As we look upon the title of our tale, now that we have written it, we
cannot suppress a shudder of horror. Like the handwriting on the wall,
it seems typical of misery, revolution, and death. Revolution and
death, do we say? What revolution, in the common sense of the word--we
mean in a political one--was ever productive of such deplorable
effects, as that moral revolution to which the bottle bears the social
man?--what death, viewed merely as a physical evil, can be compared to
that moral and intellectual destruction to which the good fellow so
often subjects himself? It is no palliation of the evil to say that
the social man is led by the best qualities of his heart, by the
noblest faculties of his intellect, into the path which leads to utter
wretchedness--to remorse, disease, and premature death in this world;
and, if the combined testimony of reason and revelation be sufficient
to establish any fact--to punishment in the next. Our faculties are
good or bad only according as they are cultivated or controlled; and
we cannot see that the unregulated social feelings which lead a man to
plunge into dissipation, and to drag his friends along with him into
the gulf of vice, are a whit less dangerous or fearful than the
universally execrated disposition which impels him to plunge a dagger
into his own heart, or to bury it in the bosom of his fellow-creature.
On the contrary, they seem calculated to produce even greater
mischief, and, therefore, are more worthy of general deprecation, in
the same degree that a secret enemy is more deserving of universal
abhorrence than an avowed one: the one stands forth with an open
defiance, and a weapon drawn before the eyes of his victim, who may
save himself by flight or conflict--the other "smiles, and smiles, and
murders while he smiles."
How many noble beings have we known, destroyed utterly by the
disposition to what is vulgarly called good-fellowship!--in how many
instances have we known splendid talents, high love of moral
rectitude, nay, even strong religious principles, strangled by the
social feelings! At first, doubtless, there was but a slight
dereliction of duty, mourned for sincerely, and punished by severe
remorse; but, gradually, and with insidious motion, the victim
revolved in a wider sphere, and more remote from the orbit of virtue,
until, at length, escaping entirely from the attraction which had held
him in the just path, he fell, with headlong and irresistible
velocity, into the shapeless void of vice--the dark chaos of crime.
Our heart sickens as we pass in review before us the numbers of our
early friends who have run this terrific career, who now fill timeless
graves, or are yet in the land of existence, bearing about in their
bosoms a living hell--whose hearts are already sepulchres. And, but
that we thought the relation we are about to deliver may be of service
to some who, already standing on the brink, are not fully aware of
their danger--but that we conceived the tale of talent, generosity,
and worth, miserably destroyed by the unregulated social feelings, may
arrest some kindred spirit in its path to unanticipated misery--we
should yield to the impulse which urges us to fling down our pen, and
give ourselves up to sorrow for the departed.
William Riddell was the only son of a shepherd, who dwelt upon the
moorlands that overhang one of the tributaries of the Tweed. The old
man was one of those characters which have been so often and so well
described--a stern, grave, intelligent, religious Scottish shepherd.
The broad Lowland bonnet did not cover a shrewder head than old David
Riddell's; nor did the hodden grey coat, throughout wide Scotland,
wrap a warmer or more honest heart.
His honesty was manifest to all--the warmth of his feelings was
latent, and required to be struck by strong emotion, ere it was
developed externally. The solitary influences of nature, when
habitually contemplated in her more wild and solemn aspects, seem
calculated to mould minds of good natural capabilities, but which are
shut out from the social acquisition of knowledge, into forms like
that of David Riddell's. If they all, like the nature which has
breathed its spirit into them, seem somewhat rugged and stern, they
all, like her also, bear the sterling stamp of sincerity. The
elements, which "are not flatterers, but counsellors that feelingly
persuade him what he is," are his familiar companions--among the
remote valleys, and along the precipitous mountain-sides, and upon the
wide moorlands, their irresistible power leads him to look with awe up
to their Creator and Controller, and humility also is impressed upon
him; but with these a confident reliance on the mercy and benevolence
of the Being who regulates them is naturally produced: and thus it is,
that, with this awe and humility, a slavish fear is no portion of his
character; for he has been in the heart of a thousand mists, and has
yet returned safely to his cottage ingle--he has braved the storms of
many winters, and still looks, with a prophetic eye, upon the fresh
green of approaching springs, and the purple heath-blooms of coming
summers. In a mind thus constituted, duplicity can never dwell. There
are millions who, shut up in cities, and shrinking from the inclemency
of the seasons, look on the shepherd of the mountains as one worthy
only of commiseration--who paint him as a wretch whose soul is as
barren as his moorlands, and think of him as a slave, wandering, with
vacant mind and wearied frame, over gloomy solitudes, earning with
misery to-day the food which enables his body to bear the toil of
to-morrow.
How wide is this of the truth!--The sweet and tranquil joys of home
are his, enhanced a thousand-fold by previous privation--the delights
of connubial and filial love are more keenly felt by him, in the
simplicity of nature, than by the luxurious citizen or the ermined
noble; and though he has never heard the chant of the cathedral choir,
or listened to the consecrated melody of an organ peal, the sublime
transports of religion have thrilled his bosom beneath the solitary
sky, amid the wild, or by the margin of the cataract that rolls its
unvisited torrent over nameless cliffs. It is a mistaken belief that
poverty and toil shut the shepherd's eyes from the loveliness of
nature--nor is it true, that, because he is rude in speech, and
possessed of little book-learning, he does not feel keenly, and
translate faithfully, the beautiful language which she utters to the
heart of man. Wordsworth has so exquisitely described what we are
wishing to express, that we shall, without apology for the length of
the quotation, repeat his words:--
"Grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
Are things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts:
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he has breathed
The common air--the hills, which he so oft
Has climb'd with vigorous steps--which have impress'd
So many incidents upon his mind,
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear,
Which, like a book, preserves the memory
Of the dumb animals whom he has saved,
Has fed or shelter'd; linking to such acts,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honourable gain;--these fields, these hills,
Which are his living being, even more
Than his own blood--what could they less?--have laid
Strong hold on his affections, are to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love--
The pleasure which there is in life itself."
It was with this well-spring of quiet happiness in his breast, that
David Riddell had gone from day to day among his flock, and returned
to his cottage fireside. His wife Rachel was one of those women of
whom, notwithstanding the habitual discontent and sneers of men, there
are thousands in this world, in this kingdom--nay, among our own
Border hills--who, like the stars of heaven during the daylight, hold
on their course noiselessly and unseen, but are, nevertheless, shining
with a sweet and steady radiance, every one in its place, in the
firmament. Placid, pious, and cheerful, with a quiet but kind heart,
that ever and anon displayed its workings in the sweet light of her
eyes, or in the "heartsome" smile that arranged her still lovely
features into the symmetry of benevolence; in adversity--for she had
lost children, and had known sickness--in adversity, patient and
resigned; in prosperity--for their flocks had flourished, and many of
their harvests had been abundant--in prosperity, not too much elated,
but happy with a calm and grateful joy; finally, possessed of a gentle
and forbearing nature, which rendered innocuous the occasional
sternness or irritability of her husband, and turned insensibly aside
the shafts which might have otherwise struck deadly at their domestic
peace:--such was the partner of the joys and the sharer of the sorrows
of David Riddell for above a quarter-of-a-century. Thus situated, it
could not be but that he had been a happy man. For, though care and
trouble had not unfrequently entered his dwelling, they had never long
remained; nor do they ever continue to haunt a house in which
good-nature and true piety are inmates. Four sweet children had been
taken from them, each at an age which seemed more interesting than the
other, and sorrow had, for a time, darkened their dwelling; but the
tears of those griefs were now dried, and, save an occasional sigh
from the bereaved parents, as some casual circumstance recalled their
lost little ones to their recollections, the only traces of their
former afflictions were to be found in the prodigality of affection
which they lavished on their only remaining child. David Riddell was
verging towards threescore, when William, the subject of the following
narrative, was born. The old man's heart was entirely bound up in this
child of his age. Frequently, not from necessity, but impelled by
love, had he performed the ministrations of a mother to him; often, on
a sunny day, had he carried him, like a lamb, in the corner of his
plaid, up to the hills; and often, laying the unconscious infant on
the purple heath upon the mountain-side, had he knelt down before him,
beneath the solitary sky, and poured out his heart in gratitude to the
God who had bestowed on him this precious gift. When little William
was able to follow his father among the flocks, they became
inseparable; and it was beautiful to behold the old man laying aside
the gravity and sternness of his nature, and renewing, with his little
boy, the sports which the lapse of half-a-century had well-nigh swept
from his memory. They sought out together the nest of the lapwing and
the moorfowl; they chased the humble-bee over the heath in company;
or, loitering down the mountain streams, assisted each other in the
pursuit of the speckled trout. The old man taught his boy, amid the
secluded glens, or upon the naked hill-tops, to modulate his voice to
the hymns consecrated to religion throughout Scotland; the rich melody
of the "Old Hundred," or the "Martyrs," rose in concert from their
lips; or, perhaps the aged shepherd played on the simple Scottish
flageolet, on which he had been, in his youth, a skilful performer,
some of the touching airs of his mother-land, and then, placing the
pipe in William's hands, assisted him, by kind encouragement or
skilful rebuke, to follow out the beautiful strain. Thus they lived
together--
"A pair of friends, though one was young,
And Matthew seventy-two."
Linked closer and closer together by these sweet natural ties, they
were happy, and their affection was the grateful theme of all the
inhabitants of the valley.
A little incident which occurred in William's childhood had determined
his father to rear him for the ministry. While yet only five years of
age, he was found one day by his father, with an old family Bible upon
his knee, some of the leaves of which he had torn out, and was
arranging after a fashion of his own. On being asked by his father
what he was doing, he replied, "That he thought the evangelists
differed in some portions of their history, and that he was trying to
discover wherein the difference lay."[C] The old man retired with
streaming eyes; and from that moment William Riddell was, like Samuel
of old, vowed to the service of God.
As he grew in years, he displayed proofs of talent which astonished
the shepherd, and filled old David's heart with exultation. Before he
was fifteen, there was not a stream nor a legend that belonged to his
native hills which he had not celebrated in song. His pen was always
ready to assist the shepherd lads in their rustic loves; and the
crabbed and grasping little tyrants of the valley had, more than once,
winced under his satire or his ridicule. The old man, as we have said,
rejoiced in the genius of his son, and had always, in his ample
pockets, good store of the young poet's productions, wherewith to
regale such of his companions as chose to listen. Rachel, however,
with a more prophetic eye, saw, in the vivacity of her boy's nature,
the germs of as much grief as joy to himself, and used commonly to
shake her head and sigh, while her husband and his friends were
convulsed with laughter at some of William's sallies.
At length the period arrived when he was to be sent to college.
I need not attempt to describe the feelings of the family when this
little revolution in their domestic life occurred; the quiet but deep
anxiety of Rachel--the restless and troubled looks and actions of the
old shepherd--and the exulting anticipation of the bright world into
which he was about to enter, which William displayed, tempered or
repressed, every now and then, by natural sorrow, at leaving the hills
and streams where his boyhood had been spent pleasantly, and the dear
parents to whom he owed so deep a debt of love. The last words of
David to his son, as he stood grasping his hand, at the foot of the
glen where the path turns off to the next market town--while big tears
stood heavily on his eyelashes, visitants unknown for twenty
years--were almost those of Michael to Luke, in Wordsworth's exquisite
poem--
"Amid all fear
And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
Mayest bear in mind the life thy fathers lived,
Who, being innocent, did for that cause
Bestir them in good deeds."
The old shepherd and his son had never been separated for a single
night--now they parted knowing that many months must elapse before
they could behold one another again. It was a bitter moment, though
full of the germs of joyful anticipation.
William had taken his farewell embrace, and, with convulsive sobs, had
walked hastily away to a little distance; he turned, and beheld his
aged father still standing on the spot, with clasped hands uplifted,
and eyes fixed intently on his own receding form. He was unable to
withstand the sight--he rushed back again, and threw himself, in an
agony of affection, upon the old man's neck, weeping--though a manlier
heart throbbed not--weeping like a child. But at length they parted; a
sadder heart never entered into the solitudes of nature than old David
Riddell bore into the mountains on that evening--a purer never left
the innocence of the country for the crowded city, than his son
carried with him to the metropolis of Scotland.
For four years William attended college during the winter, and
remained with his father during the summer months.
It was not that his labour was required by the old man: for he had now
amassed a sufficient sum, with his moderate habits, to make him
independent; but the sight of William was pleasant to the aged
shepherd, among the hills where they had played together, and which
were consecrated to their affections. The young student had
distinguished himself highly at college, and had gained the esteem,
both publicly and privately expressed, of many of his preceptors. His
heart was still uncontaminated, his morals pure, and his habits
simple, as when he was a boy. It was at this time that Rachel died. As
her life had been peaceful, and, upon the whole, happy, so her
death-bed was tranquil and resigned. She had rejoiced, with her
husband, in the promising career of their son, and, as her dim eyes
descried his manly form bent over her in an attitude of deepest grief,
she could scarcely but feel her natural sorrow at leaving him quenched
in the glad anticipations of his future prospects in life. Yet the
misery which his ardent and imaginative nature _might_ inflict upon
him was still not shut out from her mind, and almost her last words
were to warn him against indulging it too far. She died, and the old
shepherd and his son were left to attempt to comfort each other.
William was again about to depart to college, and he would fain have
had his father to give up his duties, and accompany him to Edinburgh.
He dwelt upon his increasing feebleness, his age, already beyond the
common lot of man, the solitude to which he would be left, the comfort
they would be to each other, if together. To all this the old man
replied--
"Comfort, my boy, there is none for me in this world, except in thee.
Gradually the circle of my love has been narrowed: first, my own
parents, then my children, last, my beloved Rachel, have been swept
away; and now thou only art left for my earthly affections to embrace.
Gladly for thy sake would I go to the city; but I think these hills
could not bear to look on another while I lived--this cottage to
shelter another shepherd while I am able to fling my plaid around me.
It is a foolish fancy for an old man to cherish, yet I cannot bid it
depart. Go, then, alone, my dearest lad, and leave me in these scenes,
which have become part of my being, to perform the duties in which my
life has been spent. And still remember, William, when temptations
assail thee, or bad men would lead thee by the cords of vanity or
friendship into vice, that there is a grey-haired man among these
hills, whom the tale would send in sorrow to the grave--a heart that
for twenty years has been fed by its love for thee, which would break
to know thou hadst become unworthy of that love. Farewell! and may
that good Being who has brought me in safety out of the heart of a
thousand storms preserve thee from the deadlier tempests of the world
of vice!"
William returned to college, with a heart softened both by grief and
love. Strange, that out of this wholesome state of mind should have
sprung the elements of wretchedness and vice! Yet so it was. He had
written a poem on the subject of his late affliction, and had breathed
into it the very soul of sorrow. The wild and beautiful scenery amid
which he dwelt, and which he loved and knew so well, had also given
its hues to the language and the thoughts of his muse: his rich and
now cultivated taste imparted elegance and harmony to his numbers; the
poem was at once original, chaste, and imaginative; it gained him the
esteem of the highest literary circles in Edinburgh, and he became a
cherished guest in the houses of many distinguished men for whom he
had never hoped to indulge any feelings save those of distant and
respectful admiration. He emerged into a new world, too beautiful and
dazzling for him at first to see his way clearly through its mazes.
His undoubted genius commanded the respect of the men--his manly
feeling, and the ingenious eloquence of his address, presently made
him a distinguished favourite with the female portion of his
acquaintance. The tone of his thoughts and feelings underwent a
perfect revolution. Once introduced into the society of the polite and
the learned, the bashfulness and awkwardness of the shepherd-lad
seemed to fall off from him, without effort of his own, but naturally,
like the crustaceous envelope in the metamorphosis of insects. He felt
as if he were a denizen of the clime in which he now luxuriated, and
as if, till now, he had been living in a foreign land. He discovered,
to his amazement, that those great men, whose very names he had been
wont to utter with reverence, and before whose glance his eye had been
accustomed to fall abashed, were the most easy, familiar, and
communicative companions possible--that scarcely one of them was so
severe in their morality as his old father--that they listened to his
opinions with attention, and replied to them with respect. Then,
again, among the satellites of these literary luminaries--those whom,
till now, in the reflected light of their primaries, he had been wont
to behold with respect, and almost with envy--he presently perceived
weakness, dimness, and aberration; and he perceived, also, how capable
he was of outshining them all; or, to speak in less metaphorical
phrase, he found among the less distinguished literary persons who
haunted the tables of the great, a degree of ignorance on subjects of
general science, a slavishness of demeanour, and a petty jealousy,
which he could not but despise, and which it required very little
penetration to perceive that the great man despised also. He soon
acquired, therefore, a confidence in his own powers, and a conscious
respect for, I had almost said pride in, the rectitude of his
feelings, to which, till now, he had been an entire stranger. And if
such was his success with the men, his conquest over his own timidity,
in the presence of women, struck him with yet greater surprise. He who
had been accustomed to blush and look down before a peasant girl,
presently found himself able to gaze steadily into the eyes of a noble
matron or maiden, undazzled by the jewelled coronet upon her head, or
yet more brilliant charms in which nature and art had arrayed her
brow, and neck, and bosom. The witchery of woman in all her
loveliness, instead of, as he had often imagined, causing his heart to
sink, and his cheek to burn, and his tongue to be dumb in his mouth,
awoke the latent powers of his nature--it thrilled his heart with
exulting admiration, and filled his eyes with a bold, steady radiance,
and poured from his lips the eloquence which female loveliness can
alone call forth. His nature was changed--that is, the external
development of his nature, for his heart remained the same; and often,
amid crowded assemblies and rich peals of concerted music, it called
on his imagination to portray the old solitary shepherd, amid the
hills of his boyhood, or to recall the simple strains which his father
had taught him to play upon the rude Scottish pipe.
At the period to which we refer, the literary society of Edinburgh was
by no means distinguished for its abstemiousness. A "good" fellow, and
a clever one, were almost synonymous terms. Sir Walter Scott, in his
novel of "Guy Mannering," has matchlessly described the convivial
habits of the Scottish advocates: the habits of the whole literary
society of Edinburgh were pretty similar. Why should I detail the
circumstances of William's seduction from sobriety? The example of
those whom he had been accustomed to admire, respect, and love; the
gay sallies of his younger associates; the witchery of the society of
genius; the flowing feeling which followed the circulation of the
bowl; the song, the speech, the story, the flash of wit, the jocose
roll of humour, and, above all, the forgiving approval (for how else
should we designate it?) of the ladies--all assailed him at once, and,
beneath their attacks, his reason and resolve,
"That column of true majesty in man,"
fell. Age, wisdom, youth, wit, humour, friendship, love, and
beauty--what could a raw shepherd lad oppose to all these? "The
request of his aged father, the injunction of the moral law, the
direct command of God!" some stern, _perhaps_ good man may reply.
William tried to control his career by means of these; but the attacks
were unceasing, various, distracting--the defence was in the hands of
one, and he, alas! too often disposed to admit the enemy. We will pass
rapidly over this part of our departed friend's career. He mingled, at
first sparingly, at length more freely, in the convivial habits of his
new friends; he felt the thrill of friendship; he was keenly alive to
the social glow which the bowl awakens; his heart also was elated by
the love of men of genius, and his vanity gratified by their
loudly-expressed admiration. Unfortunately, he engaged to write for a
new periodical which some of his friends were then attempting to
establish. Amid the solitude of his native hills he had experienced
the grateful and rapid awakening of noble ideas; he was surprised to
find that, in the city, amid the distractions of ambition, music,
love, and wine, he could only now and then call up his natural powers
to his aid. He had pledged himself to support the new periodical to a
certain extent; and, in order to fulfil his promise, at the
instigation of an acquaintance, he stimulated himself to its
accomplishment by means of brandy. This was the first time he had ever
drank ardent spirits for the sake of the effects which they produce.
The paper which he had written was universally admired, the sale of
the periodical was very much increased by its influence, and he was
plied by the proprietors with new and lucrative engagements.
On the very morning on which he had received these proposals, he also
received a letter from his aged father, informing him, that the
brother of the old man, who was engaged in commerce, and for whom he
had some time ago become surety, had failed, and that the whole of the
little earnings of his past life would be required to liquidate the
debt.
William closed with the proposal of the proprietors of the magazine,
and wrote to the old man a letter, partly of condolence, but more of
triumph. He was almost glad that the resources of his father were
destroyed, now that he himself had the means of supporting him; and it
was with a joyous heart that he sat down to write his paper for the
new periodical. But alas! he felt what all who have so occupied
themselves have felt, how the mind becomes weak, and the fancy flags,
when compelled to action. He rushed into society, to escape from the
dreadful depression which follows high mental excitement; the warmth
of friendship with which he was met fell gratefully on his spirit; the
glee and glory of social intercourse first relieved his wearied
faculties, and then pleasantly excited them; the titillation of
gratified vanity, and the exercise of intellectual power, combined to
make the scene fascinating; he went more and more into society; it
became more and more necessary to him--he was a _social man_. His
father was a strange, I had almost said a stubborn man in some
respects, and he might in some measure be blamed for this gradual
sliding from sobriety of his son. To the affectionate letter of
William, which beseeched him, now that his little hoard had been
carried away, and now that his years were above fourscore, to come to
Edinburgh, and dwell with his son, the old man answered, that God had
yet left him vigour to mount the hills, and thread the valleys; and
that, so long as this was the case, he would consider it unjust to
become a burden to others. There was a stern independence and lofty
resolve in the determination of the aged shepherd which harmonised
well with his character; but it fell like lead upon the bright dreams
of William--it strangled many of his best resolutions of future virtue
and industry. He did not know that his father had already heard of his
relaxed habits, and had even had reported to him, in exaggerated
phrase, the detail of some of his midnight carousals. William went on,
gaining fame, but losing virtue. In the popular use of the word, it
was _impossible_ for him to resist the importunities of those who
pressed him to partake of their bottle or their bowl. They grasped his
hand cordially; they sang the songs which he loved, or perhaps had
written; they drank his health with cheers of enthusiasm. It was
_impossible_ for him to resist the entreaties of those persons--it was
_impossible_ for him not to believe them sincere. Nor were they
otherwise; but the value of the sincerity of the intemperate and the
immoral, what is it?
"Ashes within beautiful fruit."
William Riddell passed the whole of his examinations, and was, as the
students say, "ready for a church." Nor was he long in procuring one.
Among the friends to whom his genius and character had recommended him
was a nobleman, who had the gift of the very kirk to which William and
his father had been accustomed to resort. The incumbent died; the
nobleman presented the living to William. With the new duties which
now devolved upon him, came a crowd of new feelings and springs of
action. He gave up his engagement with the literary periodical, he
retired from his social companions, and he devoted himself to grave
and worthy study and contemplation. The struggle was severe; but he
bore up against it under the excitement of the new responsibility
which had fallen upon him. He went down to the country with some of
the most distinguished members of the Scottish Church, who officiated
at his ordination. A proud, a tumultuously happy day was it for old
David Riddell, who, with wonder and awe, felt his horny hand grasped
by the great men whose very names he had considered subservient to his
happiness of old time, and beheld his son, little William, the boy
whom he had taught the alphabet upon Scaurhope Hill, with the pebbles
that lie there--beheld him holding high discourse with these same
dignitaries, saw that his opinions were listened to with respect, and
that his thoughts, according as they were solemn or ludicrous, were
responded to by these great men with gravity or broad grins. A
delightful day was it to the old shepherd, as he beheld the first man
in the General Assembly--the greatest man in the Scottish Kirk--lay
his hand upon the youthful head of his beloved son, and consecrate him
to the care of the souls who dwelt in the very valley where he had
been born and reared, in which his genius was known, and his family,
though humble, respected.
There was another, and an equally strong reason, for William's giving
up his convivial habits and boisterous companions. He was in love.
It was at that least romantic of all places for a lover, a ball in
Edinburgh, that William Riddell, the new pastor of Mosskirk, had first
met Ellen Ogilvie, the daughter of the principal heritor of his
parish, the owner of the hills on which his father had watched the
sheep for above threescore years. Ellen had beheld him moving, a gay
and welcome visitant, in noble halls; her hand had met his in the
dance, in exchange with those of countesses and duchesses; she had
heard his praise echoed from house to house, and from mouth to mouth;
she was now alone in the country, with nothing but ignorant or coarse
men around her: let it not seem wonderful that she, though the only
daughter of a wealthy landholder, should bestow her love on the poor,
handsome, manly, eloquent pastor of Mosskirk. And if this does not
seem wonderful, it will surely not appear singular that the proud,
haughty, bigoted, and ignorant father of Ellen should forbid the
match, and should threaten with his vengeance the usurper of his
daughter's love.
His vengeance! How weak a word to such a being as William! Not that he
would not have rejoiced, for Ellen's sake, and for the sake of
decorum, to have had the old gentleman's approval; not that he would
not have used every possible means, consistent with honour and the
dignity of his own character, to have gained the good opinion of the
father of his beloved; but the laird was a man of the world, of acres,
and of hundreds; his litany lay in pounds, shillings, and pence; his
affections were wrapped up in rents and lordships; and that a poor
parson, however God had chosen to ennoble him by genius and generous
sentiments--that a poor parson should have dared to look upon a child
of his with the eyes of affection, upon the child who was the natural
heir of all those riches which he had laboured for half-a-century to
amass, smote him as a personal insult, as an indignity which nothing
but blood could wipe out. The mother of Ellen had all along thought
differently; and from the first moment in which she had perceived the
affection that existed between them (and oh, how much quicker women
are than men in discovering these things!) she had encouraged their
intimacy.
William Riddell, the minister of Mosskirk, was out of the canons of
the duello, and the laird, therefore, instead of calling him out, was
compelled to be satisfied with disinheriting Ellen, who, under
circumstances which fully exonerated her from her father's tyrannical
wishes, became William's wife.
My friend William had always been one of those persons who abhorred
the usual terms on which wives are sought and husbands achieved.
"Keeping a wife," was a phrase of blasphemy to him, or at least it
seemed desecrating women to the level of a dog, a horse, or a
cow--the "keeping" of which appeared, according to their phraseology,
a matter of the same general import as the cherishing a beloved
partner of all in which the human heart takes an interest. Nor,
although he was a shepherd's son, could he perceive much inequality in
a minister who earned four hundred pounds a-year, by looking after the
spiritual interests of some hundreds of individuals, and who was to
become the confidant of their griefs, and the sharer of their joys,
their supporter in sickness, and their guide in the common path of
life--he could not perceive much presumption in such a man matching
himself with the daughter of an ignorant and coarse person, whose
worth lay only in his wealth, whose character was not esteemed by his
neighbours, and whose sympathy for suffering human nature only
developed itself now and then in his bestowal of a basin of hot soup
upon a starving beggar at Christmas.
On the contrary, if William thought about the matter in this relation
at all, he considered, and justly, that he was rather conferring an
honour than receiving one from the father of Ellen. But the old
gentleman thought, as the world thinks, differently; and accordingly,
in his wrath, he disinherited her.
It was unfortunate for the full gratification of his malice, that
William was impassible to this mode of punishment, and that he beheld
the whole of the old gentleman's possessions conveyed over to a
charitable institution, with as much pleasure as if he had signed them
away of his own accord.
In the parish of Mosskirk, as in most of the country parishes in
Scotland, there were a number of intelligent men who associated
frequently together for the sake of cultivating scientific knowledge,
and conversing on various subjects of interest in literature and
philosophy. At the time when William was inducted into Mosskirk, all
the ministers of the neighbouring parishes were members of this
society, and it was generally held on a convivial footing. Some of the
members came from a distance, others were jolly fellows naturally; and
thus it happened that their discussions frequently dipped deep into
the night, and sometimes were not settled until cock-crow.
Into this society William Riddell was welcomed with enthusiastic
honours, and was at once made perpetual president. His fame as a poet
had gone before him, and his genial warmth as a man followed up with
general applause the sensation which he had created. He had natural
powers capable of supporting him in the sphere to which his reputation
had raised him. He had wit, humour, pathos, and fluency; and, eager to
earn the opinion of his parishioners, he exerted himself to gain it,
and he succeeded. Throughout the whole of his parish, he was admired
as a man of genius and eloquence, he was respected as a man of
irreproachable moral worth, and beloved as a friend, who shared
sincerely in the gladness, and sympathised in the sorrows, of his
flock. Unfortunately, the habits of many of his parishioners, as well
as of those of the literary club to which I have alluded, were the
very reverse of temperate. For a time the attraction of his young
wife, and presently that of his infant son, kept him from indulging in
nocturnal potations. But afterwards these attractions lost their
force; the glory and the glee of the musical and literary conclave
overcame all his resolves; and, night after night, it happened that he
returned to his manse at unseasonable hours, and greeted his wife with
the leer of intoxication, instead of the steady glance of affection.
We should have said that, before this, old David Riddell, moved by his
son's entreaties, had given up his duties among the hills, and had
come to live with him at Mosskirk Manse. A weekly delight was it to
the old man to behold his son arrayed in his black gown, and with the
smooth white bands drooping decently upon his bosom, delivering from
the pulpit of his native parish the words of eternal truth; and
pleasant was it to the old shepherd ever and anon to recognise, in the
elegant but simple language of the pastor, some of those sentiments
which he himself had instilled into his mind, while he was yet a
shepherd lad upon the moorlands.
But it could not long be concealed from him that William was irregular
in his habits. When the fact first struck him, he almost swooned away;
for the forebodings of Rachel rushed into his mind, and he saw, as it
seemed, for the first time, that his son's destruction was sealed.
It was long, however, before he could bring himself to speak on the
subject to William; he felt the shame which his son appeared to have
abandoned; and his own temperate blood sent a blush into his withered
cheek at the idea of addressing the child of his heart, the minister
of God, on the subject of his intemperance. The miserable struggles of
the old man before he gave utterance to his sentiments to William, we
are utterly unable to describe--we leave them to our reader's
imagination. At length, however, on a morning after the minister of
Mosskirk had shamefully been supported home by two of his
parishioners, in a state of deplorable intoxication, the old shepherd
gathered up resolution to speak to his son. He did not denounce,
insult, or even upbraid him; but, with tears in his eyes, delicately
alluding to his misconduct, assured him that such another occurrence
would cause him to leave the manse for ever; for that, though he might
not be able to prevent, he was resolved never to sanction, the fearful
immorality which drunkenness carries in its train, more hideous still
when attached to a minister of the Gospel.
William, already disgusted with himself, and humbled before his own
heart, was crushed to the earth by his old father's appeal. He threw
himself upon his aged parent's neck, and entreated his forgiveness.
"My forgiveness, my boy!" replied the shepherd; "you cannot offend
me, and therefore it is vain to ask for my forgiveness. My heart is so
utterly bound up in thee, that, though it may deplore, it cannot
denounce any conduct of thine. It is as it were but a servant of
thine, and in good or in evil report, will follow in its train. But,
if my sufferings, and the sneers of men, have no influence over thee,
think, oh, my dear boy! think on death, the judgment, eternity!"
Will it be believed, that, after this appeal, the remorse which he
suffered, and the resolutions of reformation which he made, a single
week saw the minister of Mosskirk reel into his manse, assisted by the
pastor of the Methodist Chapel, at two o'clock in the morning? Such
was the distressing reality; and the next morning, without speaking to
his son, but giving, amid heart-broken sobs and sighs, his blessing to
his daughter-in-law and her children, old David Riddell removed from
his son's roof: nor could all his entreaties induce him to return.
Let me hasten to conclude. The conduct of William became presently so
notoriously shameful, that it could no longer be overlooked by his
parishioners, and he was more than once called upon by some of them
with remonstrances, which increased gradually in severity. Still the
infatuated man proceeded, until at length his behaviour became a
public slander to his own parishioners and to the whole church. He was
yet, however, so much beloved for his generous warmth of heart, and
admired for his talents, that a last effort was made to prevent the
sentence of expulsion, which had been passed against him, from being
carried into effect; and his punishment was commuted, if so it could
be called, into making a public apology, from his own pulpit, to his
people, for his shameful irregularities. On the day of this
heartrending exhibition, not more than one-fourth of the congregation
were present; the remainder being absent that they might not behold
the spectacle of their pastor's humiliation. But old David Riddell
was there, supported, for the first, and alas! for the last time, into
church by a friend. Until now, the aged man had always walked
unsupported, and with a firm, nay, with something of an elastic step,
up to his pew; but during the past week, since he had heard the news
of his son's public disgrace, and the public penance which he was to
perform, his vital powers had sunk with fearful rapidity. To those
even who had seen him, on the preceding Sabbath, move decently into
his accustomed spot, and depositing the broad-brimmed hat, which, on
the Lord's-day, he exchanged for the broad Lowland bonnet, smooth
backwards his thin light-grey locks, he appeared scarcely like the
same man. His form was now bent nearly double; he shuffled his feet
painfully over the ground; his head shook from weakness, not from age;
his eyes were red and dim; he looked like a man who was only three or
four steps from the open grave. When, after the service was concluded,
William began to read the humiliating apology which he had written,
the aged shepherd crept painfully down upon his knees, and, burying
his face in his clasped hands, remained absorbed in prayer. The last
words had fallen from the minister's lips; there was a dead stillness
throughout the church, for all were penetrated with sorrow and shame
at their pastor's disgrace, when a deep groan broke from the old
shepherd, and startled the congregation from the silence in which they
were indulging. All eyes, and those of the minister among the rest,
were instantly directed towards the old man; his frame remained for a
moment in the attitude which we have described, and the next instant
it fell heavily upon the floor--a corpse!
We shall not give pain to our readers, nor harrow up our own feelings,
by attempting to describe the misery which this event caused William
Riddell. It seemed to be one of those griefs which cannot, and ought
not to be outlived--a punishment greater than man is able to bear. So
thought William--if the flash of this conviction across the settled
gloom of his spirit could be called thought. Yet days, weeks, months,
passed away, and he lived on, nay, performed his duties; and, at
length, by the caresses of his wife and child, became even, as it
were, sullenly reconciled to life. He found, however, that it was
impossible for him ever to regain his former station in society. His
brother ministers avoided him; and one or two of them, more harsh or
orthodox than the rest, took occasion to allude to his misconduct in a
public manner. The most respectable portion of his parishioners
pitied, but, in general, kept aloof from him. Degraded and sunk as he
was, William had a nature formed to feel, in all their most exquisite
torture, these indignities and slights. The persons who came to
comfort and sympathise with him, were unhappily those whose sympathy
was more dangerous than their contempt. How shall we go on? William
again, after severe struggles, gave way to the entreaties of some of
those mistaken friends, and to the treacherous wishes of his own
heart. He became a confirmed drunkard! He seemed to have at length
cast behind him every thought of reverence for God and his holy
vocation--every particle of respect for himself or his fellow-men. He
had two or three attacks of brain fever, brought on by his excesses;
and he no sooner recovered from them than he went on as before. His
poor young wife exhausted every argument which reason could
afford--every blandishment with which affection and beauty could
supply her, to reclaim him, but in vain. He retained, or seemed to
retain, even, all the warmth of his first love for her; and, in his
hours of intoxication, he seemed most strongly to acknowledge her
worth and loveliness; but the necessity for the violent excitement of
ardent spirits had overcome all other considerations; she wept long
and bitterly: then, as despair began to close in upon her, she
(dreadful that we should have it to relate!) sought, in the example
of her husband to escape from her sorrow! Ellen Ogilvie, the young,
the graceful, the beautiful, the accomplished, the gentle, feminine
creature, whose very frame seemed to shrink from the slightest
coarseness in speech or action, became a drunkard!
Many years had passed away between the time when the old shepherd had
perished in the church and the time to which we now refer, and William
had a family of two sons and three daughters. If Ellen's father was
unfavourable to her marriage at first, it will be easily imagined that
he never now acknowledged them. His young family, therefore, had
nothing to depend upon except their father's exertions, and they were
about to be closed for ever.
The time arrived when it was impossible for William to be suffered any
longer to remain in his charge. He was thrust out of his church, and
expelled from the ministry. The messenger who delivered this message
to him, delivered it to one more dead than alive. His excesses had at
length brought on a fit of apoplexy; he was but partially recovered
from it, and could only, in a dim manner, comprehend the purport of
the message, when, with his wife and children, he was removed from the
manse. A friend sheltered him for a time--afterwards he was conveyed
over to Edinburgh. Within a twelvemonth he died, having been chained
down to bed by his disease, one-half of his frame being dead, with
mind enough to see poverty and inevitable misery ready to crush his
helpless family, but without the power to use the slightest exertion
in order to avert the impending calamity. It was in a garret in the
High Street, upon rotten straw, the spectacle of an emaciated and
shattered wife before his eyes, and the cries of his starving children
sounding in his ears, that William Riddell breathed his last! What
availed it then that he had been good and pure, full of generous
sentiments, endowed with a graceful person, a noble genius, and a
manly eloquence? These otherwise invaluable qualities had been all
sunk or scattered by the spendthrift extravagances of the Social Man.
It is now about five years ago, since, as we were hurrying past
Cassels Place, at the foot of Leith Walk, we were attracted by a crowd
who had gathered round a poor intoxicated woman. She had fallen
beneath the wheel of a waggon, and both her legs were crushed in a
terrible manner. As two or three assistants carried her past a
gas-light towards the nearest house, we were struck by the
resemblance--hideous, indeed, and bloated--which her features wore to
some one whom we had known. We inquired her history, and, to our
horror, discovered that this was indeed Ellen Ogilvie--the widow of
our poor friend, William Riddell. It was useless attempting to save
her; her vital energies were sinking rapidly beneath the injuries
which she had received. She revived a little from the effect of some
wine which we gave her, and began incoherently to speak of her past
life. "You see me here, sir," said she, "a poor, wretched, degraded
creature:--I was not always thus. There was not a happier heart in
wide Scotland than mine was, ten years ago. But my husband, sir, was a
Social Man!" A convulsive sob checked her words--her head sank back on
the pillow--her lower jaw fell--the death-rattle sounded in her
throat--and in a few moments the unfortunate woman expired.