Journeys Through Bookland Volume Viii Part 26

And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry, too, of the neighborhood for many miles around, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery[336-7] by heart, ay, and a great part of the Testament[336-8] besides.

Here little Alice spread her hands.

Then I told what a tall, upright, gracious person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer,--here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted,--the best dancer, I was saying, in the country, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain, but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious.

Then I told how she used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said "those innocents would do her no harm;"

and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she,--and yet I never saw the infants.

Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous.

Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren, having us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the twelve Caesars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out,--sometimes in the s.p.a.cious old-fas.h.i.+oned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me,--and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls,[338-9] without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then,--and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew-trees,[338-10] or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but to look at,--or in lying about upon the fresh gra.s.s with all the fine garden smells around me,--or basking in the orangery,[338-11] till I could almost fancy myself ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth,--or in watching the dace[338-12] that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings,--I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such-like common baits of children.

Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not un.o.bserved by Alice he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ROAMING ABOUT THAT HUGE MANSION]

Then, in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L----,[340-13]

because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out,--and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries;--and how their uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed[340-14] boy--for he was a good bit older than I--many a mile when I could not walk for pain; and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed;--and how when he died,[340-15] though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarreling with him (for we quarreled sometimes), rather than not to have him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his limb.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HE WOULD MOUNT A METTLESOME HORSE]

Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother.

Then I told how, for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W----n;[342-16]

and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens.

When suddenly turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of representment, that I became in doubt which of them stood before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding, till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech:

"We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartram father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious sh.o.r.es of Lethe[342-17] millions of ages before we have existence, and a name."

And immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget[342-18]

unchanged by my side,--but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.

You know Lamb's pathetic history, and you can see how _Dream Children_ came right out of his own sad heart, and how it teems with affectionate recollection. The children, too,--do they not seem like living beings? Can you believe that Alice and John never lived? Let us go back to the essay and see how little it is that he really says about them. Here it is:

ALICE

JOHN

1. _Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be upbraiding._

She thought it very sad that any one should pull down the beautiful mantelpiece in the great hall, but she would not find fault with him--she was too gentle, too tender for that!

1. _Here John smiled as much as to say, "that would be foolish indeed."_

John is quite the boy--wise enough to see how ridiculous it was to put a fine, rich old carved chimney among a lot of gilt gimcracks--and rather anxious to show his wisdom.

2. _Here little Alice spread her hands._

Don't you think she knew her Psaltery by heart, and a great part of the Testament besides? "Of course it is very _wonderful_ that grandma knew so much--but then, I know it too."

2. _Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous._

The tale of the ghostly infants has frightened John a little, but he does not like to admit any timidity there with his father and sister, so he straightens up, expands his eyebrows and looks very brave and manly.

3. _Here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted._

The mere suggestion of a dance sets the little foot in motion, and you and I know that Alice is a lively girl who would be as proud of being the best dancer in the country as she was of knowing as much Scripture as her grandmother knew. But how quickly she stops when her father looks grave! We do not think that he objects to Alice dancing, but he knows that he is going to tell her the sad part of the story, and that the dancing accompaniment of Alice's little right foot would be very much out of place.

Later, Alice joined with John in wis.h.i.+ng for the grapes, but she was equally willing to give them up when it seemed childish to take them.

3. _Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes which, not un.o.bserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her; and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant._

While the father has been telling of his glorious childhood among the rich fruit on the great estate, John has quietly picked up a bunch of grapes, and his quick-witted father, seeing the act, sneers a little at _such-like common baits of children_. John, wis.h.i.+ng to be manly, puts the grapes back without a word, though evidently he will be glad enough to return to them at the proper time.

Not a selfish child at all was John, for he meditated dividing the grapes with Alice, and they would have been so sweet and cooling while the children stood there listening to the story.

4. _Here the children fell a-crying and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for Uncle John, and they looked up and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother._

How tender-hearted they both are, and yet until now they had hardly realized that it was for Uncle John that they were wearing their fresh mourning. This was a new grief too sad to them, but it turned their gentle sympathies to their pretty dead mother, of whom they were always glad to hear. The father has scarcely begun to speak when he sees in Alice so much resemblance to his dead wife that he almost thinks it is the mother who stands beside him. So violent is his emotion that he gradually comes out of his reverie, and as he does so the children fade away and recede into the distance, saying, "_We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams._"

Is it not a wonderful thing that with so few words a writer can put his heart so much into yours that you believe almost as much as he does in the reality of the vision?

In the sketch of Lamb we said that his character was very strongly reflected in his writings, and this essay shows the fact wonderfully well. Imagine the man, lonely, heartbroken, weary from the awful task he had set himself, sitting in his bachelor armchair by the fire, dreaming his evening away. Who are the people that come to him in his dreams and what are the incidents? First his grandmother Field, with whom he had spent a great deal of his childhood; then his sweetheart Alice, now married to another, with children of her own; then his brother, by no means a pleasing character, but a lazy and selfish man who, however, in the rich, loving heart of his brother stands out as handsome, affectionate, n.o.ble and brave. How keenly he feels the bitter loss which comes to him with tenfold severity when he awakens, and which he makes the closing thought in the essay! Lastly, the faithful Mary, unchanged, appears at his side,--his waking companion, his greatest burden and his greatest joy.

Besides these evidences of his devoted and affectionate disposition, we find proof of his vivid imagination when as a child he gazes _upon the old busts of the twelve Caesars that had been emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them_. In his _busy-idle_ amus.e.m.e.nts at the great house he shows the innocence and simplicity of his pleasures, and in the delicate way in which he reproves Alice and John, his genial, sympathetic disposition as well as his abundant good humor. How much finer it was to say, "_and such-like common baits of children_" than to have said, "John, put the grapes back on the plate."

FOOTNOTES:

[335-1] Lamb's grandmother, Mary Field, was for a long time housekeeper in one of the great English country houses, but not in the county alluded to in the text.

[335-2] This means that the incidents had but lately become familiar to the children. The story is the old one of the _Babes in the Wood_, as it is sometimes called.

[335-3] One of Lamb's fancies; the chimney-carving in the real house represented stag and boar hunts.

[336-4] Westminster Abbey.

[336-5] An imaginary person with a cheap, showy drawing-room.

[336-7] The Book of Psalms, or such a portion of it as is used in the services of the English Church.

[336-8] New Testament.

[338-9] The trees were planted on the south side of the walls, which protected them from the north wind and ripened them by reflected warmth.