"Why are you here all alone, cousin? How cold and still it is amongst
the graves!"
"Sit down beside me, Blanche; it is not colder in the churchyard than
on the village green."
And Blanche sate down beside me, nestled close to me, and leant her
head upon my shoulder. We were both long silent. It was an evening in
the early spring, clear and serene--the roseate streaks were fading
gradually from the dark gray of long, narrow, fantastic clouds. Tall,
leafless poplars, that stood in orderly level line, on the lowland
between the churchyard and the hill, with its crown of ruins, left
their sharp summits distinct against the sky. But the shadows coiled
dull and heavy round the evergreens that skirted the churchyard, so
that their outline was vague and confused; and there was a depth in
their gloomy stillness, broken only when the thrush flew out from
the lower bushes, and the thick laurel leaves stirred reluctantly,
and again were rigid in repose. There is a certain melancholy in the
evenings of early spring which is among those influences of nature the
most universally recognised, the most difficult to explain. The silent
stir of reviving life, which does not yet betray signs in the bud and
blossom--only in a softer clearness in the air, a more lingering pause
in the slowly lengthening day; a more delicate freshness and balm in
the twilight atmosphere; a more lively yet still unquiet note from
the birds, settling down into their coverts;--the vague sense under
all that hush, which still outwardly wears the bleak sterility of
winter--of the busy change, hourly, momently, at work--renewing the
youth of the world, reclothing with vigorous bloom the skeletons of
things--all these messages from the heart of Nature to the heart of
Man may well affect and move us. But why with melancholy? No thought
on our part connects and construes the low, gentle voices. It is not
_thought_ that replies and reasons: it is _feeling_ that hears and
dreams. Examine not, O child of man!--examine not that mysterious
melancholy with the hard eyes of thy reason; thou canst not impale it
on the spikes of thy thorny logic, nor describe its enchanted circle by
problems conned from thy schools. Borderer thyself of two worlds--the
Dead and the Living--give thine ear to the tones, bow thy soul to the
shadows, that steal, in the season of change, from the dim Border Land.
BLANCHE (_in a whisper_.)--What are you thinking of?--speak,
pray!
PISISTRATUS.--I was not thinking, Blanche; or, if I were, the
thought is gone at the mere effort to seize or detain it.
BLANCHE (_after a pause_.)--I know what you mean. It is the
same with me often--so often, when I am sitting by myself, quite still.
It is just like the story Primmins was telling us the other evening,
how there was a woman in her village who saw things and people in a
piece of crystal, not bigger than my hand:[2] they passed along as
large as life, but they were only pictures in the crystal. Since I
heard the story, when aunt asks me what I am thinking of, I long to
say, "I'm not thinking! I am seeing pictures in the crystal!"
[2] In primitive villages in the west of England, the belief that the
absent may be seen in a piece of crystal is, or was not many years
ago, by no means an uncommon superstition. I have seen more than one
of these magic mirrors, which Spenser, by the way, has beautifully
described. They are about the size and shape of a swan's egg. It is not
every one, however, who can be a crystal-seer; like second-sight, it is
a special gift.
PISISTRATUS.--Tell my father that; it will please him. There
is more philosophy in it than you are aware of, Blanche. There are
wise men who have thought the whole world, "its pride, pomp, and
circumstance," only a phantom image--a picture in the crystal.
BLANCHE.--And I shall see you--see us both, as we are sitting
here--and that star which has just risen yonder--see it all in my
crystal--when you are gone!--gone, cousin!
And Blanche's head drooped.
There was something so quiet and deep in the tenderness of this poor
motherless child, that it did not affect one superficially, like a
child's loud momentary affection, in which we know that the first toy
will replace us. I kissed my little cousin's pale face, and said,
"And I too, Blanche, have my crystal; and when I consult it, I shall
be very angry if I see you sad and fretting, or seated alone. For you
must know, Blanche, that that is all selfishness. God made us, not to
indulge only in crystal pictures, weave idle fancies, pine alone, and
mourn over what we cannot help--but to be alert and active--givers
of happiness. Now, Blanche, see what a trust I am going to bequeath
you. You are to supply my place to all whom I leave. You are to bring
sunshine wherever you glide with that shy, soft step--whether to your
father, when you see his brows knit and his arms crossed, (that,
indeed, you always do,) or to mine, when the volume drops from his
hand--when he walks to and fro the room, restless, and murmuring to
himself--then you are to steal up to him, put your hand in his, lead
him back to his books, and whisper, 'What will Sisty say if his younger
brother, the Great Book, is not grown up when he comes back?'--And my
poor mother, Blanche!--ah, how can I counsel you there--how tell you
where to find comfort for her? Only, Blanche, steal into her heart and
be her daughter. And, to fulfil this threefold trust, you must not
content yourself with seeing pictures in the crystal--do you understand
me?"
"Oh yes," said Blanche, raising her eyes, while the tears rolled from
them, and folding her arms resolutely on her breast.
"And so," said I, "as we two, sitting in this quiet burial-ground,
take new heart for the duties and cares of life, so see, Blanche,
how the stars come out, one by one, to smile upon us, for they too,
glorious orbs as they are, perform their appointed tasks. Things seem
to approximate to God in proportion to their vitality and movement. Of
all things, least inert and sullen should be the soul of man. How the
grass grows up over the very graves--quickly it grows and greenly--but
neither so quick and so green, my Blanche, as hope and comfort from
human sorrows."