University of Virginia Library

THE YOUNG GREY HEAD.

Grief hath been known to turn the young head grey—
To silver over in a single day
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime
Scarcely o'erpast: as in the fearful time
Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head
Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled,
Miscalled of Liberty. Oh, martyred Queen!
What must the sufferings of that night have been?—
That one—that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er
With Time's untimely snow! But now no more,
Lovely, august, unhappy one, of thee—
I have to tell an humbler history;
A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth,
If any, will be sad and simple truth.
“Mother,” quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame—
So oft our peasant's use his wife to name,
“Father” and “Master” to himself applied,
As life's grave duties matronise the bride—
“Mother,” quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north,
With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth
To his day labour, from the cottage door—
“I'm thinking that to-night, if not before,
There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton roar?
It's brewing up down westward; and look there!
One of those sea-gulls—ay, there goes a pair.
And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,
As threats, the waters will be out anon.
That path by the ford's a nasty bit of way—
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day.”
“Do, mother, do!” the quick-eared urchins cried,
Two little lasses, to the father's side
Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy
The answering language of the mother's eye.
There was denial, and she shook her head:
“Nay, nay—no harm will come to them,” she said,
“The mistress lets them off, these short dark days,
An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says,
May quite be trusted—and I know 'tis true—
To take care of herself and Jenny too.
And so she ought—she seven come first of May,
Two years the oldest: and they give away
The Christmas bounty at the school to-day.”
The mother's will was law—alas for her
That hapless day, poor soul! She could not err,
Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane,
Her namesake, to his heart he hugged again,
When each had had her turn, she clinging so
As if that day she could not let him go.
But Labour's sons must snatch a hasty bliss
In nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss—
“God bless my little maids!” the father said,
And cheerly went his way to win their bread.
Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone,
What looks demure the sister pair put on—
Not of the mother as afraid or shy,
Or questioning the love that could deny,
But simply, as their simple training taught,
In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought
(Submissively resigned the hope of play),
Towards the serious business of the day.
To me there's something touching, I confess,
In the grave look of early thoughtfulness,
Seen often in some little childish face
Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace
(Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!)
The unnatural sufferings of the factory child,
But a staid quietness, reflective, mild,
Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes,
Sense of life's cares, without its miseries.
Was there no sinking at the mother's heart,
When, all equipt, they turned them to depart?
When down the lane she watched them as they went,
Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent
Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell:
Such warnings have been sent, we know full well,
And must believe—believing that they are—
In mercy then—to rouse—restrain—prepare.
And, now I mind me, something of the kind
Did surely haunt that day the mother's mind,
Making it irksome to bide all alone
By her own quiet hearth. Though never known
For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray,
Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay
At home with her own thoughts, but took her way
To her next neighbour's half a loaf to borrow—
Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow.
And with the loan obtained, she lingered still:
Said she—“My master, if he'd had his will,
Would have kept back our little ones from school
This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool,
Since they've been gone, I've wished them back. But then
It won't do in such things to humour men,
Our Ambrose specially. If let alone
He'd spoil those wenches. But it's coming on,
That storm he said was brewing, sure enough.
Well, what of that? To think what idle stuff
Will come into one's head! and here with you
I stop, as if I'd nothing else to do—
And they'll come home drowned rats. I must be gone
To get dry things, and set the kettle on.”
His day's work done, three mortal miles and more
Lay between Ambrose and his cottage door.
A weary way, God wot! for weary wight.
But yet far off the curling smoke's in sight
From his own chimney, and his heart feels light.
How pleasantly the humble homestead stood,
Down the green lane by sheltering Shirley Wood!
How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze
In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees,
Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July,
From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry,
How grateful the cool covert to regain
Of his own avenue, that shady lane,
With the white cottage, in a slanting glow
Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below,
And jasmine porch, his rustic portico!
With what a thankful gladness in his face
(Silent heart-homage—plant of special grace!),
At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace,
Would Ambrose send a loving look before;
Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door,
The very blackbird strained its little throat
In welcome with a more rejoicing note;
And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed,
All bristle, back, and tail, but “good at need,”
Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear;
But of all welcomes, pleasantest, most dear,
The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells,
Of his two little ones. How fondly swells
The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane,
Each clasps a hand in her small hand again,
And each must tell her tale, and “say her say,”
Impeding, as she leads, with sweet delay
(Childhood's blest thoughtlessness) his onward way.
And when the winter day closed in so fast,
Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last;
And in all weathers, driving sleet and snow,
Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go,
Darkling and lonely. Oh! the blessed sight—
His pole-star—of that little twinkling light
From one small window, through the leafless trees,
Glimmering so fitfully, no eye but his
Had spied it so far off. And sure was he,
Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see,
Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour,
Streaming to meet him from the open door.
Then, though the blackbird's welcome was unheard,
Silenced by winter, note of summer bird
Still hailed him—from no mortal fowl alive,
But from the cuckoo-clock just striking five.
And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen—
Off started he, and then a form was seen
Darkening the doorway; and a smaller sprite,
And then another, peered into the night,
Ready to follow free on Tinker's track,
But for the mother's hand that held her back.
And yet a moment—a few steps—and there,
Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair,
He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair;
Tinker takes post beside, with eyes that say,
“Master, we've done our business for the day.”
The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs,
The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs;
The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn.
How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on.
How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he?
Safe housed, and warm beneath his own roof-tree,
With a wee lassie prattling on each knee.
Such was the hour—hour sacred and apart—
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,
To him and his the literal doom applied,
Pronouuced on Adam. But the bread was sweet
So earned for such dear mouths. The weary feet,
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way.
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray
That time I tell of. He had worked all day
At a great clearing, vigorous stroke on stroke
Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke,
And the strong arm dropt nerveless. What of that?
There was a treasure hidden in his hat,
A plaything for the young ones. He had found
A dormouse nest, the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of nought
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,
When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer,
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.
'Twas a wild evening—wild and rough. “I knew,”
Thought Ambrose; “those unlucky gulls spoke true,
And Gaffer Chewton never growls for nought.
I should be mortal 'mazed now if I thought
My little maids were not safe housed before
That blinding hail-storm—ay, this hour and more.
Unless by that old crazy bit of board,
They've not passed dry-foot over Shallow-ford,
That I'll be bound for, swollen as it must be . . .
Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me . . .”
But checking the half-thought as heresy,
He looked out for the home-star. There it shone,
And with a gladdened heart he hastened on.
He's in the lane again—and there below
Streams from the open doorway that red glow,
Which warms him but to look at. For his prize
Cautious he feels—all safe and snug it lies.
“Down, Tinker! down, old boy!—not quite so free:
The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.
But what's the meaning?—no look-out to-night!
No living soul astir! Pray God all's right!
Who's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather?
Mother!” You might have felled him with a feather
When the short answer to his loud “Hillo!”
And hurried question—“Are they come?”—was—“No!”