ecting
a still nobler guest. But oh! what pure bliss, and what profound, was
then breathed into the bosom of boyhood from that glorious branch of
hawthorn, in the chimney--itself almost a tree, so thick--so deep--so
rich its load of blossoms--so like its fragrance to something breathed
from heaven--and so transitory in its sweetness too, that as she
approached to inhale it, down fell many a snow-flake to the virgin's
breath--in an hour all melted quite away! No broom that nowadays grows
on the brae, so yellow as the broom--the golden broom--the broom that
seemed still to keep the hills in sunlight long after the sun himself
had sunk--the broom in which we first found the lintwhite's nest--and of
its petals, more precious than pearls, saw framed a wreath for the dark
hair of that dark-eyed girl, an orphan, and melancholy even in her
merriment--dark-haired and dark-eyed indeed, but whose forehead, whose
bosom, were yet whiter than the driven snow. Greenhouses--conservatories--
orangeries--are exquisitely balmy still--and, in presence of these
strange plants, one could believe that he had been transported to some
rich foreign clime. But now we carry the burden of our years along with
us--and that consciousness bedims the blossoms, and makes mournful the
balm, as from flowers in some fair burial-place, breathing of the tomb.
But oh! that Craig-Hall hawthorn! and oh! that Craig-Hall broom! they
send their sweet rich scent so far into the hushed air of memory, that
all the weary worn-out weaknesses of age drop from us like a garment,
and even now--the flight of that swallow seems more aerial--more alive
with bliss his clay-built nest--the ancient long-ago blue of the sky
returns to heaven--not for many a many a long year have we seen so
fair--so frail--so transparent and angel-mantle-looking a cloud! The
very viol speaks--the very dance responds in Craig-Hall: this--this is
the very Festival of the First Day of the Rooks--Mary Mather, the pride
of the parish--the county--the land--the earth--is our partner--and long
mayest thou, O moon! remain behind thy cloud--when the parting kiss is
given--and the love-letter, at that tenderest moment, dropped into her
bosom!

But we have lost the thread of our discourse, and must pause to search
for it, even like a spinster of old, in the dis arranged spindle of one
of those pretty little wheels now heard no more in the humble ingle,
hushed by machinery clink-clanking with power-looms in