“Jessie, dear, ain’t that beautiful?” said I.
“Oh,” she said (and she clasped her hands hard), “it is like the sound of a spirit speaking from above.”
“Imitate it,” said I.
She knew the air, it was a Scotch one; and their music is the most touching, because the most simple, I know.
Squire, you will think I am getting spooney, but I ain’t. You know how fond I am of nature, and always was; but I suppose you will think if I ain’t talking Turkey, that I am getting crankey, when I tell you an idea that came into my mind just then. She imitated it in the most perfect manner possible. Her clear, sweet, mellow, but powerful notes, never charmed me so before. I thought it sounded like a maiden, answering her lover. One was a masculine, the other a female voice. The only difference was in the force, but softness was common to both. Can I ever forget the enchantment of that day?
“Dear Jessie,” said I, “you and your friend are just formed for each other. How happy you could make him.”
“Who?” said she, and there was no affectation in the question. She knew not the import of that word. “What do you mean?”
“Hush,” said I, “I will tell you by and by. Old Tom is playing again.”
It was “Auld lang syne.” How touching it was! It brought tears to Jessie’s eyes. She had learned it, when a child, far, far away; and it recalled her tribe, her childhood, her country, and her mother. I could see these thoughts throw their shadows over her face, as light clouds chase each other before the sun, and throw their veil, as they course along the sky, over the glowing landscape. It made me feel sad, too; for how many of them with whom my early years were spent have passed away. Of all the fruit borne by the tree of life, how small a portion drops from it when fully ripe, and in the due course of nature. The worm, and premature decay, are continually thinning them; and the tempest and the blight destroy the greater part of those that are left. Poor dear worthy old Minister, you too are gone, but not forgotten. How could I have had these thoughts? How could I have enjoyed these scenes? and how described them? but for you! Innocent, pure, and simple-minded man, how fond you were of nature, the handy-work of God, as you used to call it. How full you were of poetry, beauty, and sublimity! And what do I not owe to you? I am not ashamed of having been a Clockmaker, I am proud of it.1 But I should indeed have been ashamed, with your instruction, always to have remained one. Yes, yes!
“Why should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?”