Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt lived happily together--as times went.
A fine girl and boy were born to them; and need I say how their hearts
expanded and exulted, and seemed to grow twice as large.
The little boy was taken from them at three years old; and how can I
convey to any but a parent the anguish of that first bereavement?
Well, they suffered it together, and that poignant grief was one tie
more between them.
For many years they did not furnish any exciting or even interesting
matter to this narrator. And all the better for them: without these
happy periods of dulness our lives would be hell, and our hearts
eternally bubbling and boiling in a huge pot made hot with thorns.
In the absence of striking incidents, it may be well to notice the
progress of character, and note the tiny seeds of events to come.
Neither the intellectual nor the moral character of any person stands
stock-still: a man improves, or he declines. Mrs. Gaunt had a great
taste for reading; Mr. Gaunt had not: what was the consequence? At the
end of seven years the lady's understanding had made great strides; the
gentleman's had apparently retrograded.
Now we all need a little excitement, and we all seek it, and get it by
hook or by crook. The girl who satisfies that natural craving with what
the canting dunces of the day call a "sensational" novel, and the girl
who does it by waltzing till daybreak, are sisters; only one obtains the
result intellectually, and the other obtains it like a young animal, and
a pain in her empty head next day.
Mrs. Gaunt could enjoy company, but was never dull with a good book. Mr.
Gaunt was a pleasant companion, but dull out of company. So, rather than
not have it, he would go to the parlor of the "Red Lion," and chat and
sing with the yeomen and rollicking young squires that resorted thither:
and this was matter of grief and astonishment to Mrs. Gaunt.
It was balanced by good qualities she knew how to appreciate. Morals
were much looser then than now; and more than one wife of her
acquaintance had a rival in the village, or even among her own
domestics; but Griffith had no loose inclinations of that kind, and
never gave her a moment's uneasiness. He was constancy and fidelity in
person.
Sobriety had not yet been invented. But Griffith was not so intemperate
as most squires; he could always mount the stairs to tea, and generally
without staggering.
He was uxorious, and it used to come out after his wine. This Mrs. Gaunt
permitted at first, but by and by says she, expanding her delicate
nostrils: "You may be as affectionate as you please, dear, and you may
smell of wine, if you will; but please not to smell of wine and be
affectionate at the same moment. I value your affection too highly to
let you disgust me with it."
And the model husband yielded to this severe restriction; and, as it
never occurred to him to give up his wine, he forbore to be affectionate
in his cups.
One great fear Mrs. Gaunt had entertained before marriage ceased to
haunt her. Now and then her quick eye saw Griffith writhe at the great
influence her director had with her; but he never spoke out to offend
her, and she, like a good wife, saw, smiled, and adroitly, tenderly
soothed: and this was nothing compared to what she had feared.
Griffith saw his wife admired by other men, yet never chid nor chafed.
The merit of this belonged in a high degree to herself. The fact is,
that Kate Peyton, even before marriage, was not a coquette at heart,
though her conduct might easily bear that construction; and she was now
an experienced matron, and knew how to be as charming as ever, yet check
or parry all approaches to gallantry on the part of her admirers. Then
Griffith observed how delicate and prudent his lovely wife was, without
ostentatious prudery; and his heart was at peace.
He was the happier of the two, for he looked up to his wife, as well as
loved her; whereas she was troubled at times with a sense of superiority
to her husband. She was amiable enough, and wise enough, to try and shut
her eyes to it; and often succeeded, but not always.
Upon the whole, they were a contented couple; though the lady's dreamy
eyes seemed still to be exploring earth and sky in search of something
they had not yet found, even in wedded life.
They lived at Hernshaw. A letter had been found among Mr. Charlton's
papers explaining his will. He counted on their marrying, and begged
them to live at the castle. He had left it on his wife's death; it
reminded him too keenly of happier days; but, as he drew near his end,
and must leave all earthly things, he remembered the old house with
tenderness, and put out his dying hand to save it from falling into
decay.
Unfortunately, considerable repairs were needed; and, as Kate's property
was tied up so tight, Griffith's two thousand pounds went in repairing
the house, lawn, park palings, and walled gardens; went, every penny,
and left the bridge over the lake still in a battered, rotten, and, in a
word, picturesque condition.
This lake was by the older inhabitants sometimes called the "mere," and
sometimes "the fish-pools"; it resembled an hour-glass in shape, only
curved like a crescent.
In mediæval times it had no doubt been a main defence of the place. It
was very deep in parts, especially at the waist or narrow that was
spanned by the decayed bridge. There were hundreds of carp and tench in
it older than any He in Cumberland, and also enormous pike and eels; and
fish from one to five pounds' weight by the million. The water literally
teemed from end to end; and this was a great comfort to so good a
Catholic as Mrs. Gaunt. When she was seized with a desire to fast, and
that was pretty often, the gardener just went down to the lake and flung
a casting-net in some favorite hole, and drew out half a bushel the
first cast; or planted a flue-net round a patch of weeds, then belabored
the weeds with a long pole, and a score of fine fish were sure to run
out into the meshes.
The "mere" was clear as plate glass, and came to the edge of the shaven
lawn, and reflected flowers, turf, and overhanging shrubs deliciously.
Yet an ill name brooded over its seductive waters; for two persons had
been drowned in it during the last hundred years: and the last one was
the parson of the parish, returning from the squire's dinner in the
normal condition of a guest, A.D. 1740-50. But what most affected the
popular mind was, not the jovial soul hurried into eternity, but the
material circumstance that the greedy pike had cleared the flesh off his
bones in a single night, so that little more than a skeleton, with here
and there a black rag hanging to it, had been recovered next morning.
This ghastly detail being stoutly maintained and constantly repeated by
two ancient eye-witnesses, whose one melodramatic incident and treasure
it was, the rustic mind saw no beauty whatever in those pellucid and
delicious waters, where flowers did glass themselves.
As for the women of the village, they looked on this sheet of water as a
trap for their poor bodies and those of their children, and spoke of it
as a singular hardship in their lot, that Hernshaw Mere had not been
filled up threescore years agone.
The castle itself was no castle, nor had it been for centuries. It was
just a house with battlements; but attached to the stable was an old
square tower, that really had formed part of the mediæval castle.
However, that unsubstantial shadow, a name, is often more durable than
the thing, especially in rural parts; but, indeed, what is there in a
name for Time's teeth to catch hold of?
Though no castle, it was a delightful abode. The drawing-room and
dining-room had both spacious bay-windows, opening on to the lawn that
sloped very gradually down to the pellucid lake, and there was mirrored.
On this sweet lawn the inmates and guests walked for sun and mellow air,
and often played bowls at eventide.
On the other side was the drive up to the house-door, and a sweep, or
small oval plot, of turf, surrounded by gravel; and a gate at the corner
of this sweep opened into a grove of the grandest old spruce-firs in the
island.
This grove, dismal in winter and awful at night, was deliciously cool
and sombre in the dog-days. The trees were spires; and their great stems
stood serried like infantry in column, and flung a grand canopy of
sombre plumes overhead. A strange, antique, and classic grove,--_nulli
penetrabilis astro_.
This retreat was enclosed on three sides by a wall, and on the east side
came nearly to the house. A few laurel-bushes separated the two. At
night it was shunned religiously, on account of the ghosts. Even by
daylight it was little frequented, except by one person,--and she took
to it amazingly. That person was Mrs. Gaunt. There seems to be, even in
educated women, a singular, instinctive love of twilight; and here was
twilight at high noon. The place, too, suited her dreamy, meditative
nature. Hither, then, she often retired for peace and religious
contemplation, and moved slowly in and out among the tall stems, or sat
still, with her thoughtful brow leaned on her white hand,--till the
cool, umbrageous retreat got to be called, among the servants, "The
Dame's Haunt."
This, I think, is all needs be told about the mere place, where the
Gaunts lived comfortably many years, and little dreamed of the strange
events in store for them; little knew the passions that slumbered in
their own bosoms, and, like other volcanoes, bided their time.
REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.
_Snow-Bound: a Winter Idyl._ By JOHN G. WHITTIER. Boston: Ticknor and
Fields.
What Goldsmith's "Deserted Village" has long been to Old England,
Whittier's "Snow-Bound" will always be to New England. Both poems have
the flavor of native soil in them. Neither of them is a reminder of
anything else, but each is individual and special in those qualities
which interest and charm the reader. If "The Deserted Village" had never
been written, Whittier would have composed his "Snow-Bound," no doubt;
and the latter only recalls the former on account of that genuine
home-atmosphere which surrounds both these exquisite productions. After
a perusal of this new American idyl, no competent critic will contend
that we lack proper themes for poetry in our own land. The "Snow-Bound"
will be a sufficient reminder to all cavillers, at home or abroad, that
the American Muse need not travel far away for poetic situations.
Whittier has been most fortunate in the subject-matter of this new poem.
Every page has beauties on it so easy to discern, that the common as
well as the cultured mind will at once feel them without an effort. We
have only space for a few passages from the earlier portion of the idyl.
"The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east: we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
"Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,--
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.
"Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag wavering to and fro
Crossed and recrossed the wingéd snow:
And ere the early bed-time came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
"So all night long the storm roared on:
The morning broke without the sun;
In tiny spherule traced with lines
Of Nature's geometric signs,
In starry flake, and pellicle,
All day the hoary meteor fell;
And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below,--
A universe of sky and snow!
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden wall, or belt of wood;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa's leaning miracle.
"A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: 'Boys, a path!'
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy
Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal: we had read
Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp's supernal powers.
"We reached the barn with merry din,
And roused the prisoned brutes within.
The old horse thrust his long head out,
And grave with wonder gazed about;
The cock his lusty greeting said,
And forth his speckled harem led;
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
And mild reproach of hunger looked;
The hornéd patriarch of the sheep,
Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep,
Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
And emphasized with stamp of foot."
_Lives of Boulton and Watt._ Principally from the original Soho MSS.
Comprising also a History of the Invention and Introduction of the
Steam-Engine. By SAMUEL SMILES. London: John Murray.
The author of this book is an enthusiast in biography. He has given the
best years of his life to the task of recording the struggles and
successes of men who have labored for the good of their kind; and his
own name will always be honorably mentioned in connection with
Stephenson, Watt, Flaxman, and others, of whom he has written so well.
Of all his published books, next to "Self-Help," this volume, lately
issued, is his most interesting one. James Watt, with his nervous
sensibility, his headaches, his pecuniary embarrassments, and his gloomy
temperament, has never till now been revealed precisely as he lived and
struggled. The extensive collection of Soho documents to which Mr.
Smiles had access has enabled him to add so much that is new and
valuable to the story of his hero's career, that hereafter this
biography must take the first place as a record of the great inventor.
As a tribute to Boulton, so many years the friend, partner, and consoler
of Watt, the book is deeply interesting. Fighting many a hard battle for
his timid, shrinking associate, Boulton stands forth a noble
representative of strength, courage, and perseverance. Never was
partnership more admirably conducted; never was success more richly
earned. Mr. Smiles is neither a Macaulay nor a Motley, but he is so
honest and earnest in every work he undertakes, he rarely fails to make
a book deeply instructive and entertaining.
_Winifred Bertram and the World she lived in._ By the Author of the
Schönberg-Cotta Family. New York: M. W. Dodd.
The previous works of this prolific author have proved by their
popularity that they meet a genuine demand. Such a fact can no more be
reached by literary criticism, than can the popularity of Tupper's
poetry. It is no reproach to a book which actually finds readers to say
that it is not high art. Winifred Bertram has this advantage over her
predecessors, that she takes part in no theological controversies except
those of the present day, and therefore seems more real and truthful
than the others. In regard to present issues, however, the book deals in
the usual proportion of rather one-sided dialogues, and of arguments
studiously debilitated in order to be knocked down by other arguments.
Yet there is much that is lovely and touching in the characters
delineated; there is a good deal of practical sense and sweet human
charity; and the different heroes and heroines show some human variety
in their action, although in conversation they all preach very much
alike. Indeed, the book is overhung with rather an oppressive weight of
clergyman; and when the loveliest of the saints is at last wedded to the
youngest of the divines, she throws an awful shade over clerical
connubiality by invariably addressing him as "Mr. Bertram." In this
respect, at least, the fashionable novels hold out brighter hopes to the
heart of woman.