“The same, the same,” said he to himself; “the arched brow and the feeling eye, the smiling lips and the rosy cheek. But where is the principle that gave these their value? Where is the life, the soul?” continued he, kissing the senseless painting. “How inferior was this once to thy beauty, and how superior now to thy mouldering ashes! Didst thou appear as the ideal charmer of a flitting dream, or wert thou indeed the pride of my youth, the light of my eyes, and the mistress of my heart? Thou wert! thou wert! my sorrows tell it.—Preserve this picture, young man. Thou never, alas! knewest a mother’s love—or a father’s affection: the former flame was rudely quenched, the latter burned unknown to thee.”
“Then you knew my mother?”
“Ay, Basil, I knew her. We ran together in infancy, we danced together on the braes of Don, and wove each other garlands of the wild-flowers that grew on its banks. Then we thought this world was as heaven, while we were as innocent as angels. As we grew up, the sun, the wood, the rock, was our temple, where we admired the beauteous novelty of this earth. All was love, and peace, and joy; but sorrow came, and those sweet dreams have vanished.”
During these unexpected communications, Basil felt himself strangely agitated. The old man seemed to know his history, and with a mixture of doubt and anxiety he inquired if he knew his father.
“I am thy father,” said the stranger, weeping, and throwing himself into his arms; “I am thy parent, thy joyous, sorrowing parent. How often have I wished for this day! It is now come, and thou art all that I could wish—except in one thing, and that is not thy fault. I have claimed thee at a time when the boy must act the man, and take part boldly in the great struggle. We must depart from this place to-night. The citizens, thou knowest, are summoned to join the royalists under pain of death, so that we may be delayed if we tarry longer.”
“But whither, my father, shall we go?” said Basil.
“Where but to the persecuted remnant that are even now struggling for freedom. We will fight under the banner of the Covenant.”
“I have now found a father,” said Basil, “and his commands I must and will obey; but you will not bid me lift the sword when every stroke must fall upon an acquaintance or a schoolmate?”
Isaac Rolland then began to mention to his son the reasons which induced him to join this party. He had no more of enthusiasm than it becomes one to have who knows he is embarked in a good cause. He mentioned his own early history, which we shall blend with that of his son. He had been one of the mission, headed by Sir Thomas Menzies, that visited King James in 1620 on civil business. About eighteen months before, he had lost a loving and beloved wife, with whom he had been acquainted from early infancy. She died on the birth of Basil. After this affliction, Isaac Rolland could find no pleasure in the place of his nativity, where everything reminded him of some dear departed joy; wherefore, having interest to obtain a situation at court, he left his only son Basil under the guardianship of his friend Fairtext, and contented himself by hearing often about him, without ever visiting him till the time at which this story commences. Rolland was acquainted partially with the circumstances of his birth. He knew that his mother died when she gave him life; he knew also that his father existed, but nothing farther. Isaac laid before his son, in a clear and methodic manner, the reasons for which the Covenanters took up arms, the reasonableness of their demands, and the tyranny of their enemies. He neither palliated nor denied the excesses of either party, but contended that these should teach all to use their superiority mercifully. The forcible point of view in which he set his arguments wrought instant conviction in Basil’s mind, which his father observing,—
“Come, then,” said he, “and let us prepare for this struggle. If we be successful (and shall we not be so in such a cause?), we shall have the consolation of having given peace and freedom to the land. I have a sufficiency of world’s goods, and thou and thy Mary—nay, start not, I know all—thou and thy Mary will be the support and comfort of my old age, and the subject of my last prayer, as ye have been of many, many in the days bygone. Bid your friends farewell, and an hour hence we meet to part no more. Be cautious, however, my son, for these men of Belial have set a guard on the city, and death is the lot of all who seem about to leave it. Farewell! God bless thee, my dear son;” and he again folded him in his arms.