LETTER II.
... Festinat enim decurrere velox
Flosculus angustæ miseræque brevissima vitæ
Portio! dum bibimus, dum serta, unguenta, puellas
Poscimus, obrepit non intellecta senectus.
Juvenal. Satir. ix. lin. 126.
And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
Percy [?].
Several Meanings of the word Church—The Building so called, here intended—Its Antiquity and Grandeur—Columns and Ailes—The Tower: the Stains made by Time compared with the mock Antiquity of the Artist—Progress of Vegetation on such Buildings—Bells—Tombs: one in decay—Mural Monuments, and the Nature of their Inscriptions—An Instance in a departed Burgess—Churchyard Graves—Mourners for the Dead—A Story of a betrothed Pair in humble Life, and Effects of Grief in the Survivor.
LETTER II.
THE CHURCH.
"What is a Church?"—Let Truth and Reason speak,
They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek;
From Christian folds the one selected race,
Of all professions, and in every place."
"What is a Church?"—"A flock," our vicar cries,
"Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise;
Wherein are various states and due degrees,
The bench for honour, and the stall for ease;
That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,
10
The pious, peaceful prebendary shares."
"What is a Church?"—Our honest sexton tells,
"'Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells;
Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive
To keep the ardour of their flock alive:
That, by his periods eloquent and grave;
This, by responses, and a well-set stave.
These for the living; but, when life be fled,
I toll myself the requiem for the dead."
'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place
20
Where slept our fathers, when they'd run their race.
We too shall rest, and then our children keep
Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep;
Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,
And, like the builders, will in time decay.
The old foundation—but it is not clear
When it was laid—you care not for the year:
On this, as parts decay'd by time and storms,
Arose these various disproportion'd forms;
Yet Gothic, all the learn'd who visit us
30
(And our small wonders) have decided thus:
"Yon noble Gothic arch;" "That Gothic door;"
So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.
Here large plain columns rise in solemn style:
You'd love the gloom they make in either aile,
When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass
(And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass,
Faintly display the figures on the floor,
Which pleased distinctly in their place before.
But, ere you enter, yon bold tower survey,
40
Tall and entire, and venerably gray;
For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,
And now the stains are all of sober hue—
The living stains which Nature's hand alone,
Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone,
For ever growing; where the common eye
Can but the bare and rocky bed descry,
There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,
The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit;
There she perceives them round the surface creep,
50
And, while they meet, their due distinction keep,
Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains,
And these are Nature's ever-during stains.
And would'st thou, artist, with thy tints and brush,
Form shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush?
In three short hours shall thy presuming hand
Th' effect of three slow centuries command[39]?
Thou may'st thy various greens and grays contrive:
They are not lichens, nor like aught alive.—
But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost,
60
Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost;
When all thy work is done away as clean
As if thou never spread'st thy gray and green:
Then may'st thou see how Nature's work is done,
How slowly true she lays her colours on;
When her least speck upon the hardest flint
Has mark and form and is a living tint,
And so embodied with the rock, that few
Can the small germ upon the substance view[40].
Seeds, to our eye invisible, will find
70
On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind;
There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell,
Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell,
And spread th' enduring foliage;—then we trace
The freckled flower upon the flinty base;
These all increase, till in unnoticed years
The stony tower as gray with age appears;
With coats of vegetation, thinly spread,
Coat above coat, the living on the dead.
These then dissolve to dust, and make a way
80
For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay;
The long-enduring ferns in time will all
Die and depose their dust upon the wall,
Where the wing'd seed may rest, till many a flower
Show Flora's triumph o'er the falling tower.
But ours yet stands, and has its bells renown'd
For size magnificent and solemn sound.
Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,
In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell[41]—
Such wond'rous good, as few conceive could spring
90
From ten loud coppers when their clappers swing.
Enter'd the Church, we to a tomb proceed,
Whose names and titles few attempt to read;
Old English letters, and those half pick'd out,
Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt.
Our sons shall see its more degraded state;
The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate;
That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show,
With all those ruff'd and painted pairs below—
The noble lady and the lord who rest
100
Supine, as courtly dame and warrior dress'd—
All are departed from their state sublime,
Mangled and wounded in their war with time,
Colleagued with mischief; here a leg is fled,
And lo! the baron with but half a head;
Midway is cleft the arch; the very base
Is batter'd round and shifted from its place.
Wonder not, mortal, at thy quick decay—
See! men of marble piece-meal melt away;
When whose the image we no longer read,
110
But monuments themselves memorials need[42].
With few such stately proofs of grief or pride,
By wealth erected, is our Church supplied;
But we have mural tablets, every size,
That wo could wish, or vanity devise.
Death levels man,—the wicked and the just,
The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust;
And by the honours dealt to every name,
The king of terrors seems to level fame.
—See here lamented wives, and every wife
120
The pride and comfort of her husband's life;
Here to her spouse, with every virtue graced,
His mournful widow has a trophy placed;
And here 'tis doubtful if the duteous son,
Or the good father, be in praise outdone.
This may be nature; when our friends we lose,
Our alter'd feelings alter too our views;
What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,
Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;
And much we grieve, no longer trial made,
130
For that impatience which we then display'd;
Now to their love and worth of every kind
A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;
Virtues, neglected then, adored become,
And graces slighted blossom on the tomb.
'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe
That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)
To all that praise which on the tomb is read,
To all that passion dictates for the dead;
But, more indignant, we the tomb deride,
140
Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride.
Read of this Burgess—on the stone appear,
How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear!
}
What wailing was there when his spirit fled,
}
How mourn'd his lady for her lord when dead,
}
And tears abundant through the town were shed;
See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise,
And free from all disgrace and all disguise;
His sterling worth, which words cannot express,
Lives with his friends, their pride and their distress.
150
All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name,
He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?—shame!
What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice;
He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice;
He ruled the Borough when his year came on,
And some forget, and some are glad he's gone;
For never yet with shilling could he part,
But when it left his hand, it struck his heart.
Yet, here will love its last attentions pay,
And place memorials on these beds of clay.
160
Large level stones lie flat upon the grave,
And half a century's sun and tempest brave;
But many an honest tear and heart-felt sigh
Have follow'd those who now unnoticed lie;
Of these what numbers rest on every side!
Without one token left by grief or pride;
Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and then
Will other hillocks rise o'er other men;
Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust,
And generations follow, "dust to dust."
170
Yes! there are real mourners—I have seen
A fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,
And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd;
Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect.
But, when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep:
Then to her mind was all the past display'd,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:
180
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestion'd truth;
In ev'ry place she wander'd where they'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting-scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave—that place
With double interest would she nightly trace;
For long the courtship was, and he would say,
Each time he sail'd,—"This once, and then the day."
Yet prudence tarried; but, when last he went,
He drew from pitying love a full consent.
190
Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.
200
His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;
For now he found the danger, felt the pain,
With grievous symptoms he could not explain;
Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,
But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.
He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message—"Thomas, I must die.
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,
210
And gazing go!—if not, this trifle take,
And say, till death I wore it for her sake.
Yes! I must die—blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look, before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,
One last fond look—and now repeat the prayer."
He had his wish, had more; I will not paint
The lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint—
With tender fears she took a nearer view,
Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
220
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,
"Yes! I must die;" and hope for ever fled.
Still long she nursed him: tender thoughts meantime
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head.
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart, she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear;
230
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,
Yet said not so—"Perhaps he will not sink."
A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard;—
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
240
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people—death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she press'd,
And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest;"
"I go," he said; but, as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
250
Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love—and all was past!
She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved—an offering of her love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have grieved, had friends presumed to spare
The least assistance—'twas her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
260
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet maid! nor be by fancy led
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy [thoughts'], thy [spirit's] pain
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain.
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward:
270
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give;
Regard the dead, but to the living live[43].
NOTES TO LETTER II.
[39] Note 1, page 296, lines 55 and 56.
In three short hours shall thy presuming hand
Th' effect of three slow centuries command?
If it should be objected, that centuries are not slower than hours, because the speed of time must be uniform, I would answer, that I understand so much, and mean that they are slower in no other sense, than because they are not finished so soon.
[40] Note 2, page 296, line 68.
Can the small germ upon the substance view.
This kind of vegetation, as it begins upon siliceous stones, is very thin, and frequently not to be distinguished from the surface of the flint. The byssus jolithus of Linnæus (lepraria jolithus of the present system), an adhesive carmine crust on rocks and old buildings, was, even by scientific persons, taken for the substance on which it spread. A great variety of these minute vegetables are to be found in some parts of the coast, where the beach, formed of stones of various kinds, is undisturbed, and exposed to every change of weather; in this situation the different species of lichen, in their different stages of growth, have an appearance interesting and agreeable even to those who are ignorant of, and indifferent to, the cause.
[41] Note 3, page 297, lines 87 and 88.
Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,
In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell.
The several purposes for which bells are used are expressed in two Latin verses of this kind.
[42] Note 4, page 297, line 110.
But monuments themselves memorials need.
Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris.
Juvenal. Sat. x. I. 146.
[43] Note 5, page 301, last line.
Regard the dead, but to the living live.
It has been observed to me, that in the first part of the story I have represented this young woman as resigned and attentive to her duties; from which it should appear that the concluding advice is unnecessary; but if the reader will construe the expression "to the living live," into the sense—"live entirely for them, attend to duties only which are real, and not those imposed by the imagination," I shall have no need to alter the line which terminates the story.