Perthshire; a gleam of sunshine had brightened the dark and gloomy path
of my life. I was no longer an isolated being--I had met with congenial
hearts--I contrasted with gratitude the present with the past, and
looked forward with hope to a calm and happy future. I have before
spoken of my first impressions of Alice Sandford: I soon learned to look
upon her with feelings of warmer interest than I had thought I would
ever experience again towards mortal being. I will not waste more words
in endeavouring to describe the beauty of a face which, lovely as it
was, owed its principal charm to its sweet and amiable expression. That
her countenance was a true index to her heart, I have had well-tried
experience; for Alice Sandford has been the wife of my bosom for many
years, and never, in joy or in sorrow, has she given me a moment's cause
to repent of my choice. My friend Sandford (Grant, I should call him)
persuaded me to fix my quarters in a handsome villa on his property; and
I have ever since had reason to be thankful to Providence for the
happiness I have enjoyed, and for the blessed chance that led to my
meeting with my friend in the barn at ST BOSWELL'S.
THE STORY OF MAY DARLING.
"Lay her i' the earth;
And from her pure and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring!"--HAMLET.
It is a lovely spot, Grassyvale--"beautiful exceedingly." But its beauty
is of a quiet, unimposing description; the characteristic feature of the
landscape which would strike the eye of a spectator who surveyed it from
the highest neighbouring eminence, is simply--repose. There are no
mountains, properly so called, within a circuit of many miles--none of
those natural pyramids which, in various parts of our beloved land of
mountain and of flood, of battle and of song, rise in majestic grandeur,
like columns of adamant to support the vault of heaven. The nearest are
situated at such a distance that they appear like clouds, and might
readily be mistaken for such, but for their death-like stillness, and
the everlasting monotony of their outline. No waterfalls hurl their
bolts of liquid crystal into dark, frowning, wave-worn chasms, which had
echoed to the thunder of their fall since the birth of time. There is no
far-spreading forest--no yawning ravine, with "ebon shades and
low-browed rocks"--no beetling cliff or precipice, "shagged" with
brushwood, as Milton hath it. There is nothing of the grand, the
sublime, the terrible, or the magnificent--there is only quiet; or, if
the terms do not sound affected to "ears polite," modest, unassuming
beauty, such as a rainbow, were it perpetually present in the zenith,
might form a characteristic and appropriate symbol of. Nature has not
here wrought her miracles of beauty on a Titanic scale. What, then, is
so attractive about Grassyvale? it will be asked. We are not sure but we
may be as much stultified with this question as was the child in
Wordsworth's sweet little poem, "We are Seven" (which the reader may
turn up at leisure, when the propriety of the comparison will be seen),
and may be forced, after an unsuccessful attempt to justify ourselves
for holding such an opinion, to maintain, with the same dogmatic
obstinacy, it is beautiful. But the length of our story compels us to
exclude a description of the landscape which we had prepared.
The village of Grassyvale, which is situated on the margin of a small
stream, consists of about one hundred scattered cottages, all neatly
whitewashed, and most of them adorned in front with some flowering
shrub--wild-briar, honeysuckle, or the like--whilst a "kail-yard" in the
rear constitutes no inappropriate appendage. There is one of those
dwellings conspicuous from the rest by its standing apart from them, and
by an additional air of comfort and neatness which it wears, and which
seems to hallow it like a radiant atmosphere. It is literally covered
with a network of ivy, honeysuckle, and jasmine, the deep green of whose
unvarnished leaf renders more conspicuous "the bright profusion of its
scattered stars." The windows are literally darkened by a multitude of
roses, which seem clustering and crowding together to gain an entrance,
and scatter their "perfumed sweets" around the apartment. Near the
cottage, there is also a holly planted--that evergreen-tree which seems
providentially designed by nature to cheer the dreariness of winter,
and, when all is withered and desolate around, to remain a perpetual
promise of spring. But we have more to do with this beautiful little
dwelling than merely to describe its exterior.
Behind Grassyvale, the ground begins to swell, undulating into
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 realise to the
letter Shakspere'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 eldest;
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 doated 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 one another; 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 penn'd
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 both 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 wrapped 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 her 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 enamelled 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 pass'd 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 lighthearted "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 wo and her fate, so replete with
all that can agonise the human soul, and awaken its profoundest
sympathies;--of Ophelia--"the fair Ophelia," the young, the beautiful,
and the gentle--her devoted, child-like 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 despatch
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
of 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-illumined 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!"