I
IN the early part of the summer of 1807, a very handsome
young lady, apparently about twenty-two, came to the
village of Hawes, and took lodgings there. She positively
refused to tell either her name or the place of her residence.
Her manners were highly accomplished, though her behaviour
sometimes assumed a degree of wildness and
incoherence, which raised doubts as to the state of her
mind. Her dress was rather rich than splendid; and white
was her customary attire. A broad pink ribbon was always
tied round her waist, with two ends behind, reaching to her
feet. It was observed that she took particular pleasure in
seeing these ribbons flutter in the wind, as she rambled
over the adjoining fells. Curiosity, that busy personage in
most places, and particularly so in the village of Hawes
was eager to trace the history of the mysterious visitor, but
in vain. The most distant allusion to the subject always
produced silence.
Some supposed that she was a young lady who had been
crossed in love, and had fled hither to brood over her disappointment
in solitude; indeed her conduct rather sanctioned
such an opinion, for she kept no company. When she saw
any one, it was to administer relief or to enquire after their
wants.
Others thought she might be some young widow, who
had chosen to linger out her existence in obscurity in such
a secluded spot as that. This opinion did not want support
for she was constant in her visits to all the widows in the
village, beside lodging with one.
Others again thought she was betrothed to some military
officer, and chose to escape the importunities of other lovers,
by hiding herself here till peace should restore her future
husband to her arms.
Such were a few of the many surmises which at that
time constituted the tea-table gossip at Hawes. Though
each party felt confident that its own opinion was right, it
remained only vague conjecture; for the young lady herself
never dropped a single hint which could in the least turn
the scale of imagination to the side of certainty.
One evening, having taken her accustomed ramble, she
did not return; and the widow with whom she lodged
became extremely impatient and uneasy. Inquiries were
made in all directions, but no one had seen her. Several
young men volunteered to search her usual haunts, but
nothing could be found.
For several weeks, and even months, the sudden disappearance
of the fair stranger continued to occupy the
principal attention of the village. Nor will this appear
surprising, when you recollect that only seldom anything
occurs in a place like that of a romantic nature; yet the
hearts of the inhabitants are as open to the sympathies of
humanity in that place as in others.
At last it was remembered that a carriage, with the blinds
up, had called to water the horses at Mr. Clark's on that
evening; and had driven forward without any one alighting.
At the time it was considered to be an empty carriage; but
when the fair stranger was found to have disappeared so
mysteriously the same evening, it was concluded that she
had been carried off by her friends in this very carriage.
Without attempting to explain how this was, she was
never heard of after that day.
The picture I would draw from this story is simply this:—One
of her usual walks was up the glen to Hardra waterfall.
Every day, when the weather would permit, did she
traverse this glen. After viewing the immense column of
water which there is precipitated over the projecting rock
into the unfathomable cistern at its foot, she would ascend
the steep acclivity which leads to the top of the rock.
Upon a natural rude column of stone on the left hand side,
which appears to have been torn from the parent rock
during some convulsion of nature, would she stand for
hours, her long pink ribbons fluttering in the mountain
breeze. I know of no finer subject than this for a picture.
The broken and overhanging rocks—the loose fragments at
their feet—the cascade itself, the finest in the country—the
brook fretting and foaming down the rugged glen—the
stunted trees, and matted foliage, which protrude from the
fissures of this natural wall—the huge erect pillar of stone,
which rears its detached mass above the adjoining rock—and
one of the loveliest females I ever saw, attired in
flowing white drapery, which, with the ribbons, fluttered
and played upon the wind—could you find a subject equal
to this for interest, one equal to it for sublimity and beauty?
"T
"THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live
A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping son of idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder?—In our churchyard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening; and he sat
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves,
Of his old cottage,—as it chanced, that day,
Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone
His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire,
He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
Who turned her large round wheel in the open air
With back and forward steps. Towards the field
In which the parish chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder: and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path
That from his cottage to the churchyard led,
He took his way, impatient to accost
The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
'Twas one well-known to him in former days,
A shepherd lad,—who, ere his sixteenth year,
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters—with the mariners
A fellow-mariner—and so had fared
Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd
Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
The tones of waterfalls and inland sounds
Of caves and trees:—and, when the regular wind
Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,
Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam
Flash'd round him images and hues that wrought
In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains—saw the forms of sheep that grazed
On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country gray
Which he himself had worn.
And now at last
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is return'd,
With a determined purpose to resume
The life he had lived there; both for the sake
Of many darling pleasures, and the love
Which to an only brother he has borne
In all his hardships, since that happy time
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
Were brother shepherds on their native hills.
—They were the last of all their race; and now,
When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart
Fail'd in him; and, not venturing to inquire
Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved,
Towards the churchyard he had turn'd aside;
That as he knew in what particular spot
His family were laid, he thence might learn
If still his brother lived, or to the file
Another grave was added.—He had found
Another grave, near which a full half-hour
He had remain'd; but, as he gazed, there grew
Such a confusion in his memory,
That he began to doubt; and he had hopes
That he had seen this heap of turf before—
That it was not another grave, but one
He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walk'd
Through fields which once had been well known to him:
And O what joy the recollection now
Sent to his heart! He lifted up his eyes,
And, looking round, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks
And everlasting hills themselves were changed.
By this the priest, who down the field had come
Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate
Stopp'd short,—and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
Perused him with a gay complacency,
Ay, thought the vicar smiling to himself,
'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path
Of the world's business to go wild alone:
His arms have a perpetual holiday;
The happy man will creep about the fields,
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles
Into his face, until the setting sun
Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus
Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate
Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appear'd,
The good man might have communed with himself,
But that the stranger, who had left the grave,
Approach'd; he recognised the priest at once,
And, after greetings interchanged, and given
By Leonard to the vicar as to one
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued:
LEONARD.
You live, Sir, in these dales a quiet life;
Your years make up one peaceful family;
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come
And welcome gone, they are so like each other,
They cannot be remember'd? Scarce a funeral
Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen months;
And yet, some changes must take place among you;
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks
Can trace the finger of mortality,
And see, that with our threescore years and ten
We are not all that perish.——I remember
(For many years ago I passed this road)
There was a foot-way all along the fields
By the brook-side—'tis gone—and that dark cleft!
To me it does not seem to wear the face
Which then it had.
PRIEST.
Nay, Sir, for aught I know,
That chasm is much the same—
LEONARD.
PRIEST.
Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend
That does not play you false.—On that tall pike
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills)
There were two springs that bubbled side by side,
As if they had been made that they might be
Companions for each other; the huge crag
Was rent with lightning—one hath disappear'd;
The other, left behind, is flowing still.[2]——
For accidents and changes such as these,
We want not store of them;—a waterspout
Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast
For folks that wander up and down like you,
To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff
One roaring cataract!—a sharp May-storm
Will come with loads of January snow,
And in one night send twenty score of sheep
To feed the ravens: or a shepherd dies
By some untoward death among the rocks;
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge—
A wood is fell'd:—and then for our own homes!
A child is born or christen'd, a field plough'd,
A daughter sent to service, a web spun,
The old house-clock is decked with a new face;
And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates
To chronicle the time, we all have here
A pair of diaries—one serving, Sir,
For the whole dale, and one for each fireside—
Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,
Commend me to these valleys!
LEONARD.
Yet your churchyard
Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,
To say that you are heedless of the past:
An orphan could not find his mother's grave:
Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass,
Cross-bones nor skull—type of our earthly state
Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.
PRIEST.
Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!
The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread
If every English churchyard were like ours;
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:
We have no need of names and epitaphs;
We talk about the dead by our firesides.
And then for our immortal part! we want
No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:
The thought of death sits easy on the man
Who has been born and dies among the mountains.
LEONARD.
Your dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts
Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
You, Sir, could help me to the history
Of half these graves?
PRIEST.
For eight-score winters past,
With what I've witness'd, and with what I've heard,
Perhaps I might; and on a winter-evening,
If you were seated at my chimney's nook,
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,
We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round;
Yet all in the broad highway of the world.
Now there's a grave—your foot is half upon it—
It looks just like the rest; and yet that man
Died broken-hearted.
LEONARD.
'Tis a common case.
We'll take another: who is he that lies
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?
It touches on that piece of native rock
Left in the churchyard wall.
PRIEST.
That's Walter Ewbank.
He had as white a head and fresh a cheek
As ever were produced by youth and age
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.
Through five long generations had the heart
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds
Of their inheritance, that single cottage—
You see it yonder!—and those few green fields.
They toil'd and wrought, and still, from sire to son,
Each struggled, and each yielded as before
A little—yet a little—and old Walter,
They left to him the family heart, and land
With other burthens than the crop it bore.
Year after year the old man still kept up
A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond,
Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
And went into his grave before his time.
Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him
God only knows, but to the very last
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:
His pace was never that of an old man:
I almost see him tripping down the path
With his two grandsons after him;—but you,
Unless our landlord be your host to-night,
Have far to travel—and on these rough paths
Even in the longest day of midsummer—
LEONARD.
PRIEST.
Orphans!—such they were—
Yet not while Walter lived:—for, though their parents
Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
The old man was a father to the boys,
Two fathers in one father:—and if tears,
Shed when he talk'd of them where they were not,
And hauntings from the infirmity of love,
Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,
This old man, in the day of his old age,
Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir,
To hear a stranger talking about strangers,
Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!
Ay—you may turn that way—it is a grave
Which will bear looking at.
LEONARD.
These boys—I hope
They loved this good old man?—
PRIEST.
They did—and truly:
But that was what we almost overlook'd,
They were such darlings of each other. For,
Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter,
The only kinsman near them, and though he
Inclined to them, by reason of his age,
With a more fond, familiar tenderness,
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,
And it all went into each other's hearts.
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,
Was two years taller; 'twas a joy to see,
To hear, to meet them!—From their house the school
Is distant three short miles—and in the time
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course
And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,
Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps
Remain'd at home, go staggering through the fords,
Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him
On windy days, in one of those stray brooks—
Ay, more than once I've seen him—mid-leg deep,
Their two books lying both on a dry stone
Upon the hither side; and once I said,
As I remember, looking round these rocks
And hills on which we all of us were born,
That God who made the great book of the world
Would bless such piety—
LEONARD.
PRIEST.
Never did worthier lads break English bread;
The finest Sunday that the autumn saw
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep these boys away from church,
Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach.
Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner
Among these rocks, and every hollow place
Where foot could come, to one or both of them
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;
They played like two young ravens on the crags;
Then they could write, ay, and speak too as well
As many of their betters—and for Leonard!
The very night before he went away,
In my own house I put into his hand
A Bible, and I'd wager house and field
That, if he is alive, he has it yet.
LEONARD.
It seems, these brothers have not lived to be
A comfort to each other—
PRIEST.
That they might
Live to such end, is what both old and young
In this our valley all of us have wish'd,
And what, for my part, I have often pray'd:
But Leonard—
LEONARD.
Then James is still left among you?
PRIEST.
'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:
They had an uncle:—he was at that time
A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas;
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud.
For the boy loved the life which we lead here:
And though of unripe years, a stripling only,
His soul was knit to this his native soil.
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:—
Well—all was gone, and they were destitute.
And Leonard, chiefly for his brother's sake,
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.
If there were one among us who had heard
That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
From the great Gavel,[3] down by Leeza's banks,
And down the Enna, far as Egremont,
The day would be a very festival;
And those two bells of ours, which there you see
Hanging in the open air—but, O, good Sir!
This is sad talk—they'll never sound for him—
Living or dead. When last we heard of him,
He was in slavery among the Moors
Upon the Barbary coast. 'Twas not a little
That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt,
Before it ended in his death, the youth
Was sadly cross'd—Poor Leonard! when we parted,
He took me by the hand, and said to me,
If ever the day came when he was rich,
He would return, and on his father's land
He would grow old among us.
LEONARD.
If that day
Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
As any that should meet him—
PRIEST.
LEONARD.
You said his kindred all were in their graves,
And that he had one brother—
PRIEST.
That is but
A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
And Leonard being always by his side
Had done so many offices about him,
That, though he was not of a timid nature,
Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy
In him was somewhat check'd; and, when his brother
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,
The little colour that he had was soon
stolen from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined—
LEONARD.
But these are all the graves of full-grown men!
PRIEST.
Ay, Sir, that pass'd away: we took him to us;
He was the child of all the dale—he lived
Three months with one, and six months with another;
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love;
And many, many happy days were his.
But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief
His absent brother still was at his heart.
And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found
(A practice till this time unknown to him)
That often, rising from his bed at night,
He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
He sought his brother Leonard.—You are moved;
Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,
I judged you most unkindly.
LEONARD.
But this youth
How did he die at last?
PRIEST.
One sweet May morning
(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)
He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs,
With two or three companions, whom their course
Of occupation led from height to height
Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length,
Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge
The humour of the moment, lagg'd behind.
You see yon precipice;—it wears the shape
Of a vast building made of many crags;
And in the midst is one particular rock
That rises like a column from the vale,
Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar.
Upon its aëry summit crown'd with heath,
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,
Lay stretch'd at ease; but, passing by the place
On their return, they found that he was gone.
No ill was fear'd; but one of them by chance
Entering, when evening was far spent, the house
Which at that time was James's home, there learned
That nobody had seen him all that day;
The morning came, and still he was unheard of;
The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the brook
Some hasten'd, some towards the lake; ere noon
They found him at the foot of that same rock—
Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after
I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies!
LEONARD.
And that then is his grave!—Before his death
You say that he saw many happy years?
PRIEST.
LEONARD.
And all went well with him?—
PRIEST.
If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.
LEONARD.
And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?
PRIEST.
Yes, long before he died, he found that time
Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless
His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune,
He talk'd about him with a cheerful love.
LEONARD.
He could not come to an unhallow'd end!
PRIEST.
Nay, God forbid!—You recollect I mention'd
A habit which disquietude and grief
Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured
That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
Upon the grass, and waiting for his comrades,
He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
He to the margin of the precipice
Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen headlong.
And so, no doubt, he perished: at the time,
We guess, that in his hands he must have held
His shepherd's staff: for midway in the cliff
It had been caught; and there for many years
It hung, and moulder'd there.
The priest here ended—
The stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt
A gushing from his heart, that took away
The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;
And Leonard, when they reach'd the churchyard gate,
As the priest lifted up the latch, turned round,
And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"
The vicar did not hear the words: and now,
Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated
That Leonard would partake his homely fare;
The other thank'd him with a fervent voice,
But added, that, the evening being calm,
He would pursue his journey. So they parted.
It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove
That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short,
And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd
All that the priest had said: his early years
Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes,
And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
All press'd on him with such a weight, that now
This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd
A place in which he could not bear to live:
So he relinquish'd all his purposes.
He travell'd on to Egremont: and thence,
That night, he wrote a letter to the priest,
Reminding him of what had pass'd between them;
And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,
That it was from the weakness of his heart
He had not dared to tell him who he was.
This done, he went on shipboard, and is now
A seaman, a grey-headed mariner.
O
ON the death of Emma's father, she found herself, with
a widowed mother, deprived, at one stroke, of nearly
all the comforts, and the means of procuring them,
which she had enjoyed during her father's lifetime.
A small jointure of thirty pounds a-year was all that
remained to her mother, for her father had died insolvent.
This thirty pounds a-year Emma thought might support
her mother, if she could support herself. Determined to
burden no one for her subsistence, and believing that humble
servitude was, in the eyes of Heaven and of men, more
honourable than a mean and degrading dependence on the
bounty of friends for a precarious supply of our temporary
wants.
Her mother strenuously opposed Emma's resolution of
going to service. She would subject herself to any privations,
rather than her young and lovely daughter would be
reduced to this severe necessity—she would work for hire—she
would beg—she would borrow—she should almost
steal, rather than Emma should be compelled to labour.
Her mother's entreaties, however, so far from having the
desired effect of preventing her going to service, only confirmed
Emma in her previous resolution. Should she be a
burden to her mother—to that mother who expressed so
tender a solicitation for her welfare—who was rapidly
descending the downhill of life—who had all her days been
accustomed to the elegances of taste? No, no; rather than
take anything from her, she would add a little to her
comforts; and a portion of her yearly wage should be set
apart as a present to her mother.
The affectionate mother, who had never before parted a
single day with her daughter, saw her set out to her place
of service (a gentleman's family among the lakes, where her
father had been upon terms of intimacy) with an aching
heart. She felt as if she was parting with her for the last
time; and required all the resolution she was mistress of to
tear herself from her dear Emma. "Go," she said, "and
take a mother's fondest, warmest blessing; and if you
should find yourself unable to accomplish your resolution,
or feel any inconvenience, return and share what Heaven
has left us, with an affectionate mother. It is not much,
Heaven knows; but I could doubly enjoy it, were it less, if
I had you to share it." Emma assured her mother, that if
any unforeseen difficulty occurred, she would instantly repair
to her natal home; and cheered her with a promise of constantly
writing. This pacified, but did not console her
mother. She knew too well the independent spirit of
her daughter to hope for her return, except on some awful
emergency.
Time rolled on, and repeated letters, both from Emma
and her mistress, assured the mother that all was well,
and that Emma was healthy and happy. At length Emma
sent the joyful intelligence that she would come over on
Whitsun Sunday morning, and spend the week with her.
Emma arose, with buoyant spirits, packed up a small
bundle of necessaries in a handkerchief, put her wages in
her bosom, and set out to see and cheer her affectionate
parent. The morning was extremely fine, and she amused
herself with the bright and varied prospect, till the road,
descending a steep hill, led her into a richly romantic
valley. A copse of wood overhung the road, a huge rock
formed the fence on that side next the wood, and seemed
like a natural wall. Over the rock fell, in three or four
unequal cascades, the stream of a brook which might be
heard tumbling through the wood to a considerable distance.
Close to the place where the water left the wood, one part
of the rock shot up to an immense height, bearing no very
distant resemblance to the ruins of an old castle. From a
fissure in the rock grew the stump of an old oak, whose
branches had apparently been lopped by the wind, except
one, which, bending down almost to the stream, had
escaped its ravages by its humble situation. On a large
stone, in this romantic spot, Emma sat down to rest herself
awhile, and slake her thirst at the stream.
Though Emma's heart did not entertain a thought but of
the joy her mother would feel on receiving the first-fruits
of her first wages, every bosom was not warmed by so
generous an impulse. Sam the cow-lad at Emma's master's
had ascertained that she had that day received her wages,
and was gone to her mother's; and he instantly formed the
resolution to rob the generous girl of the hard earned
pittance. By a nearer route, over the hills, he sought to
meet her in this solitary spot, where there was little
possibility of being surprised in the action. While Emma
was thus meditating on the happiness which she would
soon feel in her mother's arms, Sam came up and commanded
her to deliver up her money; she entreated him to leave
her a little for a present to her mother, but the human fiend
(and human fiends are the worst fiends), refused to leave
her a farthing. He had secured the booty, and Emma was
preparing to pursue her journey, when the horrid thought
entered his head, that unless he added murder to his
robbery, he would be liable to punishment for his crime.
There was not a moment for deliberation; and the lovely,
the young, the innocent Emma fell a corpse at the wretch's
feet. Fear added wings to the speed of the villain, and he
fled, as if from the face of heaven.
The day passed on with the same calm serenity as if
nothing had happened. Noon came to the widow's cottage
but no Emma arrived. As the evening drew on the
mother's unhappiness increased; and she set out to meet
her daughter, for whose fate she felt most keenly, without
being able to assign any cause. As the sun was sinking,
amid a rich profusion of evening tints, which threw a
dazzling lustre over all the scene, the widow reached the
vale where her murdered daughter slept her last long sleep.
But the pencil alone can finish the picture—words are of
no utility.
It would be superfluous to say that I would have the
last picture sketched at the moment when the mother first
discovers that it is the lifeless body of her daughter that
lies stained with its own gore, that she is bending over.
Cold must be that heart that would not feel the full force
of such a piece. Poor would the richest landscape you ever
drew appear, when compared with this.
It is strange that those who profess to have hearts so
open to the beauties of nature, should reject the loveliest
object in it. Adam, though placed in the midst of Paradise,
was not content till Eve was added to its other beauties;
nor would I ever draw a picture without such an enlivening
object. Beside, in most of our fine sublime scenes about
the lakes, we lose the principal zest of the piece by having
nothing beautiful to contrast with the rugged. The more
wild and terrible the scene I had to paint, the greater care
would I take to introduce some lovely female form to mark
the contrast; then