Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 328, February, 1843

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 accursed altar bled Miscall'd of Liberty. Oh! martyr'd 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 matronize 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 Chewton12 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 th' ford's a nasty bit of way— Best let the young ones bide from school to-day." "Do, mother, do!" the quick-ear'd urchins cried; Two little lasses to the father's side Close clinging, as they look'd 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's 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-hair'd Jane (Her namesake) to his heart he hugg'd 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 tend'rest 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 resign'd 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. So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow, The docile Lizzy stood attentive now; Proud of her years and of imputed sense, And prudence justifying confidence— And little Jenny, more demurely still, Beside her waited the maternal will. So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain Gainsb'rough ne'er painted: no—nor he of Spain, Glorious Murillo!—and by contrast shown More beautiful. The younger little one, With large blue eyes, and silken ringlets fair, By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair, Sable and glossy as the raven's wing, And lustrous eyes as dark. "Now, mind and bring Jenny safe home," the mother said—"don't stay To pull a bough or berry by the way: And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast Your little sister's hand, till you're quite past— That plank's so crazy, and so slippery (If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be. But you're good children—steady as old folk, I'd trust ye any where." Then Lizzy's cloak, A good grey duffle, lovingly she tied, And amply little Jenny's lack supplied With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, "To wrap it round and knot it carefully (Like this) when you come home; just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away— Good will to school, and then good right to play." Was there no sinking at the mother's heart, When all equipt, they turn'd them to depart? When down the lane, she watch'd 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. Tho' 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 obtain'd, she linger'd 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 wish'd 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 drown'd 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 in sight From his own chimney, and his heart felt 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, strain'd 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, thro' 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, tho' the blackbird's welcome was unheard— Silenced by winter—note of summer bird Still hail'd 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 Dark'ning the doorway; and a smaller sprite, And then another, peer'd 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, Pull'd 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 purs, 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— Warm'd in expectancy the poor man's heart. Summer and winter, as his toil he plied, To him and his the literal doom applied, Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet So earn'd, 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 work'd all day At a great clearing: vig'rous stroke on stroke Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seem'd 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 coil'd 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 surprize, 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 look'd out for the Home-Star. There it shone, And with a gladden'd heart he hasten'd 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 a-stir!—Pray God, all's right! Who's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather? Mother!" you might have fell'd him with a feather When the short answer to his loud—"Hillo!" And hurried question—"Are they come?"—was—"No." To throw his tools down—hastily unhook The old crack'd lantern from its dusty nook, And while he lit it, speak a cheering word, That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, Was but a moment's act, and he was gone To where a fearful foresight led him on. Passing a neighbour's cottage in his way— Mark Fenton's—him he took with short delay To bear him company—for who could say What need might be? They struck into the track The children should have taken coming back From school that day; and many a call and shout Into the pitchy darkness they sent out, And, by the lantern light, peer'd all about, In every road-side thicket, hole, and nook, Till suddenly—as nearing now the brook— Something brush'd past them. That was Tinker's bark— Unheeded, he had follow'd in the dark, Close at his master's heels, but, swift as light, Darted before them now. "Be sure he's right— He's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the light Low down—he's making for the water. Hark! I know that whine—the old dog's found them, Mark." So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! And all his dull contracted light could show Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. "Yet there's life somewhere—more than Tinker's whine— That's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine Down yonder. There's the dog—and, hark!" "Oh dear!" And a low sob came faintly on the ear, Mock'd by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught Fast hold of something—a dark huddled heap— Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee-deep, For a tall man; and half above it, propp'd By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt Endways the broken plank, when it gave way With the two little ones that luckless day! "My babes!—my lambkins!" was the father's cry. One little voice made answer—"Here am I!" 'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouch'd, with face as white, More ghastly, by the flickering lantern-light, Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips, drawn tight, Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, And eyes on some dark object underneath, Wash'd by the turbid water, fix'd like stone— One arm and hand stretch'd out, and rigid grown, Grasping, as in the death-gripe—Jenny's frock. There she lay drown'd. Could he sustain that shock, The doating father? Where's the unriven rock Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part As that soft sentient thing—the human heart? They lifted her from out her wat'ry bed— Its covering gone, the lonely little head Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside— And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied, Leaving that free, about the child's small form, As was her last injunction—"fast and warm"— Too well obeyed—too fast! A fatal hold Affording to the scrag by a thick fold That caught and pinn'd her in the river's bed, While through the reckless water overhead Her life-breath bubbled up. "She might have lived Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived The wretched mother's heart when she knew all. "But for my foolishness about that shawl— And Master would have kept them back the day; But I was wilful—driving them away In such wild weather!" Thus the tortured heart, Unnaturally against itself takes part, Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe Too deep already. They had raised her now, And parting the wet ringlets from her brow, To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold, The father glued his warm ones, ere they roll'd Once more the fatal shawl—her winding-sheet— About the precious clay. One heart still beat, Warm'd by his heart's blood. To his only child He turn'd him, but her piteous moaning mild Pierced him afresh—and now she knew him not.— "Mother!"—she murmur'd—"who says I forgot? Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, And tied the shawl quite close—she can't be cold— But she won't move—we slipt—I don't know how— But I held on—and I'm so weary now— And it's so dark and cold! oh dear! oh dear!— And she won't move—if daddy was but here!" Poor lamb—she wander'd in her mind, 'twas clear— But soon the piteous murmur died away, And quiet in her father's arms she lay— They their dead burthen had resign'd, to take The living so near lost. For her dear sake, And one at home, he arm'd himself to bear His misery like a man—with tender care, Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold— (His neighbour bearing that which felt no cold,) He clasp'd her close—and so, with little said, Homeward they bore the living and the dead. From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage, all that night, Shone fitfully a little shifting light, Above—below:—for all were watchers there, Save one sound sleeper.—Her, parental care, Parental watchfulness, avail'd not now. But in the young survivor's throbbing brow, And wandering eyes, delirious fever burn'd; And all night long from side to side she turn'd, Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, With now and then the murmur—"She won't move"— And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight— That young head's raven hair was streak'd with white! No idle fiction this. Such things have been We know. And now I tell what I have seen. Life struggled long with death in that small frame, But it was strong, and conquer'd. All became As it had been with the poor family— All—saving that which never more might be— There was an empty place—they were but three. C.

IMAGINARY CONVERSATION

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR OLIVER CROMWELL AND SIR OLIVER CROMWELL

Sir Oliver.—How many saints and Sions dost carry under thy cloak, lad? Ay, what dost groan at? What art about to be delivered of? Troth, it must be a vast and oddly-shapen piece of roguery which findeth no issue at such capacious quarters. I never thought to see thy face again. Prythee what, in God's name, hath brought thee to Ramsey, fair Master Oliver?

Oliver.—In His name verily I come, and upon His errand; and the love and duty I bear unto my godfather and uncle have added wings, in a sort, unto my zeal.

Sir Oliver.—Take 'em off thy zeal and dust thy conscience with 'em. I have heard an account of a saint, one Phil Neri, who in the midst of his devotions was lifted up several yards from the ground. Now I do suspect, Nol, thou wilt finish by being a saint of his order; and nobody will promise or wish thee the luck to come down on thy feet again, as he did. So! because a rabble of fanatics at Huntingdon have equipped thee as their representative in Parliament, thou art free of all men's houses, forsooth! I would have thee to understand, sirrah, that thou art fitter for the house they have chaired thee unto than for mine. Yet I do not question but thou wilt be as troublesome and unruly there as here. Did I not turn thee out of Hinchinbrook when thou wert scarcely half the rogue thou art latterly grown up to? And yet wert thou immeasurably too big a one for it to hold.

Oliver.—It repenteth me, O mine uncle! that in my boyhood and youth the Lord had not touched me.

Sir Oliver.—Touch thee! thou wast too dirty a dog by half.

Oliver.—Yea, sorely doth it vex and harrow me that I was then of ill conditions, and that my name—even your godson's—stank in your nostrils.

Sir Oliver.—Ha! polecat! it was not thy name, although bad enough, that stank first; in my house, at least.13 But perhaps there are worse maggots in stauncher mummeries.

Oliver.—Whereas in the bowels of your charity you then vouchsafed me forgiveness, so the more confidently may I crave it now in this my urgency.

Sir Oliver.—More confidently! What! hast got more confidence? Where didst find it? I never thought the wide circle of the world had within it another jot for thee. Well, Nol, I see no reason why thou shouldst stand before me with thy hat off, in the courtyard and in the sun, counting the stones of the pavement. Thou hast some knavery in thy head, I warrant thee. Come, put on thy beaver.

Oliver.—Uncle Sir Oliver! I know my duty too well to stand covered in the presence of so worshipful a kinsman, who, moreover, hath answered at baptism for my good behaviour.

Sir Oliver.—God forgive me for playing the fool before Him so presumptuously and unprofitably! Nobody shall ever take me in again to do such an absurd and wicked thing. But thou hast some left-hand business in the neighbourhood, no doubt, or thou wouldst never more have come under my archway.

Oliver.—These are hard times for them that seek peace. We are clay in the hand of the potter.

Sir Oliver.—I wish your potters sought nothing costlier, and dug in their own grounds for it. Most of us, as thou sayest, have been upon the wheel of these artificers; and little was left but rags when we got off. Sanctified folks are the cleverest skinners in all Christendom, and their Jordan tans and constringes us to the averdupoise of mummies.

Oliver.—The Lord hath chosen his own vessels.

Sir Oliver.—I wish heartily He would pack them off, and send them anywhere on ass-back or cart, (cart preferably,) to rid our country of 'em. But now again to the point: for if we fall among the potsherds we shall hobble on but lamely. Since thou art raised unto a high command in the army, and hast a dragoon to hold yonder thy solid and stately piece of horse-flesh, I cannot but take it into my fancy that thou hast some commission of array or disarray to execute hereabout.

Oliver.—With a sad sinking of spirit, to the pitch well-nigh of swounding, and with a sight of bitter tears, which will not be put back nor staid in anywise, as you bear testimony unto me, uncle Oliver.

Sir Oliver.—No tears, Master Nol, I beseech thee! Thou never art more pery than when it rains with thee. Wet days, among those of thy kidney, portend the letting of blood. What dost whimper at?

Oliver.—That I, that I, of all men living, should be put upon this work!