"There are times
When Fancy plays her gambols, in despite
Even of our watchful senses, when in sooth
Substance seems shadow, shadow substance seems
When the broad, palpabale, and mark'd partition
'Twixt that which is and is not, seems dissolved
As if the mental eye gain'd power to gaze
Beyond the limits of the existing world.
Such hours of shadowy dreams I better love
Than all the gross realities of life."
ANONYMOUS.
My Aunt Margaret was one of that respected sisterhood, upon whom
devolve all the trouble and solicitude incidental to the possession of
children, excepting only that which attends their entrance into the
world. We were a large family, of very different dispositions and
constitutions. Some were dull and peevish--they were sent to Aunt
Margaret to be amused; some were rude, romping, and boisterous--they
were sent to Aunt Margaret to be kept quiet, or rather that their noise
might be removed out of hearing: those who were indisposed were sent
with the prospect of being nursed--those who were stubborn, with the
hope of their being subdued by the kindness of Aunt Margaret's
discipline; in short, she had all the various duties of a mother,
without the credit and dignity of the maternal character. The busy
scene of her various cares is now over--of the invalids and the robust,
the kind and the rough, the peevish and pleased children, who thronged
her little parlour from morning to night, not one now remains alive but
myself; who, afflicted by early infirmity, was one of the most delicate
of her nurslings, yet nevertheless, have outlived them all.
It is still my custom, and shall be so while I have the use of my
limbs, to visit my respected relation at least three times a-week. Her
abode is about half a mile from the suburbs of the town in which I
reside; and is accessible, not only by the high-road, from which it
stands at some distance, but by means of a greensward footpath, leading
through some pretty meadows. I have so little left to torment me in
life, that it is one of my greatest vexations to know that several of
these sequestered fields have been devoted as sites for building. In
that which is nearest the town, wheelbarrows have been at work for
several weeks in such numbers, that, I verily believe, its whole
surface, to the depth of at least eighteen inches, was mounted in these
monotrochs at the same moment, and in the act of being transported from
one place to another. Huge triangular piles of planks are also reared
in different parts of the devoted messuage; and a little group of
trees, that still grace the eastern end, which rises in a gentle
ascent, have just received warning to quit, expressed by a daub of
white paint, and are to give place to a curious grove of chimneys.
It would, perhaps, hurt others in my situation to reflect that this
little range of pasturage once belonged to my father, (whose family was
of some consideration in the world,) and was sold by patches to remedy
distresses in which he involved himself in an attempt by commercial
adventure to redeem, his diminished fortune. While the building scheme
was in full operation, this circumstance was often pointed out to me by
the class of friends who are anxious that no part of your misfortunes
should escape your observation. "Such pasture-ground!--lying at the
very town's end--in turnips and potatoes, the parks would bring 20_l_.
per acre, and if leased for building--Oh, it was a gold mine!--And all
sold for an old song out of the ancient possessor's hands!" My
comforters cannot bring me to repine much on this subject. If I could
be allowed to look back on the past without interruption, I could
willingly give up the enjoyment of present income, and the hope of
future profit, to those who have purchased what my father sold. I
regret the alteration of the ground only because it destroys
associations, and I would more willingly (I think) see the Earl's
Closes in the hands of strangers, retaining their silvan appearance,
than know them for my own, if torn up by agriculture, or covered with
buildings. Mine are the sensations of poor Logan:
"The horrid plough has rased the green
Where yet a child I stray'd;
The axe has fell'd the hawthorn screen,
The schoolboy's summer shade."
I hope, however, the threatened devastation will not be consummated in
my day. Although the adventurous spirit of times short while since
passed gave rise to the undertaking, I have been encouraged to think,
that the subsequent changes have so far damped the spirit of
speculation, that the rest of the woodland footpath leading to Aunt
Margaret's retreat will be left undisturbed for her time and mine. I am
interested in this, for every step of the way, after I have passed
through the green already mentioned, has for me something of early
remembrance :--There is the stile at which I can recollect a cross
child's-maid upbraiding me with my infirmity, as she lifted me coarsely
and carelessly over the flinty steps, which my brothers traversed with
shout and bound. I remember the suppressed bitterness of the mo-ment,
and, conscious of my own inferiority, the feeling of envy with which I
regarded the easy movements and elastic steps of my more happily formed
brethren. Alas! these goodly barks have all perished on life's wide
ocean, and only that which seemed so little seaworthy, as the naval
phrase goes, has reached the port when the tempest is over. Then there
is the pool, where, manoeuvring our little navy, constructed out of the
broad water flags, my elder brother fell in, and was scarce saved from
the watery element to die under Nelson's banner. There is the hazel
copse also, in which my brother Henry used to gather nuts, thinking
little that he was to die in an Indian jungle in quest of rupees.
There is so much more of remembrance about the little walk, that--as I
stop, rest on my crutch-headed cane, and look round with that species
of comparison between the thing I was and that which I now am--it
almost induces me to doubt my own identity; until I find myself in face
of the honeysuckle porch of Aunt Margaret's dwelling, with its
irregularity of front, and its odd projecting latticed windows; where
the workmen seem to have made a study that no one of them should
resemble another, in form, size, or in the old-fashioned stone
entablature and labels which adorn them. This tenement, once the
manor-house of Earl's Closes, we still retain a slight hold upon; for,
in some family arrangements, it had been settled upon Aunt Margaret
during the term of her life. Upon this frail tenure depends, in a great
measure, the last shadow of the family of Bothwell of Earl's Closes,
and their last slight connection with their paternal inheritance. The
only representative will then be an infirm old man, moving not
unwillingly to the grave, which has devoured all that were dear to his
aifections.
When I have indulged such thoughts for a minute or two, I enter the
mansion, which is said to have been the gatehouse only of the original
building, and find one being on whom time seems to have made little
impression; for the Aunt Margaret of to-day bears the same proportional
ago to the Aunt Margaret of my early youth, that the boy of ten years
old does to the man of (by'r Lady!) some fifty-six years. The old
lady's invariable costume has doubtless some share in confirming one in
the opinion, that time has stood still with Aunt Margaret.
The brown or chocolate-coloured silk gown, with ruffles of the same
stuff at the elbow, within which are others of Mechlin lace--the black
silk gloves, or mitts, the white hair combed back upon a roll, and the
cap of spotless cambric, which closes around the venerable countenance,
as they were not the costume of 1780, so neither were they that of
1826; they are altogether a style peculiar to the individual Aunt
Margaret. There she still sits, as she sat thirty years since, with her
wheel or the stocking, which she works by the fire in winter, and by
the window in summer; or, perhaps, venturing as far as the porch in an
unusually fine summer evening. Her frame, like some well-constructed
piece of mechanics, still performs the operations for which it had
seemed destined; going its round with an activity which is gradually
diminished, yet indicating no probability that it will soon come to a
period.
The solicitude and affection which had made Aunt Margaret the willing
slave to the inflictions of a whole nursery, have now for their object
the health and comfort of one old and infirm man, the last remaining
relative of her family, and the only one who can still find interest in
the traditional stores which she hoards as some miser hides the gold
which he desires that no one should enjoy after his death.
My conversation with Aunt Margaret generally relates little either to
the present or to the future: for the passing day we possess as much as
we require, and we neither of us wish for more; and for that which is
to follow we have on this side of the grave neither hopes, nor fears,
nor anxiety. We therefore naturally look back to the past; and forget
the present fallen fortunes and declined importance of our family, in
recalling the hours when it was wealthy and prosperous.
With this slight introduction, the reader will know as much of Aunt
Margaret and her nephew as is necessary to comprehend the following
conversation and narrative.
Last week, when, late in a summer evening, I went to call on the old
lady to whom my reader is now introduced, I was received by her with
all her usual affection and benignity; while, at the same time, she
seemed abstracted and disposed to silence. I asked her the reason.
"They have been clearing out the old chapel," she said; "John
Clayhudgeons having, it seems, discovered that the stuff within--being,
I suppose, the remains of our ancestors--was excellent for top-dressing
the meadows."
Here I started up with more alacrity than I have displayed for some
years; but sat down while my aunt added, laying her hand upon my
sleeve, "The chapel has been long considered as common ground, my dear,
and used for a penfold, and what objection can we have to the man for
employing what is his own, to his own profit? Besides, I did speak to
him, and he very readily and civilly promised, that, if he found bones
or monuments, they should be carefully respected and reinstated; and
what more could I ask? So, the first stone they found bore the name of
Margaret Bothwell, 1585, and I have caused it to be laid carefully
aside, as I think it betokens death; and having served my namesake two
hundred years, it has just been cast up in time to do me the same good
turn. My house has been long put in order, as far as the small earthly
concerns require it, but who shall say that their account with Heaven
is sufficiently revised?"
"After what you have said, aunt," I replied, "perhaps I ought to take
my hat and go away, and so I should, but that there is on this occasion
a little alloy mingled with our devotion. To think of death at all
times is a duty--to suppose it nearer, from the finding of an old
gravestone, is superstition; and you, with your strong useful common
sense, which was so long the prop of a fallen family, are the last
person whom I should have suspected of such weakness."
"Neither would I have deserved your suspicions, kinsman" answered Aunt
Margaret, "if we were speaking of any incident occurring in the actual
business of human life. But for all this I have a sense of superstition
about me, which I do not wish to part with. It is a feeling which
separates me from this age, and links me with that to which I am
hastening; and even when it seems, as now, to lead me to the brink of
the grave, and bids me gaze on it, I do not love that it should be
dispelled. It soothes my imagination, without influencing my reason or
conduct."
"I profess, my good lady," replied I, "that had any one but you made
such a declaration, I should have thought it as capricious as that of
the clergyman, who, without vindicating his false reading, preferred,
from habit's sake, his old Mumpsimus to the modern Sumpsimus."
"Well," answered my aunt, "I must explain my inconsistency in this
particular, by comparing it to another. I am, as you know, a piece of
that old-fashioned thing called a Jacobite; but I am so in sentiment
and feeling only; for a more loyal subject never joined in prayers, for
the health and wealth of George the Fourth, whom God long preserve! But
I dare say that kind-hearted sovereign would not deem that an old woman
did him, much injury if she leaned back in her arm-chair, just in such
a twilight as this, and thought of the high-mettled men, whose sense of
duty called them to arms against his grandfather; and how, in a cause
which they deemed that of their rightful prince and country,
'They fought till their hands to the broadsword were glued,
They fought against fortune with hearts unsubdued.'
do not come at such a moment, when my head is full of plaids, pibrochs,
and claymores, and ask my reason to admit what, I am afraid, it cannot
deny--I mean, that the public advantage peremptorily demanded that
these things should cease to exist. I cannot, indeed, refuse to allow
the justice of your reasoning; but yet, being convinced against my
will, you will gain little by your motion. You might as well read to an
infatuated lover the catalogue of his mistress's imperfections; for,
when he has been compelled to listen to the summary, you will only get
for answer, that, 'he lo'es her a' the better.'"
I was not sorry to have changed the gloomy train of Aunt Margaret's
thoughts, and replied in the same tone, "Well, I can't help being
persuaded that our good king is the more sure of Mrs. Bothwell's loyal
affection, that he has the Stuart right of birth, as well as the Act of
Succession in his favour."
"Perhaps my attachment, were its source of consequence, might be foumd
warmer for the union of the rights you mention," said Aunt Margaret?
"but, upon my word, it would be as sincere if the king's right were
founded only on the will of the nation, as declared at the Revolution.
I am none of your _jure divino_ folk."
"And a Jacobite notwithstanding."
"And a Jacobite notwithstanding; or rather, I will give you leave to
call me one of the party which, in Queen Anne's time, were called
_Whimsicals_; because they were sometimes operated upon by feelings,
sometimes by principle. After all, it is very hard that you will not
allow an old woman to be as inconsistent in her political sentiments,
as mankind in general show themselves in all the various courses of
life; since you cannot point out one of them, in which the passions and
prejudices of those who pursue it are not perpetually carrying us away
from the path which our reason points out."
"True, aunt; but you are a wilful wanderer, who should be forced back
into the right path."
"Spare me, I entreat you," replied Aunt Margaret. "You remember the
Gaelic song, though I dare say I mispronounce the words--
'Hatil mohatil, na dowski mi.'
'I am asleep, do not waken me.'
I tell you, kinsman, that the sort of waking dreams which my
imagination spins out, in what your favourite Wordsworth calls 'moods
of my own mind,' are worth all the rest of my more active days. Then,
instead of looking forwards as I did in youth, and forming for myself
fairy palaces, upon the verge of the grave, I turn my eyes backward
upon the days and manners of my better time; and the sad, yet soothing
recollections come so close and interesting, that I almost think it
sacrilege to be wiser, or more rational, or less prejudiced, than those
to whom I looked up in my younger years."
"I think I now understand what you mean," I answered, "and can
comprehend why you should occasionally prefer the twilight of illusion
to the steady light of reason."
"Where there is no task," she rejoined, "to be performed, we may sit in
the dark if we like it--if we go to work, we must ring for candles."
"And amidst such shadowy and doubtful light," continued I, "imagination
frames her enchanted and enchanting visions, and sometimes passes them
upon the senses for reality."
"Yes," said Aunt Margaret, who is a well-read woman, "to those who
resemble the translator of Tasso,
'Prevailing poet, whose undoubting mind
Believed the magic wonders which he sung.'
It is not required for this purpose, that you should be sensible of the
painful horrors which an actual belief in such prodigies inflicts--such
a belief, now-a-days, belongs only to fools and children. It is not
necessary that your ears should tingle, and your complexion change,
like that of Theodore, at the approach of the spectral huntsman. All
that is indispensable for the enjoyment of the milder feeling of
supernatural awe is, that you should be susceptible of the slight
shuddering which creeps over you when you hear a tale of terror--that
well-vouched tale which the narrator, having first expressed his
general disbelief of all such legendary lore, selects and produces, as
having something in it which he has been always obliged to give up as
inexplicable. Another symptom is, a momentary hesitation to look round
you, when the interest of the narrative is at the highest; and the
third, a desire to avoid looking into a mirror, when you are alone, in
your chamber, for the evening. I mean such are signs which indicate the
crisis, when a female imagination is in due temperature to enjoy a
ghost story. I do not pretend to describe those which express the same
disposition in a gentleman."
"This last symptom, dear aunt, of shunning the mirror, seems likely to
be a rare occurrence amongst the fair sex."
"You are a novice in toilet fashions, my dear kinsman. All women
consult the looking-glass with anxiety before they go into company; but
when they return home, the mirror has not the same charm. The die has
been cast-the party has been successful or unsuccessful, in the
impression which she desired to make. But, without going deeper into
the mysteries of the dressing-table, I will tell you that I myself,
like many other honest folk, do not like to see the blank black front
of a large mirror in a room dimly lighted, and where the reflection of
the candle seems rather to lose itself in the deep obscurity of the
glass, than to be reflected back again into the apartment. That space
of inky darkness seems to be a field for Fancy to play her revels in.
She may call up other features to meet us, instead of the reflection of
our own; or, as in the spells of Hallowe'en, which we learned in
childhood some unknown form may be seen peeping over our shoulder. In
short, when I am in a ghost-seeing humour, I make my handmaiden draw
the green curtains over the mirror, before I go into the room, so that
she may have the first shock of the apparition, if there be any to be
seen. But, to tell you the truth, this dislike to look into a mirror in
particular times and places, has, I believe, its original foundation in
a story which came to me by tradition from my grandmother, who was a
party concerned in the scene of which I will now tell you."