“Ye do wrang, John—this is no like yoursel;—the world’s fu’ of affliction—ithers ken that as weel as you—ye maunna hae a’ things your ain way: there’s Ane abune us wha has said, ‘In sorrow shalt thou eat thy bread all the days of thy life.’ Ye canna expect to gang free; and I maun say it wadna be gude for ony o’ us. Maybe greater ills are yet to befa’ ye, and then ye’ll rue sair that ye hae gien way at this time; come in, John, wi’ me; time will wear a’ this out o’ mind.”
He struck his hand against his brow—he grasped at his neckcloth—and after choking on a few syllables which he could not utter, tears gushed from his eyes, and he melted in a long heartrending fit of weeping. Oh, it is a sorrowful thing to see a strong hard-featured man shedding tears! His sobs are so heavy, his wail so full-toned! John Armour, perhaps for twenty years a stranger to weeping, had now to burst the sealed sluices of manhood’s grief, which nothing but the resistless struggle of agony could accomplish, ere relief could reach his labouring breast. Now it was he sought the dearest sanctuary on earth—he leaned upon his wife’s bosom, and she lavished on him the riches of a woman’s love. At length he went to rest, gentler in spirit, and borne down by a less frightful woe than what had lately oppressed him.
Next morning brought round the bustle of flitting. There is a deep interest attending a scene of this kind, altogether separate from the feelings of those who have to leave a favourite abode. Circumstances of antiquity—of mystery—belong to it. The demolition even of an old house has something melancholy; the dismantling it of furniture is not less affecting. Some of the servants that had been at one time about the farm assisted on this occasion, and entered fully into the sentiments now described.
“That press has been there, I’ll warran’, this fifty years; it was his mother’s, and cam on her blithe marriage-day; the like o’t ye’ll no see now-a-days—it’s fresh yet. Few hae seen the back o’ thee, I trow, these twa days, but the wabsters and sclaters; they winna ken what to mak o’ this wark; let me look into the back o’t.”
“I wad be a wee eerie,” said another, feeling the gloomy appearance of the old empty dwelling suggest thoughts allied to superstition, “about ganging into that toom house at night; I wad aye be thinkin’ o’ meeting wi’ auld Hugh, honest man.”
The flitting set off to a cottage about two miles distant; two cart loads of furniture, one milk cow, and the old watch-dog, were its amount. John Armour lingered a little behind, as did his wife, for she was unwilling to leave him there alone. He then proceeded to every part of the premises. The barn and stable kept him a few moments; the rest he hurried over, excepting the kitchen and spence. When he came to the kitchen (for it was the apartment he visited last), he leant his head for an instant against the mantelpiece, and fixed his eyes on the hearthstone. A deep sigh escaped him, and his wife then took him by the hand to lead him away, which he resisted not, only saying,—
“I hae mind o’ mony a thing that happened here;”—then casting his eyes hastily round the desolate apartment,—“but fareweel to thee for ever!” In a few minutes they overtook the flitting, nor did he once turn again his head towards the desolate place which had so firm a hold of his heart.—“My Grandfather’s Farm.”
EWEN OF THE LITTLE HEAD:
A LEGEND OF THE WESTERN ISLES.
About three hundred years ago, Ewen Maclean of Lochbuy, in the island of Mull, having been engaged in a quarrel with a neighbouring chief, a day was fixed for determining the affair by the sword. Lochbuy, before the day arrived, consulted a celebrated witch as to the result of the feud. The witch declared, that if Lochbuy’s wife should on the morning of that day give him and his men food unasked, he would be victorious; but if not, the result would be the reverse. This was a disheartening response for the unhappy votary, his wife being a noted shrew.
The fatal morning arrived, and the hour for meeting the enemy approached; but there appeared no symptoms of refreshment for Lochbuy and his men. At length the unfortunate man was compelled to ask his wife to supply them with food. She set down before them curds, but without spoons. The men ate the curds as well as they could with their hands; but Lochbuy himself ate none. After behaving with the greatest bravery in the bloody conflict which ensued, he fell covered with wounds, leaving his wife to the execration of his people.