- 
 to the ripening beauty of her virgin prime, this feel- 
 ing regarding her became somewhat stronger. For 
 now there was the jealousy — the envy — and the spite 
 of little minds, painfully conscious of their inferiority, 
 and impatient of total eclipse. They had the tone of 
 the world's most worldly heart on their side ; and it 
 was easy, pleasant, safe, and satisfactory, to hang a 
 cloud over her by one single word that could not be 
 gainsayed, when it was felt that in itself the flower 
 was fragrant and most beautiful. Campbell has, in 
 the simple words of genius, spoken of the " magic 
 of a name" — so likewise is there a blight in a name — 
 a blight which may not fall on its object, but which 
 can wither up the best feelings of our nature which 
 the sight of that object was formed to cherish and ex- 
 pand. Helen by degrees instructed her heart in this 
 knowledge, which from nature alone she never could 
 have had — her guardian had told her the story of her 
 
 c c
 
 402 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 birth — she read in books of persons situated as she was 
 
 — and although sometimes her heart rebelled at what 
 
 could not but appear to her most impious injustice, and 
 
 although even sometimes she felt a sort of angry and 
 
 obstinate pride which she knew was wrong — yet such 
 
 was the felicity of her nature, that the knowledge 
 
 wrought no disturbance in her character ; and she 
 
 was now in her undisputed beauty, her acknowledged 
 
 accomplishments, and her conscious innocence, humble 
 
 but happy, sedate but not depressed, not too ready 
 
 either with her smiles or tears, but prodigal of both 
 
 when nature knocked at her heart, and asked admission 
 
 there for grief or for joy. 
 
 Helen Eyre was no object of pity ; for her bark 
 had been drawn up into a quiet haven, and moored 
 to a green shore overspread with flowers. Yet still 
 she was an Orphan, and the world wore a different 
 aspect to her eyes from that Avhich it presented to 
 other young persons, with troops of friends and rela- 
 tions, bound to them by hereditary connections, or 
 by the ties of blood. They had daily presented to 
 them food for all the affections of the heart ; their 
 feelings had not either to sleep or else to be self-stirred, 
 for a thousand pleasant occurrences were constantly 
 touching them with almost unconscious delight. Life 
 to them offered a succession of pleasures ready made 
 to their hands, and they had but to bring hearts cap- 
 able of enjoyment. Little demand is made on such 
 as those, so long as health continues, and their worldly
 
 HEEEM EYRE. 403 
 
 I 
 
 affairs are prosperous, to look often, or deeply, or 
 steadily, into their own souls. But •with this Orphan 
 the case was very different. She was often left alone 
 to commune with her own heart ; and unless thoughts, 
 and feelings, and fancies rose up there, she must have 
 been desolate. Her friends were often not living 
 beings of the same age, and with the same pursuits as 
 herself, for of them she came at last to have but few, 
 but they were still, calm, silent, pure, and holy 
 thoughts that passed in trains before her, when the 
 Orphan was sitting in her solitude, with no one near to 
 cheer her, or to disturb. When she read in the his- 
 tory of real life, or in the fictions of poetry, of charac- 
 ters who acted their parts well, and walked in the light 
 of nature beautiful and blest, or tried and triumphant 
 in the fires of affliction, these she made the friends of 
 her heart, and with these she would hold silent com- 
 munion all the day long. No eyes seemed averted 
 from her, no faces frowned, nor did any harsh voices 
 rise up among the dead. All the good over whom 
 the grave had closed were felt to be her friends ; into 
 that purified world no unkind feelings could intrude; 
 and the Orphan felt no bar to intervene between her 
 beating heart, and those who were the objects of her 
 profound and devout affection. From the slights, or 
 the taunts, or the coldness of living acquaintances, 
 Helen Eyre could always turn to these sacred inti- 
 macies and friendships, unbroken and unimpaired ; 
 she could bring a tender light from the world of me-
 
 404 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 mory to soften down the ruggedness or the asperities 
 of present existence ; and thus while she was in one 
 sense an Orphan, almost alone in life, in another she 
 was the child of a family noble, rich, powerful, great, 
 and good. 
 
 Of such a happy nature, and trained by the wisdom 
 of her youthful innocence to such habits of emotion 
 and thought, Helen Eyre felt — but not keenly — the 
 gradual falling off and decay of almost all her school- 
 friendships. Some of her companions left that part 
 of the country altogether, and she heard of them no 
 more — some went home in the neighbourhood, and in 
 a short time recognized her when they chanced to 
 meet by a civil smile, question, curtesy, or shake of the 
 hand, and no more — some seemed to forget her alto- 
 gether, or to be afraid to remember her — and some 
 treated her with a condescending, and patronizing, 
 and ostentatious kindness, which she easily understood 
 to be a mixture of fear, shame, and pride. Such things 
 as these Helen generally felt to be trifles ; nor did 
 they permanently affect her peace. But sometimes, 
 when her heart, like that of others, desired a homely, 
 a human, and a lowly happiness, and was willing to 
 unite itself in that happiness with one and all of its 
 youthful friends, whoever they might be, poor Helen 
 could not but feel the cruelty and injustice of such 
 alienation, and perhaps may have wept unseen, to 
 think that she- was not allowed to share the affection 
 even of the vulgar, the ignorant, and the mean. Many
 
 HELEN EYRE. 405 
 
 who at school, before they had learned the lessons of 
 the world, truly and conscientiously loved her, and 
 were grateful to " English Helen" for the assistance 
 she lent them in their various tasks, and for her sweet 
 and obliging disposition in all things, began now to 
 keep down their natural emotions towards her, and to 
 give way to the common sentiment. Tawdry Misses, 
 destitute of all accomplishments, and ignorant of all 
 knowledge needful or graceful to woman's soul, were 
 ashamed to be thought friends of Helen Eyre, and 
 thought it necessary to explain, that she was only an 
 acquaintance when they were at the Olivers' Board- 
 ing-school, adding, that she was to be pitied, for that 
 although, like all persons in her situation, she was ex- 
 cessively proud, yet she was certainly very clever, and 
 did not want heart. 
 
 No doubt, it would have been nothing very remark- 
 able, had Helen Eyre, under such circumstances, be- 
 come what such excellent judges esteemed her to be, 
 irritable, unamiable, and proud. This treatment might 
 have soured her disposition, and armed her against an 
 unjust and cruel world. Some struggles she may 
 have had against such feelings, for she was not with- 
 out her frailties and imperfections ; her cheek may 
 have flushed, and her heart beat with indignation, 
 when insulted by overweening civility, or spiteful 
 scorn. Though she felt pride to be a vice, so was 
 meanness ; and Orphan as she was, and illegitimate 
 too, conscious innocence and virtue, good-will to her
 
 406 
 
 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 fellow-creatures, and piety to her Creator, gave her 
 rights and privileges which were entitled to respect, 
 and which, without blame, she might vindicate, when 
 slighted, insulted, or abused. Therefore, though hum- 
 ble, she was not abased, and a mild pensive dignity 
 overspread all her demeanour which abashed the mean, 
 and won the commendation of all whose souls possess- 
 ed a single spark of native nobility. Indeed, in her 
 presence it was no easy matter to maintain or put into 
 practice those unchristian principles which, when she 
 was absent, burst forth in all their abject and slavish 
 violence. 
 
 Her guardian, protector, and mother, Mrs Montgo- 
 mery, was a woman who did not pretend to be alto- 
 gether free from those prejudices, or feelings— which 
 she knew were too often carried to a wicked and sinful 
 degree. But having had Helen put into her arms 
 when an infant, out of the yet warm bosom of her 
 dead mother, she had then felt but as a human being 
 and a Christian towards a helpless child. Affection 
 kept pace with Helen's growth, beauty, virtues, and 
 accomplishments ; and not the slightest shade of this 
 feeling now overcast her love. It had long been ex- 
 tinguished by the power of innocence and joy ; and 
 the knowledge of the strength of such prejudices in 
 the minds of others had now only the effect of in- 
 creasing her pride in her dear Orphan, and of adding 
 a holier tenderness to her protecting love. u Shall she 
 be despised whom every morning and every night I
 
 1IKLKN BYBB. 407 
 
 see on her knees before her God — she whom that 
 God has created so good and so beautiful — and who 
 would die for the sake of my old grey hairs !" There 
 was no occasion to conceal one thought from Helen 
 Eyre — she knew her situation now perfectly and wise- 
 ly — she acknowledged that her parents' sins were 
 a misfortune to her — she was willing to bear the bur- 
 den of their errors — to suffer what must be suffered — 
 and to enjoy meekly, humbly, and gratefully, what 
 might be enjoyed. Were all the world to despise her 
 — such was her gratitude and affection to her mother, 
 that in that alone she could be satisfied — to live for 
 her — to tend her declining age — and if surviving her, 
 to dedicate the holiest thoughts of her retired life to 
 her memory. 
 
 But there was one whom Helen Eyre could call her 
 friend, one as young, as innocent, almost as beautiful as 
 herself, and that was Constance Beaumont. Constance 
 was the daughter of an old, indeed a noble family, and 
 her mother, although justly proud of her rank in so- 
 ciety, had not discountenanced her childish friendship 
 with Helen, who lived under the roof of one of her 
 own most respected friends. Still, this was a friendship 
 which she had wished in her heart might insensibly 
 fade away as her daughter advanced in life ; for al- 
 though her nature was above all miserable scorn to- 
 wards a young creature so worthy of all love, yet she 
 properly wished that the heart of her only daughter 
 should be among her own kin, and that its deepest and
 
 408 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 tenderest sympathies should not be drawn away from 
 the bosom of her own family. She had cheerfully allow- 
 ed Constance to bring Helen to the Hirst during the va- 
 cations, and she could not but love the sweet Orphan. 
 She saw that her daughter could never learn anything 
 bad, or mean, or vulgar, from such a companion, but, 
 on the contrary, could not fail to have every virtue 
 expanded, and every accomplishment heightened, by 
 communication with one to whom nature had been so 
 lavish in her endowments. Mrs Beaumont had too 
 much good feeling, and too much good sense, to seek 
 to break off such a friendship in their riper years ; but 
 it could scarcely be called blameable if she wished and 
 hoped in her heart, that its passionate warmth might 
 be abated. She had another reason for desiring this, 
 which she scarcely yet owned to her own heart — she 
 had an only Son, whose education in England was now 
 completed, and who, she feared, might love Helen 
 Eyre. The thought of such an alliance was unen- 
 durable — and Mrs Beaumont believed, that, dearly as 
 she loved her Son, she would rather see him in his grave, 
 than married to an illegitimate orphan. 
 
 That such was the state of this Lady's mind, Helen 
 Eyre had too true a sense of her own condition not to 
 know. Of her thoughts respecting her Son, indeed, 
 she in her thoughtless innocence could suspect nothing, 
 nor had she ever seen him but once when he was a 
 schoolboy. But she knew that Mrs Beaumont was proud 
 — though not offensively so — of her own ancestry and
 
 HELEN EYRK. 409 
 
 of her dead husband's ; indeed, her stately manners 
 were slightly tinged with pride — and Helen had never 
 left the spacious and rich rooms of the Hirst, and its 
 gallery of old ancestral Portraits, without a feeling, not 
 of depression arising from her own insignificance, but 
 of the wide distance at which she stood in rank from 
 her best-beloved friend and sister, the amiable and 
 graceful Constance. Neither could she help feeling 
 that Constance must feel this too ; and every time she 
 met or parted with her, there was now a faint sadness 
 at her heart, and something that seemed to forebode 
 separation. 
 
 But Constance Beaiimont was too high-born to fear 
 making a friend of one on whose birth there was a 
 stain, even if she had not been too high-minded to 
 suffer such a cause to interrupt their friendship. Strong 
 and secure in her own high rank, and stronger and 
 more secure still in her noble nature, no sooner did she 
 discern the full extent of the general sentiment enter- 
 tained towards Helen Eyre on the score of her birth, 
 than every warm, pure, disinterested, and passionate 
 emotion of her soul rose up yearning towards her, and 
 she vowed, that as Helen had been the delight and 
 blessing of her childhood and early youth, so should 
 her heart be bound to her all life long, and own her 
 at all times and in all places, with affection, gratitude, 
 and pride. Accordingly, she never was in the town 
 where Helen resided without visiting her — she kept 
 up a constant and affectionate correspondence with her
 
 4-10 HELEN BY BE. 
 
 —she insisted on seeing her frequently at the Hirst 
 
 and often, often, with all the eager joyfulness of 
 lovers did these two beautiful and happy young 
 creatures meet, almost by stealth, in the woods and 
 groves, and among the gently sloping hills, to enjoy 
 a solitary hour of impassioned friendship. Constance 
 would not have disobeyed her mother in any positive 
 injunction ; of these sisterly assignations she was con- 
 scious that her mother would not have approved ; but 
 were the best and sweetest of all natural feelings to 
 give way to a faint consideration of a doubtful duty ? 
 Could such disobedience be called wrong ? And if it 
 were so, might not the fault be repeated over and 
 over again without remorse or self-upbraiding ? So 
 Constance felt and so she acted — nor in thus being a 
 dutiful friend, is there any reason to believe that she 
 was an un dutiful daughter. 
 
 Thus was opening upon her the sweet and dewy 
 prime of the Orphan's life, when an annual Meeting 
 took place of all the first Families in the county, and 
 indeed of people of all ranks and conditions, on a large 
 meadow by the river side, near the town, to witness 
 the skill of the " Ancient Band of Border Bowmen" 
 The sunny day flowed on in joyful and exhilarating 
 pastimes, and in the evening there was a splendid 
 Assembly. Mrs Montgomery was there, and Helen 
 Eyre by her side. All the youth, beauty, and grace 
 of the south of Scotland were present together, and 
 although Helen Eyre was certainly one of the loveliest
 
 HELEN EYRE. 411 
 
 of the lovely, it could not be said that she attracted 
 universal attention. There were many circles form- 
 ed round many attractive centres — none shone exactly 
 like the moon among the lesser stars — but of these 
 stars themselves some were brighter than others, or 
 diffused a mellower lustre. Helen Eyre knew her 
 own situation — neither proud nor ashamed ; her dress 
 was simpler than that of many others, but such as it 
 became a lady to wear on such an occasion — a few 
 pearls were round her soft auburn hair — and no eye 
 looked upon her once, sitting half retired in her mo- 
 dest loveliness, without looking again and again — no 
 heart, perhaps, but felt, after ranging over all the 
 splendid galaxy, that there was one who had only 
 to come forward, and seek, in order to gain the 
 prize of grace, elegance, and beauty. The music 
 — the dancing — the stir — the waving of plumes — 
 the sparkling of gems — smiling countenances, and 
 happy voices — all touched the Orphan to the very 
 heart — that heart kindled with the joy Gf youth, and 
 scarcely ever had Helen Eyre felt so happy and so 
 embued with the bliss of life. All thoughts were 
 banished but those of exhilaration and gladness- 
 she surrendered up her spirit to the gaiety, the mirth, 
 and the glee that were sparkling, and whispering, 
 and moving all around her — and she felt that a Ball 
 was indeed one of the most delightful things in tin* 
 world. 
 
 Mrs Montgomery had her pride, too, in her Or-
 
 412 HELEN EYltE. 
 
 phan, as well as any mother in her child ; and she 
 took care that Helen Eyre should either have respect- 
 able friends — or none. This was the first Public 
 Meeting at which Helen had been present ; and when 
 she saw every one dancing around her, her light 
 heart longed to join the gi'oupe. She looked with 
 sparkling and delighted eyes on her sweet Constance, 
 distinguished wherever she moved along ; and at 
 length that beautiful Girl came up to her, and whis- 
 pered in her ear, that her brother, who had arrived 
 from England too late for the archery, desired to be 
 made acquainted with one of whom he had heard so 
 much — Helen Eyre. Helen looked to Mrs Montgo- 
 mery, and rising up, blushing, but unembarrassed, 
 joined the dance with Henry Beaumont. As they 
 took their place in the good old country-dance, (not 
 very far from the top,) there was much tossing of 
 heads — pursing of mouths — bridling up of elegant 
 and inelegant figures — loud whispering — considerable 
 tittering — and some little downright rudeness. But 
 beauty will have its triumph ; and Helen Eyre stood 
 unruffled in that small storm. Henry Beaumont, too, 
 was a young man of birth and great estates — by far 
 the most elegant and accomplished person in the 
 room, and an Officer in the Guards; and it was soon 
 understood by the male part of the scorners, that it 
 might not be quite prudent to express scorn or slight 
 towards any body who stood opposite to him in the 
 dance. There was a haughtiness in his eye some-
 
 HELEN KYIlK. 41lJ 
 
 what distressing to upstart people, and he carried 
 himself in a way not very descrihable, but quite in- 
 telligible to the meanest and most vulgar capacity. 
 He was likewise upwards of six feet high — and when 
 it was his turn to lead off with Helen Lyre, there was 
 a most polite attention shown to all their movements. 
 It is no great merit, surely, to dance well ; but now 
 it seemed as it were — for every eye was turned upon 
 that graceful pair, and even the most senselessly and 
 basely proud felt that it was a pity Helen Eyre had 
 been so born, for that she excelled in every thing she 
 tried, and was, indeed, most truly beautiful. Helen 
 felt, and she enjoyed her triumph. To herself 
 attributed little of the politeness shown by young 
 Beaumont; but her heart overflowed with gratitude 
 towards Constance ; and when she again took her 
 seat beside Mrs Montgomery, scarcely could she re- 
 frain from tears, so touched was she by the noble 
 kindness of her friend. The evening past away de- 
 lightfully — Helen did not dance again — but she was 
 frequently spoken to by young Beaumont, and whe- 
 ther her happiness gave a colour to every thing around 
 her, or it was really so, she thought that all her ac- 
 quaintances looked less coldly and distantly upon her, 
 and that little or no distinction seemed now to exist 
 between herself and the other young and happy crea- 
 tures laughing and talking on every side. She even 
 dreamt of this meeting in her sleep ; and in that
 
 414 IIELEN EYRE. 
 
 dream it was not probable that she should see every 
 body except young Henry Beaumont. 
 
 Henry Beaumont never concealed his feelings ; and 
 next day he declared to his mother, that all Scotland 
 did not hold such another delightful creature as 
 Helen Eyre ! The old Lady heard these words with 
 great gravity and solemnity, and said that she hoped 
 her son would remember his birth, and not fall in 
 love with such a person as poor Helen Eyre, however 
 good and beautiful. " Fall in love, mother — who 
 talks of falling in love ? I have not fallen in love — 
 not I — but this much is certain, that I must inquire 
 of all my partners how they are this morning ;"— and 
 with that he flung out of the room, mounted his 
 horse, and galloping across the country, as if at a 
 steeple chace, he soon found himself walking in a pret- 
 ty little garden on Tweedside with the good, worthy, 
 old Mrs Montgomery and her fair Helen. He called 
 upon none of his other partners that day at least, and 
 his subsequent asseverations that he had not fallen in 
 love became less and less vehement. The truth is, 
 that he had fallen in love — that he was desperately 
 enamoured — and being a young man of ardent feel- 
 ings and headstrong will, he swore an oath within his 
 soul, on parting from Helen that forenoon, that, if he 
 could gain her love, he would make her his wife ! 
 
 Henry Beaumont was not without pride — indeed it 
 was his besetting sin. But his heart was full of ten- 
 derness, and the situation of Helen Eyi'e was such as 
 
 11
 
 HELEN' EYRE. 415 
 
 to bring all that tenderness up from its deepest 
 spring. He was proud of his ancestry — perhaps of 
 his own accomplishments — of his fine person — and of 
 the power of his manners. He had been distinguish- 
 ed at a great public school, and afterward* at an Eng- 
 lish University, for the brilliancy of his talents. He 
 no sooner joined the Guards, than he took his place, 
 at once, among the most polished and elegant so- 
 ciety in the world. He had met with universal ad- 
 miration ; and all these things together, although he 
 well knew they possessed little intrinsic or permanent 
 value, could not but influence his temper and disposi- 
 tion, before the gradually acquired wisdom of riper 
 years had mellowed the impetuosity of youth, and ex- 
 tended its range of feeling and of thought. He was, 
 therefore, considered by many a haughty and arrogant 
 young man, and not altogether unjustly ; but the na- 
 tive generosity of his heart was continually showing 
 itself, and although mere acquaintances or strangers 
 might be repelled by his demeanour, no man could be 
 more esteemed or beloved by his friends. Now a new 
 chord was touched in his heart. The sweet simplicity 
 of Helen Eyre, combined, as it was, with perfect ele- 
 gance and gracefulness, took his eye at the first glance 
 — and although it could not be said to have gained, 
 yet it certainly at once touched his affections. As the in- 
 nocence of her heart and the intelligence of her mind 
 indicated themselves unconsciously in every artless, 
 yet well-chosen word, love and admiration of a better
 
 416 H&LEN EYRE. 
 
 kind stole into his breast; and her exceeding loveli- 
 ness and beauty gave the warmth of passion to an at- 
 tachment which was of rapid growth, and after a few 
 interviews, was blended vitally with his very heart's 
 blood. The tone of her voice now thrilled through 
 every fibre of his frame — her image, during absence, 
 haunted him, either sad or smiling alike irresistible 
 and subduing — and seeing no real obstacle in the way 
 of his happiness, he thought in his solitary rambles 
 through the woods and over the hills, (for now he who 
 had hitherto lived constantly in the stir of life, loved 
 to be alone,) that Providence had kindly sent this an- 
 gelic being to bless him as long as he lived on earth. 
 Fie thought of her — now in her virgin beauty — now 
 as his bride — now as his wife — now as the mother of 
 his children — and his heart was sick, his very soul 
 was faint in the fever of tumultuous passion, till calm- 
 ed again by solemn thoughts of eternal union between 
 himself and Helen here and in heaven. 
 
 The love which Helen Eyre felt towards him was 
 of a very different kind. It was utterly hopeless, and 
 therefore it was utterly indulged. She knew that she 
 never could be his wife — that he would never stoop 
 to marry her — that Constance even would not like to 
 see her brother forming a connection below his own 
 rank — and that his mother woidd rather see her poi- 
 soned or drowned, at least dead and buried, than the 
 wife of her Henry. All these convictions gave her 
 little or no distress, for they were not brought upon
 
 HliLEN EYltli. 417 
 
 her unexpectedly, to damp a heart that had been 
 warmed by other thoughts — they formed the habitual 
 knowledge of that humble heart, and they and thoughts 
 like them had been instilled into her bosom, by her 
 good and wise guardian, who knew that to save her 
 from melancholy, it was necessary to show her the 
 truth of life, and to remove all delusions. Helen 
 Eyre, therefore, allowed her soul to rejoice within her, 
 in the agitation of a new and heavenly happiness, 
 whenever Henry Beaumont appeared with his smiling 
 countenance, that brightened up the room, or the field, 
 or the garden, with an effulgence of bliss. She knew 
 her own innocence — her own resignation — and she 
 knew, that if Mrs Montgomery, who was now very 
 old, were to die, most solitary would be her own 
 lot. Therefore, she spoke, smiled, and walked with 
 Henry Beaumont, as with the only being on earth 
 whom, in the sacred silence of her soul, she would, 
 till her dying hour, perfectly love. He could not 
 penetrate into her thoughts — he coidd not look, with 
 these bold bright beautiful eyes, into the covert of 
 her inner spirit, where they all lay couched night 
 and day for ever— he would place his love on some 
 one of whom he had no cause to be ashamed, and who 
 would be welcomed to the hall of his fathers — he would 
 then only bestow a passing smile, or word, upon the 
 Orphan — but she, the Orphan herself, would cherish 
 him in blameless and indulged passion in her bosom — 
 and call down the blessing of God, morning and even- 
 ing, and many a time besides, on the heads of himself, 
 
 Dd
 
 418 
 
 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 his wife, whoever she might be, and the children that 
 might rise up, like flowers, around their feet. A love 
 so hopeless — so pure — so unselfish — and so unknown, 
 it surely could be no sin for her to cherish, who had no 
 relations of her own, and few friends indeed, — friends 
 doomed, no doubt, to be fewer still, year after year, 
 till at last she might have none to comfort her but her 
 sweet Constance, whom other affections might also keep 
 too often away, and the image of that brother — an 
 image which, engraven on her heart, could only cease 
 to be, when that heart was broken, or had wasted and 
 withered away into the dust. 
 
 Helen was walking one evening by the river-side, 
 and had descended into a small green glade on a wood- 
 ed bank, from which there was a cheerful and splendid 
 prospect of the town and the rich country round, when 
 Henry Beaumont was at her side, and taking her hand 
 into his, pressed it to his heart, and then ledher to a stone- 
 seat beside a little spring that bubbled up through the 
 roots of the trees, and danced its short silvery course 
 down into the Tweed. Poor Helen's breath came quick- 
 ly when he pressed her to his bosom, and with a few 
 burning kisses and breathing words, declared his love 
 and passion, and that she must become his wife. A 
 pang of joy went through her heart, and she could just 
 faintly utter, " Your wife I" " Yes — my wife — say that 
 it will be so— and may God forget me if I am not 
 kind to you — my best and most beautiful Helen — all 
 the clays of my life !" " Oh ! Sir — you could be un-
 
 HKLEN EYJIK. 419 
 
 kind to no one — but think — oh think — who I am — un- 
 fit and unworthy to be the wife of Henry Beaumont !" 
 He had an eloquent tongue — an eloquent eye ; — and 
 there was eloquence in the throbbing and beating of 
 the heart that swelled his manly breast. He held He- 
 len in his arms, as if she had been a frightened and 
 palpitating dove— and she wished not to be released 
 from that dear embrace. She, the poor despised and 
 slighted Orphan, heard herself blessed by him who 
 was the pride and flower of Scotland's youth ; his 
 gentle, and tender, and respectful kisses stirred up all 
 the holy thoughts that she had hidden in her heart, 
 that they might lie there unseen for ever — and in that 
 trance of bliss, they all overflowed — and a few words 
 of confessed affection escaped her lips. " Yes — I love 
 you beyond life and my own soul — but never, never, 
 Sir, may I be your wife. Think who you are — and 
 then who am I — and a voice will tell you that we never 
 can be united." With these words she broke from his 
 arms, and knelt down, nor was it in his power, so 
 confounded was he, for a few minutes to lift her up. 
 " But though I know you never can marry me, re- 
 member — oh ! never never cease to remember that I 
 fell down on my knees before you — and vowed before 
 that God who has hitherto preserved me in innocence 
 and peace, to devote my soul henceforth to your love. 
 Enough will it be for me to cherish your image for 
 ever in my heart — to weep with joy when I hear you 
 are happy— never to repine, nor envy her happiness
 
 420 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 who may one day lie in your bosom — but since God 
 sent me into the world an orphan unhappily born, let 
 me strive to subdue my soul to an orphan's fate, and 
 submit quietly and piously to the solitary years that may 
 be awaiting me, when my mother's grey hairs are cover- 
 ed with darkness. Now, Sir — now, my beloved Henry 
 Beaumont, let us either part, or walk away in silence, 
 from this spot, which to me will be for ever a hallow- 
 ed place — for of love and marriage never more must 
 our speech be — they are not for us." 
 
 Helen separated from her lover within a mile of her 
 home — and had on her arrival there sufficiently re- 
 covered her self-command to be able to appear com- 
 posed before Mrs Montgomery ; but she had never 
 concealed from her dear mother any incident that af- 
 fected her happiness, and she knew that it was now 
 her duty to make a full disclosure of what had passed. 
 She did so — and had the satisfaction to find that her 
 conduct brought tears of joy into her mother's eyes. 
 The good old Lady assured her that God would re- 
 ward her for the high-principled sacrifice she had made 
 — and on retiring to her bed-room at night, she bless- 
 ed her Orphan with more than wonted fervour and 
 solemnity. 
 
 No sleep was there this night for Helen Eyre. She 
 had made a great sacrifice — and nature now rose up 
 against it. Why should she not become the wife of 
 Henry Beaumont, if he loved her, as he said, better 
 than all the world ? Ought her birth to be a bar be-
 
 HELEN EYUF.. 421 
 
 tween her and a whole life of bliss ? Would she be 
 violating any duty — doing injury or wrong to any 
 living creature — by yielding herself up in wedlock to 
 the man she so tenderly loved, and whom, she knew, 
 she could make happy ? Were all the deepest — holiest 
 —most awful affections of the soul to be denied to him 
 and to her, merely because their union might offend a 
 prejudice, or at best a feeling that surely never could 
 be vital, nor set in just opposition to all that the human 
 soul felt to be sanctified in its existence ? What if his 
 mother were to be offended — might she not be soothed 
 and reconciled by constant esteem and humble respect, 
 and be brought at last to look without reproachful eyes 
 on the Orphan who made her son happy ? But then, 
 this prejudice against her she knew to be with many 
 " a second nature ;" and that it could not be rooted 
 out without shaking perhaps many many other feelings, 
 which, although not necessarily connected with it, had 
 been so intertwined with it during the progress of life, 
 that they too might suffer ; so that to overcome this sen- 
 timent against her, a radical change or revolution never 
 to be hoped for must take place in the mind of Mrs 
 Beaumont. She saw, too, that Mrs Montgomery felt as 
 she felt — and had approved of her conduct, solely be- 
 cause she knew that Henry's high-born and haughty 
 mother would never acknowledge her as his bride. So, 
 Helen rose with the light — and as the bright, cheerful, 
 singing morn advanced, her heart was insensibly re-
 
 422 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 stored to its former serenity — and the Orphan was 
 once more happy and contented with her lot. 
 
 Then, too, she thought what a heartless sin it would 
 be, even if her marriage with Henry Beaumont could 
 take place, to leave her old mother, who was now so 
 weak and frail. She had been taken, when a baby 
 only a few days old, under the protection of that 
 Saint — and would she fly off on the wings of a sel- 
 fish and ungrateful love, and forgetting these tottering 
 steps and dim eyes, sink into the bosom of one whom 
 she had known for a few weeks only, and to whom she 
 owed nothing but a few impassioned words and vows ? 
 Such thoughts came across her heart. But she was 
 no weak enthusiast even in virtue. And her own 
 pure heart told her, that though it would never have 
 allowed her to leave her mother who was much broken 
 down, and too plainly sinking into the grave, yet that 
 she might, without any violation or forgetfulness of 
 her filial duties, have given Henry Beaumont a pledge 
 to become his wife, when the event she feared and 
 shuddered indeed to name, but which every one knew 
 was near, had taken place. All these were bewilder- 
 ing thoughts — and, when poor Helen went into her 
 mother's room, which she did every morning at a 
 stated hour, her heart was labouring under a heavy 
 load of emotion. 
 
 Helen drew the curtains, and was about to kneel 
 down at the bedside, and bless her aged benefactress 
 in prayer. But it seemed that she had not yet awoke;
 
 HEI.EX EYKK. 423 
 
 and, stooping down, the Orphan affectionately whis- 
 pered a few words into her ear, that she might gently 
 dispel the slumber. But that was a sleep which nei- 
 ther low whisper, nor loud thunder-crash might dis- 
 turb. Helen knew that her mother was dead ! And, 
 for the first time in her life, for her heart was the 
 mistress, and not the slave of its passions, she fainted 
 at the side of the motionless body, with her arms laid 
 softly over its breast. 
 
 Before the sun had reached its meridian, the death 
 of Mrs Montgomery was known for many miles round 
 the town where she had led more than twenty years of 
 a benign and charitable life. The melancholy tidings 
 soon reached the Hirst, and Constance Beaumont flew 
 to comfort her dearest friend. Nor did her mother, 
 who yet knew nothing of Henry's avowal of his love 
 to Helen, think of preventing Constance from carry- 
 ing comfort to the bereaved Orphan. Hers was a 
 proud but a warm heart ; and having tridy loved Mrs 
 Montgomery, it was in tears that she saw Constance 
 depart to cheer the poor creature who was now sitting 
 by the corpse of her whom she had loved and respect- 
 ed from childhood, and whom she was, ere long, to 
 follow to the grave. That thought of their ages being 
 the same, was at once tender and solemn ; and some- 
 thing of the sanctity of that pure unmingled affection 
 with which she regarded the memory of Mrs Mont- 
 gomery, could not but attach to Helen Eyre, who had 
 so long tended her declining age, and repaid, by the
 
 424 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 most beautiful constancy of filial love, the cares which 
 had been lavished in the warmth of nature, and the 
 charity of Christian faith, upon her Orphan head. 
 
 Helen knew that Constance would, immediately on 
 hearing of Mrs Montgomery's death, write her a let- 
 ter of tender condolence ; but she was not prepared 
 for such excessive kindness, when that most amiable 
 girl opened her bed-room door with her own hand, 
 and with soft steps and streaming eyes, went up to 
 her and kissed her cheek. The Orphan felt, in that 
 embrace, that she was not yet solitary in the world. 
 There was nothing to break this friendship, although 
 much to crush that other love, and she was glad, even 
 in her sorrow, to know, that through all the changes 
 and chances of this life, she would still hold a place in 
 the heart of Constance Beaumont. The dead stillness 
 of the house was supportable, now that the arm of her 
 sister was round her neck — and they soon went hand 
 in hand together, and gazed on the beautifully serene 
 countenance of her whose spirit was in heaven. Of 
 the two Constance most loudly wept, for her tears fell 
 more for the living than the dead. Who in all the 
 world could be more solitary than the Orphan Helen 
 Eyre? Yet her brow — eyes — cheeks and lips were all 
 calm — there was no agitation — nothing like despair in 
 her quiet motions — and the light of God's mercy 
 shone radiantly upon her as she knelt down to a prayer 
 of thanksgiving in that desolate house. Never before 
 
 had the full perfection of her character been made ma- 
 
 10
 
 HELEN EYRE. 425 
 
 nifest. Now it was tried, and met the sudden and se- 
 vere demand. Her voice faultered not, nor did her 
 heart quake. She was alone on the earth — but God 
 was in heaven — and with that sublime thought Helen 
 Eyre was now stronger in her utter destitution, than 
 if without it she had been entrenched in the midst of 
 an host of mortal friends. The spirit of her piety 
 kindled that, too, of her beloved Constance — and they 
 sat together in the silent house, or in twilight walked 
 out among the secret trees, perfectly composed and 
 happy, till the day of the Funeral. 
 
 That day was indeed one of sore trial — and Helen 
 needed the support of her friend. Often, often — on 
 every day since her death, had she stolen into the 
 room where her Mother lay, and sat by the bedside as 
 motionless as the figure that lay there ; but the hour 
 was come when these visits were to end, and the phan- 
 tom was to be borne off into the chambers of decay. 
 In the silence of her darkened bed-room, with Con- 
 stance sitting at her couch, the Orphan heard the fre- 
 quent feet of the company assembling at the funeral. 
 The friends were silent. At last the funeral was heard 
 to be departing from the house. At that moment He- 
 len rose, and looking through an opening of the dark- 
 ened window, she saw the bier in motion — slowly 
 borne away up the avenue, below the shadow of the 
 trees. A tall figure was at the right side of the coffin 
 —one of the mourners. It was Henry Beaumont— 
 his head was bowed down, and his face sedate in a
 
 426 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 manly sorrow. lc See how my brother weeps !" said 
 Constance — and Helen did not fear then to call down 
 the blessing of God upon his head, and then turning 
 to Constance, she said, " Happy, happy art thou to 
 have such a brother !" And as they were kissing each 
 other, the Funeral disappeared. 
 
 Two days after the funeral Mrs Beaumont came for 
 her daughter. She behaved with the greatest tender- 
 ness and sympathy to Helen Eyre, and had not sat 
 long in company with the Orphan till her soul was 
 even awed by the sanctity of her resignation. The 
 flowers that the old Lady had so carefully tended did 
 not miss her hands ; the room bore no marks of the 
 distraction or forgetfulness of passionate grief; Helen's 
 dress was simple and graceful as ever ; and except 
 that her face was somewhat wan, and her voice oc- 
 casionally tremulous, there were no other outward 
 symptoms of sorrow. If the Orphan had thought of 
 the future, it was plain that she felt that vista to ter- 
 minate in the mystery of a darkness spread out in 
 mercy from the hollow of God's awful hand, and that 
 she was not about to terrify herself with phantoms of 
 her own creation. If sorrow, sickness, or desertion 
 by friends, were to be her lot, she would lay her hands 
 upon the Bible, and endure the decree. But from the 
 mildness of her expressive countenance, it seemed that 
 her heart was confined chiefly to dreams of the happy 
 past. She had no sins — and not many frailties with which 
 to reproach herself— for these her contrition needed not
 
 HELEN EYRE. 427 
 
 to be bitter — no harsh or hasty words — no unamiable 
 or unfilial looks had ever past from her towards her 
 benefactress — and as the humblest are permitted to en- 
 joy the delight of conscious piety, and of a sincere wish 
 to do well, so was Helen Eyre now happy in the re- 
 membrance of all her affection to her mother, and of 
 every little daily and hourly act performed, not from 
 duty, but in love. 
 
 Mrs Montgomery had bequeathed to the Orphan the 
 pleasant dwelling in which she had past all her days ; 
 and Helen desired no other place of retirement, till she 
 should be called to the last final and profound repose. 
 The sacred influence of death had quite suppressed — 
 not extinguished her pure passion for Henry Beau- 
 mont ; and, without agitation, she sat now in the pre- 
 sence of his stately mother, nor feared ever to deserve 
 her frowns. She had seen Henry walking a weeping 
 mourner by the side of that coffin — and the remem- 
 brance was now sad and delightful to her soul, nor, if 
 he could be happy without her, did she wish ever to 
 behold him more. A lonely life needed not to be a 
 melancholy one — she had stores for thought laid up 
 in her heart, young as it was, and powers of thought, 
 too, confirmed by nature, and strengthened by con- 
 tented innocence. And she feared not, when the years 
 of her youth had glided away in the seclusion of those 
 peaceful shades, that age would bring its own happi- 
 ness and its own wisdom, nor was there any reason to 
 fear even the coming on of feeble footsteps and of grey
 
 428 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 hairs. Henry Beaumont's impassioned vows never 
 could be realized — but that place where she had heard 
 them might be visited often and often — and hers, she 
 knew, was not a weak and repining heart, that would 
 die of hopeless and unfortunate love. 
 
 While they were sitting together calmly and kindly, 
 and the time was just at hand when Constance was 
 about to give her friend a farewell kiss, she saw her 
 brother coming down the avenue, and could not but 
 feel agitated at his approach. For although Helen had 
 said nothing to her of the avowal of his sentiments, 
 he had himself told his sister of all that had happened, 
 and sworn her for the present to secrecy. He enter- 
 ed the room — not with the same fervent air and ex- 
 pression, as when they last met, but with a tenderness 
 that was far more irresistible to poor Helen's soul. 
 A visit to an Orphan who had just buried her best- 
 not her only friend — was not to be a visit of avowed 
 love, but of sympathy and condolence ; and Henry 
 looked upon her with such profound pity, and such 
 consoling gentleness of eye and voice, that his mo- 
 ther saw and felt that Helen Eyre was dearer to him 
 than life. That sudden conviction gave her a pang, 
 and her countenance fell and was darkened. It is a 
 sore affliction to a mother's heart to have her fond, and 
 proud, and aspiring hopes of an only son crushed — 
 and nothing substituted in their stead, but what she 
 conceives dishonour and degradation. But she knew 
 the depth of her son's affection for Helen Eyre from
 
 HELEN EVKE. 429 
 
 his anxiety to restrain and conceal it — and being well 
 aware of his determined character, she perceived that 
 there was no chance of averting from her house the 
 stain of such a marriage, except it were to be found in 
 the quiet and humble soul of the Orphany who might 
 be dissuaded from entering into a family to which an 
 alliance with her would be considered a disgrace. Mrs 
 Beaumont's agitation at last became manifest — and as 
 frequently feelings are brought to a crisis of a sudden, 
 and by some unexpected movement or sally of temper, 
 so was it now — for Henry discerned what was passing 
 in his mother's mind — and from an uncontrollable im- 
 pulse, avowed his love for Helen Eyre, and his resolu- 
 tion to make her his wife. " She has confessed that she 
 loves me — and no power on earth has a right to keep 
 us asunder — Mother — I grieve to offend or distress 
 you — but you must receive Helen Eyre as your daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 At any other time, this bold avowal would have sent 
 as much anger as grief into the proud spirit of Mrs 
 Beaumont. But she had loved her dead friend with 
 exceeding affection — her voice seemed yet to whisper 
 along the walls — they were all sitting together in deep 
 mourning for her loss — and the meek face of the guile- 
 less Orphan was enough to quiet all angry emotion, 
 and to inspire something of the same calm spirit 
 with which it was so serenely suffused. Helen sat 
 almost unmoved, nor did she utter a word. But 
 Henry's mood soon changed, and he knelt down at
 
 430 HELEN EYRE. 
 
 his mother's feet, along with the affectionate Con- 
 stance. Each took hold of one of her hands, kissed 
 it, and bathed it in tears. " O Mother ! withhold not 
 your blessing from sweet Helen Eyre," said Constance, 
 with a dewy voice of supplication. — " You know she 
 will be the blessing of Henry's life here, and prepare 
 his soul for Heaven. You know that she will be as 
 loving and dutiful a daughter, even as myself — you 
 knoAv how your friend loved her, and blessed her 
 name to you, and wept for the sake of all her good- 
 ness. O Mother ! fear not that this marriage wants 
 only your sanction to make it a happy marriage in- 
 deed !" The Lady's heart was melted within her, and 
 she said, " Helen Eyre, thou art an Orphan no more 
 —come and kneel down between my children." — 
 Helen did so with many sobs of overwhelming hap- 
 piness, and bowed down her head almost to the floor. 
 The Mother of her Lover laid her hand upon that 
 head, and blessed her in God's holy name ; and then 
 all three rising from their knees, Henry Beaumont 
 pressed Helen Eyre to his bosom, and kissed away her 
 tears then and for ever. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by George Ramsay & Co. 
 Edinburgh. 1822. 

 
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