Here, among the dust of the guilty, lies a youth,
whose name, had he survived the ruin of the fatal
events by which he was hurried into crime, might
have adorned the annals of the brave.
The minister of Glenorquhy left Dunbarton
immediately after he had witnessed the last scene
of this melancholy catastrophe. His reason acquiesced
in the justice of the sentence, which
required blood for blood, and he acknowledged
that the vindictive character of his countrymen
required to be powerfully restrained by the strong
curb of social law. But still he mourned over
the individual victim. Who may arraign the bolt
of Heaven when it bursts among the sons of the
forest; yet who can refrain from mourning, when
it selects for the object of its blighting aim the fair
stem of a young oak, that promised to be the pride
of the dell in which it flourished? Musing on these
melancholy events, noon found him engaged in the
mountain passes, by which he was to return to his
still distant home.
Confident in his knowledge of the country, the
clergyman had left the main road, to seek one of
those shorter paths, which are only used by pedestrians,
or by men, like the minister, mounted on
the small, but sure-footed, hardy, and sagacious
horses of the country.
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