The Pastor's Fire-Side Vol.1

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CHAP. I.

It was late one fine evening in September, when a boat, borne along by a single sail, passed over the narrow sea which divides Lindisfarne from the mainland, and moored itself within the small bay of the island. The moon was beginning to rise; and by her silvering outline, already distinguished the venerable relics of Saint Cuthbert's monastery from the shadows of twilight.
Two persons wrapped in large cloaks, and followed by one who seemed a servant, rose from the boat; and giving a piece of gold to their solitary navigator, stepped on shore. The elder of the two made the sign of the cross upon his breast, and with his eyes bent to the ground, walked slowly forward. The younger performed the same act of devotion, though in a less fixed manner, and shivering as he looked up to the flying clouds, followed his companion. Having proceeded over sand and shingle without discerning any thing like an inhabited dwelling, he began to doubt the boatman's information respecting the situation of their purposed lodgings; and, looking around for some other intelligence, perceived a group of fishermen on a shelve of the rock.—By the assistance of his servant, he scrambled up the acclivity, and enquired the way to the Reverend Richard Athelstone's.—One of the men, raising himself from the heap of gathered nets they had been drying on the rocks, pointed along the top of the cliff, and told him to keep on, west of the abbey, when he would soon see the church, and the Pastor's house beside it.
The travellers proceeded a little way in the direction given: but finding that the dubious light bewildered them amongst rocks, ruins, and trees, the younger returned to the fisherman, and begged he would conduct them to Mr. Athelstone's. This request was obeyed with the same direct compliance as his question had been answered; and the man, throwing his net over his shoulder, trudged on before the travellers.—The elder pursued his way in devout abstraction. His eyes were fixed on the distant tower of the monastery; which, to his musing fancy, seemed to stand alone in the bright horizon, like the still hovering shade of the glorified saint of the island.
The way to the Pastor's dwelling lay by the ruins of the wall which had once surrounded the monastery. As the travellers approached it, the roofless aisles and broken arches stood white in the moon-beam; and the windows, partially obscured by the withered stone-crop which sprung from their mouldering columns, threw a checquered light on the half-sunk monuments below.—The youth, fatigued in limbs, and depressed in spirits, drew near his companion. The elder traveller pressed the nerveless arm that now rested upon his, and said in a low voice, "What desolation is here!—Ah, my son, how can we expect peace in the counsels, or virtue in the conduct of a people who thus dishonour the tombs of the saints."
"Alas, my lord," replied the young man, "if we must estimate the piety of nations by the unanimity of their councils, we have not much reason to congratulate ourselves on the holiness of Spain!—Why," added he with asperity, "did her vacillating policy drag us from peaceful Italy?—But for that, we might never have visited these rugged shores."
"Ferdinand," rejoined his father, "the disease of your heart, makes you misjudge your country.—Spain has her errors.—But no comparison can be justly drawn between a people that respect the Faith, even to hallowing the ashes of its apostles; and a race of men, who trample alike on the rights of their kings, and the ordinances of the church:—No good can come to such a people!"

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