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The suicide’s grave—where
is it? It is at the meeting or crossing of three public roads; the body
has been thrust down, under the darkness of night, into a coffinless
grave. The breast, formerly torn and lacerated by passions, has lately
been mangled into horrid deformity by the pointed stake; and the
traveller, as he walks, rides, or drives along, regards the spot with an
eye of suspicion, and blesses his stars that he is a living man. The
suicide’s grave—where is it? On the bare and cold top of that mountain
which divides Lanark from Dumfriesshire. There you may see congregated the
hoody craw, and the gray gled, and the eagle—but they are not congregated
in peace and in friendship; they are fearful rivals, and terrible notes do
they utter as they contend over the body of her who was fair, and
innocent, and happy. Alas, for Alice Lorimer! Her story is a sad one; and
it would require the pen of a Sterne or a Wilson to do it justice. But the
circumstances are of themselves so full of mournful interest, that, even
though stated in the most simple language, they cannot fail, I should
think, to interest—nay, I will say it at once, to excite sympathy and
pity; for why should we not pity the unhappy and unfortunate? They are
pitied in poverty, in obscurity, in sickness, in death. Why should not we
even pity the guilty and abandoned? They are pitied in prison, on the day
of trial, and, most of all, in the hour of execution. There—even there—on
that platform, the murderer himself obtains that sympathy which we refuse
to the suicide. He who has only ruined, destroyed himself, is held in
greater abhorrence than the man who has ruined innocence, and even
murdered the unhappy mother and unborn babe. Away with such unjust and
ungenerous distinctions! Away, and to the highway and to the mountain top,
and to the raven, and the falcon, and the eagle, with the seducer and the
murderer; and let the poor suicide’s grave in future, be in consecrated
ground, where remembrance may soon overlook his woes and his very
existence. Let him sleep unknowing and unknown in the churchyard of his
fathers. Alice Lorimer I myself knew—I was intimately acquainted with
her—I was a companion and a favourite. In frosty weather we have
frequented the same slides, and, when Alice was in danger of falling, I
have caught her in my arms; we have hopped together for hours, playing at
beds, and I even made Alice privy to all my birds’ nests. Hers was indeed
a playful but a gentle nature. Her heart was light, her voice clear and
cheerful, and her whole affections were engrossed by an only surviving
parent, a widowed father. She was his first born and his last. Her
motherhad given her life at the expense of her own; and her father, a
shoemaker in the village of Croalchapel, devoted his whole spare time to
the education of Alice. Often I have seen him, with the shoe on the last,
and the elshun in his hand, pursuing his daily labours; but listening
attentively all the while to Aly’s readings. It was thus the child was
taught to read the Bible, to say her prayers, and ultimately to make her
father’s dinner and her own. Their cottage stood at what was termed the
"head of the town," on a sunny eminence looking to the west; behind it
were the shade and the shelter of many trees, of the wide spread oak, the
tall ash, and the sweetly scented birch. On Sabbath afternoons, John
Lorimer might be seen with his beloved child, clean and neatly dressed
ascending to the top of the Bormoors braes; and, from the green summit of
the eminence, looking abroad over a landscape, certainly not surpassed by
any which has yet come under the writer’s observation. On his one hand lay
the worn and silver-clasped Bible, from which portions of the gospels were
occasionally read, and on the other reposed Poodle, a little wire-haired
dog of uncommon natural parts, which had been greatly improved by
education. Poodle could bark, and do all manner of things. His eyes would
"glisten in friendship, or beam in reply." His nose was a platform, from
which many little pieces of bread had been tossed up into the air, and
afterwards snapped. He was all obedience to little Alice in particular;
and, at her bidding, would do anything but swim—he had, somehow or other,
contracted an aversion for the water, probably referable to some
mischievous boys having one day thrown him into Closeburn Loch.
Alice and I went to school
together. Her father’s cottage lay directly in my way, and I called daily
for the sweet girl. The other boys laughed at me, and made a fool of me,
and asked me if I had seen Alice this morning. I could not stand this; for
I reverenced the little innocent lamb—so I hit the Mr Impertinence a blow
in the stomach, which sent him reeling over several benches. I was no more
taunted about Alice Lorimer. There were a number of older and less
feminine girls at the school at this time. At play-hours these congregated
by themselves behind the school, whilst the boys occupied the play-ground
in front. Alice was one day severely handled by a neighbour’s daughter,
who had fixed a quarrel on her, and then beat her severely, calling her
all manner of names, and amongst others, honouring her with my own. I
found the poor child—for I was a few years older—in tears, as we met in
the Castlewood on our way home. It was with difficulty that I drew, bit by
bit, the whole truth from her; and I resolved to punish, in one way or
other, the rude and ill-hearted aggressor in this matter. I could not
think of punishing her myself; but I got Jean Watson, the servant-maid of
the factor’s clerk—a kind of haverel, who sometimes threw me an apple over
the hedge in passing—I got her to catch the culprit after dark, and to
chastise her in her own way. I know not how it was effected, but it
produced loud screams, and much merriment to me; for I was lying all the
while perdu on the other side of the hedge. Tibby Murdoch was a
most revengeful person—quite the Antipodes to sweet Alice Lorimer. She was
the daughter of a quarryman, who had come, only a few years before, to
reside in the place, and work at the Laird of Closeburn’s lime-works. How
difficult it is for poor blind mortals to see the consequences of their
actions! Had I then fully perceived what this act of retaliation was to
lead to—what dismal consequences were to follow—I would rather have sunk
at once into perdition than have been concerned in the affair. Tibby
Murdoch’s father was a brutal and a passionate man; and, understanding
from his daughter how matters stood, and that poor Alice Lorimer had been
the cause of his daughter’s disaster, he left his work at mid-day, and,
taking a horse-whip in his hand, entered the shoemaker’s shop, and, not
finding Alice, without more ado, he proceeded to apply it to John
Lorimer’s shoulders. John Lorimer was a little, but a strong and well-made
man; and, though the other was tall, bull-headed, and extremely athletic,
John immediately threw aside his instruments of labour, which he felt it
was dangerous to use on the occasion, and closed at once with the enemy.
The struggle was severe; but John Lorimer, having got a hold of Murdoch
about the middle, fairly lifted him off his feet, and dashed him down on
the floor. Murdoch’s strength, however, was superior to John’s; and he
contrived to roll-over upon his enemy, and at last to thrust his head
immediately under a grate, which stood in a corner of the shop, containing
live coals for melting some rosin, which was about to be used. The
crucible, with the melted and boiling rosin, was upturned; and,
unfortunately, the whole contents were spread over John Lorimer’s face— he
was dreadfully burned; but, what was worst of all, he lost the sight of
one eye by the accident, and was very materially injured in the other, On
an investigation by the proper authorities, Murdoch was convicted of the
assault, and imprisoned for twelve calender months. During his
imprisonment, revenge upon poor Lorimer was his constant theme and, when
the time expired, he removed to the parish of Keir and found employment in
a lime-work belonging to Dr Hunter of Barjarg. He was still,
unfortunately, within an hour’s walk of Croalchapel, and lay, like a cat
in a corner, watching his prey. In the meantime, John Lorimer, though
greatly deformed in his countenance, recovered the use of one eye and
pursued his quiet and useful labour as formerly. As his daughter Alice
advanced in years, she grew in loveliness and virtue. At twelve years of
age, she became her father’s housekeeper; and conducted herself in that
capacity with surprising sense and prudence. It was at this time that I
left school for college; and I spent the last night with Alice Lorimer. I
was then a lad of sixteen, and she, as I have said, was twelve. What had I
to do, in the Castle-wood, by moonlight, and late after her father had
gone to rest, with Alice Lorimer? Gentle reader, have a little patience,
and exercise a little Christian charity, and, upon my honour, I will tell
you all. But, in the first place, I must know your sex, and whether or no
you have ever been sixteen years old. If your sex corresponds with my own,
and your information on the other subject is equal to my own, then you
will understand the thing completely. I was then as innocent as it is
possible for a youth of sixteen to be; nay, I was absolutely shy and
bashful to a great degree, and would have shrunk from any advances, even
to innocent familiarity, with the other sex. But I was not in love with
Alice Lorimer. True, she preferred my company to that of any other person,
save her dearly beloved father; true, she sat on my knee, as she did on
that of her parent, unconscious of any different feeling in the two
positions; but we never talked of love; I would as soon have thought of
talking of our being king and queen; and as to Alice, her friendship for
me was as pure as is the love of angels. She could not think of parting
with me—of perhaps (and she burst into tears) never seeing me again. I
must write to her—and I must come back and see her, and talk funnily to
her father, who liked a joke—and I must—I forget how many "musts" there
were; but they lasted till half-past one o’clock. I parted with her at her
father’s door. I never saw her again!
I was coming down Enterkin
late in a fine moonlight night in the spring of 1806. I was on my way to
join a family in Galloway, where I long acted in the capacity of tutor. I
had then attained my twenty-first year; and I chanced to be
calculating--as I expected seeing Alice Lorimer on the following day—what
her age must be. Let me see, said I, so audibly that I started at my own
utterance, as did a little pony I rode; and what followed was the sum of
my reflections. I calculated by the common rule of proportion, that, if
Alice was twelve when I was sixteen, she would be seventeen now that I was
twenty-one. Seventeen! I repeated, just seventeen!—and I urged on the pony
instinctively, as if hastening towards Croalchapel. But I had been five
years at Edinburgh at College. What a change had come over the spirit of
my dreams during that period! I had had to contend with fortune in many
ways; had been often disappointed, and sometimes driven almost to despair;
again I had prospered, got into lucrative employment, become a member of
speaking societies, distinguished myself by talking sense and nonsense
right and left. I had spent many merry evenings in Johnie Dowie’s; and had
seen Lady Charlotte Campbell and Tom Sheridan in a box at the Theatre. In
fact I was not now the same being I was when I left for College; and I
felt that however fair and faultless Alice Lorimer might be, she could
never be mine—I could never be hers; our fortunes were separated by a
barrier which, when I went to College, I did not clearly perceive. In
fact, my ambition now taught me to aim at the bar or the church; and I
knew that, for years to come, I must be contented with a single life,
which, in Edinburgh in particular, I had learned to endure without
murmuring. Yet, I thought of poor Alice with most kindly feelings, and had
some secret doubts upon the propriety of my exposing myself in her
presence to a revival of old times and former feelings. In this tone of
mind, I was jogging on, with half a bottle of Mrs Otto’s (of Leadhills)
best port wine under my belt, and endeavouring to collect some rhymes to
the word Lorimer; but either the muse was unpropitious, or the word, like
that mentioned in Horace, refused to stand in verse; it so happened that I
had given up the effort, and was about to dismiss the subject altogether,
when I discovered, near the bottom of the pass, a number of figures
advancing upon me in an opposite direction. As they came up the pass,
under a meridian moon, I could discover that they carried something on a
barrow, which, on nearer inspection; I found to be a coffin. I drew my
pony to the side of the road, lifted my hat reverentially, and the party,
consisting of upwards of twenty, passed in solemn silence. The incident
was a little startling and somewhat unnatural, not to say superhuman; for
why were these people carrying a coffin up this long and narrow pass which
separates Lanark from Dumfriesshire, so late at night, and in such
mysterious silence! A thought struck me, which contributed not a little to
ease my mind in regard to supernaturals: were they a company of smugglers
from Bowness, taking this method of carrying forward their untaxed goods
to Lanark and Glasgow? Ruminating on this subject, and laughing inwardly
at my own ingenuity and discernment, I arrived at last at Thornhill, where
I remained for the night. Next morning, I reached Croalchapel, on my way
to my birthplace. I went up to that very door at which I had parted with
Alice, some five years before, and endeavoured to open it; but it was shut
and locked. I looked in at the end window, above the fire place; but there
was neither fire nor inhabitant—all was silence. My heart sank within me;
and a neighbour, who saw my ignorance and mistake, advertised me that both
parent and child were no more; and that Alice Lorimer was buried!—here
he hesitated, and seemed to retract the expression—"at least," said
he, "committed to the earth last night!"
"Was she not buried by her
father, in the burial-ground of the Lorimers of Closeburn?" said I,
hastily, and in an agitated tone. The man looked me in the face
attentively, and, probably then for the first time recognising me, waved
his hand, burst into tears and left me. I hastened to the home of my
fathers, half-distracted. My mother still lived and enjoyed good
health—from her I learned the following particulars.
John Lorimer’s sight, she
said, served him for a time, during which he wrought as usual, and his
daughter grew to be a tall and a handsome woman; but at last it began to
fail, and he would put the elshun into a wrong place, or thrust it into
his hand. Alice perceived this, and was most anxious to provide for her
father, under this irremediable calamity. She took in linen and bleached
it on the bonny knowe among the gowans; she span yarn, and sold it at
Thornhill fairs; in short, she did all she could to support herself and
her father in an honest and honourable way. But it was a severe struggle
to make ends meet. In the meantime, she had had several offers of marraige;
but refused them all, as she could not think of leaving her poor blind
parent alone and helpless, and none of her lovers were rich enough to
present a home to a supernumerary inmate. One evening, whilst, after a
severe day’s labour, she was sitting with old Poodle (her constant
companion, but now likewise blind) by the fire, Mr John Murdoch made his
appearance. Her father had gone early to rest in the shop end of the
house, and did not know of the man’s visit. He came, he said, as a
repentant sinner, to relieve her necessities. He had occasioned her
father’s blindness, and he was glad to be made the instrument of bringing
some pecuniary relief. Thus saying, he put into her hands a five-pound
note, and, without waiting for a reply, took his departure. This startled
poor Alice not a little; she looked at the money, then thought of the man,
and again listened to see if her father was sleeping—at last, she put the
note into her chest, determined not to make use of it unless in case of
necessity. The factor, who had hitherto been lenient, became urgent for
the rent. There were two years due, and the five-pound note exactly
covered the debt; away, therefore, it went into the factor’s hands, and
poor Alice returned thanks, on her knees, to Heaven, that had sent her the
means of keeping from her father the knowledge of their situation.
In a few days, Murdoch
found her at the washing green, and entered more particularly into the
history of the money. He said it had been sent by one who had seen and
admired her. He was on a visit at Barjarg, the proprietor being his
uncle. He was the son and heir of a very rich man, not expected to live
many months. He was determined to please himself in marrying, having
observed great misery arise from adopting a contrary plan; and he wished,
in fine, to cultivate a further acquaintance with Alice, to whom he had
sent another five-pound note in the meantime. In short, after exhibiting
great reluctance to agree to a secret interview, and after having again
and again tried to get words to communicate the whole matter to her
father, a young gentleman of gaudy and genteeel appearance made his way
out of the adjoining wood, and was introduced by Murdoch, as young
Johnstone of Westerhall. Few words passed—poor Alice was quite
nonplussed—she felt that she was not equal to this awful trial, and yet
there was something fearfully pleasant in it. A young man, handsome and
rich—her father blind and helpless—her hand quite at her own disposal—and
independence and comfort brought to the good man’s house for life. Her
lover, however, did not press the thing further that time; he took his
departure along with Murdoch, and Alice was left once more to her own
reflections. These, however, soon informed her that she was on the brink
of perdition. She ran at once to her father, and, in a paroxysm of
feeling, informed him of all that passed. He reproved her, but gently, for
her having devoted the money to the purpose which she mentioned; informed
her that he was richer than she supposed, for he had just five pounds,
which her sainted mother had put into his hand on the marriage-day; and
that he was keeping and had kept it sacred against the expenses of his
funeral. He would now willingly give it to recover their house, and to
free her from all temptation to sin. Alice wept; but she felt comforted in
the assurance that, by repaying the money, and breaking off all connection
with Murdoch and Johnstone, she was doing the right and the safe thing.
Accordingly, she went to bed with a satisfied mind, determined next day to
find out Murdoch’s dwelling, and have everything settled to her father’s
advice and her own wish. She dressed herself in her best; and set out,
soon after breakfast, for Barjarg Castle, never to see her father again.
She was betrayed, by the
revengeful Murdoch, to a dissipated, a heartless debauchee; was carried by
force, betwixt Murdoch and him, in a chaise to Dumfries; was lodged by
Johnstone in convenient quarters. Every art was used to reconcile her to
her situation; but all in vain; she stood her trials nobly; detected the
old game of a private marriage; and afterwards refused to be united to
Johnstone upon any terms whatever. But, in the meantime, poor John Lorimer
missed his daughter, and immediately guessed the cause of it. Tibby
Murdoch, took care to inform him, for his comfort, that Alice had run away
with the young Laird of Westerha’, and, giggling and laughing all the
while, that they were living very comfortably and lovingly in Dumfries.
The blind man knew this to be all a lie; but he knew enough to kill him;
he knew that his daughter was young and beautiful—that a villain had been
endeavouring to inveigle her—that a still greater villain, Murdoch, had
betrayed her—and that, in a word, she was now a poor dishonoured woman. He
knew, or thought he knew all this, and was found dead next morning in his
bed. The doctors said he died of apoplexy—if it was, it was a mental
apoplexy! Tired with fruitless efforts to gain his purpose, Johnstone at
last permitted Alice to depart. In a few hours, she was at her father’s
house; but it was desolate and silent.
A paper, which was put into
my hands, was evidently written by Alice. She expressed her determination
to follow her dear father into another and a better world, and hoped
heaven would forgive her. It was her funeral I met at Enterkin. Hers was
"The poor suicide’s grave." |
