hundred acres, and which was situated on the banks of the Till. His
wife, though not remarkable for her management of a farmhouse, was a
woman of many virtues, and possessed of a kind and affectionate heart.
They had an only daughter, whose name was Agnes; and, as she approached
towards womanhood, people began to designate her the _Rose of
Till-side_. Her beauty was not of the kind that dazzles or excites
sudden admiration; but it grew upon the sight like the increasing
brightness of a young rainbow--its influence stole over the soul as
moonlight on the waters. It was pleasant to look upon her fair
countenance, where sweetness gave a character to beauty, mellowing it
and softening it, as though the soul of innocence there reflected its
image. Many said that no one could look upon the face of Agnes Percy and
sin. Her hair was of the lightest brown, her eyes of the softest blue,
and the lovely rose which bears the name of _Maiden's Blush_ is not more
delicate in the soft glow of its colouring than was the vermilion tint
upon her cheeks. She was of middle stature, and her figure might have
served a sculptor as a model. But she was good and gentle as she was
beautiful. The widow mentioned her name in her prayers--the poor blessed
her.
Now, Agnes was about eighteen, when a young man of her own age, named
Henry Cranstoun, took up his residence for a few months in her father's
house. He was the son of a distant relative of her mother, and was then
articled as a clerk or apprentice to a writer to the signet in
Edinburgh. He also was the only child of his parents; for, though they
had had eight others, he was all that death had left them. He was the
youngest son of his mother; and there was a time when there was no
mother had greater cause to be proud of her children. Yea, as they hand
in hand, or one by one, went forth on the Sabbath morning with their
parents to their place of worship, there was not an eye that looked not
with delight or admiration on the little Cranstouns. The neatness of
their dress, the loveliness of every countenance, the family likeness of
each, the apparent affection of all, the propriety of their demeanour,
interested all who looked upon them. But as untimely flowers, that by a
returning frost are stricken down in beauty, so drooped, so perished,
this fair and happy family. Some had said that they were too beautiful
to live; and, as they also manifested much quickness and wisdom for
their years, there were others who said to Mrs Cranstoun, as she was
shedding their shining hair upon their brows, that she would never comb
an old head! This is a cold, cruel, and ignorant prophecy; it has sent
foreboding and unhappiness into the bosom of many a fond mother; but, in
this case, it needed not the gift of a seer to foretell the gloomy
tidings. Consumption lurked amidst the beauty that glowed on every
cheek; and seven of the fair family had fallen victims to the progress
of the insidious destroyer, till Henry alone was left. And now, even
upon him also, it seemed to have set its mark. The hollow cough and the
flushed cheek, the languidness by day and the restlessness by night,
gave evidence that the disease was there.
Change of air and less study were recommended by the physicians, as the
only means by which Henry might be saved; and he was sent over to
Northumberland, to the house of William Percy, his mother's friend.
It was about that period of the year which is spoken of as the "fall of
the leaf," when Henry Cranstoun first arrived at Till-side. William
Percy had just gathered in his harvest, and Henry met with the kindly
welcome of a primitive family. The father and mother, and their
daughter, received him as one whom they were to snatch from the hands of
death. In a few days, the goat's milk, and the bracing air, which came
with health on its wings from the adjacent mountains, wrought a visible
change in the appearance of the invalid. His cough became more softened,
his eyes less languid, his step more firm, and he panted not as he
walked. He felt returning strength flowing through his veins--in his
bosom, in the moving of his fingers, he felt it. He walked out by the
side of Agnes--she led him by the banks of the Till, by the foot of the
hills, by the woods where the brown leaves were falling, and by the
solitary glen.
Perhaps I might have said that the presence of Agnes contributed not
less than the mountain air and the change of scenery to his restoration
to health. Of this I have not been told. Certain it is that her beauty
and her gentleness had spread their influence over his heart, as spring,
with its wooing breath, awakens the dreaming earth from its winter
sleep. It was not the season when nature calls forth the soul to love;
for the cushat was silent in the woods, the mavis voiceless on the
thorn, the birds were dumb on every spray, the wild-flowers had closed
their leaves and drooped, and the meadows lost their fragrance. But, as
they wandered forth together, a lark started up at their feet; it raised
its autumn song over their heads; it poured it in their ears. Both
raised their eyes in joy towards the singing bird; they listened to it
with delight. His fingers were pressed on hers as he heard it, as though
he would have said--"How sweet it is!" But the lustre forsook his eyes
while he yet listened--he sighed, and was silent. They returned home
together, and Agnes strove to cheer him; but his spirit was heavy, and
he pressed her hand more fervently in his. The song of the lark seemed
to have touched a chord of sadness in his bosom.
Henry was heard walking backward and forward in his room throughout the
night; and on the following morning at breakfast he put a paper into the
hands of Agnes, on which was written the following rhymes:--
THE LARK'S AUTUMNAL SONG.
(INSCRIBED TO AGNES PERCY.)
Again in the heavens thy hymn is heard,
Bird of the daring wing!
When last ye sprang from the daisied sward,
Making the welkin ring,
Thy lay the dreaming buds awoke--
Thy voice the spell of winter broke--
The primrose, on the mossy brae,
Burst beauteous into life and day,
And smiled to hear thee sing!
The children clapp'd their tiny hands;
The shout rang through their little bands,
Hailing the bird in spring!
Thy lay made earth and air rejoice,
And nature heard thee as an angel's voice.
Again in the heavens thy hymn is heard,
Bird of the mournful song!
A lonely daisy yet decks the sward,
The last of the summer throng.
While here and there, upon the brae,
Some primrose, _languid as the ray
Of hope that vanisheth away
Upon the cheek of death_,
Untimely opes its golden wing,
Mistaking, as it hears thee sing,
That thou art come to tell of spring,
And not of winter's wrath.
But now thy strain is as one that grieves--
Thou singest the dirge of the falling leaves!
Again in the heavens thy hymn I hear,
Bird of the merry song!
Thou art ringing a lay in old winter's ear--
Ye bid him farewell, and ye welcome him here--
Ye help the old man along!
Ye are singing to look on the fruits of the year
Gather'd in, and in ripeness, with plenty around;
And ye pour o'er earth's fulness a rapturous sound.
Ye are singing a strain that man should have sung--
Man with ingratitude seal'd on his tongue:
At _seed-time_, thy joyous and _hope-breathing_ lay,
To the ploughman was sung, as an anthem, all day,
And now at his _harvest_ ye greet him again,
And call him to join in thy _thanksgiving_ strain.
Agnes wept as she perused the foreboding lines, which he had marked in
what printers call Italics, in the second stanza, by drawing a line
under them. She felt interested in the fate of Henry Cranstoun--deeply
interested. We believe that, like the gentle Desdemona, she wished that
"Heaven had made her such a man;"
for, though the young writer to the signet spoke not
"Of war, and broils, and battles,"
his tongue was the interpreter of nature--he dwelt as an enthusiast on
its beauties, its mysteries, its benevolence, its glorious design; and,
through all, he would point
"Through nature up to nature's God!"
It is a common saying, "that you cannot put an old head upon young
shoulders!" but, if ever the truth of the saying might be disputed, it
was in the case of Henry Cranstoun. The deaths of his brothers and his
sisters had rested upon his young mind--they had struck it with
awe--they had made him to feel that he, too, must die--he, indeed, felt
as though the shadow of death were creeping over him; and the thoughts
and the hopes of eternity early became the companions of his spirit. He
treasured up the words of the inspired preacher, "Remember thy Creator
in the days of thy youth." He treasured them up, and he practised them;
and his deportment gave him a deeper interest in the eyes of the
Northumberland farmer and his family.
William Percy was esteemed by his neighbours as a church-going and a
good man. He was kind to his servants; he paid every man his own; he
was an affectionate husband and a fond father; the poor turned not away
murmuring from his door; and every Sunday night he knelt with his wife
and with his daughter, before their Maker, in worship, as though it were
a duty which was to be discharged but once in seven days. Now, it was
late on Saturday night when Henry Cranstoun arrived at their house; and,
on the following evening, he joined in the devotions of the family. But
Monday night came, and the supper passed, and the Bibles were not
brought. Henry inquired--
"Is it not time for worship?"
The question went to the conscience of the farmer--he felt that before
his Creator, who preserved him, who gave him every breath he drew, he
had knelt with his family but once a-week. "Is not He the Almighty of
all time and of all eternity?" asked his conscience; "and have I not
served Him as though He were Lord of the Sabbath only? I forsake him for
a week--where should I be if He left me but for a moment?"
"Agnes, love," said he aloud, "bring the books."
She cheerfully obeyed, and the Bibles were laid upon the table. The
psalm was read, and the voice of praise was raised; and as the hinds in
the adjoining houses heard the sound, they followed the example of their
master. Hitherto, like their employer, they had lifted their voices in
thanksgiving but once a-week, as if a few minutes spent in praise and in
prayer, and in the reading of a chapter, were all that was necessary for
example to a family, or for gratitude to Him who sustained, protected,
and gave them being from moment to moment. I should not dwell upon this,
were it not that there are many good and Christian parents who conceive
that they fulfil the injunction of "praying often with and for their
children," by causing them to kneel around them on a Sabbath night. But
this, certainly, is a poor fulfilment of the oath which they have
taken--or which, if they have not taken, they are equally bound to
perform. I do not say that the man who daily prays with his family will
have the gratification of seeing all of them following in his footsteps,
or that all of them will think as he thinks; but he may be of one sect,
and some of them of another; yet, let them go where they will--let them
be thrown into what company they may--let temptation assail them in
every form, and absence throw its shadows over their father's house--yet
the remembrance, the fervour, the words of a father's prayers, will
descend upon their souls like a whisper from heaven, kindling the memory
and awakening the conscience; and if the child of such a man depart into
sin, the small still voice will not die in his ear. Nay, the remembrance
of the father's voice will be heard in the son's heart above the song of
the bacchanal, and the lowly remembered voice of psalms rise upon his
memory, making him insensible to the peal of instruments. I have
listened to the sonorous swell of the organ in the Roman church and the
Episcopal cathedral, to the chant of the choristers and the music of the
anthem, and I have been awed by the sounds; but they produced not the
feelings of peace and of reverence--I might say of religion--which are
inspired by the lowly voices of a congregated family joining together in
their hymn of praise. I have thought that such sounds, striking on the
ear of the guilty, would arrest them in their progress.
Such was the change which Henry Cranstoun introduced into the house of
his host. From that moment, Agnes regarded him with a deeper interest,
her father loved him, and her mother looked on him as a son. But,
although his mind had been early imbued with serious impressions, he was
a lover of all that was beautiful in nature--he was warm of heart and
eloquent of speech--and his form was such as the eye of a maiden might
look on with complacency.
Christmas had passed before he left the house of his mother's friend,
and health again glowed on his cheeks, strength revisited his frame. No
one that saw Henry Cranstoun upon his entering the house of Mr Percy
three months before, and who had not seen him in the meanwhile, would
have known him to be the same individual. But Agnes noted no change in
him. She knew that his health was now restored; but she had begun to
hope and love at the same moment, and she had never thought that Henry
would die. His eyes had ever been bright to her--his voice ever
pleasing; and her beauty, her gentleness, her sweetness of temper, her
kindness, her looks, her tones of affection, had fallen upon his bosom,
till every thought, save the thought of Agnes, was banished.
He was to leave her father's house: he bade her _farewell_. Till that
moment, they had not known how dear they were unto each other. They had
never spoken of love; and, to hearts that do love, there is little need
for such declarations. The affection of every glance, the guarded
delicacy of every action, speaks it more plainly than the impassioned
eloquence of language. True eloquence is feeling, and feeling dictates
the words to be used, pouring them forth in the full tide of the heart's
emotion; but, though love also be feeling, it is not of that kind which
makes men eloquent. True love is dumb as true gratitude. It speaks from
the glowing eye and the throbbing bosom; from the hand passionately
grasped--not from the tongue.
Henry and Agnes said little; but they fell upon the necks of each other
when they parted. She wept, and from his eyes the tear was ready to
fall. He kissed her brow, and said that in the spring he would return.
He left Northumberland, and his parents welcomed him as one received
from the dead. He was strong and healthy, and he alone, of all their
children, seemed to have overcome the power of the destroyer. Yet a week
never passed but he wrote to his friends, who had snatched him as from
the gates of death; or rather, I should say, that he wrote to the gentle
Agnes, requesting that the expression of his gratitude might be given to
her parents, until he returned to thank them. But spring came; and with
it Henry Cranstoun returned to Till-side. Health still glowed in his
eyes, and beamed upon his cheeks. He was fond of angling, and, with his
rod in his hand, he sought amusement in the gentle art; yet his
favourite pastime afforded him no pleasure, save when Agnes was by his
side, and then they would sit down on the brae-side together, with her
hand in his, and the fishing-rod on the ground, and they forgot that he
had gone out to fish, until evening came, and he returned with his creel
empty.
Thus five years passed on, and twice in every year Henry Cranstoun
visited his friends in Northumberland. He had commenced practice in
Edinburgh; fair prospects opened before him; his marriage-day was fixed;
and need I say that the bride was Agnes?
The ceremony was to be performed in the parish church, which was
situated about a mile from her father's house. Henry was only expected
to arrive an hour or two before the marriage was to take place. The
bosom of fair Agnes throbbed with tumultuous joy. Her parents gazed upon
her, blessed her, and were happy. She sat before them, arrayed, a bride
for the altar. He whom she loved and they esteemed was that day to make
her his wife. Her mother gazed on her with pride--she blessed her Agnes.
Her father's heart glowed within him. The bridemaidens were come--Agnes
was impatient, but still happy; no fear, no doubt, had risen in her
mind. She knew her Henry.
But the last hour arrived, and Henry came not. Her uneasiness increased.
The servants were sent to a neighbouring hill; but no chaise, no
horseman, appeared in sight. Agnes became unhappy; paleness overspread
her cheeks. The company were silent. Her father's watch hung over the
mantelpiece, and she sat at the opposite side of the room; yet its
ticking fell upon her ears slow and heavy, as sounds from a hammer on an
anvil. Tears, which she had struggled to conceal, now gathered in her
eyes. Some evil had befallen Henry, she said, and wept.
The hour which had been appointed for the ceremony was past; but still
he came not. Her fears, her anxiety, increased, and she wept the more,
refusing to be comforted. She knew not what she feared; but her breast
was filled with misery. She had received a letter from him but three
days before. She read it again--it breathed the language of impassioned
affection, but his truth she doubted not; yet there was an incoherency,
a vehemence, in some parts of the letter, which were not like the style
of Henry. A vague horror shot across her thoughts, and her hand
trembled, as she laid the letter aside.
Still the servants were despatched to see if he approached, and at
length they brought tidings that two horsemen were riding towards the
house. Agnes strove to wipe away the tears from her eyes, but her heart
yet throbbed, and others rose in their place. The horsemen drew near the
house. Those of the company who beheld them from the windows drew back
with a look of dismay. Agnes clasped her hands together, as she beheld
the expression of their countenances. The evil she apprehended was about
to be revealed. The parish clergyman and the minister of the
congregation to which Mr Percy belonged entered the room. She started
from her seat as they entered--she wrung her hands on her bosom--her
eyes seemed fixed and motionless with misery--her lips moved--her tongue
struggled for utterance.
"Be comforted!" said one of the reverend visiters, kindly.
"Is my Henry dead?" she exclaimed--"is he dead?"
"He is not dead," was the reply; "but----" and the clergyman hesitated a
moment to proceed.
"_His mind is dead!_" added the wretched bride, and sank back in her
mother's arms. The dismal thought flashed upon her soul; the vague
horror that she had shrunk from before became tangible--the incoherence
and vehemence of passages in his last letter were suddenly and fearfully
interpreted.
The tidings which the clergyman had to communicate, her fears had
already told. The mind of Henry Cranstoun had become a wreck. A cloud
fell upon his reason; and, on the day that he was to lead his bride to
the altar, he was placed an inmate of the gloomy cells of Bedlam.
Several months had passed, and the grief of Agnes became more tranquil,
but not less deep. She entreated permission to visit her bridegroom in
the place of his confinement, and her parents fondly endeavoured to
dissuade her from her purpose; but it became the one--the ruling wish of
her heart--and they consented. Her father accompanied her to the dreary
prison-house. But I shall not attempt to describe the heartrending
interview, nor to tell how the iron which fettered him entered her soul.
He knew her--he wept before her as a child--he exclaimed, "My brain!--my
brain!" and pressed his hand upon his brow. Around him were strewed
scraps of paper; she beheld her name upon each; they were covered with
verses of love and of wildness. But I will not dwell upon the harrowing
scene, upon the words that were spoken, and the fitful gleams of reason
that flitted across his soul, as his eyes remained riveted on the face
he loved. But when her father, with a faltering voice, suggested that
they should depart, and took her hand to lead her from the cell, a
scream of loud and bitter agony burst from the wretched maniac.
"Agnes--Agnes!" he cried; and his wailing was as the lamentation of a
lost spirit. Anguish overpowered her, and she was borne insensible from
the cell in her father's arms.
Seven long and dreary years passed, and the mind of Henry was still
bewildered; still was he an inmate of the melancholy asylum, and no hope
was entertained of his recovery. But the heart of Agnes knew no
change--for him she still shed the secret tear and offered up the secret
prayer.
But her father's fortunes were altered. He had been induced to enter
into a speculation with one who deceived him, and in it the industry of
years was swallowed up and lost. He was obliged to leave his farm, and
he now resided in a small cottage in its neighbourhood. Still there were
many who sought the hand of the fair Rose of Till-side; but she chose
rather to brood over the remembrance of poor ruined Henry than to listen
to their addresses. But amongst them was a young gentleman named Walker,
whose condition was far above hers, and who for two years had vainly
sought a place in her affections. In the day of her father's distress,
he had been his friend, and he yet sought to place him again in a state
of independence. The health of Mr Percy, also, began to decline; the
infirmities of age were growing upon him; and the little that he had
been able to save from the wreck of his capital was wasting rapidly
away. He became melancholy with the thought that he should die a pauper,
or leave his wife and his daughter in want; and, in the presence of
Agnes, he often spoke of Mr Walker--of the excellence of his
character--of his wealth--of what he had done for him in the midst of
his misfortunes--of what he still desired to do--and of his affection
for her. She listened to her father's words in sorrow and in silence,
and, on her pillow by night, she wept because of them. To her the
remembrance of Henry Cranstoun was dearer than the temptations of
wealth, and her heart clung to him with a constancy which neither time,
misery, nor hopelessness could shake. She was grateful to her father's
friend for the kindness he had shown him, and for the generosity of the
proposals he had made--yet she found that she could not love him, that
her bosom had room for none but Henry.
Poverty, however, entered her parents' dwelling, and her father seemed
drooping for lack of nourishment which his increasing feebleness
required. Her mother, too, sat silent and melancholy, occasionally
raising her eyes to her daughter's face, with a look that implored her
to save her father. The old man had been ordered wine daily; but their
penury was now such that they could not purchase it, and the plainest
food had become scanty on their table.
Such was their situation, and they were sitting sorrowful together, when
Mr Walker entered the room. He approached Agnes respectfully, he took
her hand.
"Dear Agnes," he began, "can one with so kind a heart look with
indifference on the wants and the sufferings of a father and a mother?
It is in your power to make them happy, to restore them to prosperity.
For two years I have sought your hand, without meeting one look of
encouragement or one word of hope. Yet believe me, Agnes, I admire the
constancy which induces you to cherish a hopeless passion, and reject
me. If not for my sake, yet for the sake of your poor father, for that
of your fond mother, yea, for your own sake, dearest, permit me to call
you mine. I do not ask your love now; give me but your esteem, and I
will study to deserve your affection. Dear friends, plead for me," he
added, addressing her parents.
Her father laid his hand upon hers--"Dear Agnes," said he, "your father
is now a poor man--he is very poor. I fear the hand of death is already
upon me; and when I am gone, who will provide for your poor mother--who
will protect thee, my child? It is the only wish of my heart to see you
provided for, and your father would die in peace. And oh, my Agnes, as
your father's dying request, permit me to bestow your hand upon this
generous youth."
"Save us, my sweet one!" cried her mother, and she flung her arms around
her daughter's neck.
"It is done!" exclaimed Agnes, bursting into tears; and she stretched
out her hand to Mr Walker.
A few weeks afterwards, and the village bells rang a merry peal,
children scattered flowers, and there was joy on every face, save upon
the face of the fair bride, who went as a sacrifice to the altar. She
heard not the words of the clergyman as he read the ceremony. She
trembled, she would have fallen to the ground, but that the bridesmaid
supported her.
The marriage party were returning by a footpath from the church, the
sorrowful bride resting on the arm of her bridegroom. A stranger met
them--he turned aside, that they might pass. His eyes fell upon the
countenance of the bride.
"O Heavens! my Agnes!" cried the stranger, in a voice of agony.
"Henry! my Henry!" screamed the wretched bride, and, starting from the
side of the bridegroom, she sank on the breast of the stranger.