THE RECTORY OF VALEHEAD. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. SEVERAL years have now passed since I officiated as the Minister of the parish of Valehead; the latter part particularly of the time which I spent there was, from circumstances which will presently appear, so fraught with instructive conversation, that, after having recurred to it in memory with increasing delight and profit, I am at last induced to commit to writing a register of my impressions, and only wish that I could, as once Xenophon to Socrates, do proper justice to the wisdom of my instructor. The parish of Valehead is situated just where a wild and mountainous region meets a fertile B champaign country, with which it imperceptibly blends by the gradual opening of its valleys, and sinking of its hills. I have said parish, for village there is none, the houses being situated in the centre of their respective farms, and thus very prettily scattered with their white fronts, and half-screening orchards, over the face of the country. If, however, the term village be insisted upon, then we must apply it to a cluster of some five or six houses situated near the church, and forming those important elements, the residences of the lawyer and of the doctor, the ale-house, the smithy, and the shop. On the north side of the church, and opening into the church-yard by an old-fashioned gateway, whence issues to the chancel-door a narrow path, traversing the green in aristocratic solitude, stands the manor-house, an ancient black and white building, one-half of whose windows are bricked up, and the other presenting a sad unsightly contrast with what you immediately perceive must have been their former state, by having had their fine old mullions cut away, and the ugliest sashes of the manufactory class introduced in their stead. Nevertheless, it still presents a noble appearance, both from the beauty of its general outline, and from many of its worst mutilations being concealed by a grove of venerable walnut-trees, which by some unaccountable good fortune escaped the proscription, or rather conscription, of their race during the late war. The church is sufficiently rude, pierced irregularly with windows of all styles, here with the narrow pointed slit, there with the broad mullioned square, and in its general outline exhibiting, in the usual style of this part of the country, a singular combination of the barn and dove-cote. It, however, often attracts the notice of the stranger as he passes along the great road, by being seen perched upon a green and sunny knoll, contrasting its white walls with the deep indigo of a precipitous mountain seen beyond. It stands in the upper part of a long vale, which a little farther up forks out into three narrow valleys, each bringing down its river. These flow in an united stream under the church-yard, crossed by a handsome bridge, and in the proper season the banks are dotted with anglers, who resort hither from considerable distances. The church-yard has ever been with me a favourite walk, independent of the train of thought which it naturally suggests; it is warm and sunny, and presents also a great variety of beautiful prospect. Looking thence down the vale, your eye wanders over a rich and well wooded, though somewhat flat country, along which you trace for many a mile, by a succession of gleaming elbows and reaches, the course of the river, and, reaching the horizon, sees it indented by the towers and spires of the metropolis of our district. Looking upwards, your view penetrates into the three valleys before mentioned. One of these is shortly terminated, presenting a lofty waterfall at its upper extremity, which rushes, at one leap, over a bare ledge of slate-rock. The view up the two others is more extensive, but is gradually lost amid jutting promontories. In one, you can just discern the tower of its village church, and the knoll crowned by ancient firtrees, which protect the village from its peculiar wind. In the other, the singular fall of the mountains shews at once the nature of the stream which waters it, the roar of whose waves I often delight in catching at the still of the evening. The whole horizon in this direction, in complete contrast to that in the other, is tossed like a stormy sea into waves of solid rock and mountain, of every variety of form and figure, some most singular and fantastic. On such of them as are near enough you may discern nicks and |