Jane Hollybrand; or, Virtue Rewarded.

In yonder vale,—famed for its genial mould, Its pastoral beauties, and rare grains of gold,[159]— There, ’neath the shelter of a peasant’s cot, A pair of rosied cheeks was the fair lot Of young Jane Hollybrand; who had to toil, To cook potatoes; cauliflowers to boil; To scrub and clean the inside[160] oaken floor; To watch and feed the chickens at the door; To see the drowsy pig cried not in vain; To cheer in summer-time, or winter’s reign, Her loving father. On returning home From his day’s work, she’d say:—“Come, father, come.” And, with an angel’s voice, so clear, so sweet— “The supper’s ready, father, take your seat.” Alas! her mother, Death had stol’n away Just when ’twas needed most that she should stay For her child’s good. The poor man’s heart was rent: The twilight hour was regularly spent In reading godly books, wherein he sought The Holy One, for help: then was he taught That sacred saying—life is but a span! And then he’d sigh, and well he might, poor man. Twelve years of sweet conjugal happiness, Had made their little home a paradise,— ’Til that grim monster stretch’d his deathy hand, And marr’d the pleasures of George Hollybrand. Great must, indeed, have been the father’s grief; But gaining faith—through pray’r, he found relief. He taught his darling with a father’s care To spell, to read, to write; to be aware Of certain youths; who, from the village, found, Their way unto the cottage-hallow’d ground.

About this thatch-roof’d dwelling, so remote, A blackbird chirped from its tiny throat Its rural anthem; and for this Jane gave The brown-bread crumbs, she’d made a rule to save. So came the pretty robin-redbreast, too,— (Oh! that the world was half so good and true,) She from the leaded window-sill would pick With birdlike aptitude—so wondrous quick— The frugal fragments of Jane’s surplus store; Haste to her offspring, and return for more: Sometimes the pretty creature chirp’d in vain, But not when Jane could spare a crumb or grain. Throughout the months of April, May, and June, Forth came the cuckoo, and chimed out his tune Upon the sky-branch of the apple-tree; There, unmolested, perch’d he merrily:— O! happy favourite, of the wingèd host, Where dost thou dwell—inland? or on the coast?— Or in some dreary cave, where all is night,— Belike earth’s chaos ere God gave the light? Say—whither shall imagination trace Thy magic form; to hear thee chime with grace Thy rare ding-dong harmonious voice: Oh! tell us, tell us, that we may rejoice In thy long absence,—that we may obtain A fancied hearing of thy heav’nly strain: Ah! thine, indeed, must be a cherub’s throat: Who taught thee singing, blest one? or, by rote, Didst thou, thy pretty self improve the note With such precision, that for miles around Attentive list’ners hear thy twofold sound? Thou art a sort of majesty in air, Without a crown, without a kingdom’s care: When in July thou’st bidden all farewell— Methinks I hear thee still in yonder vale; And long the joy to list thy voice again When winter’s past, and spring resumes her reign.

Now in the spring-time of the coming year, When in the south celestial hemisphere Proud Horus mounted with increasing strength, And each succeeding day had grown in length;— When April clouds their vernal drops had shed, And bonny May had made all nature glad;— When that arch monarch had assail’d the moon, And bade her quarter in the month of June;— Then in the garden, rearward of the cot,— (A little oblong well-trimm’d fruitful spot, Encompass’d round with hedge-row elder trees,) Thenceforth would come the meek harmonious bees; There trip from plant to plant, from flow’r to flow’r, A-gathering in their luscious golden store. Some day, perchance, when Horus waxed warm, The honied-host would sally forth and swarm: Their movements little Jane would watch with care; Would call her father, and again repair Towards the garden: then she knew full well ’Twas time to fetch and swing the tinkling bell, To save them winging down the orchard-dell. * * * * * A stone-throw from this cot, where ran a stream ’Twixt mossy blocks of granite, there would gleam The glowworm’s beautiful and brilliant light,— Whilst wandering in the silent lovely night,— A living lantern in the darksome hours, ’Midst the green hawthorn and the wild-grown flow’rs, For other insects of its kindred race, Whose continent is but a little space. The rivulet (whose distant stream is heard Careering on and on as though it fear’d To lose its turn into eternity[161]— To mingle in old Neptune’s revelry,) Is oft obscured by Nature’s ambient sward; Oft check’d; its reckless dance and frolic marr’d, And turn’d aside to till the farmer’s pail For breakfast, tea, and to make home brew’d ale.

Not far from here,[162] in this delightful vale, The venerable squire’s old mansion stood, Surrounded by rich pasturage and wood; The squire, himself a rare good-natured gent, Oft at this dwelling, hours of leisure spent; Would smoke his pipe, and not refuse to take A crust of cottage bread, of honest[163] make: The sweet demeanour of this youthful lass Induced his “honour” to go there, and pass A portion of his time in quiet talk— In cautioning the damsel how to walk Through life’s rough path; and whilst to him she’d listen, Her face would crimson, and her eyes would glisten: This frank old Englishman confess’d his pride In stealing forth from home; awhile to hide From those gay gatherings within his halls, Where fashionable folk make daily calls (A-talking of the past, and coming balls,) Their avocation,—there to bow and prate, And worry nature in its last estate.

It hap’d a gentle youth—a lordly heir To vast domains—did annually repair Unto this country-mansion, to renew His pleasant visits to his uncle Prew: The fair-hair’d stripling proved a welcome guest, For there was something in his generous breast Which won for him the universal mark (From Bishop Butler,[164] to the parish-clerk,) Of friendship—nay, the love of one and all: The village-matrons, all were wont to call Him “the young Squire;” and as he pass’d their way They’d call their daughters from the washing-tray, Or spinning-wheel, or the old-fashion’d loom, Or in the midst of scrubbing out a room, Or at the pigs’ sty—where they were intent Upon the beast,[165] which paid the yearly rent: And forth they’d come—some with their naked arms; Some with their “wee-uns;” some much skill’d in charms,— For in most hamlets superstition reigns— Where there is one at least, who sundry pains Profess to cure by praying to the gods With speechless lips, quaint motions, and queer nods; And some again, who’d done their household needs, Prim dress’d,—perchance a widow in her weeds, Who’d lost her dear-one by the hand of death; And others hastening, almost lacking breath. Some lazy tailors in a kitchen-shop, Fond of a sight, from out the window’d pop Their uncomb’d heads of most peculiar shape, With beards as bristly as the hog, or ape; Who for a shilling, breakfast, dinner, tea, And aught beside, go forth and work the day At some farmhouse (or at the village priest’s), Re-seating breeches, patching coats or vests. And then the village cobbler drops his tool, Throws down his spectacles, lifts from his stool His grizzled visage; not o’er fond of trade, (Who often vows he wish’d the pick and spade Had been his implements of industry, Instead of hemp and wax machinery,) He’s not at all partic’lar what abuse Accrues for keeping sons’ or daughters’ shoes Much longer than he ought—he care? not he!— He’s well inured to such-like trickery: Come what there will, if there’s the slightest chance, (Be ’t funeral-weeping, or a wedding-dance,) The faintest prospect—either facts or fibs— Where there is hopes of friendship with some ribs Of beef sirloin, or rump, no matter which— “The devil take the awl,”—not one more stitch Will there be done that day; on goes his best, (Whate’er he’s got) and revels with the rest. The blacksmith, also, at the village forge, (His handy-workman, or his own son George,) Is not unlike the cobbler or the “snip,” Just let him hear the cracking of a whip, With rather more than usual dexterous hand, He drops the sledge, and quickly makes a stand; First gazes on the rider, then the horse, The vehicle, if any; and, of course, Pulls half-way o’er his nose his old greas’d peak,[166] (Tho’ rough in manners, modest in his keep,) Views well the fetlocks, and the horse’s parts; His vete’nary skill in words imparts,— Consults his own, or his son George’s mind, And speaks the word according as he find * * *

As there is always one[167] in every town Who prattles much and takes transactions down, Who smears the placard, then besmears the wall; So there’s in villages—however small— A man whose wisdom he, perchance, conceives Excels his neighbours’, but himself deceives,— A fellow who detests hard healthful work, (By birth a Jew, or it may be—a Turk,) Existing on his wit or tortuous brains, Perhaps dishonest; and who takes sad pains T’effect the purpose of his daily life— The source of much contention and of strife; In contradiction to all those who hap To come in contact with the wily chap: Here, there, then, when, and how; tells all he knows And more;—at length it comes to blows: Some fellow now detects his fraudful game, Becomes combatable; at last with aim Deals on his cheek, or breast, a direful shock! The boaster ’turns not; dares, nor feigns to knock His adversary: and so, disquieted, He sneaks away; but not discomfited— For when ’tis twilight there he is again With pleasant features, but distorted brain, Inducing some way-faring man[168] to cards; And whilst he shuffles, cuts, deals out, discards, The knave has managed to get hold the ace From out the pack; then with his wont grimace Allows his trusty friend to win awhile A few odd pence, and whilst he feigns a smile He meditates to cheat him of his gold Or silver coin; then dashes out so bold— “Ace,” “king,” and “queen,” (himself the “jack,”) And throws his comrade quite upon his back, As ’twere! The man, being sorely duped and “done,” Picks up his sundry wares and travels on. * * *

One sultry morning Lady Prew[169] grew faint: So, to the cot, young Arnold[170] ran t’acquaint His uncle; for, as usual ’bout that hour, He’d ta’en his pleasurable cottage tour: Surprised, indeed, was he to see the youth! “There’s something wrong,” he said; “come, tell me truth!” So then the boy drew forth, and ’gan to say— “Dear aunt is taken ill; but uncle, pray Don’t be alarm’d:” when lo! he ’spied (between The quaint old settle, and a kind of screen, Which hid a bed,) the lovely cottage queen: Who, when she saw the gentle youth advance, Had thither fled, and sought t’avoid his glance: Her dark-blue eyes shone in that sombre light Like glow-worms spangling in the depth of night: He saw!—he felt a smart impulsive move!— And from that hour he sought t’improve his love. The old man call’d the “lassie” forth and said “There, Arnold, is she not a pretty maid?— She has the work of all the house to do, Yet always clean: come, Arnold, we must go.” The uncle dreamt not that his nephew’s heart Was smitten, wounded with love’s keenest dart: He little thought it—that henceforth this girl, Of humble birth, would be so rich a pearl To his “dear boy:” it never cross’d his brain The youth so soon would wander there again; And there to press her tiny hand in his, (The while implanting on her cheek a kiss,) And leaving in that hand a valued ring,— That when she saw ’t she might, remembering Some future day the giver, say—“Ah me! How oft I’ve thought, and still shall think, of thee! Thou art a treasure—O, thou beauteous gem! I’ll kiss thee now and think I’m kissing him: Perhaps it’s but a dream, yet shall mine eyes For e’er behold him in this pretty prize.”

Young Mountjoy now was nineteen years of age, Susceptible to love, and prone t’engage. His beauty, (he call’d her) tall inclin’d, Made such impression on his gentle mind That he, with whom he went, wherever he stray’d, Without disguise profess’d he lov’d the maid. Three times, or more, within the cottage he Improved the hour, and with solemnity Pour’d forth his orisons. (When all alone He often ’d pray’d that Jane might be his own.) Love’s rosy tint flush’d her sweet cheeks and brow As Jane beheld him, yet she knew not how Or why he lov’d her so: (but as she grew She heard his voice in every breeze that blew.) And now he kiss’d her cheek, and wept a tear To think the hour of parting drew so near: He thought (no doubt) at home there’d be no rest— That dearest Jane would never be their guest; But still he thought—when many years are flown, And I am lord and master of my own, (Good Heaven willing it) my Jane shall then Be welcom’d mistress at the old domain.

When George, returning home from work one day, Saw at a distance by some ricks of hay In the “eight-acre” field, close by the gate, The well-known die,[171]—he paus’d: “as sure as fate,” He said, “that’s my dear child!—what can it be?” And hasten’d forward; when she cheerfully, Ran forth to meet him, say’ng “dear father look!” At the same time she from her bosom took A tiny parcel, which contain’d the ring; Unfolding it, and tip-toe whispering— “For this I gave one little lock of hair, And I must keep it with the greatest care For Arnold’s sake; and, then besides all this, He gave me such a loving, loving kiss, And said—‘When far and far away, that he Should kiss that pretty curl and think ’twas me:— The ring,’ he said, ‘was gold—of precious worth, That he had priz’d it more than all the earth!’” George seem’d amaz’d; and speechless for awhile, Sat brooding o’er it[172] on the gateway-stile: A thousand things came flitting in his brain: He thought, as thousands would, of her being slain In childhood’s sweet simplicity! And pray’d to God to solve the mystery. Thus he at once his cause to Heaven resign’d: And Heaven as soon consoled his harass’d mind; For scarcely were his pray’rs (in silence said) Gone forth on high, (whilst ’round his daughter play’d,) When Jane this brief appeal t’her father made— “Pray tell me, father, why you seem so sad; Oh! was it wrong to take it from the lad? Forgive me, father, if I’ve done amiss: He only press’d my hand and gave a kiss!” Then George was comforted, and sped along, Humming a kind of bass to Janie’s song; But still he labour’d on in deep suspense— Assur’d of this—that it would give offence To all the folks[173] at Westonbury Hall; And thus it proved, for dreadful was the fall.— Ambitious they were, of rank and name Nought ever shock’d the lady’s tender frame So much as this sad news. She found no rest; Fell in a violent rage and smote her breast; Flew to her writing-desk, dipp’d pen in ink, (Appear’d as tho’ she thought it sin to think— Ironic’lly exclaiming, ah! ah! ah!) And wrote a lengthy note to Arnold’s “pa.” Her fondest hopes, she said, were frustrated, Which for so many years concentrated In him. * * * God never bless’d them with a son; So she, it seems, had calculated on A son-in-law, in Arnold; but alas! This hope had fled. (Not like the blade of grass, Which in the summer-time for lack of rain Decays and dies, whilst there comes up again One equally as rare when clouds recruit, And shed their globulès down to its root. Nor like the corn-crops yellowing in July, Slain by the reaper ’neath an August sky, For there again shoots up, of equal worth, Some other esculent to gladden earth. No!—Arnold’s living; yet for ever dead; His name is spoken, but with constant dread: No longer shall he lift the wine-cup there,— Ne’er more be welcom’d as the “lordly heir.”)

To Rollingate,[174] flew swift, as flew the mail, From Westonbury Hall, the direful tale. Lord Mountjoy donn’d his spectacles and read! Then for a moment scratch’d his hoary head— Inclined to think it never could be true, And half-inclined to doubt dear Lady Prew. But never could his lordship entertain The least degree of wrath, nor yet disdain, Towards his son;—“no! time, alone, will prove The best dictator of dear Arnold’s love,” He said—and thus: “I’ll wait my boy’s return, And from his lips the secret try to learn.” “Love,” said Lord William, “is a desperate dart, Not easily extracted from the heart; Wherein once seated, whether good or ill, Retains possession—come who, or what will: It is the buckler of the youth at sea, The beam of war which gains the victory: The soldier’s hope: the banner of the soul: The great consoler, and the Christian’s bowl. Where’s the proud bachelor who’ll dare to say He never lov’d a damsel in his day? Or where’s the spinster, when she heaves a sigh, Can tell of none for whom she once could die?”

When Arnold Mountjoy bade the Prews farewell, It jarr’d the elder-ears, as doth the knell Of some departed child—lov’d, but too well. Alas! he’s gone: the door is clos’d, and fate Had made the Prews the most disconsolate Of creatures. Yes, that morn, that wretched morn, The lady cried; the squire, he felt forlorn; And poor Miss Prew, she doubly sad as they, Could not refrain from weeping bitterly. As Arnold cross’d the park, he ’spied the smoke Uprising through the branches of the oak,— A noble tree, whose sturdy limbs had kept The little cottage shelter’d on the left,— Which spread its foliage o’er the gable end, And frown’d, or would, on whom who dared t’offend That little sacred dwelling-place of Jane. And, furtherward, he turn’d and saw the lane Which led from thence and thither to the cot; In front of which a small triangle spot, (Where April “golden-cups,”[175] and daisies vie To lure the trav’ler, or the tourist’s eye,) Was fenc’d with stones, crust from Earth’s surface wrung; The fence was broad, and taper’d to make strong: Three unwrought beams were set within the close, With cords out-stretch’d, to dry the linen clothes: There, he beheld—whom he admir’d the most, Going ’round the inclosure; then from post to post, She skipp’d along, and seem’d attentively Engaged in ranging out the drapery. Now, stopping at a roadside shingle-gate, He invented an excuse t’interrogate An husbandman, in the immediate field,— The nature of the soil, and of its yield; The owner of the land; and whose the mill, From whence the water-course which turn’d its wheel. Receiving in reply the man’s best wit, Until he saw his pretty angel flit; Then, unperceiv’d, he kiss’d his hand, and thrust It forth towards the cot, pray’ng heaven’s gust Might waft it o’er; and with it went a sigh,— His last adieu! and turn’d away his eye.

At noon, the coach[176] had yet twelve leagues to run: The air grew chilly, and dark clouds begun To form a leaden mass: entirely hid Was he,[177] who in the morn ’rose round and red: A dreadful storm was evidently near; And distant rumblings fell upon the ear: Yon wary sheep were gath’ring in a hav’n, A shelter’d nook: the wind had now aris’n, And boist’rously swept o’er the open-plain: The sullen-featured clouds dispersed their rain Tempestuously, and all around was gloom: Increasing murm’rings in th’ ethereal room, And the first streak, shot thro’ the sombre-rent, Disturb’d an inside lady-occupant, Who sought for sympathy from those without: Th’ affrighted horses fain would turn about; But there’s no help, no refuge from the storm Until they gain’d “old Antrobus’s farm—” About three miles: when there the drenching-drops Combin’d the gale, and bent the grainéd-crops: Fork’d flittings quiver’d through the mournful vast; Th’ inured coachman even sat aghast; For Heaven’s artill’ry now had vollied forth A deaf’ning roar,—which shook the stable earth. At length the storm subsides; the clouds disperse; The welcome orb afresh begins t’immerse The varied herbage, and the waving folds; Encompassing the furze and heathery wolds: And all was calm again—save one poor soul, Whose head still rang with the last thunder-roll.

The beam of day had kiss’d th’ horizon’s pate, Ere Arnold reach’d the lodge at Rollingate. His anxious mother, most expectant grown, Went forth to meet him o’er the verdant lawn: As he advanc’d she hasten’d onward, and Another instant join’d the mutual hand. She saw the storm his garb had disarranged, And bade him quickly get his garment changed: For at the festive-board, the guests were there Awaiting him, with simultaneous care. When now the mother introduced her son The guests saluted him,—as should be done. In the meantime Lord William, lit with joy, Held high the goblet, and embraced his boy! And said “come Arnold, my belovèd son, Sit thou on my right hand.” The feast went on; The silver tankard circled round the hall, And knights and fair-ones quaff’d the radiant bowl. Thus the blithe evening; (But that “cottage queen” Still haunted Arnold ’midst the dazzling scene.) Behold those weapons pensile on the walls,— Huge carbines, fraught of yore with deadly balls; Shields, bucklers, swords, rough usage seem’d to show, And batter’d helmets point the mortal blow. Their battle-work was long since nobly done: And those who wielded them, ah! long since gone! There also hung the pictures of the fray, And him who won the laurels of the day: He,[178] brave—though young—subdued the blazing fort; Trusted in God, and—trusting—fought unhurt: Return’d from war, with the surrender’d sword, The king endowed him with a rich reward:— He stoop’d a Baronet, and ’rose a “Lord.” His country eulogised him, without bounds, And gave him, also, forty-thousand pounds; With which Lord William purchas’d the estate,— The old manorial mansion,—“Rollingate.” The guests had gone, about the midnight hour, In various chariots, and the feast was o’er.

As Lady Mountjoy was so doting kind (Of calm demeanour, and of gentle mind,) To her dear Arnold—him, her only son, Whate’er he wish’d for, said: and it was done. Too well she lov’d him, ever cross to speak; Or e’er t’upbraid him for his boyish freak.[179] But Arnold’s father felt that it was fraught With disadvantage, and conceived (he thought) An efficacious plan: matured the same, Thus started Arnold on the road to fame. At Court, Lord William’s influence was used. (A favor ask’d by him was ne’er refused; If that, solicited, could granted be, Granted it was, and ever readily.) So, for his son, h’ obtain’d a post, at once— In the legation, at the Court of France. In time, conversant with diplomacy, He grew in favor,—e’en ’mong Royalty. In Russia, Prussia, Austria, and in Spain, The friendship of proud courtiers he did gain: In India, China, Turkey, and at Rome, A kind reception made him feel at home. With great success he fill’d his place of trust, In all transactions amiable and just, His volubility and generalship Soon gain’d a most distinguish’d consulship, At one of Europe’s gay commercial ports, Where sovereigns frequent, and where wealth resorts: Known by his genius, gentleness, and wit, Where sat the monarch, close did Arnold sit;— A proud position, certainly, for one Who had so young such reputation won.

Now, Arnold Mountjoy, tall, of handsome gait, Had grown more pow’rful as he grew in height: Erect he stood full seventy inches high: His strength of arm enabled him to vie At continental games successfully: Where fair-ones frequented their praise to yield— To him who won the honors of the field— There Arnold found himself, and bore away Full oft the prizes of the gamesome day. But he, withal those pleasures at command, Could not forget the home of Hollybrand; And nightly visions oft recall’d the spot; As oft, in dreams, he saw the little cot, Wherein he trusted there did still remain Whom he would call (and hoped) his “virgin Jane.”

It happen’d now, when fifteen years had flown, That Arnold’s parents, both were—dead and gone! And he became sole master of his own,— Inheritor of all his father’s wealth. Thus then, the son, being dubious of his health, Bethought himself—to England I’ll return; And there, my duty shall be first to learn Whether old Hollybrand, of modest mien, Is still protector of that “cottage queen:” And she in beauty, virtue, now the same As when she set my bosom in a flame! If so, she still must be her father’s joy, And still dependent on his mere employ; Still scrubs the floor, and feeds the drowsy sow, While George, himself, is toiling with the plough: “Ah! (Arnold said—whilst wond’ring if ’twere so) Six moons from now I trust in God to know.” This said, h’ announced his firm resolve to go.

Alas! grim Death, at Westonbury Hall, Had number’d two, upon his dismal roll; And where the uncle, and the aunt, was laid Th’ unconscious sheep reposed upon the blade: And there the village children came to play To while the intervals of school away. Whilst recent mourners, from a distance come, Pass slowly onwards to the silent tomb: * * * And there the tattlers of the neigh’rhood hie, Inventing falsehoods for the village cry: There, country swains and damsels meet and weep, Or laugh, away the moments prior to sleep,— Make love,—unthoughtful that the sacred sod, On which they stand or sit belongs to God!

Fives moons revolv’d, and one revolving then, Transported Arnold o’er the refluent main. At home, and safely housed at Rollingate, (Install’d dictator of his own estate,) He plann’d the journey to that sylvan bow’r Where stood the cot, and urg’d his anxious tour: Consider’d well the steps that he should take, And how t’approach the little shingle-gate, O’er-arch’d with honeysuckle in full bloom, Which form’d the portal to that humble home. Forth Arnold went: he listen’d, heard the clock— The only sound within, then gave a knock: He knock’d again: remained in deep suspense: Went round the oak, on to the rearward fence: There he beheld, with his unerring eye, Jane Hollybrand! he spoke: thus her reply:— “My father is at work, sir, in the field Preparing there the fallow to be till’d; And, sir, I’m sure he never will consent For me to leave this humble tenement,— Nay: all the promises on earth will not Suffice t’induce him let me leave this cot:” (Now all the time this conversation pass’d Persuasive Arnold’s hand in Jane’s was clasp’d; But she could not, so timid, understand Wherefore and why he thus desired her hand.) “And, sir, my mother has been long since dead, And father, only, earns our daily bread:” Continued Jane: “but if you’d like to go To see my father, where you observe the plough,[180] And you should find him willing to comply, Why sir,” * * * She paus’d, and wept, a tear fell from her eye!— Her heart was full: and, blushing, fain would cry.

Now Arnold saw, and ventur’d the first kiss! And said (the while her hand still lock’d in his) “You do not know me, do you?—O! sweet girl. Ope those bright eyes, and turn aside that curl. And try if you can recollect in me The one who kiss’d and vow’d he lovèd thee Full fifteen years ago. Come,” Arnold said, (Thus as he spoke Jane gently rais’d her head) “Come, dearest maiden, pray thee be not shy— Believe the truth, believe me; nay: I’ll die Rather than I’ll deceive thee.” Then Jane sigh’d, Desired to speak and lean’d against his side. To his request she answer’d modestly:— “Through yonder gateway, thence by yonder tree, Pass through the little furze-brake, o’er the bridge, Turn to your right—along the violet hedge, And there I trust you’ll find him, sir.” So he Fail’d not t’obey th’ instructions cheerily. George saw him coming o’er the fallow ground; Hail’d to the horses; paus’d, and turn’d around, And bow’d obedience. “Ah! good Hollybrand.” Said Arnold, (whilst embracing George’s hand,[181]) “I seek thy daughter, and I trust t’obtain Thy sanction, George, to marry dearest Jane, Some future day when matters are arrang’d.” This sudden salutation quickly chang’d The countenance of George: he stood amaz’d: Held down his head and on the fallow gaz’d. (No doubt poor Hollybrand, as he appear’d, Was much confounded; and perhaps he fear’d More sorrows were in store for him: but no! For Heaven was smiling on his honest brow.) Then, in reply, with falt’ring accents spoke: “I fear, dear sir, thou meanest but a joke.” “Nay, nay,” the suitor said, and thus: “I find, Dear Hollybrand, none other to my mind; And should you condescend to give to me Thy daughter’s hand, thou shalt survey My flocks and herds, and guide my husbandry. Rememb’rest thou, good Hollybrand, the day— At least you must have heard your daughter say— When I, to bid my uncle to the hall, Came in all haste—as aunt had had a fall— Unto thy cot?—’twas then I first espied Thy dearest child; altho’ she vainly tried T’escape my observation: and when you * * *” George Hollybrand look’d up! believ’d it true: “I do remember well,” he said, “the deed you name And in thy countenance discern the same.— The Prews (said George) are now, alas! no more,— Her[182] haughty spirit’s levell’d with the poor; But he, the squire, so bountiful and good, Will ne’er be equall’d in this neighbourhood; In him a father, I may say, I found: As to the menial friendly to the hound: He lov’d my child, and when the good man died As for a father so poor Janie cried. But, sir, the step which you propose to take Is one, I’m sure for my dear daughter’s sake, Requires consideration; and ’tis fraught With desolation to my little cot.” While George thus said,—Lord Arnold, deep in thought, Conceived * * * and urg’d * * * to which George gave consent; Released the plough, and to the cottage went. Meanwhile, observant, Jane had busy been, Had sought her toilet, and withdrew a “queen;” (Whilst lordly Jove had ’woke the latent fire, And junior Cupid fann’d her meek desire;) Thus she appear’d, tho’ plain was her attire.

When now the oak had split in countless streams The mid-day monarch’s bright propitious beams,— A branch of which reflected through the door[183] Spread, transiently, a carpet o’er the floor,— Jane sat expectant, watch’d with anxious care The mutual movements of th’ approaching pair: At length their voices fell upon her ear, And she retards a half-unconscious tear, Withdraws in haste into the inner room; There speculates upon her likely doom— Until she hears the gate’s familiar sound,— And hence their footsteps on the pebbled ground. They enter. Now, her father bids her come And welcome Arnold to their hallow’d home: His kindly voice she instantly obeys, Thus sheds the lustre of her beaming eyes. Renewing his embraces, Arnold strove To comfort and console her with his love; And re-assured her, with a winning smile, That in his breast there lurk’d no inward guile: The tone and accent of his gentle voice Made honest Hollybrand, for once, rejoice; Who, long inured to oft-recurring grief— As oft to Heaven consign’d his pray’rful brief— Now, as his wont, he trusted, found relief.

Then Jane, obedient to her father’s will, Brought forth a pitcher of their household ale, And from the larder at the cottage rear The frugal remnant of a well-fed steer,— With which, and some brown-bread, she form’d a feast, To entertain—as best they could—their noble guest: And not untimely was the feast supplied, Partook, digested, and right-well enjoy’d. The amber goblet pass’d from hand to hand, And as it pass’d—a health to Hollybrand, Else his dear daughter Jane, with good intent; They in return return’d the compliment: So pass’d the meal. Now, to confirm his vow, The earnest suitor kiss’d Jane’s virtuous brow; Reveal’d a compact, and then read it o’er; And, pointing to the impression which it bore, Said, “There, dear Hollybrand, and Jane, you see My signature is set, in all sincerity: With thee I’ll leave it, and my honour too, As the best pledge of my designs to you;— Take it,” said Arnold, “as my heart—my whole— For it contains the promptings of my soul: May God bear witness to the solemn deed! And now I ask, dear George, are you agreed?” The emphasis with which these words were spoke’ (Whilst modest Hollybrand the paper took) Produced a meet sensation!—hence a pause Consistent with th’ importance of the cause. Then George into the inner room withdrew To scan the documents, in earnest, through: He saw: believ’d the signature was real, And also recognis’d the ancient seal.

Strange it might seem—that George, this afternoon, Should recollect—’though thirteen years had flown— He had, secreted, at his own command A ready answer to the lord’s demand,— Yet so it was; and where the secret lay He interposed and brought it prone to day: Thus thought the man; and now unto his eyes An artificial medium he applies,— Compares the image[184] which should be the test, And which would rob or give his temples rest: “Ah! (he exclaim’d) it is, it is the same;” And having thus discern’d his honor’d name, Return’d with joy and, smiling, said “Dear Sir, Thou art the late Lord Mountjoy’s son ’tis clear: And now, (said Hollybrand, whilst in the act Of holding forth and pointing to the fact) This truth unquestionably doth impel The answer I now give: God speed thee well— O Arnold, friend indeed!” (with scarce control O’er the emotions of his manly soul.)— And thus—with falt’ring speech, and quite unnerv’d, “I give my bond, for thou hast well deserv’d My dearest child, for thy integrity— Thy gentleness—and generosity.” “Well, Hollybrand, I’m glad your mind’s at ease,” Said Arnold Mountjoy, “for thy daughter’s is,— In thy brief absence she has thrice confess’d The silent promptings of her youthful breast: Henceforth our lives must interwoven be, And this the dawn of thy prosperity.” (Now the adventure, thus concisely told; Nor less concise and pleasant, as so bold; Provided—that within a month, or two, The “cottage queen” should with her lover go To Rollingate; and there, God willing it, Domesticated at his noble seat, She should be educated, and prepare To share the duties of the “lordly heir.” Till then Lord Arnold thought it ill-advis’d The marriage contract should be solemniz’d;— “I’ve friends,” said he, “who then I must invite— Whose presence our good manners must requite:” And twelve months hence he felt convinc’d dear Jane Would those accomplishments of life attain: Twelve other months, besides, George then shall see His virgin daughter at the altar, free— Free as the zephyrs which combine the air,— For he had sworn he’d never trespass there, Or jeopardize her sovereign right to be The wife of him who wins her lawfully.) To this,[185] like as a harp without the hand, Stood speechless unpretending Hollybrand; And, waiting ’til the impulse bade him speak, Diverts a tear from his imbrownèd cheek; Then he, in language not inapt, begun: “Thy father, Arnold, must have loved his son!”— But as his heart had urged him thus to say His tongue grew pow’rless and refused t’obey.

The sun was sinking in the far-off west; The hour was near at hand for labourers’ rest; And the fair moon, ascending to invest The vast impurpling dome of coming night With her transcendent beams of silvery light, Was riding onward in her chair of state; While he[186]—her lord and sovereign potentate— Roll’d down th’ horizon o’er the western seas To render day to the Antipodes. Dear Philomela, issuing from its cave, Peal’d forth its plaint upon the breezy wave; And whilst gratuitous its hymn, thus given, Was floating on the balmy winds of heaven— Arnold embraced the moments as they flew, Kiss’d his dear girl, prepared for his adieu, And bade farewell,—but ere the last was spoken He’d made a promise never to be broken; (’Less Death, regardless of the night, the day, Should interpose his awful majesty;) And to impress with due solemnity The parting vow on these meek peasantry He gave to Jane—himself proud of the gift— A locket which his grandmother had left Him when a babe, which (dazzling to the eyes, Of envious worth and of capacious size,) “You’ll keep,” he said, “until I have fulfill’d The bond which now is in thy breast instill’d: And you, dear Hollybrand, pray deign t’receive Before from thy dear cot I take my leave This little token[187] of my kind regards— ’Twill tell thee, George,” said Arnold, “more than words— Far more than I at this late hour can tell:” And with these gifts he bade them both farewell! Whilst Arnold Mountjoy to the village trod; The cottagers confided in their God.

Then night. Then day: and blithesome chanticleer Imposed his matin on the sleepers’ ear. As forth resplendent Sol inflames the sky In wakeful mood the village freemen hie,— Some with the scythe inflict the sun-brown’d blade, Whilst some,[188] unworthy, ’sue their idle trade; But those upholders of th’ industrial arm Shall be at peace when idlers feel alarm: The first, their features tell the healthiest tale, While they, the last, are dirty, thin, and pale: Along the lanes the perfumes as they rise The former greet, the latter would despise. Go! slothful saunt’rer on the road of life And earn thy bread—return unto thy wife, (It may be children, too, thou hast at home— If home thou hast—who wait their usual doom,) With smiling countenance; and doff the cry Offensive t’th’ear, and spurn such charity, And leave the generous alms to sick and poor— Whose age or frailty, man! deserves them more.

The while the day the villagers improve, Lord Arnold Mountjoy’s briskly on the move On the main road to Rollingate, and fain “Old John,” the coachman, renders up the rein. Now, as his wont, where’er the coach delays, At measured stages for the meet relays, Regales “old John;” (whose rough refulgent nose— The fruits, apparent, of an over-dose— Seems more protub’rant as he onward goes:) With studied complaisance and kindly word Drinks health and happiness to his fair lord; Indulges in an extra glass, or two, In honor of his lordship; whom he knew To be “a whip” most excellently true. About this period[189] some folks talk’d of steam’s Surpassing everything in shape of teams: In northern counties railroads were being made, Which had a tendency to mar John’s trade,— And nothing more provoking could be said, Or cast more horror in the poor man’s head: “Give me,” said he, “my dear old four-in-hand, And twelve relays, I’ll drive throughout the land— From ‘John O’Groat’s’ down to the Cornish coast,—” (Now this, of course, was rather a bit of boast) “Tell me,” he said, “can steam come up to this?” To answer strongly would have been amiss; So those who knew the circle of his brain Permitted him his fancy to retain— Expounding his ideas with much force, Whilst Arnold whistled[190] to the leading horse And in due time came up to his lodge-gate,— The gothic entrance into Rollingate; Resign’d the whip to John’s triumphant care, And gave a “blessing[191]” o’er the usual fare: “Thank ye, my lord:” (repeated John, and loud)— And thus: “Good bye, yer honor,” then, more proud Than e’er, resumes his place, commands the steed; Th’ entangled whip dis’tangled and then freed Forth in the air assumes th’ impressive scream: “Now talk to me, if you like, about your steam!— It’s all a myth: God knows it’s all a dream.” Th’ obsequious horses, anxious for their part, Reply to John’s “kic-kic,” and off they start.

Now of the journey: one can well conceive The numerous incidents which tend t’relieve The dull monotony of such a tour, And thus make sweet the elsewise tedious hour, That constant friend,[192] prince of the upper main, Was scarce molested[193] from the rosy dawn Until he rounded o’er the distant hills— When there forth swung (as he revolving swells) Promiscuous clouds across his fiery way And spread, like beacon-fires, the closing day. Thus advantageous ’neath umbrageous trees, Which rustled in the June-time fragrant breeze, Th’ aspiring peasantry as blithe as gay Enjoy the intervals of making hay,— Round went the tea, or round the home-brew’d ale, And thus they transiently themselves regale; And now and then, as each in turn doth quaff The timely cup, uproarious ’rose a laugh. A drover now, with breast bare to the sun, Inquired the hour, and urg’d the cattle on; His ashen beam fell sore upon their loins, And with the lash some imprecation joins; They, in reply to the unrighteous law, Reluctantly obey the fellsome blow. Again: some practised beggars plead for alms In moanful accent, and with dirty palms; Some kindly creature on the coach throws down A copper coin or two; they smile or frown, According as the gift is small or great, And then again they lazily retreat,— Repeating, most persistently, the cry To whomsoever may be passing by: Perhaps at night, some place offensive slunk, They curse the giver and get beastly drunk. And then th’ eccentric roadside “public” signs,[194] Grotesquely figured, and inscribed with lines As various writ as various the designs:— “The Rose and Crown.” “The Stag.” “The Bull.” “The Bear.” The “Coach and Horses.” “Horses, Hounds, and Hare.” “The Rising Sun.” “The Seven Stars.” “Half-moon.” “The Maid and Magpie:” and “The Old Green Man.” Of “Heads”—The Duke’s: The Queen’s: The King’s. “King’s Arms.”— High-colour’d frontages, whose wondrous charms— To the unwary—oft are fraught with ill; While he, the “landlord,” dotes upon his till. All these[195] attend to make the trav’ler smile, To less’ the length, as ’twere, of every mile.

When Arnold reach’d his own paternal hall, (As punctual to his word as the great ball Which in the morn fulfils the promis’d boon, Or as, at night, comes forth the gracious moon, By God’s consent,) he took his pen and wrote With dexterous hand the first momentous note; For otherwise the moment would be lost To catch, at the lodge-gate, the evening post: ’Tis done: and now along the turnpike main The mail bears on the destiny of Jane.

Next, when this first and most propitious brief Had reach’d the cot, alternate joy and grief With equal pressure influenc’d Jane’s breast, And oft at night prevented needful rest; Her sire, (as she,) alternately would sigh,— As oft he smil’d as oft bedew’d his eye: “A month,” said George, “will soon have pass’d away, And then a week, and then another day, And then the moment when my child is gone!— And I (he said most sorrowf’lly), alone!” Jane sobb’d and sigh’d, whilst George desired her cease— “It’s all for good, my dear, come be at peace,” Said he; but no,—her heart, poor girl, was full: No human solacy could then control Her virtuous bosom; nought could check the flood, Until she clasp’d her hands and look’d to God! And then she scann’d the cottage whitewash’d walls, Where hung a picture of “Niag’ra Falls;” ’Mong several others—one, our Saviour’s birth,[196] Seem’d, of them all, the one of greatest worth, For she had learnt to love Him: then again Jane read the letter in more hopeful strain, And grew more reconciled unto her fate: Some of her childhood scenes she’d ’numerate;— To Jane’s sweet memory would oft recur The fun and frolic at the village fair,— Held once a year,—and whither she would go To hear the bumpkin band, and see the “show:” This was a happy period of her life: Her mother liv’d, and was a loving wife To Hollybrand. (Ah! George had praised her so That when she died most dreadful was the blow.)[197] As then each Sunday morning came along Jane heard the village-church bells go ding-dong, (When her dear mother liv’d and stay’d at home) And, with her father, forth would early roam To pay their homage on the Sabbath day, In God’s own house. The villagers would say (Though with a sort of semi-jealous air)— “That Jenny gain’d admirers everywhere:” Well! no one, rich or poor, could pass her by Without being charm’d with her impressive eye: And whilst at church she rais’d her voice to God, Was never seen to chatter, laugh, or nod: And never fail’d to gather every word, As it would fall upon her list’ning ear:— Sometimes poor “Jenny” dropp’d a silent tear, And some kind folks began to pity her— Poor girl; for then her mother lay so ill, It almost made the child, herself, unwell. T’her poor dear mother she’d read the Sunday book, Turn up her eyes and with a solemn look— Yet with a kind of smile—say this (and more)— “O Lord, have mercy on the sick, and poor!”

Jane now began (as Arnold wish’d) to arrange Her little wardrobe, for th’ approaching change. From humble life she soon was to withdraw To Rollingate,—there learn the “genteel law,” ’Midst scenes of gaiety; (but yet aloof;)— To learn in private, ’neath the mansion roof, The necessary etiquette—for she The future hope of Arnold was to be. Tears flow’d, and oft, as day and night flew past; More often still at every eve-repast: The cottage-home serenity had fled; And George look’d forward with an earthly dread To that sad day; his very heart recoil’d— To think of parting with his only child! But Hollybrand, though passionately fond, Had giv’n his word, and hence fulfill’d his bond.

At length the month, the week, the day had flown, And high in heav’n revolved the silent moon,— The night had come; and (save the poor girl’s heart, Which now began to fail and dread to part) All’s ready: but the evening’s pensive shade Unmann’d the heart, o’er forty years had made: Poor George felt sad—indeed, well, well he might— Whilst pondering o’er the last long-dreaded night; He knew too well that when the morning came To him his child would only be a name. Thus then to pray’rs:—Upon their bended knee They sent their orisons forth unto God, that He Would grant to them (especially to her) His favoring spirit, and His bounteous care. And from its bounds the briny-liquid lept, For Hollybrand could not refrain, and wept: The last “good night,” with intermissive sighs, Fell from their lips; while ’kerchiefs to their eyes Detain’d their tears: Such was the dreary eve Of that lone day when “Jenny” took her leave.

Red ’rose the sun, and flush’d the fleecy sky; His ’fulgent rays foretold the hour was nigh When soon the cottagers would ope their eye, For chanticleer had loos’d his horny bill, And sent abroad his unmistaken thrill. That honor’d oak bore up a motley throng Of feathery warblers, lively with their song; Beneath the tree the chickens ’wait the hour, Then rush like steeple-chasers to the door: And, helter-skelter, forth the bristled beast With usual manners begg’d their usual feast: (Could they have known their mistress sigh’d and cried, No doubt the cloven group would have denied Themselves one meal at least; and would have mourn’d With Hollybrand, his loss; for Jane adorn’d That little cot so long, ’twas sure unkind To leave it now, and everything behind:) But Jane came not, as usual, forth to feed The drowsy grunters; so, to lull their greed, George did for once (but not without much pain) Strew out, among them all, the crumbs and grain, And fill’d the trough. ’Twas now the hour of eight, When lo! they heard a noise,—the birds took flight,— ’Twas like the sound of carriages afar: At length they see the fastly-driven car. Jane then, ’mid hopes and fears, tripp’d ’cross the floor And saw the coach advancing to the door! Another moment, whilst, embracing her, Lord Arnold’s kisses stayed the falling tear. His mode of greeting, and his gentle grace, Implanted joy-looks on poor George’s face;— For Arnold’s winning manners never fail’d To cheer the hearts of those whom grief assail’d: They all sit down (the morning meal is spread), But George, at times, seem’d sad and sore afraid; At intervals he scarcely could restrain From weeping: Arnold now announc’d to Jane The time was fast approaching when, in fact, Her luggage in the carriage should be pack’d: Then she, in answer, to her room repairs And, more serene, her humble self prepares; Return’d, and what? a picture to behold,— Her eyes like diamonds unadorn’d with gold: With hasty steps she gain’d her father’s side; Her lifted hands a screen became, to hide Once more her sad and saturated cheek: In tones subdued, unnerv’d, she tries to speak, (Her words were ’sunder’d with repeated sighs,) And then a pause; and then again she tries, Say’ng—“Father, father, oh! ’tis sad to part; But, father, trust in God, and cheer your heart.” These were the words, the parting words of those Whose cottage sanctity was just about to close. One moment more must bring that last “farewell,”— Whose import—none but George and Jane could tell; And Hollybrand, now left alone to dwell!

George, recollecting Arnold’s solemn vow, Bethought himself of future joy: and so— In silent solitude—he work’d away, And tried to gather comfort through the day. He doubted not that Arnold would redeem The solemn pledges he had made to him— That he should come and live on his estate,— Live at the lodge and keep the entrance-gate: (Adjoining which were well-plann’d premises, For cows or pigs; for chickens, ducks or geese:) And there, such things should be at his command, As compensation for his daughter’s hand: This, for his life-time, should be set apart; Together with a nice light horse-and-cart. But ere this possibly could be enjoy’d, Full eight months more, his time must be employ’d At Westonbury,—there (in sun or shade) To serve the year’s engagement he had made With the new occupants now at the Hall;— For all the Prews were gone—yes, one and all Were gone to their long home! So George worked on Until these eight months’ solitude had flown: But not a week pass’d by without the post Convey’d to Hollybrand (from one who cost Him many a tear) a letter; which scann’d o’er, Infused in George—a hundred times or more— A gleam of joy; and, oft when he would pore Each well-filled page, he’d turn to her dear name, Imprint a kiss—and then infold the same.

Now (retrospective of the hour of sighs— Disconsolate moments—inundated eyes), When disconcerted George look’d, but in vain! As Arnold bore away his daughter Jane, The trundled dust uprising points the way, But disappoints his all-observant eye; Obedient then to its instructive mood His heart, relaxing, propagates the flood. The Great All-ruler of a cloudless sky Roll’d on and on the lovely lamp of joy, And shed its holiness o’er nature’s face; And thus, Omniscient, with compelling grace, Ordain’d the products of the bounteous earth, All in due season, to come smiling forth. (Such was the hour and such the transient day When Arnold’s carriage roll’d along the way.) Ah! Who the Artist,—Whose the skilful hand Impels the beams which fructify the land? ’Tis He, ’tis His, who governs earth and air, Who pois’d the sun, the moon, and every star, And who directs them morning, noon, and night, Yea, ever since He said: and gave the light! The painter imitates with studied stroke The ruffled ocean, or the stirring brook; But where the roarings of the troubled main So well defined upon the painted plain? Or where’s the music of the humble thrush, So well depicted by his able brush Perch’d on yon twig of nut-brown hazel-bush? Or where the whisperings of the rustling trees, As through their branches curl the gentle breeze?— Or, when ’presented in a wintry storm, We hear no moaning through the leafless form. And then again—behold his[198] emerald glade How breezy-bent it greets the crescent blade, When, as it were, ten mowers (rosy blithe) Advance by steps and sway the merc’less scythe; Aye: how so natural the golden grain Seems, aged-like, incline to earth again, And, as the harvesters with rigid eye Thrust forth the sickle most contemptuously, How great the fall, but where the weapon’s cry? * * *

While thus the muse compares the works of God With that of man, twelve miles of country road Had borne the pressure of the chariot-wheel, Since George and Jane partook their parting meal. And here—a quaint secluded neighbourhood— Just where the ruins of a convent stood, A group of gipsies (tented in a cove) Bore tokens of contentment and of love: One of the tribe advanced towards the coach, And begg’d permission that she might approach: Lord Arnold stopp’d, and lent his gen’rous ear, Whilst she address’d him with a gentle air: And then, observing Arnold’s willing smile, (He not unmindful of their practis’d guile) Rehears’d a story with considerable tact, And hard-endeavoured to enforce the fact— Peace and prosperity for thee’s in store, For thou art generous to the sick and poor! “Two years from now,” she said, “thou shalt repair To Hymen’s altar with your lady-fair; And when, dear sir, the nuptial hour shall come Much joy shall reign at thy paternal home: Then, when twelve moons their course hath duly run, Thy virtuous wife shall bless thee with a son!” This startling prophecy astounded Jane, Who seem’d desirous to proceed again; But ere they started Arnold threw her down A goodly portion of a “half-a-crown:” “God bless you sir,” she pleasingly replies: “And you, dear lady, with those lucky eyes,— Ten thousand comforts ’wait thee in thy bow’r; And Heav’n shall smile upon thy wedding-hour.” Then Arnold, gathering in the careless rein, Inclined his whip across the horses mane; They bend their twin-like necks as they proceed, And soon attain the regulated speed. The converse now continued for awhile Upon the subject of the gipsy’s tale; When Jane, consistent with her lowly sphere, Relieved her eye of an incredulous tear: Her hope was where it had continually soar’d, And forth in secret there her pray’rs were pour’d. E’en, as the coach resum’d the onward course, A thought struck Arnold, with emphatic force,— That this sly woman, dexterous and sedate, Might have inform’d herself on the estate: “How cunning,” thought he; “well, it is their trade, And fools are often innocently made.”

As day wore on—the evening-hour of eight Brought them within a league of Rollingate: There the old house stood in a pleasant vale, ’Mid goodly elms and oaks which stem the gale, And which commandingly arose to view; The pale-blue smoke curl’d up anon anew; And on a mound the flag-staff bore on high The family-banner, in the sun-set sky. Above—there waited the pale queen of night, With her retaining beams of holy light; Then condescending to the happy pair— When Sol had vanish’d—strew’d her silvery care: O righteous moon, refulgent in the skies!— All poets greet thee with their longing eyes,— Thou art to them a river of delight; Their choicest pages praise thee with their might: Unnumber’d titles to thy form are given, As they behold thee in th’ unbounded heaven: Soul-stirring Byron loved the night, and strove T’immortalise thee as “the lamp of love.” (Another tries thy title to improve.) Most welcome were its hallow’d beams to those Whose long day’s journey drew near to a close. Th’ exhausted horses knew the well-trod ground, And long’d to hear the groom’s inducing sound; The grooms, they listen, and are glad to hear The distant rumbling which disturbs the deer: The whizzing whip re-echoed through the trees, And Arnold’s voice came with the western breeze,— The sound increased as forth they onward bore In steady paces, to the mansion-door. High up, in night, now sat “The dark-robed moon;”[199] Whilst round about her purple-drapèd throne, The assembled twinklers—brilliantly array’d— Unite in love to welcome forth the maid. Great is the joy throughout the boundless vast. Imagination sent a silvery blast To ’wake the nightingales; the birds uprise And pour their melodies into the skies. The inmates of the mansion, hast’ning forth, Beheld (they said) an angel come on earth;— No greater beauty, say they, could exist Than she, on whom their eyes were firmly fixt: When through the hall Jane, trembling, passèd by They saw, unveil’d, her brilliant sparkling eye As round she gazed upon the chandeliers, That here and there lit up the winding stairs; And swords and bucklers, which had hung for years, Seem’d coalescing, with the central vase[200] Which saved its perfumes until then, and rose In all its fresh and lovely fragrancy To greet the stranger: but, Lord Arnold, he Observing his dear Jane’s timidity Hail’d Toogood,[201] who (both elderly and kind, And one to whom Jane could unfold her mind) Came ’cross the hall, and bow’d and shook the hand And made th’ acquaintance of Jane Hollybrand.

Transcendent morn ’rose o’er yon barley-field; But dusky clouds fly’ng ’cross the golden shield Dispersed his beams; yet, he controll’d the main, And usher’d in a brighter day for Jane. She ’wakes (her wonted hour), looks ’round and finds Rich damask drapery for her window-blinds! Chairs, almost fairy-like with ’lastic touch, Resemble the impurpled-cover’d couch. Then half-recumbent lo: the gentle girl Beholds the furniture inlaid with pearl! Herself she now reflectedly espies, But scarce believing her yet slumb’rous eyes— ’Til, opportune, the wardrobe glass disclosed The doubtful myst’ry; then she grew composed, Alighted venturously on the soft floor, And scann’d the toilet o’er and o’er and o’er: She timorously removes[202] the window-blind; Observes, with pleasure, the fantastic hind, The antler’d buck, the mother and her fawn; And all the beauties of the verdured lawn. The ivy tendrils kiss’d her window-pane, And further rearward wound the jessamine With other fragrant vines. Now, Jane, she makes Another survey t’wards the glist’ning lakes: There she beholds, most gracefully afloat— The silvery swans; and there the anchor’d boat Hugg’d the green bank. All nature smiles, as ’twere; And passing showers cool’d the atmosphere; While birds among[203] made music sweet and clear. On bended knee, Jane’s orisons had flown With the appearance of the saffron dawn: So now (rememb’ring Arnold’s fond desire To breakfast with her), in her best attire, She decks herself—expectant of a knock: Mid joy and grief she hears the tuneful[204] clock, Which crown’d the summit of the mansion mews,— The time arrived: now Jane once more re-views Her humble self, and modestly prepares * * * When lo!—she hears a patting on the stairs, And hies obediently across the floor— To welcome Toogood at the appointed hour: With all the sweetness of her youth, she said— “Oh dear! dear ma’am (and sigh’d) I really dread To leave the room;” but when Aunt Toogood smil’d And bade Jane cheer, thus say’ng: “Come, come, my child (In such a winsome mood) and follow me, For Arnold now is anxious, ’waiting thee,” She doff’d her trepidness, and went the way. And so began the duties[205] of the day.

All now goes well: the breakfast-meal is o’er: Her Arnold takes her for a morning-tour, Points out the beauties of the oak and elm, And other grandeurs of his little realm; Then guides her to th’ embankment of the lake— Where various water-fowl their jauntings take, And make—in common with their kindred race— Untarnish’d pleasure and conjugal peace: With some persuasion Arnold gain’d consent, Releas’d the boat, then on the lake is spent A pleasant cruise, ’til sundry drops of rain Fell lustily and ringleted the main. Each fleet intruder from the upper air Involves the cruisers in increasing care; The skiff’s made fast, and both with speed return Along a route through laurel, myrtle, fern; Soon as they gain the lofty portico Down pours the rain,—a thousand riv’lets flow. When, as the clouds have broke, th’ incumbent drops— Like diamonds strewn about the verdant crops— Sway to and fro in answer to the breeze,— The bending blade directs them by degrees Down to the mould; thus mingled with the roots The earth brings forth its seasonable fruits, And nature laughs. How good such transient showers, Unguentous to the parched herbs and flowers!— The shrubs are cleans’d, as though re-varnish’d o’er, And Horus now shines out with greater pow’r.

Ascendant in the heav’ns the monarch reigns. Noon (all-defiant in th’ imperial plains), Surnamed Meridian, bends his mystic bow, And waits the assault of his presumptuous foe;[206] But grew despairingly as forth he came (Like heav’n and earth combin’d in one great flame.) Towards the vertex of the brazen arch. But as he came, and with prodigious march, Meridian waver’d, and declined the fray: Thus onward Horus roll’d triumphantly! The god, though angry with this vain pretence, Forgave Meridian the unjust offence,— On this condition—that he’d[207] ne’er again Dispute his passage through the vaulted main. Meridian thankfully received the boon, And thus renounced all title to the throne.

Just as Meridian felt so dire dismay’d, And ever after so discomforted, The luncheon-bell invited forth the guest— To be partakers of the mid-day feast: Such food and drinkables meet for the hour Were attributes most welcome, since the tour Occasion’d such exertion to obtain The much desired shelter from the rain: Thus then refresh’d, retiring to her room Jane penn’d her first epistle to th’ old home; (Ah me! how sweet “th’ old home” falls on the ear To all to whomsoever “home” is dear.) In language of simplicity she wrote Thus: (now in strictest confidence we quote)— “My dearest father. We arriv’d last night At Rollingate (thank gracious God) all right; We halted twice, refresh’d ourselves, drove on,— Most truly thankful when the day was done: Before I laid me down I bent my knee And pray’d to Him above to comfort thee; Arose this morning, breakfasted, and talk’d, Then ’round the grounds we comfortably walk’d; We rowed upon the lake among the swans, And fell in love with all the little ones; Just then a rapid show’r began to fall, We hasten’d back and luncheon’d in the Hall: All now is quiet; Arnold’s very kind And I, dear father, happier in mind. That dear old lady, whom you heard him say Was such a motherly creature, said to-day That all at Rollingate were proud of me; So now, dear father, pray thee happy be: Next week, I purpose, you shall hear again. Believe me * * * yours affectionately, Jane.” Then came the thoughts of how she should proceed To get it posted, and the postage freed, But just that instant Toogood happily came, And Jane’s distress dissolv’d into a name: The compliant footman took it to the lodge, And there consigned it to old Andrew Hodge. “Old Andrew,” now, was seventy years of age; (Had come to Rollingate erst as a page;) O’er fifty years, it was the old man’s boast, He had been guardian of th’ important post: But then, besides, he rode about th’ estate,— A sort of bailiff over Rollingate, And superintendent of the flocks and herds, The deer, the swine, and the domestic birds,— He made arrangements for the animal sale Of surplus cattle; oak, and ashen, pale; The over-crowding firs and elms and pines; And kept with strict regard the bound’ry lines; Such then was Andrew’s alternating work, With his kind niece at home as medium clerk. Though now the poor old man had grown infirm From partial palsy in his dexter[208] arm, And sometimes suffer’d almost martyrdom With the lumbago in his back and loins, And painful visitations in his groins; So that a few years more like this, distress’d, Must of necessity send him to rest.

In the meantime that dear old Christian dame, (The bearer of that most appropriate name[209]— Who never turn’d a beggar from the door Without a penny and some surplus store,) Appriz’d dear Jane that dinner-time was near— If she would be so kind as to prepare; And waited ’til she wash’d and plann’d her hair; Whilst Jane made such inquiries which become So lowly-a stranger to so lordly-a home. And the blithe bell, diminutive in size, Sent forth its welcome in the blissful skies— As though a host of potentates were there Prebent on turkey, venison, and hare;— Not so just now, yet shall its merry ting Continue its accustom’d carolling.— The time may come again when princely guest Shall be the bidden-ones unto the feast; When round the hall the old ancestral cup By lords and ladies shall be lifted up; But in the interim there is much to do: Around its orbit twice the world shall go Before the ancient dignity’s restored, And knights and squires admixture at the board: (Yes, two ’volutions round the sun is plann’d Ere Jane shall doff the name of “Hollybrand,” For that of “Mountjoy;” and when that is done The old festivities shall be begun.)— “To-day at dinner there will only be,” Said Toogood, “Arnold, you—my dear, and me: But, dearest girl, I have a word to say— You know that Arnold thinks of going away A fortnight hence for just a year or two, For—as he says—the benefit of you,— Yes, dearest Jane,—the benefit of you!— He’s going, he tells me, to the far-off East— To Rome, Vienna, Berlin, and Trieste. In the meantime (please God to grant it so) Such education as is apropos— For instance: grammar, ’rithmetic, and prose, Geography, and music, and all those Embellishments—enrichments of the mind, And such-like things which make us good and kind, You’ll learn, dear Jane, from gentlemen of wit; That with their teaching you may be found fit To fill the duties which on you will fall When you are, darling, mistress of the Hall!” Now this announcement, evidently made With all affection for the gentle maid To meliorate the anxiety of mind Which must accrue, was (doubtless) well design’d; And equally as well digested, as Poor Jane, know’ng well how ignorant she was, Told dear Aunt Toogood of her willingness, And trusted it would lead to happiness.

But hark! the festal-bell is ringing loud; And Toogood, sev’nty-three, as ever proud Comes strutting through the passage to the hall In the same silk, and likewise handsome shawl, That she received at Arnold’s christening ball; Whilst Jane, all in the vigour of her youth, Leans on her arm—exemplary of truth, But plainly dress’d; yet with a lovely face; And paced the passage with a queenly grace. Now Arnold meets them and allays alarm— By his embraces and inviting arm; Whilst dear Aunt Toogood hastens on before And blithely deputizes at the door; Which ceremonial frolicsomely plann’d Dispell’d those fears that Innocence had fann’d: Thus then they enter and draw near the board. While the vouchsafing grace from God’s implored The savoury viands, which compose the food, Send up their vapours in consonant mode; And wines, propitious—in the crystal vase, Move round in token of th’ eventful cause: The homely meal—as homely as could be Consistent with Lord Arnold’s dignity— Affords them joy. Now, while the time beguiles And peace and plenty, compliments and smiles Predominate, Lord Arnold of the hour Avails himself, describes th’ intended tour,— Improving every moment as it flew With tales fictitious or with stories true; Or hum’rously endeavours to explain The great advantage it will be to Jane, Whilst he’s away; and what arrangements he Ordain’d for her improvement and futurity: His eye beheld her,—fain was he to find The plan propounded suiting to her mind: For Jane express’d herself with great delight, And promised to improve with all her might.

Mark how this hope lit up dear Toogood’s breast.— How her maternal heart seem’d lull’d to rest; How she endeavour’d—though ’twere vain to try— To stay the tear now issuing from her eye; How she attempted to describe her joy, And seem’d in raptures with her darling boy!— At length, as though empower’d by Him on high, She doffs her tears and draws this imagery— “There are,” she said, “some who make chary wives, Are blest with families, and live their lives In sweet contentment, happiness and love, Whose guardian is the mighty One above; But there are others who without a thought Waste bags of gold and lack at last a groat Wherewith to pay, and then—but when too late— In tears discover their impoverish’d state; Whilst, on the other hand, those keeping well in mind— Economy, will always comfort find; Their homes their castles—whether small or great— Are ramparts of defence by day or night,— No bitter whinings, nor remorseless sighs, Reproachful twitt’rings o’er invented lies, Are theirs, but truthful love’s protectorate: And may God grant it—so at Rollingate!”— Such was the purport of Aunt Toogood’s tale— A sort of lecture on a little scale; Perhaps experience of some family feud Had prompted this extemporaneous mood, Or the remembrance of some ruined pair Impelled her speech to tell of their despair; For ’t seemed to give th’ old lady much relief When she had summarised her tale of grief, As then again her countenance bespoke Her readiness to embrace a passing joke; And she in turn some funny things would say, Then leave to Jove to solve the mystery; Till Night (nocturnal goddess of the skies) Invades the hall in mystical disguise And with due courteousness involved their eyes.

Nine times the earth with its redeeming force Whirl’d round its vast undeviating course: Nine times the sun (obscured but only twice) Obey’d the law and paid his sacrifice: As oft the moon in reverential robes Stood forth predominant among the globes;[210] And only once—and that in love it seems— The halo atmosphere impair’d her beams: The stars, obedient to the mighty Hand, Imparted promise to Jane Hollybrand. But now alas! alas! that dreadful pow’r[211] Had usher’d in the last and pitiable hour, When that dissyllable—that dread “farewell” Will fall from Arnold like a deathful knell!— But true t’his promise he will faithful be, Should Heaven preserve him over land and sea, For love combined with strict integrity Will well assist him through those trying years, And turn to joy Jane’s first momentous tears. When, as reluctantly he turn’d around, Great Day[212] portray’d him on the gravell’d ground— Sh’ inclined her tearful eyes toward the shade; But in the twinkling of an eye it fled: “Ah me! (she said) he’s gone—yet not for ever!” Now Jane had learnt how painful ’twas to sever From one who dearly lov’d, and whom she lov’d,— As her demeanour most distinctly prov’d,— For when she looked (in vain) to see the coach Which bore him on, she hurried to her couch And there * * * but ere she’d time to vent her grief Her kind adviser[213] came to her relief— “Be cheer’d” she said—and bent to stay Jane’s tears, And solac’d the dear girl with soothing pray’rs: Then Jane, obedient to th’ impulsive move, Arose and openly confess’d her love.

The following day, about th’ eleventh hour, Jane heard a “tap-tap” at the parlour door; So, suddenly uprising on her feet, Prepared herself the visitor to meet,— “The Reverend Alexander Gordon Jay,”[214] (Most popular grammar-master of the day,— Within a circle of near thirty miles,— A man belov’d by most fair juveniles; Of stature small, but of capacious tact; And of his person wondrously exact.)— Who with obeisance and with dexter hand Proffer’d his friendship to Jane Hollybrand: Jane fain reciprocated his intent And lent herself to the first rudiment; Her quick conception of the rule consign’d Dispell’d the doubts revolving in his mind So much that he, amaz’d, could not refrain Adventuring plaudits in becoming strain; Thus so far pleased with all that he desired The doctor bowed and gracefully retired. Thrice weekly, now, Jane’s music-master came,— A Briton, but with an Italian name,— Who ceremoniously improved the time With some cadenzas—aiming the sublime— On one of Broadwood’s fine old instruments; Then gently introduced his rudiments (Or some-one-else’s) in the key of “C,” The scale of which Jane master’d dexterously; Then, in due time, proceeded on to “G,” And conquer’d the sharp seventh most famously; Engaging now in “sharps” and then in “flats,”— And all the incidental little thats,[215]— In eighteen months she could with moderate ease Encounter creditably the “Surprise.”[216] And now, in turn, the dancing-master ’d come, Release his gloves and make himself “at home;” Unsheath his violin, then draw its bow,— With “this” and “that” and “simply so-and-so,”— So that he manag’d (medium-way) to please; And deem’d, no doubt, he justly earn’d his fees. At the appointed season of the week, Her drawing-master, tall and rather sleek, Veer’d round the back and palm’d the stable-boy; Who, quite as willing—for his master’s hay To him cost nothing—fed the craving beast, Which soon showed symptoms of the welcome feast: Now Jane (’tis fair to say) did not progress In this particular art, but nevertheless She could depict a landscape with such taste As plainly proved her lessons were not waste. Thus then, with time and men of such repute As those engaged for Jane, one could compute With some degree of certainty and pride The joys in store for the intended bride.

Some weeks had now, thank Providence, pass’d by; While swift as coaches, and as ships at sea, Flew to and fro the sweet epist’lary, And which convey’d, as dear Aunt Toogood said, Such faithful vows as lovers love to read; For Jane would never fail to read t’her aunt[217] The sayings and doings upon the Continent, Nor fail’d to report minutely and dilate Those portions which affected Rollingate; But always shunn’d the last impressive line Which bore the language of a Valentine: This simple act most rigidly observed Obtain’d for her the credit it deserved.

Now Jane, in Arnold’s absence, strove and won Th’ affection—nay, the love of every-one— Of those whose happy lot it was to share The joys domestic which abounded there, For all (’twas often said) would run a mile To catch from her sweet face but half-a-smile; Though smiles were not at all times to be seen (Alike with peasant, prince, or king, or queen), For in her loneliness enough would rise To force a tear-drop from her sparkling eyes; At eventide her sorrow seemèd most, But in her God she never fail’d to trust: Yes, eventide’s the time when Jane would sigh, And sometimes—unavoidably—would cry, As then the thoughts of home would oft recur, For everything still there to her was dear,— Ah! dear—and natural it should be so,— Could she forget her birth-place? Oh! no, no: Yet something, ’mid her sorrow, whisp’ring, said— Be calm—be comforted, and not afraid!

When the blest firmament unruffled is, And sol’s fair consort hastens forth to please; When the celestial vault is most serene, And its ethereal wanderers are seen; Such were the moments Jane could best impart The silent impulse of her tender heart; And those the moments that she loved the best— Preparatory to her going to rest, For then her orisons ascended high, And she in peace could close her weary eye. But when the time came on that Jane could trace The weeks, the days, the hours, when the blest face Of her dear father she again would see— She pass’d her evenings far more pleasantly, And chatted freely—talk’d about the flowers, The lovely groves, the avenues, and bowers, The lakes, and such-like things,—oh, yes! and then She’d play, or sing to some p’rhaps favourite strain— These words—

Sweet blest-born star—for ever winging In the chambers of the sky, Oh! let me join thee—always singing Some enchanting melody. Yes! envied beauty, ever busy Frisking joys about the air, Oh! let me come ere I go crazy— Looking, wondering what ye are. Or if thou wilt not, pray—have pity, Carol loud enough that we, Improving love, may hear thy ditty Sung in matchless harmony.

Now, at the pretty ’lizabethan lodge There liv’d (as said before) old Andrew Hodge, Unable to perform on the estate Aught else—and hardly that—than ope the gate: No plan more suitable could Jove contrive— Nor any member of the starry hive— Than that good George to Rollingate should come And help poor Andrew, and make this his home: Thus, then arrang’d; time now flew very fast, And George’s grievous hours were flown at last: His sundry goods were ready for the van, And he was now become an alter’d man. The sun brought joy that usher’d in the day, And so the hour when he was on the way: For many a trial had fall’n to George’s lot Since he first occupied that little cot; But he had borne them all most patiently, And never shrunk in his adversity From that great duty, pray’r!—his great support, His refuge in affliction, and resort. Farewell to Westonbury, and farewell To cottage, garden, grunters, fowls, and all; In other hands their welfare now is cast, And well for them if they’re as good’s the last! “George Hollybrand”—they almost learn’d to speak, But now he’s gone they’re doubly dumb and meek. Ten hours were told; Jane listens to the wind, Whose genial breathings thus impress’d her mind: She fondly fancied that the breeze would bear The far-off rumbling to her anxious ear; ’Twas not in vain—her fancy served her well, As now the favouring winds bore up the vale The welcome sound. Ah! who her joy could tell?— Yet happier still when she beheld the van (At every pulse which beat) advancing on: She waved her ’kerchief as it drew in sight, And thus anticipated her delight; Her father answer’d the uplifted sign, Then soon their tears with mutual scope combine, For one more instant and a scene ensued When the joy-liquid unprevented flowed.

Sweet twilight,—of all other hours most blest For those whose prospect is their needed rest; When down the western sphere of heav’n had gone The great and good—the all propitious sun. Oh, Heaven! how gracious is that mid-way hour, When all the day-birds seek their somb’rous bow’r; And when—if not in full—the quartering moon Attracts the eye to the celestial zone,— Such then the hour when George in lowly state Trod erst the precincts of old Rollingate, Where he was welcome—not by her alone, Whom love begat and law decreed his own, But every one, and one[218] among them all Who had for years adorn’d the princely hall; She bade him happiness and kiss’d his hand, And wrought her friendship with George Hollybrand: Thus then. And now the genial feast prepared No longer waited but was meetly shared, Till at a moderate hour they all repaired To rest. Joy reign’d supreme; but with the morn (Ah! where the rose, there also thrives the thorn.) Came grief; for then the sadful news was borne Of Andrew Hodge’s death!—the dear old man Had swoon’d, and died just at the hour of one; Death, monster evil, seem’d to ’ve long’d the hour For his dark deed, and forced life’s chamber-door: His awful mandate found n’ opposing force So in an instant Hodge was fell’d a corse. No longer would the poor old man relate His thousand tales about dear Rollingate. No longer would he make his morning-call And quaff the goblet in the “Servants’ hall,” Which he had done for many and many a year And claim’d his usual “horn-and-half” of beer. Nor would he e’er interrogate again— As he would call her—his “young Mistress Jane,” And list to her sweet replicating word When he would ask about his absent lord. No longer would the folks attending church Behold him strutting through the western porch; Nor would the parson ever more espy Old Andrew Hodge, with his auxiliar eye;[219] Nor would the children run again to meet Him, all expectant of their Sunday sweet:— No, no!—old Andrew now had breathed his last, And all those trivial joys for ever past.

Now, when the corpse to Appleton[220] was ta’en— Among the mourners were “young Mistress Jane,” And her dear father (by his daughter’s side), Who griev’d as though he had been long allied To the departed! but George Hollybrand Ne’er had the joy to clasp old Andrew’s hand Before his spirit fled, for that same night George came to Rollingate the soul took flight!— And this sad sense of frail mortality, Stung George’s heart and wrung it bitterly. O’er Andrew’s grave a tablet-stone was rais’d; And as the sheep around about it graz’d Arnold some day, perchance, might step thereon— Himself to witness that the deed was done: And, doubtless, if he lives to see the mound A tear will trickle on that holy ground, Where, near the spot (within the sacred fane), Lord William’s ancestors were deathful lain,— So that no stranger would (when Arnold saw) Be studious sorrowing o’er the dead below.

Two Sabbaths, and ten days besides, gone by Renewed the scope of pleasant memory; And now, ’twas deem’d a prudent step to take— That Hollybrand should comfortably make The entrance-lodge his home, and take command Of the subordinates about the land,— Direct the labourers; and survey the flock, And keep at bay all interdicted stock.[221] Much joy and comfort seem’d again in store For Hollybrand, who once ’gan to deplore Almost his own existence; but now he Saw in the future some felicity,— And where his thanks were due, there they were pour’d, And there his orizons unvarying soar’d. ’Twas strange, but true—that George’s birth-day fell Upon the very day he went to dwell (With full possession) in that pretty lodge, Which so long shelter’d poor old Andrew Hodge: Yes—it was so; and always on this day He kept a sort of sacred jubilee. It seems, by record, that George Hollybrand was born Some fifty years ago at Merrythorn, Which place (’tis said, by those who’ve sojourn’d there) Had gain’d repute for its salubrious air; And George’s father—Michael Hollybrand, Own’d a small territ’ry of pasture-land; But owing to some law-suit he sustained— Worse fortune for his son—was almost ruined: His little portion, with regret, was sold To meet th’ opposing side’s demand for gold. (George, it appears, before to man was grown Went forth to labour, and to earn his own.) Thus then ’tis hoped the prospects George now saw Will counterbalance all his early woe.

The turnpike-road by which the cottage[222] stood Led through a very picturesque neighbourhood, In one direction, to the market-town,— A place, for some-time past, of much renown, And where the produce of this large estate— Excepting that required at Rollingate, Was carted, and there sold as merchandise, Which seldom ever fail’d to realise The highest current price. Now it was plann’d The salesman, henceforth, should be Hollybrand,— (For Cartwright[223] thought no man could better be Adapted to this branch of sovereignty— Besides a fit and proper personage To buy and sell and labourers to engage; He also thought for sake of his dear child, That George would see nought wasted or e’er spoil’d.) So with th’ assistance of young Martha Gray (Old Andrew’s niece), whom George engaged to stay, He ’gan to feel at home, and soon became Possessor of a moderate share of fame; Whilst Martha, who could read and write with ease, Grew every day more studiously to please, And would assist her master now and then (When he required it) with her ready pen,— Thus then when Hollybrand had to present A statement of his dealings she, intent Upon the subject, penn’d them most correct’,— As Cartwright seldom ever could detect Aught wrong in the account, but should there be The steward rectified it willingly. Thus George, who scarcely ever had to do With such important matters hitherto, Became so skilful in the dealing art That he was courted at the business mart— Yes, so much so that he at last was ta’en As arbitrator and criterion: And once-a-week for twenty years or more, On Wednesdays at an usual early hour, George to the township hied, there sold or bought; His word was honor’d, and his custom sought. ’Tis fair to say—’Twas not for that alone That George was noted at this market town; But on account of Arnold’s generousness— His great regard for all their happiness; And—proof of this—it was their next intent,— In illustration of their sentiment, When he return’d home from the Continent,— With unanimity to celebrate Th’ arrival of the Lord of Rollingate. ’Twas rare indeed, but where there happ’d to be A case, or cases, of real poverty Made known to Arnold, p’rhaps by some good soul, He ne’er demurr’d but instantly forestole Their own anticipations with tenfold Th’ expected silver or expected gold; And to encourage the philanthropist— If so invited—he would head the list, And thus facilitate the needed crave— To aid the living, or to find a grave For some one dead, where were no means to pay; Or to support the annual holiday; According as the question might arise: But should he e’er detect one in disguise Soliciting his alms and feigning poor He’d cast the wretch with vengeance from the door; Nor would begrudge t’uplift his shapely foot And send the traitor reeling o’er—to boot.

Returning home from market one dull day, Unfortunately without company, George came in contact with some vagrants, who— When he approach’d—their trade began t’renew: One of the ruffians, dreadful in his look, From ’neath his ragged coat a pistol took And aimed it straight at George’s breast, and said— “Give us your money or I’ll shoot you dead!” Poor George, replying to the impulse, drew His bag and gave it to the fiendish crew (For there were four surrounded him, so he Could not resist their hellish mimicry; But felt content, as ’twere, to avoid the strife— Which in their direful hearts was plainly rife), Most thankful that the villains spared his life. One of the brigands made all progress vain, Another counted o’er the ravish’d gain, The others in the rear ransack’d the cart, Then, all uniting, off the ruffians start; But dreamt not justice was so near at hand— When at its bar each vagabond would stand Confronted with the victim of the scene, Besides a witness who, by chance, within Th’ adjacent field, beheld and heard them urge Their method of attack upon poor George; Who saw the fray accomplishèd, and fled To give instructions of the direful deed,— Which subsequently led to their arrest And their removal o’er the ocean’s breast.

Now, loit’ring in a wood, they stay’d till night Avail’d them for their unmolested flight, And then sought refuge in a roadside-inn; Where the carousal scarcely did begin Ere some great noise excites the villains’ fear— They’re startled! therefore try to disappear. But there remain’d no shadow of a chance; For six determined officers advance And seize them. But what next ensued?— They aim resistance, and with clubs of wood Assail the constables with awful rage; Who, in return, assiduously engage In direful conflict, and at length subdue The barb’rous and antagonistic crew:— The word “Surrender,” fraught with dreadful threat, With due submission instantly was met. Thus, then, o’erpower’d, dejected, and dismay’d, Like sheep to slaughter they were instant led— With handcuff’d wrists—each to a felon’s cell, Where they awaited their disastrous trial.

When George, that dismal eve, at home arrived, With much emotion he sat down and cried; But, having always on his God relied, He thank’d th’ Almighty that the hand was stay’d, Which at one moment threaten’d to have laid Him low. Gray then observ’d a something, which Made her unhappy, so with anxious speech Besought her Master, thus: “Sir, pray thee—why Art thou so sad?” George wiped his tearful eye And answered her:—“Ah! Gray, I’m back again, But coming homeward four unholy men Molested me and took my cash, and more— The rogues decamp’d with all our weekly store.” Those words had scarce escaped poor George’s lips When he was struck with the advancing steps As of a horse (’twas now just nine o’clock) And then obedient to a hurried knock The door was open’d, and a voice enquired If master Hollybrand had yet retired To rest. “Oh! no, Sir,” Gray replied, “he’s not.” “Will you be kind enough to say that Scott,[224]” * * * George knew the voice and hasten’d to receive The man of order, vengeance, or reprieve: He said. Now finding that the men were ta’en, George felt reliev’d from an oppressive strain; And on the following morning, by command, He went to prosecute th’ inhuman band,— He strode his pony at the hour of nine, To be in attendance at th’ appointed time. When near the place where they attack’d him, there George saw the fragments of some earthenware,— A portion of his stores,—which in their haste The robbers had incautiously laid waste: As may be well conceived—just at this spot, George ponder’d sadly o’er the direful plot, But yet rejoiced to think what had befell The treacherous vagabonds at Ruttendell.[225] So he proceeded, and, when he had gain’d The Justice’ Court, beheld all four arraign’d; Who, when they saw the prosecutor there, Hung down their heads in deep and sad despair: No doubt their hearts were wrung, and well they might When they observ’d their unpropitious plight,— Especially he who beckon’d on the rest, And held the pistol straight to George’s breast: The one who had received a sabre-cut Sat moaning piteously with eyes half shut,— For on his thigh the cutlass made a gash, And struck the bone beneath an inch of flesh: In years of youth the others seem’d to be, Who had forsook the path of honesty— Intent on mischief and misrule, but now Remorse and horror sat upon their brow. God grant them mercy! but the law decreed That England of such demons should be freed; And so in time all four were sent away To end their lifetime in old “Bot’ny Bay,”— The merited reward of infamy.

When Jane, as usual, took her Thursday tour, And reach’d the lodge about th’ eleventh hour— A plan her loving temper had devised For both their comfort—she was much surprised And much alarm’d—nay, felt a bit unwell When Gray epitomised the fraughtful tale; But at the glad intelligence that they— The robbers—were secure in custody, Besides the message George had left behind To comfort and appease his daughter’s mind, Her sorrow’d countenance lit up anew, Her placid cheeks regain’d their healthful hue; And she became composed: yet the alloy— Suspense combined with deep anxiety (Those dubious moments which must intervene Before her father could reach home again),— Compell’d poor Jane to shed a transient tear, And to extemporise a passing prayer. Some hours elapsed in this unenvied mood, Till Martha’s warbler[226] (in its hall of wood), Rang out its watchful note, as it was wont Whenever any one approach’d the front,— And never fail’d save when the darksome night Would press its weight upon its tender sight,— So Jane depended, and away she flew And found the pretty angel telling true: Wide swung the gate, and ere another breath (Profound and solemn as the hour of death), Jane clasp’d her father’s hand, and bade him say What were the fortunes of the current day. He kiss’d her cheek and smilingly replied (Although emotion, for awhile, denied His pregnant tongue)—“’Tis well, dear Jane, ’tis well! Much sympathy prevails at Ruttendell, For this sad loss; but great shall be the praise To Him above, who hath prolong’d my days; For at one moment in that dreadful hour My pulse forsook its regulated pow’r, And I, my dear, expected—sad to say— To have been launch’d into eternity!— Yes—thanks to God, whose providence disposed The dreadful deed those horrid men proposed, And prompted me, when life seem’d but a wave, To yield the substance of the villains’ crave.” George housed his pony, and return’d to “tea,” And pass’d this evening far more cheerfully Than the preceding one, and happily felt (At length) somewhat atoned by the result; Nor was dear Jane less comforted than he For this escape from a calamity,— As such it would have been (I dare to state) For some considerable time at Rollingate; And whilst they liv’d time never could erase Their recollection of the painful case.

Now Jane, perceiving it was getting late, Ceased for this evening to interrogate, And bade them both a favourable good night; Then hasten’d home, maturing as she went The manner of depicting the event To her dear aunt, and how t’explain away— Without alarm—the cause of her delay; Which she accomplishèd with praiseworthy tact, By slowly unfolding the momentous fact,— And so unburden’d her invaded breast; Wept—but for joy—and then retired to rest. But many a day Jane felt (poor girl!) unfit To undertake her lessons, and would sit Apparently in fear lest aught should mar— By some catastrophe to him afar— Her own anticipations, and destroy Their mutual bodings of conjugal joy: She’d read his letters (and give each a kiss), In which, alone, she found a world of bliss; And oftentimes a tear would damp her face Whilst she replaced them in her writing-case. On one occasion, when Jane heard the lark’s Blithe carolling, she made these sweet remarks— “Ah! little minstrel of the air so free, None of thy kindred can discourse like thee; Whilst list’ning to thy solo—charming thing— I long to be a bird to choose thee king; If so, I’d crown thee with pure wreaths of gold, And then adventurously would make so bold To claim thy friendship; yes, and seek thy love: It may be thou art he that Arnold strove One day so perseveringly to catch, But thou, O! songster, proved too good a match.” Another time, whilst sitting studiously Beneath the branches of a stately tree, The cuckoo ’lighted on its topmost limb, And, as his wont, his simple notes would chime Melodiously; which fell upon Jane’s ear— That, like a statue, she sat fix’d, for fear The slightest movement might affright her guest, And thus disturb the darling’s transient rest: So much delighted was dear Jane to hear The meek enchanter piping forth so clear Its rare alternate notes, that she could not Refrain rememb’ring Westonbury cot: But when the cuckoo left its perch and fled Across the vale, Jane lifted up her head, Exclaiming—“Oh, thou trumpeter of May! I’ve sat in pain, almost, that thou should’st stay, Yet thou hast flown; fie on thee, timid bird:” But ere she’d time to speak another word She, hearing footsteps as of something near, Turn’d quickly round and saw an antler’d deer, Of graceful form, the noblest of his race, Matchless in stature, and lord of the chase: Jane’s movements made the handsome creature bound, Light as an angel, o’er the scythèd ground: “Ah! nimble forester,” she said, “I see— ’Twas you that drove the cuckoo off the tree.”

A year and seven months had now gone by Since Arnold Mountjoy left for Germany: Each new epistle borne across the main Brought tidings of increasing love for Jane,— Entreating her, “Be constant; for my sake Shun company,—at least, take care to make Acquaintance only with my choicest friends; Be chaste, for chastity with virtue blends: Thy tutors, dearest, write me pleasing notes,— Such as I send thee now;” so, on he quotes— * * * * * And naturally felt—if half of this were truth— How clever would she ’ve been if, in her youth, She had been educated by degrees At one of England’s best academies. Now he began to contemplate with pride A happy meeting with his future bride; He even fix’d the month, nay, very hour For setting out upon his homeward tour: (And those acquainted with this noble man Knew how precise he’d execute his plan:)— “Five silvery moons must run their course,” he said, “Before I take her to the nuptial bed; Day, godly flame, will fire the orient strand Three months or more ere I shall reach the land, Where, O, blest country—bounded by the sea, I thank my God there is a home for me!”— And as the wheel of age roll’d swiftly by He penn’d th’ epistle which should intimate The day he hoped t’arrive at Rollingate.