Chapter 5

I saw thee only once, dear boy, and it may be, perchance, That ne'er again on earth my eyes shall meet thy gentle glance; Years have gone by since then, and thou no longer art the child, With earnest eye, and frolic laugh, and look so clear and mild; For thee, the smiles and tears and sports of infancy are gone, And youth's bright promise, gliding into manhood, has come on;-- And yet thine image, as a child, will ever stay with me, As bright as when, so long ago, I met and welcomed thee.

What was the charm that lay enshrined within thy smiling eyes? What made me all thy childish, winning ways so dearly prize? It was thy likeness to another,--one whose looks of love, No longer blessing earth, were met by angel eyes above. Yet thou hadst not the golden hair, the brow of radiant white, Nor the blue eyes so soft and deep, like violets dewy bright; But the smiles that played about thy mouth, the sweetness in thine eyes, The dimpling cheek that said, "Within, a sunny spirit lies," The true and open brow, the bird-like voice, so free and clear, The glance that told, "I have not learned the meaning yet of fear," And more than all, the trusting heart, so lavish of its treasure, In simple faith, its earnest love bestowing without measure; These, more than lines and colors, made a picture, warm and bright, Of one whose face no more might cheer and bless my earthly sight.

The nature, beautiful and pure, he carried to the skies, Has been trained by angel teaching, has been watched by seraph eyes. Dear boy! through this cold world _thy_ earth-bound feet have trod; and now, Is the loving heart still thine? Hast kept that true and open brow?

THE OLD CHURCH.

There are certain old-fashioned people who find fault with the luxuriousness of our churches, and ascribe to the warmth and comfort, which contrast so strongly with the hardships of early times, the acknowledged sleepiness of modern congregations. For my part, I see no necessary connection between discomfort and devotion. _My_ soul, at least, sympathizes so much with its physical adjunct, that, when the latter is uncomfortable, the former is never quite free and active.

Let me call to remembrance the church my childhood knew, with its capacious square pews, in which half the audience turned their backs upon the minister; the seats made to rise and fall, for the convenience of standing, and which closed every prayer with a clap of thunder; its many aisles, like streets and lanes; the old men's seats, and the queer but venerable figures that were seen in them,--some with black-silk caps to protect their bald heads from the freezing draughts of air from the porchless doors; the old women's seats, on the opposite side; the elevated row of pews round the sides of the church, and the envied position of certain little children who had an extensive prospect through the open pew-top within doors, and a view of the hay-scales and the town-pump through the window besides. Those windows, in a double row, with the gallery between,--how regularly I counted the small panes, always forgetting the number, to make the same weary task necessary every Sunday! The singing-seats, projecting from the central portion of the gallery, furnished me with another hebdomadal study, in large gilt letters of antique awkwardness, which so impressed themselves on my mind that I see them now. This was the golden legend: "BUILT, 1770. ENLARGED, 1795." I remember hearing a wag propose to add as another remarkable fact, "SCOURED, 1818."

Opposite to the singing-seats towered the pulpit, from which the clergyman looked down upon us like a sparrow upon the house-top. He seemed in perpetual danger of being extinguished by a huge sounding-board. Very earnestly I used to gaze at the slender point by which it hung suspended, and wished, if it _must_ come down, that I might make the gilt ornament at the apex, resembling a vase turned upside down, my prize. Under the pulpit was a closet, which some one veraciously assured me was the place where the tithingman imprisoned incautiously playful urchins. The terrors of that dark, mysterious cell had little effect on my conduct, however, as I was not entirely convinced of the existence of any such lynx-eyed functionary.

The largest church in the county, it was, however, well filled, many of the congregation coming five and some even six miles, and remaining there through the noon intermission, which, on their account, was made as short as possible. But in winter the vast airy space had a peculiar and searching chill. No barn could be colder, except that the numerous footstoves made some little change in the air during service. The minister stood upon a heated slab of soap-stone. I used to watch this in its progress up the broad aisle and the pulpit stairs, under the arm of the boy from the parsonage, and the irreverent way in which he made his descent, in view of the assembly, after depositing his burden, was thus rebuked by an old lady who was always droll and quaint. "Why, Matthew, when you come down the pulpit stairs of a Sunday, you throw up your heels like a horse coming out of a stable-door."

Older grew the church, and colder; and if people then staid at home on Sunday afternoons, they had a better excuse for doing so than their successors can muster. The chorister, even, was frequently among the missing, but was charitably supposed to be subject to the ague. Efforts were made to prevail upon the elderly part of the parish to permit the introduction of stoves with long funnels. They scorned the enervating luxury! Their fathers had worshipped in the cold, and their sons might. But ah! how degenerate were the descendants of the noble old Puritan church-goers! The services curtailed to half their proper length, yet finding the patience of the listeners all too short! The degenerate descendants carried the day, however, the most bigoted of their opposers becoming disabled by rheumatism. The old sexton, resignation to inevitable evils being a lesson he had had much opportunity to learn, submitted with a good grace, though very much of opinion that fires in a church were an absurdity and a waste. The stoves were provided, and an uncommonly full attendance the next Sabbath showed the very general interest the matter had excited. How would it seem? Would any one faint?

There was by no means a superabundance of heat; there was something wrong, but the lack of warmth was a hundred-fold made up in smoke. No one could see across the church, and the minister loomed up, as if in a dense fog; all eyes were fountains of tears. At last the old sexton went with a slow and subdued step up to the pulpit, and, wiping his eyes, respectfully inquired, in a whisper, whether there was not a _little_ too much smoke. This suggestion being very smilingly assented to, he proceeded to extinguish the fires, and for that day the services were not indebted to artificial warmth to promote their effect.

How sad are improvements in places to which our childish recollections cling! The gushing fulness of unchilled love is lavished even on inanimate and senseless things, in a happy childhood. How was my heart grieved when the old-fashioned meeting-house was converted into the modern temple! Time and decay had rendered the tall spire unsafe, yet its fall by force and premeditated purpose seemed a sacrilege. I felt affronted for the huge weathercock, reclining sulkily against a fence, no more to point his beak to the east with obstinate preference. I mourned over the broad, old-fashioned dial, on which young eyes could discern the time a mile off. The old sexton lived to see this change, and at the end of half a century of care under that venerable roof he went to his rest. The beloved minister, and many, many who sat with trustful and devoted hearts under his teachings, are gone to their reward. A board from the old pulpit, a piece of the red-damask curtain, and the long wished-for gold vase, are now in my possession.

"SOMETHING THAN BEAUTY DEARER."

You ask me if her eyes are fair, And touched with heaven's own blue, And if I can her cheek compare To the blush-rose's hue?

Her clear eye sheds a constant gleam Of truth and purest love, And wit and reason from it beam, Like the light of the stars above. Good-humor, mirth, and fancy throng The dimples of her cheek, And to condemn the oppressor's wrong Her indignant blush doth speak.

You ask me if her form is light And graceful as the fawn; You ask me if her tresses bright Are like the golden dawn?

Her step is light on an errand of love, Scarce doth she touch the earth, And in graceful kindness doth she move Around her father's hearth; And when to bless his child he bends, His comfort and delight, The silver with her dark hair blends, Like a crown of holy light.

A TALE

FOUND IN THE REPOSITORIES OF THE ABBOTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES.

Swept from his saddle by a low branch, Count Robert lay stunned upon the ground. The hunting-party swept on, the riderless steed galloping wildly among them. No man turned back; not one loved the Count better than his sport.

There came to the spot a man in a woodman's garb, yet of a knightly and noble aspect. He bent over the fallen man, and bathed his temples, turning back the heavy, clustering locks. The Count, opening his eyes, gazed on him at first without surprise; he thought himself at home, however he came there, so familiar was the face.

Then did the woodman embrace him with tears, crying, "My brother, O my brother! it is I! it is Richard!"

"Thou in England!" cried the Count. "Art thou mad?" And he frowned gloomily.

"Fear not for me," replied the exile, tenderly raising the Count from the ground.

A narrow path wound through the wood to a ruined hermitage. The outlaw here prepared a bed of leaves for the Count, laid him softly thereon, and went to seek some refreshment. His loved brother might revive, and yet smile kindly on the playmate of his youth, though under a ban.

When Richard returned, there followed him like a dog a horse of the North-country breed, shaggy, and in size not much greater than a stag-hound. Robert viewed him with surprise, and it seemed with derision.

"Despise not him who is able to bear thee out of the wood," said Richard. "Thou art faint; here is wine, and of no mean vintage."

Robert drank from the earthen bottle, and his eye grew brighter, yet looked it not the more lovingly on Richard. He ate right gladly of the store of the landless and penniless,--dried venison and oaten bread,--and was refreshed, yet thanked him not. Richard gave fragments to the neighing steed. He ate no morsel himself, nor tasted the wine. His heart was full to bursting.

"Tell me of home,--of--of our father," he said, at last, with deep, strong sobs.

"On the morrow, on the morrow," said Robert, disposing himself for sleep. "Thou wilt hear soon enough."

But Richard seized him wildly by the shoulder, and bade him tell the worst.

"Nay, then, if thou _wilt_ know, he is dead. I, thy younger brother, am now thy superior."

"For that I care not. As well thou, as I, to sit in my father's seat. But oh! left he no blessing for me? Did he not at the last believe me the victim of calumny?--Alas! No word? Not one dying thought of Richard?"

"He died suddenly."

Richard wept long and bitterly, and when, with faltering tongue, he asked tidings of his betrothed, his face was covered; he saw not the guilty flush upon his brother's brow, for that he had spread a lying report of the exile's death.

"Would Bertha still brave the king's displeasure? Was she yet true to the unfortunate?"

"Bertha is a very woman. She hath forgotten the absent lover, and chosen another, and a better man."

"Who, who hath supplanted me?" cried Richard fiercely, and springing upon his feet.

"I tell thee not, lest thou wreak on him thy spite against thy faithless fair."

"Know that Bertha's choice, though a traitor, is safe from me, even were I, as I was, a man to meet a knight on equal terms."

His generous heart could not dream of fraternal treachery. And when his rival saw this, and that he suspected him not as yet, he smiled to himself, turned his face to the wall, and closed his eyes, if so be he might cut off further question. Soon, falling into slumber, he clenched his hands, and ground his teeth. The sleep of a traitor is ever haunted by uneasy dreams, and dark shadows of coming doom fell upon his spirit.

Richard watched till dawn. Sometimes he started up to walk to and fro, beating his bosom, and wringing his hands in agony. Anon he threw himself prostrate in the stupor of despair. At the first carol of birds in the forest, sleep surprised his weary senses, and the peace of the innocent settled upon his features.

Side by side lay the brothers, alike in form, alike even in feature. But in heart they bore no mark of the resemblance of kindred. Envy of the elder-born early possessed the soul of Robert, like a base fiend; first had it driven thence love, and lastly honor.

Does no one seek for the absent lord of the castle, while the weary hunters return to be his guests? Keeps no one anxious vigil, the live-long night? The unloving is not loved. But he hath a king beneath his roof; a king and lords of high degree sit at the morning board, and shall none but vassals be hospitably proud and busy?

Ladies of rank were there, and among them, pale and silent, sat Bertha, looking on the king, it seemed, with an upbraiding eye. An angry gloom sat upon his grimly compressed lips, and sadness was upon his brow; for kingly power was naught, since remorse could not undo a wrong done to one who no longer lived, and vengeance could not reach its absent object. Richard's innocence had come to light, and Robert, albeit he knew it not, was now the dishonored outlaw.

Ere the clock of the distant minster rung the hour of ten, the royal cavalcade wound from the gates of the castle. At the same hour Count Robert awoke, and saw that the sun was already very high. It shone upon the calm face of Richard, tempered with quivering shadows from the leafy canopy above.

"Up, brother Richard!" cried the Count; "thou wast ever a sluggard." And Richard, at his bidding, filled his hunting-pouch with provisions for the way, and went before, leading the little Northern nag, which the Count bestrode. He bore himself bravely under the weight of a rider whose feet nearly grazed the turf on each side.

Slowly they wound through the tangled wood. "Stay, I will lighten thy burden for thee," said Robert, "if thou hast not left the bottle behind. Here's to the fair Bertha. What, thou wilt not drink? Then thou hast resigned her;--she is not worth a thought. Thou wilt not peril thy life to see her again, the false one who careth not for thee. Now depart, and when the king's wrath is overpast, I will beseech him for thee. Leave thy cause in a brother's hands." But Richard went not back, though, when they came to the edge of the wood, they beheld the king's train advancing in the broad highway.

"Fly, Richard; escape while thou mayest!" cried Robert, yet offered he not the horse for the greater speed. "Found on English ground, thou diest a felon's death. Disgrace not thy family. Carest thou not for life?" he cried, pursuing Richard, who stinted not, nor stayed, at the sight of the king, but the rather hasted forward.

"What is life to me?" said Richard. "Let the king do with me as he will." He strode onward proudly, with folded arms, offering himself to the view of Edward, who as yet saw him not, or only as a forester.

"Halt at least that I may spur on and implore for thee," said Robert, for he hoped that he might deliver him a prisoner to some one in attendance, that he should not come to speech of the king.

With this wily purpose, he galloped forward. A shout arose, "The traitor! The traitor!" He was made prisoner by no gentle hands, and, at a nod from the king, found himself led away to the rear, but not far removed.

He looked about for Richard. Could he not yet wave him back? Should the king see that noble face, he must be moved to mercy, at least so far as to give him audience. The brothers know not yet that all is reversed. Robert sees a man in russet clothing kneel at the king's stirrup; he sees the royal hand extended to raise him; he sees many press forward eager to welcome the wanderer. He turns away, sick at the sight.

One look more. Bertha has thrown herself into the arms of his hated brother. He tears his beard; he curses his own natal day, and the stars that presided over his birth and destiny.

Yet must he look once more, though to an envious soul the sight of a brother's happiness is like the torment of purgatorial fire. Richard is standing with his hand extended towards him. He is pleading the cause of the mean and cowardly enemy who betrayed him. He pities and forgives him; he even loves him still, for is he not his brother? As the eyes of the king and of all the surrounding crowd are turned on him, burning shame subdues the warring passions that fill the heart of Robert, and a faint emotion of gratitude brings a tear to fall upon his hot cheek. Something of old, childish love awakes in his bosom, like dew in a dry land.

The king granted Richard's prayer, the more readily because his anger was smothered by contempt. The title and inheritance returned to the heir, who was worthy his ancient name. Robert, to the day of his death, lived on his brother's bounty, harmless, the rather that the king's decree had gone forth that in no case should he be Richard's successor, or inherit aught from him.

* * * * *

NOTE.--Here ends the tale, but by patient research we have discovered one verse of an ancient ballad, supposed to have the same tradition for its subject. It is preserved in a curious collection of fragmentary poetry, to be found in most private libraries, and, in its more ancient and valuable editions, in the repositories of antiquaries. It stands, in the modern copy which we possess, as follows:--

Richard and Robert were two pretty men; Both laid abed till the clock struck ten. Up jumps Robert, and looks at the sky; "Oho, brother Richard, the sun's very high! You go before, with the bottle and bag, And I'll come behind, on little Jack nag."

THE SEA.

"We sent him to school, we set him to learn a trade, we sent him far back into the country; but it was of no use, he must go to sea."--THE GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.

A child was ever haunted by a thought of mystery, Of the dark, shoreless, desolate, heaving and moaning sea, Which round about the cold, still earth goes drifting to and fro, As a mother, holding her dead child, swayeth herself with woe. In all the jar and bustle and hurrying of trade, Through the hoarse, distracting din by rattling pavements made, There sounded ever in his ear a low and solemn moan, And his soul grew sick with listening to that deep undertone. He wandered from the busy streets, he wandered far away, To where the dim old forest stands, and in its shadows lay, And listened to the song it sang; but its murmurs seemed to be The whispered echo of the sad, sweet warbling of the sea. His soul grew sick with longing, and shadowy and dim Seemed all the beauty of the land, and all its joys, to him,-- Its mountains vast, its forests old. He only longed to be Away upon the measureless, unfathomed, restless sea. Thither he went. The foam-capped waves yet beat upon the strand, With a low and solemn murmuring that none may understand; And he lieth drifting to and fro, amid the ocean's roar, With the drifting tide he loved to hear, but shall hear never more.

And thus we all are haunted,--there soundeth in our ear, A low and restless moaning, that we struggle not to hear. Yet still it soundeth, the faint cry of the dark deeps of the soul,-- Dark, barren, restless, as the sea which doth for ever roll Hither and thither, bearing still some half-shaped form of good, The flickering shadow of the moon upon the "moon-led flood." And ever, 'mid all the joys and weary cares of life, Through the dull sleep of sluggishness, and clangor of the strife, We hear the low, deep murmuring of that Infinity Which stretcheth round us dim and vast, as wraps the earth the sea. And in the twilight dimness, in silence and alone, The soul is almost startled by the power of its solemn tone. When we view the fairest works of Nature and of Art, They ever fill with longings, never satisfy, the heart; But, like the lines of weed and shells that stretch along the beach, And show how far the flowing tide and the high waters reach, They seem like barriers to hold back, like weedy lines, to show How far into this busy world the waves of beauty flow. Yet when sweet strains of music rise about us, float, and play, We almost dream these barriers of sense are broken away, And that the beauty bound before is floating round us, free As the bright, glancing waters of the ever-playing sea. And for a little moment, the spirit seems to stand With naked, wave-washed feet almost upon the strand. But when she stoops to reach the wave, the waters glide away, And whisper in an unknown tongue,--she hears not what they say.

FASHION.

Why is it that the introduction of a really graceful fashion is generally met with ridicule and opposition, while ugly modes are adopted with grave acquiescence and reverent submission?

"Seest thou not what a deformed thief this _Fashion_ is?" "I know that Deformed; he goes up and down like a gentleman." Yes, we all know _Deformed_. When any of his family come to us, from England or France or any foreign country, we recognize the hideous brotherhood, and extend our welcoming hands; but _Graceful_ must stay with us a long time to be greeted kindly, and her sisters from foreign parts are coldly looked upon, or dismissed at once.

To begin at the top,--"the very head and front of the offending." A gentleman goes into a fashionable hatter's, and the shopman, holding up for admiration a hat with a crown a foot high, of the genuine stove-pipe form, and a brim an inch wide, says, "This is the newest style, Sir." The gentleman walks home with the ugly thing on his head, but no one stares or laughs. 'Tis a new fashion, but all "take it easy." A year later, perhaps, the hatter shows him a thing with a brim a half an inch wider, but rolled up at the sides, and a crown of a much greater diameter at the top than where it joins the brim,--a specimen of the bell-crown. This is solemnly donned, and the wearer has the pleasure of knowing that the head-gear of all his friends is as hideous as his own. The inverted cone is worn with a sweet, Malvolio smile. And so "Deformed" has ruled the head of man for as many years as any of us can number, only ringing the changes, from one year to another, upon the three degrees of comparison of the word _ugly_.