Volume 56 — "THAT'S WHAT WE ARE."

"Careful and troubled about many things," (Alas! that it should be so with us still As in the time of Martha,) I went forth Harass'd and heartsick, with hot aching brow, Thought fever'd, happy to escape myself. Beauteous that bright May morning! All about Sweet influences of earth, and air, and sky, Harmoniously accordant. I alone, The troubled spirit that had driven me forth, In dissonance with that fair frame of things So blissfully serene. God had not yet Let fall the weight of chastening that makes dumb The murmuring lip, and stills the rebel heart, Ending all earthly interests, and I call'd (O Heaven!) that incomplete experience—Grief. It would not do. The momentary sense Of soft refreshing coolness pass'd away; Back came the troublous thoughts, and, all in vain, I strove with the tormentors: All in vain, Applied me with forced interest to peruse Fair nature's outspread volume: All in vain, Look'd up admiring at the dappling clouds And depths cerulean: Even as I gazed, The film—the earthly film obscured my vision, And in the lower region, sore perplex'd, Again I wander'd; and again shook off With vex'd impatience the besetting cares, And set me straight to gather as I walk'd A field-flower nosegay. Plentiful the choice; And, in few moments, of all hues I held A glowing handful. In a few moments more Where are they? Dropping as I went along Unheeded on my path, and I was gone— Wandering again in muse of thought perplex'd. Despairingly I sought the social scene— Sound—motion—action—intercourse of words— Scarcely of mind—rare privilege!—We talk'd— Oh! how we talk'd! Discuss'd and solved all questions: Religion—morals—manners—politics— Physics and metaphysics—books and authors— Fashion and dress—our neighbours and ourselves. But even as the senseless changes rang, And I help'd ring them, in my secret soul Grew weariness, disgust, and self-contempt; And more disturb'd in spirit, I retraced, More cynically sad, my homeward way. It led me through the churchyard, and methought There entering, as I let the iron gate Swing to behind me, that the change was good— The unquiet living, for the quiet dead. And at that moment, from the old church tower A knell resounded—"Man to his long home" Drew near. "The mourners went about the streets;" And there, few paces onward to the right, Close by the pathway, was an open grave, Not of the humbler sort, shaped newly out, Narrow and deep in the dark mould; when closed, To be roofed over with the living sod, And left for all adornment (and so best) To Nature's reverential hand. The tomb, Made ready there for a fresh habitant, Was that of an old family. I knew it.— A very ancient altar-tomb, where Time With his rough fretwork mark'd the sculptor's art Feebly elaborate—heraldic shields And mortuary emblems, half effaced, Deep sunken at one end, of many names, Graven with suitable inscriptions, each Upon the shelving slab and sides; scarce now Might any but an antiquarian eye Make out a letter. Five-and-fifty years The door of that dark dwelling had shut in The last admitted sleeper. She, 'twas said, Died of a broken heart—a widow'd mother Following her only child, by violent death Cut off untimely, and—the whisper ran— By his own hand. The tomb was ancient then, When they two were interr'd; and they, the first For whom, within the memory of man, It had been open'd; and their names fill'd up (With sharp-cut newness mocking the old stone) The last remaining space. And so it seem'd The gathering was complete; the appointed number Laid in the sleeping chamber, and seal'd up Inviolate till the great gathering day. The few remaining of the name dispersed— The family fortunes dwindled—till at last They sank into decay, and out of sight, And out of memory; till an aged man Pass'd by some parish very far away To die in ours—his legal settlement— Claim'd kindred with the long-forgotten race, Its sole survivor, and in right thereof, Of that affinity, to moulder with them In the old family grave. "A natural wish," Said the authorities; "and sure enough He was of the old stock—the last descendant— And it would cost no more to bury him Under the old crack'd tombstone, with its scutcheons, Than in the common ground." So, graciously, The boon was granted, and he died content. And now the pauper's funeral had set forth, And the bell toll'd—not many strokes, nor long— Pauper's allowance. He was coming home. But while the train was yet a good way off— The workhouse burial train—I stopp'd to look Upon the scene before me; and methought Oh! that some gifted painter could behold And give duration to that living picture, So rich in moral and pictorial beauty, If seen arightly by the spiritual eye As with the bodily organ! The old tomb, With its quaint tracery, gilded here and there With sunlight glancing through the o'er-arching lime, Far flinging its cool shadow, flickering light— Our greyhair'd sexton, with his hard grey face, (A living tombstone!) resting on his mattock By the low portal; and just over right, His back against the lime-tree, his thin hands Lock'd in each other—hanging down before him As with their own dead weight—a tall slim youth With hollow hectic cheek, and pale parch'd lip, And labouring breath, and eyes upon the ground Fast rooted, as if taking measurement Betime for his own grave. I stopp'd a moment, Contemplating those thinkers—youth and age— Mark'd for the sickle; as it seem'd—the unripe To be first gather'd. Stepping forward, then, Down to the house of death, in vague expectance, I sent a curious, not unshrinking, gaze. There lay the burning brain and broken heart, Long, long at rest: and many a Thing beside That had been life—warm, sentient, busy life— Had hunger'd, thirsted, laugh'd, wept, hoped, and fear'd— Hated and loved—enjoy'd and agonized. Where of all this, was all I look'd to see? The mass of crumbling coffins—some belike (The undermost) with their contents crush'd in, Flatten'd, and shapeless. Even in this damp vault, With more completeness could the old Destroyer Have done his darkling work? Yet lo! I look'd Into a small square chamber, swept and clean, Except that on one side, against the wall, Lay a few fragments of dark rotten wood, And a small heap of fine, rich, reddish earth Was piled up in a corner. "How is this?" In stupid wonderment I ask'd myself, And dull of apprehension. Turning, then, To the old sexton—"Tell me, friend," I said, "Here should be many coffins—Where are they? And"—pointing to the earth-heap—"what is that?" He raised his eyes to mine with a strange look And strangely meaning smile; and I repeated— (For not a word he spoke)—my witless question. Then with a deep distinctness he made answer, Distinct and slow, looking from whence I pointed, Full in my face again, and what he said Thrill'd through my very soul—"That's what we are!" So I was answer'd. Sermons upon death I had heard many. Lectures by the score Upon life's vanities. But never words Of mortal preacher to my heart struck home With such convicting sense and suddenness As that plain-spoken homily, so brief, Of the unletter'd man. "That's what we are!"— Repeating after him, I murmur'd low In deep acknowledgment, and bow'd the head Profoundly reverential. A deep calm Came over me, and to the inward eye Vivid perception. Set against each other, I saw weigh'd out the things of time and sense, And of eternity;—and oh! how light Look'd in that truthful hour the earthly scale! And oh! what strength, when from the penal doom Nature recoil'd, in His remember'd words: "I am the Resurrection and the Life." And other words of that Divinest Speaker (Words to all mourners of all times address'd) Seem'd spoken to me as I went along In prayerful thought, slow musing on my way— "Believe in me"—"Let not your hearts be troubled"— And sure I could have promised in that hour, But that I knew myself how fallible, That never more should cross or care of this life Disquiet or distress me. So I came, Chasten'd in spirit, to my home again, Composed and comforted, and cross'd the threshold That day "a wiser, not a sadder, woman." C.