Still, constellated thickly, gleam
The lilies, sweet and shining:—
Still, tho’ of some bereft, our lives
Have blessings past divining!
No! we’ve no “daisies-pied” to pluck,
No cowslips, to make wine of!
We see not e’en the blessed stars
Our childhood loved the shine of.
I yearn for distant dear ones here,
For old-world art and beauty:—
But guardians twain still cheer my heart,
God’s love—and Woman’s duty.
That, sheddeth mercies o’er our path,
How far beyond deserving!
This, bindeth with content, the thoughts
Too prone to errant swerving.
Be sure, for every bliss denied,
Some other good is given.
If we have not your stars of Earth,
We have a sunnier Heaven!
AN ARTIST’S RAMBLE ALONG THE LINE
OF THE PICTS’ WALL.
PART V.
In the evening we returned to the Shaw’s, which we reached just as the bell commenced ringing for supper. At six the next morning we joined a party of early-risers, and descended to the bed of the Irthing, which here pursues its course between walls of lofty crag, beautifully interspersed with foliage, where, in my earlier acquaintance with the place, there was a large heronry, but the herons have taken flight, and now only an occasional straggler is to be seen. We drank a draught of the Spa water, whose virtues attract numerous visitors to Gilsland, although, I believe, as many resort thither for the enjoyment of pleasant relaxation, social intercourse, and a fine atmosphere and beautiful scenery. We found our draught a leetle flavoured with sulphuretted hydrogen, but potable enough. I was told that, after awhile, the drinker acquires a taste for it, and tea made with this water is much esteemed by the initiated. I was not unmindful that it was at Gilsland that Scott first met with his wife, then the beautiful Miss Charpentier, and the spot where he put the “momentous qnestion” is said to have become a favourite resort of fair spinsters in their rambles with the Gilsland beaux. The very stone even on which Miss Charpentier sat on the interesting occasion is identified; it is called the “Popping Stone,” and many fragments are chipped from it, as amulets propitious to Hymen, for, like the stone on which St. Thomas of Canterbury received the crown of martyrdom, its virtue exists with equal potency in the smallest fraction as in the whole mass. When I inquired the way to this hallowed spot, I was told that the etiquette of the place did not admit of a gentleman undertaking to guide thither one of his own sex, but that I might be sure of finding some fair one haunting the confines of the Gilsland “Caaba,” like an unquiet spirit; which proved true,—for crossing the stream by stepping-stones in the direction of Wardrew, near to which I knew was the goal of my pilgrimage, I fell in with a young lady, as predicted, taking her way
In maiden meditation fancy free,
who, on my modest representation, willingly undertook the office of guide; and, truly, Miss Charpentier could hardly have listened to the poet’s vows in a fairer or more secluded scene. The large stone which constituted her resting-place is chequered by the shadows of a mountain-ash that grows on the brink of the clear swift stream, whose course narrows here between steep embowered banks, where the cooing voice of the cushat-dove mingles with the murmur of the waters, as, gliding over many a rocky ledge, they flow in music that the fairies in their moonlit revels might not disdain to dance to. Leaving the quiet scene with an aspiration that it might hear many repetitions of the whispered “Yes!” to be succeeded by as many happy marriages, I hastened on my return to the hotel, the more especially as the breakfast-bell seemed in its importunate clang to be enumerating the various materials of tea, coffee, ham—broiled in rashers, and cold on the sideboard, blushing beside the mighty round of beef—trout, kippered salmon, eggs, muffins, toast, bread, white and brown, and creamy butter, moor honey, marmalade, &c. &c., which go to make a substantial north-country breakfast. I therefore offered a hasty arm to my fair guide, who engaged to take a chair next me at the table, in order that we might carry on the staid and edifying conversation upon which we had entered, and which was now rendered incoherent by the sacred rage of hunger. Having partaken of these restoratives with a zeal and perseverance that might have proved not unworthy even of a holier cause, half-an-hour was devoted to a pleasant saunter in the garden, after which, accompanied by Captain B, honorary master of ceremonies, and Mr. Tom C, the Yorick of our party, we took an upland stroll to see the muircock rise on the wide waste of heather which stretches away to the confines of Bewcastle.
On the edge of the moor our notice was directed to a stone bearing the inscription Dr. Mouth; inquiring the meaning of which, I was informed by Mr. Tom C, that the virtues of the Gilsland waters were discovered, some century ago, by a certain Dr. Mouth, who made the place his residence, and, dying there, ordered his remains to be interred on the moor, and a stone simply inscribed with his name set up to mark the grave. This satisfactory explanation given, we proceeded a few steps—and, lo! another Dr. Mouth.
“What!” I said, “was your eccentric doctor buried in two places, then?”
“His son,” said C, “Dr. Mouth, Junior, who succeeded to his father’s practice, and evinced an hereditary taste in respect of the mode of his burial.”
I was warned by the corner of H’s eye, but too late, as he enunciated the words “Drain-mouth,” with solemn emphasis on the word “drain.”
“Sold again!” shouted the Captain and Mr. Tom C, with great hilarity; and it was only when they had sobered down into ordinary deco-