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.
By the influence of this exemplary man, obtained by his pious and
affectionate virtues, the rest of the county of Derby escaped the
plague; not one of the very nearly neighbouring hamlets, or even a
single house, being infected beyond the limits of Eyam village, though
the distemper raged there near seven months.
Further details will hardly be required respecting a story, which is as
true as it is sad. The manner wherein it is poetically related is
sufficiently exemplified, and therefore, without comment; and for
beauties, various as the scenery of nature, expressed in charmed lines,
the reader of feeling is referred to the exquisite little volume
mentioned before, under the title of “_The Desolation of Eyam_, and
other Poems; by William and Mary Howitt, authors of the Forest Minstrel,
&c.”
A little piece, however, is ventured from the volume, as a _seasonable_
conclusion at parting.