|Give me a woman as old as Hecuba, or as ugly as Caifacaratadaddera,
rather than Mrs. Flumgarten! Were the annoyance confined to _herself_, I
should cry, 'Content,'--for she who sows nettles and thorns is
entitled to reap a stinging and prickly harvest. Ill temper should ride
quarantine, and have a _billet de santé_, before it is let loose upon
society.”
These were among the ruminations of Uncle Timothy as he sauntered
homeward through the green fields. Two interesting objects lay before
him: the village church and grave-yard, and a row of ancient almshouses,
the pious endowment of a bountiful widow, who having been brought to
feel what sorrow was, had erected them, as the last resting-place but
_one_, for the aged and the poor.
There dwelt in our ancestors * a fine spirit of humanity towards the
helpless and the needy. The charitable pittance was not doled out to
them by the hand of insolent authority; but the wayfarer, heart-weary,
and foot-sore, claimed at the gates of these pious institutions ** (a
few of which still remain in their primitive simplicity) his loaf, his
lodging, and his groat, which were dispensed, generally with kindness,
and always with decency. Truly we may say, that what the present
generation has gained in _head_ (and even this admission is subject to
many qualifications), it has lost in _heart!!_
* “Before the Reformation, there were no Poor's Rates. The
charitable dole, given at the religious houses, and the
church-ale in every parish, did the business.
“In every parish there was a Church-house, to which belonged
spits, pots, &c. for dressing provision. Here the
housekeepers met, and were merry, and gave their charity.
The young people came there too, and had dancing, bowling,
shooting at butts, &c. Mr. A. Wood assures me, that there
were few or no almshouses before the time of Henry the
Eighth; that at Oxon, opposite Christchurch, was one of the
most ancient in England.”--Aubrey MSS.
** Was it ever intended--is it just--is it fitting, that the
Masterships of St. Cross at Winchester, and St. Katharine's,
London, should be such sumptuous sinecures?
A grave had just received its “poor inhabitant the mourners had
departed, and two or three busy urchins, with shovels and spades, were
filling in the earth; while the sexton, a living clod, nothing loth to
see his work done by proxy, looked, with open mouth and leaden eyes,
carelessly on. Uncle Timothy walked slowly up the path, and pausing
before the “narrow cell,” enforced silence and decency by that
irresistible charm that ever accompanied his presence. His pensive,
thoughtful look, almost surprised the gazers into sympathy. Who was the
silent tenant? None could tell. He was a stranger in the village; but
their pastor must have known something of his story; for his voice
faltered whilst reading the funeral service, and he was observed to
weep. Uncle Timothy passed on, and continued his peregrination among
the tombs. How grossly had the dead been libelled by the flattery of the
living! Here was “a tender husband, a loving father, and an honest
man,” who certainly had never tumbled his wife out at window, kicked
his children out of doors, or picked his neighbour's pocket in broad
daylight on the King's highway; yet was he a hypocritical heartless old
money-worshipper! There lay a “disconsolate widow,” the names of whose
three “lamented husbands” were chiselled on her tombstone! To the
more opulent of human clay, who could afford plenty of lead
and stone,--perchance the emblems of their dull, cold heads and
hearts,--what pompous quarries were raised above ground! what fulsome
inscriptions dedicated! But the poor came meanly off. Here and there a
simple flower, blooming on the raised sod, and fondly cherished, told of
departed friends and kindred not yet forgotten! And who that should see
a rose thus affectionately planted would let it droop and wither for
want of a tear?
“Ah!” thought Uncle Timothy, “may I make my last bed with the poor!--
“Let not unkind, untimely thrift
These little boons deny;
Nor those who love me while I live
Neglect me when I die!”
A monument of chaste and simple design attracted his attention. It was
to the memory of a gentle spirit, whom he mourned with a brother's love.
Four lines were all that had been thought essential to say; but they
were sufficiently expressive.
Father! thy name we bless,
Thy providence adore.
Earth has a mortal less,
Heaven has an angel more!
The “Giver of every good and perfect gift” had taken her daughter before
she knew sin or sorrow. Her epitaph ran thus:--
Oh! happy they who call'd to rest
Ere sorrow fades their bloom,
Awhile a blessing are--and bless'd--
Then sink into the tomb.
From fleeting joys and lasting woes
On youthful wing they fly--
In heaven they blossom like the rose,
The flowers that early die!
A. deep and holy calm fell upon Uncle Timothy, with a sweet assurance
that a happier meeting with departed friends was not far distant. And as
the guardianship of ministering angels was his firm belief and favourite
theme, his secret prayer at this solemn moment was, that they might save
him from the bodily and mental infirmities, the selfishness and apathy
of protracted years. He read the inscriptions over again, with a full
conviction of their truthfulness. _They were his own._
At an obscure corner--and afar off--_Truth_, for a wonder, had written
an epitaph upon one who loved, not his _species_, but his _specie!_
Beneath this stone old Nicholas lies;
Nobody laughs, and nobody cries.
Where he's gone, and how he fares,
Nobody knows, and nobody cares!
And at no great distance was a tomb entirely overgrown with rank weeds,
nettles, and thorns; and there was a superstitious legend attached to
it, that they all grew up in one night, and though they had been several
times rooted up, still, in one night, they all grew up again! Stones
had been ignominiously cast upon it; and certain ancient folks of the
village gravely affirmed that, on the anniversary of the burial of the
miserable crone, the _Black Sanctus_ * was performed by herself and
guardian spirits!
* Isaac Reed informs us (see note upon Chapman's Widow's
Tears, in Dodsley's Old Plays) that “the _Black Sanctus_ was
a hymn to Saint Satan, written in ridicule of Monkish
luxury.” And Tarlton (see News out of Purgatory) quotes it
in “the Tale of Pope Boniface.”
“And' upon this there was a general mourning through all
Rome: the cardinals wept, the abbots howled, the monks
rored, the fryers cried, the nuns puled, the curtezans
lamented, the bels rang, the tapers were lighted, that such
a Blacke Sanctus was not seene a long time afore in Rome.”,
The Black Sanctus here said to be performed was of a
different kind. It was assuredly “a hymn to Satan,” in which
the crone and the most favoured of her kindred took the
base; Hypocrisy leading the band, and Avarice scraping the
fiddle.
“The rest God knows--perhaps the Devil”
A yew-tree stretched forth its bare branches over the tomb, which in
one night also became withered and blasted!
[Illustration: 0226]
At the porch of the entre almshouse sat an aged female in awidows garb,
and beside her the village pastor. From the earnestness of his address,
he seemed to be exhorting her to resignation; but the tears that fell
from her eyes proved how hard was the task! Though Uncle Timothy would
not have done homage to the highest potentate in Christendom for all the
wealth and distinction that he or she could bestow, he felt his knees
tremble under him at the sacredness of humble sorrow. He walked up
the neat little flower garden, and having read the grateful memorial
inscribed over the ancient doorway to the charitable foundress, was
about to speak, when the words, “_Blessed are they that mourn, for they
shall be comforted_,” fell like the dews of heaven upon his ear! The
widow looked up--she hushed every sigh--she wiped away every tear--the
divine potency of the promise sustained her, and she wept no more.
Little ceremony did Uncle Timothy use towards the good pastor and his
comforted mourner. His address began with a simple question, who was the
brother that he had so recently consigned to the grave?
“This poor widow's only son! The story, sir, is brief and mournful.
Bankruptcy and ruin hurried her husband to the grave. This asylum opened
its door to receive her; and here, though reviewing the past with fond
regret, she became grateful for the present, and hopeful for the future.
Her son, a youth of fine intellect, submitted to the ill-paid drudgery
of an office where the hands, not the head, were required; and he
delighted to spare from his narrow pittance such additional comforts
for his mother as were not contemplated by the pious foundress in those
primitive times. He would hasten hither on beautiful summer evenings
after the business of the day, to trim her little garden, surprise her
with some frugal luxury, and see that she was happy. The Sabbath he
never omitted passing under this roof, and he led her to my pew,--for
she is a gentlewoman, sir,--where she sat with my family. Consumption
seized his frame; and what privations did he endure, what fatigues did
he brave, to conceal the first fatal symptoms from his mother! Of
a melancholy temperament, endued with all the fine sensibilities of
genius, death, under much less unprosperous circumstances, would have
been a welcome visitor; but to die--and leave--no matter. I promised to
take upon myself the solemn charge, should the dreaded moment arrive.
It has arrived, and that promise, by the blessing of my God, I will
faithfully redeem.”
Uncle Timothy was not an envious man--he knew envy by name only. But if
at this particular moment his heart could have been anatomised, O, how
he envied the good pastor!
“The disease gained ground with fearful strides.
He was obliged to absent himself from business; and as his employers
were no-work-no-pay philanthropists, he was left to his own slender
resources, and retired here to die.”
“Who sustained my lost son in his long sickness, comforted him, and
received his last sigh? Ah! sir--But I dare not disobey your too strict
injunction.
'Friend of the poor! the mourner feels thy aid--
She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid!'
“It is not many evenings since that I accompanied my dear young friend
in one of his solitary rambles. The sun was setting in golden splendour,
and tinged the deep blue clouds that appeared like mountains rising
above one another. 'Yon glorious orb,' he cried, with sacred fervour,
'emblem of immortality!
The setting and the rising sun
To me are themes of deep reflection--
Death, frail mortal! is the one,
The other is thy resurrection.
Oh! be that resurrection mine,
And glorious as those rays divine!
A few days after I was called to his bed-side; the hand of death had
seized him; he recognised me, smiled, and gently pressed my hand.
'_Every misery missed_,' he whispered, '_is a mercy!_' A faint struggle,
and a short sigh succeeded, and he was gone to his rest!”
“What a poor figure would this simple record of good works, lively
faith, and filial piety make in a modern obituary, where incoherent
ravings are eagerly noted down by officious death-bed gossipers, and
wrought into a romance, always egotistical, and too often profane!
To you, madam,” added Uncle Timothy, “consolation and hope have been
brought by a heaven-appointed messenger. Something, however, remains
to be done in a worldly sense. But I see our friend is on the eve of
departure; what I was about to propose shall be submitted to him when
we are alone. In the mean time, you will please to consider this humble
roof but as a temporary home. It abounds in sad remembrances, which
change of scene may soften down, if not entirely dispel. I have a dear,
affectionate relative, who would deeply regard you, were it only for
your sorrow. And as there 'is a special providence in the falling of a
sparrow,' I cannot doubt that some good spirit directed me hither. God
bless you! We shall very soon meet again.”
And locking the kind pastor's arm in his own, he hurried down the little
garden, pausing for a moment to gather a pale rose, which he placed in
his bosom.