Yet a few days' sojourn in the borough would afford a lover of antiquity no inferior treat. The massive wall and arched vaults of a ruin, believed to have formed part of a temple of Janus during the ages that Britain was under Roman sway,—the ivied remains of the noble abbey where the imperious and vice-regal Wolsey "laid his bones,"—the sternly frowning "Newarke," or entrance-tower to the castle of the Grantmesnels, Bellomonts, Blanchmaines, De Montforts, Plantagenets, and other proud Earls of Leicester,—the solitary wooded mound on which the castle itself anciently stood,—the rich minute carving of the old churches,—the quaint interior of the old town-hall,—the grotesque exterior of much of the really ancient part of the town, composed of dwellings striped with timber and plaster, and decked with ornamented or overhanging gables,—dwellings wherein the soldiers of the fated kingly Crookt-back were billeted on the night before Bosworth-field,—these, and sundry other features of historic chronicle and change, could not fail to awaken eager interest in an antiquarian. Our story, however, concerns itself less with the outward than the inward, and regards rather the misery of the living than the pride of the dead.
Passing along the ancient line of highway from York to London, from the churchless burial-yard of St. Leonard, over the old North bridge, revealing the meandering Soar and the meadows of the old monks; by the curious Gothic west-door of the very ancient church of All Saints, that almost compels you to stop and look at it; and then, by the transverse streets, where the venerable "high cross" was taken down but a few years ago, and reaching that part of the ancient principal line of street called "Southgate," where modern Goths so lately took down that most interesting historical relic, the house in which the last regal Plantagenet slept the night before his death; (a splendid gable filled with a world of old English associations, and breathing a wholesome lesson to despotism from every atom of its mouldering substance!) the traveller would come to a ruinous-looking entry of a street on his right, bearing the chivalrous designation of "Red Cross Street." At the door of a low, crumbling house about halfway down this ancient bye-street, a dissenting minister stopped one winter's evening some eight-and-twenty years ago, to make his usual call of duty and benevolence. His gentle knock, however, was not answered; and, before he could repeat it, he was saluted hastily by a rich manufacturer, a member of his congregation, who was passing by on some business errand.
"You are the very man I wanted to see," said the minister in a very earnest tone, seizing the manufacturer by one arm, as if he feared the man of business might feel disposed to escape him: "I want half an hour's conversation with you, sir."
"But I cannot stay now, sir," replied the manufacturer; "will you join me in my morning ride in the gig to-morrow? Do, sir; it will do you good."
"I will, I will; thank you, sir," answered the minister, in a quick, nervous way that seemed to be usual with him; and they shook hands with great apparent fervour, and bid each other "good night."
The dissenting minister did not find entrance into the low, ruined-looking house, until a neighbour or two had forced open the door. A light was then brought, and a picture of affecting interest was revealed. A venerable silver-haired man lay breathing his last; and by the side of his humble bed, with folded hands, knelt she who had been the partaker of his joys and sorrows for sixty years, lost to all consciousness except that of mental prayer for her departing husband. The sound of the minister's voice seemed to arouse her for a moment; but she relapsed again into complete obliviousness of all things, save the one absorbing feeling created by the view of that gasping pallid form that lay before her. So the minister knelt, likewise; and when the neighbours who had entered with him had followed his example he prayed audibly and earnestly, yet so reverently and pathetically, that, while he prayed and wept, the neighbours thought themselves in the presence of some superior being, with a soul of compass to embrace and bless the whole human race, rather than a mere mortal. The face of the dying man kindled, too, with wondrous feeling, when he heard the sounds of that well-known and beloved voice, though he had seemed past consciousness but a few moments before. And when the minister paused in his petition, and saw the aged man's look fixed upon him, he said, with unutterable sweetness and tenderness,—
"William, my dear old friend, is all well within?—is your hope still blooming and full of immortality?"
The aged man raised his withered right hand with a last effort—waved it thrice—smiled with an ineffable smile,—and expired!
The minister was raising the aged and speechless widow from her kneeling posture, and placing her in an arm-chair, when her married daughter and several other neighbours entered the house of death. The minister recognised the daughter, and, after committing the widow earnestly to her care, emptied his waistcoat pocket of the silver it contained, and gave it, without counting, into the hands of the astonished young woman, who stood staring, while the good man snatched up his hat, and, saying "God bless you all! I'll call again to-morrow: God bless you all!" hurried away in a moment.——