“Neither can I,” said John; “but it rings well, considering that the poor boy wrote it when his brain was weak with fever. The dialects are somewhat muddled, moreover; but we must not be hypercritical.”
“No, sir, to be sure not. I am sure I meant no hypocrisy. Only you see it ainʼt Christian writing; and Mr. Clinkers shake his head at it, and say it come straight from the devil, and his hoof in every line of it.”
“Mrs. Jupp, the Greek characters are beautiful, though some of the lines are not up to the mark. But, for my part, I wonder how any man can write mixed Greek in London. Nevertheless, I shall have great pleasure in talking it over with him, please God that he ever gets well. To think that his poor weary brain should still be hankering after his classics!”
It was the dirge in Cymbeline put into Greek choral metre, and John Rosedewʼs tears flowed over the words, as Polydoreʼs had done, and Cadwalʼs.
Unhappy Cradock! His misty brain had vapoured off in that sweet wild dirge, which hovers above, as if the freed soul lingered, for the clogged one to shake its wings to it.
The parson was pondering and closing his wet eyes to recover his faith in God—whom best we see with the eyes shut, except when His stars are shining—while Issachar Jupp came up the stairs, poking Dr. Tink before him, because he still thought it likely that the son of medicine would evaporate. The doctor, who knew his tricks and put up with them, lest anything worse might come of it, solaced his sense of dignity, when he got to the top, by a grand bow to Mr. Rosedew. John gave him the change in a kind one; then offered his hand, as he always did, being a man of the ancient fashion.
While they were both looking sadly at Cradock, he sat up suddenly in the bed, and stretching forth his naked arms (wherein was little nourishment), laughed as an aged man does, and then nodded at them solemnly. His glazed eyes were so prominent, that their whites reflected the tint of the rings around them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, stop him if you please, and give him a pen and ink, and my best hat to write on. Oh, donʼt let him go by.”
“Stop whom, my dear sir?” asked the doctor, putting out his arms as if to do it. “Now Iʼve stopped him. Whatʼs his name?”
“The golden lad. Oh, donʼt you know? You canʼt have got him, if you donʼt. The golden lad that came from heaven to tell me I did not do it, that I didnʼt do it, do it, sir—all a mistake altogether. It makes me laugh, I declare it does; it makes me laugh for an hour, every time he comes, because they were all so wise. All but my Amy, my Amy; she was such a foolish little thing, she never would hear a word of it. And now I call you all to witness, obtestor, antestor, one, two, three, four, five; let him put it down on a sheet of foolscap, with room enough for the names below it; all the ladies and gentlemen put their names in double column, and get Mr. Clinkers, if you can, and Jenny, to go at the bottom; only be particular about the double column, ladies one side, gentlemen the other, like a country dance, you know, or the ‘carmen sæculare,’ and at the bottom, right across, Miss Amy Rosedewʼs name.”