_Concluding remarks on an Epic Poem of Giles Scroggins and Molly Brown._
The circumstance which rendered Giles Scroggins peculiarly ineligible as a
bridegroom eminently qualified him as a tenant for one of those
receptacles in which defunct mortals progress to "that bourne from whence
no traveller returns." Fancy the bereaved Molly, or, as she is in grief,
and grief is tragical, Mary Brown, denuded of her scarf and black gloves,
turning faintly from the untouched cake and tasteless wine, and retiring
to the virtuous couch, whereon, with aching heart, the poet asserts she,
the said
"Poor Molly, laid her down to weep;"
and then contemplate her the victim of somnolent consequences, when--
"She cried herself quite fast asleep,"
Here an ordinary mind might have left the maiden and reverted "to her
streaming eyes," inflamed lids, dishevelled locks, and bursting sigh, as
satisfactory evidences of the truth of her broken-heartedness, but the
"great anonymous" of whom we treat, scorns the application of such
external circumstances as agents whereby to depict the intenseness of the
passion of the ten thousand condensed turtle-doves glowing in the bosom of
_his_ heroine. Sleep falls upon her eyes; but the "life of death," the
subtle essence of the shrouded soul, the watchful sentinel and viewless
evidence of immortality, the wild and flitting air-wrought impalpabilities
of her fitful dreams, still haunt her in her seeming hours of rest. Fancy
her feelings--
"When, standing fast by her bed-post,
A figure tall her sight engross'd,"
and it cried--
"'I be's Giles Scroggins' ghost.'"
Such is the frightful announcement commemorative of this visitation from
the wandering spirit of the erratic Giles. Death has indeed parted them.
Giles is cold, but still his love is warm! He loved and won her in
life--he hints at a right of possession in death; and this very
forgetfulness of what he _was_, and what he _is_, is the best essence of
the overwhelming intensity of his passion. He continues (with a beautiful
reliance on the faith and _living_ constancy of Molly, in reciprocation,
though dead, of his deathless attachment) to offer her a share, not of his
bed and board, but of his shell and shroud. There is somewhat of the
imperative in the invitation, which runs thus:--
"The ghost it said so solemnly,
'Oh, Molly, you _must_ go with me,
All to the grave, your love to cool.'"
We have no doubt this assumption of command on the part of the ghost--an
assumption, be it remembered, never ventured upon by the living
Giles--gave rise to some unpleasant reflections in the mind of the
slumbering Molly. _Must_ is certainly an awkward word. Tell any lady that
she _must_ do this, or _must_ do that, and, however much her wishes may
have previously prompted the proceeding, we feel perfectly satisfied, that
on the very shortest notice she will find an absolute and undeniable
reason why such a proceeding is diametrically opposed to the line of
conduct she _will_, and therefore ought to, adopt.
With an intuitive knowledge of human nature, the great poet purposely uses
the above objectionable word. How could he do otherwise, or how more
effectually, and less offensively, extricate Molly Brown from the
unpleasant tenantry of the proposed under-ground floor? Command invariably
begets opposition, opposition as certainly leads to argument. So proves
our heroine, who, with a beautiful evasiveness, delivers the following
expostulation:--
"Says she, 'I am not dead, you fool!'"
One would think _that_ was a pretty decent clincher, by way of a reason
for declining the proposed trip to Giles Scroggins' little property at his
own peculiar "Gravesend;" but as contradiction begets controversy, and the
enlightened poet is fully aware of the effect of that cause, the undaunted
sprite of the interred Giles instantly opposes this, to him, flimsy
excuse, and upon the peculiar veracity of a wandering ghost, triumphantly
exclaims, in the poet's words--words that, lest any mistake should arise
as to the speaker by the peculiar construction of the sentence, are
rendered _doubly_ individual, for--
"_Says_ the _ghost_, says _he_, vy that's no rule!"
There's a staggerer! being alive no rule for _not_ being buried! how _is_
Molly Brown to get out of that high-pressure cleft-stick? how! that's the
question! Why not in a state of somnolency, not during the "death of each
day's life; no, it is clear, to escape such a consummation she must be
wide awake." The poet sees this, and with the energy of a master-mind, he
brings the invisible chimera of her entranced imagination into effective
operation. Argument with a man who denies first premises, and we submit
the assertion that vitality is no exception to the treatment of the dead,
amounts to that. We say, argument with such a man is worse than nothing;
it would be fallacious as the Eolian experiment of whistling the most
inspiriting jigs to an inanimate, and consequently unmusical, milestone,
opposing a transatlantic thunder-storm with "a more paper than powder"
"penny cracker," or setting an owl to outstare the meridian sun.
The poet knew and felt this, and therefore he ends the delusion and
controversy by an overt act:--
"The ghost then seized her all so grim,
All for to go along with him;
'Come, come,' said he, 'e'er morning beam.'"