hinted, could be more terrible still in their overthrow than in their
ravages. The inhabitants of the country had attempted, where they could,
to destroy them by fire and water. It would seem as if the malignant
animals had resolved that the sufferers should have the benefit of this
policy to the full; for they had not got more than twenty miles beyond
Sicca when they suddenly sickened and died. When they thus had done all
the mischief they could by their living, when they thus had made their
foul maws the grave of every living thing, next they died themselves,
and made the desolated land their own grave. They took from it its
hundred forms and varieties of beautiful life, and left it their own
fetid and poisonous carcases in payment. It was a sudden catastrophe;
they seemed making for the Mediterranean, as if, like other great
conquerors, they had other worlds to subdue beyond it; but, whether they
were overgorged, or struck by some atmospheric change, or that their
time was come and they paid the debt of nature, so it was that suddenly
they fell, and their glory came to nought, and all was vanity to them as
to others, and "their stench rose up, and their corruption rose up,
because they had done proudly."
The hideous swarms lay dead in the moist steaming underwoods, in the
green swamps, in the sheltered valleys, in the ditches and furrows of
the fields, amid the monuments of their own prowess, the ruined crops
and the dishonored vineyards. A poisonous element, issuing from their
remains, mingled with the atmosphere, and corrupted it. The dismayed
peasant found that a plague had begun; a new visitation, not confined to
the territory which the enemy had made its own, but extending far and
wide, as the atmosphere extends, in all directions. Their daily toil, no
longer claimed by the fruits of the earth, which have ceased to exist,
is now devoted to the object of ridding themselves of the deadly legacy
which they have received in their stead. In vain; it is their last toil;
they are digging pits, they are raising piles, for their own corpses, as
well as for the bodies of their enemies. Invader and victim lie in the
same grave, burn in the same heap; they sicken while they work, and the
pestilence spreads.
LXII. THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.--1811-1863.
In tatter'd old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.
To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.
This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.
Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,)
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-back'd;
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.
No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.
That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.
Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.
But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.
'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee, and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.
If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,
A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!
I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;
I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.
It was but a moment she sat in this place,
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,
And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.
And so I have valued my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.
When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night as I sit here alone--
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair--
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.
She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.
LXIII. THE RECONCILIATION.[N]
THACKERAY.
There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside the Dean and
some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old, that performed
the beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. Tusher was one of the officiants,
and read from the eagle in an authoritative voice, and a great black
periwig; and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, sat
Esmond's dear mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeed
a noble-looking youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curling
brown hair, that fell over his _point de Venise_--a pretty picture such
as Vandyke might have painted. Mons. Rigaud's portrait of my Lord
Viscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of his
manly, frank English face. When he looked up there were two sapphire
beams out of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color to
match, I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing that
particular beauty of my young lord's countenance; for the truth is, he
kept his eyes shut for the most part, and, the anthem being rather long,
was asleep.
But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his eyes
lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite him, gazing with no
small tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so much of his
heart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start; pulled at his
mother's sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from her book), and
said, "Look, mother!" so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other side
of the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall. Lady Castlewood
looked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning finger
to Frank; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart throbbing, as
that dear lady beheld him once more. The rest of the prayers were
speedily over; Mr. Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, very
likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never lifted
her head again until the service was over, the blessing given, and Mr.
Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel.
Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy were
fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. "My dear,
dearest old Harry!" he said, "are you come back? Have you been to the
wars? You'll take me with you when you go again? Why didn't you write to
us? Come to mother."
Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy," for his
heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad's
part; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was fearful about
that other interview which was now to take place: for he knew not if the
widow would reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago.
"It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry," Lady Esmond said. "I
thought you might come."
"We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come from
Portsmouth?" Frank asked, or my Lord Viscount, as he now must be called.
Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given one of his eyes so
that he might see his dear friends again once more; but believing that
his mistress had forbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, and
remained at a distance.
"You had but to ask, and you knew I would be here," he said.
She gave him her hand, her little fair hand: there was only her marriage
ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement
was passed. They never had been separated. His mistress had never been
out of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison; nor
in the camp; nor on shore before the enemy; nor at sea under the stars
of solemn midnight; nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn:
not even at the table, where he sat carousing with friends, or at the
theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter
than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but
none so dear--no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had
been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth--goddess now no
more, for he knew of her weaknesses; and by thought, by suffering, and
that experience it brings, was older now than she; but more fondly
cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity.
What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand the
dearest of all? Who ever can unriddle that mystery? Here she was, her
son by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She took
his hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a rapture of
reconciliation....
"And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!" cries my lord.
"Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons on. Beatrix is
a maid of honor, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx!"
"Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," the widow said, in her
sweet low tone, as they walked away together. (Now, it seemed they had
never been parted, and again, as if they had been ages asunder.) "I
always thought you had no vocation that way; and that 'twas a pity to
shut you out from the world. You would but have pined and chafed at
Castlewood: and 'tis better you should make a name for yourself. I often
said so to my dear lord. How he loved you! 'Twas my lord that made you
stay with us."
"I asked no better than to stay near you always," said Mr. Esmond.
"But to go was best, Harry. When the world cannot give peace, you will
know where to find it; but one of your strong imagination and eager
desires must try the world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not to be
thought of, or if it once was, it was only by my selfishness, that you
should remain as chaplain to a country gentleman and tutor to a little
boy. You are of the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman; and that was always
wild in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keep
him in my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he longs to
serve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and the young Lord Churchill
shall go the next. Lord Marlborough has been good to us. You know how
kind they were in my misfortune. And so was your--your father's widow.
No one knows how good the world is, till grief comes to try us. 'Tis
through my Lady Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix hath her place at
Court; and Frank is under my Lord Chamberlain. And the dowager lady,
your father's widow, has promised to provide for you--has she not?"
Esmond said, "Yes. As far as present favor went, Lady Castlewood was
very good to him. And should her mind change," he added gaily, "as
ladies' minds will, I am strong enough to bear my own burden, and make
my way somehow. Not by the sword very likely. Thousands have a better
genius for that than I, but there are many ways in which a young man of
good parts and education can get on in the world; and I am pretty sure,
one way or other, of promotion!" Indeed, he had found patrons already
in the army, and amongst persons very able to serve him, too; and told
his mistress of the flattering aspect of fortune. They walked as though
they had never been parted, slowly, with the grey twilight closing
round them.
"And now we are drawing near to home," she continued, "I knew you would
come, Harry, if--if it was but to forgive me for having spoken unjustly
to you after that horrid--horrid misfortune. I was half frantic with
grief then when I saw you. And I know now--they have told me. That
wretch, whose name I can never mention, even has said it: how you tried
to avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, my poor
child: but it was God's will that I should be punished, and that my dear
lord should fall."
"He gave me his blessing on his death-bed," Esmond said. "Thank God for
that legacy!"
"Amen, amen! dear Henry," said the lady, pressing his arm. "I knew it.
Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was called to him, told me so. And I
thanked God, too, and in my prayers ever since remembered it."
"You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me sooner," Mr.
Esmond said.
"I know it, I know it," she answered, in a tone of such sweet humility,
as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to reproach her. "I
know how wicked my heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear.
But I knew you would come back--I own that. And to-day, Henry, in the
anthem, when they sang it, 'When the Lord turned the captivity of Zion,
we were like them that dream,' I thought yes, like them that dream--them
that dream. And then it went, 'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy;
and he that goeth forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again with
rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him;' I looked up from the book and
saw you. I was not surprised when I saw you. I knew you would come, my
dear, and saw the gold sunshine round your head."
She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. The moon was up
by this time, glittering keen in the frosty sky. He could see, for the
first time now clearly, her sweet careworn face.
"Do you know what day it is?" she continued. "It is the 29th day of
December--it is your birthday! But last year we did not drink it--no,
no. My lord was cold, and my Harry was likely to die: and my brain
was in a fever; and we had no wine. But now--now you are come again,
bringing your sheaves with you, my dear." She burst into a wild flood
of weeping as she spoke; she laughed and sobbed on the young man's
heart, crying out wildly, "bringing your sheaves with you--your sheaves
with you!"
As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into the
boundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout wonder at
that endless brightness and beauty--in some such a way now, the depth
of this pure devotion quite smote upon him, and filled his heart with
thanksgiving. Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless creature,
that such a love should be poured out upon him? Not in vain--not in
vain has he lived--hard and thankless should he be to think so--that
has such a treasure given him. What is ambition compared to that, but
selfish vanity? To be rich, to be famous? What do these profit a year
hence, when other names sound louder than yours, when you lie hidden
away under the ground, along with idle titles engraven on your coffin?
But only true love lives after you--follows your memory with secret
blessing--or precedes you, and intercedes for you. _Non omnis
moriar_--if dying, I yet live in a tender heart or two; nor am lost
and hopeless living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and prays
for me.
FOOTNOTES:
[N] _From "The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the
Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne. Written by himself."_
The late Lord Castlewood had been killed in a duel, and young Esmond,
who had lived in his house as a dependant (reputed to have been
illegitimately related to a former Viscount of Castlewood), devotedly
attending him at his death-bed, received from the dying man
confession and proof that he, the supposed obscure orphan, was the
true inheritor, and in justice ought to have been the possessor, of
the Castlewood titles and estates. But Esmond, for the love he had
borne his patron, and from devotion to Lady Castlewood, who had much
befriended him, immediately destroyed the proofs which were given him
of his honorable parentage, and ever afterwards kept his claim a
secret. After the duel, while Esmond was in prison, Lady Castlewood
visited him, and in the wildness of her grief for her murdered
husband, reproached her loyal kinsman for not having saved her lord's
life, or avenged his death. In the estrangement which these
reproaches occasioned, Esmond sought his fortune abroad in war; but
subsequently, desiring to learn of the welfare of his mistress and
her family, whose happiness he prized more than his own, he returned
to England, and went to Winchester, near which was Walcote, Lady
Castlewood's home. The family were attending service in the
cathedral, and there the reconciliation took place.--Esmond had
formerly been promised the living of Walcote, but the vacancy
occurring while the estrangement continued. Lady Castlewood had given
it to one Mr. Tusher.
LXIV. THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS.
(DECEMBER, 1697.)
WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.--1813-1865.
The Rhine is running deep and red, the island lies before,--
"Now is there one of all the host will dare to venture o'er?
For not alone the river's sweep might make a brave man quail;
The foe are on the further side, their shot comes fast as hail.
God help us, if the middle isle we may not hope to win!
Now is there any of the host will dare to venture in?"
"The ford is deep, the banks are steep, the island-shore lies wide;
Nor man nor horse could stem its force, or reach the further side.
See there! amidst the willow-boughs the serried bayonets gleam;
They've flung their bridge,--they've won the isle; the foe have
cross'd the stream!
Their volley flashes sharp and strong,--by all the saints! I trow
There never yet was soldier born could force that passage now!"
So spoke the bold French Mareschal with him who led the van,
Whilst rough and red before their view the turbid river ran.
Nor bridge nor boat had they to cross the wild and swollen Rhine,
And thundering on the other bank far stretch'd the German line.
Hard by there stood a swarthy man was leaning on his sword,
And a sadden'd smile lit up his face as he heard the Captain's word.
"I've seen a wilder stream ere now than that which rushes there;
I've stemm'd a heavier torrent yet and never thought to dare.
If German steel be sharp and keen, is ours not strong and true?
There may be danger in the deed, but there is honor too."
The old lord in his saddle turn'd, and hastily he said,
"Hath bold Duguesclin's fiery heart awaken'd from the dead?
Thou art the leader of the Scots,--now well and sure I know,
That gentle blood in dangerous hour ne'er yet ran cold nor slow,
And I have seen ye in the fight do all that mortal may:
If honor is the boon ye seek, it may be won this day,--
The prize is in the middle isle, there lies the adventurous way,
And armies twain are on the plain, the daring deed to see,--
Now ask thy gallant company if they will follow thee!"
Right gladsome look'd the Captain then, and nothing did he say,
But he turn'd him to his little band,--O, few, I ween, were they!
The relics of the bravest force that ever fought in fray.
No one of all that company but bore a gentle name,
Not one whose fathers had not stood in Scotland's fields of fame.
All they had march'd with great Dundee to where he fought and fell,
And in the deadly battle-strife had venged their leader well:
And they had bent the knee to earth when every eye was dim,
As o'er their hero's buried corpse they sang the funeral hymn;
And they had trod the Pass once more, and stoop'd on either side
To pluck the heather from the spot where he had dropp'd and died;
And they had bound it next their hearts, and ta'en a last farewell
Of Scottish earth and Scottish sky, where Scotland's glory fell.
Then went they forth to foreign lands like bent and broken men,
Who leave their dearest hope behind, and may not turn again.
"The stream," he said, "is broad and deep, and stubborn is
the foe,--
Yon island-strength is guarded well,--say, brothers, will ye go?
From home and kin for many a year our steps have wander'd wide,
And never may our bones be laid our fathers' graves beside.
No children have we to lament, no wives to wail our fall;
The traitor's and the spoiler's hand have reft our hearths of all.
But we have hearts, and we have arms, as strong to will and dare
As when our ancient banners flew within the northern air.
Come, brothers! let me name a spell shall rouse your souls again,
And send the old blood bounding free through pulse and heart
and vein.
Call back the days of bygone years,--be young and strong once more;
Think yonder stream, so stark and red, is one we've cross'd before.
Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood! rise up on either hand,--
Again upon the Garry's banks, on Scottish soil we stand!
Again I see the tartans wave, again the trumpets ring;
Again I hear our leader's call: 'Upon them for the King!'
Stay'd we behind that glorious day for roaring flood or linn?
The soul of Graeme is with us still,--now, brothers, will ye in?"
No stay,--no pause. With one accord, they grasp'd each other's hand,
Then plunged into the angry flood, that bold and dauntless band.
High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward still they bore,
Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, and shot, and
cannon-roar,--
"Now, by the Holy Cross! I swear, since earth and sea began,
Was never such a daring deed essay'd by mortal man!"
Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash'd the
flame:
The water plash'd in hissing jets as ball and bullet came.
Yet onwards push'd the Cavaliers all stern and undismay'd,
With thousand armed foes before, and none behind to aid.
Once, as they near'd the middle stream, so strong the torrent swept,
That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footing kept.
Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before:
"The current's strong,--the way is long,--they'll never reach the
shore!
See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line!
Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm them in the Rhine!"
Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is sounding
shrill,
And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges of the hill?
How they toss their mighty branches struggling with the tempest's
shock;
How they keep their place of vantage, cleaving firmly to the rock?
Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river;
Though the water flash'd around them, not an eye was seen to quiver;
Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, not a man relax'd his hold;
For their hearts were big and thrilling with the mighty thoughts
of old.
One word was spoke among them, and through the ranks it spread,--
"Remember our dead Claverhouse!" was all the Captain said.
Then, sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a while,
Until they clear'd the heavy stream, then rush'd towards the isle.
The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong;
The German foot goes seldom back where armed foemen throng.
But never had they faced in field so stern a charge before,
And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore.
Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline,
That rises o'er the parent-springs of rough and rapid Rhine,--
Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven than came the Scottish
band
Right up against the guarded trench, and o'er it sword in hand.
In vain their leaders forward press,--they meet the deadly brand!
O lonely island of the Rhine,--where seed was never sown,
What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown?
What saw the winter moon that night, as, struggling through the
rain,
She pour'd a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, and plain?
A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glistening round;
A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and batter'd mound;
And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quivering
glare
To tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there!