The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
children--everything was fine about her: it was nothing but driving
about and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel; it
was one long Lord Mayor’s Day.
Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They certainly were
handsome, but had a supercilious air that chilled admiration and
disposed the spectator to be critical. They were ultrafashionable in
dress, and, though no one could deny the richness of their decorations,
yet their appropriateness might be questioned amidst the simplicity of
a country church. They descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up
the line of peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod
on. They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the
burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman’s
family, when their countenances immediately brightened into smiles, and
they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, which were returned
in a manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances.
I must not forget the two sons of this inspiring citizen, who came to
church in a dashing curricle with outriders. They were arrayed in the
extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which marks
the man of questionable pretensions to style. They kept entirely by
themselves, eying every one askance that came near them, as if measuring
his claims to respectability; yet they were without conversation, except
the exchange of an occasional cant phrase. They even moved artificially,
for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, had been
disciplined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done
everything to accomplish them as men of fashion, but Nature had denied
them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for
the common purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption
which is never seen in the true gentleman.
I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two families,
because I considered them specimens of what is often to be met with in
this country--the unpretending great, and the arrogant little. I have no
respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true nobility
of soul; but I have remarked, in all countries where artificial
distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are always the most
courteous and unassuming. Those who are well assured of their own
standing are least apt to trespass on that of others; whereas, nothing
is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate
itself by humiliating its neighbor.
As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice their
behavior in church. That of the nobleman’s family was quiet, serious,
and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervor of devotion,
but rather a respect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable
from good-breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual
flutter and whisper; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery,
and the sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural congregation.
The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. He
took the whole burden of family devotion upon himself; standing bolt
upright, and uttering the responses with a loud voice that might be
heard all over the church. It was evident that he was one of these
thorough Church-and-king men, who connect the idea of devotion and
loyalty; who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the government
party, and religion “a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to be
countenanced and kept up.”
When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by way of
example to the lower orders, to show them that, though so great and
wealthy, he was not above being religious; as I have seen a turtle-fed
alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking his lips at
every mouthful and pronouncing it “excellent food for the poor.”
When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the several
exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters, as the day
was fine, preferred strolling home across the fields, chatting with the
country people as they went. The others departed as they came, in grand
parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again
the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering of
harness. The horses started off almost at a bound; the villagers again
hurried to right and left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust, and the
aspirin family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind.
THE WIDOW AND HER SON.
Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires
Honour and reverence evermore have rain’d.
MARLOWE’S TAMBURLAINE.
THOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters must have noticed
the passive quiet of an English landscape on Sunday. The clacking of
the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the
blacksmith’s hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, the rattling of
the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended. The
very farm-dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed by passing
travellers. At such times I have almost fancied the wind sunk into
quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints melting
into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm.
Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so brigh’
The bridal of the earth and sky.
Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of rest.
The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature has its moral
influence; every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel the
natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. For my
part, there are feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid the
beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else; and if
not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any
other day of the seven.
During my recent residence in the country, I used frequently to attend
at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments,
its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years,
seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation; but, being in a
wealthy, aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated
even into the sanctuary; and I felt myself continually thrown back upon
the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The
only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel the
humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old
woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the
traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent
pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the
extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been
awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but
sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all
love, all friendship, all society, and to have nothing left her but the
hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form
in prayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand
and failing eyes could not permit her to read, but which she evidently
knew by heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor
woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell
of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so
delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a
knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend and then wound
its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was
surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its
tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows
generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning
watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of
the most remote and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, from the
number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and
friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made
grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on
the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very
dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They
were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A
coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was
borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air
of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of
affected woe, but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after
the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased, the poor old woman
whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by
a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the
neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village
were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now
pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity on the grief of the mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the
church-porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and
attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity.
The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. It
was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeeling. The
well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door; his voice
could scarcely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral
service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid
mummery of words.
I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were
inscribed the name and age of the deceased--“George Somers, aged 26
years.” The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head
of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer; but I could
perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of
the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son with the
yearnings of a mother’s heart.
Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was
that bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and
affection; directions given in the cold tones of business; the striking
of spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we love,
is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around seemed to
waken the mother from a wretched revery. She raised her glazed eyes, and
looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to
lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into
an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the arm
endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like
consolation: “Nay, now--nay, now--don’t take it so sorely to heart.”
She could only shake her head, and wring her hands, as one not to be
comforted.
As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords
seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruction, there
was a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst
forth, as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of
worldly suffering.
I could see no more--my heart swelled into my throat--my eyes filled
with tears; I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by
and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another
part of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train had
dispersed.
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving
behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and