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‘On her white arm down sunk
her head,
She shivered, sighed, and died.’
Mallet.
Joseph Wilson was a
farmer in the parish of D--. He possessed enough of the goods of this
world to make him be respected by all his neighbours, and esteemed by
them as the most careful, well-doing man in the parish. Joseph knew well
enough the value of his riches; but still the jewel which was nearest
and dearest to his heart was his only daughter, the beautiful and
innocent Mary Wilson. He loved her—and his love was not greater than
that of Marjory, his wife—more than all he possessed; and when rallied
by his neighbours on the depth of his purse, he was wont to say, that
the brightest guinea he adored was the face of his own sweet Mary. While
a child she was indulged; and the smiles of her pretty round face, and
her caresses and kisses, gained all her little wants from her doting
parents. While the daughters of other farmers assisted in household
management, she was never required to soil her fingers, but would skip
and dance before her father over the fields and the meadows, and sport
as the little lamb round her parent. As she advanced from childhood, her
days were clad in the same fair livery of joy. She danced and she toyed,
and though no longer dandled and prattling on the knees of her parents,
she made them the confidants of all her light amusements and secrets,
and she sang to them all the legendary ballads which she had picked up,
and their hearts were still gladdened in the little offspring of their
wedlock.
From a child to the age
of fifteen, she had attended the parish school along with all the boys
and girls, both high and low. Here she was a general favourite, and the
youths would crowd to attend Mary Wilson home, because she had the
prettiest little lips, and the kindliest laugh, of any girl in the
school; and happy was he, and proud of himself, who obtained her hand to
dance at the Candlemas ball. The father and mother saw no harm in the
adulations paid to their daughter, for they did not equal their own; and
the good old schoolmaster loved to see Mary the favourite of all his
youths, because she was a good scholar and the best singer in the school
and in the church, and on that account the greatest favourite with
himself When he raised the tune on the Sabbath to the praise of the
Lord, he would turn in his desk to the seat of Mary Wilson for her
accompaniment, and, when her sweet voice was once heard through the
church, then would the whole congregation join, and every young man
emulate himself to gain the approbation of the fair and goodly singer.
To those who are in the practice of attending a country parish church, I
need not mention in how high estimation the best female singer is held
amongst all the young men of the country side.
At the age of fifteen she
was removed to a boarding-school in town. Here she remained two years,
and though she perfected herself in accomplishments, and though many
young men dangled after her, yet her heart, albeit naturally merry, was
sensitive; and vapid appeared to her the revel in the midnight ball
compared to the dance on the heaven-canopied lawn, when heart panted
with heart, and every spirit caught the existing flame of pleasure ; and
frigid and disagreeable seemed to her the lips from whom politeness
extorted studied words, compared to the lips of those who spoke the warm
and momentary feelings of the mind. She returned to the place of her
youth, and sought again for mirth and pleasure amongst her old
companions; but she was changed both in person and in mind. She was no
longer the light airy girl, but she was now the woman glowing in all the
richness and luxuriance of female beauty. She could not now associate
with the young men, and be their umpire in all their disputes and
contentions, as in the days of her youth; nor could she find that
delight in the company of her female companions which she did ere her
departure. Mary was a flower,-
A violet by a messy stone,
Half hid from human eyes,
that, left undisturbed on the wild, would have flourished the loveliest
of her comrades, but once transplanted for a little time into the
garden, she took not so well when removed again to her native soil.
Though she danced, and though she sang, as she was wont, still part of
that which she had seen in town mingled itself with that which she
enjoyed in the country; the customs of a populous city were not to be
easily banished from her, and she could not be so happy as formerly. To
her father and her mother she was the same adored object; both rejoiced
in her beauty, and while they would at times , talk of who might be her
husband, they would soon chase away the idea as that of a robber that
would deprive them of their all.
A little after Mary’s
return to her father’s, Charles Morley returned likewise from the
University. He was the son of the laird, but he had been at the parish
school with the young men, and once been their constant companion. He
hunted for birds’ nests with them, he had fished with them, he had often
broken into his father’s garden with them, and Morley was as one of
themselves. He had ever been attentive to Mary Wilson ; and she, if the
umpire of a race or a wrestle, was always happy when she could adjudge
the honour of victory to Charlie Morley, because he would at times
snatch a kiss from her, and would always take her hand and assist her
when wading through the burns. He had completed his education at the
University, and, while he had acquired knowledge, he had lost the
command of himself. Long did he withstand the temptations laid in his
way by more wicked companions, and long did he endeavour to retain the
principles his old master had instilled into him; but in vain: while the
sage was discoursing on the nobleness of man’s nature, and the blessings
of wisdom, and while he acquiesced in all the learned man said, Charles
Morley had become one of the most profligate, young men in the college.
When he returned to the
country, he often met Mary Wilson, both at her father’s and at the
houses of the other tenants. Their meetings became frequent, and though
they never made assignations, yet Charles Morley was sure to meet with
Mary Wilson in her walks. She saw no harm in meeting with her old school
companion, but he had his schemes laid; he saw her leaning on him in all
her maiden fondness; he knew human nature, and he knew that if he
attempted to wrong her in their early meetings, he would discover his
baseness and be spurned. He suffered therefore her affection to grow
upon her, and, when it had fully ripened, he gave her his feigned love,
and received hers, as the offerings of a devotee to his God, in return.
For some time she was almost happy, and though she knew her situation
must soon be known, she was certain it would not be so till she was the
wife of Charles Morley-for so he had promised; and could she doubt him?
Time, however, flew on, and Mary becoming discontented and frightened,
Morley, in order to draw her from a place where discovery would have
been ruin to himself, proposed flight. When a woman has once gone
astray, the man who has ruined her does not require great efforts to
persuade her to anything. She is his, body and soul. Mary one night bade
adieu to the house of her father, and fled with her paramour to an
obscure lodging in the capital.
Sad was the morning which
arose to her parents on the discovery of her departure, and more
especially the cause of it, which neighbours were not slow in surmising
and hinting. Her mother wept in all the bitterness of woe, but her tears
could not express the sorrow of her heart. The father was louder in his
grief; he wept and raved by turns. Now he grieved for her helplessness,
and prayed to God to grant her mercy; then he cursed the hour in which
she was born, and called down curses on him who had ruined the hope of
his days. In a little time their violent grief had subsided ; the
fugitives could not be traced, and neither Joseph nor his wife suffered
that name which was nearest to their hearts to pass their lips. But when
Marjory would see the work-basket of her daughter, she would throw
herself on her bed and weep; and Joseph, when anything came in his way
that strongly associated the idea of his Mary, would seize his hat, rush
from the house, and give utterance to a grief which he would fain
conceal from an already heart-broken wife.
It was about five mouths
after the departure of Mary, when Marjory, hearing one day a gentle tap
at the door, went to open it. It was Mary who knocked; but oh! how
changed from her who once was the boast of the country side ! She was
pale and emaciated, her eye had lost its lustre, and she seemed to be
worse than the shadow of her former loveliness. Her dress was ragged and
torn, and in her arms she bore a child—the ill-fated offspring of her
illicit amour. Her mother held the door for some minutes, while she
surveyed with melancholy eyes the woe-worn condition of her daughter.
"Mary,” she said, and her manner was composed —"Mary, you did not need
formerly to knock at the door of your father’s house." Mary stepped over
the threshold, and staggering, rather than walking, forward into the
kitchen, threw herself on the dais. "Mary," said her mother again,
"where have you been? Are you a married woman? Better be the wife of the
poorest man than—— .” Here her daughter buried her face in the bosom of
her child, and sobbed, aloud. "Mary,” again said her mother, "I reproach
you not. God will grant you His forgiveness, as I do mine; I feel I
cannot live long after this stroke, and we must all meet with trials on
this side the grave; but Mary, oh, my darling Mary," and she threw her
arms around her daughter’s neck and kissed her, "your father ! how will
you bear the look of your father?" Her words were scarce finished when
Joseph entered. He laid his hat on the table, he shaded back his gray
hairs, and clasped his hands, and, from his hard-knitted brows, he
seemed about to pray the vengeance of God on her who had so dishonoured
his old age. He looked at his daughter; her eyes were on him, and her
once lovely arm was extended as if to avoid the threatened curse ; his
brows relaxed, he unclasped his hands, and placing them on his face,
wept aloud. She laid her child on the seat, she was at his feet on her
knees, and her arms grasped him by the waist. He felt her, he placed one
hand in hers, and raised the other as he said, “May God forgive thee, my
daughter! Ah, Mary, Mary, thou art still my offspring, though thou art a
defiled vessel in the eyes of God and man!"
On the second Sunday
after her return to her father’s, she prepared to attend her
purification in the kirk. She had gone through all preliminary forms,
and was now once more to take her seat in the house of God. She went
muffled up and attended by her father and mother, and was not
recognised. During the singing of the first and second psalms she was
silent ; but at the third, her father desired her to sing to the praise
of that God who had brought her back as a lost sheep into His fold. In
the second line she joined the tune; but weakly and feebly compared to
that voice which used to lead the whole kirk. It was, however,
recognised; there was a more than momentary stop while all eyes were
turned towards her; and her old master, turning towards the seat of his
old favourite, strove, while the big tears rolled down his cheeks, and
his voice faltered, to bear her through the tune. The minister again
rose to prayer: he stretched his hands to heaven, and prayed for all
mankind; he prayed for the sinner that had gone astray, and that the
Father of mercies would have compassion on the wretched, and again take
her into his bosom. There was not a dry eye in the kirk. Humanity for
once prevailed, and human selfishness forgot itself in the woes of a
fellow-mortal. She, for whom they were supplicating, stood with her
hands firmly clasped, her eyes closed, and her head bowed to the earth;
and though her father and mother sobbed and wept, she moved not, but,
when service was over, she walked with a firm step, and uncovered face
and head, through all the parishioners, to her father’s dwelling. She
laid herself down on her bed, and in three weeks the grave yawned and
closed on the unfortunate Mary Wilson.
A few weeks ago, I made
it in my way to pass through D——. Many revolutions of a tropical sun had
passed over my head since I had left my native land, and, on my return,
I was anxious to visit that spot where I passed many of my happiest
days, even though I knew that all my relatives were long since in the
cold grave. As I turned round the hill, the well-known cottage of Joseph
Wilson came in view, and the story of his daughter dashed vividly on my
mind. I approached a countryman, who was standing with his plough and
horses at the end of a furrow, wiping the sweat from his brow, and
inquired, if Joseph Wilson was still living.
"Na," replied he, "nor
ane o’ his kith or kindred. The poor wean that suckled frae an
unfortunate breast died soon after his mother, like a young shoot or
sapling that has been rashly cut down. Then Marjory soon followed, and
Joseph became a heart-broken man; a’thing gaed to wreck, and he died on
the parish. There are sad ups and downs in life, and nae the lightest
thing to disturb our balance is the waywardness of a child.”
"Poor Mary Wilson!" said
I. She became as visible to my mind’s eye as when I saw her winding in
the mazes of a dance in all her maiden beauty and innocence; and the
lines of my favourite poet came to my lips :—
‘When lovely woman stoops
to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray,
What charms can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.
"And what has become of
the laird?” said I, looking to the well-known mansion.
"The old laird is dead,
and the young one, that was once expected to be laird, lies rotting with
many carcases in a foreign trench, He broke his father’s heart, spent
his substance, and died a common soldier. The comforting dew of heaven
seldom falls on him who disregards its commands: seldom does the
friendly hands of woman smooth the dying bed of the seducer ; and still
more rarely does the insulter of a parent’s gray hairs sleep in the same
grave wi’ him. Ye canna lament Mary Wilson mair than I do."
"Do you possess her
father’s land ?” said I.
"Ay do I," replied the
rustic,—apparently much moved; "and it may be that I would hae ploughed
them mair pleasantly, and whistled mair cheerfully to my horses, had
Mary shared it with a plain man, as became her station; but we maunna
repine."
I had no wish to proceed
farther; and in my ride back I enjoyed one of those deep, melancholy
musings, far more congenial to my mind than the most ecstatic dreams of
the most ambitious men. -Aberdeen Censor. |
