Читать книгу Tales and Legends of the English Lakes - Wilson Armistead - Страница 18

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"THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping son of idleness, Why can he tarry yonder?—In our churchyard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely priest of Ennerdale. It was a July evening; and he sat Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves, Of his old cottage,—as it chanced, that day, Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire, He fed the spindle of his youngest child, Who turned her large round wheel in the open air With back and forward steps. Towards the field In which the parish chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the priest had sent Many a long look of wonder: and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path That from his cottage to the churchyard led, He took his way, impatient to accost The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

'Twas one well-known to him in former days,

A shepherd lad,—who, ere his sixteenth year,

Had left that calling, tempted to entrust

His expectations to the fickle winds

And perilous waters—with the mariners

A fellow-mariner—and so had fared

Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd

Among the mountains, and he in his heart

Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.

Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard

The tones of waterfalls and inland sounds

Of caves and trees:—and, when the regular wind

Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail,

And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,

Lengthening invisibly its weary line

Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours

Of tiresome indolence, would often hang

Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;

And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam

Flash'd round him images and hues that wrought

In union with the employment of his heart,

He, thus by feverish passion overcome,

Even with the organs of his bodily eye,

Below him, in the bosom of the deep,

Saw mountains—saw the forms of sheep that grazed

On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees,

And shepherds clad in the same country gray

Which he himself had worn.

And now at last

From perils manifold, with some small wealth

Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,

To his paternal home he is return'd,

With a determined purpose to resume

The life he had lived there; both for the sake

Of many darling pleasures, and the love

Which to an only brother he has borne

In all his hardships, since that happy time

When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two

Were brother shepherds on their native hills.

—They were the last of all their race; and now,

When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart

Fail'd in him; and, not venturing to inquire

Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved,

Towards the churchyard he had turn'd aside;

That as he knew in what particular spot

His family were laid, he thence might learn

If still his brother lived, or to the file

Another grave was added.—He had found

Another grave, near which a full half-hour

He had remain'd; but, as he gazed, there grew

Such a confusion in his memory,

That he began to doubt; and he had hopes

That he had seen this heap of turf before—

That it was not another grave, but one

He had forgotten. He had lost his path,

As up the vale, that afternoon, he walk'd

Through fields which once had been well known to him:

And O what joy the recollection now

Sent to his heart! He lifted up his eyes,

And, looking round, imagined that he saw

Strange alteration wrought on every side

Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks

And everlasting hills themselves were changed.

By this the priest, who down the field had come

Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate

Stopp'd short,—and thence, at leisure, limb by limb

Perused him with a gay complacency,

Ay, thought the vicar smiling to himself,

'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path

Of the world's business to go wild alone:

His arms have a perpetual holiday;

The happy man will creep about the fields,

Following his fancies by the hour, to bring

Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles

Into his face, until the setting sun

Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus

Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate

Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appear'd,

The good man might have communed with himself,

But that the stranger, who had left the grave,

Approach'd; he recognised the priest at once,

And, after greetings interchanged, and given

By Leonard to the vicar as to one

Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued:

LEONARD.

You live, Sir, in these dales a quiet life;

Your years make up one peaceful family;

And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come

And welcome gone, they are so like each other,

They cannot be remember'd? Scarce a funeral

Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen months;

And yet, some changes must take place among you;

And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks

Can trace the finger of mortality,

And see, that with our threescore years and ten

We are not all that perish.——I remember

(For many years ago I passed this road)

There was a foot-way all along the fields

By the brook-side—'tis gone—and that dark cleft!

To me it does not seem to wear the face

Which then it had.

PRIEST.

Nay, Sir, for aught I know,

That chasm is much the same—

LEONARD.

But, surely, yonder—

PRIEST.

Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend

That does not play you false.—On that tall pike

(It is the loneliest place of all these hills)

There were two springs that bubbled side by side,

As if they had been made that they might be

Companions for each other; the huge crag

Was rent with lightning—one hath disappear'd;

The other, left behind, is flowing still.[2]—— For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them;—a waterspout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast For folks that wander up and down like you, To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff One roaring cataract!—a sharp May-storm Will come with loads of January snow, And in one night send twenty score of sheep To feed the ravens: or a shepherd dies By some untoward death among the rocks; The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge— A wood is fell'd:—and then for our own homes! A child is born or christen'd, a field plough'd, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, The old house-clock is decked with a new face; And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries—one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fireside— Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, Commend me to these valleys!

LEONARD.

Yet your churchyard

Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,

To say that you are heedless of the past:

An orphan could not find his mother's grave:

Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass,

Cross-bones nor skull—type of our earthly state

Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home

Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.

PRIEST.

Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!

The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread

If every English churchyard were like ours;

Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:

We have no need of names and epitaphs;

We talk about the dead by our firesides.

And then for our immortal part! we want

No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:

The thought of death sits easy on the man

Who has been born and dies among the mountains.

LEONARD.

Your dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts

Possess a kind of second life: no doubt

You, Sir, could help me to the history

Of half these graves?

PRIEST.

For eight-score winters past,

With what I've witness'd, and with what I've heard,

Perhaps I might; and on a winter-evening,

If you were seated at my chimney's nook,

By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,

We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round;

Yet all in the broad highway of the world.

Now there's a grave—your foot is half upon it—

It looks just like the rest; and yet that man

Died broken-hearted.

LEONARD.

'Tis a common case.

We'll take another: who is he that lies

Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?

It touches on that piece of native rock

Left in the churchyard wall.

PRIEST.

That's Walter Ewbank.

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek

As ever were produced by youth and age

Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.

Through five long generations had the heart

Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds

Of their inheritance, that single cottage—

You see it yonder!—and those few green fields.

They toil'd and wrought, and still, from sire to son,

Each struggled, and each yielded as before

A little—yet a little—and old Walter,

They left to him the family heart, and land

With other burthens than the crop it bore.

Year after year the old man still kept up

A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond,

Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,

And went into his grave before his time.

Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him

God only knows, but to the very last

He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:

His pace was never that of an old man:

I almost see him tripping down the path

With his two grandsons after him;—but you,

Unless our landlord be your host to-night,

Have far to travel—and on these rough paths

Even in the longest day of midsummer—

LEONARD.

But those two orphans!

PRIEST.

Orphans!—such they were—

Yet not while Walter lived:—for, though their parents

Lay buried side by side as now they lie,

The old man was a father to the boys,

Two fathers in one father:—and if tears,

Shed when he talk'd of them where they were not,

And hauntings from the infirmity of love,

Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,

This old man, in the day of his old age,

Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir,

To hear a stranger talking about strangers,

Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!

Ay—you may turn that way—it is a grave

Which will bear looking at.

LEONARD.

These boys—I hope

They loved this good old man?—

PRIEST.

They did—and truly:

But that was what we almost overlook'd,

They were such darlings of each other. For,

Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter,

The only kinsman near them, and though he

Inclined to them, by reason of his age,

With a more fond, familiar tenderness,

They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,

And it all went into each other's hearts.

Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,

Was two years taller; 'twas a joy to see,

To hear, to meet them!—From their house the school

Is distant three short miles—and in the time

Of storm and thaw, when every water-course

And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed

Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,

Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,

Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps

Remain'd at home, go staggering through the fords,

Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him

On windy days, in one of those stray brooks—

Ay, more than once I've seen him—mid-leg deep,

Their two books lying both on a dry stone

Upon the hither side; and once I said,

As I remember, looking round these rocks

And hills on which we all of us were born,

That God who made the great book of the world

Would bless such piety—

LEONARD.

It may be then—

PRIEST.

Never did worthier lads break English bread;

The finest Sunday that the autumn saw

With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,

Could never keep these boys away from church,

Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach.

Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner

Among these rocks, and every hollow place

Where foot could come, to one or both of them

Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.

Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;

They played like two young ravens on the crags;

Then they could write, ay, and speak too as well

As many of their betters—and for Leonard!

The very night before he went away,

In my own house I put into his hand

A Bible, and I'd wager house and field

That, if he is alive, he has it yet.

LEONARD.

It seems, these brothers have not lived to be

A comfort to each other—

PRIEST.

That they might

Live to such end, is what both old and young

In this our valley all of us have wish'd,

And what, for my part, I have often pray'd:

But Leonard—

LEONARD.

Then James is still left among you?

PRIEST.

'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:

They had an uncle:—he was at that time

A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas;

And, but for that same uncle, to this hour

Leonard had never handled rope or shroud.

For the boy loved the life which we lead here:

And though of unripe years, a stripling only,

His soul was knit to this his native soil.

But, as I said, old Walter was too weak

To strive with such a torrent; when he died,

The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,

A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,

Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:—

Well—all was gone, and they were destitute.

And Leonard, chiefly for his brother's sake,

Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.

Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.

If there were one among us who had heard

That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,

From the great Gavel,[3] down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont, The day would be a very festival; And those two bells of ours, which there you see Hanging in the open air—but, O, good Sir! This is sad talk—they'll never sound for him— Living or dead. When last we heard of him, He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast. 'Twas not a little That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the youth Was sadly cross'd—Poor Leonard! when we parted, He took me by the hand, and said to me, If ever the day came when he was rich, He would return, and on his father's land He would grow old among us.

LEONARD.

If that day

Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;

He would himself, no doubt, be happy then

As any that should meet him—

PRIEST.

Happy! Sir—

LEONARD.

You said his kindred all were in their graves,

And that he had one brother—

PRIEST.

That is but

A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth

James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;

And Leonard being always by his side

Had done so many offices about him,

That, though he was not of a timid nature,

Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy

In him was somewhat check'd; and, when his brother

Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,

The little colour that he had was soon

stolen from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined—

LEONARD.

But these are all the graves of full-grown men!

PRIEST.

Ay, Sir, that pass'd away: we took him to us;

He was the child of all the dale—he lived

Three months with one, and six months with another;

And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love;

And many, many happy days were his.

But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief

His absent brother still was at his heart.

And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found

(A practice till this time unknown to him)

That often, rising from his bed at night,

He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping

He sought his brother Leonard.—You are moved;

Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,

I judged you most unkindly.

LEONARD.

But this youth

How did he die at last?

PRIEST.

One sweet May morning

(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)

He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs,

With two or three companions, whom their course

Of occupation led from height to height

Under a cloudless sun, till he, at length,

Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge

The humour of the moment, lagg'd behind.

You see yon precipice;—it wears the shape

Of a vast building made of many crags;

And in the midst is one particular rock

That rises like a column from the vale,

Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar.

Upon its aëry summit crown'd with heath,

The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,

Lay stretch'd at ease; but, passing by the place

On their return, they found that he was gone.

No ill was fear'd; but one of them by chance

Entering, when evening was far spent, the house

Which at that time was James's home, there learned

That nobody had seen him all that day;

The morning came, and still he was unheard of;

The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the brook

Some hasten'd, some towards the lake; ere noon

They found him at the foot of that same rock—

Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after

I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies!

LEONARD.

And that then is his grave!—Before his death

You say that he saw many happy years?

PRIEST.

Ay, that he did—

LEONARD.

And all went well with him?—

PRIEST.

If he had one, the youth had twenty homes.

LEONARD.

And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?

PRIEST.

Yes, long before he died, he found that time

Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless

His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune,

He talk'd about him with a cheerful love.

LEONARD.

He could not come to an unhallow'd end!

PRIEST.

Nay, God forbid!—You recollect I mention'd

A habit which disquietude and grief

Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured

That, as the day was warm, he had lain down

Upon the grass, and waiting for his comrades,

He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep

He to the margin of the precipice

Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen headlong.

And so, no doubt, he perished: at the time,

We guess, that in his hands he must have held

His shepherd's staff: for midway in the cliff

It had been caught; and there for many years

It hung, and moulder'd there.

The priest here ended—

The stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt

A gushing from his heart, that took away

The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;

And Leonard, when they reach'd the churchyard gate,

As the priest lifted up the latch, turned round,

And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"

The vicar did not hear the words: and now,

Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated

That Leonard would partake his homely fare;

The other thank'd him with a fervent voice,

But added, that, the evening being calm,

He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove

That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short,

And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd

All that the priest had said: his early years

Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes,

And thoughts which had been his an hour before,

All press'd on him with such a weight, that now

This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd

A place in which he could not bear to live:

So he relinquish'd all his purposes.

He travell'd on to Egremont: and thence,

That night, he wrote a letter to the priest,

Reminding him of what had pass'd between them;

And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,

That it was from the weakness of his heart

He had not dared to tell him who he was.

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now

A seaman, a grey-headed mariner.