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LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
SCOTTISH LIFE.
BY JOHN WILSON, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF " THE FORESTERS,"' NOCTES *AMBROSIANS," by?.
AND EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD'8 MAGAZINE.
PHILADELPHIA:
PUBLISHED BY LEARY & GETZ.
NO. 188 NORTH SECOND STREET,




CONTENTS.
The Lily of Liddesdale      -  -                    3
Moss-side  -   -   -.                    20
An Hour in the Manse        -         -. 30
The Head-Stone -..             35
Sunset and Sunrise -       --   39
The Lover's Last Visit... 45
The Minister's Widow  -         -   -  5-2
The Snow-Storm   -                                 60
The Elder's Death-Bed -       -      -             74
The Elder's Funeral   -    -    -                  83
The Twins                                          89
The Poor Scholar..... -   97
The Forgers...... 104
The Family-Tryst -    -                           113
Blind Allan -   - -       -    -                  1-26
Lilias Grieve    --              -— 136
The Covenanter's Marriage-Day.                   142
The Baptism     -       -                         151
Simon Gray                                         156
The Rainbow  -   -                                173
The Omen  -.  -  -                  -188
Consumption ---.-      -           197
The Shealling                             -       204
HIelen Evre        -   216




LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
OF
SCOTTISH LIFE.
THE' LILY OF LIDDESDALE.
THE country all round rang with the beauty of Amy Gor.
don; and although it was not known who first bestowed upon
her the appellation, yet she now bore no other than the Lily'of Liddesdale. She was the only 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
neighboring 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
Sabbath-day. Sometimes there are living beings in nature
as beautiful as in romance; reality surpasses imagination;.
and we see breathing, brightening, and moving before our
eyes, sights dearer to our hearts than any we ever beheld inthe land of sleep.
It was thus that all felt who looked on the Lily of Liddesdalea 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 gladened the stillness of these undisturbed glens.
Why should this one maiden have b'een created lovelier than,
all others? In what did her surpassing loveliness consist?
None could tell; for had the most imaginative poet described
this maiden, something that floated around her, an air of felt
but unspeakable grace and lustre, would have been wanting
m his picture. Her face was pale, yet tinged with such a
faint and leaf-like crimson, that though she well deserved the
namne of the Lily, vet was she at times also like unto the rose.:




4             LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 mary 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 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 humble lineage, and to equal her in elegance with those whom in
beauty she had far excelled. The sun and the rain had in.
deed 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 bounded along with a beauty that seemed at
once native and alien there, like some creature of -another
clime that still had kindled 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 delightand her silent soul was filled with wild and beautiful traditions. In them love seemed, for the most part, something
sad, and whether 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 peaceful shepherd, killed in
battle, or perishing in some mnidnight storm. In them, too,
were sometimes heard blessed voices whispering affection
beneath the green-wood tree, or among the shattered cliffs
overgrown with light-waving trees in some long, deep, soli.
tary glen. To Amy Gordon, as she chanted to herself, in
the blooming or verdant desert, all' these various traditionary
lays, love seemed a kind of beautiful superstition belonging
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 feelings embodied in such artless
words touched a cord within her heart, that dimly told her




OF SOOTTISH LIFE.                   b
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 water-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 he'r gray-headed father-and the old
man was blest. Her nights passed 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 passlonrate love, as ever swelled and kindled 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 she; 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 overcharged 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, and win her, in her beauty and fragrance, to bloom
fwithin his house.




6             LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
The Lily was sitting alone m Ma deep' hollow among the
hills, with her sheep ana lambs pasturing or playing 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; andwhenhe 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 busmessv
farther on among the hills. Walter Harden instantly poured
forth, in a torrent, the passion of his soul, beseeched 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 fervor but trepidation, kissed her cheek, and then
awaited, with a fast throbbing and palpitating heart, his
Amy's reply.
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 pressed it-she arose not up
from the turf, although her gentle side just touched his heart
-she turned not away her face so beautiful-nor changed
the silvery' sweetness 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 hazel
eyes upon his face, arid saw that it was overshadowed.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 unagitated 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 tnus part. They walked together, on the
lonely hill-side-down the'banks of the little wimpling burn
-arid 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 vow.v
ed. Nor could such vows be unpleasant to her ear, uttered
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 hitherto 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  7
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, fresh, airless' and dewy quiet of
evening, they walked 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 the 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 workmanship round her waist, while some
were hanging on her arms, and thus sht was gliding along a
foot-path through the old elm-woods that shelter the Priory,
when she met young George Elliott, the heir of that ancient
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 tenderness 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 befobre 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




8            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
roaming, and when he haa reached the Lmn, 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, be
clambered up the face of the shrubby precipice; and, bounding over the large green mossy stones, and through the entangling briers and brush-wood, he soon was. at the bridge,
and sat down on a high bank, under a cliff, cdmmanding a
view of the path by which the fair maiden must approach on
her homeward journey.
* The heart of the innocent Amy had fluttered, too, as the
tall, slim, graceful stripling had kissed her brow. No rude.
ness-no insult-no pride-no haughty freedom had been in
his demeanor towards her; but she felt gladly conscious in
her mind, that he had been delighted 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 disdained 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,
c 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 refilsed?  And the
shepherdess saw the young and high.boprn heir of the Priory
put it into his breast. She proceeded across the hill-down
the lovhg Falcon 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 demeanor-,
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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                   9
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 I"
Amy Gordon sat there an hour with tne loving, but honorable bqy, and sang many a plaintive tune, and many a roman.
tic 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 recit..
ed or sang.-But now she sprang to her feet, and beseech..
ing him to forgive her 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 the little basket she had let him take was halt
filled 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 innocence 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 1  She be.
longed almost to another world —another 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 shep.
herd?" 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 hounded like a deer along; and as he 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




10            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
beauty before her in that solitary place. In a monment helt
soul was disquieted within her, and she felt that it indeed
was love. She wished that she might sink into that verdant
mound, from which she vainly strove to rise, as the irnpassioned 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 preternatural charm over all her character.
lIe 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 i but he fixed his soul upon her countenance, and repeated them over and over again with wilder
emphasis, and more impassioned utterance. Amy was confounded with fear and perplexity; but when she saw him
kneeling before her, the meek, innocent, humble girl, could
pot 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 man's daughter.-Oh! Sir,
you surely came not hither for evil l 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
father knew this, his heart would break!"
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 equalling 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 soul-and she was
oppressed with a passion, pure, it is true, and most inno..
cently humble, but a passion that seemed to be like 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                   11
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 hurrying along the
braes, she sat suddenly down, breathless, weak, and exhausted, and retraced in weeping bewilderment all the scene
of fear, joy, endearments, caresses, 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, mulch
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, fearing that he
was going to lose his child.
There was grief over the great Strath and all its glens,
when the rumor 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 w&s 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 whe/t 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 Amy
might recover, even although her heart were never to be his,
even although it were to fly to the bosom of him whose name
she constantly kept repeating 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 beseechingly 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 Harden had
known before that she had ever seen young George Elliotbut they soon understood, from the innocent 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 him, no doubt.




12           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
to think that his Amy's heart, which all his lifelong 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 hum.
ble 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 Harden have taken
that burning fever into his own veins, so that it could have
been removed from hers-cheerfully would he have laid
down his own manly head on that pillow, so that Amy could
have lifted up her long 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 Harden. She regarded long and earnestly its pitying and solemn expression,
then pressed her hand toher forehead 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, hare I broken; nor will I ever
break, my promise unto thee. I remember it well —by the
Bible-and yon setting sun. But, I am weak and faintOh! tell me, Walter! all that has hanmened! Have I been
ill-for hours-or for davs-or weeks —-or months?  For
that I know not,-so wild and so strange, 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 understood it, during her
illness. Nor had the innocent creature any thing more to
tell. Her soul was after the 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 spirits 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,'nd her imagination. All was new, strange, stirring, over



OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 13
whelming, irresistible, and paradise to her spirit. But it
was gone-and might it stay away for ever, so she praved,
as her kind brother lifted 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
ips. "Yes! Walter," she continued, "I once promised
40 marry none other-but now I promise to marry thee-if
indeed God will forgive me for such words, lying as 1 am
perhaps on my death-bed. I utter them to make you happy. If I live, life will be dearer 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 bind Amy down
to these promises, sacred and fervent as they were, if, on
her complete recovery, he discovered 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 Scotland-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 confessed had been but too dear only a tew
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 without awaken.
ing in her bosom something of that delightful agitation and
troubled joy which her simple heart had first suffered in the
presence of her young noble lover. Amy was in love with




A4           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
Walter almost as much as he was with her, and the names
of brother and sister, 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 beside her flock. But Wal.
ter 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 in.
dustrious, and the handsomest shepherd over all the hills;
and when it was known that there was to be a marriage be.
tween 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 beautiful as
ever, and was returning homewards by herself from the far.
off hill 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.
Ad I have been far away-Amy-across the seas. My father
-you may have heard of it, was ill-and I attended 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, prevents me- iaking you my wife-yes-my
wife-sweetest Lily-and what care I for the world? for.
thou art both earth and heaven to-me.";
The impetuous, ardent, and impassi.onate boy scarcely
looked in Amy's face; he remembered':kher confusion, her
fear, her sighs, her tears, his half-permitted kisses, his faintly repelled embraces, and all his' suffered endearments of
brow, lip, and cheek, in that solitary dell; so with a powerful
arm he lifted her upon another steed, which, till now, she had
scarcely observed-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-blood,
ed palfrey was now carrying her fleetly away over hill and
hollow in a swoon.




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  15
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 Elliot had taken
her from that fleet courser, and looking up, she saw that she
was in a wood of old shadowy trees ofgigantic size, perfect.
ly 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 green in its front. It was thickly covered
with honey-suckles 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," whispered her lover
into her ear with a 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 woos thee be palsied, 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 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
workmanship, and whisper unto each other that the Lily of
Liddesdale 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 acknowledge you
as my sister. I can deny my brpther nothing-and his grief
has brought low the pride-perhaps 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




16            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
the descendant, Amy, of a noble race? Amy-1 see that
thou art beautiful-I know that thou art good-may God and
my mother forgive me this, but my sister must thou be-be.
hold 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 beautiful 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 diWd with joy in that
lonely dell, and love him and yield him  love even unto
the very hour till she was dead' Such chalfies of estate had
been long ago, -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 befal?  But these
thoughts passed on and away like sun-rays upon a stream;
the cloud, not a dark one, of reality returned 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 flushed alternately with the fluctuations of many pas.
sions.
Amy felt in her soul the collected voice, as it were, of ma.
ny 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 forever her fa..
ther'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 torget,
them, and would it not be sacrilege to the holiness of the many Sabbath nights on which she had sat at her widowed fa.
ther's knees? Yet might such thoughts have been destroyva
in her beating heart by the whispering music of young El.
liot's eloquent and.impassioned voice. But Walter Harden',
though ignorant pf her present jeopardy, seemed to stand
before her, and she remembered his face when he sat beside
her dying bed, his'prayers over her when he thought she




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  17
slept, and their oaths of fidelity mutually sworn before the
great God.
" Will you, my noble and honored 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,
hecause you will not Jet me go. I might well be proud ol
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 favor'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 oatn
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 oi
God at the great judgment-day, if I ever be foresworn. I kov
Walter Harden. Do you counsel me to break his kind faith.
fiul heart? O Sir, my noble young master, how dare a creature such as I to speak so freely to your beautiful 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 shepherdess. 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.
minided 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 happi..
nest. To plead further he felt was in vain. Her soul had
2




18           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 lifted
her up in his arms, kissed her madly a hundred times, cheek,
brow, neck and bosom, and then rushed into the woods.
Amy followed him with her streaming 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 dishonor 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-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 conduct of this poor shepherd.
ess, whom all this world's temptations would have failed to
lure from the right path. Before this meeting she hadthought
of Amy as far her inferior indeed, and it was long before her
proper pride had yielded to the love of her brother, whose
passion she feared might otherwise have 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 himgentle 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, whomn 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 fea.




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  19
for her brother-so she took from her shoulders a long rich In.
dian silk scarf of gorgeous colors, and throwing it over Amy's
figure, 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 Walter Harden, as he and the old man, who had been seeking Amy for
hours all over the hill, saw the Lily gliding towarcs 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
rescued from a snow-wreath.
Next moon was that which the reapers love-and before it
#ad 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 shepherd, his fair wife, and their children,
were sitting together on the green before the door, enjoying
probably the sight and the noise of the imps much more than
the murmurs of th% sylvan Liddel, which perhaps they did
not hear, a gay cavalcade rode up to the cottage, and a noble.ooking young man dismounting from his horse, and gently assisting a beautiful lady to do- the same, walked up to her
wnom he had known only by a name now almost forgotten-and
wmtn a beaming smile, said,'" Fair Lily of Liddesdale-this
is my wife, the Lady of the Priory —.come-it is hard to sapy
which of you should bear off the bell." Amy rose from her
fed, with an air graceful as ever, but something more ma:
tronly than that of Elliot's younger bride-and while these
two fair creatures beheld each other'with mutual admiration,
their husbands stood there equally happy and equally oroiud
-George "llaot of the Priory-and Walter Harden of the
UIV41106u




20           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 gray. 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 grand-father had done
before him, leaving a family just above the more bitter wants
ofthis world. Labor, 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 contentment which unconsciously cheers the hearth-stone 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 honestly, severe.
ly, nobly earned:-Gilbert Ainslie was a slave, but it was for
them he loved with a sober and deep affection. The thral.
dom under which he lived God had imposed, and it only served to give his character a shade of silent gravity, but not aus.
tere; *o make his smiles fewer, but more heartfelt; to calm
his soul at arace before and after meals; and to kindle it in
morning ana 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 andweaker hands
helped to bar the door against want. Often 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 mournings, worn on Sabbath, and
then carefully laid by. Of the seven that survived, two sons




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                   21
were farm-servants in the neighborhood, while three daughters and two sons remained at home, growing 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 peaceful.
ly in thousands over all the land; and most beautiful do they
make it, through all its wide valleys and narrow glews,its low holms encircled by the rocky walls of somre bonny
burn,-its green mounts elated with their little crowning groves
of plane-trees,-its yellow corh-fields,-its bare pastroal hillsides, and all its heathy moors, on whose black bosom lie shin.
ing 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
on and surveyed, it seemed a pleasant dwelling. Its roof,
overgrown with grass and moss, was almost 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 color of which
showed that it had been won from the wild by patient industry,
and by patient industry retained. It required a bright sunny 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 singing 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, grew here with somewhat
diminished lustre; a bright show of tulips had a strange
beauty in the midst of that moorland; 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 Iying for a week in a fever. It was
now Saturday evening, and the ninth day of the disease.
WJas 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 approaching death. The parents




:12           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
knew well the change that comes over the human face, whether it be in infancy, youth, or prime, just before the departure of the spirit; and as they stood together by Margarlet's
ned, it seemed to them that the fatal shadow had fallen upon
her features.  The surgeon of the parish lived sorme miles
distant, but they expected-him  now every moment, and
many a wistful look was directed by tearful 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 heaat. 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 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. silvervy,
and morrnful, when it.l'oined in hymn or psalm. One after
the other, they continued going up to the bed-side, and then
coming -away sobbing or silent, to see their merry little sister,
who used to keep dancing all day like a butterfly in a meadow
field, or like a butterfly with shut wings on a flower, trifling
for a while in the silence of her joy, now tossing restlessly
on her bed, and scarcely sensible of the words of endearment
whispered 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 hardships, 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 happy indeed while the circle round the fire is
unbroken, and yet preparing them every day to bear the separation, when some one or other is taken slowly or suddenly
away. Their souls are not moved by fits and starts,-although,
indeed, nature sometimes will wrestle with necessity; and
tihere 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.
" 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 steadfastly for some minutes on




OF SCOTTISIf LIFE.                  23
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 t6
the heart, for it was plain, that she thought herself herding
her sheep in the green silent pastures, and sitting wrapped
in her plaid upon the lawn 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 favorite old songs; and at fast her
mother wept, and turned aside her face, when the child, whose
blue eyes were shut, and her lips almost still, breathed ou;
these lines of the beautiful twenty-tliird psalm:
The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want
He make mne down to lie
In pastures green: he leadeth 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, covering 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 s.i
lent half hour, the potatoes and oat-cakes, butter and milk,
were on the board; and Gilbert. lifted up his toil-hardened, but.
manly hand, with a slow motion, at which the room was
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 unwit



24           LIGHTS AND SHADOWVS
tingly, when the other seats were all placed in their usual order; 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 canm
galloping to the door, and, with a loud voice, called out that
he had been sent ekpress 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 his 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, casting, at the
same time, a half upbraiding look on his face, that was returning to its former color. " Ifeared,"-said the youth, with a
tema 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;ustlv incurred, and punctually paid when due, is no dishonor."
1bth 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 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 soit be
the Lord's will, she should have a decent burial, poor innocent, like them that went before her." Gilbert continued
reading 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 i
stir, ran out hastily to its bed-side.
Another hour of trial past, and the child was still swliming for its life. The very dogs knew there was grief in the
house, aid lay without stirring, as if hidiig 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 chid, and still continued at the hopeless work, she
mcarcely knew why; and often, often, putting up her hand to




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  25
wipe away atear.-" What is that?" said the old man to his
eldest daughter; "Whatis that you are laying on the shelf?"
She could scarcely reply that it was a riband and an ivory
comb she had brought for little' Margaret, against the night
of the dancing school ball. And, at these words', the father
could not restrain a long, deep, and bitter groan; at which
the boy, nearest in age to his dying sister, looked up 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 Kis father's bosom, kissed him, and asked God to bless hint; for the holy heart of
the boy was moved within him; and the old man as he embraced 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; " blessed be the name of the
Lord."
The outer door gently opened, and he, whose presence
had in former years brought peace and resignation 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 tender-hearted Isabel, who had nursed'the child when it was a baby, fainted away. The youngest
brother gave way to gladsome smiles; and, calling out his
dog Hector, who used to sport with him and his little sister
on the moor, he told the tidings to the dumb irrational creao
ture, 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 silent fingers pointed to the hour of nine:
and that, in the cottage of Gilbert Ainslie, was the stated
hour of family worship. His own honored minister took the
book:
He waled a portion with judicious care:
And let us worship God, he said, with solemn air.




26            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
A chapter was read-a prayer said:-and so, too, was sung
a psalm; but it was sung low, and with suppressed voices,
lest the child's saving sleep might be broken; and now and
then the female voices trembled, 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 submitting 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 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 ownafew 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 breath.
ings 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 pleasure and satisfaction through the dwelling
of poverty. It was from an executor to the will of a distant
relative, who had left Gilbert Ainslie 15001. " 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, tlian put me
fairly above the world at last. I believe, that with it I may
buy this very farm on which my forATathers have toiled.
But God, whose Providence has sent this temporal blessing
may he send us wisdom and prudence how to use it, and hum 
ble and grateful hearts to us all."




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  27
c" You will be able to send me to school all the vear 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
oftener in your arm-chair by the ingle. You will not need
to rise now in the dark, cold and snowy winter mornings, an i
keep thrashing. 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 setting of the
stars, that were now out in thousands, clear, bright, arid
sparkling over the unclouded sky. Those who had lain down
for an hour or tvwo 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.
AN HOUR IN THE MANSE.
Ir 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 successive 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 atld
wine.




28            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
The good old man received in the Manse, for a couple of
hours every evening, such of his parishioners as came to
signify their -wish to partake of the sacrament; and it was
then noted, that though he 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 almostwith quaking hearts,
departed in tranquillity and peace, and looked forward to that
most impressive and solemn act of the Christian faitn. with
calm and glad anticipation. The old man thought truly and
justly, that few, if any, would come to the Manse, after havy
inmg heard him in the kirk, without due and deep reflection;
and, therefore, though he allowed none to pass through his
hands without strict examination, he spoke to them all be.
nignly, 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, dark-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 solemn in the old minister's appearance,
as he sat like a spirit, with his unclouded eyes, fixed upon the
intruder, 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 unworldliness of the
time, the place, and the being before him, the visitor stood
like one abashed and apalled; and bowing more reverently,
or, at least, respectfully, he said, with a hurried and quivering voice, " Sir, I come for your sanction, to be admitted to
the table of the 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  29
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
heart-strings, 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.
"Norman Adams, saidst thou, that thou wilt take into
that hand, and put into those lips, the symbol of the blood
that wag 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 communing 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 im
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 v';} soul, and for the sake of thy father- Nor.
man, whom my soul hlved,'and who was a support to me in
my ministry for many long years, even for two score and ten,
for we were at school together; and had your father been
living now, he would, like 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 huinble, or at teast affrighted culprit had risen to go, another visitor of a very different kind' was shown into the room. A
young beautiful girl, almost shrouded in her c.oak, with a
sweet pale face, on which sadness seemed in vain to strive
with the natural expression of the happiness of youth.
U IWarv Simpson," said the kind old man, as she stood with




30            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 gos.
pel. Young and guileless, Mary, art thou, and dim as my
memory now is of mnany things, yet do I well remember the
evening, when first beside my knee, thou heardst read how
the Divine Infant was laid in a manger,-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! 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 un..
derstand was by, nothing living but birds, and bees, and the
sheep I was herding, often whispered 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 flaring 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, shud.
dering upon a chair.
" Norman Adams, I am old and weak, but do you put your
arm around 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  81
your ear; so, till I see you again say nothing of what you
have now heard." 
" 0 Sir!'a cup of water, for my blood is either leaving my
heart altogether, or it is drowning it. Your voice, Sir, is go..
ing far, far away from me, and I am sinking down. Oh! hold
me-hold me up! It is 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 Nor.
man 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
guiltv 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 innocence
touch your hard ana selfish heart with pity; or her guilt and
grief must surely now wring it with renrorse. 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,
"0 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 Simp.
son, unhappy as she is, and must for ever be-yet life is
sweet! She beseeches you on her knees to spare her life In"
-and, in the intense fear of phantasy, the poor creature
struggled off the chair, and fell down indeed in a heap at his
feet.
" Chnst 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 pol.
luted, and spake with me on the mysteries of life and of death 7




32           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 on his
knees beside the poor ruined orphan. He put his armn around
her, and raising her from the floor, said, " No, no, my sin is
great, too great for heaven's forgiveness; 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 terrible than if I had
taken hlr life."
In a little while they were both seated with some composure, and silence was in the room. No one spoke, and the
old gray-haired man sat with eyes fixed 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 commiseration 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 besotght him not to be the means of bringing him to
punishment, and a shameful death, for that he might repent,
anJ 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.
" 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 shameful death be my
doom."
~ The orphan girl now stood up as if her strength had been
restored, and stretching out her hands passionately, with a
flow of most affecting and beautiful language, inspired by a
meek, single and sinless heart, that could not bear the thought
of utter degradation and wretchedness befalling any one of
the rationaFchildren 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 shriek



OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 33
ing, till Norman Adams leapt in to their rescue, and drew
them by the dripping hair to the shore, a'nd 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 Pro..
vidence, did deliver them from death, and who, you said, had
thus showed himself to be a Christian indeed? -May his sin
against 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 shep.
herdess, as he had sometimes spoken to her when sitting on
the hill-side with her flock, but that pride had prevented him
from ever thinking of her in marriage. It appeared that he
had also been falsely informed, by a youth whom Mary dis.
liked for his brutal and gross manners, that she was not the
innocent girl that her seeming simplicity denoted. On return.
ing from a festive meeting, where this abject person had made
many mean insinuations against her virtue, Norman 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 die, it seemed to the
minister of the religion 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 sinr
when first it brought a trouble over your countenance, and
broke in upon the peaceful integrity of your life.-Was not
the silence of the night often terrible 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 dust? Step by step, and almost imperceptibly, perhaps, did you advance upon the road that leadeth to destruc.
tion; but look back now, and what a long dark journey have
youtaken, 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
sunk you into a wretch, savage, selfish, cruel, cowardly, and
3




Q4            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 unextinguished in your soul.
Kneel not to me, Norman; fasten not so your eyes upon
me; lift them upwards, and then turn them in upon your own
heart, for the dreadful re.Aoning 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 pow felt for him, who to her had shown no pity; she
lid 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 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 wiath of the Almighty.
The old man wept at the sight of so much innocence and
so much guilt, kneeling tooether 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 Simpson, my sweet and innocent Mary Simpson, for in.
nocent thou art, the elders will give thee a token, that will, on
Sabbath day, admit thee (not for the first time,' though so
young) to the communion table. Fear nbt to approach it;
look at me, and on my face, when I bless the elements, and
be thou strong in the strepgth 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.-W- ho knows, but tlat 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 ot
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 ".
WTe pitiful tone of the old man's trembling voice, and the
motion of his shaking and withered hands, as he lifted them




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 35
up almost in an attitude of benediction, completed the pros.
tration 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 ram and wind had come on, and Mary Simpson
slept in the manse that night. On the ensuing Sabbath she'
partook of the Sacrament. A woful illness fell upon 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 lookupon the sun. But it was otherwise ordered. He
returned to his farm, greatly changed in the face and person,
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 summers.
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.
THE HEAD-STONE.
THE'coffin was let down to the bottom of the grave, the
planks were removed from the headed-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 newest mound in the church-yard was scarcely
distinguishable 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. tHere some acquaintances, from distant
parts of the parish, who had not had opportunity of addressang each other in the house that had belonged to the deceased,
nor in the course of the few hundred yards that the little pros
cession had to move over from his bed to his grave, were
shaking hands quietly but cheerfully, and inquiring after the
welfare of each other's families. There, a small knot o




36           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
neighbors 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 gray-headed persons of
the groupe. While a few yards farther removed from the
spot, were standing together parties who discussed ordinary
concerns, altogether 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 influence of the simple
ceremony now closed, by the quiet graves around, and the
shadow of the spire and gray walls of the house of God.
Two men yet stood together at the head of the grave, with
countenances of sincere but unimpassioned 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 long time,
and more intently, 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 brothers,
who were now standing at the head of their father's grave,
bad for some years been totally estranged from each other,
arnd the only words that had passed between them, during
all that time, had been uttered within a few days past, during
the necessary preparations for the old man's funeral.
No deep and deadly quarrel was between these brothers,
and neither of them could distinctly tell the cause of this unnatural estrangement. Perhaps dim jealousies of their father's favor-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 remembrance-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 doubtless their hearts were




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  31
so softened. But pride, though it cannot prevent the holy
affections of nature from being 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
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 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
e' oWilliam, this was not kind in you;-you should have tok
me of this. I loved my father as well as you could love him
You were the elder, and, it may be, the favorite son; but I
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 designing this last becoming mark
of affection and respect to his memory, so the stone was
planted in silence, 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 de-,ceased, 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 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 per —
haps 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, andi
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
ichurch-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,




38           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
his heart, for not easily may any-man hope to dismiss from
the chamber of his heart even the vilest guest, if once che.
rished there. With a solemn and almost severe air, he
looked upon the relenting man, and then, changing his coun.
tenance 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
natbral sentiment, quite overcame a heart, in which many
kind, if not warm, affections dwelt; and the, man thus ap.
pealed to bowed down his head and wept. " Give me your
hand, brother;' and it was given, while a murmer 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 vou, apart from one an.
other, 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 yourmight 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 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 an.
other as you used to do. Dear boys, receive my blessing."
Some turned their heads away to hide the tears that need.
1d not to be. hidden,-and when the brothers had released
each other from a long and sobbing embrace, many went up




OF SCOTTISH  IJFE.                 30,
to them, and in a single word or two, expressed their joy at
this perfect reconcilement.  The brothers themselves walk.
ed away from ide 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 together, 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., 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 rim on what
you call the Ruby Mountain. 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
grasefulness and beauty, that seemed so congenial with the
sin-leness and simplicity of her soul.
They reached the bower just as the western heaven was in
all its glory. To them while they stood together gazing on
that glow of fire that burns without consuming, and in whose
mighty furnace the clouds and 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 safron and richest purple, lying surrounded
with continually fluctuating dies of crimson,'till the very sun
himself was for moments unheeded in'the gorgeousness his
light had created,-the show of storm but the feeling of calm




o0            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
over all that tumultuous yet settled world of clouds 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 greatness, and love, and
fear, and terror, and eternity, feel when drawing their breath
together, and turning their steadfast 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 splendid sunset, although now they looked not towards it, they let their eves
glide, in mere human happiness, over the surface ofthe inhabited earth. The green fields that, in all varieties of form,
lay stretching out before them, the hedge-rows of hawthorn
and sweet-brier, the humbly coppices, the stately groves, and,
in the distance, the dark pine forest loading the mountain
side, were all their own,-and so too were a hundred cottages, on heiaht or hollow, 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 w6rth 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 shealing, hall
composed a Gaelic song on our marriage, and it is now sung
by many a pretty Highland girl, both in cottage and on hill.
side? 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"tnd satin, with a jewel on your forehead, and pearls in
your hair, moving to music in your husband's hereditary hall;
and they have seen you too in russet garb, and ringlets unadorned, in their own smoky cottages, blithe and free as some
native shepherdess of the hills. To the joyful and the sorrow.
fil 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 stateliness, the old
withered mountaineer to his chieftain'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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  41
her husband's bosom. " Oh! why-why shoultl I be sad in
the midst of the undeserved goodness of God? Since the fartherest hack time I recollect in the darkness of infancy, I
have been perfectly happy. I have never lost any 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 within 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 bu.
rial-place, and the vault in which I am to be interred."
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 leave this
world-thee-my parents-the rooms, in which, for a year ot
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 mother who bore it, and died that it
might see the day."
The lady rose up with these words from her husband'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 around the sylvan bower. The cheeriful 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 leisurely 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 altogether free from tears. Her husband, who had beea




42           LIGHTS AND SHADOOWS'
deeply affected by words so new to him from her lips, seized
these moments of returning peace to divert her thoughts entirely from such causeless terrors. " To this bower I'rought
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 mine 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!"
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 ancient 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 creature, in all circumstances, is naturally regarded
Tenderly 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 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, ajoyful 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 servant whither he had gone,
walked out into the open air, and, in a few minutes, sat down
on a tomb-stone, 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 Agnes Ilford, an English woman, who died in child-bed, aged nineteen."  This in.
scrintion was every letter of it distinctly legible in the moon.
lighti; 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 43
gliding noiselessly over the graves and tombstones. But he
looked more steadfastly-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 honored lady lives, but her son breathed only a 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 apartment. —But as he stood within a
few steps of it, composing his countenance and strengthening
his heart, to behold his beloved Anna, lying exhausted, and too
probably ill, ill indeed-his own mother, like a shadow, 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 supported
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 oughtto 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, " AnnaAnna!" she fixed her hitherto unnoticing eyes upon his face,
asnd moved her lips as if speaking, but no words were heard.
He stooped down and kissed4 her forehead,,and then there
was a smile over all her face, and one word, " farewell!" At
that faint and 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,
steadfast, than any living smile, aind 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 perfectly composed, and looking alternatelyon the countenance of his young wife, bright, blooming,
and smiling in death; and on that of his old mother, pale,




44            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
withered, 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 suddenly away,
possessed his disconsolate soul: and he would have wept
with joy to see her restored to life, 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 be..
ing 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 disconsolation, changed in a few hours from a
too perfect happiness, into a wretch whose existence was an
anguish and a curse.
At last he could not sustain the sweet, sad, beautiful
sight of that which was now lying stretched upon his mar.
riage bed; and he found himself passing along the silent pas*
sages, with faint and distant lamentations meeting his ear,
but scarcely recognized by his mind, until he felt the fresh
air, and saw the gray dawn of morning.-Slowly and uncon.
sciously he passed on into the woods, and walked on and on,
without aim or object, through the solitude of awakening na..
ture. 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 hill-side
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 rising, so that all the eastern heaven
was tinged with the beautifulness of joy. The turrets of his
own ancestral mansion were visible among the dark umbrage
of its ancient grove; fair were the lawns and fields that
stretched awav 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 be buri.
ed," he repeated with a low voice, while a groan of mortar
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. lie gazed on the river, and murmuring aloud in his




OF 8C6TTISH LIFE.                 45
hopeless wretchedness, said, "c Why should I not sink into a
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 it
I were to appear thus lost and wicked at the judgment-seat?"
A low voice reached his ear, and looking around, 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, hadfollowed him unregarded-had watched him as he
wrung his hands, and had been praying for him to God while
he continued sitting in that dismal trance upon that mouldering mass of ruins. " Oh! my youngmaster,/pardon me for
being here.-I wished not to overhear your 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 passed on, and then a bell tolled; and the
church-yard, thathad sounded to many feet, was again silent.
The woods around the hall were loaded with their summer
glories; the river flowed oh 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 rea.
lized, 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 together, beside the
same simple monument.
THE LOVER'S LAST VISIT.
THE window of the lonely cottage of Hilltop. was beam.
ing 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
covered, near the inale, with a snow-white cloth, on which
was placed a frugal evening meal; and in happy but pensive




46'LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
mood, sat there all alone the Woodcutter's only daughter, a
comely and gentle creature, if not beautiful; such a one as
diffuses pleasure around her in the hay-field, and serenity over
the seat in which she sits attentively on the Sabbath, listen.
ing to the word of God, or joining with mellow voice in his
praise and worship. On this night she expected a visit from
her lover, that they might fix their marriage-day, and her pa.
rents, satisfied and happy that their child was about to be
wedded to a respectable shepherd, had gone to pay a visit to
their nearest neighbor in the glen.
A feeble and hesitating knock was at the door, not like the
glad and joyful touch of a lover's hand; and cautiously open.
ing 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 mountains. Although she could scarcely help
considering her an unwelcome visitor atsuch an hour, yet
Mary had too much sweetness of disposition-too much humanity, 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 dis-.
tance 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
recognition, to mark the altered face of her.friend-and her
heart was touched with an ignorant compassion, " For mercy's sake! sit aown, Sarah!  and tell me what evil has befal.
len you; for you are as white as a ghost. Fear not tb confide any thing to my bosom; we have herded sheep together
on the lonesome braes-we have stripped the bark together
in the more lonesome woods:-we have played, laughed,
sung, danced together;-we have talked merrily and gayly,
but innocently enough surely of sweethearts together; and
Sarah, graver thoughts,' too, have we shahred, 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  4T
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 herself and her wrongs, and hopes of redress
to her whom she loved as a sister, and whose generous nature 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 ribands-they are worn for his sake-they
become well, as he thinks, the auburn of your bonny hair
that blue gown is wore to-night because he likes it; but
Mary, will you curse woe to my face, when I declare before
the God that made us, that that man is pledged unto me by
all-that is sacredhbetween 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
nusband. Turn me out of the hut now if you choose, and
let me, if you choose, die of hunger and fatigue, in the woods
There 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
unimpeached,-to her his behavior had always been fond,
affectionate, and respectful; that he was a fine-looking man,
and could show himself amona the best of the country rouind
at c(hurch, and market, and fairday, she saw and felt with
pleasure and with. pride.'. But in the heart of this poor, huj.
ble, contented, and pious girl, love was nbt a violent passion,
but an affection 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 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.




LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
At first, perhaps, a slight flush of anger towards Sarah
tinged her cheek; then followed in quick succession, or all
blended together in one sickening pang, fear, disappointment,
the sense of wrong, and the cruel pain of disesteeming 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 her.
self, " If it be even so, neither will I be so unjust as to derive 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 walkedl 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
ou, Mary, will lose a husband with whom you would have
een happy. I feel, after all, that I must appear a mean
wretch in your eyes."
There was a silence between them; and Mary Robinson
looking at the clock, saw that it wanted only about a quarter
of an hour from the time of tryst. " Give me the oaths and
promises you mentioned out of your bosom, Sarah, that I
may show them to Gabriel when he comes. And once more
I promise, by all the sunny and all the snowy days we have
sat together in the same plaid on the hill-side, or in the lonesome charcoal plots and nests o' green in the woods, that if
imy Gabriel.-did I say my Gabriel?-has forsaken 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 m his bosom-no, never, never; notwithstanding all the
happy, too happy hours and days I have been with him,
near or at a distance-on the corn-rig-among the meadowhay-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 business as a shepherd often took him into Montrath parish$ had wooed her,




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  49
and fixed every thing about their marriage, nearly a year
ago. But that he had become causelessly jealous of a young
man whom she scarcely knew; had accused her of want or
virtue, and for many months had never once come to see
her. " This morning, for the first time, I heard for a certainty, 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 sinners."
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 feverish, spoke to
her in the most soothing manner; led her into the little parlor called the Spence, then removed 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 hpr. 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 enfolding arms. Gabriel had always treated her as the woman who was to be
his wife; and though at this time her heart knew its own
bitterness, yet she repelled not endearments that were so
lately delightful, and suffered him to take her almost in his
arms to their accustomed seat. He held her hand in his,
and began to speak in his usual kind and affectionate lan.
guage. 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 sickened 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
4




60            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
But look me in-the face-be not wrathful-think not to hida
the truth either. from yourself or me, for that now is impossi
ble-but tell me solemnly, as you shall answer to God at
the judgment day, if you know any reason why T 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 guiltybefore her, before his own soul, and
before God;
"Gabriel, never could we have been happy; foryou 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 de.
sert the poor innocent creature that 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 affec.
tion 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 sorrow- 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 beseechma eyes. Duty and religion forbid us ever to
be man and wide. But you know there is one, besides me,
whom you loved before you loved me, and, therefore, it mayt
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 peni.
tence, for she is as innocent of that sin as I am, who now
speak."
Mary went into the little parlor, and led Sarah forward 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 lookingglass-tied it up with a riband 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
Sarah 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,forgive all and forget all, so
that once again she could be restored to the place in his heart
that she had lost, " What have I ever done, Gabriel, that




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 51
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 before morning, my troubles will be at an
end."
Truth was not only in her fervent and simple words, but
in the tone of her voice, the color 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 affections. At last, he tried to believe her
guilty, or to forget 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 ill some measure from himself, by a dim feeling of wrong done him, and afterward 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 pas.
sions allowed 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 bless.
in of God upon your marriage. Gabriel, your betrothed
will sleep this night in my bosom. We will think of you bet.
ter, 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, humility, and reverence, he Went home to
meditation and repentance.
It was now midsummer; and before the harvest had been
gathered in throughout the highervalleys, or the sheep brought
from the mountain-fold, Gabriel and Sarah were man and
wife. Time passed on, and a blooming family cheered their
board and fire-side. Nor did Mary Robinson, the Flower of
the Forest, (for so the Woodcutter's daughter was often
called,) pass her life in singleblessedness. She,'too, became
a wife and a mother and the two families, who lived at last
on adjacent farms, were remarkable for mutual affection,




62            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
throughout all the parish; and more than one intermarriage
tbok place between them, at a time when the worthy parents
had almost entirely forgotten the trying incident of their
youth.
THE MINISTER'S WIDOW.
THE dwelling of the Minister's Widow stood within' a few
fields of the beautiful village ef Castle-Holm, about a hun..
dred 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 ac..
clivity of a hill, separated by abroomy common of rich pas.
turage, through which hurried a translucent lochborn rivulet,
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 behind 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 m it had she, who
was now a widow, passed twenty years of privacy and peace.
On the death of her husband, she had retired with her familv —three boys, to the pleasant cottage which she now inhabited. It belonged to the old lady of the Castle, who was
patroness of the parish, and who accepted from the minister's
widow, of a mere trifle as a nominal rent. On approaching
the village, strangers always fixed upon the Sunny-side for the
Manse itself; for an air of serenity and retirement brooded
over it as it looked out from below its sheltering 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 andprobably 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 nearly a year
she had known that his death was inevitable.-Both of them
had lived in the spirit of that Christianity which he had preach.
ed, and therefore the last year they passed together, in spite
of the many bitter tears which she who was to be the survivor.bed when none were by to see, was perhaps on the whole




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  68
the best deserving of the name of happiness, of the twenty
what 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 emaciated frame, among the balmy
shades of his garden, and spoke with fervor of the many tender mercies 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 thatwere unseen,
just as they believed in the beautiful blossomed arbor that
then contained them in its shading silence. 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, an 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 dimmed by natural grief, but
brightened by natural gladness, glided before her steps, she
shut the gate of her knew 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 excursions through the wood or over
moor. They resembled, in features and in voice, both of
their gentle parents; but nature had moulded to quite another
character their joyful and impetuous souls. When sitting or
walking with their mother, they subdued their spirits down to
suit her equable and gentle contentment; and behaved towards her with a delicacy and thoughfulness, which made her
heart to sing for joy. So too did they sit in the Kirk on Sabbath, and during all that day the fountain of their 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 Xvell
his pale kind face-his feeble walk-his bending 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




54            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
whom most on earth had their father loved. But their vems
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 mother's eyes on a sudden,
was like a torch held up in the dim melancholy of a mist, diffusing cheerfulness and elevation.
Years passed on. Although the youngest was but a boy,
the eldest stood on the verge of manhood, for he 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 eyes, and a sullen mass of coal-black hair
hanging over 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
in 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 was 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, resigned, and happy being; and had she
even been otherwise, the sorrow she had siffered, and the
spirit of religion which hen whole life had instilled, must have
reconciled her to what was now her lot. Great cause had
she to be glad. Far away as India was, and seemingly 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  55
the others. Not that she loved him better, for, like three
stars, each possessed alike the calm haven of her heart: but he
was with Wellesle5y, and the regiment, in which he served,
seemed to be conspicuous in all skirmishes, and in every bat.
tl, 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 before her, with a laughing voice, on the floor of
the parlor, 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 service. And, to be sure, when the congregation were dismissed, 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 boymany of the mothers looked at him not without tears; and
the young maidens, who had heard that he had been in a
bloody engagement, and once nearly shipwrecked, gazed upon
him with unconscious blushes, and bosoms that beat with in.
nocent emotion. A blessed week it was indeed that he was
then with his mother; 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 afflicted 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 Talavera,
with the colors 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 saring 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 honors, 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
tne dstinguished character of the young soldier, a small pen



56            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
sion would be settled on his mother. Had she been slarvme
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 al.
though her best hopes are garnered up in heaven; and the
weeping widow could not help feeling it now, when, with the
black wax below 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 mother 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 youngest boy had
perished; and the names of those whose health had hitherto
been remembered at every festal Christmas 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 church, or on the
village green, and asked how her mistress was bearing these
dispensations, the answer was, that her health seemed little,
if at all impaired, and that she talked of coming to divine
service in a few weeks, if her strength would permit.-She
had been seen, through the leafless hedge, standing at the
parlor window, and had motioned with her hand to a neigh.
bor who, in passing, had uncovered 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 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 drowned.
On that evening she had forgotten the poor.
But now the spring had put forth her tender buds and blos.
soms-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 Sunny-side; and so, likewise, under the grace of God, was there a revival of the soul that




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                75
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 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 enjoyed 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, according 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 resigna,
tion and peace.
From that day, she was seen, as bef6re, in her house, in
her garden, along the many pleasant walks all about the vil.
lage, and in the summer evenings, though not so often as forimerly, 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 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 melancholy herself,
yet wished all around her happy, and often lighted up her
countenance with a grateful smile, 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 resig.
nation, which I received on the first visit I paid to a family
near Castle-Holm, after the final consummation of her grief.
Well known to me had all the dear boys been; their father
and mine had been laborers 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 without visiting Sunny-side, although my heart




68            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
misgave me, and I wished I 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 parlor, where I had partaken
the pleasure of so many merry evenings, with those whose
laughter was now extinguished. We sat for a while together
speaking of ordinary topics, and then utterly silent. But the
restraint 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 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. t Does not that smile
on Willy's face seem as if it were immortal  Do not Ed.
ward's sparkling eyes look so bright as if the mists of death
could never have overshadowed then? 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 kiss.
ed their foreheads —for dearly had I loved these three bro.
thers; and then I shut them up and removed them to another
p'art 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 un.
burdened 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, almost 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 shocking
thought when it is linked in love with creatures 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
myself. If they were to be restored to life, would I not lie
down with thankfulness in 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                   59
youngest of them, my sweet Harry, suffered, through that
long dark howling night of snow, when the ship'was going 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, although 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 I think I see their faces lying with shut eyes on their
pillows. 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 returned from it —when they came in to meals
-when 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 conceal; 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 whv should I so bitterly weep? Pain had not
troubled them-passion had not disturbed them-vice had not
polluted them, May I not say,' 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 countenance, like
gentle sunlight over a cheerless day, and she looked around
the room as if searching for some pleasant objects that elud'
ed her sight. " See,) said she, " yonder are all their books,
arranged just as Henry arranged them on his unexpected visit.
Alas i 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 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 aever peruse them, for their cheerful stories are not fot




60            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 nature 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 advancing 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 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 laburnum 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 happy, in a world which even the most thoughtless know is a
world of sorrow.
THE SNOW-STORM.
INq summer there is beauty in the wildest moors of Scot.
land, and the wayfaring man who sits down for an hour'srest
beside some little spring that flows unheard through the
brightened moss and water-cresses, feels his weary heart-r,
vived by the silent, serene, and solitary prospect. On every
side sweet sunny spots of verdure smile towards him fromt
among the melancholy heather-unexpectedly in the solitude
a stray sheep, it may be with its lamb, starts half alarmed at
his motionless figure-insects large, bright, and beautiful come
careering by him through the desert air- nor does the Wild
want its own songsters, the gray linnet, fond of the blooming
furze, and now and then the lark mounting up to Heaven




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  61
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 ha iourney,
the traveller looks back and blesses it with a minrled 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 nepose 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 untended
disease.
But, in good truth, the heart of human life is but imperfectly discovered from its countenance; and beforewe can know
what the summer, or what the winter yields for enjoyment or
trial to our country's peasantry, we must have conversed with
them in their fields and by their firesides; and make ourselves
acquainted with the powerful ministry of the seasons, not
over those objects alone that feed the eye and the imagina.
tion 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 evening-with
few events and no signal catastrophe.-but which may haply
please those hearts whose delight it is to think on the humble
inder-plots that are carrying 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 fa~/
milies of the poorest class of day-laborers, who found work
among the distant farms, and at night returned to dwellings
which were rent-free, with their little garden won from the
waste. But one family after another haddwindled 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 ioney-suckles, and
in the midst of the brighfest of all the gardens. It alonetnow
vent up its smoke into the clear whiter sky-and its little end




82           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 affaJrs 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 amicably together,
under cover of a rude shed, of which 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 firelight 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 con.
tented cotters. The spades and the mattocks of the laborer
were collected into one corner, and showed that the succeed.
ing day was the blessed Sabbath-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 overflowing 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-worn penny
fee," a pittance which, in the beauty of her girlhood, she
earned singing at her work, and which, in the benignity of
that sinless time, she would pour with tears into the bosoms
she so dearly loved. Forty shillings a year were all the
wages of sweet Hannah Lee-but though she wore at her
labor 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 all pdrposes, and her kind innocent heart was gladdened 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 timee




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  63
when inevitable selfishness mixes with the pure current of
love. She had.egun to think on what her affectionate heart
had left so long; and when she looked on the pale face and
bending 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 parents whom before she had only loved,
her expanding heart now also venerated. With gushing
tenderness was nowv 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 ohildren, from Joseph sold into slavery, to"Mary
weeping below the cross, that was not written, never to be
obliterated, on her uncorrupted heart.
The father rose from his seat, and went to the door, to
look out into the night. The stars were in thousands-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 distant 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 during my
fever last spring, kept her down awhile-but now sge 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."  "Ay, 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 brute,
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 answeved at the examination in
the Kirk so well as Hannah. Poor thing-I well think she
has all the Bible by heart-indeed, she has read but little
else-only some stories-too true ones, of tFie blessed martrys, and some o' the auld sangs o' Scotland, in which there
Is nothing but what is good, and which, to be sure, she smgs,




64            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
God bless her, sweeter than any laverock."  "Ay-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
happyn?-None so little.onesome 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 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
thoughtful 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 beyohd 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 bonny hair and letting it fall down in clusters
before the fire, to melt away the cranreuch."
While the parents were thus speaking of their daughter.
loud sugh of wind came suddenly over the cottage, 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 atmosnhere 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 labors-and set off to meet
his daughter, who might then, for aught 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 extinguished-the wind went
whirling in roaring eddies, and great flakes of snow circled




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  65
about m the middle air, whether drifted up from the ground,
or driven down from the clouds,-the fear-stricken mother
knew not, glut she at last knew, that it seemed a night of danger, despair, and death. " Lord have mercy on us, James,
what will become of our poor bairnl"  But her husband
neard 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 joyfilul dream, over the gloomy mountain-tops; and atl by herself
she tripped along beneath the beauty of the silent heaven.
Still as she kept ascending and descending the knolls that lay
in the bosom of the glen, shesung to herself a song, a hymn,
or a psalm, without the accompaniment of the streams, now
all silent in the frost; and ever and avon she stopped to try to
count the stars that lay in some more beautiful 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 parents waiting for her arrival-the Bible opened
for worhip-her own litttl 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 prepared for her by her mo.
ther's hand —the primroses in the 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 that happy household. So stepped she along, while
the snow diamonds glittered around her feet, and tie frost
wove a wreath of lucid pearls round her forehead.
She had now reached the edge of the Black-moss, which
lai half way between her master's and her father'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 nlight have seen a shadow on her face. She continued her course, and felt bolder and bolder every step that
brought her nearer to her parent's, house. But the snowstorm had now reached the B:ack-moss, and the broad line
of light that had lain in the direction of her home, was soon




B6           ZLIGHTS AND SHADOWS
swallowed up, and the child was in utter darkhess. She
saw nothing but. the flakes of snow, interminably intermingled, and furiously wafted in the air, close to her head; she
heard nothing but 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 scarcely thought of her own danger, for
innocence, and youth, and joy, are slow to think of aught
evil befalling themselves, and, thinking benignly of all living
tnings, forget their own fear in their pity for other's sorrow.
At last she could no longer discern a single mark on the
snow, either of human steps, or of sheep-track, or the footprint of a witd-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 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 unseen 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 tben her father would
find her body, and carry it away to be buried in the Kirkvard.
The tears were frozen on her cheeks as soon as shed,and scarcely had her little hands strength to clasp themselves
together, as the thought of an overruling 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,
beneath its ineffectual cover: "Our Father which art in




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 67
Heaven, hallowed be thy name,-thy kingdom come,-thy
will be done on earth as it is in Heaven." Had human aid
non 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 loss 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 enable 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 more i-surmountable barrier between the dying parent and his dying child.,
There was all this while a blazing fire in the cottage-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 coldand, 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 forgetfulness 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 m 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 eighteen years, who had been
among the hills looking after the sheep, came home, and was
disappointed to find that he had lost an opportunity of accompanying Hannah part of the. way to her father's cottage. But
the hour of eight had gone by, and not even the company of
svoalg William Grieve could induce the kind-hearted daugh.




68           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
ter 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 bee 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 ofthe glen, there was nothing to be seen but a little bit ofthe wooden rail of the bridge across the Sauch-burn.
William Grieve was the most active shepherd in a large pastoral parish-he had often passed 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, inimminent danger of being lost.-As he advanced, 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 soul, 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 prayers —bringing supper to his aged parentssmiling and singing about the house from morning till night.
She had often brought his own meal to him among the hillsand 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. " I will save thee, Han.
nah," 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 around 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,




OF 8COTTISH LIFE.                 69
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 thathe might 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 pitfall. Still there was no trace of poor Han'nah Leeand one of his dogs at last came close to his feet, worn out
entirely, and aflaid to leave its master-while the other wag
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 timethat 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 Sabbath-day and kept it holy. Much is forgiven to the
human heart, by him who so fearfully 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. H is voice has told us to love
one another-and William loved Hannah in simplicity, inno.
cence, and truth. That she should perish was a thought so
dreadful', that, in its agony, GCsd seemed a ruthless being" blow-blow-blow-and drift us tip for ever-we cannot
be far asunder-O Hannah-Hannah —think ye not thatithe
fearful God has forsaken us?"
As the boy groaned these words passionately through ha
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 join.
ed the cry. It was not a bark of surprise-or anger-or fear
-but of recognition and love. William sprung up from his




Do            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
bed inthe snow, and with his heart knocking at his bosom
even to sickness, he rushed headlong through the drifts, witb
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
ner 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 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 distracted youth
prayed to God with the same earnestness as if he had been
beseeching a fellow.creature, in whose hand was the power
of life and of death. The presence of1 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, gathered 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 was no stars in heaven, but she opened her dim. blue
eyes upon him in whose bosom she was unconsciously lying,
and said, as in a dream, " Send the riband 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 mas.
ter. 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, and William could attend to the beloved being on his bosom. The
warmth of his heart seemed to infuse life into hers; 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 witn extreme perplexity and bewilderment faintly
inquired, where she was, and what fearful misfortune had befallen them? She was, however, too weak to walk; and as
her young master carried her along, she murmured, " O Wil.
liart! what if my father be in the moor?-For if you, who
need care so little about me, have come hither, as I suppose,




OF SCO[ FISH LIFE..               71
to save my life, you may be sure"that my father sat not within doors during the storm." As she spoke it was calm be.
low, 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 uncertain light, came staggering forward the figure of a man. "Father-Father," cried
Hannah-and his gray 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 pressed through the
snow-wreath that had separated hire 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 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. Deli.
verance 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 color and her warmth returned, and
her lover —for so might he well now he called-felt her heart
gently heating against his side. Filled as that heart was
with gratitude to God, joy in her deliverance, love to her fa,
their, and purest affection for her master's son, never before
had the ninocent maiden known what ws. happmess-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 i
the cottage of the moor. They sobn were at the garden gate
-and to relieve the heart of the wife aid mother within, they
talked loudly and cheerfully —naming each other familiarly,
and laughing between,'like persons who had known neither
danger nor distress.
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 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 flooi lay the moe
tiher upon he'fiace, as if murdered by some savage blow.




72           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 hearther face pale and sunken-her body cold as ice. " I have
recovered a daughter," 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 expectation of gladdening
her mother's heart by her safe arrival. She, too, now swooned away, and as she was placed on the bed beside her mother,
it seemed indeed, that death, disappointed of his prey on the
wild moor, had seized it in the cottage and by the fire-side.
The husband knelt down by the bed-side, and held his wife's
icy hand in his, while William Grieve, appalled and awestricken, hung over his Hannah, and inwardly 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 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 ol 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 moment shut, she had scarcely time to recall to her recollection 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, steadfast 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 bad been rescued by
the arm of the Almighty.
There is little need to speak of returning recollection 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 father read aloud that chapter in which
is narrated our Saviour's act of miraculous power, bsy which




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  73
he saved Peter from the sea.-$oon as the solemn thoughts
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 themselves 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 Hanlnah into the storm, and borne her in his arms
through a hundred drifted heaps —and then looked 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 si.
lence 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 henceforth they were to live wholly for each other's sakes.
His love was the proud and exulting love of a deliverer, 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 oi
his own Hannah Lee ever more moving about his father's
house, not as a servant, but as a daughter-and when sole
few happy years had gone by, his own most beautifill and most
lovingwife. 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 moor4 Her heart leaped 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 ibho
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 would break in a fit of strange and insupportable
happiness.
The young shepherd rose to bid them farewell — iMy 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 detain 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




74           LIGHTS AND) SHADOWS
her meridian, but in cloudless splendor-and the. hollow of
thile hills was hushed as that of heaven, Danger there was
none over the placid night-scene-the happy youth soon crossed the Black-moss, now perfectly still- and, perhaps, just as
ho 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.
Fr 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 melanchoI. expanse-and the scene kept visibly shifting before me, as
th strong wind that blew from every point of the compass
strlick the dazzling masses, and heaved them up and down in
endless transformation. There was something inspiriting in
the labor with which, in the buoyant strength of youth, I forced
my way through the storm-and I could not but enjoy those
gleamings of sun-light that ever and anon burst through some
unexpected 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 stopped 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 moor-lands. As the momentary 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 pasturage 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 vigor into my limbs, telling me that, lonely as
I seemed to be, I was surrounded 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 wint*life, that helped me
gladly onwards over many miles of moor. I thought of the
severe but cheerful labors of the barn-the mending of farm.




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  75
gear by the fireside-the wheel turned by the foot of' old age,
ess for gain than as a thrifty pastime-the skilful mother,
making " auld claes look amalst 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
olow by-the unexpected visit of neighbors on need or friendship-or the footstep of lover undeterred by snow-drifts that
have buried up his flocks;-but, above all, I thought of those
hours of religious worshjp that have not yet escaped from the
domestic life of the peasantry of Scotland-.of the sound of
psalms that the depth of snow cannot deeden to the ear of
Him to whom they are chanted-and of that sublime Sabbathkeeping, 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 alone that dreary moor, with the cutting wind in my face,
and my eet sinking in the snow, or sliding on the hard blue
ice beneath it-as cheerfully as I ever walked on 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 sunshine tipt it with'fire-and I felt, at that moment, an inexpressible sense of the sublimity of the character of that gray.
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 beating 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 shepherd who
cared not for the winter's wrath. As he stopt to take my
hand kindly into his, and to give his blessing to his long-ex.
pected visitor, the wind fell calm-the whole face of the sky
was softened, and brightness, like a smile, went over the
blushing 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 affec.
tion, I felt how beautiful was winter.
I I am going," said he, " to visit a man at the point of




76            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 steadfast 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, resignation, and death.
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 resemblance to
the aged man who we understood was now lying on his deathbed. " 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 Ons 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 unlike grief or sorrow, yet now sobbmg aloud as if his heart would break.  " I do not fear but
that my grandfather 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 encouragement, on the solemn and pitying countenance of the kindhearted 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 remembered; our little




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  77
guide keeping ever a short distance before us, and with a sa.
gacity like that of instinct, showing us our course, of which
no trace was visible, save occasionally his own little footprints 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, stone.
wall peeping through the snow, or the more visible circle of a
sheep-bught, we descended into the Hazel-Glen, aP4 saw before us the solitary house of the dying ELDER.
A gleam of days gone by came suddenly ove 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 be.
nign pastor, we danced over the sunny braes, anad startled
the linnets from their nests among the yellow bro;am. Austere as seemed to us the ELDER'S Sabbath-face, when sittinm on the Kirk, we schoolboys knew that it had its week-day
smiles-and we flew on the wings of joy to our annual festival 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, its memory was with
our boyish hearts from June to June; and the sound ot that
sweet name, "I Hazel-Glen," often came upon us at our tasks,
and brought too brightlyinto the school-room the pastoral
inagery of that mirthful solitude.
As we now slowly approached the cottage, through a deep
snow-drift, Which the distress within had prevented the house.
hold from removing, we saw,, peeping out from the door, bro.
thers and sisters of our little guide, who quickly disappeared,
and then their mother showed herself in their'stead, express.
ing, 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
tickihngof 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 almost touched the lowly
roof, and brightened that end of the* apartment with its blossoms. There was something tasteful in the simple furniture




78           LIGIlTS AND- SHADOWS
and it seemed as if grief could not deprive the hand of that
matron of its careful elegrnce. Sickness, almost hopeless
sickness, 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 pain 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 himself 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
sunken 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 deathbed.
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 forthose who were more dear. The pastor sat down near his
head-and by the bed, 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
oeauty was now more touching in its grief. But religion upheld 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 fight.
ing 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 hoarfrost yet unmelted on his
bright glistening ringlets, walked up to the pillow, evidently no
stranger there. He no longer sobbed-he no longer wept —
for hope had risen strongly within his innocenti.eart, from the




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  79
consciousness of love so fearlessly exerted, and from the proesence of tne 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 corpse, a shroud, and a grave; he
had been in terror, lest death should strike in his absence the
old man, with whose gray 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 fetters of his grand.
child's embracing love.
"' If the storm do not abate," said the sick m#n, after a
pause, " it will be hard for my friends to carry me over the
drift 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 asked 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 an' Elder in
your Kirk, never have I missed sitting there one Sabbath.
WVhen 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 myAlice was let down into the nar.
row 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
was my heart; but thou, whom, through the blood of Christ. I




80           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 sup.
port, glided softly to a little table, and bringing a cua 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, Janlie, forget not thou thy father
nor thy mother, for that thou knowest and feelest is the commandment of God."
The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He had
gradually stolen closer and closer unto the old loving 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 tre.
mulous and broken voice, those beautiful 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 devoutly and humbly lifted up to Heaven. Nor was
the sweet voice of his loving grandchild unheard; as if the




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  St
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 childhood before it flew out among the
green hills, to quiet labor or gleesome play. As that sweetest
voice camne 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 begin.
ning 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 lowering 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 towards 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-thils room, before the morning again shine over the Hazel-Glen, win thee
from the error of thy ways. Thou art here to witness the
merc7y 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 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 bedside, and at last found voice to say, " Father-I am not without the affections of nature-and I hurried home soon as I
had heard that the minister had been seen riding towards our
house. I hope that you will yet recover-and if ever I have
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 bedside, and let my hand find the head of my beloved son-for
blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first-born,
and thou art my only living son. All thy brothers and sister
are lying in the church-yard, beside her whose sweet face
thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long
6




82            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
wert thou the joy, the pride of my sdul,-ay, 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
chanced, God may inspire it again with right thoughts
Could I die for thy sake-could I purchase thy salvation
with the outpouring of thy father's blood-but this the Son
of God has done for thee who hast denied him! I have sore-.
ly wept for thee-ay, William, when there was none near
ine-even as David wept for Absalom-for thee, my son,
iny 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 remorse, and his despair.
The pastor said, with a sterner voice, and austerer countenance than were natural to him: " Know you whose hand
is -now lyin_ on your rebellious head? But what signifies
the word fatier 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 mournfully 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 a'rm the child too much neglected,
but still dear to him as his 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
tinie when none, William, could read the Scriptures better
than couldest thou-can it be that the son of my friend hath
forgotten the lessons of his youth?"  He had not forgotten
them-there was no need for the repentant sinner to lift 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 an'd the life: he that believeth in




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  83
me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosoever
liveth, and believeth in me, shall never die. Believest thou
this? She saith unto him, Yba, Lord: I believe that thou
art the Christ, the, Son of God, which should come into the.world.?'
"That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying man
triumphantly; "nor, William, hast thou an unbeliever's
heart. Say that thou believest in what thou hast now read,
and thy father will die haippy 4"  " I do believe; and as thou
forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my Father who is in
heaven."
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 resigned soul, we stood'
around the DEATH-BED OF THE ELDER.
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-wreatss that yet linger at their feet! A few warm
sunny days, and a few breezy and melting 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 itself, as it now does, so vividly with the
deep blue'of heaven. With the revival of nature our ovn
souls feel restored. Happiness becomes. milder-meekerand 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 sedato
-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 general spirit of delight, forgets or fears not
the shadows. of the grave.
On such a vernal day as this did we who had visited the




84           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 visible 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 in'sects were dancing in the air, and here and there
some little moor-land 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 meditative
man, like him we were about to inter, would have 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 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 parties coming to the funeral through
openings among the 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 approach to the house, there was




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 85
even cheerfulness among us. We spoke of the early and
bright promise of spring-of the sorrows and the joys of
other families-of marriages and births-of the new schoolmaster-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 mo.
ments, some one or other of the groupe, till we found ourselves ascending the green- sward before the cottage, and. stood below the bare branches of 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, humble, 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 gray heads-more becoming gray —
and many bright in manhood and youth. But the same so.
lemn hush was over them all; and they sat all-bound together in one urlitin, 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 withered
hand, and began a blessing and a prayer.
There was 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 began
to pray, than every heart and every breath at once were
hushed. All stood motionless, nor could one eye abstain
tfom 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, throu gh.,:,.                  o?-. ri
intercession, to the kingdom of heaven. Might the blessing
of God, he prayed, 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, in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety
and nine just persons which need no repentance. Fervently,
too, and tenderly, did the old man pray for her, in her silent
~han sber,' who fiad lost so kind a parent, and for all the little




86            LIGHTS AND SHADOrWS
children round her knees. Nor did he end his prayer without
some allusion to his own gray hairs, and to the approaching
day on which many present would attend his burial.
Just as he ceased to speak, one solitary stifled sob was
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 dea 
and the child yearned towards his father now with a stronger
affection, relieved at last from all his fear. He had been suf.
fered 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 mother and
his Bible, told him to obey God without repining in all things;
and the child did so with perfect simplicity. One sob had
found its way at the close of that pathetic prayer; but the
tears that bathed his glistening cheeks were far different from
those that, on the day and night of his grandfather's decease,
had burst from the agony of a breaking heart. The old minister laid his hand silently upon his golden head-there was
a momentary murmur of kindness and pity over the roomthe 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 up with its
sable pall. Silently each mourner took his place. The sun
was shining pleasantly, and a gentle breeze passing through
the sycamore, shook down the glittering rain-drops upon the
funeral velvet. The small procession, with an instinctive
spirit, began to move along; and as I cast up my eyes to
take a farewell look of that beautiful duvelling, now finally left
by him who so long had blessed it, I saw at the half open lat.
tice of the little bed-room window. above, the pale weeping
face of that stainless matron, who was taking her last passionate farewell of the mortal remains of her father, notw
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 gateway of the church-yard. To the'tolling of the bell we moved across the green mounds, and
arranged ourselves, according to the plan and order which
our feelings suggested, around the bier and its natural sup.




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  87
porters. There was no delay. In a few minutes the ELD.
ER 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' pastor and myself. As yet nothing
eras 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 steadfastly upon their long-forgotten inscriptions; and many had since
then been erected. The whole character of the place was still
simple and unostentatious, but from the abodes of the dead, I
could. sei that there had been an improvement in the condition
of the living.-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 commemorate them on earth by some tduching expression taken-from that book, which reveals to them a life in,eaven.
There is a sort of gradation, a scale of forgetfulness, in a
country church-yard, were the processes of nature are suffered tc ga on over the green place of burial, that is extremely
affemrig 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 unrermembered 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 constant decay-vain attempts to adhere to memory-and oblisvion 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 Sabbathday, not always perhaps a careless look, but carry away
from it, unconsciously, many salutary impressions. What is




88            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
more pleasant than the meeting of a rural congregation in the
church-yard before the minister appears? What is there tc
shudder at in lying down, sooner or later, in such a peacefu.
and sacred place, to be spoken of frequently on Sabbath
among the groupes of which we used to be one, and our low
burial-spot to be visited, at such times, as long as there re.
mains on earth any one to whom our face was dear! To those
who mix in the strife and dangers of the world, the place is
feltto 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 obscurenameless-and unfixetd to imaginalion. All he feels is that
his burial will be-on earth-or in the sea. But the peace..
ful dwellers who cultivate their paternal acres, or tilling at
least the same small spot of soil, shift only from a cottage on
the hill-side 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 m 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
tmy 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. purely there is a beauty in this; for the heart is
left unto its own sorrow,-according as it is a friend-a bro.
ther-a parent-or a'child, that is covered up from our eyes.
Yet call not other rites, however 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'; notr 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, resignation, and love, by which mortal
beings would seek to express their souls when one of their
brethren has returned to his parent dust.
My mind was recalled from all these sad yet not unpleasant fancies by a deep groan, and I beheld the Elder's son
fling himself down upon the grave, and kiss it passionately,
imploring pardon from  God.  "I distressed my father's




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  89
heart inhis 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 grayheaded father, when his limbs were weak and his eyesight
dim?" The old minister stood at the head of the grave, without speaking a word, wth 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 within 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 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
unto him, and kissed his cheek-holding in his little hand
a few faded primroses which he had unconsciously gather.
ed together as they lay on the turf of his grandfather's grave.
THE TWINS.
Tani Kirk of Aulchindown stands, with its burial-grounds
on a little green hill, surrounded by an irregular and straggling village, or rather about a hundred hamlets clustering
round it, with their fields and gardens. A few of these gardens come close up to the church-yard wall, and in springtime many of the fruit-trees hang rich and beautiful over the
adjacent graves. The voices and the laughter of the children 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 dream-like tune round the dwellings of the dead.
In the quiet of the evening, after the Elder's fineral, my
venerable friend and father took me with him into the churchyard.' We walked to the eastern corner, where, as we ap



90            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
proached, I saw a monument standing almost by itself, and
even at that distance, appeared 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 marble, simple, but perfectly elegant and graceful withal, and upon its
unadorned slab lay the sculptured 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
obviously 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, filled with the ruder
memorials of the very humblest dead.
6" There lie two of the sweetest children," said the old man,
" that ever delighted a mother's soul-two English boysscions of a noble stem. They were of a decayed family of
high lineage; and had they died in their own countrya hundred years ago, they would have been let down into a vault
with all the pomp of religiqon. Methinks, fair flowers, they
are now sleeping as meetly here.
" Six years ago I was an old man, and wished to have silence and stillness in my house, that my communion 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 receive beneath my roof her two sons.
She herself lived with the bed-ridden mother of her dear 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."




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  91
We sat down, at these words, on the sloping headstone 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 remembrances, the venerable man continued fervently thus to speak:
" The lady left them with me in the Manse-surely 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 color, 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 especially beautiful. T'heir 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 mother, 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 their tenderness; for whatever the one received. that
was ready to be bestowed 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 into many delightful
varieties, and then I wondered how I ever could have mista<ken them for one another. 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 hazel-hue like that of his brother, were consi
derably 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 inflection and tone-like the same instrument blown upon 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




92            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
days in the Manse, before I knew in a moment, dim as my
eyes had long been, the soft, timid, stealing step ot 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 it 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 laid down there to sleep —and when, without looking
on me whom he felt to have been listening with quiet attention, he again began to speak, it was partly to tell 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 p-or 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 cottage 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 twins, 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 ru.
ral gardens more flowery and blossoming, than those of this
Scottish village. They had lived, indeed, mostly in a town;
and-in the midst of the freshness and balminess of the country, they became happier and more gleesome —t was said by
many, even more beautiful. The affectionate creatures did
not foraet 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 small delicate lines, that bespoke the hand of an accomplished lady. Their education had not been neglected;
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
nands-these lovely twins even at iny feet, and resting on my
knees; and melodiously did they murmur together the hymns
which their mother had taught them, and passages selected




OF 8COTTISH LIFE.                  93
from the Scriptures, many of'which are in the affecting, beautiful, and sublime ritual of the Ernllish 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 trimW 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, deepen.
ing the profound silence 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 uninteresting, 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.:" One evening in early autumn, (they had been with me
from the middle of May,) Edward, the elder, opnplained, on
going to bed, of a sore throat, and I proposed that his brother
should sleep in another bed. I saw them myself, according.
ly, in separate places of repose.-.But on going, about an
hour afterwards, into their room, there I found them loIf d,
as usual, in each other's arms-face to face-and their. nocent 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 morn.
ing 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 evening bhe became slightly delirious, and his illness
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 fe..
ver quickly subdued his spirit, the shivering fits made him
weep and wail, and rueful, indeed, was the change which a
single. night and day had brought forth.' His brother seemed to be afraid more than children 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 fever, 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




94            LIGHTS AND SHADOWTS
Edward was going to die?"  I looked at the affeetionate
child, and taking him to my bosom, I felttthathis own blood
was beatina but too quickly, and that fatal had been that
night's sleeping embrace in his brother's bosom. The fever
had tainted his sweet veins also —nd 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 happiness
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 England that was pleasant and in.
teresting. 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 existence, 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.-Thev were
looking into the nests of the little singing birds, which they
never injured, in the hedge-rows and the woods. And the
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 mouds!"
" 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 another 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 w'-lked up quite close to the monument, inspecting
the spirit of its design, and marking the finish of its execu.
tion. But he called me to him, and requesting me to resume
tmy seat beside him on the gravestone, he thus continued:




OE SCOTTISH LIFE.                   95
"I had written to their mother in England that her childrer
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 them, and the beauty of death
was beginning to disappear. So we could not wait the arrival of their mother, and their grave was made. Even the
old gray-headed sexton wept, for in this case of mortality
there was something to break in upon the ordinary tenor ot
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 after 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 child.
hood, had won many a heart, and touched, too, the imagination of many with a new delight; and therefore, on the morn.
ing 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
satisfaction in the thought, that they should be buried according to the form of the English funeral service. I communicated this wish to an Episcopalian clergyma13 in the city, and
he came to my house. He arranged the funeral, as far as
possible in the circumstances, according to that service, and
although, no doubt, there was a feeling of curiosity mingled
in many minds. with the tenderness and awe which that touch.
mg 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 scriptural and true
to nature,
"The bier was carried slowly aloft upon men's shoulders,
towards the church-yard gate. I myself walked at their little heads. Some. of the neighboring gentry-my own domestics-a few neighbors-and some of the school-children,
formed the procession, The latter walking before the coffin,
continued singing a fuaeral psalm all the way till we reached
the church-yard gate.-It was a still gentle autumnal day,




96           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
and now ann 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 pensive, and mournful,
and holy dream.
" The clergyman met the bier at the gate, and preceded
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 called; and that feeling of their having belonged, as it
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 silence 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 withered.'
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 gravestone, 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 narrative was soon brough( to a
close.
" We were now all collected together round the grave.
The silence of yesterday, at the Eldaer's funeral, was it not
felt by you to be agreeable to all oTur 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 mournfulconsistency in the 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 chanted
verses from Job and St. John, during the time when we knelt
roupd the dead children in the House of God, also during out
procession thence to the grave side, still attended with
thanting, or reciting or responding voices; and finally, at




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  97
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 ourLord 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 nappyo
But other duties called her back to England for the short re.
mainder of her life, She herself drew the design of that
monument with her 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 Auchmdown, a Scottish
parish."
THE POOR SCHOLAR.
THrE vernal weather, that had come so early in the year
as to induce a fear that it would not be lasting, seemed, con
trary to that foreboding of change, to become 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 foot.
steps, 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 thb heart to come forth frorn
the seclusion of parlor 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, l'understood that
we should see there a family-if so a widow and her one son
7




98           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 fulfilled. She is the widc-w of a
common cotter who lived and died in the hut which she and
her son now inhabit. 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. HBe 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 laboring days. He had a slight genius for mechanics; and during the long winter evenmin s, he made many articles of cu.
rious workmanship, the'sae of which added 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 would not be left in peiury, but enabled to lead,
without any additional hardships, the usual life, at least, ol
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'blameless 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 me.
miory of his long summer days, and long winter nights, all
ceaselessly employed in some kind of' manual labor, dignified the lowly and steadfast virtue of the unpretending and
conscientious man.
" The widow of this humble-hearted and simple-minded
man, whom we shall this forenoon visit, you will remember,
perhaps, although then neither she nor her husband were
much known in the parish, 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
(eep thoughts ii her young, innocent, and simple heart was




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.
forced to become a menial servant in afarm-house. There
subduing her heart to her situation, 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, what knowledge, and what piety, may all live together, without their owner suspecting them, in the soul of
the lonely widow of a Scottish cotter; for, except that she is
pious, she thinks mnot 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 avidity with
which children in general seize upon playthings. 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 fhe scholar, and indications not to be doubted of
genius and intellectual power. His fath4 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 lier 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 qualify him to be a preacher of God's word.
-Such ambition, if sometimes misplaced, is almost always
necessarily honorable. Here it was justified by the excelling
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."
We crossed a few fields-a few coppice woods-an extensive sheep-pasture, and then found ourselves on the edge of a
moor-land. Keeping the shelving heather ridge of hills above
us, we gently descended into a narrow rushy glen, without
any thing that could be called a stream, but here and there
arossed and intersected by various runlets. Soon all cultiva



100           LIGHTS-AND SHADOWS
tion ceased, and no houses were to be seen. Had the glen
been a long one, it would have seemed desolate, but on turn.
ing round a little green mount that ran almost across it, we
saw at once an end to our walk, and one hut, with a peatstack close to it, and one or two elder, or, as we call them in
Scotland, bourtrie bushes, at the low gable-end. A little
smoke seemed to tinge the air over the roof uncertainly-but
except in that, there was nothing 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 behind it apparently enclosed -a garden. We sat
down together on one of those~large mossy stones that often
lie among the smooth green pastoral hills, like the relies of
some building utterly decayed; and my venerable friend,
whose solemn voice was indeed' pleasant in this quiet solitude, continued the dimple history of the Poor Scholar.
"' At school he soon outstripped all the other boys, but no
desire of superiority over his companions seemed 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 solitary boy sitting by himself on the braes shedding tears over
the mysteries of the Christian faith. His mother's heart bumrned within her towards her son; and if it was pride, you will
allow that it 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 labor. Perhaps at first some half thought that she
was too proud of him; but that was a suggestion not to be
cherished, for all acknowledged that he was sure to prove an
honor to the parish in which he was born. She often brought
him to the Manse, and earth did not contain a happier crea.
ture than her, when her boy answered all my questions, and
modestly made his own simple, yet wise remarks on the sacred subjects gradually unfolding before his understanding
and his heart.
" Before he was twelve years of age he went to Collegeand -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 reading alone, she was not
idle, but strove to make a small sum to help to defray their
winter expenses. To her that retired cell was a heaven
when she looked upon her pious and studious boy. His ge



OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                101
nius was soon conspicuous; for.four winters he pursued his
studies in the university-returning always in summer to this
hut, the door of which during their absence was closed. He
made many friends, and frequently, 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, ta.
lent, 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 edu.
cation-and besides contributing 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 are to be his or
earth."
We rose to proceed onwards to the hut, across one smooth
level of greenest herbage, and up dne intervening knowe a
little lower than the mount on which it stood. Why, thought
1, has the old man always spoken of the Poor Scholar, as it
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 thap 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 attend College last winter-and that it was to be
feared that he was now far advanced in a hopeless decline.
Simple is he still as a very child-but with a sunlime sense
of duty to God and man-of profound affection and humanity
never to be appeased towards all the brethren of our race.
Each month-each week-each day has seemed visibly to
tring him new stores of silent feeling and thou ght-and even
now, boy as he is, he is fit for the ministry. But he Las no
hopes of living to that day-nor have I. The deep spirit of
his piety is now blended with a sure prescience 9f an early
death.-Expect, therefore, to see him pale-emaciated-and
sitting in the hut like a beautiful and blessed ghost."
We entered the hut, but no one was in the room. The
clock ticked solitarily-and on a table, beside a 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 gCne out to walk, or to sit down for aa hour in




f02           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
the warm sunshine," said the old man-" Let us sit down and
wait their return. It will not be long." A long low sigh was
heard in the silence, proceedingras it seemed, from a small
room adjoining that in which we were sitting, and of which
the door was left half open. The minister 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, stretcheo out in a stillness too motionless and profound for sleep, and with his'fixed face up to
Heaven. We saw that he was dead. His mother was kneel.
ing with her face on the bed, and covered with both her
hands. Then she lifted up her eyes and said, "0 Merciful
Redeemer, who wrought that miracle on the child of the wldow of'Nain, comfort me, comfort me, in this my sore dis.
tress! 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 children of men-but
that smile is beyond the power of a mother's heart to sass
tain."  And stooping down, she kissed his lips, and cheeks,
and eyes, and forehead, with a hundred soft, streaming, and
mutrmuring kisses, and then stood up in her solitary hut,
alone and childless, 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`~aze for a few
moments on the gray locks and withered countenance of the
oia noiv man, bent towards her with a pitying and benignant
air, an'd stooped, too, in the posture of devotion. She soon
retcognized the best friend of her son, and leaving the bed on
whicmh nis body lay, she came out into the room, and said,
"'A  ou have come to me at a time when your presence was
sorelv needed. Had you been here but a few moments
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
Bibte-he felt faint-and said feebly,'Mfother, attend me to
my bed, and when I lie 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                103
fxed. He had gone to another world. See —Sir! there is
the Bible lying open at the place he was reading-God preserve my soul from repining-only a few, few minutes ago."
The minister took the Bible on his knees, and laying his
right hand, without selection, on part of one of the pages
that lay open, he read aloud the following verses:
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom
of Heaven.
"Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.g
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:
" On! Death, whatever may have been our thoughts or
fears, ever comes unexpectedly at last! My son often-often
told me, that be was dying, and I saw that it was so ever since
Christnas. But how could I prevent hope from entering my
heart?  His sweet happy voice-the calmness of his pray.
ers-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!."
It seemed now as if the widow had only noticed me for the
first time. Her soul had been so engrossed 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 th6re 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 consumption, that is not
always an easy death.'But soon as the sickness and the rackang pain gave.way to our united prayers, God and our Sa.
viour made. us happy, and sure he spake then as never mortal spake, kindling 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 ia the widow's hut, and the minis.




104           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
ter 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 ne 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 a sudden stupor, let us depart without any
farewell words, and retired into the room where her son was
lying. Casting back our eyes, before our departure, 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 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 overspreads 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 with
age and infirmity, came slowly up the bank below us with a
pitcher in her hand, and when she reached a little well, dug
out of a low rock all covered 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 childless 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 s, 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, butshe feels them not, and is unconsciously weeping with eyes that old age has of itself
enough bedimmed."




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                105
The figure remained motionless beside the well; and
though I knew not the history of the griefs that stood all em.'bodied 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 pasor, " even her who sat alone, with none to comfort her, on a
floor swept by the hand of death of all 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.  Hers is
an affliction which faith itself cannot assuage. Yet religion
may have softened even sighs like those, and, as you shall
hear, it was religion that set her free from the horrid dreams
of madness, 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
sone left alone to commune with a broken heart in the cheer.
less solitude of nature.
A" That house, from whose chimneys 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 woebegone, I remember 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 happiness, 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 nature'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 better had it been
if th'at one had never been born.
" Father, mother, and son, now come to man's estate, sur



106          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
vived, and in the house there was peace. But suddenly pe
verty fell upon them. The dishonesty of a kinsman, of whick
I need not state the particulars, robbed them of their few he
reditary fields, which now passed into the possession of a
stranger. They, however, 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 laborers on the soil still dearly beloved. 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 fur
rowed, and more seldom was he seen to smile; and his son's
countenance, once bold and open,. was now darkened with
anger and dissatisfactioi. They did not attend public worship so regularly as they used to do; when I met them in the
fields, or visited them in their dwelling, they looked on me
coldly, and with altered eyes; and I grieved to think how
soon they both seemed to have forgotten the blessings Provi —
dence had so' long permitted them to enjoy, and how sullenly
they now 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 adversity. But in a short time the death, the
will, and the disinherited, were all forgotten, and the lost lands
being 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 into more ghastly trene4es, now
that the goodness of Providence had restored a gentle shelter
Xb his declining years. When seen wandering through his
fields at even-tide, he looked not like the patriarch musing
tranquilly on theworks and ways of God; and when my eyes
met his duriLg divine service, which he now again attended




OF SCOTTISH. LIFE                 107
with scrupulous regularity, I sometimes thought they were
suddenly averted in conscious guilt, or closed in hypocritical
devotion. I scarcely know if I had any suspicion against
him in my mind or not; but his high bald head,' thin silver
hair, and countenance with its fine features so intelligent, 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 became
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 disin,
herited 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 inherit.
ance. Having heard, on his arrival, that his uncle had sueceeded to the property, he came to me, and told me, that the
night before 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 pleasant fields that had so long
belonged to his humble ancestors-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 gray 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 frugma
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 table-and turning his eyes, he beheld before him on the floor the man whom he fearfully hoped had
been buried in the sea. His face indeed, at that moment,
most unlike that of prayer, but he still held up his lean shri.
velled, trembling hand-,-' Accursed hypocrite, cried the
fierce mariner,' dost thou call down the blessing of God on
a meal won basely from the orphan? 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
bands 4'




108          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS'
"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 knowledge, struck her down to the fibor. Sne
fixed her, bloodless face on his before whom she knelt-she
spoke not a single word. There was a sound in her 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 —h, -, ush, hushhush-till within a few days he has
sailed away in the hold of some ship to America. You surely will not hang on old gray-headed man of threescore and
ten years!'
" The sailor stood silent and frowning. There seemed
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 the foreyard-arm before now, for only
asking their own. But no more kneeling, woman-Holla'!
where is the old man gone?'
1" We all looked ghastly 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 endeavored to commit suicide. His own son cut him down, as
he 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 fainting fit, came shrieking from the mire in which
she had fallen down.' Poor people!' said the mailor with a
gasping voice,' you have suffered enough for your crime.
Fear nothing; the worst is now passed; 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 direful so.




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  109
cret all overbthe remotest places among the hills; for, in an
hour, people catpie flocking in from all quarters, and it was
seen that concealment or escape was no longer possible, and
that father and son were destined to die together a felon's
death."           I
Here tie 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 fatal discovery of their guilt. It had probably
been engaged in as a sort of amusement to beguile their unhappy mind of ever-anxious thoughts, or perhaps as a solitary occupation, at which they could unburthen their guilt to
one another undisturbed. Here, no doubt, in the silence and
solitude,' they often felt remorse, perhaps penitence. The",
~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 tne soulis
of them so tenderly beloved in their innocence, and doubtless even more tenderly beloved in their guilt and in.heir
graves, she carries to her lonely hut the water that helps tn
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 renew.
ing its grief,-" The prisoners were condemned. Hope there
was none. It was known, from the moment of the verdictguilty,-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 resiened. Ilu
man nature could not resign itself to such a doon); and I
found the old man pacing up and down the stone-floor, in his
clanking chains, with hurried 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 masFy
bolts were wvithdrawn, and the door creaked sullenly on its
hinges. The lather fixed his eyes upon me for some time,
as if I had been a stranger intruding upon his misery. and,
as soon as he kpew me, shut thern with a deep groan, and
pointed to his son,-' I have murdered William-I have




110           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
brought my only son to the scaffold,, and I am doomed to
hell!  I-gently called on the youth by name, but he was insensible-he was lying 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 recall to my remembrance, or describe
to you, every hour of anguish that I witnessed in that cell?
For several weeks it was all agony and despair-the Bible
lay unheeded befobre 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 those of sleep, seemed often to pass before him, till I have
seen the gray hairs bristle horribly over his temples, and big
drops of sweat splash 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 iiot how a deep change was at last wrought upon
their souls, but two days before that of execution, 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 looked like men recovering from a long and
painful sickness. 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 labor below the trees'of my own farm.
We have found resignation at last, and are prepared to die.'




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                111
" There were no transports of deluded enthusiasm 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 remorse had given way to penitence, and nature had become reconciled to the thought of
inevitable death, the light that had been darkened, but never
extinguished 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.
" 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 condemnation, 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 nothing, 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 frequent 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 steeples, watching the silent progress of the finger of
time, till it should reach the point at which the curtain was
to be drawn up from before a most mournful tragedy.
CC 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 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 ena




112           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
circling his own arms, he felt them not-he saw nothing bul
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 crowd.
ed hall, with a thousand eyes fixed on these two miserable
men. How unlike were they to all beside! 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
niost 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 prisonhouse, 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 ejaculated, or.#convulsively stifled, 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 translulcellt arch, and the sun shone joyously over the
magnificent heavens. It seemed 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 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 scaffold 7?-give me his hand, for I see him not.' I joined
their hands together, and at that momnent the great bell in the
cathedral tolled, but I am convinced neither of them heard
the sound. For a moment there seemed to be no such thing
as suand in..the world;-and men ir     at once the multitude
heaved like the sea, and uttered a wiid yelling shriek. Their
souls were in eternity-and I fear not to say, not an eternity
of grief."




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 113
THE FAMILY-TRYST.
THE fire had received an addition of a large ash-root and
B heap of peats, and was beginning both to crackle and blaze;
the hearth-stone was tidily swept-rthe supper-table set-and
every seat, bench, chair, and stool occupied by its customary
owner, except the high-backed, carved, antique open arme4chair belonging exclusively to the good man. Innocence, labor, contentment, and mirth, were here all assembled 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 wanting to make the happiness complete, was
Abel Alison himself, the master and father of th6 family.
It seemed to them that he was rather later than usual in returning 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 apprehensions of his saety;
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 him at the door, and to conduct the colt, for so they corn
tinued 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 sprinkling of snow and stiffening of
frost; he assumed his usual seat, or, as his youngest son and
namesake, who was the wit of the famfly, called it, his
throne, and supper immediately smoking on the board, a bless.
ing was said, and a flourish of wooden spoons ensued.
Supper being over, and a contented silence prevailing
with an occasional whispered mark of merriment or affection
circling round, Abel Alison rested himself with more than hisa
usual formality against the back of his chair, and putting oai
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 some.
thinig 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-.8




114           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
young and old-and turned towards their father with fixed
countenances and anxious eyes.
"Wife-and children-there is no need, surely, to go
found about the bush-I will tell you the worst in a word. 1
am ruined. That is to say, all my property 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 said
nothing. A slight convulsive motion went over all the circle
as if they had been one body, or an electric 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 repeated, 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, aud always inclined to look at every thing in a favorable light. He was also a most industrious, hard-working man. But he could not always say " nay,"-and what
he earned with a month's toil he had more than once lost by
4 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 9 man
f no principle-and Abel was now ruined-utterly and irre
trievably ruined. Under such circumstances, he could not
be altogether without self-reproach-and the kind magnaniwnity of his wife now brought the tear into his eye. "Ayay-I was just the old man in that foolish business. I should
have remembered 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
uponi 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFEM                 116
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 declare 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 gray head, and find it a pleasant shelter-a
smooth pillow-and a plenteous board;" and with that he unconsciously planted his foot more firmlhy on the floor, and
stretched out his right arm, standing there a tall, straight,
powerful 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 Cather, which might give way to dissatisfaction and
dep,.lldency,-but a true, deep, clear reconcilement o%
their souls to their lot, esil a resolution 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. "V'(e shall all go to service-no shame
in that. But we shall hava time enough to consider all of
these points before the term-day. We have some weeks
before 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 wido
chimney, and then placing the poker under it like a lever, ho
hoisted up the burning mass, till a blaze of' brightness dazzled all their eyes, and made r.uath start up from his slumbers on the hearth.




116           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
cc 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 mournful at the same time-' Auld lang
syne,' or' Lochaber 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 himself, 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 aften stolen my cheese and bread on
the hill when my head was turned-though you are no thief
either, Luath —   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-henceforth you must
eat grass like a sheep. Hold your nose —Sir-there —onetwo-three! Steady-snap-swallow! Well catched!' Digest that and be thankful."
"Children," said the old man," suppose we make a Family-Tryst, which, if we be all alive, let us religiously keepay-religiously, for-it will be a day either of fast or of thanksgiving. Let us all meet on the term-day, that is, I believe,
the twelfth of May come a twelvemonth, on the green plat 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. W~e 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 repining? God had given him health, strength, a
loving wife, dutifiul children, a good conscience. No palsy
had stricken him-no fever devoured him-no' blindness
darkened his path. Only a few gray hairs were as yet
sprinkled among the black. His boys could bear being looked at and spoken to in any company, gentle or simple; and
his daughters, they were like the water-lilies, that are serene




OF 8COTTISH LIFE.                  117
in the calm clear water, but no less serene among the black
and scowling waves. So Abei Alison and all his family ladown on their beds; and long before midnight they were all
fast asleep.
The time came when the farm-the bonny farm of.the
How was given up, and another family took possession.
Abel's whole stock was taken by the new tenant, who was a
good, and honest, and merciful man, at a fair valuation.
W~il h.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 Anderson's, the green, gray, black,
brown, and white grocer of' the village; and then he and his
family were left without a shilling. sYet none pitied theinlthey were above pity.-They would all have scorned either
to beg or borrow, for many of their neighbors were as poor,
and not a great many much richer, than themselves 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
farmer in'the next parish-which was famous for its agriculture. The second son, who was of an ingenious and thoughtful cast of character, engaged himself as one of the undergardeners 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 children, and
a companion to the elder-and Alice, who, from her sweet
voice, was always called the Linnet, 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 father 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, out of doors or in, came amiss to his fingers,
whether it required a delicate touch or a strona blow. Thus
were they all settled to their heart's content before the hedge.
rows 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




118           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
rather than the shut of light-the fitful, 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, tpo 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 Family-Tryst, the dear
twelfth day of the beautiful but capricious month of May.
Had any one died whose absence would damp the joy and
hilarity of the Family-Tyrst, an3 make it a meeting for the
shedding of tears? No.  A kind God 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 neighbors' 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 therr, and they saw before them all day that smooth
verdant plant, and heard the delightful sound of that water.
fall.
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 nature 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 deepening 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 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,
Cad been enjoying the gradual assemblage. " Blessings be




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.               n119
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.
9" I vote," quoth Abel, "that every man (beginning with
myvself. who will be the oldest man among you when I have
lived long enough) give an account of himself, and produce
whatever of the ready rhine 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 his 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 mv hands folded, or leaning on my elbows. Among
other slnall 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 Mili's garden wall with the fence round
the Fir Belt. I have delved to some decent purpose on some
half score of neighbors' kail-yards, and clipped their hedges
round and straight, not forgetting to dock a bit of the tails o'
some o' the peacocks and outlandish birds on that queer auldfashioned 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 banster on the Corn-rigs. I have threshed a
few thrieves in the minister's barn —prime oats they were,
for the glebe had been seven years in lea.' I have gonesome




120           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
dozen times to Lesmahago for the clear-lowing coals, a drive
of forty miles back and forward I'se warrant it. I have felled 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 251. 13s. signed by Baillie Trumbell'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 making o' butter
and cheese, the one as rich as Dutch, and the other preferable to Stdton. 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 or
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 201. in any market. So count that 351. my bonny bairns. Speak out, my
Willyj 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 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 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 become 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 gardener.
"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 ho




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 121
had to thank you for his ploughmanship-so have I for my
gardening. And wide and rich as the flower-garden is that
am to take now under my own hand, do you think I will ever
love it better, or sa weel, as the bit plat on the bank-side,
with its bower in the 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 and behold a modiwart's skin, with five and forty shillings in silver! It goes to
my heart to part with them. Mind, Ctther, I only lend them
to you. And if you do not repay them with two shillings and
better of interest next May-day, old style, I will put the affair into the hands of scranky Pate Orr, the writer at ThornyBank. 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 modiwart purse on the turf
-and that is lending money on heritable security."  A general laugh rewarded this ebullition of genius from Abel, who
received such plaudits with a face of cunning solemnity,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 pattern'd goun? You had not these at the
How —may be you got them from your sweetheart; "-and
Agnes 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 heartsome smile, her small wages of four pounds-and, last of all, the little fair-haired, blueeyed, snowy-skinned Alice the shepherdess, 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
glistening ringlets, and her smiling eyes, th/t 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 cr'eatures that had been busy there had all gone to




122           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
rest. The macis, 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 towards the laughing scene,
drew back unstaytled 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 brattle after
her through the wood. For she could only cock her fiud at
a' thy yelping, and land thee in a net o' briers to scratch thy
hide and tangle thy tail in. You canna catch a maukinLuath-they're ower soople for you, you fat lazy tyke."
The old man now addressed. his children with a fervent
voice, and told them that their dutiful behavior 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 km 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 sylvan
grace about her, that seemed to denote a somewhat higher
station, now appeared, along with a youth, who might be her
brother. Kindly greetings were interchanged, and room be.
ing 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 preBent of a comb for my hair, you ken, when you happened to




OF SCOTTISH LIFIE.                123
be on the ither side o' the wood. Oh! Abel, has nea she the
bonniest and the sweetest een that ever you saw smile?"
This young woman, who appeared justly so beautiful 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 sincere lovers. Sally Mather was the beauty
of the parish; and she was also an heiress, or rather now
the owner of the Burn-House, a farm worth about a hundred
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 farmer, but, by successful skill and industry, having been enabled, in the decline of life, to purchase
the farm 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 fulness of their exceeding joy.
" We are to be married at midsummer; 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 or
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 happiness could
there be to such parents than to think of passing the remain.
der of their declining life near such a son, and such a plea.
sant being as their new daughter? " Abel and I," cried
little Alice, unable to repress 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 the fields, bet.
ter and better every year. May we comne home to you from
service, Abel and I?T " 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




124          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
sure as that is the cuckoo. Harken how the dunce keeps
repeating his own name, as if any body did not know it al.
ready. 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 Iwas
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 suspicioni too
pleasant, too happy, to be true, passed across her maternal
heart. Her sweet Agnes was a servant in his father's houise
-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 hus.
hband, 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
nelghbor's, or in his seat in the Kirk. Such passing thoughts
were thickening in the mother's breast, and perhaps not
wholly unknown 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 marry the daughter of Abel Alison. For he wishes
me no other wife than the virtuous daughter of an honest man.
And I will be happy-if 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 receive it like dew into their opening spirits.
" Rise up, Alice, and let us have a dance," and with these
words little Abekcaught his unreluctant sister round the
waist, and whirled her off into the open green, as smooth as
a dloor. The young gardener took from his pocket a Ger.
mnan 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 dancmg-school, and had often danced by themselves on the fairy
rings on the hill-side, glided through the gloaming in all the
snazes of a voluntary and extemporaneous duet. And then,
descending suddenly and beautifully from the very height of




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 125
glee into a composed gladness, left off the dance in a moment,
and again seated themselves in the applauding circle.
"6I have dropped my library out of my pocket," said Abel,
springing up again —" yonder it is lying on the green. That
last touch of the Highland Fling jerked it out. Here it is-,bonny Robble Burns-the Twa Dogs-the Vision-the
Cotter's Saturday night-and many-many a gay sangand some sad anes, which I will leave to Alice there, and
other bits o' tender-hearted lassies-but fun and frolic for my
money."
"6I would not give my copy o' Allan Ramsay," replied
Alice, " fora stall fu' of Burns's-at least gin the Saturday
Night was clipped out. Whendid 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 —aid 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 aibllns called
It the Family-Tryst."  "I will do that myself," said Abe —
4' I am a dab at verse. I made some capital ones yesterday
afternoon —I wrote them down on my slate below the sum total; but some crumbs had fallen out o' my pouch on the slate,
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 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 declare the glory of God; and the firmament showeth his handy work. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night
unto night showeth knowledge. My children, let us kneel
down and pray."  They did so; and, on rising from that
prayer, the mother looking towards her husband, said, "I
have been young, and now I am old; yet have I not seen the
righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread."




s2G          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
BLIND ALLAN.
ALLAN BRUCE and FANNY RAEBURN were-mn no respect
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 beloved by their own friends
and relations. He was sober, honest, active, and industrious,
-exemplary in the common duties of private life-possessed
ofthe humble virtues becoming his humble condition, and unstained by any of those gross vices that sometimes deform the
character of the poor. She was modest, good-tempered, contpented, and religious-and much. is contained in these four
words. Beauty she was not thought to possess-nor did she
attract attention; but whatever charm resides in pure health,
innocence of heart, and simplicity of manners, that belonged
to Fanny Raeburn; while there was nothing about her face
or figure to prevent her seeming even beautiful in the eyes of
a lover.
These two humble and happy persons were betrothed in
marriage. Their affection had insensibly 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, tender, and true; they were prepared by
its strength to make any sacrifice for each other's sake; and,
had death taken away either of them before the wedding-day,
the survivor might not perhaps have been clamorous in grief,
or visited the grave of the departed 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 village. Thither, in about two monids,
he was to take his sweet and affectionate Fanny-she was
to work with her needle as before, and he in the fields. No




OF SCOTTISH LIFE..127
change was to take place in their lives, but a change from
contentment to happiness; and if God prolonged 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 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 marriageday.
At this time Allan began to feel a slight dimness in his
sight, of which he did not take much notice, attributing 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 labor, to gain a sum sufficient to furnish
respectably his lowly dwelling, and also to array his sweet
bride in weddina-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 indis_
tinctly discerned by him, and he lost altogether the smile
which never failed to brighten it whenever he appeared.
Then he became sad and dispirited, 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 different 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 passionate 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 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 breathed 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
into 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.




128           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
These meetings were always happy meetings to them
both, notwithstanding the many mournful thoughts with which
they were necessarily attended; 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 midnight bed, when his affliction was like to
overcomne his fortitude; and to know that he was still tenderly beloved 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 with 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 herimage, 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.
Allen and Fanny were children of poor parents; and
when he becarme blind, they, and indeed all their friends and
relations, set their faces against this marriage. 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 suchunion 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 b1right and sunny days of her youthful prime, to become chained to a blind
man's steps, kept in constant 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 hinself, " 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 bitterest 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 129
her; nor had his been an absorbing passion, although most
sincere. He had often been happy at his work, with his
companions, in the amusements 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, entirely out of his thoughts, from 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 tne coistant, nluslc of tne orner
mingling as a remembrance or a dream with the unpressnue,
thoughts, passions, and feelings of his ordinary hutnan ine.
But now, what had been less pleasant or necessary to him a"i
faded away, and he saw in his darkness one image onin..Fanny Raeburn-he heard in his darkness one souna euiz
-Fanny Raeburn's voice. Was she to smile in anotner
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 children, ana
pour with equal fondness her smiles upon the face of anotnae
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," yvhichi
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
heart-strings to be hourly torn up by the roots. If the two
were willing to be married, why should any one else interfere? 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 hus.
band? Or would the fear of poverty 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 that she believed that such was, in spite of this infliction,
the will of God.
Allan Bruce did not absent himself, in his blindness, from
the house of God. One Sabbath, after divine service, Fan9




130           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
ny went up to him in the church-yard, and putting her arm
in his, they walked away together, seemingly as cheerful as
the rest of the congregation, only with somewhat slower and
more cautious steps. They proceeded along the quiet mea.
dow-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
hakels, mingling with one tall weepinm 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 almost wept to see the earth, and
the sky, and the whole day so beautiful, niow that Allan's
eyes were dark; but he whisperqd to her, that the smell of
the budding treel, and of the primroses that he knew were
near his feet, was pleasant indeed, and that the singing of all
the little birds made his heart'dance within him-so Fanny
sat beside her blind lover in serene happiness, and fel'
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 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, I will marry thee, my belovedthou 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 —something 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 these 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 13t
do now, if indeed my heart can contain more affection than
that with which it now overflows."
Allan Bruce and Fanny Raeburn were married. And
although there was felt, by the most careless heart, to be
something sad and solemn in such nuptials, yet Allan made
his marriage-day one of sober cheerfulness in his native village. Fanny wore her white ribands in the very way that
used to be pleasant to Allan's eyes; and, blind as ne 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 became 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 party went away ill
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 fornmer fears,
There was, at once, a general determination formed all over
the parish to do them every benefit. Fannv, who had always
been distinguished for her skill and fancy as a setnpstress, became now quite the fashionable dress-maker of the village,
and had more employment offered than she icould accept. So
that her industry alone was more than sufllclont for all their
present wants. But Allan, though blind, was not idle. He
immediately began to instruct himself in various departments
of a blind man's work. A loom was purchased; and in a
few weeks he was heard singing to the sound of his fly-shuttle
as merry as the bullfinch in the cage that hung at the low
window of his room. He was not long in finding out the
way of plaiting rushi-rugs and wicker-baskets-the figures of
all of which were soon, as it were, visible through his very
fingers; and before six months were over, Allan Bruce and
his wife were said to be getting rich, and a warrmi blessing
broke from every heart upon them, and their virtuous and unrepining industry.
Allan had always been fond of music, and his voice was
of the finest tenor in all the Kifik. 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-,
say, at times he felt as if his blindness were a blessing-.for




132           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 hevas a freed man from all their slavery. He
was not immured, like many as-worthy as he, in an asylum;
he was not an incumbrance upon a poor father, 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 lamplighted streets and squares of a city, forcing out beautiful
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 highway under the sickening sunshine or the chilling sleet, with an abject hat abectly protruded with a cold heart for colder charity; —but
he was, although he humbly felt and acknowledged  that he
was in nothing more worthy than these, a man loaded with
many blessings, warmed by a constant ingle, laughed round
by a flock of joyful children, love-ternded and love-lighted by a
wife who was to him at once music and radiance-while his
house stood in the middle 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 neighbor, 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 poor, and
had it pleased God to send sickness among'them, hard lead
been their lot. But now they lived in a better house, wiil a
larger garden, and a few fields, with two cows of their own.
Allan had workmen under 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 ricth.
Their children were at school-and all things, belonging both
to outer and inner life, had prospered to their heart s desire.
Allan could walk about many familiar places unattended




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 133
but that seldom happened, for while his children were at
school he was engaged 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 were
visiting his straw manufactory, there was a surgeon 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
hopeless 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 longformed quiet and contentment of his mind by hopes never to
be realized, yet those hopes of once more seeing Heaven's
dear light gradually 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 uncontrollable 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 learnedlessons
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 restored. Grateful to him was its first uncertain
and wavering glimmer, as a draught of water to a wretch in
a crowned dungeon.-But he knew not whether it was to ripen into the perfect day, or gradually to fade back again into
the depth of his former darkness.
But when his Farny-she on whom he had so loved tG




134          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 before him with a face pale in bliss, and
all drenched in the flood-like tears of an insupportable happiness-then truly did he feel what a heaven it,vas to see!
And as he took her to his heart, he gently bent back her
head, that he might devour with his eyes that benign beauty
which had for so many years smiled upon him unbeheld, and
which now that he had seen once more, he felt that he could
even at that very moment die in peace.
In came with soft steps, one after another, hisifive 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 figure of
one and all of his children. One, he had been told, was like
himself-another the image of its motheir-and Lucy, he understood, was a blended 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 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 familiar 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 hibs now with brighter
satisfaction-and the happiness of his own soul gave a kinder
expression to their demeanor, and represented them all as a
host of human beings rejoicing in the joy of one single bro.
ther. Here was a young man, who, when he saw him last,
was a little schoolsboy-here a man beginning to be bent
with toil, and with a thoughtful aspect, who had been one of
his own joyous and laughing fellow-laborers 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 staffs-all this change he knew be.




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 135
fore, but now he saw it; and there was thus a somewhat
sad, but an interesting, delightful, and impressive contrast
and resemblance between the 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 sub.
mitted 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 ana tne 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 colors 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 unwaving, the smoke from
all its chimneys went up to heaven on the dewy morning-air.
He felt all this just by opening his eyelids. And in his gratitude to God he blessed the thatch of his own humble house
and the swallows that were tittering beneath its eaves.
Such, perhaps, were some of the feelings which A!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 undivided love of his
sweet contented Fanny-it gave to the filial tenderness of his
children something of fondest passion —and it taught him mo.
deration in all things, humility, reverence, and perfect resig.
nation to the Divine Will. It may, therefore, be truly said,




136           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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, between Ros.
lin and Lasswade-a bank sloping down gently to the Eskwas on sale, and Allan Bruce was able to purchase it. Such
an employment seemed peculiarly fitted for him, and also
compatible with his other profession.-He had acquired, during his blindness, much useful information from the readings
of his wife cr 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
gardening 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.
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 persecution.-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 mountains, it seemed as if human life were nearly
extinct. Caverns and clefts in which the fox had kennelled,
were now the shelter of Christian souls-and when a lonely
figure crept stealingly from one hiding-place to another, 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 baptize it, or the minister, driven from his Kirk,
perhaps poured the sacramental water upon its face from
some pool in the glen, whbse rocks guarded the persecuted
family from the oppressor. Bridals now were unfrequent, and
in the solemn sadness of love many died before their time




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 137
of rnmds sunken and of broken hearts. Whito 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 children were with
them, 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 silence 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 unto the faithful; if an old man died, it was in,the
religion 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 calln, serene
determination of matrons- who, with meek eyes and unblanched cheeks, met the scowl of the murderer-the silent
beauty of maidens, who with smiles received their deathand the mysterious courage of children, who, in the inspiration of innocent and spotless 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 ringlets 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 granddaughter, 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 joyfulness 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 blithe face, and a voice humming
sweetly some cheerful tune. The old people looked often




38           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
upon her in her happiness, till their dim eyes filled with tears;
while the grandmother said, " If this nest were to be destroy
ed 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, among
the green pasturage at the head of St. Mary's Loch, and up
the hill side, and over into some of the little neighboring glens.
Sometimes she sat in that beautiful church-yard, with her
sheep lying scattered around her upon the'quiet graves,
where, on stillisunny 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 Fairv," 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 ner nair.  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 the bent," and the ruffian took aim at the child with
his musket, half in sport, half in ferocity. Lilias kept appearing and disappearing, while she flew as on wings across
the piece of black heatheqy moss full of pits and hollowsand still the soldier kept his musket 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 moment, and looked back, and then bounded away over the
smooth turf; till, like a cushat, she dropt into a little burchen
glen, and disappeared. Not a sound of her feet was heard
-she seemed to have sunk into the ground —and the soldier




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 139
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 party, as
they sat down together upon a ledge of stone. " Saw you
her face, Riddle, as my ball went whizzing past her earcurse me, if she be not one of those hill fairies, else she had
been as dead as a herring-but I believe the bullet glanced
off her yellow hair as against a buckler."-" By St. George,
at was the act of a gallows-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 tip rose the speaker to put his threat into execution, when
the other retreated some distance, and began to load his musket-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 petticoat.
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 slboting 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 jiffy to their merman's-for mermaid, fairy, or mere flesh and blood women,
they are all the same in that respect-take my word for it."
The fallen ruffian now rose somewhat humbled, and sul.
lenly 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 yonder shingle where the fairy
disappeared;"-and the wager being accepted, the halfdrunken fellow rushed on towards the head of the glen,and
was heard crashing 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 countenance,
and that he had tumbled backwards into the burn and been
nearly drowned-" Drowned!' cried Allan Sleigh. "Ay,
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?n   And that jest caused u



140           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
versal 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 re.
freshment, and ripe for any outrage that any occasion might
suggest. The old man and his wife hearing a tumult of ma..
ny 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 were gone, she would see from some distance their muskets on the green before the door, and hide herself among
the brakens.
The soldiers devoured their repast with many oaths, and
much hideous and obscene language, which it was sote against
the old man's soul to hear in his own hut; but he said nothing,
fbr 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 forehead. The sight of it seemed to awaken the dormant bleodthirstiness in the tiger heart of the soldier, who now swore
if the old man did not instantly 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 reasonable, 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, stinking
of greasy black leather, worse than a whole tan-yard. If he
won't'speak, I will gag him with a vengeance. Here, old
Mr. Peden the prophet, let me cram a few chapters of St.
j uke down your maw. St. -Luke was a physician, I be.
oe. Well, here is a dose of him. Open your jaws." And




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 141
with these words he tore a handful of leaves out of the Bible,
and advanced towards the old man, from whose face his terriflied 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 receiving an indignity fromnt such a
slave made his blood boil, and, as if his youth had been renewed, the gray-headed man, with one blow, felled the ruffian to the floor.
That blow sealed his doom. There was a fierce tumult
and yelling of wrathful voices, and Samuel Grieve was led
out to die. HIe 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 follower, 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 folded 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 be.
come of our dear Lilias I" " God tempers 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 remember, at this moment, these words of Jesus,
which you this morningread, " Forgive them, Father, they
know not what they do."  "We are all sinners together,"
said Samuel, with a loud voice-" we two old gray-headed
people on our knees, and about to die, both forgive you all as
we hope ourselves to be forgiven. We are ready-be mer.
ciful, and do not mangle us. Sarah, be not afraid."
It seemed that an angel was sent down from Heaven to save
the lives of these two old gray-headed folks. With hair floating in sunny light, and seemingly 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 greenrobed 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 fice, instinct with fear, love, hope,




14.2          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
and the spirit of prayer, upon the eyes of the men about to
shed that innocent blood.
They all stood heart-stricken: and the executioners flung
down their muskets upon the green sward. " God bless you,
kind good soldiers, for this," exclaimed the child, now weeping and sobbing with joy, " Ay-ay-you will be all happy
to-iight, when you lie down to sleep. If you have any little
daughters 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 helds.-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 of, they soon
disappeared. The old man, his wife, and little Lilias, continued for some time on their knees in prayer, and then all
three went into their hut-the child between them-and a
withered hand of each laid upon its beautiful and its fearless
head.
THE COVENANTER'S MARRIAGE-DAY.
THE marriage party were to meet in a little lonesome 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 wildy
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; the moss, full of what the shepherds
iall " 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 143
called by the shepherds " The Queen Fairy's Parlor," tbat
Mark Keer and Christian Lindsay, who had long been betrothed, were now to.be made man and wife. 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 was sitting there with his bride, and her
bridesmaid; and by and by, one friend after another appeared below the natural arch that, all dropping with wild-flowers,
formed the only entrance into this lonely tabernacle. At
last they all stood up in a circle together-shepherds decently apparelled-shepherdesses all dressed in raiment bleached
whiter than the snow in the waters of the mountain-spring,
and the gray-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 wedlock 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 stood in awe before him the blessings of that
God who delighteth in an humble heart. The short ceremony was now closed —and Mark Keer 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 whispering 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 swell up in all hearts. Sadness and sorrow
overshadowed 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 Parlor, was
it not to enliven and rejoice all their souls? Was it not 4,
make the fair bride fairer in her husband's eyes-her smils
brighter., and lhe ringlets more yellow as they hung over a




LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
forehead that wore its silken snood no longer, but in its
changed covering gracefully showed that Christian Lindsay
was now a wife? The tabour and the pipe were heard; and
footsteps, that left no print on the hard smooth verdant 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 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 blackbird 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 party kept
dropping away one by one, or in pairs, just as it had gathered; andthe Fairy Queen had her parlor all to herself undis.
turbed, if she chose at night to hold a court beneath the lamp
of the moon.
Where had the young married pair their bridal chamber t
Mark Keer had a shealing on the mountain-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 no.
tice as the nest of a bird, or the lair of a roe. Thither he
took his bride. Her little bridesmaid had a small covert ot
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 waving birches that hung
down their thin and ineffectual veil till it swept the blooming
heather.
On a small seat, framed of the roots of decayed trees, Mark
Keer was/now sitting with his own sweet Christian; when
he gently raised her head from his bosom, and told her to go
into the shealing, for he saw people on'he hill-side, wnose
appearance, even at that distance, 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 145
rose at their approach, and met them with a steady countenance, although there were both fear and sorrow in his heart,
Christian had obeyed him, and the shealing was silent.
" Is your name Mark Keer?"  " Yes-that is my name."
"Were you at Yarrow-Ford when a prisoner was rescues
and a soldier murdered?" " I was-but did all I could tc
save that soldier's life." "You wolf, you mangled his throat
with your own bl6ody fangs-but we have traced you to yout
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 moon.
light 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 that a lump of your
slang?)-this bayonet shall drink a stoup of your heart's
blood."
Mark Keer knew, in a moment, that there was no hope ot
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 reversed, 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 ot
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 possessed them all,
and they were as implacable as a herd of wolves famished
and in sight of their prey. There was no mercy in a.v one
face there, else Mark Keer would have appealed u 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 stabbed Hugh when he was down with his own bayonet.
How do you like that, sirrah?"-and one of the soldiers 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 fainting, upon the seat where a few minutes.
before his bride had leant her head upon his bosom. But he
uttered not a word, and kept his eyes fixed, not reproaclfoi.,v
but somewhat sadly, and with a faint expression of hope, on
the men who seemned determined to be'his executiulle,:.
10




146          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
The pain, the sickness, the sludden blasting of all his hopes,
almost unmanned his resolute'heart; and Mark Keer would
have now done much to save his life,-and something, per.
haps, even at the expense 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 shealing,
and brought out Christian 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?"  Christian 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 consternation' 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 wvent up tottering 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 of the shealing, and brought a handful of-cold water,
which she sprinkled tenderly over his face. The human
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 wildly round upon them, one asked,' Arelyou his sister-his cousin-or his drab?" "Oh! soldiers-soldiers-I am his wife-this blessed day was I mar.
ried to himr. If any of you are married men, think of your
wives now at home-remember the day they were brides,
and d6 not murder us quite-if, indeed, my Mark is not already murdered." " Comne, come, Mrs. Sweetlips, no more
whining-you shall not want a husband. I will marry you
myself, and so I dare say will the sergeant there, and also the
corporal. Now you have had indulgence enough-so stand
back a bit; and do you, Master Paleface, come forward, and
down upon your marrow bones." Mark, with great difficul.
ty, rose up, and knelt down as he was ordered.
He had no words to say to his bride; nor hardly 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.




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 l4
Therefore it was that he said nothing as he knelt down, but
his pallid lips moved in prayer, and she heardher name indistinctly uttered between those of God and Christ.
Christian Lindsay had been betrothed to him for several
years, and nothing but the fear of some terrible evil like this
ad 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 reallty
and mere imagination. She now recalled to her mind, in
one comprehensive thought, their years of innocent and
youthful affection; and then the holy words so lately uttered
by the old man in that retired place, alas! called by too vain
a name, " The QOueen Fairv's Parlor!"  The tears began
now to flow-they both wept-for this night was Mark
Keer'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 merciful, 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 moment to
heaven, and then, with a cold shudder of desertion, 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 determined eyes held fast upon their victim.
". Think, my lads, tnat it is Hugh Gemmel's ghost that commands you now," said a deep hoarse voice-" no mercy did
the holy men of the mountain show to him when they smash.
ed 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 Christian 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 be6n lying affrighted among the brackens
within a hundred yards of the murder. The agony of grief




148           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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!
Christfan, your eyes are opening-z-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-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, opened 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 human
life. Cruelty cannot sustain itself in presence of that rueful
color, 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 smoke of the gunpowder had been carried away
by the passing breeze from that place of murder, all were si.
lenft, and could hardly bear to look one another in the face.
Their work had been lamentable indeed. For now they be.
gan to see that these murdered people were truly bridegroom
and bride. She was lying there dressed with her modest
white bridal garments and white ribands, now streaked with
many streams of blood from mortal wounds. So, too, was
she who was supporting her head. It was plain that a bridal
party had been this very day, and that her hands had prepared for a happy and affectionate newly-wedded pair that
bloody bed, and a sleep from which there was to be no awakiug at the voice of morn. They stood appalled on the bodies,
vhile, on the wild flowers around them, which the stain of




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 149
olood had not yet reached, loudly and cheerfully were murmuring the mountain-bees.
Christian Lindsay was not quite dead, and she at last lift.
ed 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 expired.
Marion Scott had never seen death before, and it was now
presented to her in its most ghastly and fearful 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 any thing she knew, it was now ner 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 shrieked aloud
on her bed. But the pale, placid, happy-looking faee 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, inspired her now with utter fearlessnessand she could have knelt down to be shot by the soldiers without 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 husband'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 deepar tinge to the purple heather, and as Marion lifted up her
-yes to heaven, she saw in the golden west the last relics of.he 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
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: 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 tfe dews would touch them




150           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 hill-side before the shealing where Mark Keer and
Christian Lindsay were now lifted up together on a heathercouch, 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 parlor, had not yet laid aside thei, white
dresses, and the little starry riband-knots, or bride's favors,
were yet upon their breasts. The old mmister 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 times 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 souls of them all, that the bridegroom and his bride
should be buried even thlat verynight in ihe 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. M ary's Loch. A grave was dug for them
there, but that was not their own burial-place. For Mark
Keer's father and mother lay in the church-yard of Melrose,
and the parents of Christian Lindsay slept in that of Bothd
well, near the flow of the beautiful Clyde. The grave was
half filled with heather, and gently were they let down to.
gether, even as they were found laying on the green before
their shealing, into that mournful bed. The old man atter.
wards 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 4ays
and years had been theirs-their affection-for each other had
been a pleasant solace to them in toil, poverty, and persecution. This would have been a perplexing day to those who
had not faith iin God's perfect holiness and mercy. But all
who mourned now together were wholly resigned to his dispensations, and soon all eyes were dried. In solemn silence




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  151
they all quitted the church-yard, and then the funeral party,
which a fiw hours ago had been a marriage one, dissolved
among the hills and glens and rocks, and left Mark Keer and
Christian Lindsay to everlasting rest.
THE BAPTISM.
IT is a pleasant ahd 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 cheerfulness 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
artns, tihe hplpless beings about to be made members of the
Christian Communion.
There sit, all dressed becomingly in white, the fond and
happy baptismal group. The babes have been intrusted for
a precious hour, to the bosoms of young maidens, who ten.
derly 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 father's hands. For the poorest 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 steadfast 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 before 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,




152           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
more especially, that he is a spiritual and. immortal being
making covenant with Sod. He i~ about to take upon him.
self a holy charge; to promise to lobk after his child's im.
mortal soul; and to keep its little feet from the.paths of evil;
and in those of innocence and peace. Such a thought ele.
vates the lowest mind above itself-diffuses additional ten.
derness over the domestic relations, and makes them who
hold up their infants to the baptismal font, better fathers,
husbands, and sons, by the deeper insight which they then
possess into their natur'e 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
now needful indeed to human infancy is the love of Provi.
dence! And when, after delivering 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 inhabitants of that parish found
other places in which to worship God and celebrate the ordi.
nances of religion. It was now the Sabbath-day-and a
small congregation of about a hundred souls had met for dlvine service 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, woods, moors, and fields; and the
snepherd 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 huidred feet high
of which the one side presented enormous masses, and the
other corresponding recesses, as if the great stone girdle had
been rent by a convulsion. The, channel was overspread
with prodigious 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  153
stretching vista, seemingly closed and shut up at both extremnities by the coalescing cliffs. This majestic reach of river
cbntained pools, streams, rushing shelves and waterfalls in.
numeraole; 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 unscaleable 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 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 gal.
leries from the solid rock, and laid at their feet the calm water
in its transparent beauty, in which they could see themselves
sitting in reflected groupes, 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 stnall natural pulpit of living stone. Up to it there led a
short flight of steps, and over it waved the canopy of a tall
graceful birch tree. This pulpit stood on the middle of the
channel, directly facing that congregation, and separated from
them by the clear deep sparkling pool into which the scarceheard water poured over the blackened 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
blossoms and green tresses of the broom. Divine service
was closed, and a row of maidens, all clothed in purest 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 infants about to be baptized.
The fathers of the infants, 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




154           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
of one ofthe upright stones that formed one side or pillow of the
pulpit, and the holy rite proceeded. Some of the younger ones
in that semicircle kept gazing down into the pool, in which the
whole scene 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 cotnjacted volume, clear, sweet, and strong, up to heaven. When
the psalm ceased, an echo, like a splrit's voice, was heard
dying away high up among the magnificent architecture of
the cliffs, and once more might be noticed in the silence of
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. 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 concealment. The more active and young as.
sisted the elder-more especially the old pastor, and the wo..
men 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 soldiers 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! Hunmphrey, 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 salvation, a noble
cathedral!"    Fling the lying sentinel over the cliffs.Here is a canting Covenanter for you, deceiving honest sol.
diers 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 shadow; and, mixing with the tall green broom
and brushes, was making his lraseen way towards a wood.
Saitan 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' Kit




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  155
tie Nine Stanes.' The hunt's up. We'll be all in at the
death. Halloo-my boys-halloo!"
The soldiers dashed down a less precipitoqs.part of the
wooded banks, a little below the "'craigs," and hurried up
the channel. But when they reached the altar where the
old gray-haired minister had been seen-standing, and the
rocks that had' been covered with people, all was silent and
solitary-not a creature 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 demure
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 hemmed them in, and hearing pnly the small voice of the stream that sent a profounder
stillness through the heart of that majestic solitude.-" Curse
these cowardly Covenanters-what if they tumble down
upon our heads pieces of rock from their hiding-place? Advance? Or retreat?"  There was no reply. For a slight
fear was upon every man; musket or bayonet could ble of little use to men obliged to clamber up rocks, alonig sieldvr
paths, leading they knew not - where; and they v ecrt a at e
that armed men, now-a-days, worshipped God-men of roll
hearts, who feared not the glitter of the soldier's armns —neither barrel nor bayonet-men of long, stride, firm step, and
broad breast, who, on the open field, would have overthrown
the marshalled line, and gone first aud foremost 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-briers, and the broom, anid the
tresses of the birch trees. It came deepening, and rolling,
and roaring on, and the very Cartland Craigs shook to their
foundation 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
aomne on their faces, upon the sharp-pointed rocks. Now, it
was like the sound of many myriads of chariots rollin, on
their iron axles down the stony channel of the torrent.. T'he
old gray-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




156           LIGHTS AND SHADO~WS
moment filled it with one mass of waves. Huge agitated
clouds of foam rode on the surface of a blood-red torrent.
An army must have been swept off by that flood. The sol.
diers perished in a moment-but high up m the cliffs, above
the sweep of destruction, were the Covenanters-men, wo.
men, and children, uttering prayers to God, unheard by themselves, in that raging thunder.
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 allaved animosity. In his Kirk, in his Manse, in his neighbor's house,
in the field, and by the way-side, he was, in good truth, the
minister 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 respectability and happiness.
But it is with the humble 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 hap.
py till he dies."
Simon Gray's eldest son, a youth of distinguished talents,
and even more tenderly bRloved than admired by all who
Knew him, was drowned in a moor-lan 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
heardhis cries, but could do nothing to save him, when, rush.
ing 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 com.
pany, 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 fa



OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 157
ther! 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 neighbormg city, and in the unreserved confidence of his employers.
Regularly every Saturday did he walk out to the Mansestay over the Sabbath-and next morning before breakfast
appear at his desk. But one dark and stormy winter evening, in the middle of the week, he unexpectedly entered his
father's study, and flinging himself down upon his lnees, declared that he was a ruined and lost man-that be had formed a guilty connexion with a woman who had led him on to
his destruction,-and that he had embezzled his benefactor's
money-done worse-forged 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 call 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 — will
give thee enough to pursue thy journey-and so also may I
he able to repay all thou hast embezzled. 0, Stephen-Stephen-my beloved boy, who hast so often sat in thy 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, m a few
weeks after his arrival, of the yellow fever.
The miserable father knew not how to break the matter to
his wife and dauahter. They saw his affliction-and he told
them he feared Stephen was a profligate. 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. Ne
one ever uttered Stephen's name, althoqgh there was not a




-58          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
nouse in all the parish where his cheerful laugh had not been
welcome. Ill as he had behaved, dishonestly and vilely,.af.
fec'ion for his memory was in every heart. But a grave look
or sigh was all in which any one could show this sorrow and
sympathy now; and the minister of Seatoun understood the
silence of his parishioners, for his dead son had been a felon
-ay, Stephen, the gay, witty, fearless, and affectionate Stephen had been a felon. He ad 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 into the Manse,
in some degree affected her intellects; her memory from that
night was impaired, and after her brother's death in America
had been communicated to her, she frequently forgot it, and
weeping, implored to know if he had not lately written home.
"  He must he 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 desolation. 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
parent'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 memorial 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. She attended to every thing about the house as before; none of her due.'
ties to the poor or rich among her parishioners were neglect.
ed; and but for her, it was said, that her husband must have
sunk under his sorrow.s. But little do we know of each
other's hearts. Simon Gray was disconsolate-miserable



OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 159
despairing; but his health did not suffer-and he was able to
discharge his ordinary duties as before, after a short suspension. She who administered comfort to him, sometimes 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 lo avoid the noon-day sun. Death had come
gently into th~t 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 conceive. 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, at one time, no doubt, thought and felt that for them
never more could there ne one glimpse'ofjoy 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 submission. Then mingled motives to better and calmer thoughts
arise. Men see the wisdom and 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 sojourned 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 would fain lie grovelling
hopelessly in the dust.
So it is with many-perhaps with most men-but it is not




160           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
so with all. Tt was not so with him ofwhom 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
driawn with a more sickening and disconsolate passion of grief
to her grave. An overwhelming tenderness for ever drowned
his soul-haunted was he for ever by her image, dressed as
he had never seen her,but ashe knew she now was dressel,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
asked, was this man so distressed, so distracted, so infatuated
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, but who, undistinguished
among their fellow-creatures, live, and die and go to heaven
Simon Gray had married her when they were both young,
both humble, as indeed they always had been, and both poor.
She brought to him pure affection, a heart full of tenderness
and pity, a disposition as sweet as ever tinged a woman's
cheek with smiles, cheerfulness never obscured, simple
thoughts reconciled in joy to a simple life, and a faith in reli.
gion as perfectas in the light of the outer day. In her quiet
and narrow neighborhood 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 affec.
tion, but such change as nature graciously 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 161
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
9wn soul? God didl 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, with outcries of grief that have no comfort, with
recklessness and despair.
He seemed now to be without any object m this world.
Hlis 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 congregation 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 somewhere he
perceived and felt the change, with unavailing self-upbraiding,
and with fear and trembling before his Creator and Redeemer.
This sore and sad alteration in their minister was observed
with grief' and compassion 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 faltered, when bythe cottage firesides they
talked of their poor minister's afflictions, and the woful change
that had been wrought in so short a time within that Manse,
which had so long stood like the abode of an almost perfect
blessedness.
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 ser
vants. Without comfort, under the perpetual power of despondency and depression, hopeless, and not wishing for hope,
afraid at last of the uncompanioned 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
11




162           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
influence of dangerous drugs. These often gave him nights
unhaunted by those beloved spectres whose visits were un.
supportable tohis soul. They occasioned even thoughts and
fancies alien and remote from what he so loved and feared;
and now and then touched his disconsolate spirit with some.
thing like a gleam of transitory gladness. One moment to
be happy, was something that his weakened mind conceivea
to be a gain. Afraid and terrified with his own thoughts,
great relief was it to be placed, even for. the shortest time,
otut 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 art agony, and night after night, ti)l
at last it followed regularly the unhappy man's prayers; and
Simon Gray, so that his loss might be buried in oblivion, resigned himself into that visionary or insensible sleep.
No doubt his mental sufferings were often thus relieved;
but the sum of his misery was increased. Horrid phantasies
sometimes assailed him —his health suffered-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 two was weakened,
and that his life might terminate in imbecility or madness.
He had now sevesal separate states of existence, that
catte by degrees into ghastly union. One was his own natural widowed, childless, forlorn, uncompanioned, 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. The dead
seemed reanimated-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 his wife and children. Thepotent 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
horrid hints of the truth. One corpse after another lay before him-he knew them, and went'up to close their eyesthen a sense of his own pitiable prostration of mind came
over him, and still unable to know certainly whether he was
or was not a childless widower, he w)uld 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 163
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 Sea
toun were now visibly changed to the most careless eye
His sedate and gentle demeanor was converted into a hurried
and distracted wildness. Sometimes he was observed ip
black melancholy and despair-and then again in a sort of
aimless and unbecoming glee. His dress was not the same
-his countenance haathe wrinkles but not the paleness of
grief-his hand trembled, and his voice sounded not like the
voice of the same man.-A miserable rumor 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 temperate, the pious, and the just, was now a winebibber and a drunkard.
The Manse now stood as if under ban of excommunication. All the gravel walks, once so neat, were overgrown
with weeds; the hedges were unpruned; cattle browsed often in the garden; and dust and cobwebs stained and darkened every window. Instead of the respectable farmers of
the parish, the elders, or some of the few neighboring gentry, being seen entering or leaving the Manse, none but men
of doubtful reputation, or bad, opened the gate-strangers of
mean appearance and skulking demeanor haunted it, and
lingered about at twilight-and not unfrequently the noise,
clamor, and quarrelling of drunken revelry startled the passer by from bounds wherein, 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
honored; 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 palliationsmany 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
ioined to the affection for him a profound pity and pure comrn



164           LIGHTS AND SHADOWVS
passion.-" Was he not a widower? Was he not childless?
-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 temporal 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 daylight, in presence of old age that mourned, and childhood that could only wonder, a rueful spectacle
of degradation, laughing or perhaps weeping, with his senses
drowned or inflamed, ignorant of himself and 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 forgotten; traths
once clear to him as sunshine, were now no more known:
the great doctrines of Christianity which he had so long
taught with simplicity and fervor, became to his weakened
and darkened understanding 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
tines dimly recognized, for all was now glimmering 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 lamentations and blessings.-Most sadmost 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 leading
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, alternately yielding to a wailing tenderness
and a shuddering horror-forgetful now of every thing but
the dim confusion of all those deaths and his own miseries,




OF 8COTTISHI LIFE.                165
and now seemingly assailed with a dreadful consciousness 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 punished 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 possessed, that he had never
once polluted or violated its sanctity. In cases of furious in.
sanity, it has been known that patients whose lives had been
religious, have felt the influence of strong habitual associa.
tion, and kept a wild Sabbath even in their cells. With the
minister of Seatoun this mysterious force had hitherto imposed a saving restraint. His congregationwas sadly thinned,
but still he performed divine service; and no one at least
could say that they had ever seen the wretched 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 redemption.
Next day the elders went to the Manse. His servants
made no opposition to their entrance, nor did they deny that
their minister was at home. Thev 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 for a while
spoke not a word. " Come down with me into the parlor,"
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, shud.
dering-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 belongI have polluted the church-I have insulted the God who
made me, and the Saviour who redeemed 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




166           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
you to say unto your wretched mimster? Say it quicklyand then leave me lying on the floor. Lift me not up!"
His body lay there, in this prostration of the spirit, before
men who had all known him, loved him, respected him, venerated him, not more than one year ago.-Much cf that was
now for ever gone; 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 briought with them sorrow
and tribulation, and even anguish in their souls. For they
knew that his ministry was at an end; that Simon Gray was
now nothing 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-remembered them
in his public Sitayers 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 gratefill distinctness; and to soften their hearts; and even to bedew their faces with tears; and to fill their whole souls with
pity, sorrow, and 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 wanting? 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 himand when the miserable man implorped one of the riumber to
offer a prayer for him, they all solemnly 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 rdmorse, and the disease that




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                167
clung close to his soul, 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 different 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 always stood high in the
esteem and love of this uneducated, but mitelligent farmerhe had visited him occasionally with his wife and children for
a few days, and 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 remorseful, and
repentant brother. His own wife, his sons, and hissdaughters,
needed not to be told to treat with tenderness, respect, and
pity, the most unfortunate man; and on the evening when
e came to their house, they received him with the most affectionate warmth, and seemed, by the cheerfulness of their
manners, not even to know of the miserable predicament in
which he stood. Happy were all the young people 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 become, on decent occasions
a hard-working laboring 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 vworthy people, the very change of scenery
had no inconsiderable effect in shrouding in oblivion much o.
his past misery. Here, in this solitary glen, far, far away
from all who had witnessed his vices and his degradation, he
felt relieved from a load of shame that had bowed him to the
earth. Many long miles of moor-many great mountainsmany 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 thermselves up to
the sunshine. Many enormous belts and girdles of rock separated him from all these; he felt safe in his solitude from
the power of excommunication; and there was none to up.
braid him with their black,. silent countenances 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 enormous mountain, or sat by the roar of some foaming
cataract. And when he went into a lonely shealing, or a




168           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 resemblance to what he
had seen and heard in his former 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 constituted the being of
his life now; and, as the roar of the wind came down the
glens, it swept away the remembrance 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 converted 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 feeling, 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, forsaken, and haunted
Manse, where every room swarmed with unendurable
thoughts, were exchanged for an abode entirely free from all
recollections and associations, either too affecting or too af.
flicting. The simple gladness that reigned in hisbrother's
house stole insensibly into his soul,. reviving and renovating it
with feelings long unknown. There was no violent or extravagant joy in which he could not partake, and that might
form a distressing and gafling contrast with his own grief. A
homely happiness was in the house, in every/room, and about
every person; and he felt himself 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, hut he felt that yet might he be
saved; he had thought himself excommunicated from the fellowship of the virtuous, but he. felt himself treated, not only
with affiction, but respect, by his excellent brother, all his
nepliews and nieces, and the servants of the house. His soul
hoped that its degradation was not utter and irretrievable.
iIuman beinmgs he began to see, could still love, still respect,
evn.I hbie they pitied him; and this feeling of being not an
) ~ — -~-'-`-~d' -— ~0




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                169
outcast from his kind, encouraged him humbly to lift his eyes
up to God, and less ruefully, and not with such bitter agony,
to prostrate himself ia prayer.
He thus found himself lifted out of the den of perdition;and, escaped into the clear unhaunted light, he felt unspeakable horror at the thought of voluntarily flinging himself back
again among these dreadful 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 advice
-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 frequently returned and more lastingly remained; and then Simon Gray believed that God was, indeed, accepting 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 laboring in the fields, or in the garden, or
in the barn, or searching for sheep in snow or tempest, with
his brother or his nephewsi-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
He rose with the light or the lark-all his toils were statec
-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 this humble, laborious, and, it may be said, happy life,
years passed 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 remembered-he repented
all his former shameful transgressions. 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 txied and fell-of
his beloved Susanna and the children sleeping by her side in
Seatoun church-yard-and of that dear, but guilty boy, who




170          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
died in a foreign land. In his solitary labors 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 birch-wood,
and by the little waterfall, with his wife,.and boys, and girland 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, administered, 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 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 creatures, yet he gave them up all of a father's -heart that
was not buried in those graves which had-so quickly, one after the other, employed the old sexton's spade. And often,
no doubt, when his heart was perfectly calm and happy, did
he love his brother s children even as he had loved his own.
Many years thus passed away, and with: them: almost 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 an humble walk of life.
Simon's own mind had been long subdued to his lot. He felt
himself -to be what he appeared; - and he was distinguishable
from his brother, whom in aspect and figure he greatly resembled, only by an air of superior intelligence and cultiva,
tion. His. hands were like his brother's, hardened by the im.
plements of labor-his fact6 was as embrowned by the sunand his dress, on week-day and Sabbath, alike plain, and in




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                171
all respects 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 irresistible desire to revisit,
once before he died, the neighborhood at least of the dear pa.
rish once his own, if not the dear parish itself.'Many must
have now forgotten him; and indeed ten years; at his period
of life, and all his severe miseries, had done the work of twen.
ty-so, although but sixty years of age, he seemed at least a
man of threescore and ten. Accordingly 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 coinforted 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 distant about ten miles only
from his own Manse of Seatoun. But'a river and two ranges
of hill 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 overwhelmingly, as
he had expected. A party of farmers from different distridts
dined together, and after dinner one of them, whose treatment of Simon, though not'absolutely insulting, -ad been
rude and boisterous all day, began to indulge in very brutal
talk, and to swallow liquor with an evident design to produce
intoxication. Simon endeavored to avoid all conversation
with this person, but on one occasion could not avoid gently
remonstrating with him on his grossness. He also kindly'dissuaded him from drinking too much, a-sin of-lhich, from bit-ter experience, he had known the miserable 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 reprover, and soon showed that he was but too intimately acquainted with all the deplorable and degrading circumstances
of the case. In the coarsest terms he informedethe whole
company who they had got among them; directed their attention to the solemn hypocrisy of his countenance; assured
them that his incontinence had not been confined to drinking;
and that even inthe Highlands the old shiner had corrupted




172          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
the menialsin his -brother's house, and was the reproach of
all Lowlanders that visited Strathglass.
This sudden, unprovoked, and unexpected brutality annibilated 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 woful 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
drunkard. 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 outrageous and brutal merriment
of his insulter, the triumphant peal of self-applauding brutality, and the clenched hand struck upon the table in confirrpation of the truth of his charge, and in defiance of all gainsayers. 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 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 then rushing —or as yet he had no determined
purpose in his mind. One wish alone had he at this hourand 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 solita.
ry race through the howling darkness of the night. He notlced 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 snowand 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 re



OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                173
store to peace my disconsolate, my troubled, and despairing
soul."
There had been but little change for ten years in that pastoral parish. The sinall wooden bridge across the Ewe-bank
stood as it did before, and as his feet made 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 dis..
lurbed world of the past. He moved on. A light wa's in the
parlor window-the same room in which he used to sit with
his wife and children. Perhaps he wept by himself in the
darkness. But he hurried 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 fall-,
ing down prostrate in the pelting snow, he kissed the cold
stone beneath his cheek, and with a breaking heart ejaculated, " 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 rweep 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 was like silver that formerly had been a bright brown ~
but the expression of the dead iall's countenallnc was perfectly serene —and the cold night had not been felt by Sinlon
Gray.
THE RAINBOW.
A SOLITARY pedestrian was roaming over the glens and
mountains in a wiid district of the Northern Higtllands of
Scotland, when a rainbow began to form itself over part of
the magnificent landscape. He was, not withojt reason, a
melancholy and grief-haunted man; and the growing beauty
of that apparition insensibly touched his heart with a delighted happiness to which he had for a considerable time been a
stranger. As the varied brightness of the arch which as yet




174           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
was scarcely united, but showed only several glowmg frag.
ments, gradually became more vivid, his whole being felt
a sympathetic exhiliration-despondency and sorrow laded
away, and he once more exulted in the natural freedom of the
prime of life. WVhile 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, appeared
to be a majestic entrance into another and more magnificent
world. The sides of these two mountains, 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
colors forsaking the sky, embodied themselves in a mass of
splendor on each side of that wide glen. For a few moments the
edge of each mountain was veiled and hidden in that radience;
but it gradually melted away into colourless air, the atmo.
sphere 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 glittering in freshened beauty-the birds were singingthe 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, entranced 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,Xvas
like a triumphant 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 suddenly 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 appertain, and which, without any gran.
deur, yet suited in its unpretending and venerable. solemnity
the character of that lonely and lovely place. He descend.
ed into the vale, and happy he knew-not why, walked along
the widehing 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 17
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 un.
expectedly brought together in a situation calculated' to show
something of their character, now prevented so sudden a
parting,-and they who had thus casually met, having entered into conversation, began in a few minutes 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 amongthe Highland mountains, to form an acquaintance in this way
with two such persons as those with whom he was now en.
gaged in pleasant conversation. They seemed to be mother
and daughter; —and when, after half an hour's walk, the
stranger found himself in a spacious and elegant room, the
guest of a high-bred and graceful lady in a widow's weeds,
and apparently with one beautiful daughter in her retirement,
he could scarcely help thinking that the vague imagination
which had led him thither under the rainbow's arch, might
have some influence even on the complexion of his future
life.  He had long been a melancholy man; and minds
of that character are often the most apt to give way to sud.
den emotions of gladness. He closed up all remembrance
of one fatal incident in his life under a heap of fresh-spring.
ing 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 sharing, never had
he felt so free from anxiety and sorrow, and so like his former
self, nor so capable of the enjoyment of life and every thing
around him that was beautiful and enlivening. As the evens
ing drew on, his heart was sad to think that, as he had come
a stranger, so like a stranger must he be parting; but these
few hours had sunk intohis heart, and he would remember
them as long as he lived, and in the remotest parts ofb e
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 to forget, the object of its transitory tenderness?
It may be so with many, for the accidents of time teach dif.
fereat lessons, all equally necessary and' wholesome perhaps




176           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
to different hearts; butbefore human nature has been sorely
afflicted, tried, or deceived, its temper is opened 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 fountains of love in the human soul. The saddest turn often is 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 so long clung with infatuated despair, at the
sight of youth, beauty, and innocence, rejoicing before him in
untamed, fearless, and triumphant bliss. Th' re 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 tendencies incour 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 interest or selflove. But nature follows other processes; 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
stiinger 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 expression of pity, and at last even stained
with irrepressible 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 17
night of storms," said the lady, looking kindly towards the
stranger. " It is not Highland hospitality to let a guest de.
part at dark, and in tempest-you must return with us to our
house;" and a huge thunderous cloud, that overshadowed half
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, swol.
len on a sudden by the deluging rain, roared along the swinging wo9ds, 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 passed
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 passed
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 sounded 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 conclusion of one air. a Chieftain's Lament, the mother heaved
a deep sigh; and in the siledie 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 sung it."  But that mood passed away; and before retiring to rest, the stranger said gayly,
"Your wandering guest's name is Ashton."' "We are
Stuarts," 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 awoke, 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
12




118           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
phantom once seen, and to smile upon him no more. He rose
at sunrise, and from the window contemplated the gradual
dying away of the storm-the subsiding of the torrent 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 pbssession 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.
It was the Sabbath-day, and Glen Creran, that, a few
hours agp, had been as loud as the sea, was now not only
hushed in the breathing repose of nature, but all rural labor
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 devPtion. 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 parlor, 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 salutation, a solemn expression belonging to
the hallowed day, and to the religious state of feeling which
it inspired. 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 woman's features. The Kirk was some miles
stant; but they were prepared to walk to it; and Edward
Ashton, without speaking on the subject at all, accompanied
them on their way to divine service.
To an Englishman, who had never before seen a Highland
Sabbath, the scene was most delightful, as the opening of
every little glen brought upon him some new interesting
groupe, journeying tranquilly 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-colored Highland tartan mixed with the pure white of
dresses from the Lowlands, and that mingling of different




OF SCOTTISH. LIFE.               1;9
costumes in the same groupe, gave intimation of the friendly
intercourse now subsisting.constantly between the dwellers
of hill axnd of plain. No haughty equipages carrme sweeping
by. Almost all the assembling congregation were on foot —
here and there an old man on a rough mountain pony-there
perhaps man and wife on a stronger steed-and there a cart
with an invalid, or the Weak and aged, with a due accompaniment of children. The distinction 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 time, performed in the English language, and the Kirk was decently silent in sincere and unostentatious devotion.
During service the Englishmar, chanced to fiK his eyes on
a small marble monumental slab in the wall above the seat,
anrd he read these words-SAcRED TO THE MEMORY OF
CHARLES STUART, LATE CAPTAIN IN THE FORTY-SECOND REGIMENT, WHO DIED AT VIENNA, 3D AUGqUST,
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 thousand miles away from the place where he now s'at. 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,re-animate. 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 delight in that air."-The mrtirderer 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 upon 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-he began to breathe more freely, and had
just strength to stand up when the congregation rose to pray.
t. Hie saw glimmering and unsteady beside him, the meek




180           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 hurried 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 bitter~ sigh. " For the love of God-let
us, if possible, retire from the crowd, and lead me to some retired 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 lonely as if it had been
far among the mountains. " No houses are in this direction,"
said the mother, somewhat 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 cwater 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 liimpid water, till he felt the sickness
depart, and his soul'revive.
He rose up from the seat, and looking steadfastly on their'
countenance, and then lifting his eyes to Heaven, he stunk
down on his knees before them-and said, " My name is now
Ashton, but it was not always so-hateful, horrible, and accursed, must that other name be to your ears-the name of
Edward Sitwell."
The mother uttered a faint shrieji, and- her head fell -back,
while the daughter sat down by her side, and clasped her
arms with loud sobs round her neck. The stranger remained upon his knees, with his hands clasped, and his eyes fixed
upon them who now beheld 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, indistinctly said,




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 181
"Fatal-latal name indeed-has God brought before me, on
his benllied knees, the man beneath whose sword my dear
Charles died? Oh' God of mercy, teach me how I should
feel in this wild and most sudden trial."  "Pray for mepray for me to God —and also intercede for me with your mother when I am far away-for, believe me when I say, that f
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 irresistibly detaining in the pity that
was fast streaming from the eyes of poor Mary Stuart, to
whom he had addressed himself, that he stood riveted to the
spot; and he thought too, that the face of the mother began
to look with less horror upon him, and seemed clouded with
a humane and Christian compassion. He said nothing in his
own vindication-he uttered a few words in praise of'the
dead-and standing 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 synli
pathy for him who felt so profoundly his own guilt. " Go no.t
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 woman 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 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 behavior. In spite of her natural repugnance, she could
not help feeling that he might have fallen in that quarrel ilnstead of her beloved son-that there were no circumstances
dishonorable or cruel attending it-and that by his own confession' the day before, when ignorant into whose house he
had wandered, he had for a long time led a life of melancholy and despondence, arising from She 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




-182         LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
by the violence of her feelings, and that it would be right, ge.
-nerous,-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 something, 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 practise
those lessons of perfect forgiven~ess 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 beeh merciful unto me-and therefore let
me now still my beating 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 her.
self-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 childhood, yet her growing thoughts and feelings towards
a thousand new objects, calculated by their nature to 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 iihcription 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
ate in life, and so strangely brought to them, should not wander off for ever thus forlorn and despairing, her soul rejoiced




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 183
within her, the former 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 Gren Creran to the old
mansion, the character of the weather-of the sceneryof the day,. seemed to them  all to have undergone a
change. A mere sober music was in the rills; the sky was
not so dazzlingly clear; a dim shadow 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 profound feeling, in which aversion, dislike, or repugnance had no share
-all these had vanished-although, when they sat down together in the parlor, 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 oblivionn.ow he was one whom they never could 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 crimne.
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 un.
troubled 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 awayand 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 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 nore.
All the domestics now came into the room, some of them




184          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
old gray-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, ih 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, as they bent down with their clustering 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 mansion, like an adventurer of the days of old in the land of Fairy; 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 conceived
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, his spirit expanded within him, and hd
dared to look forward to a bright futurity. Had not that fatal quarrel been forced upon him by the impetuous character
ol his antagonist? Had he not received from him perfect
forgiveness, and many acknowledgments 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 though
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 uh



OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 185
witnessed and unparticipated grief. Many a one who had
been involved in the same fatality easily and soon forgot it,
and ldd the same cheerful or careless life as before, 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 candor 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 hqd expired with a cold hand
clasped in his, and with his head on a pillow which his care
had smoothed.
As for Mary Stuart,-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
herfrom disturbed sleep, to him her earliest thought unconsciously turned, and he was not forgotten in her orisons.
The rich and cheerful 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 ascended by himself to the mountain-tops.
and waited till the wreathed mist rose up In the early sunlight, and revealed far below the motionless silence of the
wooded glen. He sat alone by the mountain-citaracts, and
traversed the heathery shores of the great wide inland lochs,
or the rocky margin of arms of the sea. Valleys that stretchedoffinto the dim and distant day, shortened beneath his
feet; and he enjoyed the stern silence of the black pine forest, darkning 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
strained 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 unaccompanied solitude 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 coverts by the streamlet's panks-along
green meadow-fields-glades where the young fawn might
te seen at play-and into cottages where many a blithe and




186          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
weather-beaten face welcomed the visits of them whose vi.
sits 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 emotions of tenderness and pity towards him
who did justice to all his virtues, and who was willing to let
all blamne rest on his own head, rather than that any of it
should alight on him who was in his grave.'" 0, 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 steadfastly in her face, and said,
1" Why am I lingering 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 tobe 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 breaking. He waited in terror for the firs
words of the reply, 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 familytelling how he haJ changed his name for that of a kinsman,
to whose estate he had succeeded.-" 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."
rhey rose up, and returned in silence to the house.
That evening EdwardAshton and Mary Stuart walked




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 187
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 innocent thoughts and feelings, to him
wh9 was now her lover; it knew no disguise, nor had it one
single emotion to veil or conceal. No passion agitated sweet
Mary Stuart, no wild dreams of imagination, no enthusiastic 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
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. WVhen 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 her innocent and
virgin heart.  But dear to her as he 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 departure, 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 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 radiance
smote the distant clouds that were dissolving into a gentle
shower, over the woody terminaton of the glen. - "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! agaian shines in all its beauty the fair Arch of Promise!"
These~i'ere his last words at parting, and they were remem.
bered by Mary Stuart, and often repeated by her as she
wandered through the solitary woods, thinking on her be.
trotled Edward. The hours, though they seemed to.linger




188          LIGHTS AND SHADOIWS
cruolly, at last had chased one another down, the channel of
time, like the waters of a changet'ul rivulet; anti the morning
ft' Mary Stuart's wedding-day shone over Glen Creran. A
happy day it was all among the mountains of' Appin, and also over the laautif'ul vale of Lorton in England, where, between their Christmas carols, many a cup went round among
]he tenantry, to the young Squire and his Scottish Bride.
THE OMEN.
THEREn  was a cheerful and noisy evening party even in
the parlor of Crofthead, the humble residence of a Scottish
Laird, who inherited a small estate from a long line of obscure ancestors. The family consisted of himself, wife, and
only daughter, and about half a dozen servants belonging to
the house, the dairy, and the farm. A good many neighbors
had now been gathered together at a tea-drinking: and the
table, on this occasion, exhibited various other liquors, 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 distributed round the board;
and from the frequent titterings, and occasional hearty bursts
of laughter, it could not be doubted that much delicate wit
and no little broad humor 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 to the jocularity of the evening 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 ornament than a pink riband, had
an appearance that might well be called elegant, when gently nrving along the richly adorned love-locks and ringlets
that waved so seducingly round the brows and cheeks of the
other more ambitious and unmerciful young ladies. There
was not one in the whole parish, high or low, rich or poor,
that- could for a moment. 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 sim.
plicity of her whole character, would, have extinguished that
feeling, and converted it into willing admiration and'affec



OF 8COTTISH LIFE.                 189
tionate regard. " Sweet Jane Nasmyth" she was always
called, and that expression, although at first hearing it may
not seem to denote much, was indeed just the one she de.
served, 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 Nas.
myth contrived to leave the merry party, whether unobserved
or not is uncertain, and glide away through the budding lilacs
into a small arbor 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 Crawfurd, a young man of an an.
cient 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 uncurtained windows of the cottage-parlor to the lovers in their arbor; and
the sailor gayly said, " How could you leave so joyful a part
to come and weep here?" In a few minutes Jane Nasmyth
dried her tears; fbr she was not one who gave way Ileedlessly to desponding 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 battleand in shipwreck; and
while that remembrance comfortedr 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 upfolded
might almost be heard budding in the bower, as the dews de.
scendad upon them with genial influence. A slight twitter.
ing 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, thtt 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 dim.
ness ovgrathe stars. " We shall have fair weather for a fort.
nightat least, Jane, for there is no halo yonder;" 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




190           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
a moment was natural, but to fear them was impossible; her
soul was strong in the undisturbed quiet of nature, and all
her accustomed feelings of trust in Providence now gathered
upon it, and she knew her sailor would return well and hap.
py to her arms-and that she would then become his wife.
" I will cut two little branches of 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 ourselves, 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 persons
at their time of life. To be sure they were rather too old for
such trifling; for Arthur was twenty-two years of age, and
Jarne wanted but a few months of nineteen. But we all become
wiser asare get old; and perhaps the time came when these
ose-plants were suffered 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 depended
the lives of those who planted them; and Jane watered thenm,
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 soon.
Why don't you ask me to join the party?" It was well known
that they were betrothed, and that their marriage was to
take place on his return from this cruise, so, with a blush,
Jane introduced him into the parlor. "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 duripg this time shaking the old man
by the hand, so firmly, that the water stood in his eyes, and
lie exclaimed,'I Why, Arthur, your fist is -like a vice. It
wouud not do for you to shake hands with any of the yotung
lasses there-you would make the blood tingle in their fingers. Sit down, my dear son, and while the younkers are
busy among themselves, let us hear what the Frenc:  and(
Spaniards are about, and if it be true that Lord Nelson is goulg to give them a settling again."  So passed the evennug




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  191
y; —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 Crofthead 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
rumors of an expected engagement, and her heart fluttered
at the sight of every stranger. But her lover's letters came,
if not regularly, yet in pleasant numbers, and their glad and
cheerful tone infused confidence into her heart. When he.was last away, they were lovers; but- now their marriage was
fixed, and his letters now were written as to his bride, overflowing with gratitude and delighted affection. When she
was readinag 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 before her, with all their glorious flags and ensigns.
But 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 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 omIEN 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 mornmng sun; and there,
too, she marked the first diamonds of the evening dew.  They
grew to her' heart's desire; and now tliat 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'seemed 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 beautiful, and every leaf swarmed, not with poetic,risions, 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




192           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
in that garden; and had they been.dug up, it would have been
felt as a sacrilege; had they withered, the OMEN would have
struck through her very life. But they did' not wither; and
nothing touched them but the bee or the'butterfly, or happily
for a moment the green linnet, the chaffinch, or the redcap,
half balanced 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 behind 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 sunlight, 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 fielAs 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, were gentle; its movement
was calm as if it had never drifted with the rapid tide, or been
driven'through the howling tempest; and as it again rose up
fromn the herbage and the wild flowers, and hovering over her
head for a little while, winged its way down the vale over the?eaceful woods, she sent her whole soul with it to the ocean,
arld heaved a deep sigh unconsciously as it disappeared.
The summer was now over, and the autumn at hand. The
ray-fields were once more green with springing herbageand bands of reapers were waiting for a few sunny days, till
they might be let loose in joyful labor upon the ripened grain.
Was the Amethyst frigate never to finish her cruise? Sep.
tember surely would not pass away without seeing her in
harbor, and Arthur Crawfurd at Crofthead. Poor Jane was
beginning to pine now for her lover's return; and one after.
noon, on visiting, almost unhappy, 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 re.
membered 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 awakens nor lulls to sleep the pas.
slons of human beings, which obey, in the darkness of'thelr




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 193
mystery, many unknown and incomprehensiblelaws. " 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 happy faces of
her parents, who were sitting together listening, according to
their usual custom, to an old spectacled neighbor busy at a
newspaper, the Edinburgh 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 Schoolmaster,
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 accidents; state of the weather,
births. deaths, and marriages, a pleasing and instructive medley. Just as Jane had taken her seat, the good old proser
had got to the ship-news, and he announced, without being in
the least aware of what he was about, " FOUNDERED IN
THE LATE TREMENDOUS GALE, OFF THE LIZARD, 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 violence 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 me."  After many long-drawn sighs, and
many alarming relapses into that deadly swoon, Jane opened
her eyes; and looking round with a ghastly wildness, saw the
newspaper lying on the floor where it had dropped from the
old man s trembling hands. Crawling with a livid face towards the object of her horror, she clutched it convulsively
with her feeble fingers, 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. "Foindered"" Tremendous gale"-" Every soul perished."-" Oh! great
and dreadful God-my Arthur is drowned at last."
Sbome of the kind domestics now came into the room, and
13




194          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
with their care, for her parents were nearly helpless, the poor
girl was restored to her senses. She alone wept not-for her
heart was hardened, and she felt a band of cold iron drawn
tight around her bosom.-There was weeping and sobbing,
toud 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 people 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 mind;
but no piety can prevent nature from shrieking aloud at the
first blow of a great calamity. She wished herself deadand 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 mother at another, while the latter had
just strength to say: " Our Father which art in Heavenhallowed be the 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 seemed 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. Wo is me-wo is me
-Arthur is drowned at last!"
They lifted her from the floor-and to her own wonder,
she fell not down, but could stand unsupported on her feet.
"Take me up stairs to my bed, mother-letme 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 parents-to
forgive my impious words!"
They supported her steps-and she asked to go to 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-stake me
away, for I feel that visions beset my brain!" They half'.ifted her in their arms towards the door-while she conti



OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 195
nued to say faintly,-" It smiled-yes, it smiled-but Arthur's body is margled, and bruised, and crushed by timber,
and stones, and rocks-lying on the sand somewhere, while I
was singing or laughing in my miserable delusion-his fice
gnawed by sea-monsters,"-and then -her voice was chok
ed, 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 entrance, 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 enibrace, feel that his betrothed maiden was insensible to his
endearments. 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 welcome?" But so many death-like
or agitated countenances soon told him that some strong
passion pervaded the party-and he began to have his own
undefined fears-for he had not yet visited his own father's
nouse. 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
tne old schoolmaster, too, who felt himself to blame, although
sent for on purpose to read aloud the news, and certainly not
answerable for erroneous 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 transport 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 deo
prived 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 are dried. Hername will be known soon enough!"




196           LIGHTS AND SHADOWVS
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 sailorfor better or worse-a longer- or shorter date-and no doubt
I shall be as happy as -any of my messmates. Not one of
them all has such a sweatheart' as thou art-a dutiful daughter
makes a lovina 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 ahake his faith in Christianity;
the many hardships and dangers which he had encountered
and escaped, had served to deepen all his religious 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 steadfast earth. So he knelt down
to prayer with an humble and grateful spirit, and as he felt
his own Jane breathing by his side, on her knees, and knew
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 rumor sank the good ship Amethyst? ComeJane-let us go and see." And as some hundredA of swallows were twittering on the house-top in the evening sunshine,
collected there with a view either of flying across seas to some
distant country, or of plunging down to the bottom 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 honey-suckle, that guarded a garden into
which there were no intruders, 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 showed to
Jane's eyes a few hours ago; no evil OMEN was there nownut they seemed likely to live for many years, and every sea.




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  197
son to put forth their flowers in greater number and in ticher
beauty.
CONSUMPTION.
THE moss-roses are still clustered in their undecaying
splendor above the porch of Calder Cottage; the bees are
murmuring in their joy round 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 embowering 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
csIPtivated life. A finer character of beauty pervades the still
seclusion, than the hand of labor ever shed over its dwelling
in the gratitude of its Sabbath-hours; all around seems
nlinistering 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 profusion over the bloominf walls, the mind cannot but think of some delicate and
gentle spirit retired from the world it hail 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 these 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
heavenly 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 almost seemed a smile still shone over her placid features, yet had that lady undergone in her day hardships, 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 bedside-her




198           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
hand closed his eyes -and wrought his shroud-and she was
able to gaze with a steadfast 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 funeral on the field
of battle. Perhaps, then, she wished to die. But two chil.
dren 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 blessed
before these infants 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 request-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 griefwas calm, but it
was constant-it repined not, but it wasted away-and though
all dcalled 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 pity-a higher feeling arose in every heart from the resignation so perfectly expressed in every motion, look, and tone-and beautiful as she was on earth, there came across the souls of all
who beheld her a thought of one yet more beautiful in heaven.
Her three daughters, although their health had-always
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 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 demeanor, and
they seemed bound together by some tie even more strict
than that of sisterly affectiof. 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 themselves with respect to
that of one so dear to them all. She was ready and willing




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  199
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 parting
spirit to see those three beautiful spectres gliding round her
bedside, with countenances and persons that plainly told they
were fast hastening on to the tomb.
The funeral of the mother was conducted as it deserved to
be-for humble as she was in heart, yet she had 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 Sabbaths,
were again seen walking, arm in arm, into the church, and
taking their seats in their own pew, the whlole 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 re.
ceived the visits of their few dear friends with warmest gra.
tltude, and those of ordinary condolement, with a placid content; they did not appear 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 sympathise
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 parlor,
in which every thing was still as elegantly and gracefully arranged as ever, wondered why the fair sisters should so seldom be seen out of their own dwelling; but no one, even the
most. thoughtless and unfeeling, ever left them without far




200          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
different thoughts, or without a sorrowful conviction that they
were passing, in perfect resignation, the remainder of thelt
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 Calder 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 Calder Cottage.
It was even -a sublime satisfaction to know that God was to
call them away from their mortal being unsevered; and that
while thev 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 band to the grave. When the sun shone,
they still continued to wander along the shaded banks of
their beloved Calder, and admire its quiet 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 blossoms of another spring. They strewed, as before, crumbs for the small birds that had built their
nests among the roses and honey-suckles 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 their 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 rece.;rved with as kind smiles as
ever, when they came to receive their weekly dole. The
children whom they had clothed and sent to school met with
the same sweet voice; 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 unexpectedly 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 upon either of
these orphans when they could not be enjoyed. But they




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                201
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 hbly 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 falter, which would
have been, had the same dying Christian 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 thle aged for the young, who
wept not for themselves, except when they thought how that
benign old man had stood by their mother's death-bed, and
when she had lost her utterance, let her spirit ascend upon
his prayers to heaven.
Caroline was the first to die. Her character, unlike 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 ot
the one, and the melancholy stillness of the other, without
seeming ever to be inconsistent with them; nor did her natural and irrepressible 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
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, m spite of herself, the strange fire that glowed in
the embers of her life, kindled it often into a kind of airy glad.
ness, so that a stranger would have thought her one on whom
opening 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 davs of
her death, was gay in the exhilaration 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 was
found by them, when they came down to the parlor, 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 followed
by Emma the next in age. Emma, although so like her sister who was now dead, that they had always been thought by




202           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
strangers to be twins, had a character altogether different.
Her thoughts and feelings ran in a deeper channel; nature
had endowed her with extraordinary talents, and whatever
she attempted, serious acquisition or light accomplishment,
in that she easily excelled.-Few, indeed, is the number of
women that are eminently distinguished among their sex and
leave names to be enrolled in the lists of fame. Some aceidental circumstances of life or death have favored those few;
and their sentiments, thoughts, fancies, feelings, and opinions,
retain a permanent existence. But how many sink into the
grave in alltheir personal beauty, and all their mental charms,
and are heard of no more! Of them no bright thoua'ts Pre
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 speculations on the mystery of human life, vanish for ever and aye with the parting
breath. A fair, amiable, intelligent 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 mellow yet so mournful, could ever
have so fitly sung.
The sufferings of this sister were heavy indeed, and she
at last prayed to be relieved. Constant sickness, 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 incessant 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
possessed 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 continual suffering, her last
hours might be visited with visions too trying and terrible;
but the reverse was the case, and it seemed as if God, to re.
ward a life of meekness, humility, and wisdom, removed all
fear from her soul, and shbwed her the loving, rather than
the awful mysteries of her Redeemer. On her dead face
there sat asmile, just as pleasant and serene as that which
had lighted the countenance of Caroline, when she fell asleep




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 203
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
ner 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 received 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 gray osier-seat in the sunny garden, without feeling a
death-like 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
establishment of his own health, and he instantly hurried home
to Scotland. Caroline and Emma were in their graves;but
he had the Mournful 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 persuasions. " The thought is sweet to lay our bones
within 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 shet tears over the sod that covers me,
keeping 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 natural 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 Blantyro is now a thought most
pleasant to my soul."




204           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
In dry summer weather, a clear rivulet imperceptibly shrinks
away from its sandy bed, till on sonie morning we miss the
gleam and the murmur altogether-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 attendant 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
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.
AN enormous thunder-cloud had lain all day over Ben-NevS, shrouding its summit in thick darkness,blackening its
sides and base, wherever they were beheld 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 mountains, had,
during each successive hour, been expecting the roar of thunder and the deluge of rain; but the huge conglomeration of
lowering clouds would not rend asunder, although it was certain that a calm blue sky could not be restored till all that
dreadful assemblage 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 shelter of the pine.




OF SCOTTISH  LIFE.                205
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 sivadow 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 earthquake
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 joining 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 fioo6~ along the great open straths, or tumbling
in cataracts from cliffs overhanging the eagle's eyrie.
Great rivers were suddenly flooded-and the little 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 torrents, 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 era 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 beings overtaken by the wrath of that
irresistible tempest.
It was not a time to be abroad; yet all by herself was hast.
ening down Glen-Nevis, from a Shealing far up the river, a
little girl not more than twelve years ofage-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 the
vivulets from which, on any other occasion she would have




206           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
turned back trembling; and she did not even near many of
the crashes of thunder that smote the smoking hills. Some.
times, at a fiercer flash of lightning, she just lifted her hand
to her dazzled eyes, and then, unappalled, hurried 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; but she had been born among the
hills, had first learned to walk among the heather, holding by
its blooming 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 cop.
pice beside her own beloved shealing.
She had now reached the gateway of the beautiful hereditary mansion of the Camerons-and was passing 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 together, (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 parlor-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 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 endeavored to dry up her tears. Nothing,
however, could induce her to go into the parloror 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 people belonging to her own condition, and who all crowded
round her with sympathizing hearts, and fixed faces, to hear
every thing about poor old dymg 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                207
ascertained that he could not be under ninety-and many
maintained that he had outlived an hundred years. He recollected the famous old Lochiel of the first rebellion-had
fought in the strength and prime of manhood at Cullodenand had charged the French on the heights of Abraham. He
had ever since that battle been a pensioner; and although he
had many wounds to show, both of bullets and the bayonet,
yet his iron frame had miraculously maintained its strength,
and his limbs much of their activity 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 dying red deer to the ground. He had lived
for thirty years in a Shealing built by himself among a wild
heap of sheltering rocks, and for the last five, his little orphan
granddaughter, the only one of his blood alive, had been his
companion in his solitude. Old Lewis was the best angler
m the Highlands, and he knew all the streams, rivers, and
lochs. Many thousand grouse had tumbled otr the heath beneath his unerring 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 himself 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 after. parallel roads and vitrified forts, and town gentlemen 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 knowledge, 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 thdir rifles, they followed with
him the red deer over the bent, and were happy if, at nightfall, one pairof antlers lay motionless on the heather.
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 collected together during the storm, and
indeed every person in the house, felt a deep interest in the
old man's fate.-" Ay, 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.ittle Flora, who was now standing beside the fire, with her




208           LIGHTS AND SI-ADOWS
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, 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 Ohe
wind, which was now beginning 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. " Nobody is with him-poor old man-never,
never may IUsee 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.
It happened that the minister of the parish, young Mr.
Gordon, was in the house, and one of the shepherds went to
call him out from the parlor, 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 agitation, but in vain-and as the good priest, Mr. Macdonald, did not appear, 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 Fora to thl 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 Badenoch 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 into the hurricane, and little Flora was as
safe under their care as if she had been sitting in the Kirk.
The party kept well upon the sides of the mountain, for the
Nbvis 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, covered with tall birches, or a few native pines, stood islanded here and there, perhaps 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




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 209
-and the child felt, that had she been allowed to go by her
self, the Nevis would have soon swept her down into the salt
Linne Loch. In an hour all the wild part of the journey was
over: their feet was on a vast heathery bosom of a.hill, down.which only small rills oozed out of gushing springs, and soon
iost themselves again-and after a few minutes' eavsy walking,
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 grandfather, if alive, will, bless your
face at his bedside."
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 the bend of
the river, which was seen coming down.from the cataract
several miles distant among its magnificent 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 discolored flood-the'mountains
of heather that enclosed 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 cataract went half-way up the wooded cliffs, and gave a slight tinge of beauty, with its blue and
purple mist, to the grim and howlina solitude. High above
all-and as if standing almost in another world, was seen now
the very coast of Ben-Nevis-for although fast rolling clouds,
and mists, and stream, girdled his enormous sides, all vapors
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 itsown-and over the door, which could not be entered even by
little Flora without stooping, was extended the immense ant
lers 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. Flora 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 over-hanging
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




210          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
been noping 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 sinful soul obt 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, 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 lav there like an old chieftain of the elder time-one of
Ossian's heroes unfortunate in his later age —and dying in.
gloriously 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 discern a sublime amphitheatre of woodland cliffs, and it 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-buthe had never
violated its ordinances-and that he was a good Catholic was
acknowledged, otherwise he would not have been so well beloved 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 cannon ball is more merciful."  Then Flora wept, and




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                211
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 willbe a wild den soon-and the raven will situpon
the deer's horns when I am gone. My rifle keeps him on
the cliff now-but God forgive me!-what 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.whlite hair and
ghost-like 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. Ay-I am. a pensioner.of the Kin's-_
and I will leave enough to make Auld Lewis Camerons  funeral as cheerful a ane as ever gathered together in a barn,
and likewise leave Flora, there, enoughl to make life blithe
when she is a woman."  Flora brought out the goat-milk
cheese, the barley cakes, and the whiskey'jar; and, old Lewis
nimself having blessed the meal, Mr. Gordon, the shepherdsi
and'little Flora too,'sat down and ate.
Old Lewis looked at them with a smile. "Myeyesight is
comeoback to me.-I see my Flora there as bonny as ever.-.
Taste the whiskey, Mr. G'ordon.-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.. 1But
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 serje'ajt-..evyeral
Indian warriors were by, with long black hair. and..outlasidish
tresses. I saw Wolfe die-and justbefore he died our lis




212          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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
Quebec, next day, was ours. I remember it all like yesterday." 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 children. His was a long look back through the noise
and the silence of several generations. "Great changes,
they say, are going on all over the world now. I have seen
some myself in my day-but oh, my heart is sad to think on
the changes in the Highlands themselves. Glens that could
once have set out a hundred bayonets, belong entirely now to
some fat Lowland grazier. Confound such policy, says auld
Lewis Cameron."  With these words he fell back, and lay
exhausted 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 shame and anger, and in a twinkling
there was a cry 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 were up, and we were
wet-shod in bluid. I was among the foremost wi' my broadsword, and cut them down on baith sides o' me like windlestraes. 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 tombstane." 
Hamish Fraser did as he was desired-and the wild soundof 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 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 horseback comning
up the glen-one is on a white horse."  " Ay —blessed be'odi thatis the good priest-now willI die in peace. My




OF 8COTTISH LIFE.                213
last eartnly 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 religion
is at hand-and it is pleasant to die in the faith of one's forefathers. When he comes-you will leave us by ourselveseven 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 before 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 mother the undefiled virgin. He
then uttered a few indistinct words addressed to the person
who accompanied him-and there was silence in the Sheal.
ing.
", 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 William, and he would
not suffer me to come up the glen alone-so you now see
him along with me, Lewis."  The dying mal said, " This is
indeed Christian charity. 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 Episcopal —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 merciful to me a sin.
ner."
The Catholic priest was himself an old man-although
thirty years younger than poor Lewis Cameron-and he was
the faithful shepherd of a small flock. He was revered by
all who knew him for the apostolical fervor of his faith, the
simplicity of his manners, and the blamelessness of his life.
An humble man among the humble, and poor in spirit in the
huts of the poor. But he had one character in the Highland
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 undistinguished among those
of men gifted with talent and rich in erudition. He had pass.
ed his youth in foreign countries-but had returned to the
neighborhood of his birth-place as his life was drawing to-.
wards a close, and for several years had resided in that wild
region, esteeming his lot, although humble, yet high, if through




;Ufi14        LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
him  a few sinners were made repentant, and resignation
brought by his voice to the dying bed.
With this good man had come to the lonely Shealing Mr.
Christie, the Episcopalian clergyman, who had received his
education in an English University, and brought to the discharge of his duties in this wild region 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 ardent zeal, were
all estimated by them as they deserved; and while he willingly
bowed to their superior talents and acquirements, he maintiined an equality with them both, in that devotion to his sa.
cred duties, and Christian care of the souls of his flock, with.
out 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 having subsisted for several years between these three ministers 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, dislike, and disunion, seemed to vanish into air, between people of these different persuasions,
when they saw the true regard which they whom they most
honored and revered thus cherished for one another; and when
the ordinary unthinking prejudices were laid aside, from
which springs so much imbitterment of the very blood, an appeal was then made, and seldom in vain, to deeper feelings m
the heart, and nobler principles in the understanding, which
otherwise would have remained inoperative. Thus the dwellers m the glens and on the mountains, without ceasing to
1ove and delight in their own mode of worship, 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 finially to be laid at rest, yet all lived and died in mutual
toleration and peace. Nor could there be a more affecting
example of this than what was now seen even in the low and




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                216
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 essentials too, was now one and the same, as
they stood beside that death-bed, with a thousand torrents
sounding through the evening air, and overshadowed in their
devotion by the gloom of that stupendous mountain.
All but the gray-haired priest now left the shealing, and.sat
down together in a beautiful circlet of green, enclosed with
small rocks most richly ornamented 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 blos.
soms from the calmer gardens of the Fort. These and the
heather perfumed the air-f'or the rain, though dense and
strong, had not shattered a single spray, and every leaf and
every bloom lifted itself cheerfully up, begemed with large
quivering diamond drops. There sat the silent party-while
death was dealing with old Lewis, and the man of God giv.
ing comfort to his penitent spirit. They were waiting the
event in peace-and even little Flora, elevated by the presence of these holy men, whose offices seemed now so especially sacred, and cheered by their fatherly kindness to herself,
*sat in the middle of the groupe, 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 ot
the ancient main. 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 sob.
bing, as if her heart would break, for she had kissed his cold
lips, from which there was no breath, and his eyelids thatfell
not down over the dim orbs. " He is dead- e is dead!"
said the child: 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 touched them, letting down its clear dewdrops on her yellow hair. As she sat there, a few goats, for
it was now the hour of evening when they came to be milked
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




216           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
over;and though the torrents had not yet begun to subside!
there was now a strong, party, and no danger in their al,
journeying homewards together. One large star arose in:heaven-and a wide white glimmer over a  breaking mass of
clouds told that the moon was struggling through, and m another hour, if the upper current of air flowed on, would be apparent. No persuasion could induce'little Flora to leave the
Shealing-and Hamish Fraser was left to sit with her all
night beside the bed.
So the company departed-and as they dbscended 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 caverns. It was Hamish Fraser pouring out a lament on the
green before the Shealing-a mournful but martial 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 hdllow of his native mountains.
HELEN EYRE.
It a beautiful town in the south of Scotland, distinguished
by the noble river that sweeps by its gardens, its majestic
bridge, its old crumbling tower, and a grandee's princely do4.
mains 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 wealk 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 principles, 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 eyesunspoken to but by his voice, solitary indeed when he was
absent, and revived by his presence into a troubled and miserable'delight, that even mote than her lonely agonies told
ber that she was 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 dious name, yet when no eyes were upon her




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 217
but those of Marmaduke Stanley, she forgot or cared not for
all that hurniliaiion, arid, 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 endearments and attachment of him whom all admired and so
many had loved. To be respectable again was impossible
-but to be true to the death unto her seducer, if.not heir
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 highway,
or a gleaner in the field, often did her conscience tell her;
but though conscience spoke so, how could it act, when enveloped and fettered in a thousand tntertwisted folds of affec.
tions 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 husband, had been
ordered suddenly away to America-and Helen was left be.
bind, (not altogether friendless,) 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 Marinaduke, 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 disappear among the
trees, she said, "l 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 murmuring lips f)r 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 super
riors —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 moment?
No doubt, so pretty and elegant a being must have had many
who once loved and were proud of her-but such thoughts




218          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
Sassed by with the bier,-she wasburied, and a plain stone
id over her, according to her own desire; "HERE LIES
HELEN'EYRE, AN ORPHAN, AGED TWENTY-TWO YEARS."
There was one true Christian who had neither been afraid
nor ashamned to visit Helen Eyre during the few last weeks
of her life, when it seemed almost certain that life was near
its close. This was Mrs. Montgomery, the widow ofa country gentleman of good family, who had for sdme years resided in the town. This excellent woman knew Marmaduko
Stanley, and was not a stranger to the circumstances of this
unfortunate and guilty connexion. On his departure, she had
promised to take care that Helen Eyre should he 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 one
life had been a model of all that was good and beautiful and
lofty in the female character, bent down over the penitent sinner and kissed her fair young biow, now cold and clammy in
the death-throes, that Christian kiss seemed to' assure her
that-she might be forgiven; anld, if God, as we believe, beholds the creatures he has made, it was registered in Heaven.
Mrs. Montgomery took the infant into her own houseand had written, to'inform its father of what 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 fllund that
he had bequeathed his small fortune of four thousand pounds
to Mrs. Montgomerv, that she might settle it properly on the
mother of his child if she survived, if not, upon-the itfant..The infant orphan was christened Helen Eyre, after its
mother, whom, trail as she had been, there was no need that
her child, at least, should ever disown. No one wished to
have the baby that now belonged to none. And this excellent lady fromn no whim, no caprice, no enthulsiasm, but touched at the heart with its utter and forlorn helplessness, by sot.
row for its poor mother's transgression and ear:ly fate, and by
something of a maternal affectionfor'its dead father, 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 disdained-and a few even blamned-thi
kindness that could rescue an orphan from an orphan'a fite,
M.any5 too, wondered, they knew not why, when it was knownl




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                  219
that Major Stanley had lef; all his fortune to Mrs. 1Vontgo
mery for behoot 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 character was summed up in that worda Christian.
It often seems as if those children who have fewest to love
them in the world, grow up the most worthy of love. IHere
was an orphan born in sin, in shame, and in sorrow-and nov.
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 timne,
too, it was said, when- her presence had been welcome in the
halls even of the noble, who had visited her parents in theirpleasant dwelitilg beside their own church. Her father, however ]eficient in mlore solid worth, had been the ornament of
polished life; and it seemed as if nature preserved in this
slnall and beautiful and graceful iniage 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 exceeding 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 favorite with all.  Besides, she was
the adopted daughterof Mrs. Montgomery, and that added
a charm even to her beauty, her sweetness, and her innocence.
The heart of Helen Eyre expanded, month after month,
in the joy of its innocence, and felt the holy voice of nature
whispering to its new feelings of love- and affection.'The
children with whom she played had falhers and mriothers, bro.
thers 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 Iong ago. Something sad and melancholy, therefore,
mixed itself with youth's native gladness, and a correspond.
ing expression settled itself about her eyes, and often smooth.
ed the dimples on her smiling cheeks. "English Helen's'




220           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
own heart told her what she had often heard her childish conm
panions say, that she was; an orphan; but she knew that
though that was something mournful, it could not be wicked,
and thiat, therefore, people would pity her more-not love her
less-because her father had been killed in the wars, andher
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 churchyard, near the Old Tower, and, attracted by the murmuring blossoms of a shady horse-chesnut
tree, that hung its branches over several tombs and grave.
stones, in a corner near the river-side, she tripped into the
shade, and letting fall her eyes upon a gray 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 perhaps 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 weep.
ing eyes fixed upon her face, as she spoke in a bewildered
and perplexing grief, she came to know at last that her mo.
ther had been guilty of a great sin, but had been forgiven b)
God, and had died happy. The child was told, too, although
she could scarcely believe, that some might love' herself 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, arid obedient to God's holy laws. " Your
nmother, Helen, was a kind, gentle, and religious being; and
you must always think so when you weep for her; here be
side her grave, or elsewhere. When you are older, 1 will
tell you more about her, and about your birth. But, my be.
loved, 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 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 orphan
could make no reply, for her little heart was full almost to
breaking-and she could only kiss the hand that took her'{
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




OF SCOTTISH' IIFE.                  221
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 ihat of poor Helen Eyre.  This feeling is different in different minds; hut, perhaps, in very few, such as seems reconcileable with a true Christian spirit. Scorn and aversion
towards the innocent, however modified, or restrained by better feelings, is not surely, in any circumstances, a temper of
mind any where expressly recommended, or indirectly instilled by any passages in the Ne;w Testament; and with reverence be it spoken, if we could imagine ourselves listeling to
the living Christ, we should not expect to hear from his ii s
lessons of contumely, or hard-heartedness to poor, siml, e,
innocent orphan children. The morality of society is not to
be protected by the encouragement of any feelings which
Christianity condemns; 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 surely it is
no reason for adding to the misfortunes of virtue. In coarse
and vulgar minds, this feeling towards 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 inl inhuman pride, as if there were in it
an odious 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 ignorant, and the licentious, fall upon the head of the generous, the just, the
pure, the intelligent, the refined, and the pious? It is often
so. Now, society has its open laws, and they aie often stern
enough; but let them never, with the good, prevail against
the laws of nature; and let every mind that entertainsl the
feeling 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 violence, all unchristian
contunmely-all unbrotherly or unsisterly hatred, and then they
will know io how little it amounts, and how easily it must be
forgotten, in the contemplation of excellence;-and then, too,
will they feel a far deeper compassion for thenm in whose
minds that other rooted passion of contempt so rankly grows.




2M2            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
There were.many who wondered that Mrs. Montgomery
could have adopted such an orphan. And with that coarse
wonder they turned away from that noble, high-born, highbred, and, what was far better, tender-hearted, compassion-'
ate, and pious lady, and from the beautiful creature at her
side rejoicing in protected innocence and awakened intelligence, beneath the light of her gracious affection.
As Helen Eyre grew out of her sweet girlhood into the
ripening beauty of her virgin prime, this feeling 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 wordly heart on their
side; and it was easy, pleasant, safe, and satisfactory, to
hang a cloud over her by one single word that could ivit be
gain'sayed, 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
expand. Helen by degrees instructed her heart in this knowledge, which from nature alone she never could have hadher guardian had told her the story of her 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
the 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 accomplishmnents, and her conscious innocence, humble but. happy, sedate but not depressed, not. too ready either wiih 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 which
it presented to other young persons, with troops of friends
and relations, bound to them by hereditary connexions, 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




FP SCOTTISH LIFE.                  2
fnactscious delight. Life to them  offered a succession of
pleasures ready made to their hands, and they had but to
bring hearts capable of enjoyment. Little demand is made
ton such as those, so long as health continues, and their worldly affairs are prosperous, to look often, or deeply, or steadily
snto 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 history of real'life, or in
the fictions of poetry, of characters 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
oommnnnion 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 inter.
vene between her beating heart, and those who were the ob.
jects 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 intimacies and friendships, unbroken and unimpaired; she could bring a tender,:ight from the world of memory 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 hea
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-frendships. Some of her
companions left. that part of the country altogether, and she
heard of them no more-some went home in the neighborhood, and in a short time recognized her, when-they chanced
to meet, by.a civil smile, question, curtesy, or shake of the
band, and no more-some seemed to forget her altogether,
or to be afraid to-remember her-and some treated her with
a condescending, and patronizing, and ostentatious kindness,




224            LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
which she easily understood to be a mixture of fear, shame,
and pride.  Such things as these Helen'generally fcit to be
trifles; nor did they permanently affect her peace. But
sometimtns, when her heart, like that of others, desired a
homely, a human, and a lowly happiness, and was wlilli'nv to
unii;e itself in tnaL happiness with one and a.l of' its,youthIul
friends, whoever they imight be, poor Helen could not but feel
the cruelty and injustice of' such alienation, and perhaps mllay
have eeut unseen, to think that she was not allowed to share
the alf- ition even of the vuluar. the ignor'ant, and the mean.
Man,.nco at school, before tiey had learned the lessons of
the world, truly and conscientiously loved her, and were
pr'ateful to " English Ellen" for the assistance she ient them
in their various tasks, and for her sweet and obliging disposition in all things, began now to keep down their natural emotiins towards ter, 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' Boarding-school, adding, that she was to be pitied, for that, although, like all persons in her situation, she was excessively proud, yet she was
certainly very clever, and did not want heart.
No doubt it would have been nothing very remarkable,
had Helen Eyre, under such circumstances, become what
such excellent judges esteemed her to be, irritable, unamrriable, and proud.  This treatment might have soured her disposition, and armed her against an unjust and cruel v;orld.
Some struggles she mav have had against such feelings, for
she was not without her frailties and Imperfectipns; 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 fellow-creatures, and piety to her
Creator, gave her rights and privileges which were entitled
to respect, andf which, without blame, she might vindicate,
when slighted, insulted, or abused. Thotreftre, though hum.
ble, she was not abased, and a mild pensive dignity overspread all her demeanor which abashed the mean, and won
the commendlation of all whose souls possessed a single
spark of native nobility. Indeed, in her presence it was no.
easy matter to maintain or put into practice those unchris



OF SCOTTISH LIFO                  22.
tian principles which, when she was absent, burst forth in all
their abject and slavish violence.
Her guardian, protector, and mother, Mrs. Montgomery,
was a woman who did not pretend to be altogether free from
these 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 accomplish..
mnents; and not the slightest shade of this feeling now overcast her love. It had long been extinguished by the power
of innocence and joy.; and the knowledge of the strength ot
such prejudices in the minds of others, had now only the ef.
fect of increasing her pride in her dear orphan, and of adding
a holier tenderness to her protecting love. " Shall she be
despised whom every morning and every night I 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 gray hairs?"  There was no occasion to conceal one
thought from Helen Eyre-she knew her situation now perfectly and wisely-she acknowledged that her parents' sins
were a misfortune to her-she was willing to bear the burden
of tlieir errors-to suffer what must be suffered-and to enjoy meekly, humbly, and gratefully, what might be enjoyedi
Vere 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, atthough justly proud of her rank in society, 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 although her nature was above all miserable scorn towards 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 tenderest symrtathies should not
be drawn away from the bosom of her own family. She had
cheerfully allowed Constance to bring Helen to the Hirst
15




LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
during the vacations, and she could not but love the sweet
orphan. She saw that her. daughter could never learn any
thing bad, or mean, or vuitar, from such a companion, but,
aon the contrary, could not fail to have every virtue expanded,
and every accomplishment heightened, by communirrlcation
with one to whom nature had been so lavish in her endowments. Mrs. Beaumont had too mtich good feeling, and too
much good sehse, 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-shle 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 unindurable-and LMrs. Beaumlont
believed, that, dearly as she loved her son, she would rather see him in the grave, than married to an illegitimate orpharn.
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 lie was a school-boy. But she knew that
Mrs. Beaumont was proud-though not offe-nsively so-of
her own ancestry and of her dead huiband's. Indeed, her
stately mannlers were slightly tinged with pride-and Helen
had never left the spacious alnd rich room's of the Hirst, and
its gallery of old ancestral portraits, without a feeling, not of
depression arising from her own insignificance, but of thie wide
distance at which she stood in rank front her best beloved friend and sister, the amiable and graceful Contstance.:Neither could she help feeling that Cornstance t must feel this
too; and every time she met or parted with her, there was
now a faint sadness at her heart, and sormething that seemed
to forebode separation.
But Constance Beaumont 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-minlded to suffer such a cause to.
interrupt their friendship. Stronrt and secure in her own high
rank, and stronger and more secure still in her noble naturet
no soonei did she discern the full extent of the general senti.
ment entertained towards Helenl Eyre on the score of her
birth, than every warm, pure, disinterested, and passionate:emation of her soul rose up yearning towards her, and she
vowed, that as Helen had been the delight and blessing of




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.
ner childhood and early youth, so should her heart be bound
to" her all'her 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-she insisted on seeing her frequently at the Hirst
— nd ofien, 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 gentle
rloping 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
conscious 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 disobe-'dience be called wrong? And if it were so, might not;the
fault be repeated over and over again without remorse or selfupbraiding?  So Constance felt, and so she acted-nor in
thus being a dutifiul friend, is there any reason to believe that
she was an undutiful 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 assemnibly. 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 of the lovely, it could not
be said that she attracted universal attention. There were
many circles formed round many attractive centres-nolne
shone exactly like the moon among the lesser stars-butof
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'slrch 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 modest 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.




228           LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
plumes-the sparkling of gems-smiling countenances, and
happy voices —all touched the orphan to the very heart-that
heart kindled with the joy of 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 gayety, 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 this world.
Mrs. Montgomery had her pride, too,-in her orphan, as
well as any mother in her child; and-she took care that Helen
Eyre should either have respectable 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 groupe. She looked with sparkling and delighted eves on her. sweet Constance, distinguished
wherever she moved along; and at length that beautiful girl
came up to her, and whispered in her ear, that her brother,
who had arrived from England too late for the archery, de.
sired to be made acquainted with one of whom he had heard
so much-H-elen Eyre. Helen looked to Mrs. Montgomery,
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 ot
elegant and inelegant figures-loud whispering-considerable
tittering-and some little downright rudeness. But beatity
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 accomr
plished 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 him in the dance. There was
a haughtiness in his eye somewhat distressing to upstart peo.
pie, and he carried himself in a way not very describable, but
quite intelligible to the meanest and most vulgar capacity. —
fIe was likewise upwards of six feet highland when it was
his turn to lead off with Helen Eyre, there was a most polita
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. evefi the
most senselessly and basely proud felt that it was a pity that
Helen Eyre had been so born, for that she excelled in every
thing she tried, and was, indeed. most truly beautiful,.-  elem




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 229
felt, and she enjoyed her triumph. To herself she 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 refrain from tears, so touched was she by
the noble kindness of her friend. The evening passed away
delightfilly-Helen did not dance again-but she was fre.
quently spoken to by young Beaumont, and whether her happiness gave a color to every thing around her, or it was rea
so, she thought that all her acquaintances looked less coldly
and distinctly upon her, and that little or no'distinction seemed now to exist between herself and the other young and hap.
py creatures laughing and talking on every side. She even
dreamed of this meeting in her sleep; and in that 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 chase, he soon found himself walking ina
pretty 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-aand being a young man of ardent feelings 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 tenderness, and the
situation of Helen Eyre was such as 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 the power of his manners. He had been distinguished
at a great public school, and afterwards at an English Universityr, for the brilliancy of his talents. He no sooner joined




LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
the Guards, than he took his place, at once, among the most
polished and elegant society in the world. He had met universal admiration; and all these things together, although he
well knew they possessed little intrinsic or permanent value,
could not but influence his temper and disposition, before the
gradually acquired wisdom of riper years had mellowed the
impetuosity of youth, and extended 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 native generosity of his heart was continually
showing itself, and although mere acquaintances or strangers
might be repelled by his demeanor, no man could be more es.
teemed or beloved by his friends. Now a new chord was
touched in his heart. This sweet simplicity of Helen Eyre,
combined, as it was, with perfect elegance and gracefiulness,
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 innocence 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
kind stole into his breast; and her exceeding loveliness axud
beauty gave the warmth of passion to an attachm'ent 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 —;er image, during absence, haunted him, either sad or smiling, alike irresis.
tible and subduing-and seeing no real obstacle in the way:This happiness, he thought, in his solitary rambles through the
woods and over the hills, (for now he who had hitherto lived
constantly ifh the stir of life, loved to be alone), that Providence
had kindly sent this angelic being to bless him as long as he
lived on earth. He 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 calmed again by so.
lemn thoughts of eternal union between himself-and Helen
here and in heaven.
The love which Heleq Eyre felt towards him was of a very
different kind. It was utterly hopeless, and therefore it was
stterly indulged. She; knew that she could never be his wife
-that he would never stoop to marry her-that Constance
even would not like to see her brother forming a connexion
below his own rank-and that his mother would rather-see
her poisoned or drowned, at least dead and buried, than the
wife of her Henry. All these convictions gave her little or




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                231
no distress, for they were -not brought upon her unexpectedly,
to damp a heart that had been'rwarmed 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, whfenever Henry Beaumont appeared with his snliling countenance, that brightened up the
roonm, 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. Montgonlery, 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 dyiiig hour, perfectly love. He
could not penetrate into her thoughts-he could not look,
with those b.,ld, brighlt, 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
evening, and many a time besides, on the heads of himself,
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 wooded 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 led her to a stone seat beside a little spring that
bubbled up through the roots of the trees, and danced its




LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
short silvery course down into the Tweed. Poor Helen's
breath came quickly 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!' " 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 davs of my life!" "Oh!
Sir-you could be unkind to no one-but think-oh think —
who I am-unfit and unworthy to be the wife of Henty Beau.
mont!" 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 Helen in his
arms, as if she had been a frightened and palpitating doveand 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 forever-and in that trance of
bliss, they all overflowed-and a few words of confessed af.
fection 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 can never be rmited."  With these words
she brt.. tirom 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 can never marry me, remember-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
myself 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 who may one day lie in your bosom —hut 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 mav be awaiting
me. when my mother's gray hairs' are covered with darkpess.
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 hallowed place-for of love and marrinae never more must our sp ech be —they are not fot
us.




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 239
Helen separated from her lover within a mile of her home
-and had, on her arrival there, sufficiently recovered her selfcommand to be able to appear composed before Mrs. Montgomery; but she had never concealed from her dear mother
any incident that affected 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.
Tes good old lady assured her that God would reward her
fon the high-princlpled sacrifice she had made-and on retiring to her bed-room at night, she blessed her orphan with
more than wonted fervor 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 ienry  Beaumont, if
he loved her, as he said, better than all the world'? Ought
her birth to be a bar between her and a whole life of bliss!
Would she be violating any duty-doing injury or wrong to
to any living creature-by yielding herself up in wedlock to
the man sne 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 offendedmight 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 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 sentiment 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 because 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 ad-.
vanced, her heart was insensibly restored to its fobrmer sere.
nity-and the orphan was once more happy andcontented
with her lot.




-234          LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
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 selfish and ungrateful love, and, forgetting those
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 viftue. And her own pure heart told her,
that though it would never have allowed her to leave her mo.
ther, who was much broken down, and too plainly sinking into the grave, yet that she might, without any violation or for-.
getfullness of her filial duties, have given Henry Beamnont 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 bewildering thoughts
-and wh'en poor Helen went into her mother's room, which
she did every morning at a stated hour, her heart was laboring 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; and, stooping down,
the orphan affectionately whispered a few words into her ear,
that she might gently dispel the slumber. But that was a
sleep,which neither low whisper nor loud thunder-crash might
disturb. 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 on 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. Noi did her mother,-who yet knew nothing of Henry's avowal of his love to Helen, think of preventing Constance from carrying comfort to the bereaved orphan. Hers
was a proud but a warm heart; and having truly loved Mrs.
Montgomery, It was in tears that she saw Conetmne 4e.
part to -cheer the poor creature wh,' was now sitting byv the
corpse of' her whomn she had loved and resoected nronm cn-nnood, and whom she was. ere orins. to 7o;ow LO;ie _rave.
That tnougnt ot..,e,: c tes einmg te same. was a; once ten




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                235
der and solemn; and something of the sanctity of that pure
unminget affection with which she regarded the memory of
Mrs. Mlntgomery, could not but attach to Helen Eyre, who
had so long tended her declining ag i, and repaid,. by the
most beautiful ccnstancy 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 letter 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 _lad, even in her sorrow,
to know, through all the changes ana 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 m that desolate house. Never
before had the full perfection of her character been made
manifest.' Now it was tried, and met the sudden and severe
demand. Her voice faltered 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 utterdestitution, than if'without it she had been entrench-,
ed 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 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 roonl 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,




821136        LIGHTS ATD SHADOWVS
and the phantom was to be borne off into the chambers of
decay. In the silence of her darkened bed-room, with Constance sitting at her couch, the orphan heard the frequent 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 Helen rose, and looking through an
opening of the darkened window, she saw the bier in motionslowly 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 manly sorrow. " 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 fhe greatest tenderness 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 attended 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 occasionally
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 terminate 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 fiom 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 to be bitter-no harsh or.hasty words-no
unamiabte or unfilial looks had ever passed 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 remembrance 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 passed all her days: and




OF SCOTTISH LIFE.                 237
Helen desired no other place of retirement, till she should be
calied to the last final and profound repose.-The sacred in.
fluence of death had quite suppressed-not extinguished hei
pure passion for'Henry Beaumont; and, without agitation,
she sat now in the presence of his stately mother, nor feared
ever to deserve her frowns. She had seen Henry walking
and weeping, mourning by the side of that coffin-and the
remembrance was now sad and delightful to her soul, nor, it
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, too, confirmed by nature, and
strengthened by contented 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 hap.
piness and its own wisdom, nor was there any reason to fear
even the coming on of feebler footsteps and of gray hairs.
Henry Beaumont's impassioned vows never could be re.
alized-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
entered the room-not with the same fervent air and express
sion as when they last met, but with a tenderness that was
far more irresistible to poor Helen's soul. A visit to an or.
phan who had just buried her'best-not her only friendwas 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
mother saw and felt 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 dishonor and degradation. But she knew
the depth of her son's affection for Helen Eyre from his anx.
iety 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 marri




238           LIAGHTS AND SHADOWS.
age, except't were to be found in the quiet and humble soul
of the orphan, who might be dissuaded fronm entering into a
tamilv to which an alliance with her would be considered a
disgrace. Mrs. Beaumont's agitation at last became manin
fist-and as frequently feelings are brought to a crisis of a
sudden, and by sorne unexpected moveinent or sally of temper, so was it now-for Henry discerned what was pas.sing
in his mother's mind-and from an uncontrollable impulse,
avowed his love for Helen Eyre, and his resolution to isale
her Iis wife.. "She has confessed that she loves me-and
no power on earth has a right to keep us asunder —Mother
-L grieve to offend or distress you-but you must receive
Helen Eyre as your daughter."
At any other tine, this bold avowal would have sent as
muilch anger as grief into the proud spirit of Mrs. Beaumont.
But she had loved her dead friend with exceeding aifectionher voice sepmed vet to whisper alone the walls-they were
ail settinll together in deep mlourning for her loss —arid the
meek face of the guileless orphan was enough to quiet all angry emotion, and to inspire something of the same caln spirit
with wiich it was so serenely sidffised. Helen sat almost
unmoved, nor did she utter a word. But Henry's mooed soon
changed, and he knelt dowvn at his mother's feet, alfoll with
the affectionar.e Constance. Each took hold of one of her
hands, kissed it, and bathed it in tears.;' 0 mother! withhold'not. your blessings fiom sweet Helen Eyre," said Cer-f
stance with a dewy voice of supplication.-" You kriow 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 mnyself-you know how your friend loved
lher,, amd blessed her namnie to you, and went for the sake of
all her goodness.  0 mother! fear not that this marriage
wants only your sanction to make it a happy marriage indeted!" The lady's heart was melted within her, aind she said,
" Helen Eyre, thou art an orphan no more-come and kneel
down between my childr'en."-Helen did so with many sobs
of overwhlvhming happiness, and bowed down her head alinost
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 Beaumnionit pressed Helen Eyre to his bosom, and kissed away the tears then and
for ever.
TIE END.












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Addresses, with a Sermon on the Care of the Soul. A neat
18mo volume, with a Portrait of the Author. Bound in
cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.
Dialogues of Devils, on the Xany Vices which
abound in the Civil and Religious World. By the Rev.
John MaclGowan. One volume lSmo, cloth, gilt. Price,
50 cents.
10.




Young's  Night Thouglhts.-18mo, cloth, gilt.
Price, b0 cents.
DIe Pilgrim's Progress from this World to that
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Dream. By John Bunyan. With numerous Explanatory
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50 cents.
Cobbett's  Sermons. -Thirteen  Sermons on Hypocrisy and Cruelty, Drunkenness, Bribery, the Rights
of the Poor, Unjust Judges, the Sluggard, Murder, Gain.
ing, Public Robbery, the Unnatural Mother, Forbidding
Marriage, Parsons and Tithes, Good Friday. To which il
aided, an Address to the Working People. By Win. Cob
bett. One volume 18mo, cloth, gilt. 50 cents
Combe on the Constitution of Man.The Constitution of Man, considered in Relation to Ex
ternal Objects. By George Combe. One volume 18mo, cloth,
gilt. A New and Beautiful Edition of this Valuable and
Popular Work. Price, 50 cents.
The  Vicar of Wakefield.-A Tale. To which is
affixed The Deserted Village. By Oliver Goldsmith, M.D.
13rmio, cloth, gilt, with a Portrait of the Author. Price,
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-Esop's Fables.-select Fables from 2Esop and others.
The best and most beautifully illustrated Book of Fables
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two hundred fine Engravings, cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.
The Lights and Shadows of Scottish
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Arthur's Six Nights with the Washingtoaians.-These Tales are told in Arthur's best style, and
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277 pages. Price, 50 cents.
Cobbett's Advice to Young Men.-Advice to
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18mo, cloth, gilt, Price, 50 cents.
11




The Pastor's Wife,-A Memoir of Xrs. Sherman,
of Surrey Chapel, London. Edited by her husband, tho
Rev. James Sherman, Pastor of Surrey Chapel. Unabridged
-Edition, 18mo, cloth. Price, 60 cents.
Drew on the Immortality of the Soul —
An Original Essay on the Immateriality and Immortality
of the Human Soul; founded solely on Physical and Rational Principles. By Samuel Drew, A. L. New Edition.
i8imo, cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.
Alonzo and Melissa; or, The Unfeoling Father. A
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"Charlotte Temple," Alonzo and Melissa has probably
been read more than any other Tale ever published in the
United States. 18mo, cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.
Robinson  Crusoe.-The Life and Adventures of
Robinson Crusoe, with an Account of his Deliverance
after a Residence of 28 Years on an Urinhabited Islandu
This is a very neat 18mo edition of the work, bound hand.
sormely in gilt, cloth, and is illustrated with eight fine
Engravings. Price, 50 cents.
Bunyan's  Minor  Works:  containing Grace
Abounding to the Chief of Sinners; Heart's Ease in
Heart Trouble; The World to Come, or Visions of Heaven
and He11; and The Barren Fig-Tree, or the Doom and
Downfall of the Fruitlees Professor. ComDleto in one
beautiful 32mo volume, bound in cloth, gilt, with a PoYtrait of John Bunyan. Price, 50 cents.
Love and Romance; or, Charlotte and Lucy Temple. Two volumes in one. "I ussannah iowson, the an.
thoress, has by her interesting style, dlrawn more tears
(for who has not shed tears over Charlotte Temple) than
any other authoress or author of modern tiumes"She was her parents' only joy;
They had but one-one darling child."
In one neat volume 18mo, cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.
Life  of Wellington.-The Life and Times of the
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of this illustrious warrior, and a full account of the memorable Battle of WaterIco. Illustrated with forty-one
Engravings. One large lSmno volume, cloth, gilt. Price,
50 cents.
Tom Thumb.-mne Life andAdventures of Tom Thumb,
with 16 fine Engravings, 6Imo, cloth, gilt. Price, 50Oeata.
12




The  Ladies' Guide  in  Needlework.-Thi
beautiful and useful little work contains instructions in
Embroidery on Silk, Velvet, Lace, Merino, etc., and in
Applique; all varieties of Canvas-Work; Millinery and
Mantuaa-aking, and all branches of Plain Sewing; with
particular directions for cutting out Dresses, etc.; Knit.
tiug, Netting, and Crotchet Work, containing the newest
and most fashionable patterns. In one neat lSmo volume,
with numerous Engravings, cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.The American Joe Miller; or, The Jester's Own
Book. Being a Choice Collection of Anecdotes and Witti
cisms. 18mo, cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.
Life of the Notorious Stephen Bur.
roughs -Containing many Incidents in the Life of this
wonderful man, never before published. Newly corrected
and revised edition. 18mo, cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.
The Life and Essays of Dr. Franklin.Written by Himself. A book that every young man in
the United States should read. One volume 1Smo, with
numerous Plates, cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.
Original Poems for Infant Minds.-By the
Taylor Family. One volume 18mo, cloth, gilt. 50 cents.
The  Course of Time.-By Robert Pollok, A.M.,
with an enlarged Index, and an Analysis prefixed to each
book. One volume 18mo, cloth, gilt. Price, 50 cents.
The New American Pocket Farrier and
Farmer's Guide in the Choice and Management of Horses,
Neat Cattle, Sheep, and Swine; including a Description
of their Internal Structure-their Digestive System; the
Diseases to which they are liable, with their Causes,
Symptoms, and most approved Methods of Cure. From
the writings of Youatt, Lawrence, Hines, White, Clater,
and others. To which is added a variety of Agricultural
and Miscellaneous Receipts. 18mo, cloth gilt. 50 cents
Dr. Dodd's Lectures to Young Men.-Discourses to Young Men. Illustrated by numerous highly
interesting Anecdotes. A neat 24mo volume, cloth, with
Plates. Price, 50 cents.
The Camp-Meeting Chorister; or, a Collection
of Htymns and Spiritual Songs, for the pious of all Denominations, to be sung at Camp-Meetings, during Revivals of Religion, and other occasions. 32mo, sheep
Price, 25 cents.
2                i3




Stories of  tie  Wars: of  181.2  and  with.ex.ico, —A beaatiful Juyenile Book, co.mmemora-tive of
those Iaportant lveents i' the History of our Coutntry,
Elegatly ilIustM-ted. lnmio, cloth, gilt. Price, 5.0 ceut.
Thinks-I-to-1Xyseif:         A  $eri9-ludiero, Trjagice
Coinico Tale. Written by "Thinks-I4o-X a yself, WYho'
Price, 25 cents.
Every Man his own Cattle Detder.-con.
tainiug a Treatise on the Diseagei of Horses  Cattle, Dog,
Sheep, and Swine, with their Causes, Symptoms, and
Cure. 18pno, boards. Price, 12- cents.
Every Man his own Farrier.-Containing ten.miates advice bow to buy a horse; to which is added,
how to use your horse at home, or on a journey, and what
remedies axe proper for all diseases to which he i lible.
18mo., boards. Price, 12~ cents.
Charlotte Templ.-e.-A Tale of Truth, by Xras. Rowson. 18.m, boards. Price, 12I cents.
Lucy Temple.    -S equel to. Charlotte Temple. 18mo,
boardo. Price,'121- cents.'
Jack Lawrence, the Sailor Boy.-y ytse
author of J.ac  Halyard.  One volume 18mo, boards.
Price, 12 ce:nts.
The Laughing  lPhilo0sopher; or, Book of Puu.
18mo, borxds. P-ice, 2L cents.
HQOcS PO'-S-; or, The WholeArt of Legerdemain, or
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cents.
The,Ready Rleckoner, and Form Book.
The teady Rckon:er in Bollars and Cents. A ver~y useful
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121 cents.
Etiquet!   4et;er"W-riter.-Being thre Complete
Art of F..as.hioz,.able eCoirespnondence. 1&uto, obards. Prioe,
129-. cexnts.
Cook's Vovages.-A  ~r.rative.of the Voyages around
the Wor.ld, perfrinmd by.Cptaian Ja-mes:Cook. W'th an
AccoI-nt.of hi.3 -ife, du-ring t'e Dreviaus and iAtewoening
operidz..By.A. -;xppis. D. 13., F...S.,,and S. A. lliustrated
with:sev.er.l Engravigs. Two.velames in one, 32mno
roan gilt binding. Price, 75 cents.
14




STANDARD ROMANCES.
Arabian Nights' Entertainments: conis.
iag of One-Thousand-and-One Stories, told by the SultaneSs of the Indies, to divert the Sultan from the execution of a bloody vow he had made to marry a lady every
day, and have her put to death next morning, to avenge
himself for the disloyalty of his first Sultaness. Embellished with seventy Engravings. Two volumes in one,
32mo, roan, gilt binding. Price, 75 cents.
Cottage on the Cliff.-The Cottage on the Cliff: a
beautiful Sea-side Story. By Catharine G. Ward. One
thick 32mo volume of 704 pages, arabesque, gilt. 75 centsa
The Scottish Chiefs.-By Miss Jane Porter, author
of " Thaddeus of Warsaw," etc. Three volumes in one,
82mo, roan binding, with Plates. Price, 75 cents. This
is the best and neatest edition now published of this
popular and entertaining romance.
Children of the Abbey.-By Regina Maria Roche,
Three volumes in one, 32mo, roan binding, with a steel
Plate. The neatest and best edition published. 75 cents.
Robinson Crusoe.-A neat and complete edition, in
one extra thick 32mo volume, in embossed gilt binding,
and illustrated with fine Engravings. Price, 75 cents.
The Mysteries of Udolpho: A Romance. By
Ann Ratcliffe. Three volumes in one of 620 pages, 32mo,
neat binding. Price, 75 cents. The best and most complete edition published.
Gil Blas.-The Adventures of Gil B]las, of Santillana
Translated from the French of Monsieur le Sage, by Tobias Smollett, M. D-. Four volumes in one of 990 pages,
S2mo, roan binding. The neatest and best edition pub.
lished. Price, 75 cents.
MDn Quixote.-The Life and Exploits of Don Quia.
ote. Translated from the Spanish of Miguel de Cervan-,
tes Saave-dra, by Charles Jarves. Four volumes in one of
1f40 pages, 32mo, neat binding. Price, 75 cents.
The  Romance  of the Forest.-sy Mrs. RIa&:eilfe. Two volumes in one, 32mb, roan gilt binding. The
best edition published of this Romance. Price, 50 fents,
The Lie  and Adventures of Peter Wile
kins.-Containing an Account of his Visit to the Flying
tianderrs. A neat 32mo volume, roan gilt. Price, 25 eta
15




Family Fireside Book; or, Monuments of
Temperance.  Containing  a large variety of
Biographical Sketches, Tales, Essays, and Poetry, embellished with handsome Steel Engravings.  One large octavo volume of 800 paged
Price in plain binding, $2.50; bound in red
morocco, full gilt, only $3.
" This work is got up in elegant style, arnd viAll favOe
ably compare with the very best books of the day.  I3
contains articles from  the best writers of the country,
which are well selected, and do credit to their aluthors. The
work is elegantly embellished with fino steel enTgraved Fortraits of some of the most prominent men in the ranks of
the temperance cause. It is to be hoped, that teGmperanc
mren will, among other important works, not forget this.
It is good enough, and splendid enough, to grace any lbrary or parlour in the country." —ifass. Life Boat.
"This is one of the most beautiful works on temperance
subjects ever issued from the American press. It contains,
besides well written tales, essays and poetry, biographical
sketches of the prominent reformers now living. It is a
monument to the enterprise and taste of the publishers."
Chicago Literary Buclget.
"The whole work is finished in a style of the highest
excellence, and the contents are of such a character as to,
give the book a claim to the attention of every temperance
man in the land."-Penna. Fountain.
" It contains a large amount of thrilling and interes.ttas.
narratives, illustrative of the workings, through the vari.
ous walks of life, of that huge vice-Intemperance."
Evening Post.
" The work is formed by contributions from various well,
known authors of the present day, consisting of temperance
tales, sketches, essays, and poems, and embellished with
handsomely finished portraits on steel of some of the most
popular advocates of the temperance cause. We believe
that but few works exist, better calculated, by the tendency
of their contents, to refine, as well as instruct and amuse'
educating the heart and the mind, the morals and intelliu
gence of their yeaders."-Hlome Journal.
LEARY  & GETZ, Publishers,
138 North Second St., Philadelphia.




The Life and Speeches of Henry Clay.With a Portrait, and a View of the Birth-plaoe of dr.
Clay.  In one handsonre large octavo volume of 1300
mpg6, hnmdomiely b6und in Aiabesque, gilt. Prieo0 only
3, o6, bounid in two volumes, arab'eique, gilt, 3S.50.
The folowing are a few of the Notices of this Vaiuable
work by the prominent newspapers of the country:
"The fullest biography of the statesman we have
"It oontains thi mtaster eftorts."'
"Th e work cansot be too widely 6iroiilatedi."
"No bok 0can be more valuablb to.hand down to posterity."
"The hitorr of the life, and spleheh of Ai eric"'s
-gireat stastamn,  siHould be in eve Y family."
"T he Eiograph~y it written with gteat ability."
"TFhis b'ok0 is worthy of the greatniies 6f the Subjeot."
"The portrait in this volume is an excellent copy of
tine oily likeness of Mr. Clay."
" It is just such a book as is wanted and imuch needed
by our people."
" This work will be heartily welcomed by the innum.
rable friends of the departed statesman."
"The life of this great man is worthy of a prominent
place in every library-his aots form a prominent part of
uut country's history."
"In the publication of this excellent selection of
speeches, the publishers are eminently deserving of suppoT't."
" It is all that it professes to be."
"The engravings are among the finest that we have
see."
" It is a rich contribution to the history of our eountry."'No  library is complete without it."
"Every man should have a copy, and from its cheap.
ness none need to be deprived of it."
"It should be handed down from father to son, through
guiceeding generations."
"The most reliable biography of the Great Commoner
and the most judicious selection of his brilliant efforts."
" This valuable work will awaken a very lively interest
among the multitude of his friends."
"We hope that it will be plaeed before all who ate
hereafter to play their parts in the great drama of life."
"To the young man, whose only fortune is his energy
end whose only friend is his health, this work will be
doubly valuable."
17




:POPULAR SCHOOL 300KS.
Booth's New Pictorial United States. —
For Primary Schools. 244 pages 18mo, neatly bound, with
Questions. Price, 371 cents. This is the best History of
the United States now published for the use of Primary
Schools.
The Central School Reader.-compilea by the
Female Association of Friends for the Improvement of
Juvenile Books. One of the best books published for
Select Schools and Academies. 12mo. Price, 75 cents.
Wilmsen's Reader;  or, The Children's Frien&
One hundred and sixtieth Edition. One of the best School
Books ever published for Children between the ages of
eight and twelve years. 12mo. Price, 62~ cents.'White's Elements of Universal Histor
With Additions and Questions. By John S. Hart. 12m,
arabesque backs. Price, $1.
Public  School Singing  Book.-By A F. Cox.
32mo, boards. Price, 12i cents.
Murray's English Reader.-l2mo, sheep. Prio
25 cents.
Murray's Introduction.-12mo, boards. Pricq
12i cents.
Chapin's New Classical Spelling Book.12mo, boards. Price, 12i cents.
The History of Ancient and Modern
Greece.-Edited by John Frost, LL.D.  Sheep. Pricm
$1.50,
Kelley's New  Juvenile Primer.-Prioe, s3 e
Testament.-l8mo, sheep.  A good school edition
Price, 25 cents.
opbbett's  French  Grammar.-lsmo, sheep
Price, 62~ cents.
Cobbett's English Grammar.-lamo, shem
Trice, 50 cents.
18




Burder's History  of all Religions, with
Accounts of the Ceremonies and Customs, or the
Forms of Worship of the several Nations of the
World. With large additions, by Joel Parker,
D.D.  Complete in one large octavo volume,
of over 700 pages, and illustrated with handsome Engravings. Price onlly $3.
" This volume will be found to be replete with interest
anrd instruction, gr6wing out of the subjects upon which it
treats. The reader will have presented to him a picture of
the religious world, upon which he will perceive many
dark and distressing shades: he will see in what varied
and unhallowed forms imankind have worshipped the conm.
mon Parent of all; he will be led to contemplate the delu,ions practised upon millions, by the cunning and craft of
imposture; the unholy devotion demanded of other miS
lions, and the debasing superstitions and cruel abomina,tions upon still more millions of the human family. From
the pain of dwelling upon the darker shades, he will find
relief by turning his eyes to the bright spots on -the pieture. The work is the best on the subject we have seen,
and must command the admiration of all interested on the
subject."- C'ristian l tepository.
"' This work is of the most liberal and impartial charaoter. The quickened intercourse of the world, the overturms
ing of governments long established, and the scope: given
to free inquiry, impart a fresh interest to subjects of this
nature. Hiay we not also hope that a knowledge of the
differences prevailing among different branches of the
Cbristian Church, will aid in the promotion of that general
Charity, which will cause all teachers of Christianity to'see eye to eye,' and the entire population of the earth to
become one happy family." —Evangelical Record.
" This work will be found to contain an impartial accouni
of the history and forms of worship of all religious denomi..
nations, both ancient and modern. The author has had
access to the denominational publications of the different
creeds, and gives their religious views and doctrines with,
out any bias on his part. This will be the means of repl
dering the work useful for reference, and it should find a
place in the library of every family."-Christian Advoca,,
LEARY  S  GETZ, Publishers,
138 North Second St., Philadelphia.
19




The Life and Sermons of Rev. George
Whitefield. New and revised edition, with
large additions and improvements, together
with  numerous  3ngravings, illustrative  of
Scenes in his Life, a View of his Monument,
and a handsomely engraved Portrait on Steel
One octavo volume of 660 pages, handsomely
bound in neat substantial leather. Price only
$2.50.
The author of this book is evidently an evangelical
CGristian, in both doctrine and experience, for such an one
dhly could conceive of,- and portray, in so true and liveIl
a manner, the character of the eminent servant of God
Vhose life and labours he presents to the world: and Both
the biographer, and the author of the introduction to this
edition, appear to aim at impartiality in their statements
oven where we might have expected to find them biassed
by their creeds, in favour of the subject of these memoirs
This is by far the best account of the life and labours of
Whitefield which we have seen. It is more full of inci.
ent, and abundantly more full of the spirituality of which
the preacher's life was a continual manifestation."
Christian Advocate and Journal. His journals, his letters, his sermons, his conversations, his whole life, show him to have been most habitually
and characteristically a man of prayer; and if this volume
may tend to bring ministers and Christians to a higher
appreciation and a more diligent culture of the devotional
spirit, it will accomplish a great, an important, and a much
iieeded work, both for the ministry and the church."
Christian Observet.
"As a man, as a Christian, as a minister, we shall not, ft
is to be feared, look upon his like again speedily. After
-passing through good and evil report, during more than
dixty years of incessant labour, he at last entered into his
rest. The volume nfow published will be found to contain a
4orrect account of his life and services in the vineyard of
Christ, and the sermons will be read with profitable
pleasure by those who had not the fortune to hear them
from his own mouth."-Banner of the Cross.
LEARY & GETZ, Publishersi
138 North Second St., Philadelphia
20




Lives of Great and Celebrated  Charao.
ters, of all Ages and Countries. One large ootavo volume of nearly 800 pages, and illustrated
by several hundred Engravings. Neatly boxund
Price only $2.50.
"In this large and very handsome volume, we hav
authentic accounts of some of the most remarkable pe-.
sonages of by-gone, as well as the present day, embracing
Heroes, Conquerors, Statesmen, Authors, Artists, Extrao..
dinary Humorists, Misers, Mountebanks, Kings and Queens,
Jugglers, and other Curiosities of Human Nature, —and
handsomely illustrated.
"To the general reader, this book presents many attractions. After thorough examination, we are prepared to say
that the work is a reliable one-the author has given us
truth instead of speculation, and we place considerabb
value upon his information. No library is complete with.
out it."-Philadelphia City Item.
"This entertaining, instructive volume is one which
may be taken up at any time and read with pleasure, and
not the least of its merit is, that while it contains such a
mass of matter, it is eminently qualified to' instruct and
amxuse its readers."-Observer.
"The biography of remarkable and eccentric men has
long been considered one of the most entertaining kind of
reading. But it is more than this: it is a very useful esercise, and one which is worthy the attention of all who
seek for information. The characters brought to view in
tfhis volume are among the most remarkable, and many of
them the most eccentric, which have ever appeared on the
great theatre of human action. The book must be read,
t be appreciated."-Literary World.
"This is one of the most interesting and instructive
volumes that has been brought to our notice. The biogras
phies of the different characters contained in the work are
written in a familiar style, making them easily understood,
throughout every detail. It is a valuable addition to the
family library and will give as much information as is con.
tained in many Volumes. We bespeak for it a large salem
Tribune.
LEARY  & GETZ, Publishers,
138 North Second St., Philadelphia.
21




Rotti-k's Hiitary of the: Werd, deaon.
ing,     History of &ll the Nationas of the Earth.
Four votumen's iL orxe - seventeen huidred- pages,
and handSomely iuhst-rated.  PriCe only $3.50.
" We welcome this fine edition of a vtry superio work.
On the continent of Europe, it holds the highest place as a:tiue  and faithful account of the World's ieistory.   His
M&bbral ideas have, it is true, brought upon him the wrath
df rodylty, nobility, and arrstodracy, but they will win for
him, il this. cottntry, the highest praise. It contains an
imnes'e aimoudnt of iifodrmation compressed within a moderat6 spa'e, and yet is'sutficieitly elab'brate."
Eveniag Bulletin2.
"From  a persoiial e6xamini'tion of the b0ok, we can re,.ramme6Ad it as mo4t comprehelisive and correct."
Saturday Gazette.
"This is truly one of the most valuablo publications of
t~he day, and should have a place in every library."
Penna. Inquirer.
":This work indicats; a dgee of patient inivestigation,
de'e, varied, and lab  ious re-seakch; it is a mofst thorough
gidc omplete library in itself, in al. matttrs pertaining to
t1  history of all natiOns." —Satuid'c y Conirier., "In the preparation of this great work, the author claims
to bt  exenni[t froLm'1 0o-litiaIl or sectarian bias and to
h-w e filfihlsd thieden. td of pure histoty it a rigid expose
fd the past-a8 aithfl portrait f the things that were.
It is a book thati, wihll~ it'iiist.xbaett, wii' greatly interest
fafieIies."-Ph il(t. Jofitclui  e;) (wq)eer.
"This History is well t-rasIatedl; i-l-tustsied with good
mgravings, and Will Ornam-.nt any Hlibrt.y."-Pri La. Sm).
"This History is pefuliarly ad-apted to all thinking men,
wehatever their spheres of action may bae  But it is to be reemrnmended particularly as a rare and predious source of
political instruction for the citizens of a state, Where the
rights of man and his capacity for self-govaeinment are reeagnised; where it is necessary that every one should beomoe somewhat acquainted with political affairs; where,
if fine, should be the fatherland of so genuine a.pupil of
the Washington school as Rotteck." —Tribuine.
LEAARY S GETZ; Publishers,
I38 Nerth Second St., Philadelphia.
22




Platt's Book of Curiosities, containing Ten
Thousand Wonders and Curiosities of Nature
and Art. One volume, 8vo, 950 pages, ha nd
somely illustrated, and d.urably bolmd.  Prie
only $2.50.
"We know of no work likely to be more lastingly popUtar and useful at the family fire-side, than this very populhr
Book of Curiosities. Sumrranded with wonders, and lost in
admiration, the inquisitive mind of man is ever anxious to
know the hidden springs that put these wonders in motion.
The adult, as well as the school pupil, inquires for some
one to take him by the hand and explain to him the c uxioso
ties of the Universe." —Phila. Dollar Newspaper.'A more entertaining worki has not, for a long time, appeared from the American Press."-Phila. Inquirer.
" Curious readers may pore over and study, and scarceby
exhaust its supply of information, both marvellous and
matter-of-fact." —Phila. Evening Bulletin.
"Is a vast storehouse of miscellneous, entertaintn
instructive reading, in which every imaginable taste azd
disposition may find ample entertainment."
American uanrie,.
" No one can peruse it without receiving a vast am omt
of good from its pages."-Easton, Pa., Whig.
"It is a very interesting collection of rare and wonder/k
articles, and excites universal attention."
D)oylestown Democrat.
" This collection inclIdes many very curious facts, and
Will be read eagerly by all who preserve, yet fresh, their
taste for the wonderful." — Sat. Evening Post.
" This work presents to the reader, a view of the great
achievenients of the human intellect, in the discoveries of
science; and the wonderful operations of the skill, power,
and industry of man, in the invention and improvement
of the arts, in the construction of machines, and in tbo
buildings and other ornaments the earth exhibits, as thphies to the glories of the human race.,"-Berald.
LEARIY  & GETZ, Publishers,
138 North Second St., Philadelphia
23




Frost's Pictorial Life of George Wash.
ington; Embracing a Complete History of thle
Seven Years' War; the Formation of the Fed!ral Constitution, and  the  Administration  of
Washington.   Complete in one large octave
volume of 600 pages, containing over one
hundred Engravings, including several, fimeI
executed, on Steel. Price only $3.,"This is one of the most elegant and authentic books
that has emanated from the American Press. The BiograPFy is written in a very pleasant style, which tends to
interest, as well as to instruct. The stirring events of the
Revolutionary War, in which Washington assumed a very
important position, are depicted with much accuracy and
beauty."-G-raham' s Magazine.
"The author has taken unusual pains in the collectIen
-:f his materials, and has drawn from the most accurate
wurces. We consider this one of the author's best works."
Phila. Dollar Newspaper.
"This work comprises a complete narrative of the irma
portant events that occurred in the' times that tried menu's
souls.' It is a book which should be in the possession of
every family; and, as it is most desirable to cultivate a
taste for historical reading among young people, we know
df nothing. that is more likely to produce a relish for a
wholesome literature, than placing such books as this at
Sheir dispQsal."-n-American, Banner.
"In the preparation of this work, the author has rt-ado
use of the best materials; he has placed an array of facts
before the reader which fails not to interest him, while i
is abundantly instructive." —Aineican, Revietw.
"Whoever has occasion to examine, carefully, into the
history of the period in which Washington lived, will findl
bUi reverence for the character of that illustrious man always increasing. The more intimately one becomes acjuainted with the fact, the more firmly he becomes cor.
~inoed that Washington was, throughout the whole forming
period of the republic, the grand moving power. The pre.
saut work will be found to contain an impartial aoDour
ef the evens of that period."-Evenirng Post.
LEARY  &  GETZ,  Publishers$
138 North Second St,, Philadelphia
24