With glowing feelings, kindling bright
Some filial visions of delight,
That almost border upon pain,
And he would hear those strains again.
They brought delusions not to last,
Blending the future with the past;
Dreams of fair stems, in foliage new,
Of flowers that spring where others grew
Of beauty ne’er to be outdone,
And stars that rise when sets the sun;
The patriarchal days of yore,
The mountain music heard no more,
With all the scene before his eyes,
A family’s and a nation’s ties—
Bonds which the Heavens alone can rend,
With Chief, with Father, and with Friend.
No wonder that such scene refin’d
Should dwell on rude enthusiast’s mind!
Strange his reverse!—He little wist—
Poor inmate of the cloud and mist!
That ever he, as friend, should claim
The proudest Caledonian name.
J. H.
Eltrive Lake, April 1st, 1818.
Chapter I
“It will be a bloody night in Gemsop this,” said Walter of Chapelhope, as he sat one evening by the side of his little parlour fire, and wrung the rim of his wet bonnet into the grate. His wife sat by his side, airing a pair of clean hosen for her husband, to replace his wet ones. She looked stedfastly in his face, but uttered not a word;—it was one of those looks that cannot be described, but it bespoke the height of curiosity, mingled with a kind of indefinite terror. She loved and respected her husband, and sometimes was wont to teaze or cajole him from his purpose; but one glance of his eye, or scowl of his eyebrow, was a sufficient admonition to her when she ventured to use such freedom.
The anxious stare that she bent on his face at this time was enquiry enough, what he meant by the short and mysterious sentence he had just uttered; but from the fulness of his heart he had said that which he could not recal, and had no mind to commit himself farther. His eldest son, John, was in the room too, which he had not remarked before he spoke, and therefore he took the first opportunity to change the subject. “Gudewife,” said he, tartly, “what are ye sittin glowrin like a bendit wulcat there for? Gae away and get me something to eat; I’m like to fa’ atwae wi’ sheer hunger.”
“Hunger, father!” said the lad; “I’m sure I saw ye take as much meat to the hill with you as might have served six.”
Walter looked first over the one shoulder at him, and then over the other, but, repressing his wrath, he sat silent about the space of two minutes, as if he had not heard what the youth said. “Callant,” then said he, with the greatest seeming composure, “rin away to the hill, an’ see after the eild nowt; ca’ them up by the Quare Burn, an’ bide wi’ them till they lie down, gin that sudna be till twal o’clock at night—Gae away when I bid ye—What are ye mumgin at?” And saying so, he gave him such a thwack on the neck and shoulders with the wet bonnet as made him make the best of his way to the door. Whether he drove the young cattle as far as the Quare Burn, or whether he looked after them that night or not, Walter made no farther enquiry.
He sat still by his fire wrapt in deep thought, which seemed to increase his uneasy and fretful mood. Maron Linton, (for that was the goodwife of Chapelhope’s name) observing the bad humour of her husband, and knowing for certain that something disagreeable had befallen him, wisely forbore all intermeddling or teazing questions respecting the cause. Long experience had taught her the danger of these. She bustled about, and set him down the best fare that the house afforded; then, taking up her tobacco pipe, she meditated an escape into the kitchen. She judged that a good hearty meal by himself might somewhat abate his chagrin; and, besides, the ominous words were still ringing in her ears—“It will be a bloody night in Gemsop this”—and she longed to sound the shepherds that were assembled around the kitchen fire, in order to find out their import. Walter, however, perceiving her drift, stopped her short with—“Gudewife, whar are ye gaun sae fast—Come back an’ sit down here, I want to speak t’ye.”
Maron trembled at the tone in which these words were spoken, but nevertheless did as she was desired, and sat down again by the fire. “Weel, Watie, what is’t?” said she, in a low and humble tone.
Walter plied his spoon for some time without deigning any reply; then turning full upon her, “Has Kate been in her bed every night this week?” asked he seriously.
“Dear gudeman, whaten a question’s that to speer at me—What can hae put sic a norie i’ your head as that?”
“That’s no answerin my question, Maron, but speerin ither twa instead o’t—I axt ye gin Kate hadna been out o’ her bed for some nights bygane.”
“How sude I ken ony thing about that, gudeman?—ye may gang an’ speer at her—Out o’ her bed, quotha!—Na—there’ll nae young skempy amang them wile her out o’ her bed i’the night–time.—Dear gudeman, what has put it i’your head that our bairn stravaigs i’the night–time?”
“Na, na, Maron, there’s nae mortal soul will ever gar ye answer to the point.”
“Dear gudeman, wha heard ever tell o’ a mortal soul?—the soul’s no mortal at a’—Didna ye hear our ain worthy curate–clerk say”——
“O, Maron! Maron! ye’ll aye be the auld woman, if the warld sude turn upside–down!—Canna ye answer my question simply, ay or no, as far as ye ken, whether our daughter has been out o’ her bed at midnight for some nights bygane or no?—If ye ken that she has, canna ye tell me sae at aince, without ganging about the bush? it’s a thing that deeply concerns us baith.”
“Troth, gudeman, gin she hae been out o’ her bed, mony a honest man’s bairn has been out o’ her bed at midnight afore her, an’ nae ill in her mind nouther—the thing’s as common as the rising o’ the se’en sterns.”
Walter turned round towards his meal, after casting a look of pity and despair upon his yokefellow, who went on at great length defending the equivocal practice of young women who might deem it meet and convenient to leave their beds occasionally by night; for that, without some mode of private wooing, it was well known that no man in the country could possibly procure a wife, for that darkness rendered a promise serious, which passed in open day for a mere joke, or words of course; and at length Maron Linton, with more sagacity than usual, concluded her arguments with the following home remark:—“Ye ken fu’ weel, gudeman, ye courtit me i’the howe o’ the night yoursel; an’ Him that kens the heart kens weel that I hae never had cause to rue our bits o’ trysts i’the dark—Na, na! mony’s the time an’ aft that I hae blest them, an’ thought o’ them wi’ pleasure! We had ae kind o’ happiness then, Watie, we hae another now, an’ we’ll hae another yet.”
There was something in this appeal that it would have been unnatural to have resisted. There is a tenderness in the recollection of early scenes of mutual joy and love, that invariably softens the asperity of our nature, and draws the heart by an invisible bond toward the sharer of these; but when they are at one view connected with the present and the future, the delight receives a tinge of sublimity. In short, the appeal was one of the most happy that ever fell from the lips of a simple and ignorant, though a well–meaning woman. It was not lost upon Walter; who, though of a rough exterior and impatient humour, was a good man. He took his wife’s hand and squeezed it, while the pupil of his eye expanded like that of a huge