Tales and Legends of the English Lakes Part 6

And then for our immortal part! we want No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: The thought of death sits easy on the man Who has been born and dies among the mountains.

LEONARD.

Your dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts Possess a kind of second life: no doubt You, Sir, could help me to the history Of half these graves?

PRIEST.

For eight-score winters past, With what I've witness'd, and with what I've heard, Perhaps I might; and on a winter-evening, If you were seated at my chimney's nook, By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round; Yet all in the broad highway of the world.

Now there's a grave--your foot is half upon it-- It looks just like the rest; and yet that man Died broken-hearted.

LEONARD.

'Tis a common case.

We'll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?

It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the churchyard wall.

PRIEST.

That's Walter Ewbank.

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.

Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds Of their inheritance, that single cottage-- You see it yonder!--and those few green fields.

They toil'd and wrought, and still, from sire to son, Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little--yet a little--and old Walter, They left to him the family heart, and land With other burthens than the crop it bore.

Year after year the old man still kept up A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond, Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, And went into his grave before his time.

Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him G.o.d only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: His pace was never that of an old man: I almost see him tripping down the path With his two grandsons after him;--but you, Unless our landlord be your host to-night, Have far to travel--and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer--

LEONARD.

But those two orphans!

PRIEST.

Orphans!--such they were-- Yet not while Walter lived:--for, though their parents Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys, Two fathers in one father:--and if tears, Shed when he talk'd of them where they were not, And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, This old man, in the day of his old age, Was half a mother to them.--If you weep, Sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!

Ay--you may turn that way--it is a grave Which will bear looking at.

LEONARD.

These boys--I hope They loved this good old man?--

PRIEST.

They did--and truly: But that was what we almost overlook'd, They were such darlings of each other. For, Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, The only kinsman near them, and though he Inclined to them, by reason of his age, With a more fond, familiar tenderness, They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, And it all went into each other's hearts.

Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, Was two years taller; 'twas a joy to see, To hear, to meet them!--From their house the school Is distant three short miles--and in the time Of storm and thaw, when every water-course And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps Remain'd at home, go staggering through the fords, Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him On windy days, in one of those stray brooks-- Ay, more than once I've seen him--mid-leg deep, Their two books lying both on a dry stone Upon the hither side; and once I said, As I remember, looking round these rocks And hills on which we all of us were born, That G.o.d who made the great book of the world Would bless such piety--

LEONARD.

It may be then--

PRIEST.

Never did worthier lads break English bread; The finest Sunday that the autumn saw With all its mealy cl.u.s.ters of ripe nuts, Could never keep these boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach.

Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner Among these rocks, and every hollow place Where foot could come, to one or both of them Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.

Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; They played like two young ravens on the crags; Then they could write, ay, and speak too as well As many of their betters--and for Leonard!

The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand A Bible, and I'd wager house and field That, if he is alive, he has it yet.

LEONARD.

It seems, these brothers have not lived to be A comfort to each other--

PRIEST.

That they might Live to such end, is what both old and young In this our valley all of us have wish'd, And what, for my part, I have often pray'd: But Leonard--

LEONARD.

Then James is still left among you?

PRIEST.

'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: They had an uncle:--he was at that time A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas; And, but for that same uncle, to this hour Leonard had never handled rope or shroud.

For the boy loved the life which we lead here: And though of unripe years, a stripling only, His soul was knit to this his native soil.

But, as I said, old Walter was too weak To strive with such a torrent; when he died, The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep, A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:-- Well--all was gone, and they were dest.i.tute.

And Leonard, chiefly for his brother's sake, Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.

Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.

If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, From the great Gavel,[3] down by Leeza's banks, And down the Enna, far as Egremont, The day would be a very festival; And those two bells of ours, which there you see Hanging in the open air--but, O, good Sir!

This is sad talk--they'll never sound for him-- Living or dead. When last we heard of him, He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast. 'Twas not a little That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt, Before it ended in his death, the youth Was sadly cross'd--Poor Leonard! when we parted, He took me by the hand, and said to me, If ever the day came when he was rich, He would return, and on his father's land He would grow old among us.

LEONARD.

If that day Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him--

PRIEST.

Happy! Sir--

LEONARD.

You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one brother--

PRIEST.

That is but A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; And Leonard being always by his side Had done so many offices about him, That, though he was not of a timid nature, Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy In him was somewhat check'd; and, when his brother Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, The little colour that he had was soon stolen from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined--

LEONARD.

But these are all the graves of full-grown men!

PRIEST.

Ay, Sir, that pa.s.s'd away: we took him to us; He was the child of all the dale--he lived Three months with one, and six months with another; And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love; And many, many happy days were his.