University of Virginia Library

Once more among my earliest haunts!—once more
A solitary man, from home delights
Familiar, and the sounds of childish mirth,
And sweet endearments of connubial love,
Secluded for awhile;—beneath the roof
Which shelter'd me in childhood, and which still
Shelters my parents' age, for some few days,
A welcome guest, I sojourn. Years long past,—
The pleasant spring, and seed-time of my life,—
Revisit my mind's eye, with all their train
Of youthful thoughts and feelings, by these scenes
Mysteriously revived. Nor meets me here
One outward token from that newer world
Of cares and duties, fears and hopes and aims,
Sorrows and joys, in which I live and move,
A husband and a parent. Far away,
On the green banks of her beloved Doon,
My wife imbues our children's opening minds
With love of Caledonia's hills and glens;
Meanwhile inhaling, near her native coast,
From the bold mountains, and the breezy sea,
New health and vigour,—by her childhood's friends,
As I by mine, surrounded. So complete
Is thus my separation from all cares
Domestic and parental, that almost,
Methinks, by strong imagination led,
I might forget the two-and-twenty years
Of life, long since mature, which time hath stolen,
Since I, as boyhood melted into youth,
Bade sad farewell to Eton's long loved shades,
And these fair scenes together;—might forget
What all those years have made me,—what rich gifts
Their course hath brought,—what cares those gifts produce,—
And be once more the dreaming, brain-sick boy
That then I was. And what if I give scope
To memory's pensive rovings?—What if now,
In this calm interim between the calls
Of active duty and of worldly care,
I bid my heart keep holiday,—forget
The Present and the Future in the Past,—
Live o'er again my long departed years
In tranquil meditation,—and perchance,
Comparing what I was with what I am,
Amidst that multitudinous array
Of thoughts and feelings which have come and gone,
Discern, in twilight gaze, the embryo state
Of what is now my being?—Haply thus
My time may not be lost;—Not for myself,
Nor for some gentle spirits, who may find,
Nor scorn to learn, a lesson from my lay,
Such as all records of Man's life might teach.

Dim and mysterious to the dreamer's eye,
Retracing the first gleams of consciousness,
Is Infancy and Childhood's fairy-land.
Scarce through the glory, as of other worlds,
Enveloping its outline, is discern'd,
At intervals distinctly, here and there,
A streak of clear reality,—some fact,
Or feeling, or sensation,—some event
To Childhood's eyes momentous, and thenceforth
Indelibly inscribed on Memory's page,
Only with life to be expunged. Even here,
Surrounded, as I am, by objects fraught
With old associations, and none else—
Wandering, at will, through old familiar rooms,
And gazing on old hills, and fields, and lanes,
And human forms, the first I ever knew,
And faces which I loved ere I could speak—
Even here, my first remembrances of life
Seem dim and distant. Scarce at intervals,
Events and epochs, few and far between,
Stand forth in clear relief;—a colour'd frock,—
A picture-book replete with marvels strange
To young imagination;—a quaint tale
Told by my grandam;—my first cloth pelisse,
With rows of glittering buttons all ablaze,
The envy of my infantine compeers;
And mix'd with these, at times, a tender gleam
Of somewhat (whether fantasy or love
I know not,)—a strange instinct lighting up
My heart beneath the glance of woman's eyes;—
A sense of beauty and mysterious power,
By beauty wielded, stirring to its depths
The soul of man, while he is yet a child.
So fares the world within;—around me crowd
Familiar objects;—our old nursery stands
Unalter'd, save that now it bears no trace
Of infantine or childish tenantry;—
Cradle, or crib, or tiny chair, or store
Of scatter'd toys, or window fenced with bars,
Or fire-place, guarded close from rash approach,
By lofty fender. Time's relentless march
Hath made strange havoc with the furniture
Once consecrate to childhood's mimic sports.
The chairs which, yoked and harness'd, served as steeds
To whirl us, on imaginary cars,
In pomp and pride of glorious coachmanship,
At length have disappear'd through slow decay;
Their wood-work fractured, and their horsehair seats
Worn bare by long attrition. Many a year,—
Yea, far into my manhood's lusty prime,
They stood where they were wont, and seem'd to bear
A charmed life. In sooth, I could have named
Each individual courser,—told the marks
Which once distinguish'd, to our childish thought,
The chestnut from the grey, the bay from brown;—
Which to each several brother was assign'd,
His own especial property;—which work'd
As wheeler,—which as leader. All are gone,—
The steeds, and they who drove them. Many a change,
Within doors and without, hath changed the face
Of the old dwelling, e'en within the span
Of my remembrance. Casements, which sufficed
The vicars of a less luxurious age,
First from the old stone frontage disappear'd,
Supplanted by broad panes.—A few years pass'd,
Riches increased, and lo! a pile arose
Of bright red brick, with slate cerulean roof'd,
Encroaching on the garden, and but ill
Consorting with the grey, time-mellow'd stone,
To which 'twas wedded. On the study's site,
Somewhat extended, straightway there appear'd
A gay and gilded drawing-room, o'er which,
Piled, story above story, tier on tier,
New bed-rooms tower'd, in ample space and height
Mocking the old and humble vicarage.
With pride we mark'd the building, as it grew,
(I and my brothers) deeming that at last
Our mansion should eclipse the squire's itself,
And we be counted greater than the squire.
Yet when the work was finish'd, and we dwelt
Like nobles, as we deem'd,—methinks, we found
Small compensation in our ceiled state,
For old associations swept away
With our abolish'd play-room—for the fall
Of shrubbery laurels, underneath whose thick
And sun-proof foliage we were wont to frame
Our mimic houses, with inventive skill
Arranging and imagining;—nor lack'd
To those umbrageous mansions aught that taste
Or ingenuity of modish art
Might fashion, or caprice of luxury
Deem needful for convenience. Banquet-halls
Were there, with banquets spread, from time to time,
Of sugar'd cakes and gingerbread, served up
On fragments of crack'd china; Drawing-rooms
Well furnish'd, and adorn'd with stately couch,
And ottoman and sofa, soft repose
Inviting and prolonging; closets cramm'd
With household stores; kitchen and scullery range,
With culinary implements complete;
And overhead, among the thickleaved boughs,
Our verdant dormitories. Oh! how well
Wrought then imagination, by strange art,
Enduing her creations with what seem'd
Most absolute reality. Our sports
To us were scarcely sports, but still appear'd
Our gravest occupations.—In our world,
(That fairy world created by ourselves),
We lived and had our being. All day long,
(Our tasks once ended) how we toil'd and toil'd
At that fantastic architecture!—how,
Absorb'd, and reckless of all outward things,
We shaped and moulded our whole dream of life
To match our habitation! Our desires
Roam'd not beyond that garden's narrow bounds.
There was our universe.—Reluctantly
We left its pastimes for a daily walk
Through the green fields and pleasant shelter'd lanes
Of this delicious region; for, in us,
The sense of beauty, with majestic forms
And glorious hues investing hill and wood,
As yet was undevelop'd, and it seem'd
Dire interruption of important toil
And business which allow'd of no delay,
To force us from our fair ideal realm
E'en to the pleasures of reality.

And yet, from time to time, strange pleasures came;
Some by succession of the seasons brought,
Or revolution of the calendar;
Some at uncertain epochs, racier still
Because unlook'd-for. First, the spring produced
Its primrose tufts and constellated stalks
Of cowslip, which, with eager chase, we sought,
And strung together into fragrant balls;
Or (proud of such unwonted usefulness)
Heap'd for the flowery vintage. Summer shone
(Summer seem'd then all sunshine, and as yet
Asthma was not) on fields of new-mown grass,
And us among the haymakers. Ah me!
The raptures of that season!—with what pride
(Our tiny rakes and pitchforks in our hands)
We follow'd, with the rest, the mower's track,
And spread the levell'd crop beneath the sun!
At noon, with what keen appetite we shared
The rustic luncheon,—feasted to the full,
Beside some hedge, on piles of bread and cheese,
And from its wooden flagon quaff'd the beer,
Listening meanwhile to tale and homely jest,
Pass'd round by jovial peasants. Then, at eve,
When the day's toil was ended, home we rode
In the returning waggon,—joy of joys!
The world hath now none such. With autumn came
The village wake, and (if remembrance serves)
The fair, with stalls of tempting gingerbread,
And glittering toys, and shows majestical;
While, (for 'twas then the stirring time of war)
Recruiting sergeants gaily to and fro
Paraded, to the sound of drum and fife,
Their colours and cockades. To us they seem'd
Almost like gods of war, and oft our hearts
Beat high, to think how blest a fate it were
To fight old England's enemies, and die
Victorious on some well-won battle-field.

'Twas then that on the Nation's startled ear
Burst the glad news of naval victory,
Sadden'd by Nelson's death. Those news awoke,
Methinks, in me, my first ideal sense
Of warlike triumph, of heroic deeds,
And glory by a nation lost or won.
Then first I felt that 'twas a noble lot
To be a Briton;—then, with earnest heart,
Rejoiced at England's joy, and wept her griefs,
A patriot five years old. Some nameless fears
Had stirr'd my soul already, when I heard
(What then was widely bruited in men's mouths)
Of near invasion, of impending strife,
And danger and defeat. The might of France
Was, to my heart, a dark, mysterious thought,
More hateful from the vagueness of alarm
With which 'twas blended, and my midnight dreams
Would oft reverberate Napoleon's name,
Dreadful as Dæmogorgon's. Oft, in sleep,
I heard the thrilling cry, “The French are come,”
And straightway through the street, in long array,
With shout of hostile triumph, with deep roll
Of drum, and peal of trump, and clang of arms,
Battalion on battalion, host on host,
Defiled the invading myriads;—Britain's fight,
Men said, was fought and lost, and she was now
In bondage to her foes. Ere long the scene
Grew darker; in my father's house appear'd
Strange faces,—heralds by the victors sent
To cite my parents to the judgment seat,
And haply to the scaffold. In that fear,
Grim and perplex'd, the bonds of sleep were burst,
And I, in agony of tears, awoke!
Such terrors, waking or asleep, were mine,
Till news of victory came:—oh, then at once
My breast was lighten'd. Ne'er shall I forget
The fervour, the wild frenzy of delight,
Which, when the news first reach'd our little town,
Thrill'd through its English heart. That week had seen
A daughter born into my Father's house;
And, I remember, in my Mother's room
We stood, and from the silent window gazed
On bonfires blazing in the street, and crowds
Of villagers and peasants round the flame
Promiscuously group'd.—The ruddy light
Flash'd fitfully on faces bright with joy,
And forms in active motion. To the sky
Rockets, from time to time, in fiery track
Soar'd, blazed, and, bursting, scatter'd, high in air,
Bright showers of stars; while ever and anon,
From the near steeple, our six bells rang out
Their loud and lusty changes,—now in notes
Harmoniously attuned to concord sweet
With the deep stream of joy in every heart,—
Now mimicing, with simultaneous clang,
The cannons' deafening roar. At intervals,
From every quarter, musket-shots were heard,
Follow'd by shout, and cheer, and loud huzzah!
From congregated throats. The nation's voice,
Even among us, arose from Earth to Heaven
In chorus of exultant jubilee,
Yet with religious fervour not unmix'd,
Nor thankless to the God of victories
For triumph thus bestow'd.—Men's warlike pride,
By recollection of their hero's death,
Was soften'd and subdued. It was a night
Greatly to be remember'd. With our dreams,
When we, with hearts untired, reluctantly
Had gone to rest, the tumult of the street
Still mingled, and awoke a phantom world
Of imagery in the mysterious depths
Of Childhood's spirit, shedding wondrous gleams
Of glory on the visions of the night.
Since then have five-and-thirty years flown by,
And boyhood, youth, and early manhood pass'd,
With all their changes; yet even now a peal
Of merry village bells recalls to mind
The raptures of that night, and conjures up
The ghosts of thoughts and feelings, in my heart
Long buried;—thus with joys of rustic life—
A birth, a wedding, or a festival,
Associating the glories of the Past.

I was not born ambitious;—never long'd
For honour to be won by warlike deeds,
Nor wish'd myself a hero;—else, methinks,
The atmosphere of war, in childhood breathed,
Had fed such fancies bravely, and perchance
Made me unlike, in all things, what I am.
For scarce a village in old England, then,
But dared heroic enterprize. The threat
Of near invasion had awoke all hearts
To simultaneous valour. Peasants beat
Their pruninghooks and ploughshares into swords;
And pale-faced artisans forsook the loom
And shuttle, to encumber their spare limbs
With the grim garb of war. The smith exchanged
His hammer for a halberd. Tailors, fired
With martial ardour, from the shop-board leap'd,
And let their needles rust, to grasp the spear
With fingers which of late the thimble wore.
Short-winded, pursy men forgot their fat
And scantiness of breath, in tight-drawn belt
Bracing their bulk abdominal, to serve
As lusty volunteers in some new corps
Raised for the nonce. We too, albeit the least
Among Britannia's thousands, furnish'd forth
Our sixty musqueteers—a gallant band
In uniform complete;—to me they seem'd
A host invincible, prepared to hurl
Napoleon from his throne. Sublime they shone
In scarlet regimentals faced with green;
Their military caps by towering plumes
Surmounted, while their burnish'd firelocks flash'd,
Like lightning, in the sun, with bayonets fix'd,
Bristling in bright array. The squire himself,
Forsaking for awhile his mimic war
With birds and beasts, and buckling on his arms,
Was proud to be their captain. Next in rank,
Nor less in arms illustrious—passing then
Life's vigorous prime, and by his portly shape
And peaceful air, less fitted, as it seem'd,
For martial prowess than luxurious ease,
Our neighbour, the attorney, took the field.
Him, not unfit at social boards to shine,—
A man of easy humour and frank mirth,—
Sluggish withal, and simple as a child
In this world's ways, had fortune's wild caprice
First doom'd to be a lawyer, and next thrust
Into the full accoutrements of war
And regimental lace. Alike unfit
Was he for scarlet, and for chancery suit;
Alike unskill'd in pleadings and in war;
In deeds of arms and deeds of law alike
Ill-graced and awkward; for his nature, pure
And harmless as the dove's, could never learn
The serpent's wisdom;—gentle as the lamb,
He lack'd the lion's valour.—He was form'd
For upright acts of honest friendliness,
For charity and bland good neighbourhood,
Not for the tumult of the battle-field,
Or trickery of the law-court. Mild, sedate,
His usual air;—few were the words he spoke,
And slow his utterance; but when friend met friend
Around his hospitable board, and wine,
After the fashion of those ruder days,
In circling brimmers flow'd,—oh, who was then
His match for fun and frolic? Then his eye
(Dull and professionally grave before)
Twinkled and gleam'd with humour;—then (all care
For formal rules of etiquette cast off)
His mirth ran riot in wild, boylike freaks
Of unrestrain'd extravagance. But now,
Silent and grave, beside his corps he march'd;
And if,—when cups were sparkling on the board
Of absent friends, while he, on full parade,
Did active service,—nature would at times
Grow weary of manœuvres manifold,
Marchings and counter-marchings, mimic-fights,
Retreats and charges, ambuscades, assaults,
Volleys of awkward musketry, and balls
Shot wide of targets,—he, with noble pride
Of self-control, repress'd all outward signs
And tokens of impatience,—proud to be
In Albion's cause a martyr. Him of late
I mark'd, an aged man, well-nigh fourscore,
Still, in the parish church, his wonted seat
Maintaining, and himself but little changed
In all these years from that which he appear'd
When first I knew him;—undiminish'd still
His lusty bulk,—unwrinkled still his brow,—
Unspectacled his nose;—yet Death's grim shades
Must soon be closing round him, and the friends,—
The boon companions of his earlier days,—
His comrades in the field and at the feast,—
Have, one by one, departed from his side,
And dropp'd into the grave. His housekeeper
(For never hath he worn connubial yoke),
Large as himself, and rosy, and rotund,
The despot of his house, hath gone the way
Appointed for all flesh;—his well-fed steed
Hath vacated the true prebendal stall
In which he lived to eat, asthmatic long
And martyr to repletion;—his lank pair
Of greyhounds (sole lank things in all that house)
Sleep, with their old companion, side by side,—
Their last course run and ended. Be their lord's
Decease, when it shall come, as calm as theirs,
But not, like theirs, uncheer'd by Christian hope
Of immortality and endless bliss.

With him there march'd, as ensign of the corps,
A tall, spare man, his kinsman, some ten years
His senior, whose high forehead, silver'd o'er,
At fifty-five, with eighty winters' snow,
Assumed, beneath his feather'd, fierce cock'd hat,
A veteran aspect;—yet a peaceful man
Was he, and had, in Gloucester's busy vales,
Been bred a manufacturer. The mill,
Embosom'd yonder between wooded banks,
Was built, and many years possess'd by him;
Till, with an ample store of this world's wealth,
He and his wife, with none to be their heirs,
(For theirs had ever been a childless home)
Retired to spend their calm decline of life
In affluent ease and leisure. Twenty years
Were they our next-door neighbours. As a child,
I well remember, when the parsonage
On rare occasions oped its festal doors
To guests invited, how, amidst the throng,
His was the gravest face, the stateliest step,
The hoariest head; with what a solemn grace
He at quadrille or whist would take his seat,
Confronted with some bulky dowager,
Or spinster of threescore. The dark brown coat,
White waistcoat, breeches of demurest drab,
And hose of spotless cotton, (for as yet
Silk was, with us, a luxury only known
To clergymen and squires,) the polish'd shoes
Of rustic make, and thicker than need was,
Still dwell in my remembrance. On his arm
Hung his good-humour'd partner, all bedight
In finery, such as fifty years before
Had shone in metropolitan saloons.
Herself ungraced by the accomplishments
Of modish education, and, in truth,
What some call vulgar, but, beyond her peers,
From all vulgarity of soul exempt;—
Kind-hearted, full of charity, unchill'd
By niggard thrift,—for all the neighbouring poor
Prompt ever both to spend and to be spent;
Alike unfit to hear and to repeat
The scandal of the tea-table. They lived
(She and her mate) a blameless, peaceful life,
Through fifty years of wedlock, till at last
Disease, in cancerous shape, assail'd the wife,
Marring her features, and extending wide
Its fibres through her flesh.—For some few years
She pined and wasted, with assiduous care
Still tended by her husband, whose whole life
Was so entwined with hers, that, when she died,
The old man's heart seem'd broken.—From that hour
He never cross'd the threshold of his door,
Save when he went to church,—but sat and sat
Beside his lonely hearth from morn to night;
Now poring o'er his Bible,—now absorb'd
In dreamy thought,—his eyes suffused with tears,—
His heart with her whom he had lost,—in Heaven.
Nor sought he other company; though oft,
When friends or neighbours came to visit him,
He would converse in no uncheerful tone,
Nor close his heart to sympathy with those
Who sympathized with him. Some habits, form'd
In happier days,—some customs, shared with her,
He still retain'd;—still every Sunday eve
(The service done) he with his kinsman dined,
Whose jovial humour, soften'd now by years,
Was, in his presence, temper'd to a grave
And reverential sadness:—each with each
Held soothing fellowship, till life's frail thread
At last, in one, gave way. His race is run;
His story told;—he rests with her he loved.

A melancholy joy, in truth, it is,
When half a life has fled, to see once more
Places long loved;—to mark how Nature's face
Remains unchanged,—how little Art has wrought
Of transformation in insensate things,
While human forms familiar—men who lived,
Thought, felt, rejoiced, and sorrow'd, hoped and fear'd,
Hated and loved, in time's relentless flight,
Have been, by generations, swept away,
Like shadows, from the earth. But sadder still,
Methinks, the alteration wrought by age
In those who yet remain. These thirty years
A house hath scarce been built, a tree cut down,
A new shop open'd,—scarce a public-house
Been deck'd with a new sign, or changed as yet
Ought but its owner's name, in all this street.
The castle ditch alone, (last remnant left
Of feudal recollections,) hath indeed
Long since, by hands barbarian, been plough'd up
And planted with potatoes; its rich shade
Of beeches levell'd, and the fair alcove
Which crown'd its spacious bowling-green, pull'd down.
Nought else seems alter'd, save the face of man;
But that, how strangely! Yesterday I pass'd
An infant school-room, echoing to the hum
Of children's voices on their tasks intent;
And, through the open window, could discern
The features of their mistress. 'Twas a face,
Almost the first which Memory, looking back
Through forty years, remembers to have loved;—
The face of one long since our nursery-maid,
The beauty of the village. Around her
Our young imaginations fondly clung,
And, in her features, seem'd to recognize
The bright ideals of our fairy tales
Mysteriously embodied. In our eyes,
She was the princess Eglantine, adored
Of Valentine and Orson;—we the twins
Contending for her hand. The Sabra she
Who loved St. George of England, and by him
Was lost amidst the forest; then straightway
Protected by a lion. She alone
Seem'd gentle Graciosa's living type,
Through depths unknown of trouble and distress,
Still constant to her Percinet.—Nor lack'd
Our spite a fitting representative
Of old malicious Grognon,—that foul hag
Who persecuted beauty, youth, and love,
For very ugliness. Her, to the life,
We found depicted in a spinster sour,
The despot of our nursery;—one whose tried
And unimpeach'd devotion to her charge
Compensated, in fond parental eyes,
For all her inborn crabbedness; who ruled
With undisputed, arbitrary sway
The rising generation, and the risen;
Queen'd it supreme o'er mistress and o'er maid;
And thus, by rigour of tyrannic rule,
Combined in close-knit league against herself,
Us and our pretty play-mate. In revenge
Of wrongs, supposed or real, her we named
Witch, ogre, wicked fairy, goblin, imp,
Giantess, evil genius, Afrit, goule,
And whatsoever abhorr'd and hateful thing
Imagination of the East or West
Hath ever bodied forth. And yet, in truth,
Much cause had we to love her, could the love
Of children be obtain'd by honest zeal
Apart from gentleness;—and if sometimes
She yielded to infirmity,—if years,
Approaching to threescore, had fail'd to quench,
In her, the wish to be a wife, and thus
Made her too oft the dupe of needy men,
Seeking not her but hers, and furnish'd food
For laughter even to us,—be that forgot
In the remembrance of her faithful life
And melancholy death. For,—after years
In strict discharge of anxious duty spent,
Worn out at last by the incessant fret
And fever of a spirit ill at ease,
And, haply, vex'd by our perversity
Almost beyond endurance,—she resolved
To quit our parents' service, and retire,
On the small savings by long labour earn'd,
To end her days in peace;—then changed her mind,
Through love for us and ours;—again resolved,—
And yet again repented;—till at last,
Wearied by what, in her, appear'd caprice,
Our parents lost all patience, and resolved
She should indeed depart. Thenceforth no more
She lifted up her head, nor could regain
Her full command of reason:—from her home
She wander'd and return'd not:—in the end,
After long, anxious search, her corpse was found
Beneath the Severn waters.

But the maid,—
The dark-eyed heroine of fairy-land,—
How hath her fortune sped? Alas! her tale
Is one of kindred sorrow. Long ago
(So long that I can scarce remember when)
She married; and had he, to whom she gave
Her hand and heart, been worthy of the gift,
Might now have held her head above the crowd
With decent self-respect:—alas! he proved
A drunkard and a brute. Soon ruin came,
And gaunt-eyed famine stared them in the face:
Her children proved rebellious, and she lived
A broken-hearted woman, struggling still,
In unsubdued nobility of soul,
With care, and want, and sorrow; till at length
Compassion and respect for her meek worth,
From those whom she had served in early youth,
Made her the mistress of that infant school
Where yesterday I found her;—but alas!
How should a wounded spirit, such as hers,
Bear up against her task?—what energy,
In her, remains to vary and sustain
Perpetual sallies of exciting sport,
And stimulative effort?—how should she,
Whose heart is bleeding for her husband's sin,
Her offspring lost, her home left desolate—
How should she feel the interest, here required,
In children not her own? With listless air
She sits, in dull, mechanical routine,
Dragging along her weary load of tasks;
Dispensing vain rewards and punishments;
Dispirited and jaded by the sound
Of voices which she heeds not; till the clock,
With wish'd-for stroke, announces her release,
Emancipating from ungrateful toil
The teacher and the taught.—Thus Life's romance
Begins and ends:—its moral,—that our world
Is, was, and, till redemption's closing day,
Must evermore remain a vale of tears.

Yet there are spots of sunshine even on Earth;—
Green islands in the desert, which the sands
Entomb not, nor the tempests overwhelm:—
Spots which, long cherish'd in our heart of hearts,
Then, after many years revisited,
We find still fresh and fragrant. Yonder lane,
Which,—from the church-yard gate commencing, skirts
The school enclosure and the castle ditch,—
Leads, in the space of some two hundred yards,
Beside a lonely cottage, from the path
Divided by a wicket. It was once,
(Far within my remembrance,) the abode
Of a kind aged couple, who, when years
Had made the man unfit to earn his bread
At that mechanic craft which he had learnt
And practised, as a builder, all his life,
From business and its cares at length withdrew,
Surrendering to a son-in-law their trade
And daily occupation. In their home,
The latter, with his wife, their only child,—
(Themselves, in middle age, a childless pair,)
Came to reside; and though her husband seem'd
To some a vain and consequential man,
The frank and noble nature of his wife
Made more than full amends for what appear'd
Deficiencies in him. There seem'd to rest
A blessing on that house;—Content was there,
And filial duty, with connubial love
Holding, in one warm bosom, constant sway,
And spreading through the home in which it dwelt
Perpetual sunshine. Between them and us
(The cottage and the vicarage) grew up
A friendship, such as we had sought in vain
Beneath less humble roofs. Nature had set
On that old man and woman, at their birth,
The seal of true gentility, which they
Transmitted to their daughter. Oft in her,
When other sources fail'd, was found advice
And consolation, sympathy and help,
Amidst those worldly troubles which must fall
On rich and poor alike. Full oft was she
The confidante of sorrows, to no ear
But hers entrusted; and, for us, whose age
Reck'd of no nice distinction between ranks,
But clung to kindness, wheresoever found,
With instinct true and keen,—in all the world
There was no heart like hers. Day after day,
In pairs or singly,—sometimes all at once,—
We stole from home, to prattle and to play
In that old cottage and the timber-yard
Adjacent. I shall never, while I live,
Forget the old man's cheerful countenance,
Lit up with gleams of humour, as he sat
And welcomed us in his accustomed seat
Within the chimney corner;—his broad jests,—
His cordial fun,—his brown, close, curly wig,
His straight blue coat with monstrous buttons starr'd,—
His nether garments, plush or velveteen,—
The sky-blue worsted stockings on his shanks,—
The buckles in his shoes. His busy wife,
Unbroken by the weight of fourscore years,
Meanwhile, with ceaseless footsteps, roam'd about,
And plied her household tasks, with ready tact
Assisted by her daughter, and by us
Impeded sorely;—yet they never lost
Patience or kindness, but still bore our freaks
And follies with a spirit imperturb'd;
Nor wearied of such pert impertinence
As would have wearied Job. On baking-days,
Which we by instinct knew, their batch contain'd
(Nor ever fail'd) one smoking cake for us,—
One smoking, butter'd cake!—Their cider-press
Ream'd with rich draughts for us;—their garden teem'd
With gooseberries and currants, which to us
Yielded unstintingly their luscious juice.
We were the lords of all that fair domain,—
Too oft, perhaps, the tyrants. Time roll'd on;
We left the place and country,—nor return'd,
Till thirteen years had pass'd. The old man then
Had, in the ripeness of full ninety years,
Been gather'd to his fathers; and his wife
Slept with him side by side. The cottage still
Shelters the younger pair, who, in their turn,
Themselves have sunk into the vale of years;
And to our children are, what once, to us,
Their parents used to be. Nay, so robust
Their age appears, that haply they may see
Another generation. To their house
Our steps still daily turn, when we renew
Our visits to the neighbourhood, and still
They welcome us as they were ever wont,
And spoil our children with as right good will
As once they spoil'd the parents. All remains
Beneath that roof unchanged;—upon the shelves
The clean, white rows of plates, and in the midst,
One of green wedgwood, still uncrack'd; above
The chimney-piece, its old abundant store
Of tin and pewter, amidst which appears
(Chief ornament) a glittering brazen cross,
Which, fifty years ago, the husband bore,
Surmounting the blue staff, on festal days,
Borne by the members of the Friendly Club.
The wife (except that threescore years and ten
Have silver'd o'er her hair) continues still
The same in form and feature. Age hath tamed
The loftier spirit of her partner down;
Who, when I visited their cottage last,
Was reading, with a fix'd abstracted look,
The Olney hymns. To me it seems as though
That couple and the world must live and die
Together; and whene'er their humble roof
Shall shelter other tenants, 'twill be time
For me to close, for ever, Memory's book,
And cease to think on scenes and days gone by.

With feelings different far, yet not unmix'd
With melancholy interest, I behold
Yon square-built house, by jealous walls and gates
(Enclosing, in its front, a spacious court,)
Shut out and barricaded from the street.
A proud, aristocratic Hall it seems,
Not courting, but, discouraging approach,
Save from a favour'd few. For many a year
That house hath been to me a place forbid,—
Impervious, inaccessible. And yet
Few are there with remembrances more rich
Of young enjoyment in my thought combined;
Enjoyment brief, but pure. 'Twas long the home
Of one with deepest sorrow conversant;
A wife and mother, o'er whose later years,
Blameless, yet broken-hearted, be a veil
Of reverential silence drawn by me.
Her elder sons and daughters had grown up
Almost to youthful prime, while I was yet
A boy unbreech'd,—the youngest, some few years
My senior;—we could scarce be playfellows,
And yet were oft companions. 'Twas to them
A dignified delight to guide our sports,
And teach us new ones;—to protect and aid
Our tender age;—and well did they discharge
Such duty, self-imposed. On Sunday noons,
As we return'd from church, we never fail'd
To greet each other in the street,—and then,
To us, it was the proudest joy on earth
To be invited, (as full oft we were,)
To end the day with them:—at will we roam'd
Around their spacious garden, and at will
Wander'd, with them, about the fields at eve,
Until the sun had set:—then, to beguile
The twilight hours, the book of Common Prayer,
Adorn'd with wondrous prints, was summon'd in;
And sometimes hymns were sung, which still, methought,
Sounded most sweetly from that Lady's lips.
So pass'd our Sunday blameless; nor alone
Our Sunday,—for on week-days too we met
Not rarely, nor with stinted intercourse;
Until between our parents discord fell,
From pastoral duty faithfully perform'd,
And marr'd our old companionship.—Not ours
The fault,—and yet to us the fruits it bore
Appear'd most bitter. I remember well,
The evening when (all prospect being past
Of reconciliation) our young friends
Came, at their father's bidding, to our house,
To bid their last farewell. A sad one 'twas;
And, from that time, a strange unnatural state
Of separation between house and house
For years and years continued. We became
The village Capulets and Montagus;
Yet all save one—(the master of one house)
Most anxious for re-union;—nor, perhaps,
Could his sole pleasure (e'en had he so will'd)
Have ended all communion between those
Whom inclination join'd. From time to time
We met and talk'd together;—it befell,
Day after day, by strangest accident,
That they and we both walk'd at the same hour,
Both hit on the same walks. As years pass'd on,
And youth began to dawn, those walks assumed
A more romantic air. Love-rhymes were writ,
And assignations made, and duly kept,
With more deliberate purpose:—then commenced
The nightly serenade,—the moonlight stroll;
And, but for some disparity of years,
Perchance the hostile houses had not lack'd
A Romeo or a Juliet.—

Those wild days
Have long been over, and the grave hath closed
Above both wife and husband; yet even now
Dark sorrow seems to brood upon that house,
Enwrapping it in gloom—through which appear
Gleams, not, I trust, delusive, of that light
Which shineth more and more to perfect day.

But all too long this retrospective mood
I cherish,—with a fond garrulity
Babbling, at life's full noon, of morning dreams.
'Tis time I should awake:—and yet each spot
Around me teems with recollections, such
As I would fain indulge. There's nought so mean
And insignificant in all this place,
But is endued with power to strike some chord
Of old associations. Yonder barn,
Secluded from the street a little space,
And in no wise distinguish'd outwardly
From others of its class, was once to me
A scene of strange enchantment; for a troop
Of strolling players built up beneath its roof
Their rude and rustic theatre. Till then
The drama was, to us, an unknown world,
Save that when last our family had gone
To visit the metropolis, (a rare
And wonderful occurrence) we all went
To Sadler's Wells and Astley's. Ne'er again
Was such intense illusion to beguile
Our senses and our souls as seized us then.
We were at once translated from this world
Of sober daylight to a fairy realm,
Mysteriously existing in the midst
Of human habitations, yet from all
Distinct and self-compact, by human laws
Ungovern'd, and to rules conventional
Of human custom unamenable.
The theatre itself appear'd to us
A palace of enchantment,—its gay tiers
Of gilded boxes semicircular—
Its mirror'd columns—its glass chandeliers,—
The central lustre, by some means unknown,
But necromantic, as appear'd to us,
Drawn up into the ceiling, and again
Descending to its place—the row of lights,
With sudden blaze emerging from the floor,—
The dark green curtain, veiling from our sight
An unknown world, mysterious,—the first note
Prelusive of the tuning orchestra,
Soon bursting, with sublime and swelling crash,
Into full concord of harmonious sound,—
The rising of the curtain, all at once
Disclosing to our sight transcendent scenes
Of brilliancy and bliss, surpassing all
Our young imagination e'er had dream'd
Of fairy-land—our fairy tales themselves
(For so it chanced) no longer by the mind
Imperfectly received, but to the eye
Reveal'd distinctly—Beauty and the Beast,
Tom Thumb, and Cinderella, by strange art
Converted from mere phantoms of the thought
To visible realities—all this
Was, to our minds, a new creation, fraught
With glory from some brighter world derived.
The very orange-women seem'd to us
Scarce of this earth,—scarce earthly. Such had been
Our earliest joys theatrical: but now
The full illusion was, in part, to cease;
And nature, stripp'd of pomp and circumstance,
To supersede enchantment. Small and low,—
Hung round with tapestry of worn-out scenes,
And, by a thin partition, into pit
And gallery scarce divided—its whole band
One solitary fiddle—sometimes two,—
Its stage cribb'd, cabin'd, and confined—with few
And paltry decorations,—dresses, scenes,
All suited each to each,—that theatre
E'en at first sight, gave warning, by its looks,
That histrionic art within those walls,
Apart from all appliances and means,
Must, by its strength or weakness, stand or fall.
Yet there did mimic talent, with all aid
Of outward show dispensing, in our hearts
Awaken childhood's earnest sympathies.
There we rejoiced with them that did rejoice,
And wept with them that wept;—there learnt to feel
The dignity of Virtue in distress,
And with her triumphs sympathize;—there grieved
For Woman's bitter wrong, and burnt with zeal
Heroic to avenge it. Were such thoughts
And feelings sinful all? In sober truth,
When I review those hours, I deem them not
Mispent or useless;—and if riper years,
Instructing me more fully in the lore
Of good and evil, have reveal'd a world
Of mischief in the stage,—if I forbear
To breathe its dangerous atmosphere, or soil
My priestly garments with the taint it bears,—
Such sacrifice I grudge not, but exult
With thankfulness that I have better joys
To gladden me on Earth:—but then no doubt
Or dim misgiving e'er had cross'd my mind;
No dark suspicion of inherent guilt
Estranged me from its magic:—all the ill
(If ill there was) by me was unperceived;
The good, I think, remain'd with me;—some thoughts
And feelings were develop'd, which perchance,
In after years, have sway'd my inner man
With no unwholesome influence;—some power
Was given me to perform my task on Earth.

Fair valley, verdant pastures, gentle stream
Winding along thy bold and wooded banks,
With most melodious murmur;—noble hills,
Mountains almost, o'ershadowing, with your dark
And craggy grandeur, scenes than which our isle
Can scarcely boast more beauteous;—tranquil town;—
Grey, venerable Church, with steeple white
Up tapering to the dim and distant sky;—
Church in whose gothic aisles I first beheld
And join'd, as childhood could, the solemn forms
Of Christian worship;—thou, too, noble Hall—
Crowning yon wooded hill in gorgeous state
Of architectural magnificence;—
Hall long deserted, and, for many a day,
Connected in our fancies with dark tales
Of Romish priestcraft,—visited sometimes,
And view'd, by me and mine, through all thy suites
Of empty rooms and mouldering furniture,
With somewhat of a superstitious awe;—
And, last and dearest, my paternal roof,
Not yet—not soon, I trust, to pass away,
With this frail life's continuance, from the pair
Whom still it shelters;—each and all, farewell!
There is no spot in all that span of earth
By me best known, to which with livelier grief
I speak that parting word, than this wherein
Ye congregate and crowd upon my sight.
And yet, for me, is Britain studded o'er
With spots to memory dear,—and some almost
As beautiful as this. E'en now I go
To join, in haunts which I have loved for years,
Those whom I love still better:—nothing loth,
And yet with swelling heart, I take my leave
Of this sweet region, in my inmost heart
Cherish'd through life, revisited with joy
Still fresh, still pure as ever!—not for long,
Not, as I trust, for many tedious months
I now depart:—Home of my earliest years!
My heart's first home!—once more—farewell! farewell!