STORY OF WILLIAM.
While in winter quarters, in the latter end of 1812, a detachment of
recruits joined us from the depot at home, some of whom were attached
to our company. Among them was a lad of the name of William Young,
a native of Glasgow. His conduct and character were so strikingly
different from that of his comrades, that he soon became an object
of remark. He might then be about eighteen or nineteen years of age,
prepossessing in his appearance; but his countenance was ‘sicklied
o’er with the pale cast of thought,’—something seemed to lie heavy at
his heart. When not on duty he was in the habit of wandering much by
himself, and, unless when he could not avoid it, he rarely spoke to
any one. When the weather did not permit him to ramble, he occupied
himself in reading a small pocket Bible, which he always carried
about with him, and often, while thus engaged, the tears could be
seen trickling down his cheeks. Those of course were considered
symptoms of religious feeling, and as such were ridiculed by the
more brutal and illiterate part of his comrades; it was, however,
confined to them, for there is a sacredness attached to even the
appearance of religion in the minds of those who have been brought
up by religious parents, that however lax their own morality may
be, prevents them from turning it into ridicule. Their hearts still
cherish the recollection of the holy feelings which have been excited
in their younger years, and untainted at the core, sigh to think they
do not now feel as they were wont, that purity and happiness which by
association must ever be connected with their religious observances.
I felt interested in him, and soon acquired his confidence so
far, that he confided to me the outlines of his story, up to the
time of his enlisting. There seemed, however, to be a feeling of
self-contempt mixed up with his grief, that prevented him from
entering particularly into the circumstances which led to that step.
What I learned was, that he had left a widowed mother and a sister
behind, who had depended in a great measure upon him for support;
that the Bible, which he was in the habit of reading, was the gift
of his mother, when they parted; and although he felt pleasure and
consolation from scanning its contents, there were other feelings
connected with it which often led his thoughts far from what he was
reading, and raised emotions in his mind that brought tears from his
eyes. Without seeking to pry into what he seemed inclined to conceal,
I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to turn the current of his
thoughts into some other channel, but my efforts were unavailing;
the destitute manner in which he had left his mother seemed to prey
upon his mind, and although he conformed himself well enough to the
duties he had to perform, yet he still remained the same melancholy,
abstracted being as when I first knew him.
We had advanced some way into France, when one evening we were
walking together, and talking of the possibility of our soon seeing
home, as we had now some reason to expect peace.
‘I hope,’ said he, ‘that I will live to return to my poor mother; but
if it should be my fate to fall, and yours to survive, there is one
request I have to make.’
‘What is that?’ said I.
‘That you will send home this Bible to my mother; I have fastened a
lock of my hair at a place she will remember, and think with pity and
forgiveness of me when I am no more.’
‘Don’t let such melancholy reflections get the better of you,’ said
I; ‘still hope for the best. I trust we shall both see our native
land again, but should there be any necessity for it, and I survive,
I will faithfully perform what you wish.’
A few days after, the battle of Orthes was fought. At night when
the companies were mustered, poor William was missing: he had been
detached with the sharp-shooters in the morning, to cover the advance
of the column, and had been killed by a grape shot in the early
part of the day. We were far past the place where he had fallen,
and I could not return even had there been any chance of finding
him among the numbers of dead and wounded that strewed the field.
But he had given his Bible in charge to an officer’s servant, with
whom he was acquainted, to place among his master’s baggage, as a
place of greater security, from whom I received it, previous to
our embarkation at Pauilhac, for Ireland. Between the Old and New
Testaments, on the blank page, was fastened a lock of his hair, so
disposed as to encircle the following passages, which were copied in
a small hand, with the chapter and verse of each annexed:—
‘Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears, for there
is hope in thine end, saith the Lord, that thy children shall come
again unto their own border.’
‘Fear not, thy Maker is thine husband.’
‘Commit thy fatherless children to my care.’
‘Call upon me in the day of trouble, I will deliver thee, and thou
shalt glorify me.’
THE INTERVIEW.
Having brought the Bible home with me, I had now the melancholy
task to perform, of delivering it to his aged mother. Accordingly,
when I had been a few days at home, I sought out her dwelling. She
was absent when I first called; but I left the book, with a note,
explaining the nature of my visit, and promising to return next day.
Agreeable to promise, having called at her house, I rapped at the
door, but no one answered, and lifting the latch, to try whether it
was locked, it opened, and I discovered the old woman sitting at a
table, with the small Bible that I had brought, open before her,
at the place which had been so particularly addressed to herself;
her eyes were red with weeping, and she was so absorbed in grief,
that she did not observe my entrance. Sensible that I had intruded
rather abruptly, I attempted to withdraw; but she happened to lift
up her head, and seeing a soldier in uniform, she rose hastily and
came towards me: ‘Are you the kind lad that was here yesterday with
this?’ (pointing to the Bible.) ‘I dinna ken how to be thankfu’
enough to you for being the bearer of my puir Willie’s dyin’
bequest. Come in an’ sit down. I was in a manner prepared for’t, by
the kind considerate letter you sent me, and I thocht that I cou’d
have borne’t wi’ some fortitude; but the sight o’ my dear laddie’s
hand-writing and the lock o’ his hair, has opened a’ my wounds
afresh. But I would be hard, hard hearted if I didna grieve for the
loss o’ him that was aye sae guid and kind to me. Oh! the sight o’
that Bible brings things to my mind that maist dries up my heart
a’ thegither; and if it wasna for the comfort that’s in’t, (that
I hae always experienced) wad drive me out o’ my senses. It was
bought on the day o’ my weddin’, and was carried wi’ me when I first
entered the Lord’s house, after being joined heart an’ han’ wi’ a
man that has left few like him behind. For twenty years, in joy an’
in trouble, it was my companion; and, alas! weel do I mind it, frae
this book I read the blessed an’ faithfu’ promises o’ God to my dear
husband in his last hours; an’ when the pangs o’ death were on him,
an’ he held my han’ in his, takin’, as I thocht, an everlastin’
fareweel o’ me, when my heart was burstin’ wi’ grief, the assurance
gi’en me there that I would again meet wi’ him, gied me consolation
in the midst o’ my distress.
‘When my boy listed, and was leaving me, I gied him this Bible,
charging him never to forget the reading o’t, for there he wad find
comfort in the hour o’ trouble.’
‘And it gives me pleasure,’ said I, ‘to inform you that he followed
your advice.’
‘O ay! I am sure he did,’ replied she, ‘I canna doubt but his heart
was right.’
‘His listin’ was a sair heart-break to me, for he had aye been sae
guid an’ sae kind, an’ was the only stay that I had. Did he ever tell
you what was the reason o’ him listin’?’
‘No,’ said I.
‘No, no, he was owre proud-spirited for that, puir fellow; but he
is no the first that a silly woman has driven to ruin; an’ it’s a
waesome thocht to me that a heart like his shou’d hae been thrown
awa’ on a worthless tawpy, that didna care a preen about him.’
Having expressed a wish to hear the story to which she alluded, she
proceeded: