The paper in the _New Monthly Magazine_, under this title, occupies a
sheet or sixteen pages, and is stated to be from the pen of the Hon. Mrs.
Norton. It is written in an almost breathless, and purposely hurried,
style, and the narrative of feelings and incidents flows with such
rapidity, that the reader is carried onward, _nolens volens, vi et verbis_
through the adventures. The writer is the son of a carpenter: his father
dies; unable to obtain any other employment, he obtains that of a
coffin-maker. His aversion to the trade, and the state of his feelings is
thus naturally described:
"The first few weeks of my employment passed pleasantly enough; my master
was satisfied with me, and on Sunday evenings I was able occasionally to
enjoy a walk. But my spirits soon became less buoyant, and even my health
began to suffer; I entirely lost the florid look which was my poor mother's
admiration; my very step grew slower, and there were Sundays when I
declined the evening walk, which had been my only recreation, merely
because the happy laugh and continued jests of (my friend) Henry Richards
annoyed and distressed me while contrasted with my own heaviness of heart.
Evening after evening, sometimes through a whole dismal night, I worked at
my melancholy employment; and as my master was poor, and employed no other
journey-man, I worked most commonly alone. Frequently as the heavy hammer
descended, breaking at regular intervals the peaceful silence of night, I
recalled some scene of sorrow and agony that I had witnessed in the day;
and as the echo of some shriek or stifled moan struck in fancy on my ear,
I would pause to wipe the dew from my brow and curse the trade of a
coffin-maker. Every day some fresh cause appeared to arise for loathing my
occupation; whilst all were alike strangers to me in the town where my
master lived, I worked cheerfully and wrote merrily home; but now that I
began to know every one, to be acquainted with the number of members which
composed different families, to hear of their sicknesses and misfortunes;
now that link after link bound me as it were by a spell, to feel for those
round me, and to belong to them, my cheerfulness was over. The mother
turned her eyes from me with a shuddering sigh, and gazed on the dear
circle of little ones as if she sought to penetrate futurity and guess
which of the young things, now rosy in health, was to follow her long lost
and still lamented one. The doting father pressed the arm of his pale
consumptive girl nearer to his heart, as he passed me: friends who were
yet sorrowing for their bereavement, gave up the attempt at cheerfulness,
and relapsed into melancholy silence at my approach. If I attempted (as I
often did at first) to converse gaily with such of the townspeople as were
of my master's rank in life, I was checked by a bitter smile, or a sudden
sigh, which told me that while _I_ was giving way to levity, the thoughts
of my hearers had wandered back to the heavy hours when their houses were
last darkened by the shadow of death. I carried about with me an unceasing
curse; an imaginary barrier separated me from my fellow men. I felt like
an executioner, from whose bloody touch men shrink, not so much from
loathing of the _man_, who is but the instrument of death, as from horror
at the image of that death itself--death, sudden, appalling, and
inevitable. Like him, I brought the presence of death too vividly before
them; like him, I was connected with the infliction of a doom I had no
power to avert. Men withheld from me their affection, refused me their
sympathy, as if I were not like themselves. My very mortality seemed less
obvious to their imaginations when contrasted with the hundreds for whom
my hand prepared the last narrow dwelling-house, which was to shroud for
ever their altered faces from sorrowful eyes. Where _I_ came, _there_ came
heaviness of heart, mournfulness, and weeping. Laughter was hushed at my
approach; conversation ceased; darkness and silence fell around my
steps--the darkness and the silence of _death_. Gradually I became awake
to my situation. I no longer attempted to hold free converse with my
fellow men. I suffered the gloom of their hearts to overshadow mine. My
step crept slowly and stealthily into their dwellings; my voice lowered
itself to sadness and monotony; I pressed no hand in token of
companionship; no hand pressed mine, except when wrung with agony, some
wretch, whose burden was more than he could bear restrained me for a few
moments of maddened and convulsive grief, from putting the last finishing
stroke to my work, and held me back to gaze yet again on features which I
was about to cover from his sight. It is well that God, in his
unsearchable wisdom, hath made death loathsome to us. It is well that an
undefined and instinctive shrinking within us, makes what we have loved
for long years, in a few hours
"That lifeless thing, the living fear."
It is well that the soul hath scarcely quitted the body ere the work of
corruption is begun. For if, even thus, mortality clings to the remnants
of mortality, with 'love stronger than death;' if, as I have seen it, warm
and living lips are pressed to features where the gradually sinking eye
and hollow cheek speak horribly of departed life; what would it be if the
winged soul left its tenement of clay, to be resolved only into a marble
death; to remain cold, beautiful, and imperishable; every day to greet our
eyes; every night to be watered with our tears? The bonds which hold men
together would be broken; the future would lose its interest in our minds;
we should remain sinfully mourning the idols of departed love, whose
presence forbade oblivion of their loveliness; and a thin and scattered
population would wander through the world as through the valley of the
shadow of death! How often have I been interrupted when about to nail down
a coffin, by the agonized entreaties of some wretch to whom the
discoloured clay bore yet the trace of beauty, and the darkened lid seemed
only closed in slumber! How often have I said, 'Surely _that_ heart will
break with its woe!' and yet, in a little while, the bowed spirit rose
again, the eye sparkled, and the lip smiled, _because the dead were
covered from their sight_; and that which is present to man's senses is
destined to affect him far more powerfully than the dreams of his
imagination or memory. How often, too, have I seen the reverse of the
picture I have just drawn; when the pale unconscious corse has lain
abandoned in its loveliness, and grudging hands have scantily dealt out a
portion of their superfluity, to obtain the last rites for one who so
lately moved, spoke, smiled, and walked amongst them! And I have felt,
even then, that there were those to whom that neglected being had been far
more precious than heaps of gold, and I have mourned for them who perished
among strangers. One horrible scene has chased another from my mind
through a succession of years; and some of those which, perhaps, deeply
affected me at the time, are, by the mercy of Heaven, forgotten. But
enough remains to enable me to give a faint outline of the causes which
have changed me from what I was, to the gloomy joyless being I am at
length become. There is one scene indelibly impressed upon my memory."
A scene of domestic tragedy follows, which is wrought up with great effect:
"I was summoned late at night to the house of a respectable merchant, who
had been reduced, in a great measure, by the wilful extravagance of his
only son, from comparative wealth to ruin and distress. I was met by the
widow, on whose worn and weary face the calm of despair had settled. She
spoke to me for a few moments, and begged me to use dispatch and caution
in the exercise of my calling:--'for indeed,' said she, 'I have watched my
living son with a sorrow that has almost made me forget grief for the
departed. For five days and five nights I have watched, and his bloodshot
eye has not closed, no, not for a moment, from its horrible task of gazing
on the dead face of the father that cursed him. He sleeps now, if sleep it
can be called, that is rather the torpor of exhaustion; but his rest is
taken on that father's death-bed. Oh! young man, feel for me! Do your task
in such a manner, that my wretched boy may not awake till it is over, and
the blessing of the widow be on you for ever!' To this strange prayer I
could only offer a solemn assurance that I would do my utmost to obey her;
and with slow creeping steps we ascended the narrow stairs which led to
the chamber of death. It was a dark, wretched-looking, ill-furnished room,
and a drizzling November rain pattered unceasingly at the latticed window,
which was shaken from time to time by the fitful gusts of a moaning wind.
A damp chillness pervaded the atmosphere, and rotted the falling paper
from the walls; and, as I looked towards the hearth, (for there was no
grate,) I felt painfully convinced that the old man had died without the
common comforts his situation imperiously demanded. The white-washed sides
of the narrow fire-place were encrusted with a green damp, and the
chimney-vent was stuffed with straw and fragments of old carpet, to
prevent the cold wind from whistling through the aperture. The common
expression, 'He has seen better days,' never so forcibly occurred to me as
at that moment. He _had_ seen better days: he had toiled cheerfully
through the day, and sat down to a comfortable evening meal. The wine-cup
had gone round; and the voice of laughter had been heard at his table for
many a year, and yet here he had crept to die like a beggar! I looked at
the flock bed, and felt my heart grow sick within me. The corpse of a man,
apparently about sixty, lay stretched upon it, and on his hollow and
emaciated features the hand of death had printed the ravages of many days.
The veins had ceased to give even the appearance of life to the
discoloured skin; the eyelids were deep sunken, and the whole countenance
was (and none but those accustomed to gaze on the face of the dead can
understand me) utterly expressionless. But if a sight like this was
sickening and horrible, what shall I say of the miserable being to whom a
temporary oblivion was giving strength for renewed agony? He had
apparently been sitting at the foot of the corpse, and, as the torpor of
heavy slumber stole over him, had sunk forward, his hand still retaining
the hand of the dead man. His face was hid; but his figure, and the thick
curls of dark hair, bespoke early youth. I judged him at most, to be
two-and-twenty. I began my task of measuring the body, and few can tell
the shudder which thrilled my frame as the carpenter's rule passed those
locked hands--the vain effort of the living still to claim kindred with
the dead! It was over, and I stole from the room, cautiously and silently
as I entered. Once, and only once, I turned to gaze at the melancholy
group. There lay the corpse, stiff and unconscious; there sat the son, in
an unconsciousness yet more terrible, since it could not last. There, pale
and tearless, stood the wife of him, who, in his dying hour, cursed her
child and his. How little she dreamed of such a scene when her meek lips
first replied to his vows of affection! How little she dreamed of such a
scene when she first led that father to the cradle of his sleeping boy!
when they bent together with smiles of affection, to watch his quiet
slumber, and catch the gentle breathing of his parted lips! I had scarcely
reached the landing-place before the wretched woman's hand was laid
lightly on my arm to arrest my progress. Her noiseless step had followed
me without my being aware of it. 'How soon will your work be done?' said
she, in a suffocated voice. 'To-morrow I could be here again,' answered I.
'To-morrow! and what am I to do, if my boy wakes before that time?' and
her voice became louder and hoarse with fear. 'He will go mad, I am sure
he will; his brain will not hold against these horrors. Oh! that God would
hear me!--that God would hear me! and let that slumber sit on his senses
till the sight of the father that cursed him is no longer present to us!
Heaven be merciful to me!' and with the last words she clasped her hands
convulsively, and gazed upwards. I had known opiates administered to
sufferers whose grief for their bereavement almost amounted to madness. I
mentioned this hesitatingly to the widow, and she eagerly caught at it.
'Yes! that would do,' exclaimed she; 'that would do, if I could but get
him past that horrible moment! But stay; I dare not leave him alone as he
is, even for a little while:--what will become of me!' I offered to
procure the medicine for her, and soon returned with it. I gave it into
her hands, and her vehement expressions of thankfulness wrung my heart. I
had attempted to move the pity of the apothecary at whose shop I obtained
the drug, by an account of the scene I had witnessed, in order to induce
him to pay a visit to the house of mourning; but in vain. To him, who had
_not_ witnessed it, it was nothing but a tale of every-day distress. All
that long night I worked at the merchant's coffin, and the dim grey light
of the wintry morning found me still toiling on. Often, during the hours
passed thus heavily, that picture of wretchedness rose before me. Again I
saw the leaning and exhausted form of the young man, buried in slumber, on
his father's death-bed: again my carpenter's rule almost touched the
clasped hands of the dead and the living, and a cold shudder mingled with
the chill of the dawning day, and froze my blood."
"As I passed up one of the streets which led to the merchant's lodgings,
my head bending under the weight of the coffin I was carrying, at every
step I took, the air seemed to grow more thick around me, and at length,
overcome by weariness, both of body and mind, I stopped, loosed the straps
which steadied my melancholy burden, and placing it in an upright position
against the wall, wiped the dew from my forehead, and (shall I confess it?)
the tears from my eyes. I was endeavouring to combat the depression of my
feelings by the reflection that I was the support and comfort of my poor
old mother's life, when my attention was roused by the evident compassion
of a young lady, who, after passing me with a hesitating step, withdrew
her arm from that of her more elderly companion, and pausing for an
instant, put a shilling into my hand, saying, 'You look very weary, my
poor man; pray get something to drink with that.' A more lovely
countenance (if by lovely be meant that which engages love) was never
moulded by nature; the sweetness and compassion of her pale face and soft
innocent eyes; the kindness of her gentle voice, made an impression on my
memory too strong to be effaced. _I saw her once again!_ I reached the
merchant's lodgings and my knock was answered as on the former occasion,
by the widow herself. She sighed heavily as she saw me, and after one or
two attempts to speak, informed me that her son was awake, but that it was
impossible for her to administer the opiate, as he refused to let the
smallest nourishment pass his lips; but that he was quite quiet, indeed
had never spoken since he woke, except to ask her how she felt; and she
thought I might proceed without fear of his interruption. I entered
accordingly, followed by a lad, son to the landlady who kept the lodgings,
and with his assistance I proceeded to lift the corpse, and lay it in the
coffin. The widow's son remained motionless, and, as it were, stupified
during this operation: but the moment he saw me prepare the lid of the
coffin so as to be screwed down, he started up with the energy and
gestures of a madman. His glazed eyes seemed bursting from their sockets,
and his upper lip, leaving his teeth bare, gave his mouth the appearance
of a horrible and convulsive smile. He seized my arm with his whole
strength; and, as I felt his grasp, and saw him struggling for words, I
expected to hear curses and execrations, or the wild howl of an infuriated
madman. I was mistaken. The wail of a sickly child, who dreads its
mother's departure, was the only sound to which I could compare that
wretched man's voice. He held me with a force almost supernatural; but
his tongue uttered supplications in a feeble monotonous tone, and with the
most humble and beseeching manner. 'Leave him,' exclaimed he, 'leave him a
little while longer. He will forgive me; I know he will. He spoke that
horrible word to rouse my conscience. But I heard him and came back to him.
I would have toiled and bled for him; he knows that well. Hush! hush! I
cannot hear his voice for my mother's sobs; but I know he will forgive me.
Oh! father, do not refuse! I am humble--I am penitent. Father, I have
sinned against Heaven and before thee--father, I have sinned! Oh! mother,
he is cursing me again. He is lifting his hand to curse me--his right hand.
Look, mother, look! Save me, O God! my father curses me on his dying bed!
Save me, oh!----' The unfinished word resolved itself into a low hollow
groan, and he fell back insensible. I would have assisted him, but his
mother waved me back. 'Better so, better so,' she repeated hurriedly; 'it
is the mercy of God which has caused this--do you do your duty, and I will
do mine,' and she continued to kneel and support the head of her son,
while we fastened and secured down the coffin. At length all was finished,
and then and not till then we carried the wretched youth from the chamber
of death, to one as dark, as gloomy, and as scantily furnished, but having
a wood fire burning in the grate, and a bed with ragged curtains at one
end of it. And here, in comparative comfort, the landlady allowed him to
be placed, even though she saw little chance of her lodgers being able to
pay for the change. Into the glass of water held to his parched lips, as
he recovered his senses, I poured a sufficient quantity of the opiate to
produce slumber, and had the satisfaction of hearing his mother fervently
thank God, as still half unconscious, he swallowed the draught. I thought
he would not have survived the shock he had received; but I was mistaken.
The merchant was buried and forgotten; the son lived, and we met again in
a far, far different scene."
* * * * *