AVE! VALE! SALVE!
And now must I bury my dead out of my sight--bid farewell to the old
resplendent, stately, scarred, defiant Raglan, itself the grave of many
an old story, and the cradle of the new, and alas! in contrast with the
old, not merely the mechanical, but the unpoetic and commonplace, yes
vulgar era of our island's history. Little did lord Herbert dream of the
age he was initiating--of the irreverence and pride and destruction that
were about to follow in his footsteps, wasting, defiling, scarring,
obliterating, turning beauty into ashes, and worse! That divine
mechanics should thus, through selfishness and avarice, be leagued with
filth and squalor and ugliness! When one looks upon Raglan, indignation
rises--not at the storm of iron which battered its walls to powder,
hardly even at the decree to level them with the dust, but at the later
destroyer who could desecrate the beauty yet left by wrath and fear, who
with the stones of my lady's chamber would build a kennel, or with the
carved stones of chapel or hall a barn or cowhouse! What would the
inventor of the water-commanding engine have said to the pollution of
our waters, the destruction of the very landmarks of our history, the
desecration of ruins that ought to be venerated for their loveliness as
well as their story! Would he not have broken it to pieces, that the
ruin it must occasion might not be laid to his charge? May all such men
as for the sake of money constitute themselves the creators of ugliness,
not to speak of far worse evils in the land, live--or die, I care not
which--to know in their own selves what a lovely human Psyche lies hid
even in the chrysalis of a railway-director, and to loathe their past
selves as an abomination--incredible but that it had been. He who calls
such a wish a curse, must undergo it ere his being can be other than a
blot.
But this era too will pass, and truth come forth in forms new and more
lovely still.
The living Raglan has gone from me, and before me rise the broken,
mouldering walls which are the monument of their own past. My heart
swells as I think of them, lonely in the deepening twilight, when the
ivy which has flung itself like a garment about the bareness of their
looped and windowed raggedness is but as darker streaks of the all
prevailing dusk, and the moon is gathering in the east. Fain would the
soul forsake the fettersome body for a season, to go flitting hither and
thither, alighting and flitting, like a bat or a bird--now drawing
itself slow along a moulding to taste its curve and flow, now creeping
into a cranny, and brooding and thinking back till the fancy feels the
tremble of an ancient kiss yet softly rippling the air, or descries the
dim stain which no tempest can wash away. Ah, here is a stair! True
there are but three steps, a broken one and a fragment. What said I? See
how the phantom-steps continue it, winding up and up to the door of my
lady's chamber! See its polished floor, black as night, its walls rich
with tapestry, lovelily old, and harmoniously withered, for the ancient
time had its ancient times, and its things that had come down from
solemn antiquity--see the silver sconces, the tall mirrors, the
part-open window, long, low, carved latticed, and filled with lozenge
panes of the softest yellow green, in a multitude of shades! There
stands my lady herself, leaning from it, looking down into the court!
Ah, lovely lady! is not thy heart as the heart of my mother, my wife, my
daughters? Thou hast had thy troubles. I trust they are over now, and
that thou art satisfied with God for making thee!
The vision fades, and the old walls rise like a broken cenotaph. But the
same sky, with its clouds never the same, hangs over them; the same moon
will fold them all night in a doubtful radiance, befitting the things
that dwell alone, and are all of other times, for she too is but a
ghost, a thing of the past, and her light is but the light of memory;
into the empty crannies blow the same winds that once refreshed the
souls of maiden and man-at-arms, only the yellow flower that grew in its
gardens now grows upon its walls. And however the mind, or even the
spirit of man may change, the heart remains the same, and an effort to
read the hearts of our forefathers will help us to know the heart of our
neighbour.
Whoever cares to distinguish the bones of fact from the drapery of
invention in the foregone tale, will find them all in the late Mr.
Dirck's 'Life of the Marquis of Worcester,' and the 'Certamen
Religiosum' and 'Golden Apophthegms' of Dr. Bayly.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's St. George and St. Michael, by George MacDonald