and beings which were dear to them during the body's existence, though
it has been debased by the absurd superstitions of the vulgar, in
itself is awfully solemn and sublime.
However lightly it may be ridiculed, yet the attention involuntarily
yielded to it whenever it is made the subject of serious discussion;
its prevalence in all ages and countries, and even among
newly-discovered nations, that have had no previous interchange of
thought with other parts of the world, prove it to be one of those
mysteries, and almost instinctive beliefs, to which, if left to
ourselves, we should naturally incline.
In spite of all the pride of reason and philosophy, a vague doubt will
still lurk in the mind, and perhaps will never be perfectly eradicated;
as it is concerning a matter that does not admit of positive
demonstration. Every thing connected with our spiritual nature is full
of doubt and difficulty. "We are fearfully and wonderfully made;" we
are surrounded by mysteries, and we are mysteries even to ourselves.
Who yet has been able to comprehend and describe the nature of the
soul, its connection with the body, or in what part of the frame it is
situated? We know merely that it does exist; but whence it came, and
when it entered into us, and how it is retained, and where it is
seated, and how it operates, are all matters of mere speculation, and
contradictory theories. If, then, we are thus ignorant of this
spiritual essence, even while it forms a part of ourselves, and is
continually present to our consciousness, how can we pretend to
ascertain or to deny its powers and operations when released from its
fleshy prison-house? It is more the manner, therefore, in which this
superstition has been degraded, than its intrinsic absurdity, that has
brought it into contempt. Raise it above the frivolous purposes to
which it has been applied, strip it of the gloom and horror with which
it has been surrounded, and there is none of the whole circle of
visionary creeds that could more delightfully elevate the imagination,
or more tenderly affect the heart. It would become a sovereign comfort
at the bed of death, soothing the bitter tear wrung from us by the
agony of our mortal separation. What could be more consoling than the
idea, that the souls of those whom we once loved were permitted to
return and watch over our welfare?--that affectionate and guardian
spirits sat by our pillows when we slept, keeping a vigil over our most
helpless hours?--that beauty and innocence which had languished into
the tomb, yet smiled unseen around us, revealing themselves in those
blest dreams wherein we live over again the hours of past endearment? A
belief of this kind would, I should think, be a new incentive to
virtue; rendering us circumspect even in our most secret moments, from
the idea that those we once loved and honoured were invisible witnesses
of all our actions.
It would take away, too, from that loneliness and destitution which we
are apt to feel more and more as we get on in our pilgrimage through
the wilderness of this world, and find that those who set forward with
us, lovingly and cheerily, on the journey, have, one by one, dropped
away from our side. Place the superstition in this light, and I
confess I should like to be a believer in it. I see nothing in it that
is incompatible with the tender and merciful nature of our religion,
nor revolting to the wishes and affections of the heart.
There are departed beings that I have loved as I never again shall
love in this world;--that have loved me as I never again shall be
loved! If such beings do ever retain in their blessed spheres the
attachments which they felt on earth--if they take an interest in the
poor concerns of transient mortality, and are permitted to hold
communion with those whom they have loved on earth, I feel as if now,
at this deep hour of night, in this silence and solitude, I could
receive their visitation with the most solemn, but unalloyed delight.
In truth, such visitations would be too happy for this world; they
would be incompatible with the nature of this imperfect state of
being. We are here placed in a mere scene of spiritual thraldom and
restraint. Our souls are shut in and limited by bounds and barriers;
shackled by mortal infirmities, and subject to all the gross
impediments of matter. In vain would they seek to act independently of
the body, and to mingle together in spiritual intercourse. They can
only act here through their fleshy organs. Their earthly loves are
made up of transient embraces and long separations. The most intimate
friendship, of what brief and scattered portions of time does it
consist! We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words
and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short
moments-and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know
nothing of each other. Or, granting that we dwell together for the
full season of this our mortal life, the grave soon closes its gates
between us, and then our spirits are doomed to remain in separation
and widowhood; until they meet again in that more perfect state of
being, where soul will dwell with soul in blissful communion, and
there will be neither death, nor absence, nor any thing else to
interrupt our felicity.
* * * * *
In the foregoing paper, I have alluded to the writings of some of the
old Jewish rabbis. They abound with wild theories; but among them are
many truly poetical flights; and their ideas are often very
beautifully expressed. Their speculations on the nature of angels are
curious and fanciful, though much resembling the doctrines of the
ancient philosophers. In the writings of the Rabbi Eleazer is an
account of the temptation of our first parents, and the fall of the
angels, which the parson pointed out to me as having probably
furnished some of the groundwork for "Paradise Lost."
According to Eleazer, the ministering angels said to the Deity, "What
is there in man, that thou makest him of such importance? Is he any
thing else than vanity? for he can scarcely reason a little on
terrestrial things." To which God replied, "Do you imagine that I will
be exalted and glorified only by you here above? I am the same below
that I am here. Who is there among you that can call all the creatures
by their names?" There was none found among them that could do so. At
that moment Adam arose, and called all the creatures by their names.
Seeing which, the ministering angels said among themselves, "Let us
consult together how we may cause Adam to sin against the Creator,
otherwise he will not fail to become our master."
Sammaël, who was a great prince in the heavens, was present at this
council, with the saints of the first order, and the seraphim of six
bands. Sammaël chose several out of the twelve orders to accompany
him, and descended below, for the purpose of visiting all the
creatures which God had created. He found none more cunning and more
fit to do evil than the serpent.
The Rabbi then treats of the seduction and the fall of man; of the
consequent fall of the demon, and the punishment which God inflicted
on Adam, Eve, and the serpent. "He made them all come before him;
pronounced nine maledictions on Adam and Eve, and condemned them to
suffer death; and he precipitated Sammaël and all his band from
heaven. He cut off the feet of the serpent, which had before the
figure of a camel (Sammaël having been mounted on him), and he cursed
him among all beasts and animals."
GENTILITY.
------True Gentrie standeth in the trade
Of virtuous life, not in the fleshy line;
For bloud is knit, but Gentrie is divine.
--_Mirror for Magistrates_.
I have mentioned some peculiarities of the Squire in the education of
his sons; but I would not have it thought that his instructions were
directed chiefly to their personal accomplishments. He took great
pains also to form their minds, and to inculcate what he calls good
old English principles, such as are laid down in the writings of
Peachem and his contemporaries. There is one author of whom he cannot
speak without indignation, which is Chesterfield. He avers that he did
much, for a time, to injure the true national character, and to
introduce, instead of open, manly sincerity, a hollow, perfidious
courtliness. "His maxims," he affirms, "were calculated to chill the
delightful enthusiasm of youth; to make them ashamed of that romance
which is the dawn of generous manhood, and to impart to them a cold
polish and a premature worldliness.
"Many of Lord Chesterfield's maxims would make a young man a mere man
of pleasure; but an English gentleman should not be a mere man of
pleasure. He has no right to such selfish indulgence. His ease, his
leisure, his opulence, are debts due to his country, which he must
ever stand ready to discharge. He should be a man at all points;
simple, frank, courteous, intelligent, accomplished, and informed;
upright, intrepid, and disinterested; one that can mingle among
freemen; that can cope with statesmen; that can champion his country
and its rights, either at home or abroad. In a country like England,
where there is such free and unbounded scope for the exertion of
intellect, and where opinion and example have such weight with the
people, every gentleman of fortune and leisure should feel himself
bound to employ himself in some way towards promoting the prosperity
or glory of the nation. In a country where intellect and action are
trammelled and restrained, men of rank and fortune may become idlers
and triflers with impunity; but an English coxcomb is inexcusable; and
this, perhaps, is the reason why he is the most offensive and
insupportable coxcomb in the world."
The Squire, as Frank Bracebridge informs me, would often hold forth in
this manner to his sons, when they were about leaving the paternal
roof; one to travel abroad, one to go to the army, and one to the
university. He used to have them with him in the library, which is hung
with the portraits of Sidney, Surrey, Raleigh, Wyat, and others. "Look
at those models of true English gentlemen, my sons," he would say with
enthusiasm; "those were men that wreathed the graces of the most
delicate and refined taste around the stern virtues of the soldier;
that mingled what was gentle and gracious, with what was hardy and
manly; that possessed the true chivalry of spirit, which is the exalted
essence of manhood. They are the lights by which the youth of the
country should array themselves. They were the patterns and idols of
their country at home; they were the illustrators of its dignity
abroad. 'Surrey,' says Camden, 'was the first nobleman that illustrated
his high birth with the beauty of learning. He was acknowledged to be
the gallantest man, the politest lover, and the completest gentleman of
his time.' And as to Wyat, his friend Surrey most amiably testifies of
him, that his person was majestic and beautiful, his visage 'stern and
mild;' that he sung, and played the lute with remarkable sweetness;
spoke foreign languages with grace and fluency, and possessed an
inexhaustible fund of wit. And see what a high commendation is passed
upon these illustrious friends: 'They were the two chieftains, who,
having travelled into Italy, and there tasted the sweet and stately
measures and style of the Italian poetry, greatly polished our rude and
homely manner of vulgar poetry from what it had been before, and
therefore may be justly called the reformers of our English poetry and
style.' And Sir Philip Sidney, who has left us such monuments of
elegant thought, and generous sentiment, and who illustrated his
chivalrous spirit so gloriously in the field. And Sir Walter Raleigh,
the elegant courtier, the intrepid soldier, the enterprising
discoverer, the enlightened philosopher, the magnanimous martyr. These
are the men for English gentlemen to study. Chesterfield, with his cold
and courtly maxims, would have chilled and impoverished such spirits.
He would have blighted all the budding romance of their temperaments.
Sidney would never have written his Arcadia, nor Surrey have challenged
the world in vindication of the beauties of his Geraldine. "These are
the men, my sons," the Squire will continue, "that show to what our
national character may be exalted, when its strong and powerful
qualities are duly wrought up and refined. The solidest bodies are
capable of the highest polish; and there is no character that may be
wrought to a more exquisite and unsullied brightness, than that of the
true English gentleman."
When Guy was about to depart for the army, the Squire again took him
aside, and gave him a long exhortation. He warned him against that
affectation of cool-blooded indifference, which he was told was
cultivated by the young British officers, among whom it was a study to
"sink the soldier" in the mere man of fashion. "A soldier," said he,
"without pride and enthusiasm in his profession, is a mere sanguinary
hireling. Nothing distinguishes him from the mercenary bravo, but a
spirit of patriotism, or a thirst for glory. It is the fashion
now-a-days, my son," said he, "to laugh at the spirit of chivalry;
when that spirit is really extinct, the profession of the soldier
becomes a mere trade of blood." He then set before him the conduct of
Edward the Black Prince, who is his mirror of chivalry; valiant,
generous, affable, humane; gallant in the field. But when he came to
dwell on his courtesy toward his prisoner, the king of France; how he
received him in his tent, rather as a conqueror than as a captive;
attended on him at table like one of his retinue; rode uncovered
beside him on his entry into London, mounted on a common palfrey,
while his prisoner was mounted in state on a white steed of stately
beauty; the tears of enthusiasm stood in the old gentleman's eyes.
Finally, on taking leave, the good Squire put in his son's hands, as a
manual, one of his favourite old volumes, the life of the Chevalier
Bayard, by Godefroy; on a blank page of which he had written an
extract from the Morte d'Arthur, containing the eulogy of Sir Ector
over the body of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, which the Squire considers
as comprising the excellencies of a true soldier. "Ah, Sir Launcelot!
thou wert head of all Christian knights; now there thou liest: thou
wert never matched of none earthly knights-hands. And thou wert the
curtiest knight that ever bare shield. And thou wert the truest friend
to thy lover that ever bestrood horse; and thou wert the truest lover
of a sinfull man that ever loved woman. And thou wert the kindest man
that ever strook with sword; and thou wert the goodliest person that
ever came among the presse of knights. And thou wert the meekest man
and the gentlest that ever eate in hall among ladies. And thou wert
the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put speare in the
rest."
FORTUNE-TELLING.
Each city, each town, and every village,
Affords us either an alms or pillage.
And if the weather be cold and raw.
Then in a barn we tumble on straw.
If warm and fair, by yea-cock and nay-cock,
The fields will afford us a hedge or a hay-cock.
--_Merry Beggars_.
As I was walking one evening with the Oxonian, Master Simon, and the
general, in a meadow not far from the village, we heard the sound of a
fiddle, rudely played, and looking in the direction from whence it
came, we saw a thread of smoke curling up from among the trees. The
sound of music is always attractive; for, wherever there is music,
there is good-humour, or good-will. We passed along a footpath, and
had a peep through a break in the hedge, at the musician and his
party, when the Oxonian gave us a wink, and told us that if we would
follow him we should have some sport.
It proved to be a gipsy encampment, consisting of three or four little
cabins, or tents, made of blankets and sail-cloth, spread over hoops
that were stuck in the ground. It was on one side of a green lane,
close under a hawthorn hedge, with a broad beech-tree spreading above
it. A small rill tinkled along close by, through the fresh sward, that
looked like a carpet.
A tea-kettle was hanging by a crooked piece of iron, over a fire made
from dry sticks and leaves, and two old gipsies, in red cloaks, sat
crouched on the grass, gossiping over their evening cup of tea; for
these creatures, though they live in the open air, have their ideas of
fireside comforts. There were two or three children sleeping on the
straw with which the tents were littered; a couple of donkeys were
grazing in the lane, and a thievish-looking dog was lying before the
fire. Some of the younger gipsies were dancing to the music of a
fiddle, played by a tall, slender stripling, in an old frock-coat,
with a peacock's feather stuck in his hat-band.
As we approached, a gipsy girl, with a pair of fine, roguish eyes,
came up, and, as usual, offered to tell our fortunes. I could not but
admire a certain degree of slattern elegance about the baggage. Her
long black silken hair was curiously plaited in numerous small braids,
and negligently put up in a picturesque style that a painter might
have been proud to have devised.
Her dress was of figured chintz, rather ragged, and not over-clean but
of a variety of most harmonious and agreeable colours; for these
beings have a singularly fine eye for colours. Her straw hat was in
her hand, and a red cloak thrown over one arm.
The Oxonian offered at once to have his fortune told, and the girl
began with the usual volubility of her race; but he drew her on one
side, near the hedge, as he said he had no idea of having his secrets
overheard. I saw he was talking to her instead of she to him, and by
his glancing towards us now and then, that he was giving the baggage
some private hints. When they returned to us, he assumed a very
serious air. "Zounds!" said he, "it's very astonishing how these
creatures come by their knowledge; this girl has told me some things
that I thought no one knew but myself!" The girl now assailed the
general: "Come, your honour," said she, "I see by your face you're a
lucky man; but you're not happy in your mind; you're not, indeed, sir;
but have a good heart, and give me a good piece of silver, and I'll
tell you a nice fortune."
The general had received all her approaches with a banter, and had
suffered her to get hold of his hand; but at the mention of the piece
of silver, he hemmed, looked grave, and, turning to us, asked if we
had not better continue our walk. "Come, my master," said the girl,
archly, "you'd not be in such a hurry, if you knew all that I could
tell you about a fair lady that has a notion for you. Come, sir; old
love burns strong; there's many a one comes to see weddings, that go
away brides themselves."--Here the girl whispered something in a low
voice, at which the general coloured up, was a little fluttered, and
suffered himself to be drawn aside under the hedge, where he appeared
to listen to her with great earnestness, and at the end paid her
half-a-crown with the air of a man that has got the worth of his
money. The girl next made her attack upon Master Simon, who, however,
was too old a bird to be caught, knowing that it would end in an
attack upon his purse, about which he is a little sensitive. As he has
a great notion, however, of being considered a royster, he chucked her
under the chin, played her off with rather broad jokes, and put on
something of the rake-helly air, that we see now and then assumed on
the stage, by the sad-boy gentleman of the old school. "Ah, your
honour," said the girl, with a malicious leer, "you were not in such a
tantrum last year, when I told you about the widow, you know who; but
if you had taken a friend's advice, you'd never have come away from
Doncaster races with a flea in your ear!" There was a secret sting in
this speech, that seemed quite to disconcert Master Simon. He jerked
away his hand in a pet, smacked his whip, whistled to his dogs, and
intimated that it was high time to go home. The girl, however, was
determined not to lose her harvest. She now turned upon me, and, as I
have a weakness of spirit where there is a pretty face concerned, she
soon wheedled me out of my money, and, in return, read me a fortune;
which, if it prove true, and I am determined to believe it, will make
me one of the luckiest men in the chronicles of Cupid.
I saw that the Oxonian was at the bottom of all this oracular mystery,
and was disposed to amuse himself with the general, whose tender
approaches to the widow have attracted the notice of the wag. I was a
little curious, however, to know the meaning of the dark hints which
had so suddenly disconcerted Master Simon; and took occasion to fall
in the rear with the Oxonian on our way home, when he laughed heartily
at my questions, and gave me ample information on the subject.
The truth of the matter is, that Master Simon has met with a sad
rebuff since my Christmas visit to the Hall. He used at that time to
be joked about a widow, a fine dashing woman, as he privately informed
me. I had supposed the pleasure he betrayed on these occasions
resulted from the usual fondness of old bachelors for being teased
about getting married, and about flirting, and being fickle and
false-hearted. I am assured, however, that Master Simon had really
persuaded himself the widow had a kindness for him; in consequence of
which he had been at some extraordinary expense in new clothes, and
had actually got Frank Bracebridge to order him a coat from Stultz. He
began to throw out hints about the importance of a man's settling
himself in life before he grew old; he would look grave, whenever the
widow and matrimony were mentioned in the same sentence; and privately
asked the opinion of the Squire and parson about the prudence of
marrying a widow with a rich jointure, but who had several children.
An important member of a great family connexion cannot harp much upon
the theme of matrimony, without its taking wind; and it soon got
buzzed about that Mr. Simon Bracebridge was actually gone to Doncaster
races, with a new horse; but that he meant to return in a curricle
with a lady by his side. Master Simon did, indeed, go to the races,
and that with a new horse; and the dashing widow did make her
appearance in a curricle; but it was unfortunately driven by a
strapping young Irish dragoon, with whom even Master Simon's
self-complacency would not allow him to venture into competition, and
to whom she was married shortly after.
It was a matter of sore chagrin to Master Simon for several months,
having never before been fully committed. The dullest head in the
family had a joke upon him; and there is no one that likes less to be
bantered than an absolute joker. He took refuge for a time at Lady
Lillycraft's, until the matter should blow over; and occupied himself
by looking over her accounts, regulating the village choir, and
inculcating loyalty into a pet bulfinch, by teaching him to whistle
"God save the King."
He has now pretty nearly recovered from the mortification; holds up
his head, and laughs as much as any one; again affects to pity married
men, and is particularly facetious about widows, when Lady Lillycraft
is not by. His only time of trial is when the general gets hold of
him, who is infinitely heavy and persevering in his waggery, and will
interweave a dull joke through the various topics of a whole
dinner-time. Master Simon often parries these attacks by a stanza from
his old work of "Cupid's Solicitor for Love:"
"'Tis in vain to wooe a widow over long,
In once or twice her mind you may perceive;
Widows are subtle, be they old or young,
And by their wiles young men they will deceive."
LOVE-CHARMS.
------Come, do not weep, my girl,
Forget him, pretty Pensiveness; there will
Come others, every day, as good as he.
--SIR J. SUCKLING.
The approach of a wedding in a family is always an event of great
importance, but particularly so in a household like this, in a retired
part of the country. Master Simon, who is a pervading spirit, and,
through means of the butler and housekeeper, knows every thing that
goes forward, tells me that the maid-servants are continually trying
their fortunes, and that the servants'-hall has of late been quite a
scene of incantation.