Tales of the village

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BY

RECTOR OF ELFORD,

AND CHAPLAIN .TO THE LORD BISHOP OP OXFORD.

Secon'D .Scries.

“ Now if a shepherd know not which gra.S3 will bane, and which not, how is he fit to be a shepherd ? Wherefore the Parson hath thoroughly canvassed all the particulars of human actions, at least all those which he observeth are most incident to his parish.”

Herbert’s Country Parson.

FIRST AMERICAN EDITION.

NEW- YORK :

D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.

PHILADELPHIA :

MDCCCXLIV.

TaSl

liATJS DEO.

CHAPTER XI ' h i

?Cf)e ptourncrs.

’Tis sweet, as year by year wc lose Friends out of sight, in faith to muse How grows in Paradise our store.

Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on.

Through prayer unto the tomb ;

Still, as ye watch life’s falling leaf.

Gathering from every loss and grief Hope of now spring and endless home.

Christian Tear.

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Chapter I

Late in the afternoon of a “brief November day,” I found myself approaching the church of Abbot’s-Arderne, a village some two miles south-west of my own parish of Yateshull, and on the opposite side of the river Trent.

The day was not ungenial for the time of year — indeed, the air was soft and warm ; but there is something of peculiar melancholy in that season, when the rich and varied hues of autumn having passed away, its sombre accompaniments only remain; when nature has not assumed her winter garb ; and when, instead of clear bright skies, and frosty, but bracing and healthful air, dark, leaden clouds invest with one monotonous hue of sullen gray every feature of the landscape, or thick, penetrating vapours obscure it from the sight. It was so on the present occasion : the incessant rains and equinoctial gales had ceased ; but the whole atmosphere was so overcharged with 'moisture, that the drops fell fast and thick from the boughs of the now almost leafless trees, and wreaths of mist hung upon the meadows, and followed the windings of the swollen river. All around me was dark and cheerless ; and I felt the depressing influences which the

TALES OF THE VILLAGE.

sight of decaying nature can hardly fail to produce in those who rejoice in its opening bloom.

But if the day was melancholy, not less so was the task in which 1 was about to be engaged.

My friend Walter Long, the vicar of Arderne, had that morning requested me to read the burial-service over one of his parishioners ; a lady with whom he and his family had long lived in such habits of friendship and daily intercourse, that he felt himself quite unequal to the personal discharge of the painful duty which had devolved upon him. Nor could I wonder at his distress j for the deceased Mrs. Fullerton was one of those persons whose loss is felt acutely, far beyond their own immediate household ; and she had been cutoff, after a very few days of severe suffering, in almost the prime of life. Her husband, who had died twelve or fourteen years previously, had placed such unbounded confidence in her, that he had left her his estate of Godsholme for life, and constituted her sole guardian of his son and only child.

At Godsholme Mrs. Fullerton had resided from the commencement of her widowhood ; the only companions of her solitude being her son, and a little girl, the orphan child of a distant relative of her late husband, whom she had adopted in infancy, and whose education was at once the anxiety and solace of her life. But although Mrs. Fullerton lived in comparative retirement, seldom moving from home, or visiting for visiting’s sake, she was, perhaps, the most universally popular person in the neighbourhood, and her society was courted as that of a woman of most pleasing manners and cultivated mind. But the deceased lady was much more than this[;Tor

THE MOURNERS.

while she exercised at home the hospitality which was befitting her means and position in life, and thereby gained the good-will of her equals, it was among her inferiors that her character was most truly known and appreciated. Like the good Shunamite of old, she might have said, “I dwell among mine own people and her own people had daily experience of the advantages which that simple expression secured to them. Charitable in the true sense of the term, (neither profuse, that is, not indiscriminate ; neither encouraging indolence, nor allowing herself to be imposed upon,) she was as much reverenced as loved. Compassionate and kind-hearted, she grudged neither cost nor pains, whenever it was in her power, to alleviate the trials of those who were in sickness or sorrow. Courteous and gentle, yet sincere and open as the day, she said what she meant, and meant what she said. Sound in judgment, and with fewer prejudices than fall to the lot of most persons, she was always a safe adviser in difficulties, and was ever ready to aid with her counsels her poorer neighbours; among whom, indeed, she was looked upon as the universal referee. These were some of the qualities which endeared her to her dependents, and fitted her to discharge the duties of her appointed station.

She had, however, yet higher claims on our regard and admiration ; for she was one of the humblest, most simple-minded Christians with whom it has been my happiness to become acquainted; and she was quite a pattern to those around her in the quiet practical discharge of religious duties. Indeed, religion was with her the one * 2 Kings iii. 13.

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object of existence : hy this all the petty details of her daily life were hallowed ; from this they all took their tone ; to this all her thoughts and wishes (so far as human infirmity permits) were referred. Upon mature reflection and conviction, a sound and zealous Churchwoman, she became on that ground a peculiar blessing to the parish where she dwelt. Ever, in carrying out her schemes of usefulness, did she act in subordination to the parochial minister, asunto God’s priest and Christ’s ambassador. Never did she permit herself to meddle — (no common praise for zeal in these times !) — with matters which were beyond her province j never did she interfere with a trust whidi had not been committed to her ; never did she sanction with her name or influence, measures, persons, or societies, which the clergyman of the parish did not approve. Her happiness (and her wisdom) was to act under him, to co-operate with him in his labours, and to aid him in them to the full extent of her means ; not giving grudgingly or of necessity, when called on to devote a portion of her substance to pious uses, but receiving the invitation to do so with thankfulness, and esteeming it a very high privilege to be permitted in any way to contribute to God’s honour, or the extension of His kingdom.

“ And being such as this,” thought I to myself, as I walked along, “ how mysterious is the dispensation which has thus suddenly cut off such an exemplary person from the land of the living, while her light was shining so brightly before men, and she was adorning the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things ! ‘ Her sun is gone down

while it is yet day and, oh, how sorely will its light be * Jer. XX. 9.

THE MOURNERS.

needed ! Her boy, just of an age when such a parent’s advice and guidance would ^be most valuable. Little Mildred Clifford too, poor thing ! deprived of a mother’s care, and left, I fear, without a home or a friend in the world ! Well, God’s ways are not our ways, neither are our thoughts His thoughts ! Often does He remove the person most needed, at the time apparently most needful for their continuance among us; as if to show us that He requires not the aid of man, and that He can work His will as effectually with one instrument as with another. There is comfort in this ; and there is comfort in the thought that by being summoned thus early, poor Mrs. Fullerton may have been saved many a sorrow and many a trial. It is a most consoling doctrine that ‘ the righteous is taken away from the evil to come ;’ and how cheering are the words of the book of Wisdom : ‘ Though the righteous be prevented with death, yet shall he be in rest. For honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor that is measured by number of years : but wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old age.’ ”*

Thus musing with myself, I approached the churchyard of Arderne. The bell was tolling ; the lich-gates were already set open for the admission of the funeral train ; and to my right a mound of fresh earth showed the position of the new- dug grave. I afterwards learned that it was by her own especial desire that no vault or resting-place within the church had been prepared for her ; she desired, she said, “ that no difference should be

Wisd. iv. 7, 9.

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made between herl-emains and those of her fellow-Christians who were sleeping round her : earth should be restored to earth, and dust to dust.”

I entered the church ; but finding I had arrived too soon, I returned once more into the open air, and strove to bring my mind into perfect unison with the solemn duty I was about to perform ; and by meditating on the mortality of others, to prepare the more effectually for my own.

It was a lovely spot, that humble [cemetery. The church itself, built, as so many of our country churches are, close to the manor-house, possesses considerable architectural beauty, and seems from the earliest times to have been an object of constant interest to the lords of the soil, whose grim and mutilated effigies lie recumbent on altar-tombs of sculptured alabaster, or are still to be traced on the monumental brasses which nearly cover the chancel-floor. The church-yard is surrounded on three sides by the gardens and pleasure-grounds of Arderne Court ; and the tall cypress and dark umbrageous cedar, together with the venerable yews, throw their deep shadows over the surface of a smooth and neatly kept lawn, which, but for those long narrow hillocks that appear at intervals, and the tombstones which now and then break the regularity of the outline, is but little likely to convey the thought that the worm of corruption holds his feast below.

Yet, mingled with so much calm beauty, there was an air of solemn sadness around. The entire seclusion of the spot ; the silence, unbroken save by the occasional tollings of the bell, and the cawing of the rooks in the ad-

THE MOURNERS.

joining grove ; the sombre hue of the evergreens, which, t for the most part, surrounded it ; the heaps of withered leaves that strewed the ground on every side, — all these were calculated to impress the mind with grave and solemn thoughts, and to reiterate (though with still, small voice) the awful exhortation, to watch and pray, because we “know not the hour.”

And now the bell, which had hitherto given out its tone at distant and broken intervals, became at once more regular, and was tolled more rapidly, till, as the dark forms of the mourners were discerned among the trees, the full peal burst forth joyously, — not jarring on the feelings, or mocking the sorrows of the living, but welcoming, as it were, the dead in Christ to their calm repose, and speaking the Church’s greeting to such as, resting from their labours, were about to be committed to their consecrated bed, in sure and certain hope of a glorious re-awakening.

The funeral-train advanced, and I went forth to meet it. The intention of the family of the deceased lady had been, that the solemnity should be as unostentatious and private as possible ; and, indeed, some half-dozen of her kinsmen and friends formed the original procession. But as it proceeded on its way, the numbers had augmented rapidly ; and when the corpse entered the churchyard, it was followed by no inconsiderable portion of the population of Arderne. The poor (so often spoken of as though they were unfeeling, because they do not with sickly sentiment talk about what they feel, and because those who so speak of them do not understand them) have their own quiet ways of showing gratitude ; and a few blunt words

TALES OF THE VILLAGE.

of sympathy from them, or some sincere yet simple-hearted demonstration of good will, are, to my mind, worth all the empty fluent professions of that class, which is apt to arrogate to itself the exclusive possession of delicacy and refinement.

Such evidence of their kindly feeling was not wanting on the present occasion. Mrs. Fullerton had been, as I have already intimated, in a special manner, the friend and favourite of her poorer neighbours. As of the patriarch Job, so might it be said of her, that “ when the ear heard her, then it blessed her ; when the eye saw her, it gave witness to her ; the blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon her ; and she caused the widow’s heart to sing for joy.”* And now, when her bounty and kindness had ceased, and when no interested motives for a show of gratitude could exist, they, whom that bounty had supported, or whose trials her many acts of kindness had lightened, voluntarily came forward to pay their humble tribute of respect to her memory, and of affectionate regret. The children whom she had taught at school, their parents, and not a few infirm, tottering creatures, who had scarce left their cottages for months, formed the rear of the mourning company. “ Madam Fullerton,” they said, ‘‘ had been a good friend to them and theirs, and they would even see the last of her.” So they followed her to her grave j some few habited in decent mourning, but the rest in their usual daily dress, — only, perhaps, a handkerchief that once was black, or a bit of faded riband, or rusty crape, had been added for

Job xxix. 11-13.

the occasion, as the only outward signs of woe which their humble means afforded. But there was sorrow on every face— the index of an aching heart within.

Thus accompanied, the corpse was carried, for the last time, into the house of God ; the service within the walls of the church was concluded ; and then, once more, the procession was formed. The grave had been dug at the foot of a taper cross of stone, of exquisite design, which, in this burial-ground (and, I believe, in some few others) has still been preserved uninjured ; undamaged by the storms of centuries, and (happier still !) unbroken by puritanical violence ; fixed with its massive base amid the relics of mortality, and pointing, with exulting head, to that bright world where tears shall be wiped from off all faces, and where He for ever dwells who hath taken the sting from death, who hath tamed the strength of hell, and made the grave the gate of immortality.

Hither the coffin is borne : it is lowered into its narrow resting-place; “ earth’^ is consigned “to earth,' ashes to ashes, dust to dust;” the prayers are concluded, the blessing pronounced, and the service of the Church is over.

Then it was that the two persons most deeply concerned in this impressive and melancholy scene appeared to become sensible, for the first time, of its stern reality. Hitherto, under the novelty of their trial, or the stunning effects of grief, they had remained utterly passive, instinctively doing what was suggested to them, but scarcely seeming conscious of the extent of their bereavement. It is ever thus in severe afflictions : it is not at first that the heart knoweth its own bitterness ; the sharpest pangs are not felt till excitement is over, and there is no pressing

TALES OF THE VILLAGE.

call for further exertion. Up to this time exertion was needed ; and, no doubt, both of them had exerted their utmost for the sake of the other — Mark for Mildred, and Mildred for Mark ; and so they had stood, side by side, their faces indeed buried in their handkerchiefs, but without that violence of outward grief to which undisciplined minds would have given way. When, however, the funeral-service ceased, and the crowd on either side fell back, in order to allow the youthful mourners to take a last look at the coffin Avhich contained the remains of her whom both had loved with the depth of filial devotion, — then it seemed that the greatness of their desolation burst upon them ; for every tinge of colour faded from the lad’s fine manly face, as Mark Fullerton drew Mildred’s arm within his own, and led her forward to the foot of the grave ; while she, brushing away with her hand the long dishevelled ringlets of fair hair that covered her beautiful face, raised her eyes with deep affection towards him ; and then, giving one long, piercing, agonized look into the open grave, hid her face in her hands, and sobbed as though her heart was breaking.

Oh ! that last look ! — the last ! — even though it be in death and sorrow — the last look ! how vividly is its remembrance borne in our bosoms while life continues !

After some brief pause, Mark and Mildred turned away in overwhelming grief from the spot where they had been standing ; the other mourners slowly follow ; the sexton assumes their place ; and, as the crowd retires, ‘ that sound is heard which, often as I hear it, I never yet could listen to with indifference, and which I think is the most curdling, the most chilling, and the saddest that

THE MOURNERS.

ever falls on mortal ear,— the sharp hollow rattle occasioned by the first spadeful of gravel falling on the coffin-lid, succeeded by duller and duller reverberations, as the soil is filled in.

“ Ah, well-a-day !” I heard an old man exclaim to his lame companion, as I followed them down the churchwalk; “well-a-day, Becky! if ever there was a good Christian soul, I do believe she lies in that grave yonder.”

“You may say that, neighbour; and what we poor creatures shall do without her, the Lord only knows.”

“ Ay, ay ; many a comfortable bit and sup have we had from her kitchen, and many a yard of good warm clothing : more, by token, she ordered Master Saunders to make this coat for me, for she said she couldn’t abide my wearing such an old one on Christmas-day.”

“ Poor lady I she little thought then that you would so soon wear it at her burying,” rejoined Becky. “We shall be sore losers now she’s gone ; for it’s not like that they young things will take much thought about us poor folk.”

“And that’s true,” said the old man; “they’ll have gayer thoughts by and by. I’ll warrant them, for all they are so downcast and tearful to-night.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, Simeon Clayton; they may be light-hearted again before long : they are young, and it is but natural ; but they will never be as they have been ; their eyes are opened this day, and they have learned what this world is made of— sorrow and trial for the young ; and for the old, aches and pains, as we know full well, Simeon. God help us !”

“Yes,” thought I to myself; “poor children, their

TALES OF THE VILLAGE.

eyes are opened to-day. There is no sorrow in after-life like the sorrow of the first bereavement. As we grow in years, we become callous, case-hardened, selfish ; our thoughts are centred in ourselves j our own interests and comforts are the things which occupy our minds ; we set aside painful thoughts, and so habituate ourselves to look on calmly and composedly, as friends and kinsfolk drop into their graves. But in youth it is not so ; the warm feelings of the heart are then as yet unchilled by the world’s influence ; our bright hopes are then un dimmed by disappointment ; our generous, open tempers are as yet not soured by self-love. Yet, bitter and enduring as is an early affliction, the lesson which it is calculated to convey is far more easily learned in youth than in maturer years. True, the grave once opened, never closes till we are ourselves laid within it ; the tears shed in our first bereavement are never wholly dried ; all after-sorrows take their tone from that absorbing one. Still, in my estimation, they are the happiest whose trials come upon them ere the mind of innocent and simple childhood has passed away, and with it the trusting, child-like habits of submission, which are the best preparation for making God’s will our own, and for acquiring the most difficult of all things — the hard-learnt lesson of obedience. May the present grievous chastening yield the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them that are exercised thereby !”

With these thoughts in my mind, I proceeded on my way, enjoying the balmy freshness of the autumnal evening. A light air sprang up ; the mist that hung upon the lowlands was dispelled ; the sun, so long obscured, burst forth for a while, warming, cheering, invigorating the face

THE MOURNERS.

of nature ; and then, amid its cloudy pavilion of gold, and purple, and all other gorgeous hues, went down behind the roof of Arderne church, — appropriate termination to the scene in which I had been engaged — meet emblem of the rest of those who sleep in Jesus, and who, when their light has shone its appointed time before men, shed forth accumulated lustre in the moment of their departure, and then fading from before us, sink but to rise upon another hemisphere, and beam out with unfading splendour in a pure and cloudless sky !

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5r!)c UUIafle CSossfps.

Yet here Disguise, the city’s vice, is seen,

And slander steals along and taints the green;

At her approach domestic peace is gone. Domestic broils at her approach come on ;

She to the wife the husband’s crime conveys. She tells the husband when his consort strays ; Her busy tongue through all the little state Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate.

Crabbs ; The Village.

• 3*

If the inhabitant of a city pleases, he may pass his days unnoticed and unknown ; for there is no solitude so profound as his who finds himself alone in a crowd. Unless he courts observation, scarce any one will give themselves the trouble to inquire whence he comes, or whither he goes ; nay, his next-door neighbours may live and die in ignorance of his very name. But there is po such state of existence in the small town, or country village. In such limited communities every man’s eye is on his neighbour, every body’s ear is open to his neighbour’s doings ; and woe be to the unlucky wight who imagines that he can so much as set two dishes on his dinner-table without an inquisitive friend having previously ascertained the contents of his covers.

To illustrate my meaning, and introduce the reader to some ladies with whom he will soon be better acquainted :

“Mrs. Adderbury is expecting her sister Darnaway,” observes Miss Peck ; “for Beeves the butcher says she has ordered a sv/eetbread for Tuesday.”

“Yes,” rejoined Miss Burr, on the occasion alluded to ; “ and if Lucy Darnaway comes. I’ll engage that

TALES OF THE VILLAGE.

Lieutenant Seabear isn’t far behind. Indeed, I as good as know that all three of them are to drink tea with the Kipps’s on Wednesday, for Susan Kipps has sent her old brown silk to Miss Rigmaiden’s to be turned (more, by token, it has been turned twice already) j and Miss Rigmaiden told me she was to be sure to have it ready by Wednesday morning; and Mrs. Kipps herself asked me how many eggs I put in my tea-cakes. She never would make tea-cakes, you know, unless she was going to give a tea-party ; and she never asks any body to tea but the Kents and Adderburys, — and the Kents, you know, are all ill with the mumps.”

Such are the objects of daily interest, such the tenour of daily conversation, among a not uncommon class of persons in country places. And happy would it be for themselves, and for those around them, if the general tone and temper of their remarks were as innocuous as in the specimen just quoted. But when they who have much leisure and few resources once allow themselves to get into habits of gossiping, they soon become busy-bodies and evil-speakers ; the most trivial actions of others become important in their eyes; the worst construction is put upon every thing ; where no motive is alleged, it costs them little effort to invent one ; and as the thirst of acquiring and imparting the news of the day increases, Christian charity is lost in the love of scandal, and Christian meekness gives place to ill-natured tattle and censoriousness.

Like all other parishes, the parish of Yateshull had its gossips; and at the time to'which I allude the office was ably filled by two ladies, Miss^Prowle and her niece,

THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS.

Miss Burr, who occupied a comfortable residence in our main street, (selected because it commanded a view of three roads,) and who, for want of other employment, “spent their time,” like the Athenians of old, “ in nothing else, but either to tell or hear some new thing.” Of the former of these ladies — namely. Miss Anna Maria Prowle — it is sufficient to say, that, having been a coquette in her youth, and having now numbered six-and-fifty summers, she had passed half a century with as little profit to herself or her fellow-creatures as can be conceived. She might have been the original of Cowper’s painful portrait :

“ Of temper as envenom’d as an asp,

Censorious, and her every word a wasp.

In faithful memory she records the crimes Or real or fictitious of the times,

Laughs at the reputations she has torn,

And holds them dangling at arm’s length in scorn.”

Whether this unfortunate person had experienced disappointments which had soured her temper, whether she had laboured under [early disadvantages, or had been driven by want of occupation to become as mischievous and meddling a character as she was when I became acquainted with her, I know not ; but all that I saw of her led me to judge that she was a miserable being, who could only find alleviation of her own pain while she was inflicting it on others. Once, and only once, (it was during an attack of dangerous illness,) did I find myself able to touch that seared and callous heart ; she then spoke with bitter remorse of the unprofitableness of her past existence, and acknowledged how deeply she had offend-

TALES OF THE VILLAGE.

ed God with sins of the tongue. As she recovered, I had really hoped to see a pernmanent change in her character ; but, alas ! the good seed had fallen on a soil where weeds soon sprang up and choked it. With returning health she returned to her ancient habits, — like the opium-eater, who cannot exist without the drug that is killing him, — she found her life insupportable without the stimulus of scandal ; and when I gently urged on her the fulfillment of her promises to employ her mind in more profitable things, and occupy herself in the discharge of active duties, she replied that my advice would have been very appropriate for the head of a family, “ but a single woman,” she added, “ has no duties !”

Alas ! what a miserable, and yet how common a fallacy is this ! — for to what, but to such a principle adopted and acted upon, is the popular notion attributable which makes “ an old maid” the personification of uselessness and selfishness ? How grievous it is that the whole body of unmarried females should thus be made answerable for the errors of a portion oftheir number, and how unjust, in many instances, is the charge against them ! As for one, who, because she is single, persuades herself that society has no claims upon her, I scarce know whether she is most to be piiied or contemned. How thankless must such an one be for the leisure afforded her for the improvement of her own mind ; how insensible to the opportunities of doing all the good within her reach ; how forgetful of the reiterated admonitions of Holy Writ, that in eveiij state and condition of life we are accountable beings, and that for every action committed in that state we shall be called to account !

THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS.

On the other hand, what character is more lovely in the eyes of God and man than that of one whose days are spent in a course of quiet usefulness, and whose ambition rises no higher than to become an object of interest and regard to those around her? Good temper, gentleness, and unobtrusiveness, freedom from jealousies, vanity, and peevishness, together with a steady, modest demeanour, must, of necessity, form the chief ingredients in such a character ; and so close an union of amiable qualities can scarcely fail to make it attractive in its domestic circle. In fact there is no class to whom social life owes more than it does to unmarried females. How many parents have had their declining years supported ' and solaced by the devotion of daughters, who, for their sakes, and 'in order to minister to their infirmities, and alleviate the ravages of disease and sorrow, have (it may be) declined the marriage-state ! How many orphan children have owed their nurture, their education, and their principles, to the piety and the generous, affectionate attention of some unmarried sister or aunt ! And, to take a wider field of observation, where shall we find such kind friends to the poor, — where such efficient visitors of our schools, our hospitals, our benevolent societies, — where such cheerful, ready co-operators in the labours of Christian charity, — in one word, where shall we find such blessings to a neighbourhood as among this too often despised and depreciated class ?