[176] Which passed through the village of Westonbury, (situated about two miles from the “Hall,”) where Arnold had “book’d” himself for his journey home.
[177] The Sun.
XIII.
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.
[178] Arnold’s father.
XIV.
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.
[179] As reported in Lady Prew’s alarming letter.
XV.
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.”
XVI.
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.
XVII.
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!
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
I.
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.
[180] Pointing to the field, which could be seen from the garden, where they were standing.
II.
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.
[181] And familiarising with him, preliminary to the question.
[182] The deceased Lady Prew.
III.
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.
[183] The doorway.
IV.
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.
V.
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.
[184] A portion of a letter, which bore the impression of the seal of the late Lord Mountjoy, and which old Squire Prew had (on the occasion of one of his visits) left at the cottage.
[185] The preceding sentence—“And this the dawn of thy prosperity.”
VI.
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.
[186] The Sun.
[187] A purse containing some gold.
VII.
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.
[188] Vagrant beggars.
VIII.
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.
[189] The early part of the nineteenth century, the date when the incidents which form this poem are to be considered to have their origin.
[190] Whistling of the whip.
[191] Something over the proper fare.
IX.
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.
[192] The sun.
[193] Obscured.
[194] Public-house signboards.
[195] The various incidents recorded in this section.
X.
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.
XI.
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!”