In addition to all this, his conjugal character was unspotted. His attentions to his wife were what might have been expected from a good husband and a minister of the gospel; the breath of scandal never dimmed the purity of his fidelity; nor could the most querulous exacter of conjugal obligations have found any fault with the manner in which he fulfilled, not only the duties of a husband, but the more generous and less easily counterfeited attentions of the lover. His wife seemed to be grateful for his kindness, and respected his official character as much as she loved those private virtues, from which she was much benefited.
On a Sunday previous to that on which the Sacrament was to be dispensed, he preached in the church of Berwick. His text was the sixth Commandment—"Thou shalt not kill." His sermons, always animated and vigorous, and possessing even a tint of devout enthusiasm, were much relished by his congregation; but on that day he outshone all his former efforts of pulpit eloquence. He painted the character of the murderer with colours drawn from the palette of inspired truth; the cruel, remorseless, bloodthirsty heart of the son of Cain was laid open to the eyes of his entranced audience; the feelings of the victim were described with such power of sympathy, that the tears of the congregation fell in ready and heartfelt tribute to the power of his delineation; his own emotion, equalling that of his people, filled his eyes with tears, and lent to his voice that peculiar thrilling sound which calls forth, while it expresses, the strongest pity. The man of God seemed inspired, and he communicated the inspiration to those who heard him. His hand was observed to tremble; his eye was bloodshot; his manner nervous, tremulous, excited, and enthusiastic; his voice "broken with pity," and at times discordant with the overpowering excess of his emotion. His whole soul seemed under the influence of divine power; and his body, quailing under the energies of its nobler partner, shook like a thing touched by the hand of the Almighty.
On that morning the preacher had murdered his wife. By the time the congregation came out, the news had begun to spread. Nobody would credit what they heard, while they exclaimed that his sermon was strange, and his manner remarkable. A determination not to believe was mixed with strange insinuations, and the town of Berwick was suspended between extravagant incredulity and unaccountable suspicions. But the report was true, and the fact remains as one of those occurrences in life which no knowledge of the heart of man, though dignified with the proud name of philosophy, has been, or perhaps ever will be, able to explain.
END OF VOL. XV.
[1] Absurd as this may seem, it is a FACT.
[2] Since the author of the "Tales of the Borders" first published the tale of "Grizel Cochrane," a slightly different version of it appeared in "Chambers' Journal." There is no reason to doubt the fact of her heroism; but we believe it is incorrect, as is generally affirmed, to say that she was the grandmother of the late Sir John Stuart of Allanbank. We may state that the author of these tales received a letter from Sir Hugh Stuart, son of Sir John referred to, stating that his family would be glad to have such a heroine as Grizel connected with their genealogy, but that they were unable to prove such connection.
[3] This kind of wound is called a "Lockerby lick"—the place which bears that name being in the immediate vicinity of the field of battle.
[4] "The music of the most accomplished singer," says Goldsmith, in his "Essays," "is dissonance to what I felt when an old dairymaid sang me into tears with 'Johnnie Armstrong's Last Good-night.'" Of this ballad only two stanzas (which are subjoined) have survived till modern times. The beauty of these only deepens the feeling of regret at the loss of the rest.
"This night is my departing night,
For here nae langer must I stay;
There's neither friend nor foe o' mine
But wishes me away.