During another visit to the neighbourhood of my birth, after having tea with the Rev. H—-, Rector of ——, I took a stroll through the graveyard that nearly surrounds the old church, and spent some time in reading the inscriptions on the headstones. There were numbers that were new and strange, but the most of them bore names that were familiar. Time, of course, had left his mark, and in some cases the lettering was almost gone. Many of those silent sleepers I remembered well, and had followed their remains to the grave, and had heard the old Rector pronounce the last sad rite: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," long years ago. As I passed on from grave to grave of former friends and neighbours,
"Each in his narrow cell forever laid,"
many curious and pleasing collections were brought to mind. I came at last to the large vault of the first Rector, who was among the first in the Province. I recollected well the building of this receptacle for the dead, and how his family, one after another, were placed in it; and then the summons came to him, and he was laid there. A few years later, his wife, the last survivor of the family, was put there too, and the large slabs were shut down for the last time, closing the final chapter of this family history, and—as does not often happen in this world—they were taking their last sleep undivided. But Time, the great destroyer, had been at work during the years that had fled, and I was sorry to find that the slabs that covered the upper part of the vault, and which bore the inscriptions, were broken, and that the walls were falling in. There were no friends left to interest themselves in repairing the crumbling structure, and in a few years more the probabilities are that every vestige of the last resting-place of this united couple will be gone. It is not a pleasing thought, and yet it is true, that however much we may be loved, and however many friends may follow us with tears to the grave, in a few short years they will be gone, and no one left to care for us, or perhaps know that we ever lived. I have stood of an evening in the grand cemetery of Pere la Chaise, Paris and watched the people trooping in with their wreaths of immortelles to be placed on the tombs of departed friends, and others with cans of water and flowers to plant around the graves. Here and there could be seen where some loved one had been sprinkling the delicate flowers, or remained to water them with their tears. This respect paid to the memory of departed ones is pleasant, and yet, alas, how very few, after two or three generations are remembered. The name that meets the eye on one stone after another might as well be a blank for all we know of them. Anyone who has visited the old churchyards or ruined abbeys in England must have felt this, as his gaze has rested on time-worn tablets from which every mark had long since been obliterated,
"By time subdued (what will not time subdue)!"
Turning away from the vault, and passing down the yard, I came to a grave the headstone of which had fallen, and was broken. I turned the two pieces over, and read: "To the memory of Eliza ——." And is this, thought I, the end of the only record of the dear friend of my boyhood; the merry, happy girl whom every one loved? No one left after a score of years to care for her grave? So it is. The years sweep on. "Friend after friend departs," still on, and all recollection of us is lost; on still, and the very stones that were raised as a memorial disappear, and the place that knew us once knows us no more forever. I turned away, sad and thoughtful; but after a little my mind wandered back again to the sunny hours of youth, and I lived them over. Eliza had been in our family for several years, and was one of the most cheerful, kind-hearted girls one could wish to see. She had a fine voice, and it seemed as natural for her to sing as a bird. This, with her happy disposition, made her the light and life of the house. She was like the little burn that went dancing so lightly over the pebbles in the meadow—bright, sparkling, joyous, delighting in pranks and fun as much as a kitten.
"True mirth resides not in the smiling skin—
The sweeted solace is to act no sin."
—HERRICK.
I do not think Eliza ever intentionally acted a sin. On one occasion, however, this excess of spirit led her perhaps beyond the bounds of maidenly propriety; but it was done without consideration, and when it was over caused her a good deal of pain. The mischievous little adventure referred to shall be mentioned presently.
We had some neighbours who believed in ghosts; not an uncommon thing in those days. Eliza, with myself, had frequently heard from these people descriptions of remarkable sights they had seen, and dreadful noises they had heard at one time and another. She conceived the idea of making an addition to their experiences in this way, and as an experiment made a trial on me. I had been away one afternoon, and returned about nine o'clock. It was quite dark. In the meantime she had quietly made her preparations, and was on the look out for me. When my horse's feet were heard cantering up the road, she placed herself that I could not fail to see her. On I came, and, dashing up to the gate, dismounted; and there before me on the top of the stone wall was something, the height of a human figure draped in white, moving slowly and noiselessly towards me. I was startled at first, but a second thought satisfied me what was up, and that my supernatural visitor was quite harmless. I passed through the gate, but my pet mare did not seem inclined to follow, until I spoke to her, and then she bounded through with a snort. After putting her in the field, and returning, I found the ghost had vanished. But I was quite sure I had not done with it yet; and as I drew near the house I was in momentary expectation that it would come out upon me somewhere. I kept a sharp look-out, but saw nothing, and had reached the porch door to go in, when, lo, there stood the spectre barring my way! I paused and glanced at its appearance as well as I could, and I must confess if I had been at all superstitious, or had come on such an object in a strange place, I think I should have been somewhat shaken. However, I knew my spectre, boldly took hold of it, and found I had something tangible in my grip. After a brief and silent struggle, I thrust open the door, and brought my victim into the room. My mother and sisters, who knew nothing of what had been going on, were greatly alarmed to see me dragging into the house a white object, and, womanlike, began to scream; but the mystery was soon revealed. She had made up some thick paste, with which she had covered her face, and had really got up quite a sepulchral expression, to which the darkness gave effect; and being enveloped in a white sheet, made, we thought, a capital ghost. This did not satisfy her, and was only a preliminary to her appearance on the first suitable occasion to our neighbours. It was not long before they encountered the ghost on their way home after dark, and were so badly frightened that in the end I think Eliza was worse frightened than they. Eliza never had any confidants in these little affairs, and they were over before any one in the house knew of it. This was the end, so far as she was concerned, of this kind of amusement.
Some time after this another little episode of a similar nature happened, but this time Eliza was one of the victims. We had a near neighbour, an old bachelor, who had a fine patch of melons close at hand. Eliza and a cousin who was on a visit had had their eyes on them, and one day declared they were going that night to get some of Tom's melons. Mother advised them not to do it, and told them there were melons enough in our own garden without their going to steal Tom's. No, they didn't want them, they were going to have a laugh on Tom;—and so when it was dark they set off to commit the trespass. They had been away but a few minutes when mother—who by the way was a remarkably timid woman, and I have often wondered how she got up enough courage to play the trick—put a white sheet under her arm and followed along the road to a turn, where was a pair of bars, through which the girls had passed to the field. Here she paused, and when she fancied the girls had reached their destination she drew the sheet around her, rapped on the bars with a stick, and called to them. Then, folding up the sheet, she ran away home. She was not sure whether they had seen her or not. The sheet was put away, and, taking up her knitting, she sat down quietly to await their return, which she anticipated almost immediately. A long time elapsed, and they did not appear. Then mother became alarmed, and as she happened to be alone she did not know what to do. Though she had gone out on purpose to frighten the girls, I do not think she could have been induced to go out again to see what was keeping them. After a while Mary came in, and then Eliza, both pale, and bearing evidence of having had a terrible fright. Mother asked them what in the world was the matter. "O, Aunt Polly!" they both exclaimed, "we have seen such an awful thing tonight." "What was it?" They could not tell; it was terrible! "Where did you see it?" "Over by the bars! Just as we had got a melon we heard an awful noise, and then we saw something white moving about, and then it was gone!" They were so badly frightened that they dropped down among the vines, and lay there for some minutes. They then got up, and, making a detour, walked home; but how, they never could tell. Mother was never suspected by them, and after a time she told them about it. There were no more ghosts seen in the neighbourhood after that.
Time passed on, and Eliza's love of mischief drove her into another kind of adventure. She was a girl of fine presence; fair, with bright black eyes and soft black hair, which curled naturally, and was usually worn combed back off the forehead. The general verdict was that she was pretty. I have no doubt if she had had the opportunity she would have made a brilliant actress, as she was naturally clever, possessing an excellent memory and being a wonderful mimic. She would enter into a bit of fun with the abandon of a child, and if occasion required the stoicism of a deacon, the whole house might be convulsed with laughter, but in Eliza's face, if she set her mind to it, you could not discern the change of a muscle. Her features were regular, and of that peculiar cast which, when she was equipped in man's attire, made her a most attractive-looking beau. About half a mile away lived a poor widow with a couple of daughters, and very nice girls they were, but one was said to be a bit of a coquette. Eliza conceived the idea of giving this young lady a practical lesson in the following manner. She dressed herself in father's clothes, and set about making the girl's acquaintance. She possessed the necessary sang-froid to carry on a scheme of this kind with success. The affair was altogether a secret. Well, in due course a strange young man called about dark one evening at the widow's to make enquiries respecting a person in the neighbourhood he wished to find. He gave out that he was a stranger, and was stopping at ——, a few miles away; asked for a drink of water, and to be allowed to rest for a few moments; made himself agreeable, chatted with the girls, and when he was leaving was invited to call again if he passed that way. He did call again in a short time, and again and again, and struck up a regular courtship with one of the girls, and succeeded to all appearance in winning her affection. Now, the question presented itself, when matters began to take this shape, how she was to break it off, and the affair was such a novelty that she became quite infatuated with it, and I have no doubt would have continued her visits if an accident had not happened which brought them to an abrupt termination. On her return one night she unexpectedly met father at the door, and as there was no chance for retreat, she very courteously asked if he could direct her to Mr. ——. It happened to be raining, and father, of course quite innocently, asked the stranger in until the shower was over. She hesitated, but finally came in and took a seat. There was something about the person, and particularly the clothes, that attracted his attention, but this probably would have passed if he had not, observed that the boots were on the wrong feet; that is to say, the right boot was on the left foot, et vice versa. Knowing Eliza's propensities well, he suspected her, and she was caught. Enjoying a romp now and then himself he called mother, and after tormenting poor Eliza for a while, let her go. This cured her effectually. But the poor girl never knew what became of her lover. He came no more, and she was left to grieve for a time, and I suppose to forget, for she married a couple of years after. The secret was kept at Eliza's request, after making a clean breast of it to mother, for a long time. She married not long after this, and was beloved by everyone. She was a devoted wife, and had several children, none of whom are now living. Poor Eliza! I thought of Hamlet's soliloquy on Yorick as I stood by her unkept grave, with its headstone fallen and broken. "Those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft—where be your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment." All gone, years ago! And they live only in the sweet recollections of the past.