CHAPTER XXVI "They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons to make modern and familiar things supernatural and causeless. Hence it is, that we make trifles of terrors: ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear."-All's Well that Ends Well. ALL attempts to reanimate the lifeless form proved unavailing; and the horror and consternation that reigned in the castle of Glenfern may be imagined, but cannot be described. There is perhaps no feeling of our nature so vague, complicated, so mysterious, as that with which we look upon the cold remains of our fellow-mortals. The dignity with which death invests even the meanest of his victims, inspires us with an awe no living thing can create. The monarch on his throne is less awful than the beggar in his shroud. The marble features-the powerless hand -the stiffened limbs-oh! who can contemplate these with feelings that can be defined? These are the mockery of all our hopes and fears, our fondest love, our fellest hate. Can it be, that we now shrink with horror from the touch of that hand, which but yesterday was fondly clasped in our own? Is that tongue, whose accents even now dwell in our ear, for ever chained in the silence of death? These black and heavy eyelids, are they for ever to seal up in darkness the eyes whose glance no earthly power could restrain ? And the spirit which animated the clay, where is it now? Is it wrapt in bliss, or dissolved in woe? Does it witness our grief, and share our sorrows? or is the mysterious tie that linked it with mortality for ever broken? and the remembrance of earthly scenes, are they indeed to the enfranchised spirit as the morning dream, or the dew upon the earthly flower? Reflections such as these naturally arise in every breast. Their influence is felt, though their import cannot always be expressed. The principle is in all the same, however it may differ in its operations. In the family assembled round the lifeless form, that had so long been the centre of their domestic circle, grief shewed itself under various forms. The calm and manly sorrow of the son; the saint-like feelings of his wife; the youthful agitation of Mary; the weak superstitious wailings of the sisters; and the loud uncontrolled lamentations of the daughters; all betokened an intensity of suffering that arose from the same source, varied according to the different channels in which it flowed. Even the stern Lady Maclaughlan was subdued to something of kindred feeling; and though no tears dropped from her eyes, she sat by her friends, and sought, in her own way, to soften their affliction. The assembled guests, who had not yet been able to take their departure, remained in the drawing room in a sort of restless solemnity peculiar to seasons of collateral affliction, where all seek to heighten the effect upon others, and shift the lesson from themselves. Various were the surmises and speculations as to the cause of the awful transition that had just taken place. "Glenfern was nae like a man that wad hae gaen "In my "I dinna ken," said another; "I've noticed a change on Glenfern for a gay while noo.' "I agree wi' you, sir,' said a third. mind, Glenfern's been droopin' very sair ever since the last tryst.' 2 "At Glenfern's time o' life, it's no surprisin', remarked a fourth; who felt perfectly secure of being fifteen years his junior. "Glenfern was na that auld neither," retorted a fifth; whose conscience smote him with being several years his senior. "But he had a deal o' vexation frae his faemilly," said an elderly bachelor. "Ye offen see a hale stoot man, like our puir freend, gang like the snuff o' a cannel," coughed up a phthisicky gentleman. 3 "He was aye a tume boss-looking man, ever since I mind him," wheezed out a swoln asthmatic figure. "An' he took nae care o' himsel," said the Laird of Pettlechass. "His diet was nae what it should hae been at his time o' life. An' he was oot an' in, up an' doon, in a' weathers, wat an' dry." "Glenfern's doings had naething to du wi' his death,” said an ancient gentlewoman with solemnity. "They maun ken little wha ne'er heard the 1[Gate or gait=way.] 2 [Tryst fair.] [Tume or toom=empty.] bodword of the family." And she repeated in Gaelic words to the following effect : "When Lochdow shall turn to a lin,2 When frae Benenck they shool the sna', When foreign geer grows on Benenck tap, "An noo, ma'am, will ye be sae gude as point oot the meanin' o' this freet," said an incredulous looking member of the company; "for when I passed Lochdow this mornin', I neither saw nor heard o' a lin; an' frae this window we can aw see Benenck wi' his white night-cap on; an' he wad hae little to do that wad try to shool it aff." "It's neither o' the still water, nor the stay brae, that the word was spoke," replied the dame, with a disdainful frown; "they tak nae part in our doings; but kent ye nae that Lochdow himsel had tined 3 his sight in a cataract; an' is nae there dule an' din aneuch in Glenfern the day? An' kent ye nae that Benenck had his auld white pow shaven, an' that he's gettin' a jeezy frae Edinburgh-an' I'se warran he'll be in his braw wig the very day that Glenfern 'll be laid in his deal coffin."" The company admitted the application was too close to be resisted; but the same sceptic (who, by the bye, was only a low country merchant, elevated, by purchase, to the dignity of a Highland laird) was seen to shrug his shoulders, and heard to make = [Bod-word a prophecy; from boden, A.S., to prepare. 2 Cataract, 3 [Tine to lose.] some sneering remarks on the days of second sights, and such superstitious nonsense, being past. This was instantly laid hold of and, amongst many others of the same sort, the truth of the following story was attested by one of the party, as having actually occurred in his family within his own remembrance. "As Duncan M'Crae was one evening descending Benvoilloich, he perceived a funeral procession in the vale beneath. He was greatly surprised, not having heard of any death in the country; and this appeared to be the burial of some person of consequence, from the number of the attendants. He made all the haste he could to get down; and, as he drew near, he counted all the lairds of the country except my father, Sir Murdoch. He was astonished at this, till he recollected that he was away to the low country to his cousin's marriage; but he felt curious to know who it was, though some unaccountable feeling prevented him from mixing with the followers. He therefore kept on the ridge of the hill, right over their heads, and near enough to hear them speak; but although he saw them move their lips, no sound reached his ear. He kept along with the procession in this way, till it reached the Castle Dochart burying-ground, and there it stopped. The evening was close and warm, and a thick mist had gathered in the glen, while the tops of the hills shone like gold. Not a breath of air was stirring; but the trees that grew round the burying-ground waved and soughed, and some withered leaves were swirled round and round, as if by the wind. The company stood awhile to rest, and then they proceeded to open the iron gates of the burying-ground; but the |