But that which naturalists have been unable to accomplish, has, so far

as concerns the two invaluable species just alluded to, been achieved by

others with no pretension to the name; and we now propose to present our

readers with a brief sketch of what we conceive to be the completed

biography of salmon and sea-trout. In stating that our information has

been almost entirely derived from the researches of practical men, we

wish it to be understood, and shall afterwards endeavour to demonstrate,

that these researches have, nevertheless, been conducted upon those

inductive principles which are so often characteristic of natural

acuteness of perception, when combined with candour of mind and honesty

of purpose. We believe it to be the opinion of many, that statements by

comparatively uneducated persons are less to be relied upon than those

of men of science. It may, perhaps, be somewhat difficult to define in

all cases what really constitutes a man of science. Many sensible people

suppose, that if a person pursues an original truth, and obtains

it--that is, if he ascertains a previously unknown or obscure fact of

importance, and states his observations with intelligence--he is

entitled to that character, whatever his station may be. For ourselves,

we would even say that if his researches are truly valuable, he is

himself all the more a man of science in proportion to the difficulties

or disadvantages by which his position in life may be surrounded.

The development and early growth of salmon, from the ovum to the smolt,

were first successfully investigated by Mr John Shaw of Drumlanrig, one

of the Duke of Buccleuch's gamekeepers in the south of Scotland. Its

subsequent progress from the smolt to the adult condition, through the

transitionary state of grilse, has been more recently traced, with

corresponding care, by Mr Andrew Young of Invershin, the manager of the

Duke of Sutherland's fisheries in the north. Although the fact of the

parr being the young of the salmon had been vaguely surmised by many,

and it was generally admitted that the smaller fish were never found to

occur except in streams or tributaries to which the grown salmon had, in

some way, the power of access, yet all who have any acquaintance with

the works of naturalists, will acknowledge that the parr was universally

described as a distinct species. It is equally certain that all who have

written upon the subject of smolts or salmon-fry, maintained that these

grew rapidly in fresh water, and made their way to the sea in the course

of a few weeks after they were hatched.

Now, Mr Shaw's discovery in relation to these matters is in a manner

twofold; first--he ascertained by a lengthened series of rigorous and

frequently-repeated experimental observations, that parr are the early

state of salmon, being afterwards converted into smolts; secondly,--he

proved that such conversion does not, under ordinary circumstances take

place until the second spring ensuing that in which the hatching has

occurred, by which time the young are _two years old_. The fact is, that

during early spring there are three distinct broods of parr or young

salmon in our rivers.

1st, We have those which, recently excluded from the ova, are still

invisible to common eyes; or, at least, are inconspicuous or

unobservable. Being weak, in consequence of their recent emergence from

the egg, and of extremely small dimensions, they are unable to withstand

the rapid flow of water, and so betake themselves to the gentler eddies,

and frequently enter "into the small hollows produced in the shingle by

the hoofs of horses which have passed the fords." In these and similar

resting-places, our little natural philosophers, instinctively aware

that the current of a stream is less below than above, and along the

sides than in the centre, remain for several months during spring, and

the earlier portion of the summer, till they gain such an increase of

size and strength as enables them to spread themselves abroad over other

portions of the river, especially those shallow places where the bottom

is composed of fine gravel. But at this time their shy and

shingle-seeking habits in a great measure screen them from the

observance of the uninitiated.

2dly, We have likewise, during the spring season, parr which have just

completed their first year. As these have gained little or no accession

of size during the winter months, owing to the low temperature both of

the air and water, and the consequent deficiency of insect food, their

dimensions are scarcely greater than at the end of the preceding

October: that is, they measure in length little more than three

inches.--(N.B. The old belief was that they grew nine inches in about

three weeks, and as suddenly sought the turmoil of the sea.) They

increase, however in size as the summer advances, and are then the

declared and admitted parr of anglers and other men.

3dly, Simultaneously with the two preceding broods, our rivers are

inhabited during March and April by parr which have completed their

second year. These measure six or seven inches in length, and in the

months of April and May they assume the fine silvery aspect which

characterizes their migratory condition,--in other words, they are

converted into smolts, (the admitted fry of salmon,) and immediately

make their way towards the sea.

Now, the fundamental error which pervaded the views of previous

observers of the subject, consisted in the sudden sequence which they

chose to establish between the hatching of the ova in early spring, and

the speedy appearance of the acknowledged salmon-fry in their lustrous

dress of blue and silver. Observing, in the first place, the hatching of

the ova, and, erelong, the seaward migration of the smolts, they

imagined these two facts to take place in the relation of immediate or

connected succession; whereas they had no more to do with each other

than an infant in the nursery has to do with his elder, though not very

ancient, brother, who may be going to school. The rapidity with which

the two-year-old parr are converted into smolts, and the timid habits of

the new-hatched fry, which render them almost entirely invisible during

the first few months of their existence,--these two circumstances

combined, have no doubt induced the erroneous belief that the silvery

smolts were the actual produce of the very season in which they are

first observed in their migratory dress: that is, that they were only a

few weeks old, instead of being upwards of two years. It is certainly

singular, however, that no enquirer of the old school should have ever

bethought himself of the mysterious fate of the two-year-old parr,

(supposing them not to be young salmon,) none of which, of course, are

visible after the smolts have taken their departure to the sea. If the

two fish, it may be asked, are not identical, how does it happen that

the one so constantly disappears along with the other? Yet no one

alleges that he has ever seen parr _as such_, making a journey towards

the sea "They cannot do so" says Mr Shaw, "because they have been

previously converted into smolts."

Mr Shaw's investigations were carried on for a series of years, both on

the fry as it existed naturally in the river, and on captive broods

produced from ova deposited by adult salmon, and conveyed to

ingeniously-constructed experimental ponds, in which the excluded young

were afterwards nourished till they threw off the livery of the parr,

and underwent their final conversion into smolts. When this latter

change took place, the migratory instinct became so strong that many of

them, after searching in vain to escape from their prison--the little

streamlet of the pond being barred by fine wire gratings--threw

themselves by a kind of parabolic somerset upon the bank and perished.

But, previous to this, he had repeatedly observed and recorded the

slowly progressive growth to which we have alluded. The value of the

parr, then, and the propriety of a judicious application of our

statutory regulations to the preservation of that small, and, as

hitherto supposed, insignificant fish, will be obvious without further

comment.[16]

[16] Mr Shaw's researches include some curious physiological

and other details, for an exposition of which our pages are not

appropriate. But we shall here give the titles of his former

papers. "An account of some Experiments and Observations on the

Parr, and on the Ova of the Salmon, proving the Parr to be the

Young of the Salmon."--_Edinburgh New Phil. Journ_. vol. xxi.

p. 99. "Experiments on the Development and Growth of the Fry of

the Salmon, from the Exclusion of the Ovum to the Age of Six

Months."--_Ibid_. vol. xxiv. p. 165. "Account of Experimental

Observations on the Development and Growth of Salmon Fry, from

the Exclusion of the Ova to the Age of Two

Years."--_Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh_, vol.

xiv. part ii. (1840.) The reader will find an abstract of these

discoveries in the No. of this Magazine for April 1840.

Having now exhibited the progress of the salmon fry from the ovum to the

smolt, our next step shall be to show the connexion of the latter with

the grilse. As no experimental observations regarding the future

dimensions of the _détenus_ of the ponds could be regarded as legitimate

in relation to the usual increase of the species, (any more than we

could judge of the growth of a young English guardsman in the prisons of

Verdun,) after the period of their natural migration to the sea, and as

Mr Shaw's distance from the salt water--twenty-five miles, we believe,

windings included--debarred his carrying on his investigations much

further with advantage, he wisely turned his attention to a different,

though cognate subject, to which we shall afterwards refer. We are,

however, fortunately enabled to proceed with our history of the

adolescent salmon by means of another ingenious observer already named,

Mr Andrew Young of Invershin.

It had always been the prevailing belief that smolts grew rapidly into

grilse, and the latter into salmon. But as soon as we became assured of

the gross errors of naturalists, and all other observers, regarding the

progress of the fry in fresh water, and how a few weeks had been

substituted for a period of a couple of years, it was natural that

considerate people should suspect that equal errors might pervade the

subsequent history of this important species. It appears, however, that

_marine_ influence (in whatever way it works) does indeed exercise a

most extraordinary effect upon those migrants from our upland streams,

and that the extremely rapid transit of a smolt to a grilse, and of the

latter to an adult salmon, is strictly true. Although Mr Young's labours

in this department differ from Mr Shaw's, in being rather confirmatory

than original, we consider them of great value, as reducing the subject

to a systematic form, and impressing it with the force and clearness of

the most successful demonstration.

Mr Young's first experiments were commenced as far back as 1836, and

were originally undertaken with a view to show whether the salmon of

each particular river, after descending to the sea, returned again to

their original spawning-beds, or whether, as some supposed, the main

body, returning coastwards from their feeding grounds in more distant

parts of the ocean, and advancing along our island shores, were merely

thrown into, or induced to enter, estuaries and rivers by accidental

circumstances; and that the numbers obtained in these latter localities

thus depended mainly on wind and weather, or other physical conditions,

being suitable to their upward progress at the time of their nearing the

mouths of the fresher waters. To settle this point, he caught and marked

all the spawned fish which he could obtain in the course of the winter

months during their sojourn in the rivers. As soon as he had hauled the

fish ashore, he made peculiar marks in their caudal fins by means of a

pair of nipping-irons, and immediately threw then back into the water.

In the course of the following fishing season great numbers were

recaptured on their return from the sea, each in its own river bearing

its peculiar mark. "We have also," Mr Young informs us, "another proof

of the fact, that the different breeds or races of salmon continue to

revisit their native streams. You are aware that the river Shin falls

into the Oykel at Invershin, and that the conjoined waters of these

rivers, with the Carron and other streams, form the estuary of the

Oykel, which flows into the more open sea beyond, or eastwards of the

bar, below the Gizzen Brigs. Now, were the salmon which enter the mouth

of the estuary at the bar thrown in merely by accident or chance, we

should expect to find the fish of all the various rivers which form the

estuary of the same average weight; for, if it were a mere matter of

chance, then a mixture of small and great would occur indifferently in

each of the interior streams. But the reverse of this is the case. The

salmon in the Shin will average from seventeen pounds to eighteen pounds

in weight, while those of the Oykel scarcely attain an average of half

that weight. I am, therefore, quite satisfied, as well by having marked

spawned fish descending to the sea, and caught them ascending the same

river, and bearing that river's mark, as by a long-continued general

observation of the weight, size, and even something of the form, that

every river has its own breed, and that breed continues, till captured

and killed, to return from year to year into its native stream."

We have heard of a partial exception to this instinctive habit, which,

however, essentially confirms the rule. We are informed that a Shin

salmon (recognized as such by its shape and size) was, on a certain

occasion, captured in the river Conon, a fine stream which flows into

the upper portion of the neighbouring Frith of Cromarty. It was marked

and returned to the river, and was taken _next day_ in its native stream

the Shin, having, on discovering its mistake, descended the Cromarty

Frith, skirted the intermediate portion of the outer coast by Tarbet

Ness, and ascended the estuary of the Oykel. The distance may be about

sixty miles. On the other hand, we are informed by a Sutherland

correspondent of a fact of another nature, which bears strongly upon the

pertinacity with which these fine fish endeavour to regain their

spawning ground. By the side of the river Helmsdale there was once a

portion of an old channel forming an angular bend with the actual river.

In summer, it was only partially filled by a detached or landlocked

pool, but in winter, a more lively communication was renewed by the

superabounding waters. This old channel was, however, not only resorted

to by salmon as a piece of spawning ground during the colder season of

the year, but was sought for again instinctively in summer during their

upward migration, when there was no water running through it. The fish

being, of course, unable to attain their object, have been seen, after

various aerial boundings, to fall, in the course of their exertions,

upon the dry gravel bank between the river and the pool of water, where

they were picked up by the considerate natives.

No sooner had Mr Young satisfied himself that the produce of a river

invariably returned to that river after descending to the sea, than he

commenced his operations upon the smolts--taking up the subject where it

was unavoidably left off by Mr Shaw[17]. His long-continued

superintendence of the Duke of Sutherland's fisheries in the north of

Scotland, and his peculiar position as residing almost within a few

yards of the noted river Shin, afforded advantages of which he was not

slow to make assiduous use. He has now performed numerous and varied

experiments, and finds that, notwithstanding the slow growth of parr in

fresh water, "such is the influence of the sea as a more enlarged and

salubrious sphere of life, that the very smolts which descend into it

from the rivers in spring, ascend into the fresh waters in the course of

the immediate summer as grilse, varying in size in proportion to the

length of their stay in salt water."

[17] Mr Young has, however, likewise repeated and confirmed Mr

Shaw's earlier experiments regarding the slow growth of salmon

fry in fresh water, and the conversion of parr into smolts. We

may add, that Sir William Jardine, a distinguished

Ichthyologist and experienced angler, has also corroborated Mr

Shaw's observations.

For example, in the spring of 1837, Mr Young marked a great quantity of

descending smolts, by making a perforation in their caudal fins with a

small pair of nipping-irons constructed for the purpose, and in the

ensuing months of June and July he recaptured a considerable number on

their return to the rivers, all in the condition of grilse, and varying

from 3lbs. to 8lbs., "according to the time which had elapsed since

their first departure from the fresh water, or, in other words, the

length of their sojourn in the sea." In the spring of 1842, he likewise

marked a number of descending smolts, by clipping off what is called the

adipose fin upon the back. In the course of the ensuing June and July,

he caught them returning up the river, bearing his peculiar mark, and

agreeing with those of 1837 both in respect to size, and the relation

which that size bore to the lapse of time.

The following list from Mr Young's note-book, affords a few examples of

the rate of growth:--

_List of Smolts marked in the River, and recaptured as Grilse on their

first ascent from the Sea._

Period of marking. | Period of recapture. | Weight when retaken.

---------------------+----------------------+----------------------

1842. April and May. | 1842. June 28. | 4 lb.

... ... | July 15. | 5 lb

... ... | ... 15. | 5 lb.

... ... | ... 25. | 7 lb.[18]

... ... | ... 25. | 5 lb.

... ... | ... 30. | 3-1/2 lb.[18]

We may now proceed to consider the final change,--that of the grilse

into the adult salmon. We have just seen that smolts return to the

rivers as grilse, (of the weights above noted,) during the summer and

autumn of the same season in which they had descended for the first time

to the sea. Such as seek the rivers in the earlier part of summer are of

small size, because they have sojourned for but a short time in the

sea:--such as abide in the sea till autumn, attain of course a larger

size. But it appears to be an established, though till now an unknown

fact, that with the exception of the early state of parr, in which the

growth has been shown to be extremely slow, salmon actually never do

grow in fresh water at all, either as grilse or in the adult state. All

their growth in these two most important later stages, takes place

during their sojourn in the sea. "Not only," says Mr Young, "is this the

case, but I have also ascertained that they actually decrease in

dimensions after entering the river, and that the higher they ascend the

more they deteriorate both in weight and quality. In corroboration of

this I may refer to the extensive fisheries of the Duke of Sutherland,

where the fish of each station of the same river are kept distinct from

those of another station, and where we have had ample proof that salmon

habitually decrease in weight in proportion to their time and distance

from the sea."[19]

[18] These two specimens are now preserved in the Museum of the

Royal Society of Edinburgh.

[19] The existence in the rivers during spring, of grilse which

have spawned, and which weigh only three or four pounds, is

itself a conclusive proof of this retardation of growth in

fresh water. These fish had _run_, as anglers say--that is, had

entered the rivers about midsummer of the preceding year--and

yet had made no progress. Had they remained in the sea till

autumn, their size on entering the fresh waters would have been

much greater; or had they spawned early in winter, and

descended speedily to the sea, they might have returned again

to the river in spring _as small salmon_, while their more

sluggish brethren of the same age were still in the streams

under the form of grilse. All their growth, then, seems to take

place during their sojourn in the sea, usually from eight to

twelve weeks. The length of time spent in the salt waters, by

grilse and salmon which have spawned, corresponds nearly to the

time during which smolts remain in these waters; the former two

returning as _clean_ salmon, the last-named making their first

appearance in our rivers as grilse.

Mr Young commenced marking grilses, with a view to ascertain that they

became salmon, as far back as 1837, and has continued to do so ever

since, though never two seasons with the same mark. We shall here record

only the results of the two preceding years. In the spring of 1841, he

marked a number of spawned grilse soon after the conclusion of the

spawning period. Taking his "net and coble," he fished the river for the

special purpose, and all the spawned grilse of 4 lb. weight were marked

by putting a peculiarly twisted piece of wire through the dorsal fin.

They were immediately thrown into the river, and of course disappeared,

making their way downwards with other spawned fish towards the sea. "In

the course of the next summer we again caught several of those fish

which we had thus marked with wire as 4 lb. grilse, grown in the short

period of four or five months into beautiful full-formed salmon, ranging

from 9 lb. to 14 lb. in weight, the difference still depending on the

length of their sojourn in the sea."

In January 1842, he repeated the same process of marking 4 lb. grilse

which had spawned, and were therefore about to seek the sea; but,

instead of placing the wire in the back fin, he this year fixed it in

the upper lobe of the tail, or caudal fin. On their return from the sea,

he caught many of these quondam grilse converted into salmon as before.

The following lists will serve to illustrate the rate of growth:--

_List of Grilse marked after having spawned, and re-captured as Salmon,

on their second ascent from the Sea._

Period of Period of Weight when Weight when

marking. recapture. marked. retaken.

1841. Feb. 18. 1841. June 23. 4 lbs. 9 lbs.

... 18. ... 23. 4 lbs. 11 lbs.

... 18. ... 25. 4 lbs. 9 lbs.

... 18. ... 25. 4 lbs. 10 lbs.

... 18. July 27. 4 lbs. 13 lbs.

... 18. ... 28. 4 lbs. 10 lbs.

March 4. July 1. 4 lbs. 12 lbs.

... 4. ... 1. 4 lbs. 14 lbs.

... 4. ... 27. 4 lbs. 12 lbs.

1842. Jan. 29. 1842. July 4. 4 lbs. 8 lbs.[20]

... 29. ... 14. 4 lbs. 9 lbs.[20]

... 29. ... 14. 4 lbs. 8 lbs.

March 8. ... 23. 4 lbs. 9 lbs.

Jan. 29. ... 29. 4 lbs. 11 lbs.

March 8. Aug. 4. 4 lbs. 10 lbs.

Jan. 29. ... 11. 4 lbs. 12 lbs.

During both these seasons, Mr Young informs us, he caught far more

marked grilse returning with the form and attributes of perfect salmon,

than are recorded in the preceding lists. "In many specimens the wires

had been torn from the fins, either by the action of the nets or other

casualties; and, although I could myself recognise distinctly that they

were the fish I had marked, I kept no note of them. All those recorded

in my lists returned and were captured with the twisted wires complete,

the same as the specimens transmitted for your examination."

[20] These two specimens, with their wire marks _in situ_, may

now be seen in the Museum of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.

We agree with Mr Young in thinking that the preceding facts, viewed in

connexion with Mr Shaw's prior observations, entitle us to say, that we

are now well acquainted with the history and habits of the salmon, and

its usual rate of growth from the ovum to the adult state. The young are

hatched after a period which admits of considerable range, according to

the temperature of the season, or the modifying character of special

localities.[21] They usually burst the capsule of the egg in 90 to 100

days after deposition, but they still continue for a considerable time

beneath the gravel, with the yelk or vitelline portion of the egg

adhering to the body; and from this appendage, which Mr Shaw likens to a

red currant, they probably derive their sole nourishment for several

weeks. But though the lapse of 140 or even 150 days from the period of

deposition is frequently required to perfect the form of these little

fishes, which even then measure scarcely more than an inch in length,

their subsequent growth is still extremely slow; and the silvery aspect

of the smolt is seldom assumed till after the expiry of a couple of

years. The great mass of these smolts descend to the sea during the

months of April and May,--the varying range of the spawning and hatching

season carrying with it a somewhat corresponding range in the assumption

of the first signal change, and the consequent movement to the sea. They

return under the greatly enlarged form of grilse, as already stated, and

these grilse spawn that same season in common with the salmon, and then

both the one and the other re-descend into the sea in the course of the

winter or ensuing spring. They all return again to the rivers sooner or

later, in accordance, as we believe, with the time they had previously

left it after spawning, early or late. The grilse have now become salmon

by the time of their second ascent from the sea; and no further change

takes place in their character or attributes, except that such as

survive the snares of the fishermen, the wily chambers of the cruives,

the angler's gaudy hook, or the poacher's spear, continue to increase in

size from year to year. Such, however, is now the perfection of our

fisheries, and the facilities for conveying this princely species even

from our northern rivers, and the "distant islands of the sea," to the

luxurious cities of more populous districts, that we greatly doubt if

any salmon ever attains a good old age, or is allowed to die a natural

death. We are not possessed of sufficient data from which to judge

either of their natural term of life, or of their ultimate increase of

size. They are occasionally, though rarely, killed in Britain of the

weight of forty and even fifty pounds. In the comparatively unfished

rivers of Scandinavia large salmon are much more frequent, although the

largest we ever heard of was an English fish which came into the

possession of Mr Groves, of Bond Street. It was a female, and weighed

eighty-three pounds. In the year 1841, Mr Young marked a few spawned

salmon along with his grilse, employing as a distinctive mark copper

wire instead of brass. One of these, weighing twelve pounds, was marked

on the 4th of March, and was recaptured on returning from the sea on the

10th of July, weighing eighteen pounds. But as we know not whether it

made its way to the sea immediately after being marked, we cannot

accurately infer the rate of increase. It probably becomes slower every

year, after the assumption of the adult state. Why the salmon of one

river should greatly exceed the average weight of those of another into

which it flows, is a problem which we cannot solve. The fact, for

example, of the river Shin flowing from a large lake, with a course of

only a few miles, into the Oykel, although it accounts for its being an

_early_ river, owing to the receptive depth, and consequently higher

temperature of its great nursing mother, Loch Shin, in no way, so far at

least as we can see, explains the great size of the Shin fish, which are

taken in scores of twenty pounds' weight. They have little or nothing to

do with the loch itself, haunting habitually the brawling stream, and

spawning in the shallower fords, at some distance up, but still below

the great basin;[22] and there are no physical peculiarities which in

any way distinguish the Shin from many other lake born northern rivers,

where salmon do not average half the size.

[21] Mr Shaw, for example, states the following various periods

as those which he found to elapse between the deposition of the

ova and the hatching of the fry--90, 101, 108, and 131 days. In

the last instance, the average temperature of the river for

eight weeks, had not exceeded 33°.

[22] If we are rightly informed, salmon were not in the habit

of spawning in the rivulets which run into Loch Shin, till

under the direction of Lord Francis Egerton some full-grown

fish were carried there previous to the breeding season. These

spawned; and their produce, as was to be expected, after

descending to the sea, returned in due course, and, making

their way through the loch, ascended their native tributaries.

Leaving the country of the _Morer Chatt_ (the Celtic title of the Earls

of Sutherland) we shall now return to the retainer of the "bold

Buccleuch." We have already mentioned that Mr Shaw, having so

successfully illustrated the early history of salmon, next turned his

attention to a cognate subject, that of the sea-trout (_Salmo-trutta_?)

Although no positive observations of any value, anterior to those now

before us, had been made upon this species, it is obvious that as soon

as his discoveries regarding salmon fry had afforded, as it were, the

key to this portion of nature's secrets, it was easy for any one to

infer that the old notions regarding the former fish were equally

erroneous. Various modifications of these views took place accordingly;

but no one ascertained the truth by observation. Mr Shaw was, therefore,

entitled to proceed as if the matter were solely in his own hands; and

he makes no mention either of the "vain imaginations" of Dr Knox, the

more careful compilation of Mr Yarrell, or the still closer, but by no

means approximate calculations of Richard Parnell, M.D. In this he has

acted wisely, seeing that his own essay professes to be simply a

statement of facts, and not an historical exposition of the progress of

error.

It would, indeed, have been singular if two species, in many respects so

closely allied in their general structure any economy, had been found to

differ very materially in any essential point. It now appears, however,

that Mr Shaw's original discovery of the slow growth of salmon fry in

fresh water, applies equally to sea trout; and, indeed, his observations

on the latter are valuable not only in themselves, but as confirmatory

of his remarks upon the former species. The same principle has been

found to regulate the growth and migrations of both, and Mr Shaw's two

contributions thus mutually strengthen and support each other.

The sea trout is well known to anglers as one of the liveliest of all

the fishes subject to his lure. Two species are supposed by naturalists

to haunt our rivers--_Salmo eriox_, the bull trout of the Tweed,

comparatively rare on the western and northern coasts of Scotland, and

_Salmo trutta_, commonly called the sea or white trout, but, like the

other species, also known under a variety of provincial names, somewhat

vaguely applied. In its various and progressive stages, it passes under

the names of fry, smolt, orange-fin, phinock, herling, whitling,

sea-trout, and salmon-trout. It is likewise the "Fordwich trout" of

Izaak Walton, described by that poetical old piscator as "rare good

meat." As an article of diet it indeed ranks next to the salmon, and is

much superior in that respect to its near relation, _S. eriox_. It is

taken in the more seaward pools of our northern rivers, sometimes in

several hundreds at a single haul; and vast quantities, after being

boiled, and hermetically sealed in tin cases, are extensively consumed

both in our home and foreign markets. But, notwithstanding its great

commercial value, naturalists have failed to present us with any

accurate account of its consecutive history from the ovum to the adult

state. This desideratum we are now enabled to supply through Mr Shaw.

On the 1st of November 1839, this ingenious observer perceived a pair of

sea-trouts engaged together in depositing their spawn among the gravel

of one of the tributaries of the river Nith, and being unprovided at the

moment with any apparatus for their capture, he had recourse to his

fowling-piece. Watching the moment when they lay parallel to each other,

he fired across the heads of the devoted pair, and immediately secured

them both, although, as it afterwards appeared, rather by the influence

of concussion than the more immediate action of the shot. They were

about six inches under water. Having obtained a sufficient supply of the

impregnated spawn, he removed it in a bag of wire gauze to his

experimental ponds. At this period the temperature of the water was

about 47°, but in the course of the winter it ranged a few degrees

lower. By the fortieth day the embryo fish were visible to the naked

eye, and, on the 14th January, (seventy-five days after deposition,) the

fry were excluded from the egg. At this early period, the brood exhibit

no perceptible difference from that of the salmon, except that they are

somewhat smaller, and of paler hue. In two months they were an inch

long, and had then assumed those lateral markings so characteristic of

the young of all the known _Salmonidæ_. They increased in size slowly,

measuring only three inches in length by the month of October, at which

time they were nine months old. In January 1841, they had increased to

three and a half inches, exhibiting a somewhat defective condition

during the winter months, in one or more of which, Mr Shaw seems to

think, they scarcely grow at all. We need not here go through the entire

detail of these experiments.[23] In October (twenty-one months) they

measured six inches in length, and had lost those lateral bars, or

transverse markings, which characterise the general family in their

early state. At this period they greatly resembled certain varieties of

the common river-trout, and the males had now attained the age of sexual

completion, although none of the females had matured the roe. This

physiological fact is also observable in the true salmon. In the month

of May, three-fourths of the brood (being now upwards of two years old,

and seven inches long) assumed the fine clear silvery lustre which

characterises the migratory condition, being thus converted into smolts,

closely resembling those of salmon in their general aspect, although

easily to be distinguished by the orange tips of the pectoral fins, and

other characters with which we shall not here afflict our readers.

[23] A complete series of specimens, from the day of hatching

till about the middle of the sixth year, has been deposited by

Mr Shaw in the Museum of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.

The natural economy of the sea-trout thus far approximates that of the

genuine salmon, but with the following exception. Mr Shaw is of opinion

that about one-fourth of each brood never assume the silvery lustre;

and, as they are never seen to migrate in a dusky state towards the sea,

he infers that a certain portion of the species may be permanent

residents in fresh water.[24] In this respect, then, they resemble the

river-trout, and afford an example of those numerous gradations, both of

form and instinct, which compose the harmonious chain of nature's

perfect kingdom. In support of this power of adaptation to fresh water

possessed by sea-trout, Mr Shaw refers to a statement by the late Dr

McCulloch, that these fish had become permanent inhabitants of a loch in

the island of Lismore, Argyllshire. Similar facts have been recorded by

other naturalists, though, upon the whole, in a somewhat vague and

inconclusive manner. We have it in our power to mention a very marked

example. When certain springs were conducted, about twenty years ago,

from the slopes of the Pentland Hills, near Edinburgh, into that city,

which Dr Johnson regarded as by no means abundantly supplied with the

"pure element of water," it was necessary to compensate the mill-owners

by another supply. Accordingly a valley, (the supposed scene of Allan

Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd,") through which there flowed a small stream,

had a great embankment thrown across it. After this operation, of course

the waters of the upper portion of the stream speedily rose to a level

with the sluices, thus forming a small lake, commonly called the

"Compensation Pond." The flow of water now escapes by throwing itself

over the outer side of the embankment, which is lofty and precipitous,

in the form of a cataract, up which no fish can possibly ascend. Yet in

the pond itself we have recently ascertained the existence of sea-trout

in a healthy state, although such as we have examined, being young, were

of small size. These attributes, however, were all the more important as

proving the breeding condition of the parents in a state of prolonged

captivity. It is obvious that sea-trout must have made their way (in

fulfilment of their natural migratory instinct) into the higher portions

of the stream prior to the completion of the obstructing dam; and as

none could have ascended since, it follows that the individuals in

question (themselves and their descendants) must have lived and bred in

fresh water, without access to the sea, for a continuous period of

nearly twenty years. This is not only a curious fact in the natural

history of the species, but it is one of some importance in an

economical point of view. Sea-trout, as an article of diet, are much

more valuable than river-trout; and if it can be ascertained that they

breed freely, and live healthily, without the necessity of access to the

sea, it would then become the duty, as it would doubtless be the desire,

of those engaged in the construction of artificial ponds, to stock those

receptacles rather with the former than the latter.[25]

[24] Mr Shaw informs us, moreover, that if those individuals

which have assumed the silvery lustre be forcibly detained for

a month or two in fresh water, they will resume the coloured

coating which they formerly bore. The captive females, he adds,

manifested symptoms of being in a breeding state by the

beginning of the autumn of their third year. They were, in

truth, at this time as old as _herlings_, though not of

corresponding size, owing to the entire absence of marine

agency.

[25] Another interesting result may be noticed in connexion

with this Compensation Pond. The original streamlet, like most

others, was naturally stocked with small "burn-trout," which

never exceeded a few ounces in weight, as their ultimate term

of growth. But, in consequence of the formation above referred

to, and the great increase of their productive feeding-ground,

and tranquil places for repose and play, these tiny creatures

have, in some instances, attained to an enormous size. We

lately examined one which weighed six pounds. It was not a

sea-trout, but a common fresh-water one--_Salmo fario_. This

strongly exemplifies the conformable nature of fishes; that is,

their power of adaptation to a change of external

circumstances. It is as if a small Shetland pony, by being

turned into a clover field, could be expanded into the gigantic

dimensions of a brewer's horse.

Having narrated the result of Mr Shaw's experiment up to the migratory

state of his brood, we shall now refer to the further progress of the

species. This, of course, we can only do by turning our attention to the

corresponding condition of the fry in their natural places in the river.

So far back as the 9th of May 1836, our observer noticed salmon fry

descending seawards, and he took occasion to capture a considerable

number by admitting them into the salmon cruive. On examination, he

found about one-fifth of each shoal to be what he considered sea-trout.

Wisely regarding this as a favourable opportunity of ascertaining to

what extent they would afterwards "suffer a sea change," he marked all

the smolts of that species (about ninety in number) by cutting off the

whole of the adipose fin, and three-quarters of the dorsal. At a

distance, by the course of the river, of twenty-five miles from the sea,

he was not sanguine of recapturing many of these individuals, and in

this expectation he was not agreeably surprised by any better success

than he expected. However, on the 16th of July, exactly eighty days

afterwards, he recaptured as a _herling_ (the next progressive stage) an

individual bearing the marks he had inflicted on the young sea-trout in

the previous May. It measured twelve inches in length, and weighed ten

ounces. As the average weight of the migrating fry is about three and a

half ounces, it had thus gained an increase of six and a half ounces in

about eighty days' residence in salt water, supposing it to have

descended to the sea immediately after its markings were imposed. In

this condition of herlings or phinocks, young sea-trout enter many of

our rivers in great abundance in the months of July and August.

On the 1st of August 1837--fifteen months after being marked as fry, on

its way to the sea--another individual was caught, and recognised by the

absence of one fin, and the curtailment of another. This specimen, as

well as others, had no doubt returned, and escaped detection as a

herling, in 1836; but it was born for greater things, and when captured,

as above stated, weighed two pounds and a half. "He may be supposed,"

says Mr Shaw, "to represent pretty correctly the average size of

sea-trout on their second migration from the sea." In this state they

usually make their appearance in our rivers, (we refer at present

particularly to those of Scotland,) in greatest abundance in the months

of May and June. This view of the progress of the species clearly

accounts for a fact well known to anglers, that in spring and the

commencement of summer, larger sea-trout are caught than in July and

August, which would not be the case if they were all fish of the same

season. But the former are herlings which have descended, after spawning

early, to the sea, and returned with the increase just mentioned; the

latter were nothing more than smolts in May, and have only once enjoyed

the benefit of sea bathing. They are a year younger than the others.

As herlings (sea-trout in their third year) abounded in the river Nith

during the summer of 1834, Mr Shaw marked a great number (524) by

cutting off the adipose fin. "During the following summer (1835) I

recaptured sixty-eight of the above number as sea-trout, weighing on an

average about two and a half pounds. On these I put a second distinct

mark, and again returned them to the river, and on the next ensuing

summer (1836) I recaptured a portion of them, about one in twenty,

averaging a weight of four pounds. I now marked them distinctively for

the third time, and once more returned them to the river, also for the

third time. On the following season (23d day of August 1837) I

recaptured the individual now exhibited, for the fourth time.[26] It

then weighed six pounds." This is indeed an eventful history, and we

question if any _Salmo trutta_ ever before felt himself so often out of

his element. However, the individual referred to must undoubtedly be

regarded as extremely interesting to the naturalist. It exhibits, at a

single glance, the various marks put upon itself and its companions, as

they were successively recaptured, from year to year, on their return to

the river--viz. 1st, The absence of the adipose fin, (herling of ten or

twelve ounces in 1834;) 2dly, One-third part of the dorsal fin removed,

(sea-trout of two and a half pounds in 1835;) 3dly, A portion of the

anal fin clipt off (large sea-trout of four pounds in 1836). In the 4th

and last place, it shows, in its own proper person, as leader of the

forlorn hope of 1837, the state in which it was finally captured and

killed, of the weight of six pounds. It was then in its sixth year, and,

representing the adult condition of this migratory species, we think it

renders further investigation unnecessary.

[26] The specimen is preserved in the Museum of the Royal

Society of Edinburgh.

From these and other experiments of a similar nature, which Mr Shaw has

been conducting for many years, he has come to the conclusion, that the

small fry called "Orange-fins," which are found journeying to the sea

with smolts of the true salmon, are the young of sea-trout of the age of

two years;--that the same individuals, after nine or ten weeks' sojourn

in salt water, ascend the rivers as herlings, weighing ten or twelve

ounces and on the approach of autumn pass into our smaller tributaries

with a view to the continuance of their kind;--that, having spawned,

they re-descend into the sea, where their increase of size (about one

and a half pound per annum) is almost totally obtained;--and that they

return annually, with an accession of size, for several seasons, to the

rivers in which their parents gave them birth. In proof of this last

point, Mr Shaw informs us, that of the many hundred sea-trout of

different ages which he has marked in various modes, he is not aware

that even a single individual has ever found its way into any tributary

of the Solway, saving that of the river Nith.

* * * * *

CALEB STUKELY.

PART THE LAST.

TRANQUILITY.

The sudden and unlooked-for appearance of James Temple threw light upon

a mystery. Further explanation awaited me in the house from which the

unfortunate man had rushed to meet instant death and all its

consequences. It will be remembered that, in the narrative of his

victim, mention is made of one Mrs Wybrow, with whom the poor girl, upon

the loss of her father and of all means of support, obtained a temporary

home. It appeared that Fredrick Harrington, a few months after his

flight, returned secretly to the village, and, at the house of that

benevolent woman, made earnest application for his sister. He was then

excited and half insane, speaking extravagantly of his views and his

intentions in respect of her he came to take away. "She should be a

duchess," he said, "and must take precedence of every lady in the land.

He was a king himself and could command it so. He could perform wonders,

if he chose to use the power with which he was invested; but he would

wait until his sister might reap the benefit of his acquired wealth." In

this strain he continued, alarming the placid Mrs Wybrow, who knew not

what to do to moderate the wildness and the vehemence of his demeanour.

Hoping, however, to appease him, she told him of the good fortune of his

sister--how she had obtained a happy home, and how grateful he ought to

be to Providence for its kind care of her. Much more she said, only to

increase the anger of the man, whose insane pride was roused to fury the

moment that he heard his sister was doomed to eat the bread of a

dependent. He disdained the assistance of Mrs Temple--swore it was an

artifice, a cheat, and that he would drag her from the net into which

they had enticed her. When afterwards he learned that it was through the

mediation of James Temple that his sister had been provided for, the

truth burst instantly upon him, and he foresaw at once all that actually

took place. He vowed that he would become himself the avenger of his

sister, and that he would not let her betrayer sleep until he had wrung

from him deep atonement for his crime. It was in vain that Mrs Wybrow

sought to convince him of his delusion. He would not be advised--he

would not listen--he would not linger another moment in the house, but

quitted it, wrought to the highest pitch of rage, and speaking only of

vengeance on the seducer. He set out for London. Mrs Wybrow, agitated

more than she had been at any time since her birth, and herself almost

deprived of reason by her fears for the safety of Miss Harrington, James

Temple, and the furious lunatic himself, wrote immediately to Emma, then

resident in Cambridge, explaining the sad condition of her brother, and

warning her of his approach--Emma having already (without acquainting

Mrs Wybrow with her fallen state) forwarded her address, with a strict

injunction to her humble friend to convey to her all information of her

absent brother which she could possibly obtain. The threatened danger

was communicated to the lover--darkened his days for a time with anxiety

and dread, but ceased as time wore on, and as no visitant appeared to

affect the easy tenor of his immoral life. The reader will not have

forgotten, perhaps, that when for the first time I beheld James Temple,

he was accompanied by an elder brother. It was from the latter, his

friend and confidant, that the above particulars, and those which follow

in respect of the deceased, were gathered. The house in which, for a

second time, I encountered my ancient college friends, was their

uncle's. Parents they had none. Of father and of mother both they had

been deprived in infancy; and, from that period, their home had been

with their relative and guardian. The conduct of one charge, at least,

had been from boyhood such as to cause the greatest pain to him who had

assumed a parent's cares. Hypocrisy, sensuality, and--for his years and

social station--unparalleled dishonesty, had characterised James

Temple's short career. By some inexplicable tortuosity of mind, with

every natural endowment, with every acquired advantage, graced with the

borrowed as well as native ornaments of humanity, he found no joy in his

inheritance, but sacrificed it all, and crawled through life a gross and

earthy man. The seduction of Emma, young as he was when he committed

that offence, was, by many, not the first crime for which--not, thank

Heaven! without some preparation for his trial--he was called suddenly

to answer. As a boy, he had grown aged is vice. It has been stated that

he quitted the university the very instant he disencumbered himself of

the girl whom he had sacrificed. He crept to the metropolis, and for a

time there hid himself. But it was there that he was discovered by

Frederick Harrington, who had pursued the destroyer with a perseverance

that was indomitable, and scoffed at disappointment. How the lunatic

existed no one knew; how he steered clear of transgression and restraint

was equally difficult to explain. It was evident enough that he made

himself acquainted with the haunts of his former schoolfellow; and, in

one of them, he rushed furiously and unexpectedly upon him, affrighting

his intended victim, but failing in his purpose of vengeance by the very

impetuosity of his assault. Temple escaped. Then it was that the latter,

shaken by fear, revealed to his brother the rise of progress of his

intimacy with the discarded girl, and, in his extremity, called upon him

for advice and help. He could afford him none; and the seducer found

himself in the world without an hour's happiness or quiet. What quails

so readily as the heartiest soul of the sensualist? Who so cowardly as

the man only courageous in his oppression of the weak? The spirit of

Temple was laid prostrate. He walked, and eat, and slept, in base and

dastard fear. Locks and bolts could not secure him from dismal

apprehensions. A sound shook him, as the unseen wind makes the tall

poplar shudder--a voice struck terror in his ear, and sickness to

recreant heart. He could not be alone--for alarm was heightened by the

speaking conscience that pronounced it just. He journeyed from place to

place, his brother ever at his side, and the shadow of the avenger ever

stalking in the rear, and impelling the weary wanderer still onward. The

health of the sufferer gave way. To preserve his life, he was ordered to

the south-western coast. His faithful brother was his companion still.

He had not received a week's benefit from the mild and grateful

climate--he was scarcely settled in the tranquil village in which they

had fixed their residence, before the old terror was made manifest, and

hunted the unhappy man away. Whilst sitting at his window, and gazing

with something of delight upon the broad and smooth blue sea--for who

can look, criminal though he be, upon that glorious sheet in summer

time, when the sky is bright with beauty, and the golden sun is high,

and not lose somewhat of the heavy sense of guilt--not glow, it may be,

with returning gush of childhood's innocence, long absent, and coming now

only to reproach and then depart?--whilst sitting there and thus, the

sick man's notice was invited to a crowd of yelling boys, who had

amongst them one, the tallest of their number, whom they dragged along

for punishment or sport. He was an idiot. Who he was none knew so well

as the pale man that looked upon him, who could not drag his eye away,

so lost was it in wonder, so transfixed with horror. The invalid

remained no longer there. Fast as horses could convey him, he journeyed

homeward; and, in the bosom of his natural protectors, he sought for

peace he could not gain elsewhere. Here he remained, the slave of fear,

the conscience-stricken, diseased in body--almost spent; and here he

would have died, had not Providence directed the impotent mind of the

imbecile to the spot, and willed it otherwise. I have narrated, as

shortly as I might, the history of my earliest college friend, as I

received it from his brother's lips. There remain but a few words to

say--the pleasantest that I have had to speak of him James Temple did

not die a hardened man. If there be truth in tears, in prayers of

penitence that fall from him who stand upon the borders of eternity--who

can gain nothing by hypocrisy, and may lose by it the priceless treasure

of an immortal soul--if serenity and joy are signs of a repentance

spoken, a forgiveness felt, then Heaven had assuredly been merciful with

the culprit, and had remitted his offences, as Heaven can, and will,

remit the vilest.

I remained in the village of Belton until I saw all that remained of the

schoolfellows deposited in the earth. Their bodies had been easily

obtained--that of the idiot, indeed, before life had quitted it. The

evening that followed their burial, I passed with William Temple. Many a

sad reminiscence occurred to him which he communicated to me without

reserve, many a wanton act of coarse licentiousness, many a warning

unheeded, laughed at, spurned. It is a mournful pleasure for the mind,

as it dwells upon the doings of the departed, to build up its own

theories, and to work out a history of what might have been in happier

circumstances--a useless history of _ifs_. "If my brother had been

looked to when he was young," said William Temple more than once, "he

would have turned out differently. My uncle spoiled him. As a child, he

was never corrected. If he wished for a toy, he had but to scream for

it. If, at school, he had been fortunate enough to contract his

friendships with young men of worth and character, their example would

have won him to rectitude, for he was always a lad easily led." And

again, "If he had but listened to the advice which, when it would have

served him, I did not fail daily and hourly to offer him, he might have

lived for years, and been respected--for many know, I lost no

opportunity to draw him from his course of error." Alas! how vain, how

idle was this talk--how little it could help the clod that was already

crumbling in the earth--the soul already at the judgment-seat; yet with

untiring earnestness the brother persisted in this strain, and with

every new hypothesis found fresh satisfaction. There was more reason for

gratification when, at the close of the evening, the surviving relative

turned from his barren discourse and referred to the last days of the

deceased. There was comfort and consolation to the living in the

evidences which he produced of his most blessed change. It was a joy to

me to hear of his repentance, and to listen to the terms in which he

made it known. I did not easily forget them. I journeyed homeward. When

I arrived at the house of Doctor Mayhew, I was surprised to find how

little I could remember of the country over which I had travelled. The

scenes through which I had passed were forgotten--had not been noticed.

Absorbed by the thoughts which possessed my brain, I had suffered myself

to be carried forward, conscious of nothing but the waking dreams. I was

prepared, however, to see my friend. Still influenced by the latent hope

of meeting once more with Miss Fairman, still believing in the happy

issue of my love, I had resolved to keep my own connexion with the idiot

as secret as the grave. There was no reason why I should betray myself.

His fate was independent of my act--my conduct formed no link in the

chain which must be presented to make the history clear: and shame would

have withheld the gratuitous confession, had not the ever present,

never-dying promise forbade the disclosure of one convicting syllable.

As may be supposed, the surprise of Doctor Mayhew, upon hearing the

narrative, was no less than the regret which he experienced at the

violent death of the poor creature in whom he had taken so kind and deep

an interest. But a few days sufficed to sustain his concern for one who

had come to him a stranger, and whom he had known so short a time. The

pursuits and cares of life gradually withdrew the incident from his

mind, and all thoughts of the idiot. He ceased to speak of him. To me,

the last scene of his life was present for many a year. I could not

remove it. By day and night it came before my eyes, without one effort

on my part to invoke it. It has started up, suddenly and mysteriously,

in the midst of enjoyment and serene delight, to mingle bitterness in

the cup of earthly bliss. It has come in the season of sorrow to

heighten the distress. Amongst men, and in the din of business, the

vision has intruded, and in solitude it has followed me to throw its

shadows across the bright green fields, beautiful in their freshness.

Night after night--I cannot count their number--it has been the form and

substance of my dreams, and I have gone to rest--yes, for months--with

the sure and natural expectation of beholding the melancholy repetition

of an act which I would have given any thing, and all I had, to forget

and drive away for ever.

A week passed pleasantly with my host. I spoke of departure at the end

of it. He smiled when I did so, bade me hold my tongue and be patient. I

suffered another week to glide away, and then hinted once more that I

had trespassed long enough upon his hospitality. The doctor placed his

hand upon my arm, and answered quickly, "all in good time--do not

hurry." His tone and manner confirmed, I know not why, the strong hope

within me, and his words passed with meaning to my heart. I already

built upon the aerial foundation, and looked forward with joyous

confidence and expectation. The arguments and shows of truth are few

that love requires. The poorest logic is the soundest reasoning--if it

conclude for him. The visits to the parsonage were, meanwhile,

continued. Upon my return, I gained no news. I asked if all were well

there, and the simple, monosyllable, "Yes," answered with unusual

quickness and decision, was all that escaped the doctor's lips. He did

not wish to be interrogated further, and was displeased. I perceived

this and was silent. For some days, no mention was made of his dear

friend the minister. He was accustomed to speak often of that man, and

most affectionately. What was the inference? A breach had taken place.

If I entertained the idea for a day, it was dissipated on the next; for

the doctor, a week having elapsed since his last visit, rode over to the

parsonage as usual, remained there some hours, and returned in his best

and gayest spirits. He spoke of the Fairmans during the evening with the

same kind feeling and good-humour that had always accompanied his

allusions to them and their proceedings, and grew at length eloquent in

the praises of them both. The increasing beauty of the young mistress,

he said, was marvellous. "Ah," he added slyly, and with more truth,

perhaps, than he suspected, "it would have done your eyes good to-day,

only to have got one peep at her." I sighed, and he tantalized me

further. He pretended to pity me for the inconsiderate haste with which

I had thrown up my employment, and to condole with me for all I had lost

in consequence. "As for himself," he said, "he had, upon further

consideration, given up all thought of marriage for the present. He

should live a little longer and grow wiser; but it was not a pleasant

thing, by any means, to see so sweet a girl taken coolly off by a young

fellow, who, if all he heard was true, was very likely to have an early

opportunity." I sighed again, and asked permission to retire to rest;

but my tormentor did not grant it, until he had spoken for half an hour

longer, when he dismissed me in a state of misery incompatible with

rest, in bed, or out of it. My heart was bursting when I left him. He

could not fail to mark it. To my surprise, he made another excursion to

the parsonage on the following day; and, as before, he joined me in the

evening with nothing on his lips but commendation of the young lady whom

he had seen, and complaint at the cruel act which was about to rob them

of their treasure; for he said, regardless of my presence or the

desperate state of my feelings, "that the matter was now all but

settled. Fairman had made up his mind, and was ready to give his consent

the very moment the young fellow was bold enough to ask it. And lucky

dog he is too," added the kind physician, by way of a conclusion, "for

little puss herself is over head and ears in love with him, or else I

never made a right prognosis."

"I am much obliged to you, sir," I answered, when Doctor Mayhew paused;

"very grateful for your hospitality. If you please, I will depart

to-morrow. I trust you will ask me to remain no longer. I cannot do so.

My business in London"----

"Oh, very well! but that can wait, you know," replied the doctor,

interrupting me. "I can't spare you to-morrow. I have asked a friend to

dinner, and you must meet him."

"Do not think me ungrateful, doctor," I answered; "but positively I must

and will depart to-morrow. I cannot stay."

"Nonsense, man, you shall. Come, say you will, and I engage, if your

intention holds, to release you as early as you like the next day. I

have promised my friend that you will give him the meeting, and you must

not refuse me. Let me have my way to-morrow, and you shall be your own

master afterwards."

"Upon such terms, sir," I answered immediately, "it would he

unpardonable if I persisted. You shall command me; on the following day,

I will seek my fortunes in the world again."

"Just so," replied the doctor, and so we separated.

The character of Dr Mayhew was little known to me. His goodness of heart

I had reason to be acquainted with, but his long established love of

jesting, his intense appreciation of a joke, practical or otherwise, I

had yet to learn. In few men are united, as happily as they were in him,

a steady application to the business of the world, and an almost

unrestrained indulgence in its harmless pleasantries. The grave doctor

was a boy at his fireside. I spent my last day in preparing for my

removal, and in rambling for some hours amongst the hills, with which I

had become too familiar to separate without a pang. Long was our

leave-taking. I lingered and hovered from nook to nook, until I had

expended the latest moment which it was mine to give. With a burdened

spirit I returned to the house, as my thoughts shifted to the less

pleasing prospect afforded by my new position. I shuddered to think of

London, and the fresh vicissitudes that awaited me.

It wanted but a few minutes to dinner when I stepped into the

drawing-room. The doctor had just reached home, after being absent on

professional duty since the morning. The visitor had already arrived; I

had heard his knock whilst I was dressing. Having lost all interest in

the doings of the place, I had not even cared to enquire his name. What

was it to me? What difference could the chance visitor of a night make

to me, who was on the eve of exile? None. I walked despondingly into the

room, and advanced with distant civility towards the stranger. His face

was from me, but he turned instantly upon hearing my step, and I

beheld----Mr Fairman. I could scarcely trust my eyes. I started, and

retreated. My reverend friend, however, betrayed neither surprise nor

discomposure. He smiled kindly, held out his hand, and spoke as he was

wont in the days of cordiality and confidence. What did it mean?

"It is a lovely afternoon, Stukely," began the minister, "worthy of the

ripe summer in which it is born."

"It is, sir," I replied; "but I shall see no more of them," I added

_instantly_, anxious to assure him that I was not lurking with sinister

design so near the parsonage--that I was on the eve of flight. "I quit

our friend to-morrow, and must travel many miles away."

"You will come to us, Caleb," answered Mr Fairman mildly.

"Sir!" said I, doubting if I heard aright.

"Has Dr Mayhew said nothing then?" he asked.

I trembled in every limb.

"Nothing, sir," I answered. "Oh, yes! I recollect--he did--he has--but

what have I--I have no wish--no business"----

The door opened, and Dr Mayhew himself joined us, rubbing his hands, and

smiling, in the best of good tempers. In his rear followed the faithful

Williams. Before a word of explanation could be offered, the latter

functionary announced "_dinner_," and summoned us away. The presence of

the servants during the meal interfered with the gratification of my

unutterable curiosity. Mr Fairman spoke most affably on different

matters, but did not once revert to the previous subject of discourse. I

was on thorns. I could not eat. I could not look at the minister without

anxiety and shame, and whenever my eye caught that of the doctor, I was

abashed by a look of meaning and good-humoured cunning, that was half

intelligible and half obscure. Rays of hope penetrated to my heart's

core, and illuminated my existence. The presence of Mr Fairman could not

be without a purpose. What was it, then? Oh, I dared not trust myself to

ask the question! The answer bred intoxication and delight, too sweet

for earth. What meant that wicked smile upon the doctor's cheek? He was

too generous and good to laugh at my calamity. He could not do it. Yet

the undisturbed demeanour of the minister confounded me. If there had

been connected with this visit so important an object as that which I

longed to believe was linked with it, there surely would have been some

evidence in his speech and manner, and he continued as cheerful and

undisturbed as if his mind were free from every care and weighty

thought. "What can it mean?" I asked myself, again and again. "How can

he coolly bid me to his house, after what has passed, after his fearful

anxiety to get me out of it? Will he hazard another meeting with his

beloved daughter?--Ah, I see it!" I suddenly and mentally exclaimed; "it

is clear enough--she is absent--she is away. He wishes to evince his

friendly disposition at parting, and now he can do it without risk or

cost." It was a plain elucidation of the mystery--it was enough, and all

my airy castles tumbled to the earth, and left me there in wretchedness.

Glad was I when the dinner was concluded, and eager to withdraw. I had

resolved to decline, at the first opportunity, the invitation of the

incumbent. I did not wish to grieve my heart in feasting my eyes upon a

scene crowded with fond associations, to revoke feelings in which it

would be folly to indulge again, and which it were well to annihilate

and forget. I was about to beg permission to leave the table, when Dr

Mayhew rose; he looked archly at me when I followed his example, and

requested me not to be in haste; "he had business to transact, and would

rejoin us shortly." Saying these words, he smiled and vanished. I

remained silent. To be left alone with Mr Fairman, was the most annoying

circumstance that could happen in my present mood. There were a hundred

things which I burned to know, whilst I lacked the courage to enquire

concerning one. But I had waited for an opportunity to decline his

invitation. Here it was, and I had not power to lift my head and look at

him. Mr Fairman himself did not speak for some minutes. He sat

thoughtfully, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand--his elbow on

the table. At length he raised his eyes, and whilst my own were still

bent downward, I could feel that his were fixed upon me.

"Caleb," said the minister.

It was the first time that the incumbent had called me by my Christian

name. How strangely it sounded from his lips! How exquisitely grateful

it dropt upon my ear!

"Tell me, Caleb," continued Mr Fairman, "did I understand you right? Is

it true that Mayhew has told you nothing?"

"Nothing distinctly, sir," I answered--"I have gathered something from

his hints, but I know not what he says in jest and what in earnest."

"I have only her happiness at heart, Stukely--from the moment that you

spoke to me on the subject, I have acted solely with regard to that. I

hoped to have smothered this passion in the bud. In attempting it, I

believed I was acting as a father should, and doing my duty by her."

The room began to swim round me, and my head grew dizzy.

"I am to blame, perhaps, as Mayhew says, for having brought you

together, and for surrounding her with danger. I should have known that

to trifle with a heart so guileless and so pure was cruel and unjust,

and fraught with perilous consequences. I was blind, and I am punished

for my act."

I looked at him at length.

"I use the word deliberately--_punished_, Stukely. It _is_ a punishment

to behold the affection of which I have ever been too jealous, departing

from me, and ripening for another. Why have I cared to live since Heaven

took her mother to itself--but for her sake, for her welfare, and her

love? But sorrow and regret are useless now. You do not know, young man,

a thousandth part of your attainment when I tell you, you have gained

her young and virgin heart. I oppose you no longer--I thwart not--render

yourself worthy of the precious gift."

"I cannot speak, sir!" I exclaimed, seizing the hand of the incumbent in

the wildness of my joy. "I am stupified by this intelligence! Trust me,

sir--believe me, you shall find me not undeserving of your generosity

and"----

"No, Stukely. Call it not by such a name. It is any thing but that;

there is no liberality, no nobility of soul, in giving you what I may

not now withhold. I cannot see her droop and die, and live myself to

know that a word from me had saved her. I have given my consent to the

prosecution of your attachment at the latest moment--not because I

wished it, but to prevent a greater evil. I have told you the truth! It

was due to us both that you should hear it; for the future look upon me

as your father, and I will endeavour to do you justice."

There was a stop. I was so oppressed with a sense of happiness, that I

could find no voice to speak my joy or tell my thanks. Mr Fairman

paused, and then continued.

"You will come to the parsonage to-morrow, and take part again in the

instruction of the lads after their return. You will be received as my

daughter's suitor. Arrangements will be made for a provision for you.

Mayhew and I have it in consideration now. When our plan is matured, it

shall be communicated to you. There need be no haste. You are both

young--too young for marriage--and we shall not yet fix the period of

your espousal."

My mind was overpowered with a host of dazzling visions, which rose

spontaneously as the minister proceeded in his delightful talk. I soon

lost all power of listening to details. The beloved Ellen, the faithful

and confiding maiden, who had not deserted the wanderer although driven

from her father's doors--she, the beautiful and priceless jewel of my

heart, was present in every thought, and was the ornament and chief of

every group that passed before my warm imagination. Whilst the incumbent

continued to speak of the future, of his own sacrifice, and my great

gain--whilst his words, without penetrating, touched my ears, and died

away--my soul grew busy in the contemplation of the prize, which, now

that it was mine, I scarce knew how to estimate. Where was she _then_?

How had she been? To how many days of suffering and of trial may she

have been doomed? How many pangs may have wrung that noble heart before

its sad complaints were listened to, and mercifully answered? I craved

to be at her side. The words which her father had spoken had loosened

the heavy chain that tied me down--my limbs were conscious of their

freedom--my spirit felt its liberty--what hindered instant flight? In

the midst of my reverie Dr Mayhew entered the room--and I remember

distinctly that my immediate impulse was to leave the two friends

together, and to run as fast as love could urge and feet could carry

me--to the favoured spot which held all that I cared for now on earth.

The plans, however, of Doctor Mayhew interfered with this desire. He had

done much for me, more than I knew, and he was not the man to go without

his payment. A long evening was yet before us, time enough for a hundred

jokes, which I must hear, and witness, and applaud or I was most

unworthy of the kindness he had shown me. The business over for which Mr

Fairman had come expressly, the promise given of an early visit to the

parsonage on the following day, an affectionate parting at the garden

gate, and the incumbent proceeded on his homeward road. The doctor and I

returned together to the house in silence and one of us in partial fear;

for I could see the coming sarcasm in the questionable smile that played

about his lips. Not a word was spoken when we resumed our seats. At last

he rang the bell, and Williams answered it----

"Book Mr Stukely by the London coach to-morrow, Williams," said the

master; "he _positively must and will depart to-morrow_."

The criminal reprieved--the child, hopeless and despairing at the

suffering parent's bed, and blessed at length with a firm promise of

amendment and recovery, can tell the feelings that sustained my

fluttering heart, beating more anxiously the nearer it approached its

_home_. I woke that morning with the lark--yes, ere that joyous bird had

spread its wing, and broke upon the day with its mad note--and I left

the doctor's house whilst all within were sleeping. There was no rest

for me away from that abode, whose gates of adamant, with all their bars

and fastenings, one magic word had opened--whose sentinels were

withdrawn--whose terrors had departed. The hours were all too long until

I claimed my newfound privilege. Morn of the mellow summer, how

beautiful is thy birth! How soft--how calm--how breathlessly and

blushingly thou stealest upon a slumbering world! fearful, as it seems,

of startling it. How deeply quiet, and how soothing, are thy earliest

sounds--scarce audible--by no peculiar quality distinguishable, yet

thrilling and intense! How doubly potent falls thy witching influence on

him whose spirit passion has attuned to all the harmonies of earth, and

made but too susceptible! Disturbed as I was by the anticipation of my

joy, and by the consequent unrest, with the first sight of day, and all

its charms, came _peace_--actual and profound. The agitation of my soul

was overwhelmed by the prevailing stillness, and I grew tranquil and

subdued. Love existed yet--what could extinguish that?--but heightened

and sublimed. It was as though, in contemplating the palpable and lovely

work of heaven, all selfishness had at once departed from my breast--all

dross had separated from my best affections, and left them pure and

free. And so I walked on, happiest of the happy, from field to field,

from hill to hill, with no companion on the way, no traveller within my

view--alone with nature and my heart's delight. "And men pent up in

cities," thought I, as I went along, "would call this--_solitude_." I

remembered how lonely I had felt in the busy crowds of London--how

chill, how desolate and forlorn, and marvelled at the reasoning of man.

And came no other thoughts of London and the weary hours passed there,

as I proceeded on my delightful walk? Yes, many, as Heaven knows, who

heard the involuntary matin prayer, offered in gratefulness of heart,

upon my knees, and in the open fields, where no eye but one could look

upon the worshipper, and call the fitness of the time and place in

question. The early mowers were soon a-foot; they saluted me and passed.

Then, from the humblest cottages issued the straight thin column of

white smoke--white as the snowy cloud--telling of industry within, and

the return of toil. Now labourers were busy in their garden plots,

labouring for pleasure and delight, ere they strove abroad for hire,

their children at their side, giving the utmost of their small

help--young, ruddy, wild, and earnest workmen all! The country day is up

some hours before the day in town. Life sleeps in cities, whilst it

moves in active usefulness away from them. The hills were dotted with

the forms of men before I reached the parsonage, and when I reached it,

a golden lustre from the mounting sun lit up the lovely house with

fire--streaming through the casements already opened to the sweet and

balmy air.

If I had found it difficult to rest on this eventful morning, so also

had another--even here--in this most peaceful mansion. The parsonage

gate was at this early hour unclosed. I entered. Upon the borders of the

velvet lawn, bathed in the dews of night, I beheld the gentle lady of

the place; she was alone, and walking pensively--now stooping, not to

pluck, but to admire, and then to leave amongst its mates, some crimson

beauty of the earth--now looking to the mountains of rich gold piled in

the heavens, one upon another, changing in form and colour, blending and

separating, as is their wondrous power and custom, filling the maiden's

soul with joy. Her back was toward me: should I advance, or now retire?

Vain question, when, ere an answer could be given, I was already at the

lady's side. Shall I tell of her virgin bashfulness, her blushes, her

trembling consciousness of pure affection? Shall I say how little her

tongue could speak her love, and how eloquently the dropping tear told

all! Shall I describe our morning's walk, her downward gaze--my

pride?--her deep, deep silence, my impassioned tones, the insensibilty

to all external things--the rushing on of envious Time, jealous of the

perfect happiness of man? The heart is wanting for the task--the pen is

shaking in the tremulous hand.--Beautiful vision! long associate of my

rest, sweetener of the daily cares of life, shade of the heavenly

one--beloved Ellen! hover still around me, and sustain my aching

soul--carry me back to the earliest days of our young love, quicken

every moment with enthusiasm--be my fond companion once again, and light

up the old man's latest hour with the fire that ceased to burn when thou

fleed'st heavenward! Thou hast been near me often since we parted here!

Whose smile but thine has cheered the labouring pilgrim through the

lagging day? In tribulation, whose voice has whispered _peace_--whose

eye hath shone upon him, like a star, tranquil and steady in the gloomy

night? Linger yet, and strengthen and hallow the feeble words, that

chronicle our love!

It would be impossible to conceive a woman more eminently fitted to

fulfil the duties of her station, than the gentle creature whose heart

it had been my happiness and fortune to make my own. Who could speak so

well of the _daughter's_ obedience as he who was the object of her

hourly solicitude? Who could behold her tenderness, her watchfulness and

care and not revere the filial piety that sanctified the maid? The poor,

most difficult of mankind to please, the easily offended, the jealous

and the peevish, were unanimous in their loud praise of her, whose

presence filled the foulest hut with light, and was the harbinger of

good. It is well to doubt the indigent when they speak _evil_ of their

fellows; but trust them when, with one voice, _they pray for blessings_,

as they did for her, who came amongst them as a sister and a child. If a

spotless mind be a treasure in the _wife_, if simplicity and truth,

virtue and steadfast love, are to be prized in her who plights her troth

to man, what had I more to ask--what had kind nature more to grant?

Had all my previous sufferings been multiplied a hundred times, I should

have been indemnified for all in the month that followed my restoration

to the parsonage. Evening after evening, when the business of the day

was closed, did we together wander amongst the scenes that were so dear

to us--too happy in the enjoyment of the present, dwelling with pleasure

on the past, dreaming wildly--as the young must dream--of the uncreated

future. I spoke of earthly happiness, and believed it not a fable. What

could be brighter than our promises? What looked more real--less likely

to be broken? How sweet was our existence! My tongue would never cease

to paint in dazzling colours the days that yet awaited us. I numbered

over the joys of a domestic life, told her of the divine favour that

accompanies contentment, and how angels of heaven hover over the house

in which it dwells united to true love. Nor was there wanting

extravagant and fanciful discourse, such as may be spoken by the

prodigal heart to its co-mate, when none are by to smile and wonder at

blind feeling.

"Dear Ellen," have I said, in all the fulness of my passion--"what a

life is this we lead! what heavenly joy! To be for ever only as we are,

were to have more of God's kindness and beloved care than most of

earthly creatures may. Indissolubly joined, and in each other's light to

live, and in each other's sight alone to seek those blessings wedded

feelings may bestow--to perceive and know ourselves as one--to breathe

as one the ripe delicious air--to fix on every object of our mutual love

the stamp and essence of one living heart--to walk abroad, and find glad

sympathy in all created things--this, this is to be conscious of more

lasting joy--to have more comfort in the sight of God, than they did

know, the happy parent pair, when heaven smiled on earth, and earth was

heaven, connected both by tenderest links of love."

She did not answer, when my soul ran riot in its bliss. She listened,

and she sighed, as though experience cut off the promises of hope, or as

if intimations of evil began already to cast their shadows, and to press

upon her soul!

Time flew as in a dream. The sunny days passed on, finding and leaving

me without a trouble or a fear--happy and entranced. Each hour

discovered new charms in my betrothed, and every day unveiled a latent

grace. How had I merited my great good fortune? How could I render

myself worthy of her love? It was not long before the object of my

thoughts, sleeping and waking, became a living idol, and I, a reckless

worshipper.

Doctor Mayhew had been a faithful friend, and such he continued, looking

to the interests of the friendless, which might have suffered in the

absence of so good an advocate. It was he, as I learnt, who had drawn

from the incumbent his reluctant consent to my return. My departure

following my thoughtless declaration so quickly, was not without visible

effect on her who had such deep concern in it. Her trouble was not lost

upon the experienced doctor; he mentioned his suspicion to her father,

and recommended my recall. The latter would not listen to his counsel,

and pronounced his _diagnosis_ hasty and incorrect. The physician bade

him wait. The patient did not rally, and her melancholy increased. The

doctor once more interceded, but not successfully. Mr Fairman received

his counsel with a hasty word, and Dr Mayhew left the parsonage in

anger, telling the minister he would himself be answerable no longer for

her safety. A week elapsed, and Doctor Mayhew found it impossible to

keep away. The old friends met, more attached than ever for the parting

which both had found it difficult to bear. The lady was no better. They

held a conference--it ended in my favour. I had been exactly a month

reinstated, when Doctor Mayhew, who could not rest thoroughly easy until

our marriage was concluded, and, as he said, "the affair was off his

hands," took a convenient opportunity to intimate to Mr Fairman the many

advantages of an early union. The minister was anxious to postpone the

ceremony to a distant period, which he had not courage himself to name.

This Mayhew saw, and was well satisfied that, if my happiness depended

on the word of the incumbent, I should wait long before I heard it

voluntarily given. He told me so, and undertook "to bring the matter to

a head" with all convenient speed. He met with a hundred objections, for

all of which he was prepared. He heard his friend attentively, and with

great deference, and then he answered. What his answers were, I cannot

tell--powerful his reasoning must have been, since it argued the jealous

parent into the necessity of arranging for an early marriage, and

communicating with me that same day upon the views which he had for our

future maintenance and comfort.

Nothing could exceed the gratification of Doctor Mayhew, that best and

most successful of ambassadors, when he ran to me--straight from the

incumbent's study--to announce the perfect success of his diplomacy. Had

he been negotiating for himself, he could not have been in higher

spirits. Ellen was with me when he acquainted me, that in three months

the treasure would be my own, and mine would be the privilege and right

to cherish it. He insisted that he should be rewarded on the instant

with a kiss; and, in the exuberance of his feelings, was immodest enough

to add, that "if he wasn't godfather to the first, and if we did not

call him Jacob after him, he'd give us over to our ingratitude, and not

have another syllable to say to us."

It was a curious occupation to contemplate the parent during the weeks

that followed--to observe all-powerful nature working in him, the

chastened and the upright minister of heaven, as she operates upon the

weakest and the humblest of mankind. He lived for the happiness and

prosperity of his child. For that he was prepared to make every

sacrifice a father might--even the greatest--that of parting with her.

Was it to be expected that he should be insensible to the heavy cost?

Could it be supposed that he would all at once resign the dear one

without a quiver or a pang? There is a tremor of the soul as well as of

the body, when the knife is falling on the limb to sever it, and this he

suffered, struggling for composure as a martyr, and yet with all the

weakness of a man. I have watched him closely, and I have known his

heart wringing with pain, as the eye of his child sparkled with joy at

my approach, whilst the visible features of his face strove fiercely to

suppress the rising selfishness. He has gazed upon her, as we have sat

together in the cheerful night, wondering, as it seemed, by what

fascination the natural and deep-rooted love of years could be surpassed

and superseded by the immature affection of a day--forgetful of her

mother's love, that once preferred him to her sire. In our evening walks

I have seen him in our track, following from afar, eager to overtake and

join us, and yet resisting the strong impulse, and forbearing. He could

not hide from me the glaring fact, that he was envious of my fortune,

manifest as it was in every trifling act; nor was it, in truth, easier

for him to conceal the strong determination which he had formed to act

with honour and with justice. No angry or reproachful word escaped his

lips; every favour that he could show me he gladly proffered; nay, many

uncalled-for and unexpected, he insisted upon my receiving, apparently,

or, as I guessed, because he wished to mortify his own poor heart, and

to remove from me the smallest cause for murmuring or complaint. I

endeavoured not to be unworthy of his liberality and confidence; and the

daughter, who perceived the conflict in his breast, redoubled her

attention, and made more evident her unimpaired and childlike love.

It wanted but a month to the time fixed for our union, when Ellen

reached her twentieth year. On that occasion, Doctor Mayhew dined with

us, and passed the evening at the parsonage. He was in high spirits; and

the minister himself more gay than I had known him since our engagement.

Ellen reflected her father's cheerfulness, and was busy in sustaining

it. All went merry as a marriage-bell. Ellen sang her father's favourite

airs--played the tunes that pleased him best, and acquired new energy

and power as she proceeded. The parent looked upon her with just pride,

and took occasion, when the music was at its loudest, to turn to Mayhew,

and to speak of her.

"How well she looks!" said he; "how beautiful she grows!"

"Yes," answered the physician; "I don't wonder that she made young

Stukely's heart ache. What a figure the puss has got!"

"And her health seems quite restored!"

"Well, you are not surprised at that, I reckon. Rest assured, my friend,

if we could only let young ladies have their way, our patients would

diminish rapidly. Why, how she sings to-night! I never knew her voice so

good--did you?"

"Oh, she is happy, Mayhew; all her thoughts are joyful! Her heart is

revelling. It was very sinful to be so anxious on her account."

"So I always told you; but you wouldn't mind me. She'll make old bones."

"You think so, do you?"

"Why, look at her yourself, and say whether we should be justified in

thinking otherwise. Is she not the picture of health and animation?"

"Yes, Mayhew, but her mother"----

"There, be quiet will you? The song is over."

Ellen returned to her father's side, sat upon a stool before him, and

placed her arms upon his knee. The incumbent drew her head there, and

touched her cheek in playfulness.

"Come, my friend," exclaimed the physician, "that isn't allowable by any

means. Recollect two young gentlemen are present, and we can't be

tantalized."

The minister smiled, and Ellen looked at me.

"Do you remember, doctor," enquired the latter, "this very day eleven

years, when you came over on the grey pony, that walked into this room

after you, and frightened us all so?"

"Yes, puss, I do very well; and don't I recollect your tying my wig to

the chair, and then calling me to the window, to see how I should look

when I had left it behind me, you naughty little girl!"

"That was very wrong, sir; but you know you forgave me for it."

"No, I didn't. Come here, though, and I will now."

She left her stool, and ran laughing to him. The doctor professed to

whisper in her ear, but kissed her cheek. He coughed and hemmed, and,

with a serious air, asked me what I meant by grinning at him.

"Do you know, doctor," continued Ellen, "that this is my first

birth-day, since that one, which we have kept without an interruption.

Either papa or you have been always called away before half the evening

was over."

"Well, and very sorry you would be, I imagine, if both of us were called

away _now_. It would be very distressing to you; wouldn't it?"

"It would hardly render her happy, Mayhew," said Mr Fairman, "to be

deprived of her father's society on such an occasion."

"No, indeed, papa," said Ellen, earnestly; "and the good doctor does not

think so either."

"Doesn't he, though, you wicked pussy? You would be very wretched, then,

if we were obliged to go? No doubt of it, especially if we happened to

leave that youngster there behind us."

"Ellen shall read to us, Mayhew," said the incumbent, turning from the

subject. "You will find Milton on my table, Caleb."

As he spoke, Ellen imparted to her friend a look of tenderest

remonstrance, and the doctor said no more.

The incumbent, himself a fine reader, had taken great pains to teach his

child the necessary and simple, but much neglected art of reading well.

There was much grace and sweetness in her utterance, correct emphasis,

and no effort. An hour passed delightfully with the minister's favourite

and beloved author; now the maiden read, now he. He listened with

greater pleasure to her voice than to his own or any other, but he

watched the smallest diminution of its power--the faintest evidence of

failing strength--and released her instantly, most anxious for her

health and safety, then and always.

Then arose, as will arise from the contented bosom of domestic piety,

grateful rejoicings--the incense of an altar glowing with love's own

offerings! Past time was summoned up, weighed with the present, and,

with all the mercies which accompanied it, was still found wanting in

the perfect and unsullied happiness that existed now. "The love of

heaven," said the minister, "had never been so manifest and clear. His

labours in the service of his people, his prayers on their behalf, were

not unanswered. Improvement was taking place around him; even those who

had given him cause for deepest sorrow, were already turning from the

path of error into that of rectitude and truth. The worst characters in

the village had been checked by the example of their fellows, and by the

voice of their own conscience, (he might have added, by the working of

their minister's most affectionate zeal) and his heart was joyful--how

joyful he could not say--on their account. His family was blessed--(and

he looked at Ellen with a moistened eye)--with health, and with the

promise of its continuance. His best and oldest friend was at his side;

and he, who was dear to them all on her account whose life would soon be

linked with his, was about to add to every other blessing, the

advantages which must follow the possession of so good a son. What more

could he require? How much more was this than the most he could

deserve!"

Doctor Mayhew, touched with the solemn feeling of the moment, became a

serious man. He took the incumbent by the hand, and spoke.

"Yes, Fairman, we have cause for gratitude. You and I have roughed it

many years, and gently enough do we go down the hill. To behold the

suffering of other men, and to congratulate ourselves upon our

exemption, is not the rational mode of receiving goodness from Almighty

God--yet it is impossible for a human being to look about him, and to

see family after family worn down by calamity, whilst he himself is free

from any, and not have his heart yearning with thankfulness, knowing, as

he must, how little he merits his condition. You and I are happy

fellows, both of us; and all we have to do, is to think so, and to

prepare quietly to leave our places, whilst the young folks grow up to

take them. As for the boy there, if he doesn't smooth your pillow, and

lighten for you the weight of old age as it comes on, then am I much

mistaken, and ready to regret the steps which I have taken to bring you

all together."

There was little spoken after this. The hearts were full to the

brink--to speak was to interfere with their consummate joy. The doctor

was the only one who made the attempt, and he, after a very ineffectual

endeavour to be jocose, held his peace. The Bible was produced. The

servants of the house appeared. A chapter was read from it by the

incumbent--a prayer was offered up, then we separated.

I stole to Ellen as she was about to quit us for the night. "And you,

dear Ellen," I whispered in her ear, "are you, too, happy?"

"Yes, _dearest_," she murmured with a gentle pressure, that passed like

wildfire to my heart. "I fear _too_ happy. Earth will not suffer it"

We parted, and in twelve hours those words were not without their

meaning.

We met on the following morning at the usual breakfast hour. The moment

that I entered the apartment, I perceived that Ellen was

indisposed--that something had occurred, since the preceding night, to

give her anxiety or pain. Her hand trembled slightly, and a degree of

perturbation was apparent in her movements. My first impression was,

that she had received ill news, for there was nothing in her appearance

to indicate the existence of bodily suffering. It soon occurred to me,

however, that the unwonted recent excitement might account for all her

symptoms--that they were, in fact, the natural consequence of that

sudden abundance of joyous spirits which I had remarked in her during

the early part of the evening. I satisfied myself with this belief, or

strove to do so--the more easily, perhaps, because I saw her father

indifferent to her state, if not altogether ignorant of it. He who was

ever lying in wait--ever watching--ever ready to apprehend the smallest

evidence of ill health, was, on this morning, as insensible to the

alteration which had taken place in the darling object of his

solicitude, as though he had no eyes to see, or object to behold; so

easy is it for a too anxious diligence in a pursuit to overshoot and

miss the point at which it aims. Could he, as we sat, have guessed the

cause of all her grief--could some dark spirit, gloating on man's

misery, have breathed one fearful word into his ear, bringing to life

and light the melancholy tale of distant years--how would his nature

have supported the announcement--how bore the?----but let me not

anticipate. I say that I dismissed all thought of serious mischief, by

attributing at once all signs of it to the undue excitement of the

festive night. As the breakfast proceeded, I believed that her anxiety

diminished, and with that passed away my fears.

At the end of the pleasure garden of the parsonage was a paddock, and,

immediately beyond this, another field, leading to a small valley of

great beauty. On one side of "_the Dell_," as it was called, was a

summer-house, which the incumbent had erected for the sake of the noble

prospect which the elevation commanded. To this retreat Ellen and I had

frequently wandered with our books during the progress of our love. Here

I had read to her of affection and constancy, consecrated by the

immortal poet's song. Here we had passed delightful hours, bestowing on

the future the same golden lustre that made so bright the present. In

joy, I had called this summer-house "_the Lover's Bower_," and it was

pleasing to us both to think that we should visit in our after days, for

many a year, and with increasing love, a spot endeared to us by the

fondest recollections. Thither I bent my steps at the close of our

repast. It wanted but two days to the time fixed for the resumption of

our studies. The boys had returned, and the note of preparation was

already sounded. I carried my task to the retreat, and there commenced

my labours. An hour fled quickly whilst I was occupied somewhat in

Greek, but more in contemplation of the gorgeous scene before me, and in

lingering thoughts of her whose form was never absent, but hovered still

about the pleasure or the business of the day. The shadow of that form

was yet present, when the substance became visible to the bodily eye.

Ellen followed me to the "_Lover's Bower_," and there surprised me. She

was even paler than before--and the burden of some disquietude was

written on her gentle brow; but a smile was on her lips--one of a

languid cast--and also of encouragement and hope. I drew her to my side.

Lovers are egotists; their words point ever to themselves. She spoke of

the birth-day that had just gone by; the tranquil and blissful

celebration of it. My expectant soul was already dreaming of the next

that was to come, and speaking of the increased happiness that must

accompany it.

Ellen sighed.

"It is a lover's sigh!" thought I, not heeding it.

"Whatever may be the future, Caleb," said Ellen seriously, but very

calmly, "we ought to be prepared for it. Earth is not our

_resting-place_. We should never forget that. Should we, dearest?"

"No, love; but earth has happiness of her kind, of which her children

are most sensible. Whilst we are here, we live upon her promises."

"But oh, not to the exclusion of the brighter promises that come from

heaven! You do not say that, dear Caleb?"

"No, Ellen. You could not give your heart to him who thought so;

howbeit, you have bestowed it upon one unworthy of your piety and

excellence."

"Do not mock me, Caleb," said Ellen, blushing. "I have the heart of a

sinner, that needs all the mercy of heaven for its weaknesses and

faults. I have ever fallen short of my duty."

"You are the only one who says it. Your father will not say so, and I

question if the villagers would take your part in this respect."

"Do not misunderstand me, Caleb. I am not, I trust, a hypocrite. I have

endeavoured to be useful to the poor and helpless in our

neighbourhood--I have been anxious to lighten the heaviness of a

parent's days, and, as far as I could, to indemnify him for my mother's

loss. I believe that I have done the utmost my imperfect faculties

permitted. I have nothing to charge myself with on these accounts. But

my Heavenly Father," continued the maiden, her cheeks flushing, her eyes

filling with tears--"oh! I have been backward in my affection and duty

to him. I have not ever had before my eyes his honour and glory in my

daily walk--I have not done every act in subordination to his will, for

his sake, and with a view to his blessing. But He is merciful as well as

just, and if his punishment falls now upon my head, it is assuredly to

wean me from my error, and to bring me to himself."

The maid covered her moistened cheek, and sobbed loudly. I was fully

convinced that she was suffering from the reaction consequent upon

extreme joy. I was rather relieved than distressed by her burst of

feeling, and I did not attempt for a time to check her tears.

"Tell me, dear Caleb," she said herself at length, "if I were to lose

you--if it were to please Heaven to take you suddenly from this earth,

would it not be sinful to murmur at his act? Would it not be my duty to

bend to his decree, and to prepare to follow you?"

"You would submit to such a trial as a Christian woman ought. I am sure

you would, dear Ellen--parted, as we should be, but for a season, and

sure of a reunion."

"And would you do this?" enquired the maiden quickly. "Oh, say that you

would, dear Caleb! Let me hear it."

"You are agitated, dearest. We will not talk of this now. There is grace

in heaven appointed for the bitterest seasons of adversity. It does not

fail when needed. Let us pray that the hour may be distant which shall

bring home to either so great a test of resignation."

"Yes, pray, dear Stukely; but, should it come suddenly and quickly--oh,

let us be prepared to meet it!"

"We will endeavour, then; and now to a more cheerful theme. Do we go to

Dr Mayhew's, as proposed? We shall spend a happy day with our facetious,

but most kind-hearted friend."

Ellen burst again into a flood of tears.

"What is the matter, love?" I exclaimed. "Confide to me, and tell the

grief that preys upon your mind."

"Do not be alarmed, Stukely," she answered rapidly; "it may be nothing

after all; but when I woke this morning--it may, I hope for your sake

that it _is_ nothing serious--but my dear mother, it was the

commencement of her own last fatal illness."

She stopped suddenly, as if her speech had failed her--coughed sharply,

and raised her handkerchief to her mouth. I perceived a thick, broad

spot of BLOOD, and shuddered.

"Do not be frightened, Stukely," she continued, shocked fearfully

herself. "I shall recover soon. It is the suddenness--I was unprepared.

So it was when I awoke this morning--and it startled me, because I heard

it was the first bad symptom that my poor mother showed. Now, I pray

you, Stukely, to be calm. Perhaps I shall get well; but if I do not, I

shall be so happy--preparing for eternity, with you, dear Caleb, at my

side. You promised to be tranquil, and to bear up against this day; and

I am sure you will--yes, for my sake--that I may see you so, and have no

sorrow."

I took the dear one to my bosom, and, like a child, cried upon her neck.

What could I say? In one moment I was a bankrupt and a beggar--my

fortunes were scattered to the winds--my solid edifice as stricken by

the thunder-bolt, and lay in ruins before me! Was it real?

Ellen grew calmer as she looked at me, and spoke.

"Listen to me, dearest Stukely. It was my duty to acquaint you with this

circumstance, and I have done so, relying on your manliness and love.

You have already guessed what I am about to add. My poor father"--her

lips quivered as she said the word--"he must know nothing for the

present. It would be cruel unnecessarily to alarm him. His heart would

break. He MUST be kept in ignorance of this. You shall see Mayhew; he

will, I trust, remove our fears. Should he confirm them, he can

communicate to papa." Again she paused, and her tears trickled to her

lips, which moved convulsively.

"Do not speak, my beloved," I exclaimed. "Compose yourself. We will

return home. Be it as you wish. I will see Mayhew immediately, and bring

him with me to the parsonage. Seek rest--avoid exertion."

I know not what conversation followed this. I know not how we reached

our home again. I have no recollection of it. Three times upon our road

was the cough repeated, and, as at first, it was accompanied by that

hideous sight. In vain she turned her head away to escape detection. It

was impossible to deceive my keen and piercing gaze. I grew pale as

death as I beheld on each occasion the frightful evidence of disease;

but the maiden pressed my hand, and smiled sweetly and encouragingly to

drive away my fears. She did not speak--I had forbidden her to do so;

but her looks--full of tenderness and love--told how all her thoughts

were for her lover--all her anxiety and care.

At my request, as soon as we arrived at home, she went to bed. I saw the

incumbent--acquainted him with her sudden illness--taking care to keep

its nature secret--and then ran for my life to Dr Mayhew's residence.

The very appearance of blood was to me, as it is always to the common

and uninformed observer, beyond all doubt confirmatory of the worst

suspicions--the harbinger of certain death. There is something horrible

in its sight, presented in such a form; but not for itself do we shrink

as we behold it--not for what it is, but for what it awfully proclaims.

I was frantic and breathless when I approached the doctor's house, and

half stupified when I at length stood before him.

I told my errand quickly.

The doctor attempted instantly to mislead me, but he failed in his

design. I saw, in spite of the forced smile that would not rest upon his

lips, how unexpectedly and powerfully this news had come upon him--how

seriously he viewed it. He could not remove my miserable convictions by

his own abortive efforts at cheerfulness and unconcern. He moved to his

window, and strove to whistle, and to speak of the haymakers who were

busy in the fields, and of the weather; but the more he feigned to

regard my information as undeserving of alarm, the more convinced I grew

that deadly mischief had already taken place. There was an air about him

that showed him ill at ease; and, in the midst of all his quietude and

indifference, he betrayed an anxiety to appear composed, unwarranted by

an ordinary event. Had the illness been trifling indeed, he could have

afforded to be more serious and heedful.

"I will be at the parsonage some time to-day. You can return without me,

Stukely."

"Dr Mayhew," I exclaimed, "I entreat, I implore you not to trifle with

me! I can bear any thing but that. Tell me the worst, and I will not

shrink from it. You must not think to deceive me. You are satisfied that

there is no hope for us; I am sure you are, and you will not be just and

say so."

"I am satisfied of no such thing," answered the doctor quickly. "I

should be a fool, a madman, to speak so rashly. There is every reason to

hope, I do believe, at present. Tell me one thing--does her father know

of it?"

"He does not."

"Then let it still be kept a secret from him. Her very life may depend

upon his ignorance. She must be kept perfectly composed--no

agitation--no frightened faces around her. But I will go with you, and

see what can be done. I'll warrant it is nothing at all, and that puss

is well over her fright before we get to her."

Again the doctor smiled unhealthfully, and tried, awkwardly enough, to

appear wholly free from apprehension, whilst he was most uncomfortable

with the amount of it.

The physician remained for half an hour with his patient, and rejoined

me in the garden when he quitted her. He looked serious and thoughtful.

"There is no hope, then?" I exclaimed immediately.

"Tush, boy," he answered; "quiet--quiet. She will do well, I

hope--eventually. She has fever on her now, which must be brought down.

While that remains there will be anxiety, as there must be always--when

it leaves her, I trust she will be well again. Do you know if she has

undergone any unusual physical exertion?"

"I do not."

"I confess to you that I do not like this accident; but it is impossible

to speak positively now. Whilst the fever lasts, symptoms may be

confounded and mistaken. I will watch her closely."

"Have you seen her father?"

"I have; but I have told him nothing further than he knew. He believes

her slightly indisposed. I have calmed him, and have told him not to

have the child disturbed. You will see to that?"

"I will."

"And now mark me, Stukely. I expect that you will behave like a man, and

as you ought. We cannot keep Fairman ignorant of this business. Should

it go on, as it may--in spite of every thing we can do--he must know it.

You have seen sufficient of his character to judge how he will receive

the information which it may be my painful lot to take to him. I think

of it with dread. It has been my pleasure to stand your friend--you must

prove mine. I shall expect you to act with fortitude and calmness, and

not, by weakness and self-indulgence, to increase the pain that will

afflict the parent's heart--for it will be sufficient for Fairman to

know only what has happened to give up every hope and consolation. You

must be firm on his account and chiefly for the sake of the dear girl,

who should not see your face without a smile of confidence and love upon

it. Do you hear me? I will let you weep now," he continued, noticing the

tears which prevented my reply, "provided that you dry your eyes, and

keep them so from this time forward. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," I faltered.

"And will you heed me?"

"I will try," I answered, as firmly as I might, with every hope within

me crushed and killed by the words which he had spoken.

"Very well. Then let us say no more, until we see what Providence is

doing for us."

The fever of Ellen did not abate that day. The doctor did not leave the

house, but remained with the incumbent--not, as he told his friend,

because he thought it necessary so to do, but to keep the word which he

had given the night before--viz., to pass the day with him. He was sorry

that he had been deprived of their company at his own abode, but he

could make himself quite comfortable where he was. About eleven o'clock

at night the doctor thought it strange that Robin had not brought his

pony over, and wondered what had happened.

"Shall we send to enquire?" asked Mr Fairman.

"Oh no!" was the quick answer, "that never can be worth while. We'll

wait a little longer."

At twelve the doctor spoke again. "Well, he must think of moving; but he

was very tired, and did not care to walk."

"Why not stay here, then? I cannot see, Mayhew, why you should be so

uneasy at the thought of sleeping out. Come, take your bed with us for

once."

"Eh?--well--it's very late--suppose I do."

Mayhew had not been shrewd enough, and, with his ready acquiescence, the

minister learned all.

I did not go to bed. My place was at her door, and there I lingered till

the morning. The physician had paid his last visit shortly after

midnight, and had given orders to the nurse who waited on the patient,

to call him up if necessary, but on no account to disturb the lady if

she slept or was composed. The gentle sufferer did not require his

services, or, if she did, was too thoughtful and too kind to make it

known. Early in the morning Doctor Mayhew came--the fever had

increased--and she had experienced a new attack of hæmoptysis the moment

she awoke. The doctor stepped softly from her room, and deep anxiety was

written on his brow. I followed him with eagerness. He put his finger to

his lips, and said, "Remember, Stukely."

"Yes, I will--I do; but, is she better?"

"No--but I am not discouraged yet. Every thing depends upon extreme

tranquillity. No one must see her. Dear me, dear me! what is to be said

to Fairman, should he ask?"

"Is she placid?" I enquired.

"She is an angel, Stukely," said the good doctor, pressing my hands, and

passing on. When we met at breakfast, the incumbent looked hard at me,

and seemed to gather something from my pale and careworn face. When

Mayhew came, full of bustle, assumed, and badly too, as the shallowest

observer could perceive, he turned to him, and in a quiet voice asked

"if his child was much worse since the previous night."

"Not much," said Mayhew. "She will be better in a short time, I trust."

"May I see her?" enquired the father in the same soft tone.

"Not now--by and by perhaps--I hope to-morrow. This is a sudden

attack--you see--any excitement may prolong it--it wouldn't be well to

give a chance away. Don't you see that, Fairman?"

"Yes," said the minister, and from that moment made no further mention

of his daughter during breakfast. The meal was soon dispatched. Mr

Fairman retired to his study--and the doctor prepared for his departure.

He promised to return in the afternoon.

"Thank God!" he exclaimed, as he took leave of me at the gate, "that

Fairman remains so very unsuspicious. This is not like him. I expected

to find him more inquisitive."

"I am surprised," I answered; "but it is most desirable that he should

continue so."

"Yes--yes--by all means--for the present at all events."

Throughout the day there was no improvement in the patient's symptoms.

The physician came according to his promise, and again at night. He

slept at the parsonage for the second time. The minister betrayed no

wonder at this unusual act, showed no agitation, made no importunate

enquiries. He asked frequently during the day if any amendment had taken

place; but always in a gentle voice, and without any other reference to

her illness. As often as the doctor came, he repeated his wish to visit

his dear child, but, receiving for answer "that he had better not at

present," he retired to his study with a tremulous sigh, but offering no

remonstrance.

The doctor went early to rest. He had no inclination to spend the

evening with his friend, whom he hardly cared to see until he could meet

him as the messenger of good tidings. I had resolved to hover, as I did

before, near the mournful chamber in which she lay; and there I kept a

weary watch until my eyes refused to serve me longer, and I was forced

against my will, and for the sake of others, to yield my place and crawl

to my repose. As I walked stealthily through the house, and on tiptoe,

fearful of disturbing one beloved inmate even by a breath--I passed the

incumbent's study. The door was open, and a glare of light broke from

it, and stretched across the passage. I hesitated for a moment--then

listened--but, hearing nothing, pursued my way. It was very strange. The

clock had just before struck three, and the minister, it was supposed,

had been in bed since midnight. "His lamp is burning," thought I--"he

has forgotten it." I was on the point of entering the apartment--when I

was deterred and startled by his voice. My hand was already on the door,

and I looked in. Before me, on his knees, with his back towards me, was

my revered friend--his hands clasped, and his head raised in

supplication. He was in his dress of day, and had evidently not yet

visited his pillow. I waited, and he spoke--