-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/40025ff4eafd0a509f05ff532bce80b9.pdf?Expires=1712793600&Signature=FhETiwrf0mYhsUqDdi9R9zAqlC8YUJ1Dgpw5yFJUbtsxNHxtIB8pQVs7pQ9tjzLjAmmKeu0KtNMx1xRMj%7ETk%7ECdhOTDRD%7EeZXSg5F7NSKeaTGDSgjX26sqwpZUsSV4mk0z3dblaeIJIIcUWXpt-BerCuaiho43YeIoxX90x4ZDTleVrzgYe57ewZhIExwHfwNgGn9l6HMGNJrtbV2Db9oyvpWpRNhCLotwGGsAYNrF6fsz4ga8liou5Eez0UmYFiy4kwPXYXLYX41upIcE0MKIGi6zL5ubmeKaxftvvwY3Eo-h6mnz9g0aeur5Qafq2iDfEJJgeOecpmTFJZGlnEEw__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
80f470b40ef14c0595ddf33812ae1388
PDF Text
Text
J45
^gSOCTEVi
**
No ! I am a lady gay,
It is very well known I may
Have men cf renown
In country or town ;
So, Roger, without delay,
Court Bridget or Sue,
Kate, Nancy, or Prue;
Their loves will soon be won ;
But don’t you dare
To speak me fair
As if I were
Ax try last prayer
To marry a farmer’s son.
“
A fig for your cattle and corn !
Your proffered love I scorn.
’T is known very well
Myname it is Nell,
And you ’re but a bumpkin born.
He. Well, since it is so,
Away I will go,
And I hope no harm is done.
Farewell 1 Adieu 1
I hope to woo
As good as you
And win her too,
Though I’m but a farmer’s son.
"He. My father has riches in store,
Two hundred a year, and mor®;
Besides sheep and cows,
Carts, harrows, and ploughs ;
His age is above threescore ;
And when he does die,
Then merrily I
Shall have what he has won.
Both land and kine,
All shall be thine,
If thou ’It incline
C And wilt be mine,
E And marry a farmer’s son.
“ She. Be not in such haste, quoth she,
Perhaps we may still agree ;
For, man, I protest
I was but in jest :
Come, prythee, sit down by me :
For thou art the man
That verily can
Win me, if e’er I’m won.
Therefore I shall
Be at your call,
To marry a farmer’s son.”
J. V. Blake.
BEYOND.
HAVE a friend, I cannot tell just where,
I For out of sight and hearing he has gone ;
Yet now, as once, I breathe for him a prayer,
Although his name is carved upon a stone.
O blessed habit of the lips and heart!
Not to be broken by the might of Death.
A soul beyond seems how less far apart,
If daily named to God with fervid breath.
If one doth rest in God, we well may think
He overhears the prayer we pray for him :
Our Father, let us keep the sacred link;
The hand of Prayer Love’s holy lamp doth trim.
Were the dear dead once heedless of God’s will,
Needing our prayer that he might be forgiven ;
Against all creeds, that prayer uprises still,
With the dim trust of pardon and of heaven.
Charlotte F. Bates.
vol. xxxi.—no. 184.
IO
�146
Boy^B^a in a, Scottish Co^ntry^S&A,
[February,
BOY-LIFE IN A SCOTTISH COUNTRY-SEAT.
A CHAPTER OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
MUST have been, from my earliest
I years, a very self-willed youngster,
I recollect my mother telling me of
some of her troubles, dating from the
time when I was still unable to walk ;
the old story of the baby screaming per
sistently, if refused anything he had set
his little heart on. Very gentle though
she was, the doctrine of innate deprav
ity, in which she had been bred, urged
her to slap me into quiet. But my
father — an advocate of system, and an
undoubting believer in his favorite ten
et that “ man’s character is formed for
him, not by him”—stoutly opposed
that. Yet the screams, whenever my
mother objected to having her lace
collar torn, or a teacup, of some old
china-set, snatched from the table and
flung to the floor, remained a stubborn
reality which no theory could get over ;
and it seriously disturbed my father as
well as the rest of the house. Some
thing must be done.
“ When the child screams from tem
per, my dear Caroline” (my father
thought my mother’s middle name more
romantic than the plain Ann ; but I
think I should have called her Annie),
— il when the child screams, set him in
the middle of the nursery floor, and be
sure you don’t take him up till he stops
crying.”
“ But, my dear, he ’ll go on crying
by the hour.”
“ Then let him cry.”
“It may hurt his little lungs, and
perhaps throw him into spasms.”
I think not. At all events it will
hurt him more if he grows up art tongovernable boy. Man is the creature
of circumstances.”
My mother, who had been a dutiful
daughter, was also an obedient wife,
and she had a great respect for my
father’s judgment —in temporal mat
ters. So the next time I insisted on
trying innocent ^piwlments on teacup
or collar, I was carried off to the nur
sery and set down, screaming lustily,
on mid-floor.
My mother must have suffered dread
fully for the next hour; but soon after
that the fury of disappotatmgtoB wore
itself out, and I dropped asleep on the
pillow behind me.
This punishment had to be repeated
five or six times. My jnotfcftf was be
ginning to despair when she found,, one
day, to her great relief, that baby could
be crossed in his wishes and Blade to
give up, with just a Tittle frettifi^
After a time even the fretting ceased.
The infant culprit had learned a great
lesson in life, —submission to the in
evitable.
This was all very well; but the tem
per remained, and culminated, six or
seven years after the nursery experi
ments, in a fit of indignant rage, aider
this wise.
Braxfield House was situated about
half-way between the village of New
Lanark and the ancient shire-town of
Lanark. The latter is famed in Scottish
history; and on “the Moor” near to
it wappin-schaws used to be held in
the olden time. There was no post
office in the village, and one of the sup
plementary workmen there, a ■certaift
James Dunn, an old spinner who had
lost an arm by an accident in the mills,
was our letter-carrier, — the bearer
of a handsome leather bag with gay
brags padlock, which gave him a sort
of official dignity to the eyes of the ris
ing generation; and by this time there
were some three or four young vine
shoots growing up around the Owen
family table.
If James Dunn had lost one arm, he
made excellent use of the other; con
structing bows and arrows and fifty
other nice things, for pur delectation,
�i873-]
V
y '
Boy-Life in & Scottish Cotmtry-Seat.
and thus coming into distinguished
favor. One day he gave me a clay pipe,
showed me how to mix soap-water in
due proportion, and then, for the first
ift ottr'we chUdren witee^ged
the marvellous rise, from the pipe-bowl,
of the brightly variegated bubble ; its
slow, graceful ascent into upper air ;
and, alas! its sudden disappearance,
at the very climax of our wonder. My
delight was, beyond all bounds ; and so
was my gratitude to the one-armed
magician. I take credit for this last
sentiment, in extenuation @f the crime
which was to follow.
We had in the house a sort of odd
job boy, who ran errands, helped
occasionally in the stables, carried
coals to the fires, and whose earlymorning duty it was to clean the boots
and shoes of the household. His par
ents had named him, at the fount, after
the Macedonian conqueror; but their
son, unlike King Philip’s, suffered
nicknaming, or at least contraction
of his baptismal title into Sandy.
Sandy, according to my recollection
of him, was the worst of bad boys.
His chief pleasure seemed to consist
in inventing modes of vexing and en
raging us ; and he was quite ingenious
in his Wicks of petty torture. Add to
this that he was most unreasonably
jealous of James Dunn’s popularity ;
especially when we told him> as we
often did, that we hated him.
One day my brother William, a year
younger than myself, and I had been
out blowing soap-bubbles (“all by ourselves,” as we were wont to boast, in
proof of our proficiency), and had re
turned triumphant In the court-yard
*
we met Sandy, to whom, forgetting, for
the moment, by-gone squabbles, we
joyfully related our exploits, and broke
out into praises of the pipe-giver as
the nicest man that ever was. That
nettled the young scamp, and he began
to abuse our well-beloved post-carrier
as a “lazy loun that hadna’ but yin
arm, and could do naething with the
tither but cowp letters into the postoffice and mak up bairns’ trashtrie.”
TbU incensed me^ and I suppose I
147
Wist have made some bittear reply
*
whereupon Sandy snatched the richly
prized pipe from my hand,, deliberately
broke off its stem close to the bowl,
and threw the fragments into what
we used to call the “ shoe-hole ” ; that
contemptuous appellation designating
a small outhouse, hard by, where our
tormentor discharged his duties as
shoeblack.
Unwilling to be set down as telltales,
we said not a word about this to father
or mother. But when, an hour later, I
burst into tears at the sight of JamesDunn, I had to tell him our story. He
made light of it, wisely remarking that
there were more pipes in the world ;
and, shouldering his post-bag, went off
to the “auld town.” If my readers
can look back far enough into their
early years, they may imagine my joy
ful surprise when, on his return, he
presented me with another pipet
I took it up to an attic room of which
I had the run when I wished to be
alone ; locked the door, with a vague
feeling as if Sandy were at my heels ;
sat down and gazed on the regenerated
treasure. The very ditto of the pipe I
had tearfully mourned ! brand new,
just from the shop. But the delight
its first sight had given me faded when I
thought of the sacrifices that dear, good
man had been making for my sake. It
was so generous of him to give me the
first pipe 1 I had no idea whatever of
its money value ; to me it was beyond
price. Then here his generosity had
been taxed a second time. Again he
had been spending for me out of his
wages, which I supposed must be small,
since he had only one arm to work with.
And who had been the cause of all this
woful self-immolation ? That vile, cruel,
rascally Sandy ! To him it was due
that James Dunn had felt compelled to
make a second purchase, — to the stint
ing, perhaps, of his poor wife and chil
dren I And — who could tell ? — the
same malignant ill-turn might be re
peated again and again. Ah ! then
my indignation rose, till I could hear
the heart-beats.
I remember distinctly that no plans
�148
Boy-Lift in a Scottish Cowitry-Ssat.
of revenge had arise® in my mind
caused by the destruction of my first
pipe, however enraged I was at the per
petrator of that outrage. It was only
when I found one of my dearest friends
thus plundered, on my account, that
my wrath, roused to white heat, gave
forth vapors of vengeance.
' I brooded over the matter all day, so
that I must needs plead guilty to malice
aforethought. Toward evening my
plans took shapes and, ere I slept,
which was long after I went to bed,
every detail had been arranged. My
adversary was a large, stout, lubberly
fellow, more than twice my age ; and I
had to make up in stratagem for my
great inferiority in strength.
Next morning, before the nursery
maid awoke, I crept furtively from bed,
dressed in silence, descended to the
court-yard, and armed myself with a
broom : not one of your light, modern,
broom-corn affairs, but a downright
heavy implement, with a stout handle
and heavy wooden cross-head attached,
set with bristles. It was as much as I
could do to wield it.
Then I reconnoitred the enemy’s
camp. No Sandy yet fa the “shoe
hole
I went in, set the door ajar, and
took post, with uplifted weapon, behind
it.
I had long to wait, Sandy being late
that morning ; but my wrath only boiled
the more hotly fof the delay. At last
there was a step, and the door moved^
Down with all the might of concen
trated rage came the broom — the
hard end of the cross-piece foremost —
on the devoted head that entered. The
foe sank on the ground. I sprang for
ward — but what was this ? The head
I had struck had on a faultlessly white
lace cap ! It flashed on me in a mo
ment. Not the abhorred Sandy, but
our worthy housekeeper, Miss Wil
son 1
Miss Wilson was one of a class com
mon in Great Britain, but rare in this
country,— a notable, orderly, pains
taking, neatly dressed maiden of thirtyfive or forty summers ; deeply read in
all the mysteries of household-craft;
[February,
but kindly withal, and mucb disposed
to make pets of the children around
her. With the exception of James
Dunn, she was one of our greatest fa
vorites. I am afraid one element fa.
our affection for this good woman was
of a selfish nature. She had obtained
fro® my mother permission to have
us all to tea with her every Sunday
evening, on condition of a two thirds
dilution with warm water, but with
out any sumptuary regulation as to the
contingent of sugar.
Now, in that country and fa those
days, young folks, both gentle and sim-'
pie, were restricted to very frugal fam
For breakfast, porridge and milk I
*
for supper, bread and milk only. At
dinner we were helped once sparingly
to animal food and once only to pie of
pudding ; but we had vegetables and
oatmeal cake ad libitum. Scottish
children under the age of fourteen were
rarely allowed either tea or coffee ; and
such was the rule in our house. Till
we were eight or ten years old we were
not admitted to the evening meal in
the parlor. Mis? Wilson’s tea-table
furnished the only peep we had of the
Chinese luxury.
■ Thus the Sunday evening in the.
housekeeper’s parlor (for Miss Wilson
had her own nicely appointed parlor
between the kitchen and the servants’
dining-hall) was something to which
we looked eagerly forward. On that
occasion we had toast as well as tea;
and the banquet sometimes culminated
with a well-filled plate of sugar-biscuit,
a luxury doubly prized because its vis
its were rare as those of angels.
* It may or may not be necessary here to say that
porridge is a sort of mush, or hasty-pudding, made by
gradually dropping oatmeal into boiling water, sea
*
soned with salt. The cake spoken of was composed
of oatmeal and water, rolled out thin, and browned
before the fire.
In the Scottish dialect oatmeal porridge is called
frirritch; and there is a story illustrating the ridicu
lous extent to which early promotion, even of mere
children, in the British army is, or was, obtained by
family influence ; and marking also the customary
breakfast-fare in the nursery. A gentleman, visiting
a family of distinction in the Highlands and coming
down stairs in the morning, beard a loud bawling,
Meeting a servant, he asked him what was the mat
ter. “ O sir,” said the man, “it’s naething but the
Major, greetin’ for his parritch.”
�Boy-Life in a Saltish Country-Seat.
These hebdomadal symposia gave
rise, among us, to a peculiar definition
of the first day of the week. We took
this, not from the sermons we heard,
or the catechism we learned, on that
day, but from the delicacies on Miss
Wilson’s table, somewhat irrever
ently falling Sunday the toast-biscuittea-day. I am not certain whether this
'Jtwgnile paraphase ever reached my
WOtha^fe ears j for Miss Wilson was
too discreet to retail the confidential
.jokes which we permitted ourselves in
the privacy of \\ex petits soupers.
Under the circumstances one may
judge of my horror when I saw on whom
the broom-head had fallen. The sight
stunned me almost as much as my
blow had stunned the poor woman who
lay before me. I have a dim recollec
tion of people, called in by my screams,
raising Miss Wilson and helping her
to her room | and then I remember
Slothing more till I found myself, many
hours later, in the library ; my mother
standing by with her eyes red, and
my father looking at me more in sor
row than in anger.
“Wouldn’t you be very sorry, Rob
ert,” he said at last, “if you were
blind ? ”
I assented, as well as my sobs would
allow.
Well, when a boy or man is in such
a rage as you were, he is little better
than blind, or half mad. He does n’t
Stop to think, or to look at anything.
You did n’t know Miss ’Wilson from
Sandy.”
My conscience told me that was true.
I had struck without waiting to look.
“ Yola may be very thankful,” my
father went on, “ that it was n’t Sandy.
You might have killed the boy.”
I thought it would have been no
{great harm if I had, but I did n’t say
so.
| “Are you sorry for what you have
done?”
I said that I was very, very sorry
that I had hurt Miss Wilson ; and that
, I wanted to tell her so. My father
feng the bell and sent to inquire how
she was. '
149
“ I am going to take you to ask her
pardon. But it’s of no use to be sorry,
unless you do better. Remember this I
Z have never struck you. You must
never strike anybody.”
It was true. I cannot call to mind
that I ever, either before or since that
time, received a blow from any human
being ; most thankful ana I that I have
been spared the knowledge of how one
feels under such an insult. Nor, from
that day forth, so far as I remember,
did I ever myself give a blow in anger
again.
The servant returned. “ She has a
sair head yet, sir; but she’s muckle
better? She’s sittin’ up in her chair,
and would be fain to see the bairn.”
Then, in an undertone, looking at me :
“It was a fell crunt, yon. I didna
*
think the bit callan could hit sae
snell.”
When I saw Miss Wilson in her
arm-chair, with pale cheeks and ban
daged head, I could not say a single
word. She held out her arms ; I flung
mine round her neck, kissed her again
and again, and then fell to crying, long
and bitterly. The good soul’s eyes
were wet as she took me on her knee
and soothed me. When my father
offered to take me away, I clung to her
so closely that she begged to have me
stay.
I think the next half-hour, in her
arms, had crowded into it more sincere
repentance and more good resolves for
the future than any other in my life.
Then, at last, my sobs subsided, so
that I could pour into her patient ear
the whole story of my grievous wrongs :
Sandy’s unexampled wickedness in
breaking the first pipe ; James Dunn’s
unheard-of generosity in buying the
second ; the little chance I had if I
did n’t take the broom to such a big
boy ; and then —
“ But, Miss Wilson,” I said when I
came to that point, “what made you
come to the shoe-hole, and not
Sandy ? ”
* Crunt, to be interpreted in English, must be
paraphased. It means a blow on the head with a
cudgel.
�150
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
“I wanted to see if the boy was
attending to his work.”
I then told her I would love her as
long as she lived, and that she must n’t
be angry with me ; and when she had
promised to love me too, we parted.
It only remains to be said, that about
a month afterwards, Bandy was quietly
dismissed. We all breathed more freely
when he was gone.
If I deserved more punishment for
this outbreak than my father’s reproof
and the sight of Miss Wilson’s suffer
ings, I came very near receiving it, iaj
a fatal shape, a few months afterwards.
The estate of Braxfield is beautifully
situated on the banks of the Clyde.
The house stands on a bit of undulating table-land, then set in blue-grass,
containing some thirty or forty acres ;
and the slope thence to the river was
covered with thick woods through
which gravel-paths wound back and
forth till they reached the Clyde, a quar
ter of a mile below the mills. What
charming nutting we used to have
th ere !
At low-water there was a foot-path,
under the rocks, by which these woods
could be reached from the village ; and
*
of c&urse, there was great temptation,
on Sundays, for the young people —
.pairs of lovers especially — to encroach
o® this forbidden ground, f to say noth?
*
ing of the hazelnut temptation, when
autumn came. Nothing could be more
romantic and inviting.
Of course it would not have done to
give two thousand people the, range of
the woods : so trespassing therein was
stricfly forbidden. Yet I remember,
one Sunday afternoon when my father
had taken me out to walk, seeing,
through the underwood in a path below us and to which our road led, a
lad and lass evidently so intent in Con
versation; that they were not alive to
anything else ; ff they had known who
was near, they would have taken to
flight at once. My father stopped and
looked at them, calling to mind, I dare
say, his own walks in the Green with
Miss Ann Caroline. “ They don’t see
us,” he said to me ; “ let us turn back.
[February,
If I meet them, I must order them off
the place ; and they have so few pleas
*
ures and so much work I It’s
So we took another path; and the
lovers pursued their way, unconscious
of the danger that had approach^
them.
Besides thisAWfeded M ferae w in front
of She mansion, there wa%@#otee side,,
a steep declivity into a deep, bushy
dingle, with large, old trees inter
spersed, and, rising on>, the other side,
a precipitous bank of similar character,
on the summit of which was perched
the house of our next neighbor. This
could not be reached, by vehicle, with
out making a circuit of a mile and a
half; but a slanting foot-path led, from
our stable-yard, down •into the glen,
and a rough, scrambling way ascended
thence the opposite bank, conducting
the pedestrian, by a short cut, to the
old town. This rude pass Was know®)'
*
far and near, by the euphonious name
of Gullietoodelum. a
All this afforded good cover for
foxes ; and one of these midnight
prowlers had carried off certain fowls
and ducks belonging to James Shaw,
a burly farmer who tilled the arable
portion of the Braxfield estate, and
whose cottage we were wont to fre
quent, attracted bythe excellent mashed
potatoes, prepared with milk, with which
Mrs,, Shaw secretly treated, us. They;
turned a penny by supplying our fami
ly, from time to time, with poultry ; and
now the “ gudeman ” took arms in
defence of his live stock. Having
loaded a _ fowling-piece heavily with
slugs, he deposited it in a dark cor
ner of the coach-house, which, with
stables attached, stood on the edge of 1
the wooded dingle where Reynard had
been seen.
There, during a morning ramble, my
brother William and I canM upon the
gun. It was a flint-lock, of course ; for
the days of pg rCB®s,ion-g&ps were yet
afar off. Having brought it out to the
light, for inspection, my brother amused
himself by pointing it at me and at
tempting to draw the trigger I re
*
minded him that our mother had for
�i873-J
Boy-Life
a Scottish Country-Seat.
bidden W ever to point gnus at one
another.
“ But it’s not loaded,” remonstrated
William.
“I know that,” was my reply (though
how I came to that hasty conclusion
I am quite enable to explain), “ I
know it isn’t loaded, but mamma said
WO were new to pretend to shoot one
pother, whether the gun was loaded or
not.”
Whereupon he submitted, and I furfer informed him that the flint of a gun
O0®fld not be snapped without draw
ing back the cock, which I showed him
how to do, having once snapped a gun
before. With my aid he then hugged
the stock of the weapon under his
ttglrt arm, pointing the barrel in the
air, and pulled the trigger; this time
so effectually that the recoil threw him
flat on his back.
He struggled to his feet and we
looked at each other. Not a word was
Spokem I seized the gun, flung it back
i»to the coach-house, not quite certain
Whether that was the end of the explosion, and, by a common impulse, we
both took to our heels, fled down the
glen-path, nor stopped till at the foot
of Gullietoodelum. There we paused
to take breath.
do befieve, Robert,” my brother
ejaculated at last, — “ I do believe that
gun was loaded ! ”
I had gradually been coming to the
same conclusion ; so I did not dispute
the point. Slowly and silently we re
ascended from that dark glen to the
upper world again, sadder and wiser
boys.
I have often thought since how
fejtjng America would have laughed us
to scorn as Molly-caudles, for our green
ignorance, at seven or eight, touching
fire-arms and their use. Half a year
later, however, I obtained leave to go
fen a shooting expedition with a young
man who had a salary from the New
Lanark Company as surgeon of the
village, and who attended the sick
there gratuitously. We proceeded to
a weiglibesring rookery where sportsfcen were admitted on certain condi
*
t
tions. I carried a light fowling-piece,
and w® then and there initiated into
the mysteries of loading and firing.
Though at heart mortally afraid, J
stood stoutly to my gun, and brought
down two confiding young crows who
were yet inexperienced in the wiles
and murderous propensities of men
and boys.
As we were returning home in the
dusk I overheard a brief conversation,
not intended for my ears, between the
surgeon and a comrade of his who
had accompanied us. They had been
pleased, it seems, with the spirit I had
shown; and the mention of my name
attracted me.
“ He’s a fine, manly boy, that,” said
the comrade.
“ He’s a noble little fellow,” rejoined
the surgeon.
Most children, I think, accustomed
to hear themselves commended, would
have forgotten the words within twen
ty-four hours ; but they sunk into my
heart, and I could swear, to-day, that I
have textually repeated them here. This
wineglass full of praise intoxicated
me; for I think it was the first I had
ever tasted. My father’s creed was
that “man is not the proper subject of
praise or blame ” ; being but what
circumstances, acting on his original
organization, make him. So his ap
proval, when I deserved approval, was
testified only by a pleased smile oar a
caress.
The words haunted me all the way
home and for days afterwards. Their
effect was similar to that sometimes
produced during the excitement of
such camp-meetings as I have wit
nessed in our Western forests. They
woke in me what, in revival-language,
is called “ a change of heart.” I sol
emnly resolved that I would be what
these men had said I was.
Next morning, accordingly, I not
only myself submitted, with exemplary
forbearance, to the various matutinal
inflictions of cold bathing, scrubbing,
hair-combing, and the like, but I ex
horted my younger brother and sisters
to similar good conduct. The nursery-
�152
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
maid was amazed, not knowing what to
make of it; no doubt I had been re
bellious enough in the past.
“ What’s come over the bairn ? ”
she exclaimed. “ Where has he been ?
I think he must hae gotten religion.”
Then, looking at my sober face, she
asked me, “ Were you at the kirk
yestreen, Robert ? ”
No,” said I, “ I was shooting
crows.”
“ Shootin’ craws ! ” I remember to
this day that look of blank perplexity.
The girl was actually alarmed when
she missed my wonted wilfulness. “ It
passes me,” she said at last; “ the
callan must hae gane daft. He’s no
the same bairn ava.”
This fit of meekness lasted, in its
extreme phase, so far as I remember,
about ten days. Yet — strange if it
seem — I think it left its impress on
my character for years.
The powerful influence which seem
ing trifles exerted over my conduct
in those days — now stirring to re
venge, now prompting to reformation
— may in part be traced to the recluse
lives we led in that isolated country
seat ; a seclusion the more complete
because of the unquestioning obedience
to the strictest rules (especially as to
metes and bounds) in which we were
trained. The Clyde, though the largest
river in Scotland, was not, at its usual
stage and where we were wont to
bathe, over thirty or forty yards wide ;
and we were pretty good swimmers.
The enterprise of any urchin, ten years
old, in our own day and country, would
undoubtedly have suggested the con
struction of a small raft on which to
convey our clothes across, and then
an exploration of the unknown regions
beyond. But we were forbidden to
trespass there ; and it did not enter
into our heads to break bounds.
There was a bridge over the river,
but little more than a mile below our
house ; but, during the first decade,
my mother was unwilling to trust us
so far from home, and we had never
crossed this bridge except in our car
riage and on the turnpike road. I had
[February,
passed my tenth bfehday- when my
father t&ld William and myself, one
day, that he was going to take us a
walk across the bridge and on the
other side of the river. Our blissful
anticipations of this remote expedition
were enhanced by knowing that tjye&d!
was to be found, close to the bridge, a
far-famed baker’s shop, of Which the
parleys (that is, thin, crisp ginger
cakes) were celebrated all over the,
county ; and when my mother put into
our pockets sixpence apiece, to be
there expended as we pleased, our joy
was full.
But if, as regards pedestrian excur
sions, we were held under strict tale,,
in other matters we were free :a®tjd
privileged. We had the unrestricted
range of my father’s library, which, was
®, pretty extensive one.
I have no recollection as to when
and how I learned my letters. All I
remember is that, at seven or eight
years of age, I was an omnivorous
reader. “ Robinson Crusoe,” pored over
with implicit faith, made the first deep
impression. Then, one after another
in succession, came Miss Edgeworth’s
winning stories, —household words
they were in our family/ “ Sandford
and Merton” came next into favor;
succeeded by “ Thaddeus of War
saw ” and the “Arabian Nights.” Af
ter these I devoured Miss Porter’s
“Scottish Chiefs”; not g, doubt ob
truding itself as to whether the gallant
and romantic military gentleman —the
courteous Knight of Ellerslie, whom
the lady’s pencil’has depicted in rosy
colors — was the veritable champion
of Scotland,— the same hot-blooded
and doughty warrior, sung by Blind
Harry, who, while yet a stripling,
stabbed, in a Scottish castle, the son
of its governor, in requital of a few in
sulting words. My indignation, origi
nally roused by nursery legends,. was
rekindled, and my national prejudices
confirmed, by this more modern ver
sion of Monteith’s treachery and his
noble victim’s cruel fate. These feel
ings were intensified during a visit to
Cartland Crags (or Craigs, as we pro
�1873-]
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
nounced th© word), — a deep, narrow
gulch a little way beyond the town of
Lanark^- walled by precipitous rocks
gome two hundred feet high, and form
*
jng the water-cou-rse of a small stream
Called the Mouse. From the bed of
that stream we climbed thirty or forty
feet up the fee© of the rocks to a deep
cleft known to all; Scotland as “Wal
lace’s Ctve,” and to which, when in
peril of his life, that sturdy chieftain
was wont to retreat. No Fourth-ofJuly oration, no visit to Plymouth
rock, ever produced, on young scion
of Puritan, a deeper impression than
did the sight of this narrow, secluded
cell upon me, — its pavement worn by
the feet of patriotic pilgrims. I think,
if 1 had but been stirred by a Hamilcar
of a father prompting me, I might have
sworn, then and there, eternal enmity
against the English. But, in my case,
the paternal sentiment was, “ Love to
the whole human race ”; so that, out
growing hate-bearing prejudices in the
genial atmosphere of home, I have re
formed, and can say, as Webster said
of himself on a well-known occasion,
am very little like Hannibal”;
having come to eschew strife of all
kinds, and' devoutly believing that
“love is the fulfilling of the law.”
My mother, a devout Presbyterian,
though too gentle to be bigoted, was
thoroughly imbued with the belief that
the most orthodox form of Protestant
ism is essential to happiness, if not to
virtue. Upon this conviction she acted
with persistent conscientiousness. It
colored her daily conduct. Was any
one among us sick ? She sat, hour
after hour, by his bedside ; and admin
istered, by turns, temporal comforts
and spiritual consolation. Had we lost
a pious friend ? His death was spoken
of as a translation to a world of bliss.
Did any of us ask for a pretty story ?
It was selected out of the Scriptural
pages. We were told of the place
above for good boys and girls, and of
the fire below for the wicked ; and
when we asked who were good and
who were wicked, we were taught that
all boys and girls and men and women
i53
were wicked unless they believed, in
the first place, that Jesus Christ was
the only Son of God, and, in the sec
ond place, that nobody could escape
from hell except by vicarious atone
ment through his death and sufferings.
My mother added that all who believed
that, and who read the Bible every
morning, and said prayers every night,
and went to church twice every Sun
day, became good people, and would
be saved and go to heaven ; while all
who disbelieved it were lost souls, who
would be punished forever with the
Devil and his angels.
My father, a Deist, or free-thinking
Unitarian, was tender of my mother’s
religious sentiments, and did not, in
those days, interfere with her instruc
tions or seek to undermine our belief.
I recollect, one day when he had been
explaining to me how seeds produced
plants and trees, that I asked him
where the very, very first seeds came
from, and that his answer did not go to
shake my faith in the Mosaic account
of the creation.
Thus left to orthodox teaching, I
Soon became an apt and zealous schol
ar ; often prejudiced, I was never in
different ; still more often mistaken, I
was sincere in my errors, and I always
sought to act out what I believed.
Very peculiar was my state of mind
in those early years. Breathing an
orthodox atmosphere, I never doubted
that it extended over the whole earth.
I had just heard of pagans and Ro
manists and infidels ; but I thought
of all such dissenters from the creed I
had learned as a handful of blinded
wretches, to be met with in some small
remote quarter of this vast world, —a
world that bowed to Christ alone as its
God and Saviour. To set up my own
opinion against all the pious — that is,
against all good men, or rather against
all men except a few who were des
perately wicked— was an acme of ar
rogance that did not once crass my
thoughts.
My good mother — more amiable
than logical — did not perceive the
perilous insecurity of a creed so nar-
�154
Boy-Life in a Scottish
row in a character like that of her
eldest son. In a chart given tome, in
the year 1827, by Spurzheim, causality
and conscientiousness are marked as
predominant organs, and self-esteem
as a large one, If that diagnostic may
be trusted, the danger to my orthodoxy
was the greater, The first doubts as
to the religious belief of my infancy
were suggested when I was about
eleven years old.
By this time the New Lanark estab
lishment had obtained considerable
Celebrity, and was frequented by visit
ors of some distinction. Among these
a bishop of the Anglican Church, hav
ing brought a letter of introduction to
my father, was invited to his table, and
I sat next to him. During dinner
conversation turned on the original
depravity of man, which, to my utter
astonishment, my father called in ques
tion. J the bishop, of course, stoutly
affirming it. I listened, with greedy
ears, to the discussion ; and, during a
pause, I put in my word.
“ Papa,” said I, “ I think you’d find
it a very difficult thing to make a bad
heart a good one.” ,,
The bishop, amused and astonished
to find so youthful an auxiliary, patted
me, laughingly, on the back and said,
“You’re in the right, my little fellow.
God only can do that.” Then he en
couraged me to proceed, to the no
small increase of my vanity and self
importance. My father, instead of
checking me,, replied patiently to my
argument ; and his replies left me
much tq think about.
Next day I had a lecture from my
mother on the sin of self-sufficiency,
and was told that little boys must listen,
and not join in grown people’s conver
sation. But this did not quiet me.
When I pressed my mother closely
about my father’s opinions, she con
fessed, to my horror, her doubts whether
he firmly believed that Christ was the
Son of God.
I remember, to this day, the terrible
shock this was to me, and the utter
confusion of ideas that ensued. My
state of mind was pitiable. J knew
[February,
there were wicked unbfiftev®®Ss among
the Hottentots and New - Zealanders
. whom I had read about; and my moth
er had once confessed to me that, even
in England and Scotland, Were were a
few low, ignorant people whoi
the
books of an infidel called Tom Paine 1
but my own father ! — kind, indulgent
to; us B’ll, and loved and respected by
everybody, — was he widggd ? was he
as bad as the pagans ? I took to
watching his benevolent fac© ; but he:
talked and smiled ®s usual. There
was no cloven foot to be seen, nor
any sinister inference to be drawn from
his quiet, pleasant demeanor.
In fear and trembling I laid my per
plexities before my mother. Excel
lent woman ! I know well now in wteja
a strait she must have found herself,
between her creed as a Calvinist and
her love as a wife. Somewhat at ex
pense of conscience, perhaps, she com
promised matters. Swayed by her
great affection for my father, and doubt
less also by her fears that the disclosure
of his heresies might weaken the pa®
ternal authority# she sought to soften
their enormity by declaring that, but
for these, he was everything that was
good and estimable. “ Pray to God,
my child,” she would say, “ that be
will tarn your dear father’s heart froffl
the error of his way and make him
pious like your grandfather.” Then,
with tears in het eyes, “ O, if he could
*
only be converted, he would- be every
thing my heart could desire ; and
when we die he would be an heaven
with us all.”
“If he could only be converted!”
These words sank deep. “ My father
is too good a man,” J said to myself,
“ to sin on purpose Perhaps nobody
*
ever explained holy things to him as
my mother did to me. If I could only
save his soul ! ”
The more I pondered upon this, the
more it seemed possible, probable, at
last unquestionable. I called to mind
some texts my mother had read to I
us about the mouths of sucklings, and
what they might do ; also what Jesus
Christ had said about little children as
�1873.]
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
*55
being of the kingdom of Heaw®. I the class of sins to which I was prone
did not, indeed, conceal from myself differed somewhat from those of the
®ay father was a wise and prudent French monarch, they weighed heavily
man : I saw that men listened to him upon me, nevertheless. A hundred
with respect and treated him, on all oc times my mother had told me that I
casions, with consideration. But my was a miserable sinner ; and conscience
mother, whose habit it was to read a brought up before me many proofs of
chapter from the Bible to us every this.
My activity being great, and my
evening, happened, about that time, to
select one from the Gospel of Matthew, spirits of a restless order, the breach
in which Christ returns thanks to of the fourth commandment was my
God that things hidden from the wise besetting sin. Though I had success
and prudent are revealed to babes. It fully resisted a great temptation to play
occurred to me that perhaps God had at foot-ball on Sundays, yet when James
caused my mother to read that chapter Dunn, one Saturday evening, brought
me a new hoop of his own manufac
for my especial encouragement.
Thea again, I had great faith in ture, I hid it in the woods, stole away
th© efficacy of prayer. Several years in the afternoon of the next day, and
before, while we were staying, for a “ broke the Sabbath ” by trundling
time, in my grandfather’s town-house, it for an hour, stung with compunc
I had been shooting with bow and tion the while. Then there was that
arrow in the same garden where Da- conspiracy against Sandy, with its aw
vid Dale found that honest man. I had ful result! Add to this that I was
lost my best arrow, and sought for it terribly given to yawning in church,
a long time in vain. Then, instead of and that, on two different occasions, I
had fallen sound asleep during evening
following Bassanio’s plan,—»
prayers. Worse still, there was a ro
“ When I had lost one shaft,
mance (entitled “ Anne of Brittany,” I
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way, with more advised watch,
remember) in which, when I was sum
To find the other forth,” —
moned to bed one Saturday evening, I
I dropped on my knees behind a goose had left the heroine in a most interest
berry-bush and prayed to God that he ing and perilous situation, and next
would show me where my missing ar morning, when my mother came quiet
row was. Rising and turning round, ly into the library to tell me it was
fo 1 there it stood, deep sunk in the time to prepare for church, so absorbed
ground close to another bush. My was I in Anne’s imminent danger, that
mother, when I told her of this, had, I was detected — flagrante delicto —
indeed, expressed doubt as t© the pro in the very act of reading a novel on
priety of prayer for a thing so trifling ; the Lord’s day ! Could there be a
but I retained the conviction that God doubt as to my innate depravity ? And
had answered my supplication : and was it strange that, while Louis sought
every night, on my knees, I prayed, as salvation by coercing millions of Hu
fervently, I think, as any young creature guenots to flee or to embrace Catholi
ever did, that He would help me also cism, I should strive to have my fa
ther’s redemption placed to my credit
to convert my father.
But, as commonly happens to propa on that great book that was to be
gandists, more selfish motives super opened on the Day of Judgment ?
But aside from religious convictions
vene^, to enkindle my zeal. We learn
from history that Louis XIV. was and the desire to atone for my sins
prompted to repeal that charter of re urging me on, there was that organ of
ligious freedom, the edict of Nantes, self-esteem, hereditary perhaps, the
by the desire to save an abject soul, size of which in my brain the great
loaded down with the debaucheries of phrenologist had detected. Under its
a lifetime, from perdition. And though influence I could not get away from
�z56
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
the resolve to convert my father. I
say the resolve to convert him, not to
attempt his conversion ; for so I put it
to myself, nothing doubting.
I don’t think I had any clear con
ception what a mission is. Yet I had
a vagu.e idea that God had chosen me
to be the instrument of my father’s
salvation, so that he might not be sent
to hell when he died.
I was mightily pleased with myself
when this idea suggested itself, and I
set about preparing for the task before
me. Summoning to my recollection
all my mother’s strongest arguments, I
arranged them in the order in which I
proposed to bring them forward. Then
I imagined my father’s replies ; already
anticipating my own triumph and my
mother’s joy, when I should have
brought my father to confess his errors
and repent. But I said not a word of
my intentions to her or to any one.
The joyful surprise was to be complete.
I recollect, to this day, the spot on
which I commenced my long-projected
undertaking. It was on a path which
skirted, on the farther side, the lawn in
front of our house and led to the gar
den. I could point out the very tree
we were passing when — with some
misgivings, now that it was to be put
to the test — I sounded my father by
first asking him what he thought about
Jesus Christ. His reply was to the
effect that I would do well to heed
his teachings, especially those relating
to charity and to our loving one an
other.
This was well enough, as far as it
went; but it did, not at all satisfy me.
So,, with some trepidation, I put the
question direct, whether my father dis
believed that Christ was the Son of
God?
He looked a little surprised and
did not answer immediately. * Why
■
do you ask that question, my son ? ”
he said at last.
“ Because I am sure — ” I began
eagerly.
“ That he is God’s Son ? ” asked
my father, smiling.
“ Yes, I am.”
[February,
“Did yfflttever hear of the Mahome
tans ? ” said my father,while I had
paused to collect my proofs.
• I replied that I had heard of such a
people who lived somewhere, far off.
“ Do you know what their religion
is ? ”
“ No?
*
“ They believe that Christ is not the
Son of God, but that another person,,
called Mahomet, was God’s chosen
prophet.”
“Do they not believe the Bible?”
asked I, somewhat aghast.
“ No., Mahomet wrote a book called
the Koran ; and Mahometans believe
it to be the word of God. That book
tells them that God sent Mahomet to
preach the gospel to them^ and to save
their souls.”
Wonders crowded fast upon me. A
rival Bible and a rival Saviour 1 Could
it be ? I asked, “ Are you quite sure
this is true, papa ?®
“ Yes, my dear, I am quite sure.
*
“ But I suppose there are very few
Mahometans : not near — near so many
of them as of Christians.”
“ Do you call Catholics Christians,
Robert ? ”
“ O no, papa. The Pope is Anti
christ.”
My father smiled. “ Then by Chris
tians you mean Protestants ? ”
“ Yes.’*
“Well, there are many more Ma
hometans than Protestants in the
world : about a hundred and forty mil
lion Mahometans, and less than a hun
dred million Protestants.”
“ I thought almost everybody be
lieved in Christ, as mamma does.”
“ There are probably twelve hundred
millions of people in the world. So,
out of every twelve persons one only is
a Protestant. Are you quite sure that
the one is right and the eleven
wrong ? ”
My ereed, based on authority, was
toppling. I had no answer ready. Dur
ing the rest of the walk I remained al
most silent, engrossed with new ideas,
and replying chiefly in monosyllables
when spoken to.
�1873.]
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Se&tt,
And w ended this notable scheme
of mine for my father’s cooversfo®.
My mother had claimed too much.
Over-zealous, she had not given her own
opinions fair play. Even taking the
most favorable view of the Calvinistic
creed, still what she had taught me
was prejudice only. For if looking to
the etymology of that word, we inter
pret it to mean a judgment formed be
fore examination, then must we regard
as prejudices his opinions, however
true, who has neglected to weigh them
against their opposites, however false.
Thus ©ven a just prejudice is always
vulnerable.
Had my mother been satisfied to
teach me that the Old Testament was
a most interesting and valuable contribution to ancient history, filled with
important lessons ; had she encouraged
me to compare the ethical and spiritual
teachings of Christ with those of the
Koran, or of Seneca, or Socrates, or
Confucius (all of which were to be
found in our library) ; and had she bid
me observe how immeasurably superior
they were in spirit and i© civilizing ten
dency to all that had gone before,—
she would, I think, have saved me
from sundry extreme opinions that
lasted through middle life.
But she was not content without
getting up the Bible, as Caliph Omar
did the Koran, not only as the infallible
but also as the solitary source of all
religious knowledge whatever. The
days of Max Muller were not yet. My
mother had no doubt heard of compar
ative anatomy, but never of comparative religion. Lowell’s lines had not
then been written :—•
“ Each form of worship that hath swayed
The life of man and given it to grasp
The master-key of knowledge, reverence,
Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right.”
The immediate effect, however, of
my mishap in the attempt to make a
Calvinist of my father was good. My
failure served as a practical lesson in
humility. I listened and thought and
doubted more than had been my wont,
and I spoke less.
157
Nor did I give up fee creed of my
childhood without a long and painful
struggle.
I daily searched the Scriptures as
diligently, I think I may say, as any
child of my age could be expected to do ;
coming upon many seeming incongrui
ties and contradictions, which were sad
stumbling-blocks. The frequent dis
cussions between my father and his
visitors, to which I eagerly listened,
still increased my doubts. After a
time I lost faith in my mother’s favor
ite doctrine of the infallible. The axe
had been laid at the root of my ortho
doxy.
For more than a year, however, I lis
tened with exemplary patience — even
with more attention, indeed, than for
merly — to my mother’s pious homilies,
and was seldom deficient when called
up to repeat my catechism-task. I did
not say anything, during all that time,
to betray my growing scepticism ; but
neither did I, as I formerly had done,
profess zeal for religion, or implicit
faith in the Bible. I do not recollect
ever to have deceived a human being
on a matter of conscience ; and this I
owe to my parents.
On one point the teachings of my
father and mother strictly harmonized.
My father sought to impress it upon
me that I could never become a gentle
man unless 1 spoke, on all occasions,
the exact truth ; while my mother’s
teaching on that subject was that the
Devil is the father of lies; and that,
if I told falsehoods, God would reckon
me among the Devil’s children. The
organ of conscientiousness, if Spurzheim had made no mistake, may have
aided these lessons. At all events, I
grew up to regard a lie as of all sins
the most heinous.
To this sentiment it was due that, in
the end, my conscience sharply re
proached me for a deceptive silence,
and I determined to tell my mother
that my faith was changed. Once or
twice I had resolved to do so after
our evening devotions ; but her sad
face — for she had begun to surmise
that all was not right — deterred me,
�158
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat*
Finally I stated the facts, plainly and
succinctly, in a letter which I in
trusted, one evening just before going
to bed, to an aunt who was staying
with us.
Had I known the effect my missive
was to produce, I do not think I should
have sent it.. My mother did not ap
pear next morning at breakfast, and I
afterwards found out that she had spent
the night in tears. She had always
Considered me, as she told me after
wards, the most devout among her
children, —the most careful for the fu
ture welfare of my soul, the most ear
nest in my zeal for the things of an
other world, her most attentive listener
too; and her disappointment, when
she found me a. backslider, was the
greater because of the hopes she had
cherished.
Unwilling to add to her sorrow by
engaging with her in any religious de
bate, I fell back, for a solution of some
of my difficulties, on a good-natured
private tutor, named Manson, who,
for a year or two, had been doing his
best to teach my brother and myself
Greek and Latin, after the tedious,
old-fashioned manner. He had stud-,
ied to qualify himself as a minister
of the Scottish Kirk, was orthodox,
but mild and tolerant also, and did
not meddle with my spiritual educa
tion.
The old, old enigma, unsolved through
past ages and but dimly guessed at to
day, came up of course, — the enigma
of evil and its punishment.
“ Mr. Manson,” said I one day,
“ does God send all unbelievers to
hell, and are they tormented there in
the flames forever ? ”
[February,
“ Certainly. Have n’t you read that
in the Bible ? ”
“Yes. Does not God love all men,
and wish them to be happy ? ”
“ He .surely does. His tender mer
cies are over all his works.’®
“ Yes ; I know the Biblg says that
too. Then I don’t understand aboutthe unbelievers. God need not have
created them, unless he chose ; and hg
must have known, before they were
*
born, that they would sin and that they
would soon have to be burned to all
eternity.’9'
“ But you know that God puts it in
our power to save ourselves ; and if
we neglect to do so, it is our fault, no|
his.”
“ But yet,” persisted I„ “ God was
not obliged to create a man that was
sure to be an unbeliever. Nobody!
said he must. He might have pre
vented him from being born, and that
would have prevented him from being
wicked, and prevented him from going
to hell. Would n’t it have been much
better for such men not to be born,
than to live a few years here and then
be tormented for ever and ever ? ”
I took my tutor’s silent hesitation
for consent, and added, “ Well, then,
if it would have been better, why did n’t
God do it ? ”
“ I cannot tell you,” Mr. Manson
said at last; “ and I advise you not to
think of such things as these. It seems
better to our human reason ; but it
cannot be better, or else God would
have done so.”
As may be supposed, this putting
aside of the question was unsatisfac
tory ; and from that day I became a
Universalist.
Robert Dale Owen.
�1S73-]
The Bride of Torrisdell.
159
THE BRIDE OF TORRISDELL.
ONG ago while yet the Saga’s dream-red haze
L Lay o’er Norway’s dales and fjords unbroken ;
Ere \vith Olaf’s * cross men saw her steeples blaze,
Ere their mighty iron tongues had spoken ;
Thea the Neck, the Hulder, elves, and fairies gay
Wooed the summer moon with airy dance and play.
But alas ! they fled,
As with flaming head
O’er the valley shone St. Olaf’s token.
Thorstein Aasen was forsooth the boldest swain
Ever church-road trod on Sabbath morning ;
As a boy he fought the savage bear full fain,
Spite of mother’s tears and father’s warning ;
Never yet was rafter for his heel too high, f
Haughtiest mien he fronted with unquailing eye;
And the rumor’s tide
Bore his glory wide,
Still with virtues new his name adorning.
Like a ling’ring echo from the olden time,
Wondrous legends still the twilight haunted,
And o’er Brage’s goblet still heroic rhymes
In the merry Yule-tide oft were chanted,
How of Thorstein’s race had one at Necken’sJ will
Stayed the whirl and roar of many a noisy mill;
How in wild delight
At the fall of night
He would seek the river’s gloom undaunted.
Late one autumn night, as wild November storms
Whirled the withered leaves in frantic dances,
And half-moonlit clouds of huge fantastic forms
Swift to horror-dreams from rapturous trances
Plunged the restless earth, anon in sudden fear
E’en the raging storm-wind held its breath to hear:
* St. Olaf was the king who finally Christianized Norway. The Pope, after his death, made him the
patron saint of the country.
t To be able to kick the rafter is regarded as a great proof of manliness in Norway.
+ Necken or the Neck is the spirit of the water. He is usually represented as an old man, who plays his
harp or (according to others) his violin in the roaring cataracts. His music is said to consist of eleven chords,
which are the very essence of all music, and all music appeals to the human heart in the same degree as it
pawtakes of the inherent qualities of “ Necken’s chords.” The legends tell of mortals who have attempted to
Jearn these chords, and have succeeded. Some have learned two, others three, but few more than six. He
who is taught to strike the eleventh chord, it is said, must give his own soul in exchange. At the ninth, life
less objects begin to dance, and when the tenth is struck, the player is seized with such a rapture that he can
never sleep, but plays on forever.
�The Bride of Torrisdell.
l6o
[February,
From the river’s lair
Rose a tremulous air,—
Rose and fell in sweetly flowing stanzas.
•
But as morning came forth with frosty splendor keen
Where the birch-trees o’er the waters quiver,
Found the grooms their lord with bow and violin,
Ghastly staring down the brawling river.
To his instrument was closely pressed his ear,
,
As if there some charmed melody to hear;
In his sunken sight
Shone a weird delight;
But life’s mystery had flown forever I
From that time the secret sorcery of the tone,
Passed from sire to son by sure transmission,
Had full oft a witching web of music thrown
O’er the lonely forests of tradition ;
And full oft the son with pride and secret dole
Heard those strange vibrations in his inmost soul,
Like the muffled knell
Of a distant bell
Fraught with dark and bodeful admonition.
Where the river hurls its foam-crests to the fjord,
There lies Torrisdell in sunshine gleaming;
Oft its valiant lord ’gainst Aasen drew his sword,
And the red cock crew while blood was streaming.
*
But his daughter Birgit, — by the holy rood
Ne’er a fairer maid on church or dance-croft stood I«—
Like the glacier’s gaze
In the sun’s embrace
Shone her eye with tender brightness beaming.
And when Thorstein Aasen saw that lily maid
On her palfrey white on church-road riding,
Aye his heart beat loud, and fierce defiance bade
To ancestral feuds their hearts dividing,
And young Birgit, the fair maid of Torrisdell,
Little cared or strove that rising flame to quell;
For, ere spring new-born
Did the fields adorn,
Him she pledged her word and faith abiding.
Loud then swore her angry sire with mead aglow,
(Deadly hate was in his visage painted,)
, Rather would he see his daughter’s red blood flow,
Than with shame his ancient scutcheon tainted.
In her lonesome bower then fair Birgit lay,
Wept and prayed by night and prayed and wept by day ;
* “ The red cock crew” is the expression used in the old Norse Sagas for a nightly attack with fire and
sword.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Boy-life in a Scottish country-seat : a chapter of autobiography
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Owen, Robert Dale [1801-1877]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [s.l.]
Collation: 145-160 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: Pp. 146-158 apparently extracted from Owen's autobiography, published in an unidentified periodical (The Atlantic), Vol. 31, No. 184 (February 1873). Printed in double columns. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
[s.n.]
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1873
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
N517
Subject
The topic of the resource
Autobiography
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Boy-life in a Scottish country-seat : a chapter of autobiography), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
NSS
Robert Owen