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BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCXXXV. SEPTEMBER, 1843. VOL. LIV.
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"WE ARE ALL LOW PEOPLE THERE."
A TALE OF THE ASSIZES.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
Some time ago, business of an important character carried me to thebeautiful and populous city of ——. I remember to have visited it when Iwas a child, in the company of a doating mother, who breathed her lastthere; and the place, associated with that circumstance, had everafterwards been the gloomiest spot in the county of my birth. A calamitysuch as that to which I have alluded leaves no half impressions. Itstamps itself deep, deep in the human heart; and a change, scarcely lessthan organic, for good or ill, is wrought there. Agreeably with thisfact, the scene itself of the event becomes at once, to the survivor,either hallowed and beloved, or hated and avoided. Not that naturalbeauty or deformity has any thing to do in the production of suchfeelings. They have a mysterious origin, and are, in truth, not to beaccounted for or explained. A father sees the hope and joy of his manhooddeposited amongst the gardens of the soil, and from that moment thefruitful fields and unobstructed sky are things he cannot gaze upon;whilst the brother, who has lived in the court or alley of a crowded citywith the sister of his infancy, and has buried her, with his burningtears, in the dense churchyard of the denser street, clings to theneighbourhood, close and unhealthy though it be, with a love that rendersit for him the brightest and the dearest nook of earth. He cannot quitit, and be at peace. Causes that seem alike, are not always so in theireffects. For my own part, for years after the first bitter lesson of mylife became connected with that city, I could not think of it withoutpain, or hear its name spoken without suffering a depression of spirits,as difficult to throw off as are the heavy clouds that follow in thetrack, and hide the little light of a December sun. At school, I rememberwell how grievously I wept upon the map on which I first saw the wordwritten, and how completely I expunged the characters from the paper,forbidding my eyes to glance even to the county from which I had erasedthem. Time passes, hardening the heart as it rolls over it, and we affordto laugh at the strong feelings and extravagant views of our youth. It iswell, perhaps, that we do so; and yet on that subject a word or two ofprofitable matter might be offered, which shall be withholden now. Formany years I have battled through the world, an orphan, on my ownaccount; and it is not surprising that the vehemence of my early daysshould have gradually sobered down before the stern realities that haveat every step encountered me. Long before I received the unwelcomeintelligence, that it was literally incumbent upon me to revisit the spotof my beloved mother's dissolution, the mention of its name had ceased toevoke any violent emotion, or to affect me as of old. I say unwelcome,because, notwithstanding the stoicism of which I boast, I felt quiteuncomfortable enough to write to my correspondent by the return of post,urging him to make one more endeavour to complete my business without myaid, and to spare, if possible, my personal attendance. I gave no reasonfor this wish. I did not choose to tell a falsehood, and I had hardlyhonesty to acknowledge, even to myself—the truth. I failed, ho