Chapter II: Part 2

While the parents were thus speaking of their daughter a loud sugh of wind came suddenly over the cottage, and the leafless ash-tree under whose shelter it stood, creaked and groaned dismally, as it passed by.--The father started up, and going again to the door, saw that a sudden change had come over the face of the night. The moon had nearly disappeared, and was just visible in a dim yellow, glimmering in the sky.--All the remote stars were obscured, and only one or two faintly seemed in a sky that half an hour before was perfectly cloudless, but that was now driven with rack, and mist, and sleet, the whole atmosphere being in commotion. He stood for a single moment to observe the direction of this unforseen storm, and then hastily asked for his staff. "I thought I had been more weather-wise--A storm is coming down from the Cairnbrae-hawse, and we shall have nothing but a wild night." He then whistled on his dog--an old sheep dog, too old for its former labours and set off to meet his daughter, who might then, for aught he knew, be crossing the Black-moss.

The mother accompanied her husband to the door, and took a long frightened look at the angry sky. As she kept gazing, it became still more terrible. The last shred of blue was extinguished--the wind went whirling in roaring eddies, and great flakes of snow circled about in the middle air, whether drifted up from the ground, or driven down from the clouds, the fear-striken mother knew not, but she at least knew, that it seemed a night of danger, despair, and death. "Lord have mercy on us James, what will become of our poor bairn!" But her husband heard not her words, for he was already out of sight in the snow storm, and she was left to the terror of her own soul in that lonesome cottage.

Little Hannah Lee had left her master's house, soon as the rim of the great moon was seen by her eyes, that had been long anxiously watching it from the window, rising like a joyful dream, over the gloomy mountain-tops; and all by herself she tripped along beneath the beauty of the silent heaven. Still as she kept ascending and descending the knolls that lay in the bosom of the glen, she sung to herself a song, a hymn, or a psalm, without the accompaniment of the streams, now all silent in the frost; and ever and anon she stopped to try to count the stars that lay in some more beautiful part of the sky, or gazed, on the constellations that she knew, and called them, in her joy, by the names they bore among the shepherds.--There were none to hear her voice, or see her smiles, but the ear and eye of Providence. As on she glided and took her looks from heaven, she saw her own little fire-side--her parents waiting for her arrival--the bible opened for worship--her own little room kept so neatly for her, with its mirror hanging by the window, in which to braid her hair by the morning light--her bed prepared for her by her mother's hand--the primroses in her garden peeping through the snow--old Tray, who ever welcomed her home with his dim white eyes--the poney and the cow; friends all, and inmates of that happy household. So stepped she along, while the snow diamonds glittering around her feet, and the frost wove a wreath of lucid pearls around her forehead.

She had now reached the edge of the Black-moss, which lay half way between her master's and her father's dwelling, when she heard a loud noise coming down from Glen-Scrae, and in a few seconds, she felt on her face some flakes of snow. She looked up the glen, and saw the snow storm coming down, fast as a flood. She felt no fears; but she ceased her song; and had there been a human eye to look upon her there, it might have seen a shadow on her face. She continued her course, and felt bolder and bolder every step that brought her nearer to her parent's house. But the snow storm had now reached the Black-moss, and the broad line of light that had lain in the direction of her home, was soon swallowed up, and the child was in utter darkness. She saw nothing but the flakes of snow, interminably intermingled, and furiously wafted in the air, close to her head; she heard nothing but one wild, fierce, fitful howl. The cold became intense, and her little feet and hands were fast, being benumbed into insensibility.

"It is a fearful change," muttered the child to herself, but still she did not fear, for she had been born in a moorland cottage, and lived all her days among the hardships of the hills.--"What will become of the poor sheep," thought she,--but still she scarcely thought of her own danger, for innocence and youth, and joy, are slow to think of ought evil befalling themselves, and thinking benignly of all living things, forget their own fear in their pity of others' sorrow.--At last, she could no longer discern a single mark on the snow, either of human steps, or of sheep track, or the foot print of a wild-fowl. Suddenly, too, she felt out of breath and exhausted,--and shedding tears for herself at last sank down in the snow.

It was now that her heart began to quake for fear. She remembered stories of the shepherds lost in the snow,--of a mother and child frozen to death on that very moor,--and, in a moment she knew that she was to die. Bitterly did the poor child weep, for death was terrible to her, who, though poor, enjoyed the bright little world of youth and innocence. The skies of heaven were dearer than she knew to her,--so were the flowers of earth. She had been happy at her work--happy in her sleep--happy in the kirk on Sabbath. A thousand thoughts had the solitary child,--and in her own heart was a spring of happiness, pure and undisturbed as any fount that sparkles unseen all the year through, in some quiet nook among the pastoral hills. But now there was to be an end of all this,--she was to be frozen to death--and lie there till the thaw might come; and then her father would find her body, and carry it away to be buried in the kirk-yard.

The tears were frozen on her cheeks as soon as shed--and scarcely had her little hands strength to clasp themselves together, as she thought of an overruling and merciful Lord came across her heart. Then, indeed, the fears of this religious child were calmed, and she heard without terror, the plover's wailing cry, and the deep boom of the bittern sounding in the moss. "I will repeat the Lord's prayer." And drawing her plaid more closely around her, she whispered beneath its ineffectual cover; "Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,--thy kingdom come--thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." Had human aid been within fifty yards, it could have been of no avail--eye could not see her--ear could not hear her in that howling darkness. But that low prayer was heard in the centre of eternity--and that little sinless child was lying in the snow, beneath the all-seeing eye of God.

The maiden having prayed to her Father in Heaven--then thought of her Father on earth. Alas! they were not far separated! The father was lying but a short distance from his child; he too had sunk down in the drifting snow, after having in less than an hour, exhausted all the strength of fear, pity, hope, despair, and resignation, that could rise in a father's heart, blindly seeking to rescue his only child from death, thinking that one desperate exertion might enable them to die in each other's arms. There they lay, within a stone's throw of each other, while a huge snow drift was every moment piling itself up into a more insurmountable barrier between the dying parent and his dying child.

There was all this while a blazing fire in the cottage--a white spread table--and beds prepared for the family to lie down in peace. Yet was she who sat thereon more to be pitied than the old man and the child stretched upon the snow. "I will not go to seek them--that would be tempting Providence--and wilfully putting out the lamp of life. No! I will abide here, and pray for their souls?" Then as she knelt down, looked she at the useless fire burning away so cheerfully, when all she loved might be dying of cold--and unable to bear the thought, she shrieked out a prayer, as if she might pierce the sky up to the very throne of God, and send with it her own miserable soul, to plead before Him for the deliverance of her child and husband.--She then fell down in blessed forgetfulness of all trouble, in the midst of the solitary cheerfulness of that bright-burning hearth--and the bible, which she had been trying to read in the pause of her agony, remained clasped in her hands.

Hannah Lee had been a servant for more than six months--and it was not to be thought that she was not beloved in her master's family. Soon after she had left the house, her master's son, a youth of about eighteen years, who had been among the hills, looking after the sheep, came home, and was disappointed to find that he had lost an opportunity of accompanying Hannah part of the way to her father's cottage. But the hour of eight had gone by, and not even the company of young William Grieve, could induce the kind-hearted daughter to delay sitting out on her journey, a few minutes beyond the time promised to her parents. "I do not like the night," said William--"there will be a fresh fall of snow soon, or the witch of Glen Scrae is a liar, for a snow-cloud is hanging o'er the birch-tree-linn, and it may be down to the Black-moss as soon as Hannah Lee." So he called his two sheep dogs, that had taken their place under the long table before the window, and set out, half in joy, half in fear, to overtake Hannah and see her safely across the Black-moss.

The snow began to drift so fast, that before he had reached the head of the Glen, there was nothing to be seen but a little bit of the wooden rail of the bridge across the Sauch burn. William Grieve was the most active shepherd in a large pastoral parish--he had often passed the night among the wintery hills for the sake of a few sheep, and all the snow that had ever fell from Heaven, would not have made him turn back when Hannah Lee was before him; and as his terrified heart told him, in imminent danger of being lost.--As he advanced, he felt that it was no longer a walk of love or friendship, for which he had been glad of an excuse. Death stared him in the face, and his young soul, now beginning to feel all the passions of youth, was filled with phrenzy. He had seen Hannah every day--at the fire-side--at work--in the kirk--on holydays--at prayers--bringing supper to his aged parents--smiling and singing about the house from morning till night. She had often brought his own meal to him among the hills--and he now found, that though he had never talked to her about love, except smilingly, and playfully, that he loved her beyond father or mother, or his own soul. "I will save thee, Hannah," he cried with a loud sob, "or lie down beside thee in the snow--and we will die together in our youth." A wild whistling wind went by him, and the snow-flakes whirled so fiercely round his head, that he staggered on for a while in utter blindness. He knew the path that Hannah must have taken, and went forward shouting aloud, and stopping every twenty yards to listen for a voice. He sent his well trained dogs over the snow in all directions--repeating to them her name "Hannah Lee," that the dumb animals might, in their sagacity, know for whom they were searching; and as they looked up in his face, and set off to scour the moor, he almost believed that they knew his meaning, (and it is probable they did) and were eager to find in her bewilderment the kind maiden by whose hand they had so often been fed. Often went they off into the darkness, and as often returned, but their looks showed that every quest had been in vain. Meanwhile the snow was of a fearful depth, and falling without intermission or diminution. Had the young shepherd been thus alone, walking across the moor on his ordinary business, it is probable that he might have been alarmed for his own safety--nay, that in spite of all his strength and agility, he might have sunk down beneath the inclemency of the night and perished. But now, the passion of his soul carried him with supernatural strength along, and extricated him from wreath and pitfall. Still there was no trace of poor Hannah Lee--and one of his dogs at last came close to his feet, worn out entirely, and afraid to leave its master--while the other was mute, and, as the shepherd thought, probably unable to force its way out of some hollow or through some floundering drift.--Then he all at once knew that Hannah Lee was dead--and dashed himself down in the snow in a fit of passion.

It was the first time that the youth had ever been sorely tried--all his hidden and unconscious love for the fair lost girl had flowed up from the bottom of his heart--and at once the sole object which had blessed his life and made him the happiest of the happy, was taken away and cruelly destroyed--so that sullen, wrathful, baffled and despairing, there he lay, cursing his existence, and in too great agony to think of prayer. "God," he then thought, "has forsaken me--and why should he think on me, when he suffers one so good and beautiful as Hannah to be frozen to death." God thought both of him and Hannah--and through his infinite mercy forgave the sinner in his wild turbulence of passion. William Grieve had never gone to bed without joining in prayer--and he revered the Sabbath-day and kept it holy. Much is forgiven to the human heart by him who so fearfully framed it; and God is not slow to pardon the love which one human being bears to another, in his frailty--even though that love forget or arraign his own unsleeping providence. His voice has told us to love one another--and William loved Hannah in simplicity, innocence, and truth. That she should perish, was a thought so dreadful, that, in its agony God seemed a ruthless being--"blow--blow--blow--and drift us up for ever--we cannot be far asunder--O Hannah--Hannah--think ye not that the fearful God has forsaken us?"

As the boy groaned these words passionately through his quivering lips, there was a sudden lowness in the air, and he heard the barking of his absent dog, while the one at his feet hurried off in the direction of the sound, and soon loudly joined the cry. It was not a bark of surprise--or anger--or fear--but of recognition and love. William sprung up from his bed in the snow and with his heart knocking at his bosom even to sickness, he rushed headlong through the drifts, with a giant's strength, and fell down half dead with joy and terror beside the body of Hannah Lee.

But he soon recovered from that fit, and lifting the cold corpse in his arms, he kissed her lips, and her cheeks, and her forehead, and her closed eyes, till, as he kept gazing on her face in utter despair, her head fell back on his shoulder, and a long deep sigh came from her inmost bosom.--"She is yet alive thank God!"--and as that expression left his lips for the first time that night, he felt a pang of remorse:" "I said, O God, that thou hadst forsaken us--I am not worthy to be saved; but let not this maiden perish, for the sake of her parents, who have no other child."

The distracted youth prayed to God with the same earnestness as if he had been beseeching a fellow creature, in whose hand was the power of life and of death. The presence of the Great Being was felt by him in the dark and howling wild, and strength was imparted to him as to a deliverer. He bore along the fair child in his arms, even as if she had been a lamb. The snow drift blew not--the wind fell dead--a sort of glimmer, like that of an upbreaking and departing storm, gathered about him--his dogs barked and jumped, and burrowed joyfully in the snow--and the youth, strong in sudden hope, exclaimed, "With the blessing of God, who has not deserted us in our sore distress, will I carry thee, Hannah, in my arms, and lay thee down alive in the house of thy father."--At this moment there were no stars in Heaven, but she opened her dim blue eyes upon him on whose bosom she was unconsciously lying, and said, as in a dream, "Send the riband that ties up my hair, as a keepsake to William Grieve." "She thinks that she is on her death bed, and forgets not the son of her master. It is the voice of God that tells me she will not now die, and that, under His grace, I shall be her deliverer."

The short lived rage of the storm was soon over, and William could attend to the beloved being on his bosom. The warmth of his heart seemed to infuse life into her's; and as he gently placed her feet on the snow, till he muffled her up in his plaid, as well as in her own, she made an effort to stand, and with extreme perplexity and bewilderment, faintly inquired, where she was, and what fearful catastrophe had befallen them? She was, however, too weak to walk; and as her young master carried her along, she murmured, "O William! what if my father be in the moor?--For if you, who need care so little about me, have come hither, as I suppose to save my life, you may be sure that my father sat not within doors during the storm." As she spoke it was calm below, but the wind was still alive in the upper air, and cloud, rack, mist, and sleet, were all driving about in the sky. Out shone for a moment the pallid and ghostly moon, through a rent in the gloom, and by that uncertain light, came staggering forward the figure of a man.--"Father--Father," cried Hannah--and his gray hairs were already on her cheek. The barking of the dogs and the shouting of the young shepherd had struck his ear, as the sleep of death was stealing over him, and with the last effort of benumbed nature, he had roused himself from that fatal torpor and prest through the snow wreath that had separated him from his child. As yet they knew not of the danger each had endured--but each judged of the other's suffering from their own, and father and daughter regarded one another as creatures rescued, and hardly yet rescued from death.

But a few minutes ago, and the three human beings who loved each other so well, and now feared not to cross the Moor in safety, were, as they thought, on their death beds. Deliverance now shone upon them all like a gentle fire, dispelling that pleasant but deadly drowsiness; and the old man was soon able to assist William Grieve in leading Hannah along through the snow. Her colour and her warmth returned, and her lover--for so might he well now be called--felt her heart gently beating against her side. Filled as that heart was with gratitude to God, joy in her deliverance, love to her father, and purest affection for her master's son, never before had the innocent maiden known what was happiness--and never more was she to forget it. The night was now almost calm, and fast returning to its former beauty--when the party saw the first twinkle of the fire through the low window of the Cottage of the Moor. They soon were at the garden gate--and to relieve the heart of the wife and mother within, they talked loudly and cheerfully--naming each other familiarly, and laughing between, like persons who had known neither danger nor distress.

No voice answered from within--no footsteps came to the door which stood open, as when the father had left it in his fear, and now he thought with affright, that his wife, feeble as she was, had been unable to support the loneliness, and had followed him out into the night, never to be brought home alive.--As they bore Hannah into the house, his fear gave way to worse, for there upon the hard clay floor lay the mother upon her face, as if murdered by some savage blow. She was in the same deadly swoon into which she had fallen on her husband's departure, three hours before. The old man raised her up, and her pulse was still--so was her heart--her face pale and sunken--and her body cold as ice. "I have recovered a daughter," said the old man, "but I have lost a wife;" and he carried her, with a groan, to the bed on which he laid her lifeless body. The sight was too much for Hannah, worn out as she was, and who had hitherto been able to support herself in the delightful expectation of gladdening her mother's heart by her safe arrival. She, too, now swooned away, and, as she was placed on the bed beside her mother, it seemed, indeed that death, disappointed of his prey on the wild moor, had seized it in the cottage, and by the fire-side. The husband knelt down by the bed-side, and held his wife's icy hand in his, while William Grieve appalled, and awe-stricken, hung over his Hannah, and inwardly implored God that the night's wild adventure might not have so ghastly an end. But Hannah's young heart soon began once more to beat--and soon as she came to her recollection, she rose up with a face whiter than ashes, and free from all smiles, as if none had ever played there, and joined her father and young master in their efforts to restore her mother to life.

It was the mercy of God that had struck her down to the earth, insensible to the shrieking winds, and the fears that would otherwise have killed her. Three hours of that wild storm had passed over her head, and she heard nothing more than if she had been asleep in a breathless night of the summer dew. Not even a dream had touched her brain, and when she opened her eyes which, as she thought had been but a moment shut, she had scarcely time to recal to her recollection the image of her husband rushing out into the storm, and of a daughter therein lost, till she beheld that very husband kneeling tenderly by her bed-side, and that very daughter smoothing the pillow on which her aching temples reclined. But she knew from the white steadfast countenances before her that there had been tribulation and deliverance, and she looked on the beloved beings ministering by her bed, as more fearfully dear to her from the unimagined danger from which she felt assured they had been rescued by the arm of the Almighty.

There is little need to speak of returning recollection, and returning strength. They had all now power to weep, and power to pray. The Bible had been lying in its place ready for worship--and the father read aloud that chapter in which is narrated our Saviour's act of miraculous power, by which he saved Peter from the sea. Soon as the solemn thoughts awakened by that act of mercy so similar to that which had rescued themselves from death had subsided, and they had all risen up from prayer, they gathered themselves in gratitude round the little table which had stood so many hours spread--and exhausted nature was strengthened and restored by a frugal and simple meal partaken of in silent thankfulness.

The whole story of the night was then calmly recited--and when the mother heard how the stripling had followed her sweet Hannah into the storm, and borne her in his arms through a hundred drifted heaps--and then looked upon her in her pride, so young, so innocent, and so beautiful, she knew, that were the child indeed to become an orphan, there was one, who, if there was either trust in nature, or truth in religion, would guard and cherish her all the days of her life.

It was not nine o'clock when the storm came down from Glen Scrae upon the Black-moss, and now in a pause of silence the clock struck twelve. Within these three hours William and Hannah had led a life of trouble and of joy, that had enlarged and kindled their hearts within them--and they felt that henceforth they were to live wholly for each other's sakes. His love was the proud and exulting love of a deliverer, who, under Providence, had saved from the frost and the snow the innocence and the beauty of which his young passionate heart had been so desperately enamoured--and he now thought of his own Hannah Lee ever more moving about in his father's house, not as a servant, but as a daughter--and when some few happy years had gone by, his own most beautiful and most loving wife. The innocent maiden still called him her young master--but was not ashamed of the holy affection which she now knew that she had long felt for the fearless youth on whose bosom she had thought herself dying in that cold and miserable moor. Her heart leapt within her when she heard her parents bless him by his name--and when he took her hand into his before them, and vowed before that Power who had that night saved them from the snow, that Hannah Lee should ere long be his wedded wife--she wept and sobbed as if her heart would break in a fit of strange and insupportable happiness.

The young shepherd rose to bid them farewell--"my father will think I am lost," said he, with a grave smile, "and my Hannah's mother knows what it is to fear for a child." So nothing was said to detain him, and the family went with him to the door. The skies smiled serenely as if a storm had never swept before the stars--the moon was sinking from her meridian, but in cloudless splendour--and the hollow of the hills was hushed as that of heaven. Danger there was none over the placid night-scene--the happy youth soon crost the Black-moss, now perfectly still--and, perhaps, just as he was passing, with a shudder of gratitude, the very spot where his sweet Hannah Lee had so nearly perished, she was lying down to sleep in her innocence, or dreaming of one now dearer to her than all on earth but her parents.

EREMUS.

MY NEIGHBOUR EPHRAIM.

I went this afternoon to pay a visit to my neighbour Ephraim; indeed I find his cheerful fire-side so much more pleasant than my own little solitary dwelling, that I am afraid I go there rather too often; however, as yet I have not remarked any coldness or distance in their reception of me. Ephraim had been a little indisposed, and I found him reclining on the sofa; his wife was preparing something comfortable for him by the fire, and his daughter, having arranged his pillow to his mind, sat with her work at his feet, while Ezekiel read to him--his other son was engaged in superintending the business of the farm; but when the hour of tea approached, he joined the circle in the parlour with a smiling countenance, cheeks glowing with health, and an appetite which appeared in no wise diminished by the exercise of the day. When I returned to my own lonely habitation, I could not avoid contrasting a little my situation with that of my old friend. Happy Ephraim! said I, thou hast an excellent wife and dutiful daughter, to smooth the pillow of thy aching head, to hover with feathery footsteps around thy peaceful couch, and watch over thy slumbers with the assiduity of anxious love--thou hast two manly intelligent sons, to attend to thy business, to protect thy interests, and support thy tottering steps; whose only strife is that of kindness, whose only rivalship, which shall be most attentive to thee, each of whom would gladly say with the poet,

Me, may the gentle office long engage
To rock the cradle of reposing age.--

And when at last, in a good old age, thou shalt be gathered to thy fathers, a train of mourning relatives shall deposit with decent care thy cherished remains in the narrow house appointed for all living; while I stand alone in the world, an insulated, insignificant being, for whom no one feels an interest, and whose pains and pleasures are of consequence to no one; whose approach is greeted with no smile, and whose departure excites no regret, and when the closing scene approaches, no kindred hand shall support my throbbing temples, or prepare the potion for my feverish lip, but mercenary eyes alone mark with ill disguised impatience the uncertain flutter of the lingering pulse, mercenary attendants only receive, with frigid indifference, the last farewell of the departing spirit--

"By strangers' hands my dying eyes be clos'd,
"By strangers' hands my lifeless limbs compos'd."

Lost in a train of such like melancholy musings, and pondering on the past, the present and the future, I had suffered my fire to become nearly extinguished, and the feeble glimmer of my untrimmed taper faintly illumined my little study, when I was roused from my revery by the entrance of Ezekiel and his sister: The good girl said she had remarked that I was more silent than usual, and as the evening was fine, they had come over to see if I was unwell: this little act of kindness, though in itself no way remarkable, yet coming at such a moment, affected me not a little.--But I must shake off this gloom and depression of spirit, I am not now to learn that the world had much rather laugh _with_ or _at_ a man than mourn with him; I did not sit down to lament the desolation of my own situation, which cannot now be remedied; but to exhort the young to get married, to encourage them by the example of Ephraim, and to warn them of my own: "Do nothing in a hurry," is an excellent maxim in the main, but in some cases it is possible to use too much deliberation; in the important business of taking a wife, many a man has debated and deliberated, until the season for acting has passed away. An old fellow like myself has little to do in the world, but to talk for the benefit of his neighbours; and I would willingly devote my experience to the service of the rising generation. I should feel no objection to narrate the disastrous consequences of my own superabundant caution in the affair of matrimony, and to enumerate the many eligible matches which have slipped through my fingers; the opportunities to form advantageous connexions which have been unimproved in consequence of my hesitation and indecision, for I have now no plans to be defeated or prospects blasted by a knowledge of my failings, and no vanity to be mortified by the exposure of my disappointments, but I am apprehensive the detail might prove rather tedious and uninteresting; I may, however, mention a few circumstances attending my last attempts to obtain a help mate, if attempt it may be called. I had become acquainted in the family of a respectable farmer, who had a daughter of a suitable age, and although I cannot say that

"Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye,
"In every motion, dignity and love,"

yet her correct and orderly deportment seemed to promise that she would make an excellent wife; I was therefore pretty frequent in my visits, and though on these occasions my discourse was principally, if not entirely, addressed to the parents, yet I kept a sharp eye upon the daughter, in order to endeavour to form a tolerable estimate of her disposition and character; and as I had in those days a handsome little estate at my own disposal, and was upon the whole considered rather a promising young man, my company seemed always very acceptable, to the father and mother at least.

In this manner, eight or ten months, perhaps, passed pleasantly away, and I was beginning to think that I might before long venture to address her with a little freedom and familiarity, preparatory to a serious negotiation when all my plans were defeated, and my visionary castle crumbled into dust, by the precipitation of others.

One evening I was sitting with them as usual, when after a little time the father and mother, on some occasion, absented themselves from the room, and left the daughter and myself together. As I had not the most distant suspicion that there was any design in their movements, and expected their return every moment, I took up the almanack, (being fond of reading) and had just got cleverly through it, when they returned. I thought I remarked something particularly scrutinizing in the looks of the mother, but I believe she soon discovered that I had done nothing but read the almanack. On my next visit, I felt no small trepidation, having a strong suspicion of what might occur; and, in fact, we were again soon left alone together--and now the consciousness of what was expected, kept me as silent as ignorance had done before. In my distress I looked about for the almanack, but they had taken it away. In vain I endeavoured to find something to say, my faculties seemed spell bound; and I sat, I know not how long, in a pitiable state of confusion and embarrassment, until my companion made some remark respecting the weather--this was a great relief. I immediately proceeded to treat of the weather in all its bearings, past, present and to come, and strove to prolong the discussion until some one might come in, but in vain--the subject at length became exhausted, and silence again took place; which lasted so long, and became so glaringly ridiculous, that in utter despair, I was upon the point of having recourse to the weather again, when we were relieved by the entrance of company.

Determined never again to cut so silly a figure, I resolved to provide against my next visit a fund of agreeable conversation. I accordingly brushed up my acquaintance with the philosophy of Aristotle, and of the peripatetics generally; collected some anecdotes of the wise men of Greece, and, not to lack matters of more recent date, stored my memory with a few amusing particulars respecting Mary Queen of Scots, and of the court of Elizabeth: thus prepared, I ventured once more to make my appearance, but I had no opportunity to say a word about Aristotle or the Queen of Scots; it was rather late when I entered the room, and I found my intended in earnest conversation with a young man who had drawn his chair very near to her: their discourse seemed to be of an interesting nature, but they spoke in so low a tone, that I was unable to profit by their remarks; I observed at last, that they frequently smiled when looking towards me, and as I love a cheerful countenance, and smiling is certainly contagious, I smiled a good deal too. This seemed wonderfully to promote their risibility, and my laughter increasing in the same proportion, we had a deal of merriment, although little or nothing was said: how long this might have continued I know not, had not my intended father-in-law called me aside, and hinted that as the night was dark, and there was some appearance of rain, I had perhaps better return. I thanked him for his truly paternal care, and accordingly took my departure in high good humour, and the next week was informed that the young people were married.

[_Rural Visiter._

VIEW OF A GOSSIP.

_Mr. Editor_--I send you the following account of a short inspection of a fellow creature, which, if it will convey any information to your readers, you are at liberty to publish.

I had the curiosity, as a neighbouring gossip was one day at my house, and while she happened to be napping on the sofa, to try if I could obtain a view of her ear, the structure of which I had often speculated about. With the aid of a good eye-glass I succeeded. It was a curious piece of mechanism: the outside folding was of the usual size, but by long habit of eager listening, had acquired a kind of gaping shape, which seemed to bid an indiscriminate welcome to every sound. Next to this was a kind of whispering gallery, so extremely susceptible of noise, that one of my most careful breathings was immediately reverberated to the tympanum, and though not loud enough to awake the sleeper, it was evident that it made her dream of scandal. I was curious to know the construction of the tympanum, which vibrated so easily to an empty breath. I could see it plainly: for the long habit of extreme anxiety to receive every breath that stirred, had pushed it forward to the very orifice of the ear, where it seemed waiting in an agony of impatience for something new, and complaining grievously that all the tit-bits of intelligence had to pass such a distance before they could come to its hearing. Its make was curious: it was an extremely fine sieve of the most elastic materials. It was evidently constructed so that every thing of the least weight should rebound as soon as it touched, and only those articles which were as light as air, should enter. It was too fine to admit any thing larger than a bit of scandal. The whole external ear was designed to catch and communicate every thing audible, for it is a maxim with gossips as well as others, that nothing is too poor for a nice hand to sift some good from it. This sifting was the office of the tympanum: it was in a perpetual quiver. Its nice threads were constantly shaking to pieces what was too light to rebound, and too large to enter whole, and then dropping them to the receiver below. There were a great many curious articles sticking in this sieve, which had got half through but could go no further. There were little pieces of serious and affecting family secrets, tales of distress, cullings from the little failings of good men, morsels of sermons, drippings of church business, ends, middles and halves of people's sayings, anecdotes of funerals, with numerous suspicions, half heard hear-says, and suspicions of near-says.--All these had evidently been operated upon. A kind of scandalic acid had been at work on those parts which had got within. They were partly decomposed; their seriousness had assumed a ridiculous aspect, their solidity had become gaseous: what had been affecting, seemed now to be laughable; what had appeared commendable, seemed now composed of so many disgusting materials as to be odious. Here I learned the reason which I never knew before, why it is that gossips hear so many lectures upon the degrading, injurious, disreputable character of their pursuits, and so entirely without effect. These lectures never passed their ears: their matter was too heavy not to rebound, or the truths too great to gain admission; or, if any detached parts chanced to enter, they were so broken by sifting, and so decomposed and changed by the very pungent acid within, as to retain nothing of their original seriousness, and become fit companions for the nice selections which passed before them.

The sight of the ear excited my curiosity to look for the mind within: whatever may be the difficulty of determining the seat of the mind in persons of ordinary construction, the matter is clear, that the gossip's mind must be as near to the vehicle of sound as possible. This is confirmed by observation; I found it just inside the ear, where there was but a small space, to be sure, for its operation; but its dimensions were of no enlarged description. It had evidently been made for some useful employment: its nerves were strong, its perceptions quick, its action skilful; but it was miserably contracted. Part of it, and plainly the best part, was ruined by long inaction. It contained a few good ideas, grown rusty by long disuse, which evidently might have been made to appear respectable, could they have been delivered from the stuff which covered them. This mind was a complete factory in miniature: there was its picking machine, its spinning machine, a contrivance for weaving, for shearing, for trimming; with dyes of every variety of shade. All these machines were so artfully combined, that you could see nothing of the raw material after it once went to be picked, till it came out in an article nicely dressed and dyed for distribution. There was a very smooth communication from the mind to the mouth, through which the different articles, as soon as finished, were conveyed, to be _kindly_, and _complacently_, and _charitably_, rattled out to every one that should come. A peculiar excellence of this mechanism was, that there seemed to be no refuse: every thing was worked, every thing was turned to some account: the motion here was perpetual, and acid was strangely used instead of oil to facilitate it. All around, there were receipts for the best method of making a good story out of almost nothing; of how to extract something laughable from the most serious subjects; of how to dye white into a good black, and how to find materials for manufacturing, where no one would think of looking. The day-book was a curiosity. "April 1st, eked out of John B's apprentice two skeins of scandal about his master." "Monday, learned a good deal from Mrs. C's cook about her mistress' private ways, and gained a variety of nice bits, which, with a chain of good _home-spun_, will make up a very good article." "Tuesday, heard a whisper about something disagreeable in Mr. D's family, can't rest till I know more about it; must send Sally into their kitchen to see what can be picked up there. A few family quarrels would help finely just now." "Wednesday, caught the thread to the tale which I have been trying these three months to unwind, it seems to lead to some noble pickings." "To-day, must go out and hear the news, and ask about this marriage rumour."

As I was finishing my observations, a little neglected thing struck my attention, which seemed to demand some notice. It was the gossip's conscience. It was a little, contracted, fantastical body, that seemed extremely averse to noise and all kinds of disturbance; to avoid which, it had squeezed itself into a narrow corner, where, with the help of several ingenious contrivances, it kept clear of all interference: it seemed to sleep almost all the time, in which it was assisted by the influence of numerous little nostrums which were kept for the purpose. When conscience did sometimes awake, (as I conjectured) it was mostly on a Sunday, while there was but little doing, _comparatively_, when it looked about a little, made some bustle, and went to sleep again perfectly satisfied. From appearance, I judged that conscience and the gossip had very little intercourse.

One thing was remarkable about this mental factory, which was, the flourishing state of its business; a circumstance which seems the more strange, because such establishments are so very numerous, and their productions so eminently worthless.

Now, sir, having finished my description, permit me to ask, if there is any thing to excuse the employment of gossips, great or small? Can the want of other occupation, or the amusement which this affords them, make amends for such degradation of themselves; such abominable trifling with their neighbour's character; such vexatious meddling with other's business; such remorseless transformation of good into evil; of secrets into public news; of the serious into the ridiculous; of peace into disputing; as they are constantly guilty of? Ought not such persons to be universally shunned as public evils, and if a public law will do no good, should it not be the secret resolution of every gossip-hater, to avoid as a pestilence, the scandalous atmosphere of a scandalous tale-bearer?

There is a celebrated description of law which affords a good outline for the description of what of all things is most lawless. Of scandal, there can be no less acknowledged, than that her seat is in the temple of fame; her voice the confusion of the world; all things in earth and hell own her influence; the very least as feeling her hate, and the greatest as not exempt from her power; both men and women, and creatures of what condition soever, though each in different sort and manner, yet all with uniform consent, detesting her as the pest of their peace and joy. ANTI-TATTLER.

_To prevent Skippers in Bacon._--Take of red pepper finely powdered one spoonful for every joint of meat, and rub it on the meat with the salt, when it is first cut up. It has been often tried and was never known to fail in producing the above effect.

A DISCOURSE, READ BEFORE THE

Essex Agricultural Society,

In Massachusetts, February 21, 1820,

_Suggesting some Improvements in the Agriculture of the County._

BY TIMOTHY PICKERING, President of the Society.

At a Meeting of the Essex Agricultural Society, at Topsfield, February 21, 1820,

Voted, That the thanks of the Society be presented to the Hon. TIMOTHY PICKERING for his interesting Address, and that he be requested to furnish a copy thereof for publication.--Attest,

FREDERICK HOWES, _Secretary_.

DISCOURSE.

_Gentlemen_--The secretary has put into my hands a vote of the Society, requesting me to "make to it such communications as may in my opinion most conduce to the interest of Agriculture."

This was an unlooked for request. I have myself much to learn from observing farmers, of longer experience, and whose attentions have been exclusively devoted to husbandry. Mine, since I became a farmer, have been diverted by other pursuits; so that at intervals only my thoughts have been turned to this subject.

No one doubts the importance of our profession; and the actual formation of our society is a declaration that improvements in it are necessary.--But the field of agriculture is of boundless extent; and though traversed for some thousands of years by the greater portion of the human race, yet by no one, nor by all combined, has a complete survey been accomplished. Every year, and every day, presents something new: and even of old things, the practices of ages, there still exist diversities of opinions. For instance, which is preferable, deep or shallow ploughing?--Should manures be spread on the surface, or be buried by the plough? If the latter, at what depth, to produce the greatest effect, with the most lasting fertility?--Should manure be applied in its rough, coarse, and unfermented state, or, by keeping and repeated turnings, be more or less rotted?--These are points which appear to me deeply to affect the interests of agriculture. On these therefore I will give you my opinion, enlightened by the observations of intelligent husbandmen. I will then advert to a few other topics which demand your attention; _dwelling_ on one of them--Root crops for the Food of Live Stock--as lying at the foundation of an improved agriculture.

I. _On Deep Ploughing and Manuring._

For myself, I entertain no doubt of the utility of deep ploughing; not at once, in our lands in general, but by an increase of two or three inches at every annual ploughing, until the earth be stirred and pulverized to the depth of ten or twelve inches. Indian corn, planted in such a mass of loosened earth, would not, I am persuaded, ever suffer by ordinary droughts.--Like a spunge, it would absorb a vast quantity of rain water, and become a reservoir to supply the wants of that and all other plants.--Nothing is more common in a dry summer, than the rolling of the leaves of corn; and that circumstance is often mentioned as an evidence of the severity of the drought. This rolling of the leaves of Indian corn, is the consequence, in part, of scant manuring, but still more of shallow ploughing. Few, perhaps, are aware of the depth to which the roots of plants will penetrate in a deeply loosened earth. A gentleman,[11] much inclined to agricultural inquiries and observations, informed me, near fifty years ago, that seeing some men digging a well, in a hollow place, planted with Indian corn, then at its full growth, he stopped to examine how far its roots had descended; and he traced them to the depth of nine feet. The soil was an accumulation of rich earth which had run or been thrown into the hollow.

[11] Peter Oliver, Esq. then a Judge of the Superior Court of
Massachusetts.

The seed of the common turnip, sown in warm weather, and on a soil sufficiently moist, I have known to vegetate in about eight-and-forty hours; and in only four or five days afterwards, I found the plants had sent down roots to the depth of four or five inches.

I have often noticed forest trees blown down by violent winds, whose roots, of the same species, were very differently formed. Such as had grown in grounds having a hard, impenetrable pan of clayey gravel, at the depth of twelve or eighteen inches from the surface, exhibiting a flat mass of roots; while others, torn up from a deep loam, or loamy gravel, showed downward roots of several feet in length.

About five months ago, I received from England a pamphlet written by one of the most distinguished agricultural writers in that country--Arthur Young. It was a lecture read, a few years before, to the British Board of Agriculture, of which Mr. Young was the Secretary. Its title is, "On the Husbandry of three celebrated British Farmers, Messrs. Bakewell, Arbuthnot and Ducket,"--all eminent for genius, enterprise, application, and long experience. It was to do honour to their memories, "and to bring to recollection the means by which those celebrated practitioners, in the first and most important of all arts, carried their agriculture to a perfection unknown before," that the lecture was written and published. And this, Mr. Young observes, would be more peculiarly useful, because those men, "confining themselves to practice alone, had left no register of their own meritorious deeds." I will present to you the substance of the information contained in this pamphlet, as in itself very important, and because the practice of Arbuthnot and Ducket has a direct bearing on the points I am now considering--DEEP PLOUGHING and MANURING.

"Mr. Ducket had sand, and sandy soils alone, to deal with; but Arbuthnot's land classed among those harsh, wet, tenacious loams, which are usually called clay, and ought to be esteemed such, relative to every circumstance that attaches to difficulty and management." Passing by what Mr. Young says of Arbuthnot's draining operations, I content myself with mentioning the principal of that improvement: "Lay your land dry, whatever may be the method pursued, before you attempt any thing else."

"In respect to tillage, Mr. Arbuthnot carried it to great perfection: He invented a swing plough for a pair of horses and the general depth of six inches, and a much larger one with wheels, for gaining the depth of 12, and even of eighteen, for some peculiar crops, especially madder. Upon the advantages of deep ploughing he never had the least hesitation; but always declared that in all he had read or heard, he never met with one argument against the practice that had with him the smallest weight."--"In the essential operation of ploughing, he considered one earth [that is, one ploughing] well timed, and of a right depth, as being much more efficacious than that repetition of tillage so common in every district."[12]

[12] The repetition of tillage here reprobated, refers, I presume,
to the numerous ploughing given by many English farmers, at that
period, preparatory to the putting in of their crops; which the
single, deep and "efficacious" ploughing of Arbuthnot rendered
unnecessary.--Were our ploughing for Indian Corn and Root Crops
alike _deep_ and _efficacious, before planting_, shallow tillage
(called horse hoeing) with light ploughs, during their growth, would
suffice.