Part 124

The curse, the blight have not passed by These dales now smiling in thine eye. Of human ills an ample share, Ravage, and dearth, domestic care, They have not ’scaped. This region blest Knew not of old its pleasant rest. Grandeur there was, but all that cheers, Is the fair work of recent years. The Druid-stones are standing still On the green top of many a hill; The fruitful plough, with mining share, At times lays some old relic bare; The Danish mell; the bolt of stone, To a yet ruder people known: And oft, as on some point which lies In the deep hush of earth and skies, In twilight, silence, and alone, I’ve sate upon the Druid-stone, The visions of those distant times, Their barbarous manners, creeds and crimes, Have come, joy’s brightest thrill to raise, For life’s blest boon in happier days. But not of them--rude race--I sing; Nor yet of war, whose fiery wing, From age to age, with waste and wail, Drove from wide champaign, and low vale, Warrior and woman: child and flock, Here, to the fastness of the rock. The husbandman has ceased to hear Amidst his fields the cry of fear. Waves the green corn--green pastures rise Around,--the lark is in the skies. The song a later time must trace When faith here found a dwelling-place. The tale is tinged with grief and scath, But not in which man’s cruel wrath, Like fire of fiendish spirit shows, But where, through terrors, tears, and woes, He rises dauntless, pure, refined; Not chill’d by self, nor fired by hate, Love in his life,--and even his fate A blessing on his kind.

These latter lines allude to the poem, and it immediately commences.

“Eyam,” says Miss Seward, “is near a mile in length; it sweeps in a waving line amongst the mountains, on a kind of natural terrace about 303 yards broad; above which, yet higher mountains arise. From that dale of savage sublimity, which on the Buxton road from Matlock commences at the end of Middleton, we ascend a quarter of a mile up a narrow and steep lane on the right hand, which conducts us into Eyam. About the centre of the village the continuance of the houses is broken by a small field on the left. From its edge a deep and grassy dingle descends, not less picturesque, and much more beautiful from its softer features, than the craggy dale and its walls of barren rocks from which we had ascended to Eyam, and in which, by a winding course, this dingle terminates. Its ascent from the middle of Eyam is a steep, smooth, and verdant turf, with scattered nut-trees, alders, and the mountain ash. The bottom is scarcely five yards wide, so immediately ascend the noble rocks on the opposite side, curtained with shrubs, and crowned with pines that wave over their brows; only that a few bare parts appear in fantastic points and perforated arches. Always in winter and summer, after recent showers, a small clear rill ripples along the bottom of this dell, but after long drought the channel is dry, and its pebbles are left to bleach in the sun. Cliffs and fields stretch along the tops of the rocks, and from their heights we descend gradually to the upper part of Eyam, which, though high, is less elevated

“Than are the summits of those hilly crofts, That brow the bottom glade.”

At the time of the plague, the rector of Eyam, the Rev. William Mompesson, was in the vigour of youth; he had two children, a boy and girl of three and four years old, and his wife Catherine, a young and beautiful lady:--

There dwelt they in the summer of their love. He, the young pastor of that mountain fold, For whom, not Fancy could foretell above, Bliss more than earth had at his feet unrolled. Yet, ceased he not on that high track to hold, Upon whose bright, eternal steep is shown Faith’s starry coronal. The sad, the cold Caught from his fervent spirit its warm tone, And woke to loftier aims, and feelings long unknown.

And she,--his pride and passion,--she, all sun, All love, and mirth and beauty;--a rich form Of finished grace, where Nature had outdone Her wonted skill. Oh! well might Fancy’s swarm Of more than earthly hopes and visions, warm His ardent mind; for, joyous was her mood; There seemed a spirit of gladness to inform Her happy frame, by no light shock subdued, Which filled her home with light, and all she touched imbued.

So lived, so loved they. Their life lay enshrined Within themselves and people. They reck’d not How the world sped around them, nor divined; Heaven, and their home endearments fill’d their lot. Within the charmed boundary of their cot, Was treasured high and multifarious lore Of sage, divine, and minstrel ne’er forgot In wintry hours; and, carolled on their floor, Were childhood’s happy lays. Could Heaven award them more?

Eyam, as before mentioned, had escaped the contagion in the “Great Year of the Plague.” It was conveyed thither, however, in the ensuing spring by infected cloths. Its appearance is vigorously sketched:--

But, as in the calm Of a hot noon, a sudden gust will wake; Anon clouds throng; then fiercer squalls alarm; Then thunder, flashing gleams, and the wild break Of wind and deluge:--till the living quake, Towers rock, woods crash amid the tempest,--so In their reposing calm of gladness, spake A word of fear; first whispering--dubious--low, Then lost;--then firm and clear, a menacing of woe:

’Till out it burst, a dreadful cry of death; “The Plague! the Plague!” The withering language flew, And faintness followed on its rapid breath; And all hearts sunk, as pierced with lightning through. “The Plague! the Plague!” No groundless panic grew; But there, sublime in awful darkness, trod The Pest; and lamentation, as he slew, Proclaimed his ravage in each sad abode, Mid frenzied shrieks for aid--and vain appeals to God.

On the commencement of the contagion, Mrs. Mompesson threw herself with her babes at the feet of her husband, to supplicate his flight from that devoted place; but not even the entreaties and tears of a beloved wife could induce him to desert his flock, in those hours of danger and dismay. Equally fruitless were his solicitations that she would retire with her infants. The result of this pathetic contest was a resolve to abide together the fury of the pestilence, and to send their children away.

They went--those lovely ones, to their retreat. They went--those glorious ones, to their employ; To check the ominous speed of flying feet; To quell despair; to soothe the fierce annoy, Which, as a stormy ocean without buoy Tossing a ship distressed, twixt reef and rock, Hurried the crowd, from years of quiet joy Thus roused to fear by this terrific shock; And wild, distracted, mazed, the pastor met his flock.

It was the immediate purpose of this wise and excellent man, to stay his parishioners from flight, lest they should bear the contagion beyond their own district, and desolate the country.

They heard, and they obeyed,--for, simple-hearted, He was to them their wisdom and their tower; To theirs, his brilliant spirit had imparted All that they knew of virtue’s loftier power; Their friend, their guide, their idolized endower With daily blessings, health of mind and frame; They heard, and they obeyed;--but not the more Obeyed the plague; no skill its wrath could tame; It grew, it raged, it spread; like a devouring flame.

Oh! piteous was it then that place to tread; Where children played and mothers had looked on, They lay, like flowers plucked to adorn the dead; The bright-eyed maid no adoration won; Youth in its greenness, trembling age was gone; O’er each bright cottage hearth death’s darkness stole; Tears fell, pangs racked, where happiness had shone.

From a rational belief, that assembling in the crowded church for public worship during the summer heats, must spread and increase the contagion, he agreed with his afflicted parishioners, that he should read prayers twice a week, and deliver his two customary sermons on the sabbath, from one of the perforated arches in the rocks of the dingle. By his advice they ranged themselves on the grassy steep in a level direction to the rocky pulpit; and the dell being narrow, he was distinctly heard from that arch.

The poem describes the spot, and the manner of the worship:--

There is a dell, the merry schoolboy’s sling Whirled in the village, might discharge a stone Into its centre; yet, the shouts which ring Forth from the hamlet travel, over blown, Nor to its sheltered quietude are known. So hushed, so shrouded its deep bosom lies, It brooks no sound, but the congenial tone Of stirring leaves, loud rill, the melodies Of summer’s breezy breath, or autumn’s stormier skies.

Northward, from shadowy rocks, a wild stream pours; Then wider spreads the hollow--lofty trees Cast summer shades; it is a place of flowers, Of sun and fragrance, birds and chiming bees. Then higher shoot the hills. Acclivities Splintered and stern, each like a castle grey, Where ivy climbs, and roses woo the breeze, Narrow the pass; there, trees in close array Shut, from this woodland cove, all distant, rude survey.

But its chief ornament, a miracle Of Nature’s mirth, a wondrous temple stands, Right in the centre of this charmed dell, Which every height and bosky slope commands. Arch meeting arch, unwrought of human hands, Form dome and portals. When hark!--a sound!--it issued from the dell; A solemn voice, as though one did declaim On some high theme; it ceased--and then the swell Of a slow, psalm-like chant on his amazement fell.

* * * * *

In that fantastic temple’s porch was seen The youthful pastor; lofty was his mien, But stamped with thoughts of such appalling scope, As rarely gather on a brow serene; And who are they, on the opposing slope, To whom his solemn tones told but one awful hope?

A pallid, ghost-like, melancholy crew, Seated on scattered crags, and far-off knolls, As fearing each the other. They were few. As men whom one brief hour will from the rolls Of life cut off, and toiling for their souls’ Welcome into eternity--they seemed Lost in the heart’s last conflict, which controls All outward life--they sate as men who dreamed; No motion in their frames--no eye perception beamed.

The two following stanzas are fearfully descriptive of the awful interruptions to the solemn service in this sequestered spot.

But suddenly, a wild and piercing cry Arose amongst them; and an ancient man, Furious in mood--red frenzy in his eye, Sprang forth, and shouting, towards the hollow ran. His white locks floated round his features wan; He rushed impatient to the valley rill; To drink, to revel in the wave began, As one on fire with thirst; then, with a shrill Laugh, as of joy, he sank--he lay--and all was still.

Then from their places solemnly two more Went forth, as if to lend the sufferer aid; But in their hands, in readiness, they bore The charnel tools, the mattock and the spade. They broke the turf--they dug--they calmly laid The old man in his grave; and o’er him threw The earth, by prayer, nor requiem delayed; Then turned, and with no lingering adieu, Swifter than they approached, from the strange scene withdrew.

The church-yard soon ceased to afford room for the dead. They were afterwards buried in an heathy hill above the village.[384] Curious travellers take pleasure in visiting, to this day, the mountain tumulus, and in examining its yet distinct remains; also, in ascending, from the upper part of Eyam, those cliffs and fields which brow the dingle, and from whence the descent into the consecrated rock is easy. It is called Cucklet church by the villagers.

And now hope gleamed abroad. The plague seemed staid; And the loud winds of autumn glad uproar Made in the welkin. Health their call obeyed, And Confidence her throne resumed once more. Nay, joy itself was in the pastor’s bower; For him the plague had sought, its final prey; And Catherine pale, and shuddering at its power, Had watched, had wept, had seen it pass away,-- And joy shone through their home like a bright summer’s day.

The sudden fear woke memory in her cell; And tracing back the brightness of their being; Their love, their bliss, the fatal shafts which fell Around them--smote them--yet, even now were fleeing; Death unto numbers, but to them decreeing Safety;--rich omens for succeeding years, In that sweet gaiety of spirit seeing, Theirs was that triumph which distress endears; And gladness which breaks forth in mingling smiles and tears.

So passed that evening: but, still midnight falls, And why gleams thence that lamp’s unwonted glare? Oh! there is speechless woe within those walls: Death’s stern farewell is given in thunder there. Mompesson wrapt in dreams and fancies fair, Which took their fashion from that evening’s tone, At once sprang up in terror and despair, Roused by that voice which never yet had known To wake aught in his heart, but pure delight alone.

“My William!” faint and plaintive was the cry, And chill the hand which fell upon his breast, “My dearest William, wake thee! Oh! that I With such sad tidings should dispel thy rest. But death is here!” With agony possessed, He snatched a light--he saw--he reeled--he fell. There, in its deadliest form prevailed the pest. Too well he knew the fatal signs--too well: A moment--and to life--to happiness farewell!

The good and beautiful woman, Catherine Mompesson, expired in her husband’s arms, in the twenty-seventh year of her age. Her tomb is near an ancient cross in the church-yard of Eyam. It is represented in the vignette to the “Desolation of Eyam;” and by means of that print the present engraving is laid before the reader of this article.

Mr. Mompesson was presented to the rectory of Eakring, near Ollerton, in Nottinghamshire, and he quitted the fatal scene. On his going, however, to take possession of his living, the people, naturally impressed with the terrors of the plague, in the very cloud and whirlwind of which he had so lately walked, declined admitting him into the village. A hut therefore was erected for him in Rufford Park, where he abode till the fear subsided.

To this gift were added prebends in York and Southwell, and the offer of the deanery of Lincoln. But the good man, with an admirable disinterestedness, declined this last substantial honour, and transferred his influence to his friend, the witty and learned Dr. Fuller, author of “the Worthies of England,” &c. who accordingly obtained it. The wish, which he expressed in one of his letters, that “his children might be good rather than great,” sprang from a living sentiment of his heart. He had tasted the felicity and the bitterness of this world; he had seen its sunshine swallowed up in the shadow of death; and earth had nothing to offer him like the blessedness of a retirement, in which he might prepare himself for a more permanent state of existence.

A brass plate, with a Latin inscription, records his death in this pleasant seclusion, March 7, 1708, in the seventieth year of his age.

Bright shines the sun upon the white walls wreathed[385] With flowers and leafy branches, in that lone And sheltered quiet, where the mourner breathed His future anguish; pleasant there the tone Of bees; the shadows, o’er still waters thrown, From the broad plane-tree; in the grey church nigh, And near that altar where his faith was known, Humble as his own spirit we descry The record which denotes where sacred ashes lie.

And be it so for ever;--it is glory. Tombs, mausoleums, scrolls, whose weak intent Time laughs to scorn, as he blots out their story, Are not the mighty spirit’s monument. He builds with the world’s wonder--his cement Is the world’s love;--he lamps his beamy shrine, With fires of the soul’s essence, which, unspent, Burn on for ever;--such bright tomb is thine, Great patriot, and so rests thy peerless Catherine.

So ends the poem of “The Desolation of Eyam.” Its authors, in one of the notes, relate as follows:--

There are extant three letters written by W. Mompesson, from the nearly depopulated place, at a time when his wife had been snatched from him by the plague, and he considered his own fate inevitable. In the whole range of literature, we know of nothing more pathetic than these letters. Our limits do not allow us to give them entire, but we cannot forbear making a few extracts. In one, he says,

“The condition of this place has been so sad, that I persuade myself it did exceed all history and example. I may truly say that our town has become a Golgotha--the place of a skull; and, had there not been a small remnant of us left, we had been as Sodom and Gomorrah. My ears never heard such doleful lamentations, and my eyes never beheld such ghastly spectacles. Here have been seventy-six families visited in my parish, out of which two hundred and fifty-nine persons died! Now, blessed be God--all our fears are over: for none have died of the infection since the eleventh of October; and all the pest-houses have been long empty. I intend (God willing) to spend most of this week in seeing all the woollen clothes fumed and purified, as well for the satisfaction, as for the safety of the country.”

Thus it is he announces to his children, the death of their mother.

“_To my dear children_, GEORGE _and_ ELIZABETH MOMPESSON, _these present with my blessing_.

“_Eyam, August, 1666._

“Dear Hearts,--This brings you the doleful news of your dear mother’s death--the greatest loss which ever yet befell you! I am not only deprived of a kind and loving consort, but you also are bereaved of the most indulgent mother that ever dear children had. We must comfort ourselves in God with this consideration, that the loss is only ours, and that what is our sorrow is her gain. The consideration of her joys, which I do assure myself are unutterable, should refresh our drooping spirits.

“I do believe, my dear hearts, upon sufficient ground, that she was the kindest wife in the world; and I do think from my soul that she loved me ten times more than herself. Further, I can assure you, my sweet babes, that her love to you was little inferior to hers for me. For why should she be so desirous of my living in this world of sorrows, but that you might have the comfort of my life. You little imagine with what delight she was wont to talk of you both; and the pains that she took when you sucked on her breasts is almost incredible. She gave a large testimony of her love to you on her death-bed. For, some hours before she died, I brought her some cordials, which she plainly told me she was not able to take. I desired her to take them for your dear sakes. Upon the mention of your dear names, she lifted up herself and took them; which was to let me understand, that whilst she had strength left, she would embrace any opportunity she had of testifying her affection to you.”

So wrote this most affectionate spirit to comfort his children: but, in a letter to a relative, the bitterness of his grief burst forth in an inconsolable agony. “I find this maxim verified by too sad experience; _Bonum magis carendo quam fruendo cernitur_. Had I been so thankful as my condition did deserve, I might yet have had my dearest dear in my bosom. But now, farewell all happy days, and God grant I may repent my sad ingratitude.”

The following letter was written to sir George Saville, afterwards lord Hallifax, his friend and patron, soon after this melancholy event, and while the plague was in his house, and he looked upon his own death as certain, and speedily approaching.

“_To_ SIR GEORGE SAVILLE, _Baronet_.

“_Eyam, Sept. 1, 1666._

“Honoured and dear sir,--This is the saddest news that ever my pen could write! The destroying angel having taken up his quarters within my habitation, my dearest dear is gone to her eternal rest; and is invested with a crown of righteousness, having made a happy end.

“Indeed had she loved herself as well as me, she had fled from the pit of destruction with her sweet babes, and might have prolonged her days, but that she was resolved to die a martyr to my interest. My drooping spirits are much refreshed with her joys, which I think are unutterable.

“Sir, this paper is to bid you a hearty farewell for ever--and to bring my humble thanks for all your noble favours; and I hope that you will believe a dying man. I have as much love as honour for you; and I will bend my feeble knees to the God of Heaven that you, my dear lady and your children, and their children, may be blest with external and eternal happiness; and that the same blessing may fall upon my lady Sunderland and her relations.

“Dear sir, let your dying chaplain recommend this truth to you and your family--that no happiness nor solid comfort may be found in this vale of tears like living a pious life;--and pray remember ever to retain this rule--never to do any thing upon which you dare not first ask the blessing of God for the success thereof.

“Sir, I have made bold in my will with your name as an executor, and I hope that you will not take it ill. I have joined two others with you that will take from you the trouble. Your favourable aspect will, I know, be a great comfort to my distressed orphans. I am not desirous that they may be great, but good; and my next request is that they may be brought up in the fear and admonition of the Lord.

“I desire, sir, that you will be pleased to make choice of an humble, pious man to succeed me in my parsonage; and, could I see your face before my departure from hence, I would inform you which way I think he may live comfortably amongst his people, which would be some satisfaction to me before I die. And with tears I beg, that, when you are praying for fatherless infants, you would then remember my two pretty babes. Sir, pardon the rude style of this paper, and if my head be discomposed, you cannot wonder at me. However, be pleased to believe that I am

Dear sir,

Your most obliged, most affectionate,

and grateful servant,

“WILLIAM MOMPESSON.”

When first the plague broke out in Eyam, Mr. Mompesson wrote to the then earl of Devonshire, residing at Chatworth, some five miles from Eyam; stating, that he thought he could prevail upon his parishioners to confine themselves within the limits of the village, if the surrounding country would supply them with necessaries, leaving such provisions as should be requested in appointed places, and at appointed hours, upon the encircling hills. The proposal was punctually complied with; and it is most remarkable, that when the pestilence became, beyond all conception, terrible, not a single inhabitant attempted to pass the deathful boundaries of the village, though a regiment of soldiers could not, in that rocky and open country, have detained them against their will: much less could any watch, which might have been set by the neighbourhood, have effected that infinitely important purpose.