eulogy of Ralph Partridge, the first shepherd of the old Duxborough
flock, that being distressed at home by the ecclesiastical setters,
he had no defence, neither beak nor claw, but flight over the ocean;
that now being a bird of Paradise, it may be written of him, that he
had the loftiness of the eagle and the innocency of the dove. His
epitaph is: AVOLAVIT.
The most exquisite epitaph I ever saw was one of an infant of
German extraction, who died, at the notable age of sixteen months:
"Beloved and respected by all who knew him." Wellnigh as pompous
and as plausible is an obituary in favor of a similar lambkin, yet
to be deciphered at Copp's Hill: "He bore a Lingering sicknesse
with Patience, and met ye King of Terrors with a Smile." One
Abigail Dudley sleeps in a New England village under a white stone,
professionally indicative "of her moral character;" a widow droops in
effigy over a Plymouth tomb, and states in large capitals that she
has lost "an agreeable companion." Near by is the harrowing script:
"Father. Parted Below;" and its sequel a yard's length off: "Mother.
United Above." It flashes across your brain like a revelation of
Vandal atrocities.
What wondrously sweet lines old English poets wrote over the graves
of women and children! Think of Carew's "darling in an urn;" of Ben
Jonson's "Elizabeth;" of "Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;" of
Drummond's "Margaret;" of Herrick's "On a Maid," every word precious
as a pearl; and of the wholly startling pathos wherewith one now
without a name bewailed his friend:--
"If such goodness live 'mongst men,
Bring me it! I shall know then
She is come from Heaven again."
General Charles Lee, that sad Revolutionary rogue, wrote in his last
will and testament: "I do earnestly desire that I may not be buried
in any church or churchyard, or within a mile of any Presbyterian or
Anabaptist meeting-house; for since I have resided in this country,
I have kept so much bad company while living that I do not choose to
continue it when dead."
Of Roger Williams, who was also granted solitary sepulture, a strange
tale is told. There was question, some years back, of transplanting
him from his sequestered resting-place to a stately mausoleum. The
diggers dug, and the beholders beheld--what? Not any received version
of that which was he, but the roots of an adjacent apple-tree formed
into a netted oval, indented with punctures not wholly unlike human
features; parallel branches lying perpendicularly on either side;
fibres intertwined over a central area; and lastly, two long sprouts,
knotted half-way down, and terminating in a pediform excrescence
wonderful to see. It was plain, thought the _savants_ of P., that
the apple-tree had eaten of ancient Roger; now who had eaten of the
fruit of that apple-tree? Verily, "to what base uses may we return!"
It was said of old by the English Chrysostom: "A man shall read a
sermon, the best and most passionate that ever was preached, will
he but enter into the sepulchre of kings." Let a tourist go through
Europe, from town to town, pausing in the porches of burial-grounds:
shall he not touch the naked candor of governments and follow the
hoary chronicle of ages backward with his Hebraic eye? To him, the
graveyard moss that eats out the charactery of proud names, is a sage
commentator on mundane fame; and the humble mound to which genius
and virtue have lent their blessed association inspires him with
precepts beyond all philosophy. For history is not a clear scroll,
but a palimpsest; and he who is versed only in the autography of his
contemporaries misses half the opportunity and half the gladness of
life.
The habit of providing for personal comfort anticipates an easy couch
and a fair prospect for us at the end. How many men, from the royal
warriors of yore who willed their ashes to be carried into a far-away
country, have chosen, and jealously guarded in thought, their
to-morrow's place of rest? A superfluous care, when the unawaited
waves of ocean have cradled thousands, and every battle-field opens
to receive the staunch and strong! Even for the sake of mysterious
beauty such as hath thy holy hill, Concordia! alert youth itself
might harbor a not ungentle welcoming thought of death. Yet that head
which is confident of quiet sleep is scarce solicitous of its pillow.
One last assurance vibrates, like triumphant music, in ears impatient
of much speech upon a text so sacred. "To live indeed," it echoes,
"is to be again ourselves, which being not only a hope, but an
evidence in noble believers, it is all one to lie in St. Innocent's
churchyard as in the sands of Egypt: ready to be anything, in the
ecstasy of being ever, and as content with six feet as with the moles
of Adrianus."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SOME GARDEN-FOLK.
THE snail is a kind-hearted, happy-go-lucky creature. Carrying
his house with him, he leaves no cares at home. He is _otium
cum dignitate_. He is the moral antipode of the ant. He shirks
responsibilities, and turns the cold shoulder on labor and fret.
Deliberation, calmness of intellect, consciousness of superiority,
are in his slow, majestic tread. So that he gets to the place in
mind, it is of no possible consequence how long the journey may
be. The crystal day is all his own. He is a Nabob, a gentleman of
leisure, and considers haste vulgar, and proper only to grasshoppers
and miserable sparrows.
Rose-bugs are impertinent. Humming-birds, bright and beautiful, come
too seldom amongst our flowers of June, but the bees come instead,
and burden the air with their soothing baritone. Yet the bees have a
way of pressing personal souvenirs upon you. Pray you, avoid it! as
Hamlet tells the players.
Caterpillars fascinate a spectator. They are full of mysterious
interest, berthed in their soft cocoons, deftly caught on to the
jagged edges of stone walls, or bent on travelling from leaf to leaf,
with their "many twinkling feet" in full motion. A caterpillar,
however varied and attractive his coloring, is not a favorite with
society, or with that branch of it which goes about in bonnets and
high-heeled boots. Moralists, rather, shall befriend him, the kind
little creeper, and treat him with that reverence which the knowledge
of his coming glories inspires.
The earth-worm is the Pariah of garden-folk. His appearance,
primarily, is against him; he looks like an intriguer, an uneasy,
officious sinner, wriggling his crooked way through the world. The
"inadvertent step," which Cowper would fain spare him, ends too
often our groundling's peregrinations. He is born to be disregarded
and abused; a child, whose protective instincts are yet dormant,
will decimate him for the pleasure of seeing his posthumous remnants
take up their separate lives, and unconcernedly disperse. Worm is
a reputed political exile. With his greater cousin, the snake, he
shares the popular odium of Erin's isle. I have heard an old fellow,
mowing grass, turn about to tell an incredulous companion that if, by
any chance, one could put a bit of Irish soil, nay, so small a thing
as a shamrock, under a "Yankee wurrum," that instant would be the
death of him.
The legend is given in that very quaint "Lives of the Saints," which
Warton thinks was written in the twelfth century:--
"Seyn Pateryck com thoru Goddes grace to preche in Irelonde,
To teche men ther ryt believe Jehu Cryste to onderstonde;
So fil of worms that londe he found that no man in myghte gon,
In som stede for worms that he nas wenemyd anon;
Seyn Pateryck bade our lord Cryste that the londe delyvered were
Of thilke foul wormis that none ne com ther!"
[Illustration]
HOSPITALITIES.
IT does the heart good to read of some light-footed troubadour or
reverend pilgrim trudging from gate to gate, all the way across
a strange country, everywhere welcome as an expected guest, and
given the liberty of the host's kingdom. Chroniclers give us pretty
pictures of the household sitting about the dusty palmer, listening
to his pious and spirited homily; of the errant singer, wrapped in
his worn velvet cloak, delighting young maids and children with the
old burden of Roncesvalles, or with the tale of that dreamer Rudel
who crossed seas to find his unseen lady-love at Tripoli, and to
die, satisfactorily, in her arms. Whether the master of the castle
had subsequent cause to regret the shelter proffered to his birds of
passage, posterity shall never learn. For those were the days of
chivalry; and the brave bounty which accepted the wayfarers without
question was able to overlook a deficiency, if such there were, in
the family silver. Of this best sort, too, was the hospitality of
Alcinoüs to Ulysses, treating him like a king, and dreaming not
of his hidden kingliness. Spanish courtesy yet keeps a show of
heart-whole giving: "This is thy house," an Andalusian tells his
visitor. An Indian, in his forest wigwam, does yet better. If he
abide you at all, with your scalp at its accustomed altitude, he
tenders whatsoever he calls his, and would scorn to conceal from you
the innermost recesses of his savage larder.
"Is he not hospitable," quaintly asks one of our American essayists,
"who entertains thoughts?"
Think of the unlicensed generosity of the Roberds-men, dealing
out what had but just become theirs by right of might, and of our
niggardly modern dispensation! of that Duke of Newcastle, the
lavish splendor of whose receptions bewildered all England; or of
another social peer, Edward, Earl of Derby, "in whose grave, since
1572," said Thomas Fuller, "hospitality hath in a manner been laid
asleep." Timon began as bravely as any of these. Waiving all formal
recognition of his royal liberality, he made his frank exordium in
the banquet-hall:--
----"My lords! ceremony
Was but devised at first to set a gloss
On faint deeds, hollow welcomes,
Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown;
But where there is true friendship, there needs none;
Pray sit...."
Hospitality hath been called threefold: for one's family, of
necessity; for strangers, of courtesy; for the poor, of charity.
Friendship pushes its privilege to the broad extreme, and loses its
sense of ownership.
"Cot or cabin have I none,
And sing the more that thou hast one."
The twin playwrights of the reign of Queen Bess set up their tent "on
the Bankside;" alternately wearing "the same cloathes and clokes,"
and having but one bench of the house between them, which the twain
"did so much admire"!
A guest should be permitted to graze, as it were, in the pastures of
his host's kindness, left even to his own devices, like a rational
being, and handsomely neglected. Our merry friend, T., has been known
to beat his breast and groan while passing a certain suburban house,
whose inmates consider themselves his devoted friends. It seems that
on his last visit he found only the ladies of the establishment at
home,--ardent, solicitous creatures, whose good manners were nearly
the death of him. He had a mind to await their brother's return,
and while the fair Araminta was gathering roses on the terrace, and
her sister had momentarily vanished in-doors, our tender innocent,
pleased with the landscape, and not averse to bodily comfort,
incontinently got into the hammock. He had barely begun to sway to
and fro, in his idle fashion, when delicate expostulations smote his
incredulous ear. He learned, with respectful awe, that he was liable
to headache, to sea-sickness, to certain and sudden thuds on the
floor of the piazza, and, lastly, to influenza and kindred ills, by
facing the formidable summer atmosphere, in a recumbent position,
without wrap or shawl. The climax was capped by the wheeling forward
of a portly arm-chair, and the persuasive order to "take that," and
be "comfortable." T. was too dazed, or too shy, to protest. When he
sought a cool seat in the bay-window, down came the sash, "for fear
of a draught;" he made bold to caress the dog, and Nero was led away
and chained to his kennel, because he was "apt to bite;" he fell in,
to his infinite diversion, with the junior member of the household,
and master was marched off to bed, with the stern bidding to "be a
good boy," and not "trouble the gentleman." Like sorrows hovered
over him till the blessed hour of release. B. was back at seven, and
wondered why his old classmate had gone.
Who does not envy them that knew Henry Wotton, "a very great lover
of his neighbors, a bountiful entertainer of them very often at his
table, where his meat was _choice_, and his discourse _better_;" or
the Bohemian spirits of 4 Inner Temple Lane, with "the card-tables
drawn out, the fire crackling, the long-sixes lit, the snuff-boxes
ready for any one's handling, the kettle singing on the hob, glasses
and bottles and cold viands within reach, books lying about,
familiar guests doing what they pleased, chatting, reading, coming,
going,--veritable At Homes, with a sense of slippered, almost of
slip-shod ease"? But hold! are we to indite a disquisition on the
Decay of Hospitality? Are there no open hearts above ground, nor any
houses where the elected comer may still hold the key to every room,
with no direful Blue-beard exclusions? Leaving Dives to the practice
or omission of a virtue eminently appropriate to his coffers, what
of the very poor? For there is a paradoxical extravagance in their
way of life; a glorious communism between one that is needy and one
whom he discovers, day on day, to be needier than himself. Where have
they learned that sweet readiness of succor? The churl, with them,
is he who withholds his little superfluity from a more miserable
brother. In the close kinship of suffering, their souls grow mutually
pitying, mutually helpful, clinging each to the rest, as a coral atom
is moored to the patient island, built from the incalculable depths
of the sea. If the wealth that is gracious and thoughtful should
vanish to-morrow from the earth, generous giving should find its home
in the thin, kind hands of poverty; and then, as now, should some
bright-eyed student arise to deny the asseveration of history that
the noble old Hospitallers are no more.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE TWO VOICES.
DOWN a tranquil country road, I walked in a reverie, one April
Sabbath afternoon. I seemed to be in a strange land, and pictures
and fancies of Maiano and the Tyrol were floating in my brain; yet I
was unconsciously moving, like a drowsy star, in the old, old orbit,
whence I had never strayed, within brief distance of the spot where I
was born, and where for years my life had worked itself into so dear
a bondage, that the desire of journeying gladly elsewhere, save in
the spirit, had become a sort of treason. The air was laden with the
moist delicious fragrance of early spring, which comes as yet from
nothing but the ground, as if the persuasive showers had stirred and
awakened the very clods and roots and buried fragments of leaves
into something like hope and aspiration. This is the advent-time of
Nature, far more touching and suggestive than the imminent beauty
whereof it is the fore-runner. As I ventured onward, wrapped in
solitary thought, and resolved, as it were, into the sweet indolent
joy of living, I stooped to pick up a branch, silvered with thick
buds, which the wind had blown across my path. At that moment,
distracted from the invisible world, and in the transition-state
between dreaming and alert attention, I was saluted with a strain
of exquisite music, such as one can conceive of as floating ever
in Jeremy Taylor's "blessed country, where an enemy never entered,
and whence a friend never went away." I raised my head to listen,
and immediately perceived ahead of me, back from the highway, and
embowered in trees, a gray church porch, out of which were ushered
the interlacing harmonies which had charmed my wandering ear. The
door stood open, and no idlers were in sight; no late wheel-marks
were betrayed on the soft, fine dust of the road. Yet by the
many-colored sunlight, filtered through the costly windows of the
nave, I saw that a number of people were gathered together in the
cool and quiet edifice. A single glance showed me that the interior
was of extreme beauty, and of precisely that delicacy and airiness
of design most unlikely to be coupled with massive granite walls.
Yet there it was, impregnably grim without, peaceful and assuring
within, like a kindly heroic heart beating under armor. From it, and
about it, and through it, floated the siren voices of my search. In
an illusion-loving mood, I sought not to pluck out the heart of my
mystery, nor to rob it of its soft promise by vain questionings.
I slipped into a deserted seat in the shadow of the choir-stairs,
and gave myself up to this sole delight: as to prayers and sermons,
either they were already over, or else they went past in the lapses
of melody, as the swallows by the window above me, beating their
shining way upward, utterly without my knowledge or furtherance.
I heard, above the rest, and sometimes intertwined only with each
other, a brave, jubilant voice, and a voice steadfast and tender.
Neither know I which was the fairer, so ministrant were both, so
helpful and unfailing. The soft, starlit voice might touch an
over-eager soul with calm; to the soul distressed, the strong voice
would come like a great noon-tide wind, impelling it towards the
height where the sun dwelt, and all the fountains of the day. Clear
as thought was the bright voice, striving, surmounting, and instinct
with truth; but like the first sigh of passion was the sad voice,
thrilling, too, with memories of yesterdays that cannot return
forever; fond, sensitive, dedicated to the deep recesses of the
heart, where there is search after hidden meanings, and mourning
over the inscrutable laws through which not even Love's anointed
eyes can see. I recognized the battle-call, the rush of the wings of
the morning, the pæan of young ambition in the victor-voice, whose
very petition was a conquest, in the irresistible faith and strength
of its asking; but the lowly voice sang with unspeakable pathos,
in whose every plea the greater grief of rejection was already
apprehended. A grateful spirit would fain bestow on the glorious
voice an ardent welcome, and on the gentle voice a lingering caress.
Both I loved, and unto both my soul hearkened; for they were the
voices of angels, and one was Joy, and one was Peace.
Then, as in a vision, I beheld a fair prospect before me, and in
the centre of its green beauty arose two hills, from whose separate
summits the voices ruled perennially, showering blessings, healing
sorrow, banishing care, cheering and solacing the earth. Now the
weak needed not to rely on the strong; and pity and protection were
scarcely asked or given; for music, "the most divine striker of the
senses,"--music alone was the arbitress of the world. And all day,
past twilight into the deep gloom, were the voices singing, not
incapable of being wearied, but revivified forever by the smiles and
tears of pilgrims who departed from the hill-top with hearts made
whole.
I marked that the little children were drawn frequently to the abode
of the melancholy voice, because it was soft and weird, like a gypsy
mother's lullaby, or the rustle of aspens in serene weather. Thither
also came youth, nursing its first grief with wilful indulgence, and
manhood, yearning for summer melodies that should soothe all unrest,
and close "tired eyelids over tired eyes." But I knew the babes were
there only because of the sweet, curious affinity of childhood with
sombre influences; and the young palmers, through some sophistry of
love and honor; and the strong workers, overwrought, since there was
no courage left for self-invigoration, and no guide to help them
towards the city of the cordial voice, whither they should have
turned. One I saw coming forth from the field, with a scroll under
his arm, pale and worn with "glimpses of incomprehensibles, and
thoughts of things which thoughts do but tenderly touch," who stood a
moment, rapt in rash delight at the voice which betokened tears and
infinite longing and regret; and who, straightway remembering that
the poet's mission is gladness, incessant belief and prophecy of
good, betook him, albeit with a sigh, to that other abiding-place,
where he might learn of the happy voice. All the afflicted, with wild
and doleful steps, sought to climb the dolorous mountain towards
the setting sun; and often a friend's strong hand intervened, and
led them, rather, with inspiring speech, into the land of healing.
I watched, time on time, soldiers marching to the wars, sustained
by the glad voice, and hastening forwards with its spell upon them
like a consecration; and again, the weary troops returning, with
tattered colors and broken ranks, pausing in the lovely courts of the
grave voice, to chant with it a song of memory and reparation and
thanksgiving. I came to understand, though but slowly and confusedly,
that the entire universe was swayed by these voices; and that, while
each was best in its holy office, the strong voice was that which
nerved us to our duty, and the kind voice that which rewarded us
for duty done. Always within hearing of them, we travel towards the
ampler day, loyal to one until we have merited the loving offices of
the other; holding them sweetly correlative, even as are labor and
repose, or life and death.
So soon as I was filled with the glory and significance of the
voices, they faded imperceptibly away, and I heard them no longer.
Moreover, I found my lifted eye resting anew on the village
church, where the dying light fell across the aisles, and the
bare clematis-vine waved at the near window; and whence the last
worshipper had departed. Had I indeed been on a strange road, and
among strange sounds? It may be that even in my day-dream I might
have called my beloved singers by their earthly names; and that so I
might this hour, were it not for a clinging scruple. For I have been
made wiser, and know verily that both are angels, and that one is
Joy, and one is Peace.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
SWEETHEART.
IN a mood made half of tenderness, and half of laughter, I begin
to speak of her: in tenderness, since to name her is a joy; and in
laughter, for that I cannot for sheer inability keep the knowledge of
her to myself; partly because she had many liegemen and lovers who
sung of her aloud to the tell-tale winds before I found my way to
her blessed door, but most of all because it would strangely savor
of injustice to appropriate so sweet a thing as her favor, without
sharing it with the first comer found worthy. Therefore this delight
of mine is no more mine than thine, and his, and theirs, and ours;
and who would have it otherwise?
She dwelt of old in a tranquil vale apart from villages, with little
society save that of the scarlet tanager and the periwinkle-blossom.
Such visitors as entered the "piny aisles" that led into her
presence, were those only who reverenced her truly. She could not
abide harshness and scorn, and they were always gentle; she sat in
her fragrant solitude as one that broods on mysteries, and they, in
sympathy, sat beside her, one by one, and spake ever after with the
enthusiasm and the unworldliness of children. But the immaculate
stillness which she chose for her dwelling has long been assailed.
Revellers came from the city to riot in her gardens, and to disport
themselves in her halls. Railway trains thundered hourly over against
her hallowed threshold. Often and often, in passing by, you may yet
hear the sound of inharmonious voices, and catch a glimpse of her
fair downcast brow, as she looks mutely out upon the invaders.