Journeys Through Bookland Volume Vii Part 32

"But, wretched man!" cried she, "he only sold it for our sakes!"

The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. The latter related how he had entered into a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positively refused to sell his business unless one-half of the 2,000 francs were first paid down. It was in the hopes of obtaining this sum that he had gone to work with the contractor at Versailles; he had had an opportunity of trying his invention and of finding a purchaser.

Thanks to the money he received for it, he had just concluded the bargain with Benoit, and had brought his father the key of the new work-yard.

This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modesty and simplicity that I was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried; Michael pressed his son to his heart, and seemed to ask his pardon for having unjustly accused him.

All was now explained with honor to Robert. The conduct which his parents had ascribed to indifference really sprang from affection; he had neither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor even the n.o.bler inspiration of inventive genius; his whole motive and single aim had been the happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The day for proving his grat.i.tude had come, and he had returned them sacrifice for sacrifice!

After the explanation and exclamations of joy were over, all three were about to leave me; but the cloth being laid, I added three more places, and kept them to breakfast.

The meal was prolonged: the fare was only tolerable, but the overflowings of affection made it delicious. Never had I better understood the unspeakable charm of family love. What calm enjoyment in that happiness which is always shared with others; in that community of interests which unites such various feeling; in that a.s.sociation of existences which forms one single being of so many! What is man without those home affections which, like so many roots, fix him firmly in the earth and permit him to imbibe all the juices of life? Energy, happiness--does it not all come from them? Without family life where would man learn to love, to a.s.sociate, to deny himself? A community in little, is it not this which teaches us how to live in the great one?

Such is the holiness of home, that to express our relation with G.o.d we have been obliged to borrow the words invented for our family life. Men have named themselves the sons of a heavenly Father!

Ah! let us carefully preserve these chains of domestic union; do not let us unbind the human sheaf and scatter its ears to all the caprices of chance and of the winds; but let us rather enlarge this holy law; let us carry the principles and the habits of home beyond its bounds; and, let us realize the prayer of the Apostle of the Gentiles when he exclaimed to the new-born children of Christ:

"Be ye like-minded, having the same love, being of one accord, of one mind."

FOOTNOTES:

[314-1] This is adapted from _An Attic Philosopher in Paris_.

[315-2] The cheap wine shops of Paris are outside the Barriers, to avoid the city tax.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

_By_ WILLIAM COWPER

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

Before we read this beautiful little poem, let us prepare ourselves by learning something about the author.

William Cowper, the son of an English clergyman, was born in 1731. He was a delicate, sensitive little boy whose life was made miserable by his companions in play and at school. So timid was he that the larger boys tyrannized over him shamefully, and the smaller ones teased him as much as they liked. When his mother died, William was but six years old, and the shrinking little lad was placed in a large boarding school where the other boys were cruel and heartless. At least, so they seemed to the frightened newcomer. Probably they were no more cruel and heartless than most strong and healthy youngsters who are accustomed to give and take without whimpering. Young Cowper was merely the strange lad whose timid and hesitating manner seemed to call for discipline. Years afterwards, still remembering the agony of these years, he wrote of one big boy in particular.

"His savage treatment of me impressed such a dread of his figure upon my mind that I well remember of being afraid to lift my eyes up higher than to his knees, and that I knew him better by his shoe-buckles than by any other part of his dress."

At ten he was removed to Westminster School, where he made some good friends. Here, too, he took a more manly stand, played football and cricket with the other boys, and redeemed himself from some of his weakness. But he had numerous spells of moodiness and sadness, during which he hid himself from his fellows and refused to join their plays even. He was unusually intelligent, distinguished himself in his studies, and became a favorite with his teachers.

Among his friends here was Warren Hastings, who long years afterwards, as governor of India, was convicted of cruelty and extortion. Cowper showed the loyalty of his nature by refusing utterly to believe in the guilt of his old friend.

William's father wished to make a lawyer of his son, and when the boy had finished at Westminster he was sent to study law in London. If he had been unhappy in school, he became even more so now, for there was nothing in the legal profession to attract him. Instead of reading law he read literature; instead of writing legal papers he wrote poems and sketches. Finally, however, he became a lawyer, but he could never bring himself to practice his profession.

At one time he was given a clerkship, but in preparation for it he was asked to take an examination before the bar at the House of Lords. Here his old nervousness and timidity overpowered him, and he failed to appear; in fact, he ran away, planning to kill himself, but at the last moment his courage again failed him. After this, his mind gave way, and he was for a time in an asylum. In fact, at intervals thereafter, he had attacks of despondency and moodiness, of fear and discouragement, which showed how seriously his mind was affected.

So far this is not a very attractive picture; but it is one side of the great poet's character. That there was another we knew, for he made the most loyal friends, who opened their homes to him and were ever willing to care for him.

At one time he was engaged to be married, but an attack of insanity prevented the union, though it did not destroy the ardent friendship of the lovers. Cowper could never wholly throw off the fear of the future.

"Day and night," he once wrote, "I was upon the rack, lying down in horror and rising up in despair."

His most attached friends, the Unwins, were deeply religious people, and at their house Cowper spent his happiest years. It was a great shock to him when Mr. Unwin was thrown from a horse and killed. From that time a succession of kind friends aided him, watched him through his periods of despair and provided for his simple wants. He was pa.s.sionately fond of pets, and was happiest in caring for his rabbits, cats and other animals. He liked gardening, too, and spent a great deal of energy upon his plants.

Cowper was one of the finest correspondents that ever wrote, and his graceful and humorous letters are still read with pleasure by all who know them. Strangely enough, his gloominess rarely found its way into his poetry, which often was highly amusing, as you know who have read _John Gilpin_. _The Task_ is his greatest poem, though there are many short ones of great beauty.

Cowper was sincere and honest, and used good judgment in everything that did not concern himself. Occasionally he became dissatisfied with the style of poetry then most popular, because it was written so strictly according to rule and because heart and nature were all forgotten. What he wrote was different; putting his truthful eyes on birds and flowers, on fine scenery and on n.o.ble men and women, he wrote exactly as he saw, and let his fine sentiment and loving heart find gracious expression.

The result was that he led the way for Wordsworth, the greater man, who brought our poetry back from the bonds of formality and made it beautiful, sincere and true.

The final years of Cowper were sad ones. Mrs. Unwin was stricken with paralysis, and the poet repaid her years of care and protection by an unfailing attention that lasted till she died. It is said that after the one heart-breaking cry he uttered when he saw her dead body, he never again mentioned her name, though he lived for four years. His end came peacefully enough, in April, 1800.

When Cowper was fifty-six years old his cousin sent to him from Norfolk a picture of his mother, who had then been dead for half a century. How vivid a recollection of her loving care remained to the saddened man may be seen in the poem.

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM

O that those lips had language! Life has pa.s.sed With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine,--thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize,-- The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear!

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!

Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey,--not willingly alone.

But gladly, as[335-1] the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,-- Shall steep me in Elysian[335-2] revery, A momentary dream that thou art she.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "MY MOTHER!"]

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,-- Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?

Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- Ah, that maternal smile! it answers--Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; I saw the hea.r.s.e that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown; May I but meet thee on that peaceful sh.o.r.e, The parting word shall pa.s.s my lips no more.

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived,-- By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house[337-3] our own.

Shortlived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, That humour[338-4] interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers[338-5] may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued[338-6] flowers, The violet, the pink, the jessamine, I p.r.i.c.k'd them into paper with a pin,[338-7]

(And thou wast happier than myself the while-- Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,)-- Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart,--the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.