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Equally clear, yet not so deep, quite as resolved / wasn't nor I couldn't be
for what I and firm, but more susceptible of that lighter play thought you did. Well, no matter; now it's all which arises, not from better temper, but better gone, and I neither hate him or like him. I'll spirits, Jane was in truth possessed of every quality never like him." calculated to sympathize with a heart so finely “ But when will we leave this place, and go, moved by all the gentle stirrings of our nature. Willy ?” Perhaps the basis of their temper and disposition “I've fixed upon the day after to-morrow. had been originally the same, though in after life the take leave of Philip, and the rest, then walk about physical darkness of the boy had thrown a deeper the places I like for the remainder of the day, and shadow over his spirit. We will, however, enter the next morning we'll go." no farther into this, but detail part of their conver- • We'll surely do well, I hope, Willy ?” sation while returning to their native hamlet. “I hope so; but, Jane dear, there's a thing
"* Jane," said her young husband,“ how do you troubling me, that I didn't tell you yet.” feel now that we're leaving the place where we
“And what is it?" spent all our life, and going to try a world we know “I won't mention it now, and don't ask me-but 50 little about ?"
whatever it is, it makes my heart-it-oh, Jane, I "I feel glad," she replied, “but a little fear love you beyond all belief when I think of it. I'll 100--it may be hard with us. I'm not thinking of tell you soon, but don't ask me yet.” myself now, but of you ; but still I'm more glad Having now reached the village, and called upon than any thing else--for go where I may, won't I several of their neighbors, the day drew to a close, have you with me? I can do more for you now and they retired to their apartment in the small than I could before we were married.”
inn of the hamlet. Willy the next morning was " That's true, and I feel glad too that you'll never more silent than usual; and his sightless counteleave me ; but still, Jane, I feel sorry almost, yet nance, placid as was its habitual expression, struck it's not painful what I feel, nor it's not unpleasant, his wife as if shaded by that mournful serenity but still it's like sorrow."
which uniformly marked the workings of his heart “ But why do you feel so, Willy dear ?" when influenced by tenderness and sorrow. After
“Why, I'm thinking that I'm going away from breakfast he begged her to permit him for a little the people and the place that I know, and my heart time to go out, after which they could, he said, turns to them more now than it ever did ; even proceed together and bid their friends farewell. Philip, I like better now than I ever remember, and This, of course, was complied with unreluctantly ; his wife too, and all of them."
and in about three quarters of an hour he returned " But you know, Willy, we couldn't stay here." again, and sat silent for some time, still evidently " I know, dear, we couldn't, and I believe that's laboring under deep but suppressed feeling. principally what makes me sorry. There's places “ Jane," said he, “I could never think it-but here, Jane, that I must go to, till I walk over them, he cried—he cried—as they all did when they and linger about them, and think, Jane—and, Jane found that I was about leaving them. It's true, Jane, dear, will you not ask to come with me ? but let he cried, and bitterly too, and begged my pardon forme stroll by myself from one place to another, just but no matter-they're in great distress now, and I at my leisure, for I don't know how it is, but when can't help them." I think of them, especially of one place, my heart “Who, dear; who are you speaking of ?” is full."
Philip, Jane-Philip—can I forget how he * William, did you ever hate any thing in your distressed himself by keeping me ? He was rough,
I know, but then his heart was never bad—and it Hate! why what would I hate? Let me see- was poverty, Jane, made him harsh to me.” I did—I hated—10—I was only angry with Philip's Poor Philip,” said Jane, the tears starting to wife for a thing she threw in my teeth about you; her eyes ; “ and he did cry when he found you and I hated yourself I believe-no—I don't think- were going at last ?" yet I can't say I did hate you, Jane. But then I “ They kissed me all when I was leaving them, loved you at the same time as much as ever-even Philip himself, and I felt his tears upon my indeed, I think more."
cheeks-he said they were much distressed of late, * And is that all ?"
particularly since they put me out, and begged me "No," he replied, standing still, while a mo- to bless them and forgive them before I'd go. I mentary gloom feel upon his features. “I hated blessed them-I blessed them—Jane, my heart is George Finlay—hated—that's nothing—no, no, very sorrowful-bless them, dear; let us kneel upon second thoughts, I never hated any one but down and bless them together.” hum ;-hated !--no, no, it's well for him now that I They then called upon the villagers, of whom didn't get my hands into his heart. Isn't it strange, they took leave; after which William desired Jane Jane, that though I hated you sometimes, yet it to bid farewell to Philip's family, while he went to wasn't as I hated him. Although I hated you, I'mutter his wayward fancies among those indistinct
scenes within whicli he had hitherto felt the lights driven him, in the absence of other friends, to carry and shadows which flitted over his happy but me- his early and touching sorrows to that beloved lancholy destiny.
place, and pour forth his complaint, as it were, to Slowly, and in a mood of deep meditation, did he the very dust. pass over scenes which, known to him as they Here he sat for some time in silence; after which were only through the dim medium of a limited he gently ran his hands over the grave, then paused sense, were not the less calculated to touch his for a space, and again repeated the former action. heart or impress his fancy by the mysterious and He arose and proceeded, still with a slow pace, to visionary character which his blindness imparted the public house, where he found his Jane awaitto them. He stood among them, or passed from ing him. one well known spot to another with feelings, sin- And now came the moment when our friendless gular, not so much by their own nature, as by the couple were to commence their melancholy stzug. position in which his darkness, his past love, and gle with life ; to enter upon a world in which they foregone life had placed him. Mild, and tender, had no friend; and from which they could expert and beautiful were the emotions which came over no sympathy. Well it was for them that their him as he mused, and often at that moment did the knowledge of it was limited, otherwise it would long slumbering desire after the glorious gift which have been an era in their existence deeply and had been denied him, move his soul with a yearn- painfully calamitous. As it was, however, they ing for a sight of the fields, and streams, and glens felt depressed; but this proceeded rather from the with which he had hitherto held a communion as remembrance of what had passed, than from a diswith things whose beauty was veiled in darkness. tinct apprehension of that which lay before them. But the dearest association of all was that arising With respect to Jane, this was particularly true ; from his love. This, indeed, was the inward light for we must admit that Willy, as the reader will which made every field, and bank and copse about presently see, caught that boding presentiment of him visible to his heart; and fair and serene for the future which, under the circumstances, was *** him they shone in a radiance more lovely than the be naturally expected from him, independently of sun's. His young bride's voice—for that is the a temperament so melancholy. Jane and be at personal image of the absent, so to speak, which length rose, and avoiding the street of their native is ever most familiar to the blind-its soft and lute- hainlet, passed by a short bridle-way out to the like tones, immediately seemed to breathe from road, both silent, hand in hand, and Jane in tears. every spot; his mind became lit ; the dream of his “ Jane," said her husband, “what makes you cry?" affection stole over him; its history returned; and “Isn't it natural,” she replied, " when I'm learas she was the spirit which the light of his vision ing the only place and the only people I ever surrounded, so did the ecstasy increase, until he knew. One can't help it." imagined that every scene around him murmured "No," said he, “they cannot. I'll play one music, and that music the voice of his “bonnie Jean.” tune before I leave them altogether-my heart's But this passed away after a time; for he remem- full, too, with many thoughts, but there's en bered that he came to bid them, as the only friends thing troubles me far more than leaving=althought from whom he had derived unmingled pleasure, a that gives me an aching heart too." He then sa farewell, which a mind like his, tinged with natural down on the green ditch that enclosed the road i melancholy, imagined might be the last. His and in a few minutes the inhabitants of the hamlet words, on passing away from them, were, though were struck by. the singular pathos which he simple, extremely affecting.
poured into the mournful and sorrow-struck topes " Farewell," said he, “ your orphan boy bids you of “ Lochaber no more.” Jane felt the full force farewell; my heart is sunk when I think that I and sad propriety of the air; and with tears in ber must leave you, never maybe, to come among you eyes joined him in a single lineagain
"And we'll, maybe, return to Lochaber no more. *For we'll, maybe, return to Lochaber no more:'"
For a longer space than is usually allowed to There was now but one other spot he had to a single tune, did William dwell upon this: 34 visit, and to this he slowly directed his steps. Our length the music became broken, and resumed readers will easily apprehend that we mean the again became broken—and finally, with an expres
. last bed of those parents whom he had never for- sion that was abrupt and troubled, altogether ceased. gotten. But his heart, though saddened by natural The poor youth called his wife to his side, laid his regret at leaving, it might be for ever, the scenes head against her, and tears, which he seldom shed. of his youth, was yet happy even to overflowing~ fell rapidly down his cheeks. still was the humble grave of his father and mother “Oh, don't ask me why I cry, Jane," said he an object which occupied a strong hold upon his before she had time to inquire." I have done s affections ; for he could not forget how often the wrong thing to you—a thing that lies heary on w harshness and stern treatment he received had'conscience and heart,"
“ No, indeed, William," replied his wife, "you his modest girl, was a model, without variation, of never did; as for what you heard and suspected all he wore during the thirty-five years they lived about my marriage with that,
together. No remonstrance could induce him to “Oh, no, no,” he returned; not that-not that, change it. but there was nothing to prevent me from getting “Don't ask me,” he would reply, when about to my bread by my clarionet, for I'm blind; but when purchase a new one. “ There is only one dress I I think that I have brought you to beg for life, and like. I know who bought it for me, many a year when I know that you would-yes-yes, be a ago, and I know why I like it now. That dress happy woman in your own house, and now all I was my first, and, except the coffin, it will be my have for you is beggary-beggary!”
last." " William,” she replied," " that's your heart- It was, indeed, very simple, and very well known the goodness of your heart, I know it—but listen to our readers; a blue coat, red waistcoat, corduto me. If you had gone upon the world and left me roy small clothes, and blue stockings, to which if bebind you, I don't think that your own Jane would we add a Scotch bonnet, the apparel of our hero is ever more have known a happy day. No, William, complete. We said just now, that he passed I took my choice, and that choice was to stay by through every town of note in Ireland, we might your side through good and evil, and through all also add Scotland, and the north of England. the trials of this life to guide you, and love you, Hand in hand have they been seen to go together, and assist you in whatever your poor girl could do but in no instance, as we have said, were they for you; and, William,” said she, placing her ever known to solicit remuneration for their rude cheek against his, speaking too in tones that ba- and simple melody. If it came spontaneously it nished all sorrow from his heart, “I am happier a was accepted with gratitude. So striking indeed thousand times, to beg by your side, than I could and so uniform was their appearance, that artists ever be in any state of life, where you would not have painted them, and more than once have we be with me."
ourselves seen their characters assumed at a fancy The soul of the blind boy was once more filled ball, where their meekness, dress, manner, and the with light, a sense of full and unalloyed happiness husband's style of playing, were successfully imicame upon him and his young wife. They arose, tated. and without a wish, without a fear, proceeded, The long lapse of their married life resembled with hearts which thousands might envy, to beg an unbroken strain of their own music, or like the their bread through that world, which is ever harsh small mountain burn which, in its early progress, and cruel to the unfortunate. The boy's mind was, is opposed by rocks, and rists, and projections, unhowever, still busy; again he tuned his clarionet, til it reaches the meadows and plains, when it and his heart burned with irrepressible love to his glides onwards with a smooth but lonely murmur, faithful bride. As they proceeded, he again put ever making melody as it goes along. To them, the instrument to his lips, and far over the silent life, indeed, gave all they expected from it; their fields about them, was heard that sweetest and wants were few and easily gratified, their habits most sorrowful of all melodies, the Irish air of simple, and their hearts contented. One thing, it
“ Travel with me, my love;" the is true, surprised Jane not a little, as we have no exquisite tones of which were also heard in the doubt it will our readers. Her husband expressed village, until they died away in the distance. no wish to revisit the scenes of his early life; on This was the last which the inhabitants of the vil- the contrary, when urged to it by his wife, he lage heard of the orphans during a lapse of years. mildly declined, assuring her that he had a dis
relish against it which he hoped a few years would
enable him to overcome. Nor were the inhabiCHAPTER VIII.
tants of the hamlet less amazed at their neglecting Nerer within the whole circle of literature were to reappear among them. Some attributed this to hero and heroine so humble as ours; yet such as shame, and others to a recollection of the hard they are, have we conducted them to that state of usage they had received while young; but none of life where little is left for description. Our rea-them were capable of tracing their absence to its ders now begin, we imagine, to recognise them. proper motive. Philip could not at all compreHumbly and unassumingly did they pass through hend it, for as he and the orphan parted not only every town of note in the kingdom-he ever with affection, but as the reader knows, with tears, touched with melancholy, playing as best he might so he could not imagine that any cause but death upon his clarionet, and she, the patient partner of alone could or would have detained him away so his sorrows, always at his side. Alms they never long. This poor man and his family were very asked, for such had been the resolution come to by liable to impressions which, in minds composed of both on the first day after their entering upon the equal good and evil, may not be improperly termed world.
the superstition of humanity. Humble as his cirThe dress in which William had been joined to cumstances were during the orphan's miserable so
"Shuil agra," or
journ with him, yet after the boy's departure they | Philip's family, considering themselves as devoted, became gradually worse, until it would be indeed lay like drift upon a river, without struggle or efdifficult to find a more pitiable instance of naked- fort to escape from misery, until they found themness, famine, and general destitution than they selves upon the point of actual beggary. presented. Persons, however, in their condition, One day Philip sat among them, sad and gloomy: and with minds so constituted, are always disposed hunger had pinched himself, his wife, and chilto impute their distress to any other cause than dren, even to the verge of starvation. The landthe right one. In this case they looked upon the lord had that morning seized upon his pig and such woeful decline of their circumstances as a judicial miserable furniture as his cottage contained. What punishment, inflicted upon them in consequence of was he to do for them except to beg or steal? or their conduct towards the poor orphan. This opi- how procure them a morsel of food! After a long nion having gained ground, of course relaxed their silence he at length rose up in a dark determined exertions, and caused them to believe that no in- mood, and exclaimeddustry on their part could evade the fate which “Have patience, all of you-have patience, you had fallen upon them. Philip's wife was a living will have enough and more than enough to eat bememento of his offences against the fatherless, and fore midnight. Come what may I can't wor 1 a daily record of the blow he had inflicted on the won't see you starve before my face-bare psblind. To this she ascribed all they had suffered tience." since his departure, for as she told him
The wise, feeble and staggering for Fant of “ Didn't I say at the time, they never came to food, approached him, and laying her hand upa good that raised a hand or struck a blow against his own, exclaimedthem that God prevented from being able to de- “Philip-Philip, you won't-let us die, but let fend themselves?"
us not bring shame upon ourselves. Die! no, “I know it's true,” replied Philip; " and I'd Philip, let us beg; better people have been brought give the world it had never happened—and that to it—or if you don't like it, I and they can go we had treated him with more kindness : but we're out. The charity of the neighbors will surely suffering for it.”
keep life in us." “Well," said the wife, “it's better to suffer in
Philip flung her off. “Let me alone," said hethis world than the next."
“let me alone. I'll have no begging for this day “That's true,” observed her husband, —"though, at least; I won't-I can't see them die." God knows, I've repented for the blow and every The wife staggered back, but caught a prop thing else this many a day. Even when he was which supported the roof of the hovel. She knew leaving us, I felt cut to the heart on thinking of it. her husband's temper, however, and was silent. If we could only see him and get his forgiveness After a little time she arose, and turning up the we might do better in the world. If I knew where skirt of her gown as a cloak over her head and he was, I wouldn't scruple to go to him; it might be shoulders, told Philip she was about to go out. the means of taking the curse off us."
Philip, whom distress had driven to extremity, “It's hard to say where he is now," said the instantly closed and barred the door. wife. “ It's my opinion he's dead—and if he is, “ No," said he, “ there must be none of that God help us.”
I'll have no going out, no beggary.” “ I'm afraid he is, too,” said the husband ; The poor woman sat down, and the outcry of " nothing else would detain him from the place. her children caused her to weep, as well with them, I know how he loved the fields, and glens, and lit- as for them. tle green spots he used to be wandering about. I In this manner they passed the day until dask, doubt you're right; nothing but death would keep Philip still stern and resolute in the gloomy deterhim away so long."
mination he had made. Often did the poor wit Such was the superstition--beautiful, it is true, attempt to remonstrate, but as often was she cut taken as a simple impression—under which these short and silenced by a fierce oath and a furioes poor people suffered their minds to sink, and their stamp of his foot upon the floor. energies to slumber. Had their circumstances in Dusk had now passed, and darkness set it life improved, it would not have been felt, nor Philip in silence, at which they all trembled. very possibly remembered at all; but in proportion seized his hat, and was in the act of proceeding as their misery increased, that weakness of mind out, when the tones of a clarionet were heard in which is ever the recipient of such opinions, dis- the distance, and the next moment he and his wife posed them to attribute their penury to a cause recognised the long-remembered and well-know? which, whilst it satisfied themselves to know it, air of “ Bonnie Jean." palliated their own want of industry.
The man paused, and his wife, uttering a fain: The foregoing conversation took place better scream, said than six years after our orphans' departure from “Heaven preserve us. Philip, do you hest the hamlet, and it is scarcely necessary to say that that? oh, come back-come back and change you
mind; for if ever a warning came to mortal, that for want of food, yet were aware of his position comes to you!"
with the landlord, and knowing that a disclosure of ** It's very odd,” said her husband ;" for except their difficulties must necessarily take place, they it happens to be Willy himself, I don't know how did not wish to embarrass either party by remainto account for it; living or dead it's he that's play- ing to hear the unhappy pauper acknowledge the ing the tune we hear.”
extremity to which he had been reduced. They " Living !" exclaimed the wife, whose supersti- accordingly one by one took a short leave of the tion outran common probability—“living-good- orphans, expressing a hope that they would remain ness me," she added, eagerly catching at the hope, for some time among them. "and why not living? It is himself-himself and When they were gone, a silence, oppressive and no one else—and it's now getting nearer. My painful to both parties, took place ; which, howstars! what could put any thing else into my fool- ever, was broken by the orphan. ish head! God be praised, I'm glad he's come; Philip,” said he," you must get Jane and me for now after getting his forgiveness we may do something to eat, we are both tired and hungry, for better in the world."
we travelled far to-day, striving to reach this beThe music of the clarionet had already ceased; fore dark, we are hungry." for in fact the other inhabitants of the neighbor- This was pulling the cord which at that moment hood having also heard and recognized the tune, cut into the hearts of this unhappy family tighter, ran out to meet their old acquaintance.
at the words food and hunger;—a wild and wolfish “It has stopped, said the wife, relapsing into howl arose among the famishing brood that surher former apprehension. “God knows what it rounded them, which all Philip's authority could may bemyet whatever it is, I am sure, Philip, it's scarcely hush into silence. a warning to you."
“ Hold your tongues,” said he, “remember what The noise of approaching feet, and the cheerful I told you awhile ago—it must be had, let whattumult of many voices, among which those of our ever may happen. Willy," he added, approaching heroine were distinguished, now satisfied them that him, and seizing his hand, “Willythe music was not supernatural. In a few mo- “ How is this?" said the orphan, "you are disments the two orphans, accompanied by many of turbed; Philip, your hand trembles, and your voice the neighbors, entered the naked hovel, and were is not what it used to be. Good heavens!” he received by the whole family with an affectionate exclaimed, "you have been sick, for your hand is exultation of manner for which neither they nor gone to skin and bone.” the others who were present could at all account. “ Willy,” said the repentant and unhappy man, The house was literally dark when they entered," the world has gone hard with us ever since the nor was there even a seat within its walls ; their unlucky day I struck you that cruel blow-God, I fire consisted of a miserable spark that feebly would fain hope, sent you to us that I might get clung to the end of a wet peat upon the hearth; a your blessing and your pardon—after that, and esrushlight and two seats were considerately brought pecially since you left the place, we haven't had a in by a neighbor, and after the orphans had sat day's good fortune-neither I nor mine—will you down, it would indeed be difficult to witness a more forgive me that blow, and all our other harshness appalling spectacle of misery, squalid penury, and and we may yet be well; I am on my knees bewasting famine, than this unhappy family pre- fore you, and if you would forgive us and pity us sented-some stood, and others from physical weak- allness lay upon the damp floor of their cold and Philip held his hand, and William felt the hot desolate hovel, their ghastly faces looking, in the tears falling fast upon it ; nor was this all—the din light of a dipped rush, rather like spectres cry of the wife and the wail of the children was from the dead, than persons belonging to a world heart-rending. whose inhabitants are composed of flesh and blood. Oh, forgive him," said the poor woman,
There is often much delicacy among the lower give him, William, for many a time it has cut his classes-more, indeed, than those who never asso- heart since. You don't know how we've been ciate them with any other idea than that of igno- punished for it-night and day the world has gone rance ever give them credit for. Nay, there is against us.' frequently much delicate feeling among those who “Oh, forgive my father," said the children, actually are both rude and ignorant. But, in spite flocking about him, " forgive him, or we'll die for of all that philosophers may say to the contrary, want of a morsel to eat-forgive him, and take the we assert that feeling is knowledge, and often curse off us, and, if you can, bless us too." shapes our conduct much more effectually in many “Willy," said the miserable man,“ we're brought circumstances than knowledge itself, in those who to the last gasp—the landlord has seized and tahave hearts that cannot feel. The neighbors, ken away our little things; and since yesterday though ignorant of the straits to which Philip's morning neither I nor one of my family have tasted family had on that day and the foregoing been put 'food. But I deserve it all,” he added—" didn't I