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 PA L G R AV E S T U D I E S I N C U LT U R A L H E R I TA G E A N D C O N F L I C T

PUBLIC HUMANITIES AND

THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR
C O N N E C T E D A N D C O N T E ST E D H I STO R I E S

E d i t e d b y A l i s o n R i b e i ro d e M e n e z e s ,
Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez and Adrian Shubert
Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict

Series Editors
Ihab Saloul
University of Amsterdam
Amsterdam, Noord-Holland, The Netherlands

Rob van der Laarse

University of Amsterdam
Amsterdam, The Netherlands

Britt Baillie
Centre for Urban Conflicts Research
University of Cambridge
Cambridge, UK
This book series explores the relationship between cultural heritage and
conflict. The key themes of the series are the heritage and memory of
war and conflict, contested heritage, and competing memories. The
series editors seek books that analyze the dynamics of the past from the
perspective of tangible and intangible remnants, spaces, and traces as
well as heritage appropriations and restitutions, significations, museal-
izations, and mediatizations in the present. Books in the series should
address topics such as the politics of heritage and conflict, identity and
trauma, mourning and reconciliation, nationalism and ethnicity, diaspora
and intergenerational memories, painful heritage and terrorscapes, as
well as the mediated reenactments of conflicted pasts. Dr. Ihab Saloul is
associate professor of cultural studies, founder and research vice-director
of the Amsterdam School for Heritage, Memory and Material Culture
(AHM) at University of Amsterdam. Saloul’s interests include cultural
memory and identity politics, narrative theory and visual analysis, conflict
and trauma, Diaspora and migration as well as contemporary cultural
thought in the Middle East. Professor Rob van der Laarse is research
director of the Amsterdam School for Heritage, Memory and Material
Culture (AHM), and Westerbork Professor of Heritage of Conflict and
War at VU University Amsterdam. Van der Laarse’s research focuses on
(early) modern European elite and intellectual cultures, cultural land-
scape, heritage and identity politics, and the cultural roots and postwar
memory of the Holocaust and other forms of mass violence. Dr. Britt
Baillie is a founding member of the Centre for Urban Conflict Studies at
the University of Cambridge, and a research fellow at the University of
Pretoria. Baillie’s interests include the politicization of cultural heritage,
heritage and the city, memory and identity, religion and conflict, t­ heories
of destruction, heritage as commons, contested heritage, and urban
resistance.

More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14638
 Alison Ribeiro de Menezes
Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez
Adrian Shubert
Editors

Public Humanities and

the Spanish Civil War
Connected and Contested Histories
Editors
Alison Ribeiro de Menezes Adrian Shubert
University of Warwick York University
Coventry, UK Toronto, ON, Canada

Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez
Trent University
Peterborough, ON, Canada

Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict

ISBN 978-3-319-97273-2 ISBN 978-3-319-97274-9 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-97274-9

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018950732

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer
Nature Switzerland AG, part of Springer Nature 2018
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights
of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction
on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology
now known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and
information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication.
Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, express or implied,
with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published
maps and institutional affiliations.

Cover credit: B&M Noskowski/Getty

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
 Acknowledgments

The editors would like to thank the Social Sciences and Humanities
Research Council of Canada for funding the conference out of which
this book arises in Barcelona in June 2016. We are likewise grateful to
Memorial Democràtic for hosting our event and welcoming us warmly.
Joan Maria Thomàs provided constant support and advice, for which
we extend our thanks. Barbara Molas kindly helped with indexing this
volume. Finally, we thank all our authors for their contributions and
support for our wider ambition of establishing a virtual museum of the
Spanish Civil War.

v
 Contents

1 Public Humanities and the Spanish Civil War 1

Alison Ribeiro de Menezes

2 Sites Without Memory and Memory Without Sites:

On the Failure of the Public History of the Spanish
Civil War 19
Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez and Adrian Shubert

3 The Spanish Civil War Archive and the Construction

of Memory 45
Jesús Espinosa Romero

4 The Historical Memory Records Center: A Museum

for Memory and the Recent History of Spain 69
Manuel Melgar Camarzana

5 Museums and Material Memories of the Spanish Civil

War: An Archaeological Critique 93
Alfredo González-Ruibal

6 The Necropolitics of Spain’s Civil War Dead 115

Alison Ribeiro de Menezes

vii
viii    Contents

7 Thinking Outside the Grave: The Material Traces of

Republican Lives Before the Spanish Civil War 139
Layla Renshaw

8 Visualizing Mass Grave Recovery: Ritual, Digital

Culture and Geographic Information Systems 163
Wendy Perla Kurtz

9 Digitally Mediated Memory and the Spanish Civil War 189

Paul Spence

10 The Spanish Civil War in the Classroom: From

Absence to Didactic Potential 217
Maria Feliu-Torruella

11 Veiling and Exhuming the Past: Conflict and

Post-conflict Challenges 239
Jordi Palou-Loverdos

Final Reflections: The Way Forward 267

Index 271
 Notes on Contributors

Antonio Cazorla-Sánchez is Professor of History at Trent University,

Canada. He has specialized in the Franco dictatorship, mostly on Social
and Cultural History of the period. Lately, he has also worked on
Historical Memory and Digital Humanities. Among his most relevant
works are: (ed.) Las cartas a Franco de los españoles de a pié (Barcelona,
2014); Franco: The Biography of the Myth (Oxon/New York, 2013); Fear
and Progress: Ordinary Lives in Franco’s Spain (1936–1975) (Oxford,
2009); (ed.) Condenado a muerte (1939–1941) (Valencia, 2006); and
Las políticas de la Victoria: la consolidación del Nuevo Estado Franquista,
1938–1953 (Madrid, 2000).
Maria Feliu-Torruella holds a degree in Art History from the
Autonomous University of Barcelona, and a doctorate in Social Sciences
from the University of Barcelona, where she is currently a lecturer in
Education. Her research centres on the intersections between education,
heritage and patrimony, and she is a member of the DIDPATRI research
group. She is an adviser for the Museum of the History of Cataluña.
Alfredo González-Ruibal is an archaeologist with the Institute of
Heritage Studies of the Spanish National Research Council. His research
deals with the archaeology of the contemporary past, with a particular
focus on the materiality of the Spanish Civil War and the Franco dic-
tatorship. He has conducted archaeological research in trenches, bat-
tlefields, prisons, concentration camps and monuments. He is the
author of Returning to the Trenches: An Archaeology of the Spanish Civil

ix
x    Notes on Contributors

War (Madrid, 2016, in Spanish), an account of the war and the early
dictatorship based on their material remains.
Wendy Perla Kurtz holds a Ph.D. in Hispanic Literature from the
University of California, Los Angeles. Her research explores the per-
formative aspects of mourning practices represented in textual and visual
media pertaining to the current disinterment and reburial of mass graves
from the Franco dictatorship. Wendy also earned a graduate certificate
in the Digital Humanities from UCLA, and her research, teaching and
project work demonstrate her commitment to using digital technolo-
gies to enrich scholarship. As a Research and Instructional Technology
Consultant at the UCLA Center for Digital Humanities, Wendy has
helped design and manage digital research and pedagogy projects for
faculty and students.
Manuel Melgar Camarzana holds a degree in Geography and History
from the University of Salamanca (1989). He is a civil servant of the
Facultative Body of Archivists, Librarians and Archaeologists (Archives
Section) since 1997. Having served at the Military Archive of Ávila as
Technical Director, since 2010 he has worked the Historical Memory
Records Center, first as Director of the General Archive of the Spanish
Civil War and later as Director of the Center. He has also given courses
and lectures related to military archives, sources for the study of repres-
sion and Francoism, access to contemporary records and, more recently,
on archives and memory, and archives and human rights. His publica-
tions have covered contemporary records of the Military Archive of
Ávila, archives and the memory of Francoism, and the Salamanca archive
as memory resource.
Jordi Palou-Loverdos is an Associate lawyer at Il•lustres Col•legis de
l’Advocacia de Barcelona (Barcelona Bar Association) and registered at
Consejo General de la Abogacía Española (General Council of Spanish
Law Attorneys). He is accredited before the International Criminal
Court (The Hague, Netherlands), and an attorney at the International
Criminal Bar (The Hague, Netherlands). He has been Visiting Professor
at Rutgers State University of New Jersey, Center for the Study of
Genocide and Human Rights. A member of the Human Rights Institute
of the International Bar Association, he is also a founding board mem-
ber of the International Criminal Justice Commission of ICAB. He has
been awarded the Valors Prize by the Il•lustres Col•legis d’Advocats de
 Notes on Contributors    xi

Catalunya 2015 (Catalonia Bar Association), for his contribution to uni-

versal justice, mediation and peaceful resolution of conflicts.
Layla Renshaw is an Associate Professor in the Department of Applied
and Human Sciences at Kingston University. Her research inter-
ests include the role of archaeology in post-conflict investigations, the
relationship between human remains and traumatic memory, and public
and media perceptions of forensics. She trained with the United Nation’s
International Criminal Tribunal for former-Yugoslavia, working on the
exhumation and identification of war victims in postwar Kosovo. She has
also worked in a consultative capacity for a number of UK police con-
stabularies, working on human identification. She has conducted exten-
sive research on the impact of the recent exhumations of mass graves
from the Spanish Civil War, publishing her findings in the monograph,
Exhuming Loss: Memory, Materiality and Mass Graves of the Spanish Civil
War. Recent research concerns the recovery and commemoration of
Australian and British World War I soldiers from Fromelles, Northern
France, concentrating on the process of human identification, genetic
testing, and the engagement of relatives in this process.
Alison Ribeiro de Menezes is founding Professor of Hispanic Studies
at the University of Warwick. Her research focuses on cultural memory
in Spain, Portugal and Southern Cone Latin America. Previous books
include Juan Goytisolo: The Author as Dissident (Tamesis, 2005), A
Companion to Carmen Martín Gatie (with Catherine O’Leary, Tamesis,
2008), and Embodying Memory in Contemporary Spain (Palgrave
Macmillan, 2014). She has been awarded research funding by the Irish
Research Council, the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council and
the European Union.
Jesús Espinosa Romero has a degree in Modern History (UAM)
and an M.B.A. in Cultural Management (USAL). An archivist, he has
worked in various Spanish state institutions as well as on digital projects
such as PARES and APE. He was Director of the Archivo de la Guerra
Civil Española from 2013 to 2017, and is now Deputy Director of the
Archivo General de la Administración. His research has focused on the
history of Madrid and recently the role of the archives during Francoism
and the beginning of democracy in Spain, as well as on archives as instru-
ments to create public memory.
xii    Notes on Contributors

Adrian Shubert is University Professor of History at York University.

His books include A Social History of Modern Spain, Death and Money
in the Afternoon: A History of the Spanish Bullfight, and Espartero, el
Pacificador, a biography of the Spanish military and political figure
Baldomero Espartero (1793–1879). He is a recipient of a Guggenheim
Fellowship and a Killam Research Fellowship, and his work has been
recognized by his election as a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada
and his decoration by King Juan Carlos of Spain with the Order of Civil
Merit.
Paul Spence is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Digital
Humanities, Kings College, London. His research has covered four
areas: digital textual scholarship, digital publishing, digital humanities
pedagogy and global perspectives on digitally mediated knowledge pro-
duction. He has led and managed digital humanities research on a num-
ber of major interdisciplinary projects, with funding from the Andrew
W. Mellon Foundation, AHRC, JISC, Leverhulme Trust and various
European funding agencies. He is part of a multi-institutional team that
was awarded £3 million by the Arts and Humanities Research Council in
2016 for the four-year ‘Language Acts and Worldmaking’ project, which
examines ‘how learning a language affords greater cultural understanding
of the world through the multilingual and multicultural lens of Iberian
languages, empires and contact zones’.
 Acronyms

ADIF Administración de Infraestructuras Ferroviarias (Railway

Infrastructure Administration)
AFARE Comisión Administradora de los Fondos para el Auxilio de los
Republicanos Españoles (Administrative Committee of the Spanish
Republican Relief Fund)
AGA Archivo General de la Administración or Central Administration
Archive
AGMA Archivo General Militar Avila (General Military Archive in Ávila)
AHN Archivo Histórico Nacional (National Historical Archive)
ARMH Asociación para la Recuperación de la Memoria Histórica
(Association for the Recovery of Historical Memory)
CDMH Centro Documental de la Memoria Histórica (Historical Memory
Records Center)
CIFE Centro de Investigación y Formación Feminista (The Centre for
Feminist Research and Training)
COMEBE Consorci Memorial dels Espais de la Batalla de l’Ebre (The
Memorial Consortium of the Spaces of the Battle of the Ebro)
DERD Delegación Del Estado Para La Recuperación de Documentos
(State Delegation for the Recovery of Records)
DGS Dirección General de Seguridad (Directorate-General of Security)
DNSD Delegación Nacional de Servicios Documentales Spanish (National
Delegation of Documentary Services)
EHRI European Holocaust Research Infrastructure
EPL Ejército Popular de Liberación (Popular Liberation Army)
EPR Eglise Presbytérienne au Rwanda (Presbyterian Church in
Rwanda)
ETA Euskadi Ta Askatasuna
xiii
xiv    Acronyms

FARC Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (Revolutionary

Armed Forces of Colombia)
FEDIP Federación Española de Deportados e Internados Políticos (The
Spanish Federation of Deportees and Political Internees)
FET-JONS La Falange Española Tradicionalista y de las Juntas de Ofensiva
Nacional Sindicalista (FET y de las JONS)
FPR/EPR Front Patriotique Rwandais (Rwandan Patriotic Front)
GIS Geographic Information Systems
ICC International Criminal Court Statute
ICTR International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda
ICTY International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia
JARE Junta de Auxilio de los Republicanos Españoles (Spanish
Republican Aid Board)
LERU League of European Research Universities
MIT Ministerio de Información y Turismo (Ministry of Information and
Tourism)
NPR National Parks Service
OHCHR Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human
Rights
OIPA Oficina de Información y Propaganda Anticomunista (Anti-
communist Information and Propaganda Office)
PARES Portal de Archivos Españoles (The Spanish Archives Portal)
PNV Partido Nacionalist Vasco (Basque Nationalist Party)
PSOE Partido Socialista Obrero Español (Spanish Socialist Workers’
Party)
REF (UK) Research Excellence Framework
RPA Rwandan Patriotic Army
SIPM Servicio de Información y Policía Militar (Military Police and
Information Service)
TNA UK National Archives
UC-ELN Unión Camiliast—Ejército de Liberación Nacional (Camilista
Union—National Liberation Army)
UN United Nations
 List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Ruins of Belchite (photograph the author) 10

Fig. 1.2 Street signs in new Belchite (photograph the author) 12
Fig. 1.3 Street signs in new Belchite (photograph the author) 13
Fig. 1.4 Ruins of Rodén with viaduct, seen from the site
of the Bronze-Age settlement (photograph the author) 14
Fig. 1.5 Fuendetodos with unfinished modern construction
of the Museum of Contemporary Engraving
to the right (photograph the author) 15
Fig. 5.1 Abandoned monument in Franco’s headquarters
in Coll del Moro. These unprepossessing monuments built
during the dictatorship are typical of Spanish battlefields 98
Fig. 5.2 Objects without provenance from the Museum of Gandesa 101
Fig. 5.3 The professionally-designed museum of Elgeta 103
Fig. 5.4 Museum of Abánades 104
Fig. 5.5 Everyday objects from the trenches, with no indication of
provenance or side to which they belonged at the private
collection “La Trinxera” in Corbera d’Ebre 107
Fig. 5.6 One of the pillboxes recently restored by the autonomous
government of Madrid in the so-called “Water Front”
(because it surrounded the reservoirs that supplied the capital) 111
Fig. 8.1 “Mapa de fosas,” Gobierno de España, Ministerio de Justicia 178
Fig. 8.2 “Fosses i Repressió,” Generalitat de Catalunya 180

xv
xvi    List of Figures

Fig. 8.3 “Visor de fosas de Navarra,” Gobierno de Navarra 181

Fig. 8.4 “Las víctimas en fosas del franquismo,” El Diario.es 181
Fig. 8.5 Virtual Cartographies, Wendy Perla Kurtz: www.virtualcartog-
raphies.com 183
Fig. 11.1 Transitional Justice Processes 242
 CHAPTER 1

Public Humanities and the

Spanish Civil War

Alison Ribeiro de Menezes

Reaching Out
For some years now, researchers in the United Kingdom have had to
consider ways of bringing their scholarship to a wider audience than the
narrow world of academia.1 A concern for what is termed public engage-
ment (or impact in the idiosyncratic, distorted and distorting formu-
lation of the Research Excellence Framework) is not, however, unique
to the UK. Elsewhere, an interest in public humanities and public his-
tory represents a similar shift toward a belief that the academy can and
should contribute to the cultural and intellectual life of the communities
in which it is located and/or about which it writes. This is often allied
to economic justifications of value or arguments around transparency in

1 Much ink has been spilled on this topic, but see, for example, Helen Small, The Value of
the Humanities (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Jonathan Bate, The Public Value
of the Humanities (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2011).

A. Ribeiro de Menezes (*)

University of Warwick, Coventry, UK

© The Author(s) 2018 1

A. Ribeiro de Menezes et al. (eds.), Public Humanities and the
Spanish Civil War, Palgrave Studies in Cultural Heritage and Conflict,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-97274-9_1
2 A. RIBEIRO de MENEZES

public spending.2 If there is, at times, a certain defensiveness in argu-

ments that stress the public value of the humanities, there is also a con-
structive dimension to those that seek to expose the consequences of
devaluing the contribution of the humanities, particularly in contexts
where complex social and ethical issues are not easily resolved. As Peter
Brooks argues in his exploration of the perceived crisis of the humanities
in Anglo-American higher education, the crisis may truly lie elsewhere,
in the marginalization of humanistic thought and analysis.3 Nevertheless,
Judith Butler has pointed out that it is difficult not to respond to cri-
tiques of the irrelevance of the humanities with arguments that rely upon
the same instrumentalist approach that is used to denigrate their contri-
bution. She asks pointedly if instrumentality is the only way we have of
thinking about what it means to make a difference.4
A further problem lies in the fact that defenses of the humanities may
appeal to their supposed ethical contribution, which is not always easy
to identify or demonstrate. Characterizing humanities approaches as eth-
ical practices—that is, practices of reading, interpretation, and engage-
ment with the other—is Brooks’ answer.5 And yet this raises further
concerns. If the act of teaching and discussing is taken to be a ventril-
oquizing of the other’s voice and position, as he suggests, then this act
may involve not only the potential usurping of the voice of the other,
but at the very least its refraction through the voice and vision of the
teacher-as-ventriloquist. The researcher and teacher are both interpreters,
and as such cannot be entirely neutral; here, ventriloquism is not mere
transfer as if through a loudspeaker, but involves the reshaping of mate-
rial via its communication to another in a particular context, and per-
haps influenced by a particular academic hierarchy or power relationship.
This is not to say that intellectual endeavor is inherently and only ide-
ological; but it is to note that the positionality of the researcher affects
the engagement with his or her material, and hence its presentation to
students or readers. Indeed, if one were to follow the logic of impact

2 Martha Nussbaum, Not For Profit: Why Democracy Needs the Humanities (New Haven,

NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010), 17.

3 Peter Brooks, “Introduction,” in his edited volume, The Humanities and Public Life

(New York: Fordham University Press, 2014), 2.

4 Judith Butler, “Ordinary, Incredulous” in Brooks, The Humanities and Public Life,

15–38 (29).
5 Brooks, “Introduction,” 11.
 1 PUBLIC HUMANITIES AND THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR 3

as outlined in the UK REF context, researcher positionality and perhaps

even potential bias is one problematic dimension. The extent to which
research impact, according to this agenda, truly engages with the sub-
jects that it aims to have an impact upon (not to mention those—the
likely the subjects of the original study—about whom impact outcomes
are gathered and conveyed), rather than using them as instruments in
Butler’s sense, ought to be a focus of ethical discussion and not just
measurement strategies.6
In my experience, researchers engaged in impact as part of the UK
REF exercise do not generally resort to strategies to engineer results,
and genuinely believe in the value of establishing a dialogue with a wider
audience than a purely academic one. One might prefer to call this pub-
lic engagement, understood as an unquantified, softer version of impact.
Furthermore, researchers’ intellectual contribution may well challenge
current practice, in which case the policy impact of their research is not
only hard to quantify but harder to achieve in the first place. Something
of the same muddiness that occurs when intellectual endeavor encoun-
ters various readerships and publics lies behind Ralph J. Hexter’s dis-
cussion, from the perspective of the university administrator, of the
difficulties of what he calls corporate reading, in which a collaborative
and consultative approach to the formulation of institutional or cor-
porate policy may lead, unwittingly, to the distortion and concealment
of partisan or ethical positions.7 There is no more space in UK impact
case study narratives for ethical self-reflection than there is in institu-
tional policy statements. But what ought to be at stake, I would argue,
is not so much the value of the humanities as their contribution—both
as disciplines and as ways of engaging in intellectual endeavor—to cur-
rent and future societal and cultural scenarios. This at least has the merit
of evading consequentialist forms of justification.8 A focus on the process
6 Elenore Belfiore notes this in “‘Impact’, ‘Value’ and ‘Bad Economics’: Making Sense

of the Problem of Value in the Arts and Humanities,” Arts & Humanities in Higher
Education 14, no. 1 (2015), 95–110 (99).
7 Ralph J. Hexter, “Conquering the Obstacles to Kingdom and Fate: The Ethics of

Reading and the University Administrator” in Brooks, The Humanities and Public Life,
83–91 (87).
8 Small, The Value of the Humanities, 6. As Gabriel Moshenska points out with regard

to “public archeology,” the public dimension rarely in fact originates with the public; see
“Contested Pasts and Community Archeologies: Public Engagement in the Archeology of
Modern Conflict,” in Europe’s Deadly Century: Perspectives on Twentieth-Century Conflict
4 A. RIBEIRO de MENEZES

of contributing highlights a relationship of engagement and exchange

rather than the fabrication of an instrumentally measurable end product.
Without wishing to promote mysticism as a means of evading solid anal-
ysis, my position is perhaps akin to Paul W. Kahn’s when he outlines the
contribution of the humanities as follows:

The making of an interpretation—which can only be answered by another

interpretation, in a potentially endless conversation—needs to be judged
not only on its product but on how it is carried out. A belief in human
dignity must be based not in sympathy for the suffering of others but in
the shared mystery of human creativity.9

By bringing issues of dignity and of a shared creativity into the discus-

sion, Kahn removes the one-way framing of impact (which measures
effects upon certain individuals or groups), as well as the economic dis-
course underpinning value, while retaining a sense that both researcher
and subject may be transformed by an exchange that should be con-
ducted respectfully and reciprocally, with self-awareness of what is at
stake in the encounter.
The pressure to engage wider publics with academic research and
intellectual debate is not, of course, necessarily detrimental to the
humanities. David Cooper notes that the effect of the heavily introverted
theorizing of the late twentieth century within cultural studies was to
seal off the discipline from outside engagement:

New culture critics can brilliantly deconstruct politics and power out
of just about every text and every “artifact” of “cultural production.”
Meanwhile they have very little to communicate to the larger public.10

This marooning of academic insight and critical intellect in a doldrums,

worlds apart from the agitations of democratic culture and the felt public

Heritage, ed. Robin Page, Neil Forbes, and Guillermo Pérez (Swindon: English Heritage,
2009), 73–79 (73).
9 Paul W. Kahn, “On Humanities and Human Rights” in Brooks, The Humanities and

Public Life, 116–22 (116).

10 David Cooper, Learning in the Plural: Essays on the Humanities and Public Life (East

Lancing, MI: Michigan State University, 2014), 159.

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 THE SNOW-STORM.

By Professor Wilson.

In summer there is beauty in the wildest moors of Scotland, and

the wayfaring man who sits down for an hour’s rest beside some little
spring that flows unheard through the brightened moss and water-
cresses, feels his weary heart revived by the silent, serene, and
solitary prospect. On every side sweet sunny spots of verdure smile
towards him from among the melancholy heather; unexpectedly in
the solitude a stray sheep, it may be with its lambs, starts half-
alarmed at his motionless figure; insects, large, bright, and beautiful,
come careering by him through the desert air; nor does the wild want
its own songsters,—the gray linnet, fond of the blooming furze, and
now and then the lark mounting up to heaven above the summits of
the green pastoral hills. During such a sunshiny hour, the lonely
cottage on the waste seems to stand in a paradise; and as he rises to
pursue his journey, the traveller looks back and blesses it with a
mingled emotion of delight and envy. There, thinks he, abide the
children of Innocence and Contentment, the two most benign spirits
that watch over human life.
But other thoughts arise in the mind of him who may chance to
journey through the same scene in the desolation of winter. The cold
bleak sky girdles the moor as with a belt of ice—life is frozen in air
and on earth. The silence is not of repose but extinction; and should
a solitary human dwelling catch his eye, half buried in the snow, he is
sad for the sake of them whose destiny it is to abide far from the
cheerful haunts of men, shrouded up in melancholy, by poverty held
in thrall, or pining away in unvisited and untended disease.
 But, in good truth, the heart of human life is but imperfectly
discovered from its countenance; and before we can know what the
summer or what the winter yields for enjoyment or trial to our
country’s peasantry, we must have conversed with them in their
fields and by their firesides, and made ourselves acquainted with the
powerful ministry of the seasons, not over those objects alone that
feed the eye and the imagination, but over all the incidents,
occupations, and events, that modify or constitute the existence of
the poor.
I have a short and simple story to tell of the winter life of the
moorland cottager—a story but of one evening—with few events and
no single catastrophe—which may haply please those hearts whose
delight it is to think on the humble underplots that are carrying on in
the great drama of life.
Two cottagers, husband and wife, were sitting by their cheerful
peat-fire one winter evening, in a small lonely hut on the edge of a
wide moor, at some miles’ distance from any other habitation. There
had been, at one time, several huts of the same kind erected close
together, and inhabited by families of the poorest class of day-
labourers, who found work among the distant farms, and at night
returned to dwellings which were rent-free, with their little gardens
won from the waste. But one family after another had dwindled
away, and the turf-built huts had all fallen into ruins, except one that
had always stood in the centre of this little solitary village, with its
summer-walls covered with the richest honeysuckles, and in the
midst of the brightest of all the gardens. It alone now sent up its
smoke into the clear winter sky—and its little end window, now
lighted up, was the only ground-star that shone towards the belated
traveller, if any such ventured to cross, on a winter night, a scene so
dreary and desolate. The affairs of the small household were all
arranged for the night. The little rough pony, that had drawn in a
sledge, from the heart of the Black-moss, the fuel by whose blaze the
cottars were now sitting cheerily, and the little Highland cow, whose
milk enabled them to live, were standing amicably together, under
cover of a rude shed, of which one side was formed by the peat-stack,
and which was at once byre, and stable, and hen-roost. Within, the
clock ticked cheerfully as the fire-light reached its old oak-wood case,
across the yellow-sanded floor; and a small round table stood
between, covered with a snow-white cloth, on which were milk and
oat-cakes, the morning, mid-day, and evening meal of these frugal
and contented cottars. The spades and the mattocks of the labourer
were collected into one corner, and showed that the succeeding day
was the blessed Sabbath; while on the wooden chimneypiece was
seen lying an open Bible ready for family worship.
The father and the mother were sitting together without opening
their lips, but with their hearts overflowing with happiness, for on
this Saturday night they were, every minute, expecting to hear at the
latch the hand of their only daughter, a maiden of about fifteen years,
who was at service with a farmer over the hills. This dutiful child
was, as they knew, to bring home to them “her sair-won penny fee,” a
pittance which, in the beauty of her girlhood, she earned singing at
her work, and which, in the benignity of that sinless time, she would
pour with tears into the bosoms she so dearly loved. Forty shillings a-
year were all the wages of sweet Hannah Lee; but though she wore at
her labour a tortoise-shell comb in her auburn hair, and though in
the kirk none were more becomingly arrayed than she, one half at
least of her earnings were to be reserved for the holiest of all
purposes; and her kind, innocent heart was gladdened when she
looked on the little purse that was, on the long-expected Saturday
night, to be taken from her bosom, and put, with a blessing, into the
hand of her father, now growing old at his daily toils.
Of such a child the happy cottars were thinking in their silence.
And well, indeed, might they be called happy. It is at that sweet
season that filial piety is most beautiful. Their own Hannah had just
outgrown the mere unthinking gladness of childhood, but had not
yet reached that time when inevitable selfishness mixes with the pure
current of love. She had begun to think on what her affectionate
heart had felt so long; and when she looked on the pale face and
bending frame of her mother, on the deepening wrinkles and
whitening hairs of her father, often would she lie weeping for their
sakes on her midnight bed, and wish that she were beside them as
they slept, that she might kneel down and kiss them, and mention
their names over and over again in her prayer. The parents whom
before she had only loved, her expanding heart now also venerated.
With gushing tenderness was now mingled a holy fear and an awful
reverence. She had discerned the relation in which she, an only child,
stood to her poor parents, now that they were getting old, and there
was not a passage in Scripture that spake of parents or of children,
from Joseph sold into slavery to Mary weeping below the Cross, that
was not written, never to be obliterated, on her uncorrupted heart.
The father rose from his seat, and went to the door to look out into
the night. The stars were in thousands, and the full moon was risen.
It was almost light as day, and the snow, that seemed encrusted with
diamonds, was so hardened by the frost, that his daughter’s
homeward feet would leave no mark on its surface. He had been
toiling all day among the distant Castle-woods, and, stiff and wearied
as he now was, he was almost tempted to go to meet his child; but his
wife’s kind voice dissuaded him, and, returning to the fireside, they
began to talk of her whose image had been so long passing before
them in their silence.
“She is growing up to be a bonny lassie,” said the mother; “her long
and weary attendance on me during my fever last spring kept her
down a while—but now she is sprouting fast and fair as a lily, and
may the blessing of God be as dew and as sunshine to our sweet
flower all the days she bloometh upon this earth.”
“Ay, Agnes,” replied the father, “we are not very old yet—though
we are getting older—and a few years will bring her to woman’s
estate; and what thing on this earth, think ye, human or brute, would
ever think of injuring her? Why, I was speaking about her yesterday
to the minister, as he was riding by, and he told me that none
answered at the examination in the kirk so well as Hannah. Poor
thing—I well think she has all the Bible by heart—indeed, she has
read but little else—only some stories, too true ones, of the blessed
martyrs, and some o’ the auld sangs o’ Scotland, in which there is
nothing but what is good, and which, to be sure, she sings, God bless
her, sweeter than any laverock.”
“Ay,—were we both to die this very night, she would be happy. Not
that she would forget us all the days of her life. But have you not
seen, husband, that God always makes the orphan happy? None so
little lonesome as they! They come to make friends o’ all the bonny
and sweet things in the world around them, and all the kind hearts in
the world make friends o’ them. They come to know that God is more
especially the Father o’ them on earth whose parents he has taken up
to heaven; and therefore it is that they, for whom so many have fears,
fear not at all for themselves, but go dancing and singing along like
children whose parents are both alive. Would it not be so with our
dear Hannah? So douce and thoughtful a child—but never sad or
miserable—ready, it is true, to shed tears for little, but as ready to dry
them up and break out into smiles! I know not why it is, husband,
but this night my heart warms towards her beyond usual. The moon
and stars are at this moment looking down upon her, and she looking
up to them, as she is glinting homewards over the snow. I wish she
were but here, and taking the comb out o’ her bonny hair, and letting
it all fall down in clusters before the fire, to melt away the
cranreuch!”
While the parents were thus speaking of their daughter, a loud
sough of wind came suddenly over the cottage, and the leafless ash-
tree under whose shelter it stood, creaked and groaned dismally as it
passed by. The father started up, and, going again to the door, saw
that a sudden change had come over the face of the night. The moon
had nearly disappeared, and was just visible in a dim, yellow,
glimmering den in the sky. All the remote stars were obscured, and
only one or two were faintly seen in a sky that half an hour before
was perfectly cloudless, but that was now driving with rack, and mist,
and sleet, the whole atmosphere being in commotion. He stood for a
single moment to observe the direction of this unforeseen storm, and
then hastily asked for his staff. “I thought I had been more weather-
wise—a storm is coming down from the Cairnbrae-hawse, and we
shall have nothing but a wild night.” He then whistled on his dog—an
old sheep-dog, too old for its former labours—and set off to meet his
daughter, who might then, for aught he knew, be crossing the Black-
moss. The mother accompanied her husband to the door, and took a
long frightened look at the angry sky. As she kept gazing, it became
still more terrible. The last shred of blue was extinguished, the wind
went whirling in roaring eddies, and great flakes of snow circled
about in the middle air, whether drifted up from the ground, or
driven down from the clouds, the fear-stricken mother knew not, but
she at least knew that it seemed a night of danger, despair, and
death. “Lord have mercy on us, James, what will become of our poor
bairn!” But her husband heard not her words, for he was already out
of sight in the snow-storm, and she was left to the terror of her own
soul in that lonesome cottage.
 Little Hannah Lee had left her master’s house, soon as the rim of
the great moon was seen by her eyes, that had been long anxiously
watching it from the window, rising, like a joyful dream, over the
gloomy mountain-tops; and all by herself she tripped along beneath
the beauty of the silent heaven. Still as she kept ascending and
descending the knolls that lay in the bosom of the glen, she sang to
herself a song, a hymn, or a psalm, without the accompaniment of
the streams, now all silent in the frost; and ever and anon she
stopped to try to count the stars that lay in some more beautiful part
of the sky, or gazed on the constellations that she knew, and called
them, in her joy, by the names they bore among the shepherds. There
were none to hear her voice, or see her smiles, but the ear and eye of
Providence. As on she glided, and took her looks from heaven, she
saw her own little fireside—her parents waiting for her arrival—the
Bible opened for worship—her own little room kept so neatly for her,
with its mirror hanging by the window, in which to braid her hair by
the morning light—her bed prepared for her by her mother’s hand—
the primroses in her garden peeping through the snow—old Tray,
who ever welcomed her home with his dim white eyes—the pony and
the cow;—friends all, and inmates of that happy household. So
stepped she along, while the snow diamonds glittered around her
feet, and the frost wove a wreath of lucid pearls round her forehead.
She had now reached the edge of the Black-moss, which lay half-
way between her master’s and her father’s dwelling, when she heard
a loud noise coming down Glen-Scrae, and in a few seconds she felt
on her face some flakes of snow. She looked up the glen, and saw the
snow-storm coming down fast as a flood. She felt no fears; but she
ceased her song; and had there been a human eye to look upon her
there, it might have seen a shadow on her face. She continued her
course, and felt bolder and bolder every step that brought her nearer
to her parents’ house. But the snow-storm had now reached the
Black-moss, and the broad line of light that had lain in the direction
of her home was soon swallowed up, and the child was in utter
darkness. She saw nothing but the flakes of snow, interminably
intermingled, and furiously wafted in the air, close to her head; she
heard nothing but one wild, fierce, fitful howl. The cold became
intense, and her little feet and hands were fast being benumbed into
insensibility.
 “It is a fearful change,” muttered the child to herself; but still she
did not fear, for she had been born in a moorland cottage, and lived
all her days among the hardships of the hills. “What will become of
the poor sheep!” thought she,—but still she scarcely thought of her
own danger, for innocence, and youth, and joy, are slow to think of
aught evil befalling themselves, and, thinking benignly of all living
things, forget their own fear in their pity for others’ sorrow. At last,
she could no longer discern a single mark on the snow, either of
human steps, or of sheep-track, or the footprint of a wildfowl.
Suddenly, too, she felt out of breath and exhausted, and, shedding
tears for herself at last, sank down in the snow.
It was now that her heart began to quake with fear. She
remembered stories of shepherds lost in the snow, of a mother and a
child frozen to death on that very moor—and in a moment she knew
that she was to die. Bitterly did the poor child weep, for death was
terrible to her, who, though poor, enjoyed the bright little world of
youth and innocence. The skies of heaven were dearer than she knew
to her—so were the flowers of earth. She had been happy at her work,
happy in her sleep,—happy in the kirk on Sabbath. A thousand
thoughts had the solitary child,—and in her own heart was a spring
of happiness, pure and undisturbed as any fount that sparkles
unseen all the year through, in some quiet nook among the pastoral
hills. But now there was to be an end of all this—she was to be frozen
to death—and lie there till the thaw might come; and then her father
would find her body, and carry it away to be buried in the kirk-yard.
The tears were frozen on her cheeks as soon as shed; and scarcely
had her little hands strength to clasp themselves together, as the
thought of an overruling and merciful Lord came across her heart.
Then, indeed, the fears of this religious child were calmed, and she
heard without terror the plover’s wailing cry, and the deep boom of
the bittern sounding in the moss. “I will repeat the Lord’s Prayer;”
and, drawing her plaid more closely around her, she whispered,
beneath its ineffectual cover,—“Our Father which art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth
as it is in heaven.” Had human aid been within fifty yards, it could
have been of no avail—eye could not see her, ear could not hear her
in that howling darkness. But that low prayer was heard in the centre
of eternity—and that little sinless child was lying in the snow,
beneath the all-seeing eye of God.
The maiden, having prayed to her Father in heaven, then thought
of her father on earth. Alas! they were not far separated! The father
was lying but a short distance from his child; he too had sunk down
in the drifting snow, after having, in less than an hour, exhausted all
the strength of fear, pity, hope, despair, and resignation, that could
rise in a father’s heart, blindly seeking to rescue his only child from
death, thinking that one desperate exertion might enable them to
perish in each other’s arms. There they lay, within a stone’s-throw of
each other, while a huge snow-drift was every moment piling itself
up into a more insurmountable barrier between the dying parent and
his dying child.
There was all this while a blazing fire in the cottage, a white-spread
table, and beds prepared for the family to lie down in peace. Yet was
she who sat therein more to be pitied than the old man and the child
stretched upon the snow. “I will not go to seek them—that would be
tempting Providence, and wilfully putting out the lamp of life. No; I
will abide here, and pray for their souls!” Then as she knelt down,
looked she at the useless fire burning away so cheerfully, when all
she loved might be dying of cold; and unable to bear the thought, she
shrieked out a prayer, as if she might pierce the sky up to the very
throne of God, and send with it her own miserable soul to plead
before Him for the deliverance of her child and husband. She then
fell down in blessed forgetfulness of all trouble, in the midst of the
solitary cheerfulness of that bright-burning hearth, and the Bible,
which she had been trying to read in the pauses of her agony,
remained clasped in her hands.
Hannah Lee had been a servant for more than six months, and it
was not to be thought that she was not beloved in her master’s
family. Soon after she had left the house, her master’s son, a youth of
about eighteen years, who had been among the hills looking after the
sheep, came home, and was disappointed to find that he had lost an
opportunity of accompanying Hannah part of the way to her father’s
cottage. But the hour of eight had gone by, and not even the company
of young William Grieve could induce the kind-hearted daughter to
delay setting out on her journey a few minutes beyond the time
promised to her parents. “I do not like the night,” said William;
“there will be a fresh fall of snow soon, or the witch of Glen-Scrae is a
liar, for a snow-cloud is hanging o’er the Birch-tree-linn, and it may
be down to the Black-moss as soon as Hannah Lee.” So he called his
two sheep-dogs that had taken their place under the long table before
the window, and set out, half in joy, half in fear, to overtake Hannah,
and see her safely across the Black-moss.
The snow began to drift so fast, that before he had reached the
head of the glen, there was nothing to be seen but a little bit of the
wooden rail of the bridge across the Sauch-burn. William Grieve was
the most active shepherd in a large pastoral parish; he had often
passed the night among the wintry hills for the sake of a few sheep,
and all the snow that ever fell from heaven would not have made him
turn back when Hannah Lee was before him, and, as his terrified
heart told him, in imminent danger of being lost. As he advanced, he
felt that it was no longer a walk of love or friendship, for which he
had been glad of an excuse. Death stared him in the face, and his
young soul, now beginning to feel all the passions of youth, was filled
with frenzy. He had seen Hannah every day—at the fireside—at work
—in the kirk—on holidays—at prayers—bringing supper to his aged
parents—smiling and singing about the house from morning till
night. She had often brought his own meal to him among the hills;
and he now found that, though he had never talked to her about love,
except smilingly and playfully, he loved her beyond father or mother,
or his own soul. “I will save thee, Hannah,” he cried, with a loud sob,
“or lie down beside thee in the snow—and we will die together in our
youth.” A wild whistling wind went by him, and the snow-flakes
whirled so fiercely round his head, that he staggered on for a while in
utter blindness. He knew the path that Hannah must have taken, and
went forwards shouting aloud, and stopping every twenty yards to
listen for a voice. He sent his well-trained dogs over the snow in all
directions—repeating to them her name, “Hannah Lee,” that the
dumb animals might, in their sagacity, know for whom they were
searching; and, as they looked up in his face, and set off to scour the
moor, he almost believed that they knew his meaning (and it is
probable they did), and were eager to find in her bewilderment the
kind maiden by whose hand they had so often been fed. Often went
they off into the darkness, and as often returned, but their looks
showed that every quest had been in vain. Meanwhile the snow was
of a fearful depth, and falling without intermission or diminution.
Had the young shepherd been thus alone, walking across the moor
on his ordinary business, it is probable that he might have been
alarmed for his own safety; nay, that, in spite of all his strength and
agility, he might have sunk down beneath the inclemency of the
night, and perished. But now the passion of his soul carried him with
supernatural strength along, and extricated him from wreath and
pitfall. Still there was no trace of poor Hannah Lee; and one of his
dogs at last came close to his feet, worn out entirely, and afraid to
leave its master, while the other was mute, and, as the shepherd
thought, probably unable to force its way out of some hollow, or
through some floundering drift.
Then he all at once knew that Hannah Lee was dead, and dashed
himself down in the snow in a fit of passion. It was the first time that
the youth had ever been sorely tried; all his hidden and unconscious
love for the fair lost girl had flowed up from the bottom of his heart,
and at once the sole object which had blessed his life and made him
the happiest of the happy, was taken away and cruelly destroyed; so
that, sullen, wrathful, baffled, and despairing, there he lay cursing
his existence, and in too great agony to think of prayer. “God,” he
then thought, “has forsaken me, and why should He think on me,
when He suffers one so good and beautiful as Hannah to be frozen to
death?” God thought both of him and Hannah; and through His
infinite mercy forgave the sinner in his wild turbulence of passion.
William Grieve had never gone to bed without joining in prayer, and
he revered the Sabbath-day and kept it holy. Much is forgiven to the
human heart by Him who so fearfully framed it; and God is not slow
to pardon the love which one human being bears to another, in his
frailty—even though that love forget or arraign His own unsleeping
providence. His voice has told us to love one another—and William
loved Hannah in simplicity, innocence, and truth. That she should
perish was a thought so dreadful, that, in its agony, God seemed a
ruthless being. “Blow—blow—blow—and drift us up for ever—we
cannot be far asunder—Oh, Hannah—Hannah, think ye not that the
fearful God has forsaken us?”
As the boy groaned these words passionately through his quivering
lips, there was a sudden lowness in the air, and he heard the barking
of his absent dog, while the one at his feet hurried off in the direction
of the sound, and soon loudly joined the cry. It was not a bark of
surprise, or anger, or fear—but of recognition and love. William
sprang up from his bed in the snow, and, with his heart knocking at
his bosom even to sickness, he rushed headlong through the drifts
with a giant’s strength, and fell down, half dead with joy and terror,
beside the body of Hannah Lee.
But he soon recovered from that fit, and, lifting the cold corpse in
his arms, he kissed her lips, and her cheeks, and her forehead, and
her closed eyes, till, as he kept gazing on her face in utter despair, her
head fell back on his shoulder, and a long deep sigh came from her
inmost bosom. “She is yet alive, thank God!”—and, as that expression
left his lips for the first time that night, he felt a pang of remorse: “I
said, O God, that Thou hadst forsaken us—I am not worthy to be
saved; but let not this maiden perish, for the sake of her parents, who
have no other child.” The distracted youth prayed to God with the
same earnestness as if he had been beseeching a fellow-creature, in
whose hand was the power of life and of death. The presence of the
Great Being was felt by him in the dark and howling wild, and
strength was imparted to him as to a deliverer. He bore along the fair
child in his arms, even as if she had been a lamb. The snow-drift blew
not; the wind fell dead; a sort of glimmer, like that of an upbreaking
and disparting storm, gathered about him; his dogs barked, and
jumped, and burrowed joyfully in the snow; and the youth, strong in
sudden hope, exclaimed, “With the blessing of God, who has not
deserted us in our sore distress, will I carry thee, Hannah, in my
arms, and lay thee down alive in the house of thy father.” At this
moment there were no stars in heaven, but she opened her dim blue
eyes upon him in whose bosom she was unconsciously lying, and
said, as in a dream, “Send the ribbon that ties up my hair as a
keepsake to William Grieve.” “She thinks that she is on her deathbed,
and forgets not the son of her master. It is the voice of God that tells
me she will not now die, and that, under His grace, I shall be her
deliverer.”
The short-lived rage of the storm was soon over, and William could
attend to the beloved being on his bosom. The warmth of his heart
seemed to infuse life into hers; and, as he gently placed her feet on
the snow, till he muffled her up in his plaid, as well as in her own, she
made an effort to stand, and, with extreme perplexity and
bewilderment, faintly inquired where she was, and what fearful
misfortune had befallen them? She was, however, too weak to walk;
and, as her young master carried her along, she murmured, “O
William! what if my father be in the moor?—For if you, who need
care so little about me, have come hither, as I suppose, to save my
life, you may be sure that my father sat not within doors during the
storm.” As she spoke, it was calm below, but the wind was still alive
in the upper air, and cloud, rack, mist, and sleet were all driving
about in the sky. Out shone for a moment the pallid and ghostly
moon, through a rent in the gloom, and by that uncertain light came
staggering forward the figure of a man. “Father—father!” cried
Hannah—and his gray hairs were already on her cheek. The barking
of the dogs, and the shouting of the young shepherd, had struck his
ear, as the sleep of death was stealing over him, and, with the last
effort of benumbed nature, he had roused himself from that fatal
torpor, and pressed through the snow-wreath that had separated him
from his child. As yet they knew not of the danger each had endured,
but each judged of the other’s sufferings from their own; and father
and daughter regarded one another as creatures rescued, and hardly
yet rescued, from death.
But a few minutes ago, and the three human beings who loved
each other so well, and now feared not to cross the moor in safety,
were, as they thought, on their deathbeds. Deliverance now shone
upon them all like a gentle fire, dispelling that pleasant but deadly
drowsiness; and the old man was soon able to assist William Grieve
in leading Hannah along through the snow. Her colour and her
warmth returned, and her lover—for so might he well now be called
—felt her heart gently beating against his side. Filled as that heart
was with gratitude to God, joy in her deliverance, love to her father,
and purest affection for her master’s son, never before had the
innocent maiden known what was happiness, and never more was
she to forget it. The night was now almost calm, and fast returning to
its former beauty, when the party saw the first twinkle of the fire
through the low window of the Cottage of the Moor. They soon were
at the garden gate, and, to relieve the heart of the wife and mother
within, they talked loudly and cheerfully—naming each other
familiarly, and laughing between, like persons who had known
neither danger nor distress.
 No voice answered from within—no footstep came to the door,
which stood open as when the father had left it in his fear, and now
he thought with affright that his wife, feeble as she was, had been
unable to support the loneliness, and had followed him out into the
night, never to be brought home alive. As they bore Hannah into the
house, this fear gave way to worse, for there upon the hard clay floor
lay the mother upon her face, as if murdered by some savage blow.
She was in the same deadly swoon into which she had fallen on her
husband’s departure three hours before. The old man raised her up,
and her pulse was still—so was her heart—her face pale and sunken—
and her body cold as ice. “I have recovered a daughter,” said the old
man, “but I have lost a wife;” and he carried her with a groan to the
bed, on which he laid her lifeless body. The sight was too much for
Hannah, worn out as she was, and who had hitherto been able to
support herself in the delightful expectation of gladdening her
mother’s heart by her safe arrival. She, too, now swooned away, and,
as she was placed on the bed beside her mother, it seemed, indeed,
that Death, disappointed of his prey on the wild moor, had seized it
in the cottage and by the fireside. The husband knelt down by the
bedside, and held his wife’s icy hand in his, while William Grieve,
appalled and awe-stricken, hung over his Hannah, and inwardly
implored God that the night’s wild adventure might not have so
ghastly an end. But Hannah’s young heart soon began once more to
beat—and, soon as she came to her recollection, she rose up with a
face whiter than ashes and free from all smiles, as if none had ever
played there, and joined her father and young master in their efforts
to restore her mother to life.
It was the mercy of God that had struck her down to the earth,
insensible to the shrieking winds, and the fears that would otherwise
have killed her. Three hours of that wild storm had passed over her
head, and she heard nothing more than if she had been asleep in a
breathless night of the summer dew. Not even a dream had touched
her brain, and when she opened her eyes, which, as she thought, had
been but a moment shut, she had scarcely time to recall to her
recollection the image of her husband rushing out into the storm,
and of a daughter therein lost, till she beheld that very husband
kneeling tenderly by her bedside, and that very daughter smoothing
the pillow on which her aching temples reclined. But she knew from
the white steadfast countenances before her that there had been
tribulation and deliverance, and she looked on the beloved beings
ministering by her bed, as more fearfully dear to her from the
unimagined danger from which she felt assured they had been
rescued by the arm of the Almighty.
There is little need to speak of returning recollection, and
returning strength. They had all now power to weep, and power to
pray. The Bible had been lying in its place ready for worship, and the
father read aloud that chapter in which is narrated our Saviour’s act
of miraculous power by which He saved Peter from the sea. Soon as
the solemn thoughts awakened by that act of mercy, so similar to
that which had rescued themselves from death, had subsided, and
they had all risen up from prayer, they gathered themselves in
gratitude round the little table which had stood so many hours
spread; and exhausted nature was strengthened and restored by a
frugal and simple meal, partaken of in silent thankfulness. The whole
story of the night was then calmly recited; and when the mother
heard how the stripling had followed her sweet Hannah into the
storm, and borne her in his arms through a hundred drifted heaps—
and then looked upon her in her pride, so young, so innocent, and so
beautiful, she knew, that were the child indeed to become an orphan,
there was one who, if there was either trust in nature or truth in
religion, would guard and cherish her all the days of her life.
It was not nine o’clock when the storm came down from Glen-
Scrae upon the Black-moss, and now in a pause of silence the clock
struck twelve. Within these three hours William and Hannah had led
a life of trouble and of joy, that had enlarged and kindled their hearts
within them; and they felt that henceforth they were to live wholly
for each other’s sakes. His love was the proud and exulting love of a
deliverer, who, under Providence, had saved from the frost and the
snow, the innocence and the beauty of which his young passionate
heart had been so desperately enamoured; and he now thought of his
own Hannah Lee ever more moving about in his father’s house, not
as a servant, but as a daughter—and, when some few happy years
had gone by, his own most beautiful and loving wife. The innocent
maiden still called him her young master, but was not ashamed of
the holy affection which she now knew that she had long felt for the
fearless youth on whose bosom she had thought herself dying in that
cold and miserable moor. Her heart leapt within her when she heard
her parents bless him by his name; and when he took her hand into
his before them, and vowed before that Power who had that night
saved them from the snow, that Hannah Lee should ere long be his
wedded wife, she wept and sobbed as if her heart would break in a fit
of strange and insupportable happiness.
The young shepherd rose to bid them farewell—“My father will
think I am lost,” said he, with a grave smile, “and my Hannah’s
mother knows what it is to fear for a child.” So nothing was said to
detain him, and the family went with him to the door. The skies
smiled as serenely as if a storm had never swept before the stars; the
moon was sinking from her meridian, but in cloudless splendour;
and the hollow of the hills was hushed as that of heaven. Danger
there was none over the placid night-scene; the happy youth soon
crossed the Black-moss, now perfectly still; and, perhaps, just as he
was passing, with a shudder of gratitude, the very spot where his
sweet Hannah Lee had so nearly perished, she was lying down to
sleep in her innocence, or dreaming of one now dearer to her than all
on earth but her parents.
 LOVE AT ONE GLIMPSE;
OR, THE GLASGOW GENTLEMAN AND THE
LADY.

Some years ago, there used to be pointed out, upon the streets of
Glasgow, a man whose intellect had been unsettled upon a very
strange account. When a youth, he had happened to pass a lady on a
crowded throughfare—a lady whose extreme beauty, though dimmed
by the intervention of a veil, and seen but for a moment, made an
indelible impression upon his mind. This lovely vision shot rapidly
past him, and was in an instant lost amidst the commonplace crowd
through which it moved. He was so confounded by the tumult of his
feelings, that he could not pursue, or even attempt to see it again. Yet
he never afterwards forgot it.
With a mind full of distracting thoughts, and a heart filled
alternately with gushes of pleasure and of pain, the man slowly left
the spot where he had remained for some minutes as it were
thunderstruck. He soon after, without being aware of what he
wished, or what he was doing, found himself again at the place. He
came to the very spot where he had stood when the lady passed,
mused for some time about it, went to a little distance, and then
came up as he had come when he met the exquisite subject of his
reverie—unconsciously deluding himself with the idea that this might
recall her to the spot. She came not; he felt disappointed. He tried
again; still she abstained from passing. He continued to traverse the
place till the evening, when the street became deserted. By-and-by,
he was left altogether alone. He then saw that all his fond efforts
were vain, and he left the silent, lonely street at midnight, with a soul
as desolate as that gloomy terrace.
 For weeks afterwards he was never off the streets. He wandered
hither and thither throughout the town, like a forlorn ghost. In
particular, he often visited the place where he had first seen the
object of his abstracted thoughts, as if he considered that he had a
better chance of seeing her there than anywhere else. He frequented
every place of public amusement to which he could purchase
admission; and he made the tour of all the churches in the town. All
was in vain. He never again placed his eyes upon that angelic
countenance. She was ever present to his mental optics, but she
never appeared in a tangible form. Without her essential presence,
all the world beside was to him as a blank—a wilderness.
Madness invariably takes possession of the mind which broods
over much or over long upon some engrossing idea. So did it prove
with this singular lover. He grew “innocent,” as the people of this
country tenderly phrase it. His insanity, however, was little more
than mere abstraction. The course of his mind was stopped at a
particular point. After this he made no further progress in any
intellectual attainment. He acquired no new ideas. His whole soul
stood still. He was like a clock stopped at a particular hour, with
some things, too, about him, which, like the motionless indices of
that machine, pointed out the date of the interruption. As, for
instance, he ever after wore a peculiarly long-backed and high-
necked coat, as well as a neckcloth of a particular spot—being the
fashion of the year when he saw the lady. Indeed, he was a sort of
living memorial of the dress, gait, and manners of a former day. It
was evident that he clung with a degree of fondness to every thing
which bore relation to the great incident of his life. Nor could he
endure any thing that tended to cover up or screen from his
recollection that glorious yet melancholy circumstance. He had the
same feeling of veneration for that day, that circumstance, and for
himself, as he then existed, which caused the chivalrous lover of
former times to preserve upon his lips, as long as he could, the
imaginary delight which they had drawn from the touch of his
mistress’s hand.
When I last saw this unfortunate person, he was getting old, and
seemed still more deranged than formerly. Every female whom he
met on the street, especially if at all good looking, he gazed at with an
enquiring, anxious expression; and when she had passed, he usually
stood still a few moments and mused, with his eyes cast upon the
ground. It was remarkable, that he gazed most anxiously upon
women whose age and figures most nearly resembled that of his
unknown mistress at the time he had seen her, and that he did not
appear to make allowance for the years which had passed since his
eyes met that vision. This was part of his madness. Strange power of
love! Incomprehensible mechanism of the human heart!—Edinburgh
Literary Journal, 1829.
 NANNY WELSH, THE MINISTER’S MAID.

By Daniel Gorrie.

There are now—so far at least as my experience goes—fewer

specimens of homely, odd, and eccentric characters to be met with in
Scotland than in former years. In solitary nooks of the country, away
from the boom of cities, and the rush of railways, many doubtless
still exist, and contribute largely to the amusement of their rural
acquaintances; but it cannot be denied that the race of originals is
fast disappearing, and threatens ultimately to become altogether
extinct. Into the cause or causes of this I do not intend to enter; it is
sufficient to chronicle the melancholy fact. There may be a beauty in
similarity, but there is a higher beauty in diversity. Men and women
are now so very much alike, that the study of mankind is not such a
difficult task after all. The greater facilities for intercourse which the
present generation enjoys have tended to rub off the angularities of
individual character, and to create a fusion, or confusion, of all
classes in the community. Such being the case, it is pleasant at times
to revert from the present to the past, and to recall the peculiar
aspect, the odd sayings, and eccentric doings of persons with whom
we were familiar in former years.
Among a number of others, Nanny Welsh stands prominent in my
recollection. She was maid-of-all-work in the old home-manse of
Keppel, where I first saw the light of day, and for many years
afterwards. A rare specimen Nanny was of the departed or departing
race of familiar domestics. She had herded the cows of neighbouring
farmers, almost from her childhood, until she entered upon domestic
service, and she had well nigh attained the prime of life before she
became minister’s maid, an honour which she highly esteemed and
long enjoyed. She was big-boned and masculine in the build of her
body. Her face was long and hard, almost grim, and well freckled,
and deeply browned by frequent exposure to the sun and air. A white
“mutch,” with a high horse-shoe shaped crown, surmounted her
head at morning, noon, and night. With her gown tucked up behind
in the old familiar fashion of domestics, and a youngster strapped on
her back with a shawl, and peering with his little “pow” over her
shoulders, she went to work, as if the fate of empires, not to speak of
the honour of the old manse, depended upon her exertions. She used
to boast that she could “pit mair through her hands in an hour than
ony ither woman i’ the parish.” She was, in truth, a capital worker;
and while her hands went her tongue wagged. Nanny could never
endure either to be idle or silent. When engaged in scrubbing pots
and pans, the bairn on her back was not forgotten, but received all
the benefit of her sayings and soliloquies. In the discharge of her
domestic duties she liked to carry everything her own way, and
generally managed to take it, whatever orders might be given to the
contrary.
This good woman had the welfare of the family at heart, and a
great favourite she was amongst us youngsters, although she had a
very summary mode of disposing of us sometimes when we
attempted to teaze her or became unruly. I remember well an advice
she gave us, on more than one occasion, when we were invited out to
juvenile tea-parties in the neighbourhood. “Noo, bairns,” she would
say, after our faces were scrubbed, and our hair was smoothed, “see
an’ eat weel when ye’re at it, an’ no come hame garavishin’ an’
eatin’.” We not unfrequently paid the penalty next day of adhering
too strictly to the letter of this advice; but when children see heaps of
buns, cookies, and shortbread piled up on the table, who can blame
them if they take no thought of the morrow? Nanny used to relate
with great glee a saying of one of us manse bairns. It was the custom
at the communion season in those days (and it may be the custom in
some places still) for the wealthier members of country
congregations to send the minister some substantial present for the
bodily benefit of his officiating friends. One of us, standing at the
garden gate, had seen an expected arrival approaching, and running
with breathless haste to the kitchen, had exclaimed—“Nanny, Nanny!
here’s a salmon comin’—this is the rale sacrament!” Nanny, honest
woman, never forgot the sentiment, and often repeated it to the
discomfiture of its juvenile author.