Читать книгу: «Lancashire Sketches», страница 21

 
Ye that are young, prepare to die,
For I was young, and here I lie.
 

Others there were in this, as in many other burial-places, which were either unmeaning, or altogether unsuitable to the situation they were in. There were several half-sunken headstones in different parts of the yard, mostly bemossed and dim with age. One or two were still upright; the rest leaned one way or other. These very mementoes, which pious care had set up, to keep alive the memories of those who lay mouldering in the earth below, were sinking into the graves of those they commemorated.

At the outside of the north-east entrance of the church, lies an ancient stone coffin, dug up a few years ago in the graveyard. Upon the lid of the coffin was sculptured the full-length figure of a knight, in a complete suit of mail, with sword and shield. No further clue has been obtained to the history of this antique coffin and its effigy, than that it belonged to one of the Cheshire family of Venables, whose crest and motto ("Sic Donec") it bears. The church contains many interesting monuments, belonging to this and other families of the old gentry of Cheshire. Several of these are of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. But the finest and most interesting monuments in the church, as works of art, are those belonging to the Egerton family, of Tatton Park. At a suitable time, the sexton occasionally takes a visitor up to the gate which separates the Egerton seat and monuments from the rest of the church, and, carefully unlocking it, ascends two steps with a softened footfall, and leads him into the storied sanctum of the Lords of Tatton; where, among other costly monuments, he will be struck by the chaste and expressive beauty of a fine modern one, in memory of a young lady belonging to this family. On a beautiful tomb, of the whitest marble, the figure of a young lady reclines upon a mattress and pillow of the same, in the serenest grace of feature and attitude: and "the rapture of repose" which marks the expression of the countenance, is a touching translation, in pure white statuary, of those beautiful lines in which Byron describes the first hours of death:—

 
Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.
 

At the back of the recumbent lady, an exquisite figure of an angel kneels, and leans forward with delicate grace, watching over the reposing form, with half-opened wings, and one hand slightly extended over the dead. The effect of the whole is exceedingly beautiful, chaste, and saddening. The monument is kept carefully covered with clean white handkerchiefs, except when the family is present, when it is uncovered, until their departure. Before I was admitted to view this beautiful memorial, I had heard something of the story which it illustrates, and I inquired further of the sexton respecting it. The old man said that the young lady had been unwell only a few days previous to the evening of her death, and on that evening the family physician thought her so much better, and felt so certainly-expectant of a further improvement in her health, that he directed her attendants to get her to repose, and then they might themselves safely retire to rest for a little while. They did so; and returning soon, found her still lying precisely as they had laid her, and looking so placid in feature, that they did not know she was dead, until they came to find her quite cold. The monument represents her as she was thus found. As I stood looking upon this group of statuary, the evening sun shone through the southern windows of the old church, and the sexton—who evidently knew what the effect would be—lowered the crimson blind of the window nearest to the monument. This threw a soft rich crimson hue over the white marble tomb, the figures, and the sculptured drapery, which gave it an inexpressibly-rich appearance. So white and clean was the whole, that the white handkerchiefs which the sexton had taken off the figures, and laid upon the white basement of the tomb, looked like part of the sculpture.

The church is dedicated to St. Mary. It is proved to have existed long prior to 1188. The present steeple was erected in 1741. There is something venerable about the appearance of an old ecclesiastical building, which continually and eloquently preaches, without offending. Apart from all questions of doctrines, formulas, and governments, I often feel a veneration for an old church, akin to that expressed by him who said that he never passed one without feeling disposed to take off his hat to it.

The sun was setting westward over the woods, and we began to think of getting a quiet meal somewhere before we went back. There is generally an old inn not far from an old church. "How it comes, let doctors tell;" but it is so; and we begun to speculate upon the chance of finding one in this case. Going out of the churchyard at the lowest corner, through a quaint wicket gate, with a shed over it, a flight of steps led us down into a green dingle, embosomed in tall trees, and there, in front of us, stood a promising country "hostelrie," under the screen of the woods. We looked an instant at its bright window, and its homely and pleasant appurtenances, and then, with assured minds, darted in, to make a lunge at the larder. "A well-conducted inn is a thing not to be recklessly sneered at in this world of ours, after all," thought I. We sat down in a shady little room in front, and desired the landlord to get us some tea, with any substantial stomach-gear that was handy and plentiful. In a few minutes a snowy cloth was on the table, followed by "neat-handed Phillis," with the tea things. A profusion of strong tea, and toast, and fine cream, came next, in beautiful china and glass ware; the whole crowned with a huge dish of ham and poached eggs, of such amplitude, that I began to wonder who was to join us. Without waste of speech, we fell to, with all the appetite and enjoyment of Sancho at Camacho's wedding. The landlord kept popping in, to see that we wanted nothing, and to urge us to the attack; which was really a most needless though a generous office. After tea, we strolled another hour by the edge of the water, then took the road home, just as the sun was setting. The country was so pleasant, and we so refreshed, that we resolved to walk to Manchester, and watch the sinking of the summer twilight among the woods and fields by the way. Our route led by the edge of Dunham Park, and through Bowdon, where we took a peep at the church, and the expansive view from the churchyard. There is a fine old yew tree in Bowdon churchyard, seated around. The road from Bowdon to Manchester passes through a country which may be truly characterised as the market-garden of Manchester. We went on, through the villages of Altrincham, Sale Moor, and Stretford, thinking of his words who said,—

 
One impulse from a vernal wood
Will teach thee more of man,
Of moral evil, and of good,
Than all the sages can.
 

It was midnight when I got to bed, and sank into a sound sleep, to wake in the morning among quite other scenes. But while I live, I shall not easily forget "the tranquil charm of little Rostherne Mere."

Oliver Fernleaf's Watch

 
Oh thou who dost these pointers see,
That show the passing hour;
Say,—do I tell the time to thee,
And tell thee nothing more?
I bid thee mark life's little day
With strokes of duty done;
A clock may stop at any time—
But time will travel on.
 

—The Church Clock.

When I was first bound apprentice, I was so thick-set, and of such short stature for my age, that I began to be afraid that I was doomed to be a pigmy in size; and it grieved my heart to think of it, I remember how anxiously I used to compare my own stunted figure with the height of other lads younger than me; and seeing myself left so much below them, I remember how much I longed for a rise in the world. This feeling troubled me sorely for two or three years. It troubled me so much, indeed, that, even at church, when I heard the words, "Which of you, by taking thought, can add one cubit unto his stature?" the question touched me with the pain of a personal allusion to my own defect; and, in those days, I have many a time walked away from service on a Sunday, sighing within myself, and wondering how much a cubit was. But I had a great deal of strong life in my little body; and, as I grew older, I took very heartily to out-door exercises, and I carefully notched the progress of my growth, with a pocket-knife, against a wooden partition, in the office where I was an apprentice. As time went on, my heart became gradually relieved and gay as I saw these notches rise steadily, one over the other, out of the low estate which had given me so much pain. But, as this childish trouble died away from my mind, other ambitions awoke within me, and I began to fret at the tether of my apprenticeship, and wish for the time when I should be five feet eight, and free. Burns's songs were always a delight to me; but there was one of them which I thought more of then than I do now. It was,—

 
Oh for ane-an'-twenty, Tam!
An', hey for ane-an'-twenty, Tam!
I'd learn my kin a rattlin' sang,
An' I saw ane-an'-twenty, Tam!
 

About two years before the wished-for day of my release came, I mounted a long-tailed coat, and a chimney-pot hat, and began to reckon myself among the sons of men. My whiskers, too—they never came to anything grand—never will—but my whiskers began to show a light-coloured down, that pleased the young manikin very much. I was anxious to coax that silken fluz lower down upon my smooth cheeks; but it was no use. They never grew strong; and they would not come low down; so I gave them up at last, with many a sigh. The dainty ariels were timid, and did their sprouting gently. This was one of my first lessons in resignation. I remember, too, it was about the same time that I bought my first watch. It was a second-hand silver verge watch, with large old-fashioned numerals upon the face; and it cost twenty-one shillings. I had a good deal ado to raise the price of it by small savings, by working over-hours, and by the sale of an old accordian, and a sword-stick. Long before I could purchase it, I had looked at it from time to time as I passed by the watchmaker's window; which was on the way between my home and the shop where I was an apprentice. At last I bore the prize away. A few pence bought a steel chain; and my eldest sister gave me an old seal, and a lucky sixpence, to wear upon the chain,—and I felt for the time as if it was getting twelve o'clock with my fortunes. A long-tailed coat; a chimney-pot hat; a watch; a mild promise of whiskers; a good constitution; and a fair chance of being five feet eight, or so. No wonder that I began to push out my shins as I went about the streets. For some weeks after I became possessed of my watch, I took great pleasure in polishing the case, looking into the works, winding it up, and setting it right by public clocks, and by other people's watches. I had a trick, too, of pulling it out in public places, which commanded the range of some desired observation. But after a year or so the novelty wore off, and I began to take less interest in the thing. Besides, through carelessness and inexperienced handling, I found that my watch began to swallow up a great deal of pocket-money, in new glasses, and other repairs. I was fond of jumping, too, and other rough exercises; and through this my watch got sadly knocked about, and was a continual source of anxiety to me. At last I got rid of it altogether. It had never gone well with me; but it went from me—for good; and I was cured of the watch mania for a long while. In fact, nearly twenty years passed away, during which I never owned a watch; never, indeed, very much felt the want of one. When I look back at those years, and remember how I managed to mark the time without watch of my own, I find something instructive in the retrospect. In a large town there are so many public clocks, and bells, and so many varied movements of public life which are governed by the progress of the hours, that there is little difficulty in the matter. But in the country—in my lonely rambles—I learned, then, to read the march of time, "indifferently well," in the indications of nature, as ploughmen and shepherds do. The sights, and "shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements," became my time-markers; and the whole world was my clock. I can see many compensations arising from the lack of a watch with me during that time.

And now, after so many years of sweet independence in this respect, I find myself, unexpectedly, the owner of a watch once more. I became possessed of it rather curiously, too. The way of it was this. I was on a visit to a neighbouring town; and, in the afternoon, I called to pass an hour with an old friend, before returning home. After the usual hearty salutes, we sat down in a snug back parlour, lighted our pipes, and settled into a dreamy state of repose, which was more delightful than any strained effort at entertainment. We puffed away silently for a while; and then we asked one another questions, in a drowsy way, like men talking in their sleep; then we smoked on again, and looked vacantly round about the room, and into the fire. At last, I noticed that my friend began to gaze earnestly at my clothing; and, knowing him to be a close observer, and a man of penetrative spirit, I felt it; though I knew very well that it was all right, for he takes a kindly interest in all I wear, or do, or say. Well; he began to look hard at my clothing, beginning with my boots. I didn't care much about him examining my boots; for, as it happened, they had just been soled, and heeled, and welted afresh; with a bran new patch upon one side. If he had seen them a week before, I should have been pained, for they were in a ruinous state then; and, being rather a dandified pair originally, they looked abominable. I think there is nothing in the world so intensely wretched in outward appearance as shabby dandyism. Well; he began with my boots; and, after he had scrutinised them thoroughly for a minute or two, I felt, instinctively, that he was going to peruse the whole of my garments from head to foot, like a tapestried story. And so it was. When he had finished my boots, his eyes began to travel slowly up my leg; and, as they did so, my mind ran anxiously ahead, to see what the state of things was upon the road that his glance was coming. "How are my trousers?" thought I. There was no time to lose; for I felt his eye coming up my leg, like a dissecting knife. At last, I bethought me that I had split my trousers across one knee, about a fortnight before; and the split had only been indifferently stitched up. "Now for it," thought I, giving myself a sudden twitch, with the intention of throwing my other leg over that knee to hide the split. But I was too late. His eye had already fastened upon the place like a leech. I saw his keen glance playing slyly about the split, and my nerves quivered in throes of silent pain all the while. At last, he lifted up his eyes, and sighed, and then, looking up at the ceiling, he sighed out the word, "Aye," very slowly; and then he turned aside to light his pipe at the fire again; and, whilst he was lighting his pipe, I very quietly laid the sound leg of my trousers over the split knee. Pushing the tobacco into his pipe with the haft of an old penknife, he now asked me how things were going on in town. I pretended to be quite at ease; and I tried to answer him with the air of one who was above the necessity of such considerations. But I knew that he had only asked the question for the purpose of throwing me off my guard; and I felt sure that his eyes would return to the spot where they had left off at. And they did so. But he saw at once that the knee was gone; so he travelled slowly upwards, with persistent gaze. In two or three minutes he stopped again; it was somewhere about the third button of my waistcoat—or rather the third button-hole, for the button was off. He halted there; and his glance seemed to snuff round about the place, like a dog that thinks it has caught the scent; and I began to feel uncomfortable again; for, independent of the button being off, I had only twopence-halfpenny, and a bit of blacklead pencil, and an unpaid bill in my pocket; and somehow I thought he was finding it all out. So I shifted a little round, and began to hum within myself,—

 
Take, oh take those eyes away!
 

But it was no use. He would do it. And I couldn't stand it any longer; so I determined to bolt before he got up to my shirt front, or "dickey,"—for I had a "dickey" on, and one side of it was bulging out in a disorderly way, and I durst not try to put it right for fear of drawing his attention to it. I determined to be rid of the infliction at once, so I pretended to be in a hurry. Knocking the ashes out of my pipe, I rose up and said, "Have you got a time-table?"

"Yes."

"There's a train about now, I think."

"Yes; but stop till the next. What's your hurry? You're not here every day. Sit down and get another pipe."

"How's your clock?" said I, turning round and looking through the window, so as to get a sly chance of pushing my "dickey" into its place. "How's your clock?"

"Well, it's about ten minutes fast. Isn't it, Sarah?" said he to the servant, who was coming in with some coals.

"No," replied she. "I put it right by th' blacksmith, this mornin'."

By "the blacksmith," she meant the figure of an old man with a hammer, which struck the hours upon the bell of a public clock, a little higher up the street.

"Well," said my friend, looking at the time-table, "in any case, you're too late for this train now. Sit down a bit. I left my watch this morning, to have a new spring put in it; but I'll keep my eye on the clock, so that you shall be in time for the next. Sit you down, an' let's have a chat about old times."

I gave a furtive glance at my "dickey," and seeing it was all right, I sat down again with a sigh, laying the sound leg of my trousers carefully over my split knee. I had no sooner sat down, than he looked at my waistcoat pocket again, and said, "I say, old boy, why don't you carry a watch? It would be a great convenience."

I explained to him that I had been so many years used to notice public clocks, and to marking the time by the action of nature and by those movements of human life that are regulated by clock-work, that I felt very little need for a watch. Besides, it was as easy to ask the time of day of people who had watches, as it would be to look at one's own; and then, if I had a watch, I did not know whether the convenience of the thing would compensate for the anxiety and expense of it. He listened attentively, and then, after looking into the fire musingly for a minute or two, as if he was interpreting my excuse in some way of his own, he suddenly knocked his pipe upon the top bar of the fire-grate, and said, "By Jupiter Ammon, I'll give you one!" My friend never swears, except by that dissolute old Greek; or by a still more mysterious deity, whom he calls "the Living Jingo!" Whenever he mentions either of these, I know that he means something strong; so I sat still and "watched the case," as lawyers say.

"Mary," said he, rising, and calling to his wife, who was in another room; "Mary, wheer's that old watch?"

"I have it upstairs, in an old rosewood writing-desk," replied she.

"Just fetch it down; I want to look at it." He listened at the door, until he heard her footsteps going upstairs; and then he turned to me, chuckling and rubbing his hands; and, slapping me on the shoulder, he said, "Now then, old fellow, fill your pipe again! By the Living Jingo, you shall have the time o' day in your pocket before you leave this house." She was a good while in returning; so he shouted up the stairs, "Haven't you found it yet, Mary?"

"Yes," replied she, "it's here. I'll be down in a minute."

I began to puff very hard at my pipe; for I was getting excited. She came at last, and said, as she laid the watch in his hand, "I have thought of selling it many a time, for it is of no use lying yonder."

"Aye," replied my friend, pretending to look very hard at the works. As long as she remained in the room, he still kept quietly saying, "Aye, aye," at short intervals. But when she left the room, he earnestly watched the closing door, and then, shutting the watch, he came across to me, and, laying it in my hand, he said, "There, old boy, that's yours. Keep it out of sight till you get out of the house." And I did keep it out of sight. But I was more than ever anxious to get away by the next train, so that I could fondle it freely. It was an old silver lever watch, without fingers. It was silent, with a silence that had continued long; its face was dusty; and the case wore the cloudy hue of neglect. However, I bore my prize away at last; and, before the day was over, I had spent eighteenpence upon new fingers, and sixpence upon a yard-and-a-half of broad black watered silk ribbon for a guard. Next day, after I had polished the case thoroughly with whitening, I put on a clean shepherd's plaid waistcoat, in order to show the broad black ribbon which led to my watch. Since then, I know not how oft I have stopped to put it right by the cathedral clock; and I have found sometimes, as the Irishman did, that "the little divul had bate that big fellow by two hours in twelve." It is a curious thing, this old watch of mine; and I like it: there is something so human about it. It is full of

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles.

Sometimes the fingers stand still, even when the works are going on. Even when wound up, it has a strange trick of stopping altogether for an hour or two now and then, as if smitten with a fit of idleness; and then it will set off again of its own accord, like a living thing wakening up from sleep. It stops oftener than it goes. It is not so much a time-keeper as a standing joke; and looking at it from this point of view, I am very fond of this watch of mine. Before I had it, whenever I chanced to waken in the night time, I used to strike a light, and read myself to sleep again. But now, when I waken in the night, I suddenly remember, "Oh, my watch!" Then I listen, and say to myself, "I believe it has stopped again!" and then, listening more attentively, and hearing its little pulse beating, I say, "No: there it goes. Bravo!" And I strike a light, and caress the little thing; and wind it up. I have great fun with it, in a quiet way. I believe, somehow, that it is getting used to me; and I shouldn't like to part with it any more. There is a kind of friendship growing between us that will last until my own pulse is stopped by the finger of death. And what is death, after all; but the stopping of life's watch; to be wound up again by the Maker? I should not like to lose this old watch of mine now. It is company when I am lonely; it is diversion when I am tired; and, though it is erratic, it is amiable and undemonstrative. I will make it famous yet, in sermon or in song. I have begun once or twice, "Oh thou!–" and then stopped, and tried, "When I behold–" and then I have stopped again. But I will do it yet. If the little thing had a soul, now, I fear that it would never be saved; for, "faith without works is vain." But I have faith in it, though it has deceived me oft. My quaint old monitor! How often has it warned me, that when man goes "on tick," it always ends in a kind of "Tic douloureux." But the hour approaches, when its tiny pulse and mine must both stand still; for—

 
Owd Time,—he's a troublesome codger,—
Keeps nudgin' us on to decay;
An' whispers, you're nobbut a lodger;
Get ready for goin' away.
 

And when "life's fitful fever" is past, I hope they will not sell my body to the doctors; nor my watch to anybody; but bury us together; and let us rest when they have done so.