Nobody knows, and nobody cares!
And at no great distance was a tomb entirely overgrown with rank weeds, nettles, and thorns; and there was a superstitious legend attached to it, that they all grew up in one night, and though they had been several times rooted up, still, in one night, they all grew up again! Stones had been ignominiously cast upon it; and certain ancient folks of the village gravely affirmed that, on the anniversary of the burial of the miserable crone, the Black Sanctus * was performed by herself and guardian spirits!
* Isaac Reed informs us (see note upon Chapman's Widow's
Tears, in Dodsley's Old Plays) that “the Black Sanctus was
a hymn to Saint Satan, written in ridicule of Monkish
luxury.” And Tarlton (see News out of Purgatory) quotes it
in “the Tale of Pope Boniface.”
“And' upon this there was a general mourning through all
Rome: the cardinals wept, the abbots howled, the monks
rored, the fryers cried, the nuns puled, the curtezans
lamented, the bels rang, the tapers were lighted, that such
a Blacke Sanctus was not seene a long time afore in Rome.”,
The Black Sanctus here said to be performed was of a
different kind. It was assuredly “a hymn to Satan,” in which
the crone and the most favoured of her kindred took the
base; Hypocrisy leading the band, and Avarice scraping the
fiddle.
“The rest God knows—perhaps the Devil”
A yew-tree stretched forth its bare branches over the tomb, which in one night also became withered and blasted!
[Original]
At the porch of the entre almshouse sat an aged female in awidows garb, and beside her the village pastor. From the earnestness of his address, he seemed to be exhorting her to resignation; but the tears that fell from her eyes proved how hard was the task! Though Uncle Timothy would not have done homage to the highest potentate in Christendom for all the wealth and distinction that he or she could bestow, he felt his knees tremble under him at the sacredness of humble sorrow. He walked up the neat little flower garden, and having read the grateful memorial inscribed over the ancient doorway to the charitable foundress, was about to speak, when the words, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted,” fell like the dews of heaven upon his ear! The widow looked up—she hushed every sigh—she wiped away every tear—the divine potency of the promise sustained her, and she wept no more.
Little ceremony did Uncle Timothy use towards the good pastor and his comforted mourner. His address began with a simple question, who was the brother that he had so recently consigned to the grave?
“This poor widow's only son! The story, sir, is brief and mournful. Bankruptcy and ruin hurried her husband to the grave. This asylum opened its door to receive her; and here, though reviewing the past with fond regret, she became grateful for the present, and hopeful for the future. Her son, a youth of fine intellect, submitted to the ill-paid drudgery of an office where the hands, not the head, were required; and he delighted to spare from his narrow pittance such additional comforts for his mother as were not contemplated by the pious foundress in those primitive times. He would hasten hither on beautiful summer evenings after the business of the day, to trim her little garden, surprise her with some frugal luxury, and see that she was happy. The Sabbath he never omitted passing under this roof, and he led her to my pew,—for she is a gentlewoman, sir,—where she sat with my family. Consumption seized his frame; and what privations did he endure, what fatigues did he brave, to conceal the first fatal symptoms from his mother! Of a melancholy temperament, endued with all the fine sensibilities of genius, death, under much less unprosperous circumstances, would have been a welcome visitor; but to die—and leave—no matter. I promised to take upon myself the solemn charge, should the dreaded moment arrive. It has arrived, and that promise, by the blessing of my God, I will faithfully redeem.”