Fain would I fly the haunts of men;
I seek to shun, not hate mankind.
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind.
Oh that to me the wings were given
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.
BYRON.
On the borders of a lake in one of the wildest and most remote parts of
North Wales, stands a rude inn, the resort, during the proper season of
the year, of those who for the sake of the fishing the lake affords, are
content to put up with the homely fare and simple accommodation it
affords. But when that time has passed away--when the calm, glittering
lake is deformed by constant rains, and lashed into fury by the driving
storms of winter--when those majestic mountains have exchanged their
ever-varying glories for mists and blackness, have donned their wintry
garb, and are in character with wintry skies--there cannot be imagined a
more desolate and dreary scene than that spot presents; and the inn, of
course, stands comparatively tenantless. Yet for three whole winter
months, a gentleman of whom none of nobler appearance had ever perhaps
honoured it with their presence, made that humble hostelry his abode.
Alone he came, and alone he remained. He dispatched or received no
communication from beyond those mist-covered mountains which surrounded
him; but little did those simple, unsophisticated people care to wonder
or inquire. Unimportuned by curiosity, the visitor pursued his solitary
existence, climbing those bleak and trackless mountains, or tossing upon
the stormy lake. No sound of human voice, but in the uncouth and unknown
language of the country, scarcely every falling on his ear.
He had some few books with him, but he scarcely read, save in one, the
Bible. Plenty of money the stranger was provided with, for he paid his
expenses handsomely, and gave often freely to those few poor who came
in his way; but yet his very name remained a mystery, if that could be
called mystery, which none cared to inquire or ascertain; and when the
first warm beams of springtide sun melted the snow upon the
mountain-tops, as suddenly as he came, so he departed, none knew or
asked whither.
But he did not, as it seems, go far. In a small Welsh town, not twenty
miles distant, a few days after, and that stranger, who it seemed had,
uninjured, so roughly exposed himself to the fatigues and inclemency of
the wintry weather during his sojourn in his late retreat, lay
dangerously ill in a comfortable little inn belonging to the place;
unknown here also, but tended with all the disinterested care and
kindness which seldom fails to cheer the stranger in that mountain land.
Skilful medical attendance was happily provided; and the fever, against
whose advances the sufferer, with a peculiarly nervous dread, seemed to
battle--by proper means was subdued, and the sick man partially
recovered.
As he lay upon his bed one of the first mornings after his
convalescence, a merry peal from the bells of the neighbouring church
burst upon his ear. Merrier and merrier they continued to ring, and the
invalid turned sadly and wearily round upon his pillow, as if he would
fain have escaped from sounds of joy, harmonizing so little with his
lonely heart.
"Truly there is a joy with which the stranger intermeddleth not."
But still those sounds, as if in very mockery and despite, continued to
clash forth at intervals during the day, caring little for the sick
hearts and wounded spirits upon which that merriment might chance to
jar.
"You are very gay," the stranger said with a melancholy smile to his
landlady, when she came to attend him that day; and the remark was
answered by the ready information, that the bells were this day ringing
on occasion of a marriage which that morning had taken place in the
neighbourhood, the bride being a young lady of a family of long standing
in these parts. The gentleman, a widower and a Scotchman, &c. But all
this her listener heeded not.
* * * * *
"Bells thou soundest merrily
When the bridal party
To the church doth hie;
Bells thou soundest solemnly,
When on Sabbath mornings,
Fields deserted lie."
It was Sunday morning, and all the people of the place were flocking to
the Welsh service of the church; but the English stranger mingled not
with these. No--rather as he had turned wearily away from the mad music
of the marriage-bell, did his languid footsteps turn aside, when now in
more solemn cadence it sounded in his ear.
Not as yet was his soul attuned to enter that house of God, and offer up
prayers and praises with a thankful heart. To that lonely man, it would
have been indeed requiring a song, a melody, in his heaviness--to "sing
the Lord's song in a strange land."
He left the quiet town--crossed the bridge above the swift-flowing
river, and wandered far away, slowly, as his partially-renewed strength
alone would admit, and resting often, but still as if he breathed more
freely the farther and farther he felt himself proceeding from the
haunts of men; whilst at every step he took, beauty and magnificence,
decking that bright spring morning in their best array, met his
enchanted view; and the sense of enjoyment seemed to return, and that of
loneliness to be--removed.
For the young man's mood was one of those most sensitively to realise
the idea, that "high mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human
cities torture."
Thus he wandered on, till a hamlet, crowned by the woods of one or two
gentlemen's seats, came in view; and he was forced by his weakness to
stop, and crave a cup of milk at a quiet farm in its outskirts, its
simple inmates also inviting him to sit down and rest; and then he found
that time had passed much swifter than he thought, for it was long past
noon.
Whilst he was lingering still, the church bells here too began to ring;
and Eustace Trevor (for he it was) felt that he could not escape from
the voice which seemed to cry unto his soul: "Let us go up into the
house of the Lord."
The little church appeared to be almost empty, when he first entered;
but an old lady and gentleman came in at the same time, and seeing the
stranger, immediately offered him a seat in their large square pew; and
he, though far from willingly, could not but accept the civility.
Other members were added to the congregation, and then a clergyman of
infirm appearance entered the reading-desk, awaiting but that the noise
of the school-children's feet mounting to the little gallery should
cease, to commence in a feeble voice the service.
Inattentive the ear--insensible the heart of that man who, having
suffered deeply, finds himself unaffected, when first, after some period
of cessation, prayer after prayer, clause after clause of our beautiful
Liturgy breathes upon his ear.
Eustace Trevor was not that man; and fervent were the emotions inspired
in a breast which long had yielded itself to a kind of morbid gloomy
insensibility; and it was, perhaps, only the presence of strangers which
rendered him able to restrain them from their more open demonstration.
Not, however, was it until the wild voices of the mountain children,
enriched by notes of less untamed beauty, were raised in songs of
praise, that any outward object diverted the absorption of his rapt
spirit.
Then Eustace Trevor lifted up his eyes, and could not fail to remark
three young ladies also in the gallery, who stood side by side, mingling
their voices with the humble choir; and their appearance at once fixed
his attention, not so much for any personal beauty they might possess,
as for the goodness, innocence, and unaffected devotion shining so
clearly on each upturned face. In proof of which it might have been
observed, that after the first general glance over the group, it was not
so much on the elder of the sisters, lovely in a most striking degree,
neither upon the blooming Hebe of fifteen, as upon that pale, and
gentle-looking girl, who stood between the two, on whom the stranger's
eye more especially lingered--and loved her, even as he gazed.
For there was something in the pensive sweetness of those eyes--the open
purity of the brow--the meek and quiet, yet high-toned spirit, which
shone from every feature of the young girl's face, that went directly to
his heart. His excited fancy even travelled so far, as to behold in her
a likeness to that being who had passed into the heavens; and once--only
once, when her voice in sweet but timid accents swelled singly in the
choir, he held his breath to catch each low, yet thrilling tone, "for it
sounds to him like his mother's voice singing in Paradise."
Eustace Trevor returned to the inn, but more than once during the
following week did the stranger turn his pony's head towards the valley
of Ll---- (we will spare our readers a name they perhaps would not be
able to read aright); and on Sunday afternoon, he did not fail again to
seek the village church, expecting that it would be for the last
time--for he purposed departing on the morrow--it not suiting his
intentions to remain in any one place so long as to draw down upon
himself remark or inquiry.
And perhaps a few weeks more, had he carried out his designs, might have
found him a wanderer on a foreign shore. But who can tell what a day may
bring forth?
It was early when he arrived at the church, the bells even had not
began; and on repairing to a retired part of the church-yard, where a
lovely view was to be obtained, he suddenly came in contact with the
clergyman who had officiated the previous Sunday.
He bowed to Eustace--who returned the salutation--and passed on with
feeble steps, having regarded the stranger somewhat curiously; but
scarcely had the latter reached his destined resting-place, when he
heard a footstep approaching, and looking round saw the clergyman had
returned, and immediately accosted him.
"Sir," speaking with evident difficulty, "I must beg you to excuse the
liberty I am taking in thus addressing you; but may I ask--I scarcely
dare to hope it to be the case--may I ask," glancing at Eustace's black
garb, and the deep crape round his hat, "whether by any chance you are a
clergyman?"
Eustace was taken by surprise, but a melancholy smile crossed his
features, as he looked and murmured an affirmative.
The inquirer's countenance evidently brightened.
"I conclude, Sir, that you are a stranger in these parts," he rejoined.
"I think I saw you here last Sunday--I scarcely know whether you will
not think me very bold, when I ask you whether you would be so very
obliging as to assist me in the service this afternoon? A friend whom I
expected has failed me at the last moment; and you will hear, by my
voice, that if I am able to get through a ten minutes' sermon, it will
be as much as I can manage."
Eustace Trevor thought so indeed--but the sudden demand upon his
services almost bewildered him, and for a moment he was silent. The
clergyman looked a little surprised at the apparent hesitation, a
perception of which recalled Eustace to recollection.
What right had he to refuse--what excuse could he offer?
He looked upon the evidently suffering man, and said he should be happy
to lend him the assistance he required.
The clergyman thanked him warmly, and they walked together to the
vestry.
Eustace Trevor, with strange feelings, found himself thus called to
enter upon the duties of the profession, it had become almost like a
dream to him ever to have embraced.