. So
thought William--if the flash of this conviction across the settled
gloom of his spirit could be called thought. Yet days, weeks, months,
passed away, and he lived on, nay, performed his duties; and, at
length, by the caresses of his wife and child, became even, as it
were, sullenly reconciled to life. He found, however, that it was
impossible for him ever to regain his former station in society. His
brother ministers avoided him; and one or two of them, more harsh or
orthodox than the rest, took occasion to allude to his misconduct in a
public manner. The most respectable portion of his parishioners
pitied, but, in general, kept aloof from him. Degraded and sunk as he
was, William had a nature formed to feel, in all their most exquisite
torture, these indignities and slights. The persons who came to
comfort and sympathise with him, were unhappily those whose sympathy
was more dangerous than their contempt. How shall we go on? William
again, after severe struggles, gave way to the entreaties of some of
those mistaken friends, and to the treacherous wishes of his own
heart. He became a confirmed drunkard! He seemed to have at length
cast behind him every thought of reverence for God and his holy
vocation--every particle of respect for himself or his fellow-men. He
had two or three attacks of brain fever, brought on by his excesses;
and he no sooner recovered from them than he went on as before. His
poor young wife exhausted every argument which reason could
afford--every blandishment with which affection and beauty could
supply her, to reclaim him, but in vain. He retained, or seemed to
retain, even, all the warmth of his first love for her; and, in his
hours of intoxication, he seemed most strongly to acknowledge her
worth and loveliness; but the necessity for the violent excitement of
ardent spirits had overcome all other considerations; she wept long
and bitterly: then, as despair began to close in upon her, she
(dreadful that we should have it to relate!) sought, in the example
of her husband to escape from her sorrow! Ellen Ogilvie, the young,
the graceful, the beautiful, the accomplished, the gentle, feminine
creature, whose very frame seemed to shrink from the slightest
coarseness in speech or action, became a drunkard!

Many years had passed away between the time when the old shepherd had
perished in the church and the time to which we now refer, and William
had a family of two sons and three daughters. If