elevations of mild acclivity, on the highest of which stands the
parish church, like the ark resting on Ararat--faith's triumph, and
mercy's symbol. Numerous grassy hillocks scattered around indicate
the cemetery where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."
Amongst those memorials which are designed to perpetuate the
recollection of virtue for a few generations--and which, with their
appropriate emblems and inscriptions, preach so eloquently to the
heart, and realize to the letter Shakspeare's memorable words,
"sermons in stones"--there is one which always attracts attention.
It is not a "storied urn, an animated bust"--one of those profusely
decorated marble hatchments with which worldly grandeur mourns, in
pompous but vain magnificence, over departed pride. No; it is only a
small, unadorned slab, of rather dingy-coloured freestone; and the
inscription is simply--"To the memory of May Darling, who was removed
from this world to a better, at the early age of nineteen. She was
an affectionate daughter, a loving sister, and a sincere Christian.
'Weep not for her whose mortal race is o'er;
She is not lost, but only gone before.'"
Ah! there are few, few indeed, for many miles round, who would pass
that humble grave without heaving a sigh or shedding a tear for her
who sleeps beneath--her who was so beloved, so admired by every one,
as well as being the idol and pride of her own family, and whose
romantic and untimely fate (cut off "i' the morn and liquid dew of
youth") was the village talk for many a day.
John Darling, the father of our heroine, was, what is no great
phenomenon amongst the peasantry of Scotland, a sober, industrious,
honest man. In early life he espoused the daughter of an opulent
farmer, whose marriage portion enabled him to commence life under
very favourable auspices. But, in spite of obedience to the natural
laws, the mildew of misfortune will blight our dearest hopes, however
wisely our plans for the future may be laid, and however assiduously
and judiciously they may be pursued. Untoward circumstances, which
it would unnecessarily protract our narrative to relate, had reduced
him, at the period to which our tale refers, to the condition of a
field labourer. Death had, likewise, been busy singling out victims
from amongst those who surrounded his humble, but cheerful fireside;
and, of a large family, there only remained three, and he was a
widower besides. May was the oldest; and, accordingly, the
superintendence of the household devolved upon her. The deceased
parent was of a somewhat haughty and reserved turn of mind, for the
recollection of former affluence never forsook her; and this
circumstance kept her much aloof from the less polished and
sophisticated matrons of the village, and also rendered her a strict
family disciplinarian. She concentrated her mind almost entirely
upon the affairs of her own household; and her children were
accordingly watched with a more vigilant eye, and brought up with
more scrupulous care, than was usual with those around her. It was
her pride, and "let it be her praise," to see them arrayed in more
showy habiliments than those worn by their associates; and, to
accomplish this darling object, what serious transmutation did her
finery of former days undergo, as the mutilated robes descended from
child to child, turned upside down, inside out, and otherwise
suffering a metamorphosis at every remove! The dress of May, in
particular--her first-born bud of bliss, the doted on of her
bosom--was always attended to with special care; nor was the
cultivation of her mind in any way overlooked. She very early
inspired her with a love of reading, which increased with the
development of her faculties, and many a day survived her by whom the
passion had been awakened.
In person, May was slender; but her light, airy, sylph-like form was
eminently handsome. Hair and eyes of intense depth of black
contrasted admirably with a countenance which may be designated as
transparent--it was nearly colourless; and only on occasions of
unusual bodily exertion, or when some mental emotion suffused the
cheek with a damask blush, would a tint of rosy red fluctuate over
her pure skin. It can scarcely be called pale, however--it had
nothing about it of that death-in-life hue which indicates the
presence of disease.
"Oh, call it _fair_, not pale!"
The expression was at once amiable and intellectual--mellowed or
blended, however, with a pensiveness which is usually but most
erroneously called melancholy. Melancholy had nothing to do with a
"mind at peace with all below--a heart, whose love was innocent."
The countenance, in general, affords an index of the mental
character--it takes its "form and pressure," as it were, from the
predominant workings of that inward principle which is the source of
thought and feeling. It is there that thought and feeling, those
subtle essences, are made visible to the eye--it is there that mind
may be seen. The most casual observer could not fail to perceive
that the soul which spoke eloquently in the eye, "and sweetly
lightened o'er the face" of May Darling, was a worshipper of nature,
of poetry, and of virtue; for they are often combined--they have a
natural relation to each other; and, when they exist simultaneously
in one individual, a mind so constituted has a capacity for enjoying
the most exalted pleasure of which humanity is susceptible. May
Darling was indeed imaginative and sanguine in a very high degree;
and books of a romantic or dramatic character were mines of "untold
wealth" to her.
"Many are poets who have never penned
Their inspirations."
And, although the name of this rural beauty, this humble
village-maiden, will be looked for in vain in the rolls of fame, she
enjoyed hours of intense poetical inspiration. In short, both in her
mental character, and in the style of her personal attractions, she
rose far above her companions of the village. Need it be told that
often, of a fine evening, she would steal away from her gay, romping,
laughing associates, and, with a favourite author in her hand, and
wrapt in a vision of "_sweet_ coming fancies," follow the course of
the stream which intersected her native vale, flowing along, pure and
noiseless, like the current of her own existence?
The favourite haunt in which she loved to spend her leisure hours was
a beautiful dell, distant about half-a-mile from the village. It was
a place so lonely, so lovely, so undisturbed, that there--(but then
all these fine old rural deities, those idols shrined for ages in
Nature's own hallowed pantheon, have been expelled their temples, or
broken by science--why should this be?)--there, if anywhere, the
Genius of Solitude might be supposed to have fixed his abode. It was
a broken piece of ground, intersected by several irregular banks,
here projecting in hoar and sterile grandeur (not on an Alpine scale,
however), and there, clothed with tufts of the feathery willow or old
gnarled thorn. The earth was carpeted with its usual covering of
emerald turf; and interwoven with it, in beautiful irregularity, were
numerous wild flowers: the arum, with its speckled leaves and lilac
blossoms; the hyacinth, whose enameled blue looks so charmingly in
the light of the setting sun; and oxlips, cowslips, and the
like--throwing up their variegated tufts, like nosegays presented by
nature for some gentle creature, like May Darling, to gather up and
lay upon her bosom. The air, of course, was permanently impregnated
with the perfume which they breathed out--the everlasting incense of
the flowers rising from the altars of Nature to her God. Such was
the sanctuary in which May gleaned from books the golden thoughts of
others, or held communion with her own; and well was it adapted for
nursing a romantic taste, and giving a tenderer tone to every tender
feeling.
The personal attractions of this sweet and lovely creature increased
with her years, and she became the reigning belle of Grassyvale and
all the country round. It followed, as a matter of course, that her
admirers outnumbered her years; and that the possession of her
affections was, with many a rustic Adonis, a subject which troubled
the little kingdom of the soul, like the Babylonish garment. At
every village fete--a wedding, a harvest home, or other rural
festival--hers was the step most buoyant in the dance, hers the hand
most frequently solicited, hers the form and face that riveted all
eyes, and thrilled the heart of the ardent admirer "too much
adoring." Amongst the other accomplishments of our heroine, skill in
music was not the least prominent. Not that she excelled in those
intricate graces which are often had recourse to by vocalists to
conceal a bad voice, and atone for want of feeling and expression;
but her "wood-note wild" was eminently characterised by the latter
qualities of singing; and the effect which she produced was,
accordingly, calculated to be lasting.
It must not be supposed, however, that the flattering unction of
adulation, at best like the love of Kaled to Lara, "but
half-concealed," had any pernicious influence over her mind. She was
neither puffed up with vain conceit, nor display of haughty reserve
and distance towards those who numbered fewer worshippers than
herself; still humility of heart, which was "native there and to the
manner born," characterised her deportment--nor was there any
relaxation in the discharge of the household duties which devolved
upon her; and the comfort of her father, and the proper care and
culture of the younger branches of the family, were as faithfully
attended to as if her deformity, instead of her beauty, had been
proverbial. She folded the little flutterers under her wing, like a
mother bird; and, if there was one thing more than another that she
took delight in, it was the training of their young minds to the love
and practice of virtue and religion, the only fountains whence
happiness, pure and uncontaminated, can be drawn in this life.
"So passed their life--a clear united stream
By care unruffled; till, in evil hour"--
But we anticipate.
It was on a fine summer morning that May, with one of her little
sisters, set out to visit the annual fair of the county town. Such
an event naturally excites considerable interest over all the country
round; and old and young, blind and cripple, male and female, pour
along the public ways--not in "weary," but in light-hearted
"droves"--full of eagerness and expectation, like the Jews to the
pool of Bethesda, when the angel was expected to make his annual
descent, and impart a healing virtue to its waters; for there there
is to be found variety of amusement for every mind--from the
Katerfelto wonderer, "wondering for his bread," down to the more
humble establishment of the halfpenny showman, with his "glorious
victory of Waterloo," his "golden beetle," or "ashes from the burning
mountains." But, on the occasion to which we refer, there was an
exhibition in the shape of a theatrical booth, which presented
extraordinary attractions for May Darling; and, accordingly, after
deliberately balancing the gratification which she anticipated, with
the expense which it would cost (her exchequer was, of course, not
very rich), she at length found herself comfortably seated near the
front of the stage. The tragedy of "George Barnwell" was going off
with prodigious _eclat_; and the performers had arrived at that scene
where the hero is about to assassinate his uncle, when the insecure
props that supported the gallery began to indicate a disposition to
disencumber themselves of their burden, and, at last, finally gave
way. The confusion which now ensued, not to mention the shrieks and
other vocal notes of terror and dismay, it is needless to
describe--these have nothing to do with our tale. Barnwell, instead
of imbruing his hands in innocent blood, even "in jest," became the
most active agent in rescuing his hapless audience from their
perilous situation. He was a tall, handsome young man, of a very
prepossessing exterior, and appeared to great advantage in his showy
stage habiliments. The general rush was towards the door, the most
likely avenue of escape which presented itself to the astonished
rustics; but a few, amongst whom was our heroine, with more collected
judgment and presence of mind, found a place of security on the
stage. May was slightly bruised in her endeavours to shelter her
young charge; and, although not much injured, her forlorn yet
interesting appearance drew the attention of the histrionic
Samaritan, and he kindly conducted her into the back settlements of
the theatre. The affair was not of such a serious nature as might
have been anticipated. A few dilapidated seats, and a score or two
of trifling contusions, made up the sum total of the damage. A hat
or two might have changed owners in the confusion; but these are
things beneath the dignity of a tragedian to look after; and as soon
as matters were adjusted on the grand theatre of commotion, he
returned to the object of his first solicitude. She was seated on a
stool, in what was dignified with the sounding appellation of a
green-room--looking paler, and lovelier, and more loveable than ever.
He quieted her apprehensions with respect to the catastrophe; for he
was an adept in the art of imitation, and politely requested the
honour of conducting her to her place of residence. It is not
difficult to conceive what was the first impression which the request
made upon the mind of May Darling; but the scruples of modest virgin
innocence yielded at last to the importunities of the actor, and they
left the scene of mirth and confusion together.
On their journey homewards, the conversation naturally turned upon
the drama; and many a fine passage, which May admired, was recited to
her with all the eloquence and stage artifice which the actor was
master of. And he would speak feelingly of "the gentle lady married
to the Moor;" her love--the love of Desdemona--pure, exalted,
all-enduring--such as death alone could quench; her woe and her fate,
so replete with all that can agonize the human soul, and awaken its
profoundest sympathies;--of Ophelia--"the fair Ophelia," the young,
the beautiful, and the gentle--her devoted, childlike affection, her
mournful distraction, and her untimely doom;--of Miranda, the island
bride--the being of enchantment--half earthly, half heavenly--around
whom the spirits of the air hovered, and ministered unto as
vassals;--of Imogen, the fair and faithful--the patient,
long-suffering, and finally fortunate Imogen;--of Cordelia--she of
the seraph-spirit, pure and peaceful--whose love for a father
surpassed that of the Roman daughter;--of Perdita--"the prettiest
low-born lass that ever ran on the greensward"--the shepherdess and
the princess;--of Juliet--the martyr of passion--she who drew poison
from earth's sweetest flower--love--and died thereby, by love's own
flame "kindled she was and blasted." These, and many other creations
of fancy, which omnipotent genius has rendered almost real historical
personages--not shadow but substance--were the topics of discourse
which were handled by our hero of the buskin, until the cottage of
John Darling was reached. From the description which has been given
of May's character, it need be no matter of surprise that the
impression made upon her gentle bosom was profound; and, on taking
leave of her, a request, on the part of Mr Henry Wilkinson (such was
the tragedian's name) to be permitted to visit her on some future
occasion, made under cover of a pretext to inquire after the state of
her health, was acceded to. Again and again Mr Wilkinson visited the
cottage, and poured into the ear of the humble, unsuspecting, and
happy inmate, many a story of love, and hope, and joy--such as his
knowledge of the drama, which was great, supplied him with.
"These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline;
But still the house affairs would draw her thence:
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear.
Devour up his discourse."
Substitute the name of May Darling for that of Desdemona, and the
description becomes perfect of our heroine's situation, whilst the
result was similar: in a short time, the happiness of our village
maiden was entirely at the disposal of Mr Wilkinson. Hitherto her
heart had slept, like some untroubled lake, reflecting only heaven,
and nature grand and beautiful around; but now its waters were
darkened and disturbed by one single image--and that was her lover's.
Her ears were no longer open to the murmurs of her native stream, or
the gush of song from the fairy-winged and fairy-plumaged birds, whom
she almost knew one from another: she only heard the music of her
lover's voice. Her secluded dell was no longer visited alone; her
walks were no longer solitary, or, if they were, it was only to meet
him whom her heart loved, and to see if his speed "kept pace with her
expectancy." Everything was beheld through one all-hallowing
atmosphere--and that was love. It lay upon her soul like the shadow
on the sundial, and time was measured by it. How, it will be asked,
was all this looked upon by her father? With no favourable eye--nay,
with many suspicious forebodings and prophetic fears.
It was about three months after the catastrophe which took place in
the provincial theatre, that Mr Wilkinson made proposals of a union
to May, which being accepted, the consent of her parent was next
applied for. The advances of the actor were for a time checked by an
uncompromising refusal; but May's father gradually became less
peremptory, until there remained only one objection, but that was
insurmountable--namely, the profession of Mr Wilkinson--one, in
general, very obnoxious to a Scottish peasant. It was, however,
finally obviated by the actor's promising to abandon it, and become a
teacher of elocution in the town of H--. The father's consent was
obtained at last, though with reluctance, and the day of their
nuptials was fixed.
It was a beautiful evening, that which preceded the day when May
Darling was to give her hand to the man for whom her heart cherished
a love as deep, intense, and concentrated, as ever was awakened and
nursed in woman's gentle bosom. The sun--just sinking through those
vast masses of clouds which usually attend his exit, and assume, as
he descends, various wild and fantastical shapes, and catch every
hue, from the intense purple to the scarcely perceptible
yellow--showered on the face of nature a stream of rich but mellowed
radiance, which softened without obliterating the outlines of
objects, and produced that "clear obscure, so softly dark, so darkly
pure," which is so favourable to indulgence in tender emotions.
"Sweet hour that wakes the wish and melts the heart!"--
sweet hour, when reflection is deepest and feeling most
profound--when the mind, abroad all day, busied with the concerns of
this work-a-day world, comes home to itself, and broods, and sleeps,
and dreams golden dreams--sunny, hope-illuminated dreams!--sweet
hour, when the ties of social being which the day had severed are
reunited, and around the household hearth the "old familiar faces"
are assembled!--sweet hour, when the shades of evening, gradually
deepening, are sufficient to conceal the blush which might mantle
beauty's cheek, too warmly, fondly pressed, as, in a voice half
sighs, half whispers, she confesses the secret of her love; and when,
in the arms which gently enfold her yielding form, she seems, in the
fine language of Rogers, to become less and less earthly,
"And fades at last into a spirit from heaven!"
'Twas at this enchanting hour that Wilkinson and his betrothed set
out on one of those charming walks during which they had so often
exchanged vows of mutual and eternal love. The road which they at
first took was sufficiently retired to admit of their conversing
aloud with unreserved confidence; but, continuing their journey,
unconscious where they were going, they found themselves at last in
the vicinity of the high road which leads to the town of H--.
Turning to strike down a narrow hedge-row path, a moving spectacle
presented itself to their observation. Upon a grassy knoll lay a
female fast asleep, with a child at her breast, vainly attempting to
force its little fingers within the folds of the handkerchief which
concealed the bosom of its mother. May uttered a faint exclamation,
somewhat between pity and fear; for she was taken by surprise. But
her lover's astonishment was still greater than hers; for, after he
had contemplated the careworn features of the wayfarer, he started,
and, had not the increasing gloom of evening prevented any change of
countenance from being perceptible, May might have seen his face turn
ashy pale; but she felt the arm in which hers was fondly locked to
tremble distinctly.
"This touches your feelings, Henry," said May; "but can we not, love,
do something to alleviate the sufferings of this, no doubt,
unfortunate female? Had I not better awake her, and conduct her to
my father's, where refreshment and rest can be procured?"
"Nay, dearest love," said Wilkinson--"sleep is to the wretched the
greatest boon that can be bestowed: let us leave her alone, nor
deprive her of the only comfort which, possibly, she is capable of
enjoying."
So saying, he hastily retired, bearing May, somewhat reluctantly,
homewards; for her sympathy was much excited, and she would fain have
carried her generous purpose into effect; but gave way to the
entreaties of her lover, who had some miles to walk ere he could
reach his place of residence. After seeing May safely beneath the
domestic roof, Wilkinson bade farewell for the night to his betrothed
bride, and took his departure, with the intention, he said, of
immediately returning to H--. He did not proceed directly home,
however; but, making a retrograde movement, he fell back upon the
place where the fatigued traveller had been seen. She was gone when
he arrived; and whether the circumstance gave him pleasure or the
reverse, we have never been able to ascertain; but, at all events, he
now set out in good earnest for H--. What should have interested
Wilkinson so much in this apparently wandering mendicant?