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Many of the most pleasing
associations of my younger years are connected with my worthy old
grand-aunt, Margaret, whom I had been accustomed, from my earliest
infancy, to see in a comfortable easy chair, placed on the warmest side of
our parlour hearth, busied with her knitting or her Bible. There is
something reverend, and, at the same time, peculiarly agreeable,
about the image of her, that remains on my memory. She was rather above
the common stature of her sex; her figure slender, and, even in age, erect
and stately; her forehead was round and lofty, and, though not
furrowed with deep wrinkles, it yet bore the traces of thought. Her black
eye, which had then lost much of its lustre, was still intelligent; the
loss of brilliancy having rather communicated a sad or melancholy
expression than diminished its intelligence. Her cheek was pale and
marble-like; and about her thin, well-formed lips, there was something
approaching to a smile, that still was not a smile—which by itself,
expressed great benevolence and affection, and in the tout ensemble,
presented an air of soothed and chastened sorrow. Her black hair,
through which ran many a silver thread, was smoothly braided over her
forehead; and a cap, as scrupulously plain as it was neat, completed her
head dress. Such was her person. Her conversation was generally
cheerful—never gay; a tone of elevated, refined poetical sentiment, often
mingled in it, and astonished older and more experienced persons than I
was. I do not remember that she ever exceeded a gentle smile in her mirth;
yet, in our merriest moods, we never thought of avoiding her. She
frequently talked in an abstracted manner that was quite unintelligible to
us, as if she were thinking aloud, or rather as if she conversed with some
unseen visitor. It was then she seemed happiest. Her face would be
animated by an unwonted liveliness; then, all at once she would check
herself, heave a deep sigh, and, with great bustle and apparent confusion,
resume her neglected knitting. As I advanced in life, I experienced an
increasing pleasure in her conversation. When I came home during our
vacations, her society formed one of my highest enjoyments. And I have
often been astonished when my after experience discovered to me the extent
and accuracy of her knowledge of mankind.
It was about the merry
season of Christmas—every member of the family had gone to an annual
merry-making at a neighbouring farm, except my good old grand-aunt and
myself; she having outlived the time when such things are endurable,
and I being detained by some slight indisposition. I was always a
favourite with Aunt Margaret—chiefly, I believe, on account of some
likeness she imagined she could trace in me, to her favourite brother who
died in early youth; and also on account of my name—a ground of attachment
we could never explain. In persons of unusually warm feelings, who have
outlived the objects of their first attachments, we generally find that
the attachments of their riper years are nothing else than resuscitations,
if we may so speak, of their former passions. A resemblance, real or
imaginary, in look or disposition, to a departed parent, brother, child,
or lover— a tone of voice, or the accidental circumstance of a name, will
often arouse the interest of their hearts, too much engrossed by the
former to admit of any new or different attachment. Indeed, it is only old
feelings revived by the presence of the qualities that formerly excited
them, and not any new affection that is formed. Besides being a favourite
in general with nurse; and, undisputed government of our little household.
Moreover in such a situation as ours, parties such as that to which
the rest of the family had gone are not of everyday occurence, and are
looked forward to as occasions of great enjoyment. When either boy or girl
is left behind in such circumstances, with a companion, young or old, they
determine almost as it were in spite, to be extremely friendly and happy;
and then is the time when we are especially disposed to be confidential.
All these things were in favor of my design to get at Aunt Margaret’s
story—for that she had a story to tell I could not doubt. Her chastened
look showed its traces—her attachment to a name—her frequent sighs and
involuntary expressions—her ill-concealed observance of two days annually,
on which occasions she wore particular dress, and sundry little ornaments,
that, at other times, were kept most sacredly from the light; which two
days, moreover, were recorded on the blank leaf of a Bible that was never
far from her side:—all these were symptoms of a story. It
was impossible that a person of her marked character, ardent
temperament, and delicate sensibility could have passed threescore years,
even in the seclusion of a pastoral district, without having something to
relate. I contrived, in the course of the evening’s conversation, to lead
her gradually back towards that period of her life to which the date upon
her Bible, before mentioned, directed my suspicions. As we approached it,
the spirit of its history lived again in the tender and mournful emotions
that evidently agitated her. The chord was at length touched, and almost
regretted that I had ventured so far; but its vibrations were not to be
interrupted. There was a degree of pleasure amid the painful emotions it
excited—something like the mysterious "joy of grief." And, though female
delicacy had preserved even till then the little incident as a holy,
sacred thing, there was an evident relief to a burdened heart in the
communication of its sorrows.
"You cannot understand it now," she
said, "but you may hereafter, and sometimes when your Aunt Margaret’s
heart is still and cold, you may think, with not the less kindness, of her
when you remember this story. Oh, what vanity is the biggest and best of
all earthly concerns!—A poor handful of dust shall then be all that
remains of a beating, throbbing heart, which had concerns more
important, in its own esteem, than the affairs of kingdoms or a world.
Where shall be all these great concerns then? All forgotten, or only kept
alive in your affection—a record like that on the sand of the sea-shore;
for, if your own joys or sorrows do not blot it out, death will come at
last, like a black raging wave, and sweep it away for ever. Look, Jamie,
at that manly writing," she said, holding out the blank leaf of her Bible,
on which was inscribed, in a bold, open hand—"Margaret Henderson, her
Bible, Lonelee, 1753. Remember the 1st of June, and never forget it." And,
under this, the last words were repeated in her own writing—"Yes, remember
the 1st of June, and never, never forget it." "And manly was the heart
that guided that hand," she continued—"the heart that never wished, and
the hand that never wrought the hurt of living creature. He was a
neighbour’s son: we were year’s bairns, as they say. He conducted me to
school; protected me when I was there; and we learned the same lessons
from A B C upwards. We had left school; and, as he was employed on his
father’s farm, our friendship continued, and we saw each other almost
every day. We read the same books, and almost thought the same thoughts.
We never dreamed of parting, and we never dreamed of promises or pledges.
And though, sometimes, visions of united happiness and prosperity had been
given way to, may be with sinful confidence and anxiety, we never so much
as mentioned love.
It was the Monday of the
Sacrament at P—. We had both joined for the first time. It was a time to
be remembered, though, I doubt, sinful terrors and tremblings did mix,
and, in some way, confuse my better feelings. After sermon on the Monday,
I had been sent over to the village on some little errand; and, though I
think my feelings did in some measure, glow with that kindness to all
mankind which was proper to such an occasion, yet I did not desire
society. And, that I might be left to myself, I came round
by the footpath that leads through the kirkpath and up through that bonny
glen—every inch of both, and every tree and flower that grows in them, are
dear and holy to me. The kirk and kirkyard stood there—so quiet—more
solitary like than a desert. They seemed as if they belonged naturally to
the place; and yet, with all their solemnity and loneliness, there was a
sweetness and a calm about them, which, on that day at least, spoke to my
heart of the holy peace and joy of heaven. And then the kirkyard with the
big dark trees that threw their shadows over the graves of my
"forebears," were all like so many parts of one heaven-spoken
sermon. Nothing seemed out of place—every part answered its end; and,
though they were partly melancholy feelings it awakened, I was not in
haste to withdraw from the solemn converse. Long I stood under the plane
tree opposite the west door; a thousand bees hummed amongst its blossoms,
and a solitary cushat mourned unseen among its branches. I was at length
forced to draw myself away; and, as I came slowly down by the little
foot-path, I felt as if I descended from some awfully consecrated spot.
Never did I think less of this weary world than at that moment.
At all times, P— kirk looks
like a place that God and men had united in preparing as a place for
divine worship—an altar erected for the poor and humble to present the
offering of a broken and contrite heart on. I came down with a solemnised
and a softened heart, and walked slowly through the glen, sprinkled over
with daisies and pale primroses, full to overflowing with bright sunbeams,
and the music of unnumbered sweet birds, viewless among the rich
clustering loads of foliage that were piled upon both sides. I turned to
look once more on the old kirk. The knowe on which it stood seemed, from
that spot, to stand apart, for sacred purposes, from all the rest; a
darker and deeper foliage was raised up around it—or, I might rather say,
flourishing old sycamores threw a drapery of becoming solemnity around its
sacred retreat; the heavenward spire and its cross rose above all, and
added all that could be wished for to complete the picture. I scarcely
ventured to wish that he--my ain Jamie, as I had
called him from my infancy—were there. But I thought that, if I could wish
for any one, it were he; and who should I see hurrying down the opposite
bank but himself! I know not how it was—I had always met him with the same
frankness as if he were my brother; but that instant my first
thought was to shun him. Something, however, kept me fixed to the spot;
and there I stood till his own manly voice greeted me with some
good-natured remark about my business wandering there—"Some tryste, I
warrant," said he.
"I have been thinking many
solemn and happy thoughts," said I. He saw that I was in no mood to jest,
and his mind at once sympathized with mine. We had a hundred things to
say—many new and strange feelings to impart; for we could unbosom all our
thoughts to each other. We became insensibly more and more grave, more and
more quiet, till at last not one word passed between us. I ventured to
look in his face; he seemed grieved, and I caught myself sigh as I looked.
At last he said, "I must leave you, Margaret."
"We’ll go home together," I
replied.
"Ah, but I mean that I must
go far away—to the home of the stranger—where I shall have no Maggie to
listen to all my nonsense and take an interest in all my feelings."
And he went on to tell me how his father regretted his remaining at home;
and that the laird had procured him a situation in an office at Alnwick,
whither he was to go very soon. I could not tell you all
that passed there.
A bed of "forget-me-not,"
had attracted us under a stately plane tree, and well I remember still the
tone in which he said, as he gave me a choice sprig of that plant, "We’ll
meet again in heaven, at least;" as if he were prepossessed that some
untoward fate awaited us. He had just then pushed aside the curtain of
leaves which the bending branches allowed to drop down to the very ground,
when a flash of lightning startled us both. He drew back to my side—a peal
of thunder rolled and echoed along the glen, and brought an awe over our
minds; a rattling and rushing of heavy rain about the green roof of our
retreat succeeded; flash followed flash, and peal on peal, still nearer
and nearer. He exerted himself at first to sustain my courage; but at
length uneasiness for my safety evidently overcame his desire to calm my
fears. He stood there in breathless anxiety. The rain ceased; a vivid
flash and an instantaneous roll of thunder seemed to burst over our heads.
I clung to him, and he threw his arms around me--we both fell upon our
knees—a gust of wind rushed down the glen, and the trees all at once bowed
their heads in low obeisance to the Thunderer. There was then an awful
pause. Suddenly a ball of fire darted from the dark cloud to which our
eyes were turned in dismay imperfectly seen through the close leaves. Its
strokes shivered a great old elm that stood bare and leafless before us,
and the roar that followed without any interval was like the crash of a
world. "Heaven spare my Margaret!" he exclaimed, as he pressed me closer
to his heart. The fury of the storm was exhausted—it passed away; the dark
clouds dispersed, the sun again looked out and smiled, the birds by
degrees resumed their song, and the whole earth, refreshed, sent back the
smiles of the sun. The shivered and prostrate elm was all that remained to
tell of what had been. Our minds were relieved, and in some measure under
the influence of the universal feeling of solemn joy; but I could not help
feeling a kind of wicked superstitious fear, that this boded something
ill. We were still upon our knees; it was the first time his arm had been
thrown around me, except in jest; and the solemnity, the strangeness of
the situation was too much to be disturbed by words from either of us. As
we knelt, our eyes were turned towards Heaven in silent unutterable
prayer; and we wept there together. I need not tell you of our happy and
sorrowful meetings during the week that passed before he left us—of our
mutual feelings at parting—or the desolation I felt when he had gone.
A year passed away, during
which we had several happy meetings. Another sacrament came round, and we
sat down together at the holy table. We met again in the glen on the
Monday, and recalled all the strange events of our former meeting. It was
under the self-same plane tree he gave me my Bible, on which he had
written, as you saw, beside my name, "Remember the 1st of June, and never
forget it." A needless memento. The day was engraven on my heart—it was
the date of our first interview in the glen.
He had been highly
recommended by his employers to the "laird," who proposed sending him, as
under-factor, to live upon one of his estates. We were, you may be sure,
both happy; for it gave us the prospect of being soon united, and I was
proud of my laddie. The sweet month of May had come; and with that month
his engagement with Messrs H— expired. He was then to come home to spend a
few days among his friends; and, after spending two or three months in
Edinburgh, he was to enter upon his new situation at Mounthall, when we
should consider him settled in life. On a Saturday afternoon, near the end
of May, he peeped in upon us unexpectedly. He had been sent on some
business to the "laird," and was not to return till Monday. What a happy
evening we spent together! The "laird" had formed the most favourable
opinion of him, and had that afternoon said many kind things, on which we
raised a thousand castles in the air, and formed many dreams of
happiness--alas! never, never to be realized. He staid with us till a late
hour. A heavy shower overtook him on his way home, from the effects of
which he was never to recover. He called ere he went away on Monday
morning; and little did I suspect that the few hasty words that passed
between us were to be the last we should ever exchange. Information of his
illness was sent home in a few days; and his mother went to wait by the
bed that was to be his death-bed. His illness was concealed from me at
first; but his sister came one morning to tell me that he was ill and had
wished to see me. We set out together with much anxiety. I trembled to
enter his little room. All was still, save his loud breathing. I attempted
and drew back, and tried and tried again; and when at last I did get in,
there was my ain Jamie, with the stamp of death on his manly face--his
mother moistening his parched lips. How I got to his bedside I know not;
but I remember well the effort he made to grasp and press my hand, the
expression of satisfaction that stole over his death-like features, the
look which he turned upwards as he seemed to mutter a prayer. With his
last dying energy he pointed with one hand to heaven, and with difficulty
uttered, "There, Margaret!" His face blackened with the effort. My
eyes grew dim; my head reeled; and, scarcely capable of understanding that
all was over, I fell down insensible, and in this state was taken home.
For some days, I was almost without an interval
delirious—sometimes, I could feel an awful, wild, utter desolateness about
my heart that soon scared away my returning senses.
On the fourth morning after
his death, while the sun shone brightly through the chinks of the window
shutters, I rose, in a kind of half dream, and opened them. The glen was
there, in all its wonted loveliness, the kirk just visible in the
distance. A tumult of conflicting feelings possessed my breast; while a
fearful shadowing of some indefinite evil hung over my heart; for, though
the sudden and unexpected death of my ain Jamie had completely bewildered
my perceptions, yet still, in my state of mournful isolation, faint
glimmerings of the truth began to steal over my recollection. The window
of the room in which I slept having a command of the kirkyard and glen, I
continued to gaze on the dark trees that skirted the graves of my
kindred; and, while my eye rested upon the broad plane tree where Jamie
and I first exchanged our hearts, I saw a mournful funeral procession
passing towards the burial ground. It was all before me, like a strange
dream. I followed the procession till it disappeared amongst the trees,
and endeavoured to recollect myself. The whole truth flashed at once upon
my mind:—it was the last of my ain dear Jamie. It was the 1st of June; and
well might I repeat his words upon the Bible, "Remember the 1st of June,
and never forget it!" |
