usually assumed the charge of him when she found an opportunity.
So, with one hand resting upon her shoulder, and the other
supported by his staff, the old man, who looked older now, as
his hat shaded his face, moved feebly forward, surrounded by the
happy children. They walked a few steps beyond the corner of the
church, and soon came to a projection in one of the buttresses,
that was often used by the people as a seat in summer; hither they
carefully led Uncle Tommy, who could still enjoy his beloved
sunshine, whilst he rested his weary limbs. It was a sight worthy
of an artist’s pencil; the ancient stone church, the venerable man,
the young children, the lofty trees, the birds, the shadows, the
sunlight, and the graves.
“Sha’n’t I take off your hat,” asked John, “so you can feel warm?”
and away went the hat, to the mutual satisfaction of Uncle Tommy
and the children; for they loved him, and liked to see his white
hair in the bright sunbeams,--“looking exactly like the ‘Mary’s
threads’ on the dewy grass, so silvery and shiny,” Nelly used to
say.
“What are you going to tell us?” urged the impatient little
Janette, softly.
He looked all around before speaking; up at the distant blue sky
flooded with light; abroad upon the fields clothed in richest
verdure; at the gently rustling elms; the oaks, the yews, and
hemlocks in the quiet churchyard; the eager living group at his
feet; all were seen in that one comprehensive glance. “It is my
birthday, little people,” said he, at length, smilingly nodding to
them.
“Why Uncle Tommy,” cried the astonished children, in their
simplicity, “do you have birthdays, like us? We thought you was too
old!”
“Yes, yes,” said he, shaking his head, “I’m very old, but I
remember my birthdays still. It’s ninety years, this blessed day,
since I came here a wee bit of a baby; and what a blessed Father
has led me the long weary way!”
“Shall you like to die, Uncle Tommy? Do you want to die?” asked
Nelly.
“I _want_, dear child, to live just as long as our Father pleases.
I don’t feel impatient to go nor to stay; ’cause that a’n’t right,
Nelly. I want to do exactly as God wills; but I sha’n’t feel sorry
to go when the time comes; all I _wish_ about it is, that the sun
may shine like _now_ when I go home, and that I may _know_ it.”
Another little boy here joined the group. He was the youngest
son of the Rector. He had only returned home the previous day
to pass the summer vacation, after a six months’ absence. There
was a little shyness at first between the children, which soon
disappeared before the kindly influence of the old man, in whose
eyes all human beings were recognized as the children of God. With
him there were no rich and no poor.
“Welcome home again, little Herman!” was his greeting, accompanied
by a smile so genial, it went straight to the boy’s heart.
“Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” said he, shaking hands, cordially. “I am
right glad to be here, I can assure you; and very glad to see you
in your old corner, looking so well. But what were you saying about
‘going home,’ when I interrupted you by coming up? Pray go on.”
Before he could answer, Janette said, “It’s Uncle Tommy’s birthday,
this is!”
“Indeed! and how old is he?” asked Herman, looking at the old man
for a reply.
“Ninety years, thank God,” was the cheerful answer.
“O what a long, long time to live!” slowly fell from Herman’s lips.
He was a delicate boy, and thoughtful beyond his years, as is
often the case with invalid children; and now he rested his pale,
intelligent face upon his hand, with his eyes fixed on Uncle Tommy,
and thought what a long, long time was ninety years! Then he looked
upon the graves, and wondered whether any of those whose bodies
were lying there knew what an old, old man was still seeing the
sun shine so long after they were gone. There were little graves
and large ones; Uncle Tommy knew almost all of them, and still he
lived on _all alone_; and _they_ had some of them left families.
He wondered on and on; his reverie was short, but crowded with
perplexing thoughts.
Uncle Tommy put an end to it, by saying, in answer to Herman’s
words, “The time is _only_ long, when I don’t mind our Father’s
will. When I obey, as the sun, and the wind, and all about us in
Nature does, then I’m as happy as a cretur can be; and time seems
just right. But what I was a saying about going home was this; I
a’n’t in a hurry to go, ’cause I’m here so long; nor am I wanting
to stay; only just as God pleases. But when the time _does_ come,
I’ll be glad to go home, after my school time here is over. P’r’aps
just as you feel now, Herman; and I hope when Uncle Tommy has
gone, with the sunshine, out there, you little people will learn
to love the fair works of God our Father, just as _he_ does now.
And don’t forget when you’re a going to be unkind or naughty, that
you little ones, and _all_ the little children, and _all_ the grown
people, are the fairest, noblest of God’s works. And if you think
of Uncle Tommy, when you see the sun shine, and the pretty flowers
and birds, and remember how _he_ loved them, think of him when you
are a going to strike one another, or do any naughty thing, and
remember how often he has told you about the dear Jesus, who took
little children in his arms and blessed them, and told all the
people, great and small, to love God best, and then to love one
another as they loved themselves. Now if you try to think of this,
I don’t believe you’ll be naughty very often; and the fewer times
you’re naughty, the happier you’ll be when you look round on this
dear beautiful world.”
“But, Uncle Tommy,” said Nelly, “we forget about being good
sometimes, when we get cross, and everybody scolds at us ’cause we
are so naughty; and that makes us act worse, ever so much; don’t
it, Ann?” appealing to a girl about her own age.
“Yes,” rejoined Ann, “nobody ever says anything about being good,
in the way you do, Uncle Tommy; except in Sunday School, and in
Church; and somehow it don’t seem just the same as when _you_
talk. Oh, Uncle Tommy, I believe we should always be good children,
if you could only be along with us all the time.”
“So do I!” “And I!” was heard from the little circle.
“Dear me!” cried Nelly, impatiently, “how I do wish we had a great
big world, all our own, with nobody ugly to plague us; only just
for Uncle Tommy and us to live in. _Then_ we’d be good as could be.
Don’t you wish so, dear Uncle Tommy?”
“No, dear children, I wish for no better, or bigger world to live
in, than this. Our Father put us here, and put it in our own
power to be happy; that means, to be good; and if we don’t make
out to do what He wants us to do here, I don’t believe we should
find it half as easy in a world such as folks dream about. It’s
a wrong notion, to my thinking, to s’pose we could behave better
in some other place than in the one where our lot’s cast in life,
or at some other time than the present time going over our heads.
Remember this, dear little people, when you grow up, and don’t wish
for anything it isn’t God’s will you should have. Try all you can
to mind the Lord, who loves you so well; and if trouble and sorrow
come to you, as they do to every human cretur, and you can be sure
it’s not your own doing, then patiently trust in our Father, and
remember what the dear bells say:--
‘For God doth prove
Our constant friend;
His boundless love
Will never end.’
You’re little and young, and full of health now, so you don’t know
what I mean, as you will by and by, when you grow older; but you
can _remember_, if you can’t quite take it in, that I tell you,
after trying it for a good many years, I _know_ our happiness
depends a deal more on ourselves than on other people; and it’s
only when we’re lazy, and don’t want to stir ourselves, that we
think other people have an easier time than we do. B’lieve me,
dear children, everybody has the means of being happy or unhappy
in their _hearts_; and these they must take wherever they go; and
these make their home and their world.”
The bell for school began to ring, and the children sprang to their
feet instantly, saying, “Good by, Uncle Tommy! It’s school-time
now!” “Good by, little ones,” said he. “You go to one school, and
I’ll go to another, among the _dumb_ children of our Lord!”
Nelly and Ann lingered after the others a moment. “Uncle Tommy,”
said Ann, “we _will_ try to do as you want us to, and remember what
you say.”
He laid his hands upon their heads, and, looking up to Heaven,
said, “May the Spirit of the dear Lord be with ye, and guide your
tender feet in the narrow way of life! Bless them, Father, with
thy loving presence through their unending life!”
There was a moment’s pause; then Ann said earnestly, “I love dearly
to have you bless me, Uncle Tommy”; and with a “Good by,” off she
ran to school.
Nelly stopped a moment. She had nestled close to the old man’s
side without speaking, and now, throwing her arms around his neck
with a real overflowing of her young heart, she kissed his cheek,
and then darted off to join her companions in school. Uncle Tommy
was surprised, for Nelly did not often express her affection by
caresses, as most children do, but by kind deeds.
The action, slight though it was, touched a long silent chord
in the old man’s memory. The curtain veiling the past seemed
withdrawn, and again he was a child. There was the path from the
village across the church-yard, just as it was when first his
mother had led him to church, a tiny thing clinging to her skirts.
He was the youngest of seven, and the pet; O so long ago! He saw
again before him his young brothers and sisters, full of healthful
glee; then other forms of long-parted ones joined the procession of
years; his sisters’ and brothers’ children; his own cherished wife
and much-loved boys and girls: all gone, long, long years ago; and
he alone, of all that numerous company, remained. “Thou, Father,
hast ever been on my right hand and on my left; very safely hast
thou led me on through joy and sorrow unto this shining day;
blessed be thy holy name!”
So prayed the old man his last earthly thanksgiving. When the
people were dispersing to their homes after service, one, seeing
him sitting there in the sheltered nook, came to say “Good
morning”; and receiving no answer, he touched his hand. It was
cold. There he sat in the glorious sunshine, his old brown hat
by his side, wreathed with fresh grass and flowers, as was his
custom; but the freed spirit had gone to the Father he so lovingly
worshipped.
They made his grave in the sunniest part of the church-yard, where
an opening in the trees afforded a lovely view of the village and
the meadows, with the gentle flowing river, along whose peaceful
banks the old man had loved to wander, gathering flowers and leaves
and grasses, and throwing crumbs to the birds, who knew him too
well to fly from him. Here they laid him, at the last, and, instead
of monument or headstone, the children brought sweet flowering
shrubs, and wild brier from the lanes or fields, to plant around
his quiet grave.
“Uncle Tommy is not _there_,” said the children. “He has gone home.
This is only his poor _body_, here in the ground!” Thus did the
influence of his bright, ever-young spirit remain with the “little
people” long after Uncle Tommy had ceased to talk with them.
[Illustration]
SITTING IN THE SUN.
When Hope deceives, and friends betray,
And kinsmen shun me with a flout;
When hair grows white, and eyes grow dim,
And life’s slow sand is nigh run out,
I’ll ask no boon of any one,
But sing old songs, and sit i’ the sun.
When memory is my only joy,
And all my thoughts shall backward turn;
When eyes shall cease to glow with love,
And heart with generous fire to burn,
I’ll ask no boon of any one,
But sing old songs, and sit i’ the sun.
When sounds grow low to deafening ears,
And suns shine not as once they did;
When parting is no more a grief,
And I do whatsoe’er they bid,
I’ll ask no boon of any one,
But sing old songs, and sit i’ the sun.
Then underneath a spreading elm,
That guards some little cottage door,
I’ll dance a grandchild on my knee,
And count my past days o’er and o’er;
I’ll ask no boon of any one,
But sing old songs and sit i’ the sun.
ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
How far from here to heaven?
Not very far, my friend;
A single hearty step
Will all thy journey end.
Hold there! where runnest thou?
Know heaven is in thee!
Seek’st thou for God elsewhere?
His face thou’lt never see.
Go out, God will go in;
Die thou, and let Him live;
Be not, and He will be;
Wait, and He’ll all things give.
I don’t believe in death.
If hour by hour I die,
’Tis hour by hour to gain
A better life thereby.
ANGELUS SILESIUS, A. D. 1620.
[Illustration]
AUNT KINDLY.
BY THEODORE PARKER
Miss Kindly is aunt to everybody, and has been, for so long a time,
that none remember to the contrary. The little children love her;
and she helped their grandmothers to bridal ornaments threescore
years ago. Nay, this boy’s grandfather found that the way to
college lay through her pocket. Generations not her own rise up
and call her blessed. To this man’s father her patient toil gave
the first start in life. When that great fortune was a seed, it
was she who carried it in her hand. That wide river of reputation
ran out of the cup which her bounty filled. Now she is old, very
old. The little children, who cling about her, with open mouth and
great round eyes, wonder that anybody should ever be so old; or ask
themselves whether Aunt Kindly ever had a mother to kiss her mouth.
To them she is coeval with the sun, and, like that, an institution
of the country. At Christmas, they think she is the wife of St.
Nicholas himself, such an advent is there of blessings from her
hand.
Her hands are thin, her voice is feeble, her back is bent, and she
walks with a staff, which is the best limb of the three. She wears
a cap of antique pattern, yet of her own nice make. She has great
round spectacles, and holds her book away off the other side of
the candle when she reads. For more than sixty years she has been
a special providence to the family. How she used to go forth, the
very charity of God, to heal and soothe and bless! How industrious
are her hands! How thoughtful and witty that fertile mind! Her
heart has gathered power to love in all the eighty-six years of
her toilsome life. When the birth-angel came to a related house,
she was there to be the mother’s mother; ay, mother also to the
new-born baby’s soul. And when the wings of death flapped in the
street and shook a neighbor’s door, she smoothed the pillow for the
fainting head; she soothed and cheered the spirit of the waiting
man, opening the curtains of heaven, that he might look through
and see the welcoming face of the dear Infinite Mother; nay, she
put the wings of her own strong, experienced piety under him, and
sought to bear him up.
Now, these things are passed by. No, they are not passed by; for
they are in the memory of the dear God, and every good deed she has
done is treasured in her own heart. The bulb shuts up the summer
in its breast, which in winter will come out a fragrant hyacinth.
Stratum after stratum, her good works are laid up, imperishable, in
the geology of her character.
It is near noon, now; and she is alone. She has been thoughtful all
day, talking inwardly to herself. The family notice it, but say
nothing. In her chamber, she takes a little casket from her private
drawer; and from thence a book, gilt-edged and clasped; but the
clasp is worn, the gilding is old, the binding faded by long use.
Her hands tremble as she opens it. First she reads her own name,
on the fly-leaf; only her Christian name, “Agnes,” and the date.
Sixty-eight years ago, this day, that name was written there, in
a clear, youthful, clerkly hand, with a little tremble in it, as
if the heart beat over quick. It is very well worn, that dear old
Bible. It opens of its own accord, at the fourteenth chapter of St.
John. There is a little folded paper there; it touches the first
verse and the twenty-seventh. She _sees_ neither; she reads both
out of her _soul_. “Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in
God, believe also in me.” “Peace I leave with you. My peace I give
unto you. Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.” She opens the
paper. There is a little brown dust in it, the remnant of a flower.
She takes the precious relic in her hand, made cold by emotion. She
drops a tear on it, and the dust is transfigured before her eyes:
it is a red rose of the spring, not quite half blown, dewy fresh.
She is old no longer. She is not Aunt Kindly now; she is sweet
Agnes, as the maiden of eighteen was, eight and sixty years ago,
one day in May, when all nature was woosome and winning, and every
flower-bell rung in the marriage of the year. Her lover had just
put that red rose of the spring into her hand, and the good God put
another on her cheek, not quite half-blown, dewy fresh. The young
man’s arm is around her; her brown curls fall on his shoulder; she
feels his breath on her face, his cheek on hers; their lips join,
and like two morning dew-drops in that rose, their two loves rush
into one.
But the youth must wander away to a far land. She bids him take
her Bible. They will think of each other as they look at the North
Star. He saw the North Star hang over the turrets of many a foreign
town. His soul went to God;--there is as straight a road thither
from India as from any other spot. His Bible came back to her; the
Divine love in it, without the human lover; the leaf turned down at
the blessed words of St. John, first and twenty-seventh verse of
the fourteenth chapter. She put the rose there to mark the spot;
what marks the thought holds now the symbol of their youthful love.
To-day, her soul is with him; her maiden soul with his angel-soul;
and one day the two, like two dew-drops, will rush into one
immortal wedlock, and the old age of earth shall become eternal
youth in the kingdom of heaven.
[Illustration]
CROSSING OVER.
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
Many a year is in its grave,
Since I crossed this restless wave;
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.
Then, in this same boat, beside,
Sat two comrades old and tried;
One with all a father’s truth,
One with all the fire of youth.
One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.
So, whene’er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o’er me;
Friends who closed their course before me.
Yet, what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore--
Let us walk in soul once more!
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee!
Take! I give it willingly;
For, invisibly to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me.
* * * * *
They are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just!
Shining nowhere but in the dark!
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair field or grove he sings in _now_,
That is to him unknown.
And yet, as angels, in some brighter dreams,
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
HENRY VAUGHAN.
[Illustration]
A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.
BY MRS. GASKELL.
I thought, after Miss Jenkyns’s death, that probably my connection
with Cranford would cease. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore,
by receiving a letter from Miss Pole proposing that I should go
and stay with her. In a couple of days after my acceptance came a
note from Miss Matey Jenkyns, in which, in a rather circuitous and
very humble manner, she told me how much pleasure I should confer
if I could spend a week or two with her, either before or after I
had been at Miss Pole’s; “for,” she said, “since my dear sister’s
death, I am well aware I have no attractions to offer: it is only
to the kindness of my friends that I can owe their company.”
Of course I promised to go to dear Miss Matey as soon as I had
ended my visit to Miss Pole. The day after my arrival at Cranford,
I went to see her, much wondering what the house would be like
without Miss Jenkyns, and rather dreading the changed aspect of
things. Miss Matey began to cry as soon as she saw me. She was
evidently nervous from having anticipated my call. I comforted her
as well as I could; and I found the best consolation I could give
was the honest praise that came from my heart as I spoke of the
deceased. Miss Matey slowly shook her head over each virtue, as
it was named and attributed to her sister; at last she could not
restrain the tears which had long been silently flowing, but hid
her face behind her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud.
“Dear Miss Matey!” said I, taking her hand; for indeed I did not
know in what way to tell her how sorry I was for her, left deserted
in the world.
She put down her handkerchief and said: “My dear, I’d rather you
did not call me Matey. _She_ did not like it. But I did many a
thing she did not like, I’m afraid; and now she’s gone! If you
please, my love, will you call me Matilda?”
I promised faithfully, and began to practise the new name with Miss
Pole that very day; and, by degrees, Miss Matilda’s feeling on the
subject was known through Cranford, and the appellation of Matey
was dropped by all, except a very old woman, who had been nurse in
the rector’s family, and had persevered, through many long years,
in calling the Miss Jenkynses “the girls”: _she_ said “Matey” to
the day of her death.
* * * * *
It seems that Miss Pole had a cousin, once or twice removed, who
had offered to Miss Matey long ago. Now, this cousin lived four or
five miles from Cranford, on his own estate; but his property was
not large enough to entitle him to rank higher than a yeoman; or,
rather, with something of the “pride which apes humility,” he had
refused to push himself on, as so many of his class had done, into
the rank of the squires. He would not allow himself to be called
Thomas Holbrook, Esq. He even sent back letters with this address,
telling the postmistress at Cranford that his name was Mr. Thomas
Holbrook, yeoman. He rejected all domestic innovations. He would
have the house door stand open in summer, and shut in winter,
without knocker or bell to summon a servant. The closed fist, or
the knob of the stick, did this office for him, if he found the
door locked. He despised every refinement which had not its root
deep down in humanity. If people were not ill, he saw no necessity
for moderating his voice. He spoke the dialect of the country in
perfection, and constantly used it in conversation; although Miss
Pole (who gave me these particulars) added, that he read aloud
more beautifully, and with more feeling, than any one she had ever
heard, except the late rector.
“And how came Miss Matilda not to marry him?” asked I.
“Oh, I don’t know. She was willing enough, I think; but you know
Cousin Thomas would not have been enough of a gentleman for the
rector and Mrs. and Miss Jenkyns.”
“Well, but _they_ were not to marry him,” said I, impatiently.
“No, but they did not like Miss Matey to marry below her rank. You
know she was the rector’s daughter, and somehow they are related to
Sir Peter Arley; Miss Jenkyns thought a deal of that.”
“Poor Miss Matey!” said I.
“Nay, now, I don’t know anything more than that he offered and was
refused. Miss Matey might not like him; and Miss Jenkyns might
never have said a word: it is only a guess of mine.”
“Has she never seen him since?” I inquired.
“No, I think not. You see Woodley (Cousin Thomas’s house) lies
half-way between Cranford and Misselton; and I know he made
Misselton his market-town very soon after he had offered to Miss
Matey; and I don’t think he has been into Cranford above once or
twice since. Once, when I was walking with Miss Matey in High
Street, she suddenly darted from me and went up Shire Lane. A few
minutes after, I was startled by meeting Cousin Thomas.”
“How old is he?” I asked, after a pause of castle-building.
“He must be about seventy, I think, my dear,” said Miss Pole,
blowing up my castle, as if by gun-powder, into small fragments.