Tom Cringle's Log Part 62

"No, my dear sir; you know I am an Episcopalian."

"And I am a Roman Catholic. What then? I have been at a Gaudeamus, and why might not you have been at one too? Oh the fun of such a meeting!

the feast of reason, and the flow of Ferintosh, I and the rich stories, ay, fatter than ever I would venture on, and the cricket-like chirps of laughter of the probationer, and the loud independent guffaw of the placed minister, and the sly innuendos about the land round the Jordan, when our freens get half foo. Oh how I honour a Gaudeamus! And why,"

he continued, "should the excellent men not rejoice, Tom? Are they not the very men who should be happy? Is a minister to be for ever boxed up in his pulpit--for ever to be wagging his pow, bald, black, or grizzled as it may be, beneath his sounding board, like a bullfrog below a toadstool. And like the aforesaid respectable quadruped or biped (it has always puzzled me which to call it), is he never to drink any thing stronger than water? Hath not a minister eyes? hath not a minister hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, pa.s.sions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, that another man is? If you p.r.i.c.k them, do they not bleed? If you tickle them, do they not laugh? And shall we grudge them a Caudeamus now and then? Shall opera peracta ludemus be in the mouths of an mankind, from the dirty little greasy-faced schoolboy, who wears a red gown and learns the Humanities and Whiggery in the Nineveh of the West, I as the Bailie glories to call it, to the King upon his throne, and a dead letter, as well as a dead language, to them, and them only?

Forbid it, the Honourable the Lord Provost--forbid it, the Honourable the Lord Provost and all the Bailies, and those who sit in Council with them! Forbid it,--the whole august aggregate of terror to evildoers, and praise of them who do well! Forbid it, the Devil and Dr Faustus!"

By this time I had smuggled the jug out of our amigo's claw, and had done honour to his pledge. "Do you know, my dear Mr Bang, I have always been surprised that a man of your strong intellect, and clear views of most matters, should continue, in profession at least, a Roman Catholic?"

Aaron looked at me with a seriousness, an unaffected seriousness in his manner, that possessed me with the notion that I had taken an unwarrantable liberty. "Profession," at length said he, slowly and deliberately, apparently weighing every word carefully as it fell from him, as one is apt to do when approaching an interesting subject, on which you desire not to be misunderstood--"Profession--what right have you to a.s.sume this of me or any man, that my mode of faith is but profession?" and then the kind-hearted fellow, perceiving that his rebuke had mortified me, altering his tone, continued, but still with a strong tinge of melancholy in his manner--"Alas! Tom, how often will weak man, in his great arrogance, a.s.sume the prerogative of his Maker, and attempt to judge--honestly, we will even allow, according to his conception--of the heart and secret things of another, but too often, in reality, by the evil scale of his own! Shall the potsherd say to his frail fellow, Thou art weak, but I am strong? Shall the moudiewort say to his brother mole--(I say, Quashie, mind that mule of yours don't snort in the water, will ye?)--Blind art thou, but lo, I see? Ah, Tom, I am a Roman Catholic; but is it thou who shalt venture down into the depths of my heart, and then say, whether I be so in profession only, or in stern unswerving sincerity?"

I found I had unwittingly touched a string that vibrated to his heart.

"I am a Roman Catholic, but, I humbly trust, not a bigoted one; for were it not against the canons of both our churches, I fear I should incline to the doctrine of Pope."

'He can't be wrong whose life is in the right.'

"My fathers, Tom, were all Catholics before me; they may have been wrong; but I am only my father's son--not a better, and, I fear, I fear, not so wise a man.--Pray, Tom, did you ever hear of even a good Jew, who, being converted, did not become a bad Christian? Have you not all your life had a repugnance to consort with a sinner converted from the faith of his fathers, whether they were Jews or Gentiles, Hindoos or Mahomedans, dwellers in Mesopotamia, or beyond Jordan? You have such a repugnance, Tom, I know; and I have it too."

"Well," I proceeded, on the strength of the brandy grog, "in the case of an unenlightened, or ignorant, or half-educated man, I might indeed suspect duplicity, or even hypocrisy, at the bottom of the abjuration of his fathers creed; but in a gentleman of your acquirements and knowledge...."

"There again now, Cringle, you are wrong. The clodhopper might be conscientious in a change of creed, but as to the advantage I have over him from superior knowledge!--Knowledge, Tom! what do I know--what does the greatest and the best of us know--to venture on a saying somewhat of the tritest--but that he knows nothing? Oh, my dear boy, you and I have hitherto consorted together on the deck of life, so to speak, with the bright joyous sun sparkling, and the blue heavens laughing overhead, and the clear green sea dancing under foot, and the merry breeze buzzing past us right cheerily. We have seen but the fair-weather side of each other, Thomas, without considering that all men have their deep feelings, that lie far, far down in the hold of their hearts, were they but stirred up. Ay, you smile at my figures, but I repeat it--in the deep hold of their hearts; and may I not follow out the image with verity and modesty, and say that those feelings, often too deep for tears, are the ballast that keeps the whole ship in trim, and without which we should be every hour of our existence liable to be driven out of our heavenward course, yea, to broach--to and founder, and sink for ever, under one of the many squalls in this world of storms? And here, in this most beautiful spot, with the deep, dark, crystal-clear pool at our feet, fringed with the velvet gra.s.s, and the green quivering leaf above flickering between us and the bright blue cloudless sky, and the everlasting rocks, with those diamond-like tears trickling down their rugged cheeks, impending over us,--and those gigantic gnarled trees, with their tracery of black withes fantastically tangled, whose naked roots twist and twine amongst the fissures, like serpents trying to shelter themselves from the scorching rays of the vertical sun, and those feather-like bamboos high arching overhead, and screening us under their n.o.ble canopy,--and the cool plantains, their broad ragged leaves bending under the weight of dew-spangles, and the half-opened wild-flowers,--yea, even here, the ardent noontide sleeping on the hill, when even the quickeyed lizard lies still, and no longer rustles through the dry gra.s.s, and there is not a breath of air strong enough out of heaven to stir the gossamer that floats before us, or to wave that wild flower on its hair like stem, or to ruffle the fairy plumage of the humming-bird, that, against the custom of its kind, is now quietly perched thereon; and while the bills of the chattering paroquets, that are peering at us from the branches above, are closed, and the woodp.e.c.k.e.r interrupts his tapping to look down upon us, and the only sound we hear is the moaning of the wood-pigeon, and the lulling buzz of myriads of happy insects booming on the ear, loud as the rushing of a distant waterfall--(Confound these musquittoes, though!)--Even here, on this:"

'So sweet a spot of earth, you might, I ween, Have guessed some congregation of the elves, To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.'

Even in such a place could I look forward without a shudder, to set up my everlasting rest, to lay my weary bones in the earth, and to mingle my clay with that whereout it was moulded. No fear of being houcked here, Thomas, and preserved in a gla.s.s case, like a stuffed woodc.o.c.k, in Surgeons Hall. I am a barbarian, Tom, in these respects--I am a barbarian, and nothing of a philosopher. Quiero Paz is to be my epitaph. Quiero Paz--'Cursed be he who stirs these bones.' Did not even Shakspeare write it? What poetry in this spot, Thomas! Oh,

'There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely sh.o.r.e, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.'

"Yes, even here where nature is all beautiful and every thing, and man abject and nothing even here, Tom, amidst the loneliness of earth, rugged and half-mad as you must sometimes have thought me, a fellow wholly made up of quips and jests,--even I at this moment could, like an aboriginal Charibl of the land, 'lift up my voice to the Great Spirit,'

and kneel, and weep, and pray."

I was much moved.

"You have spoken of knowledge, Tom. Knowledge--what do I know? Of myself I know as little as I do of any other grub that crawls on the surface of this world of sin and suffering; and what I do know, adds little to my self-esteem, Tom, and affords small encouragement to enquire further.--Knowledge, say you? How is that particle of sand here? I cannot tell. How grew that blade of gra.s.s? I do not know.

Even when I look into that jug of brandy grog, (I'll trouble you for it, Thomas,) all that I know is, that if I drink it, it will make me drunk, and a more desperately wicked creature, if that were possible, than I am already. And when I look forth on the higher and more n.o.ble objects of the visible creation, abroad on this beautiful earth, above on the glorious universe studded with shining orbs, without number numberless, what can I make of them? Nothing absolutely nothing--yet they are all creatures like myself. But--if I try--audaciously try--to strain my finite faculties, in the futile attempt to take in what is infinite--if I aspiringly, but hopelessly, grapple with the idea of the immensity of s.p.a.ce, for instance, which my reason yet tells me must of necessity be boundless--do I not fall fluttering to the earth again, like an owl flying against the noontide sun? Again, when I venture to think of eternity--ay, when, reptile as I feel myself to be, I even look up towards heaven, and bend my erring thoughts towards the Most High, the Maker of all things, who was, and is, and is to come; whose flaming minister, even while I speak, is pouring down a flood of intolerable day on one half of the dry earth, and all that therein is; and when I reflect on what this tremendous, this inscrutable Being has done for me and my sinful race, so beautifully shown forth in both our creeds, what do I know? but that I am a poor miserable worm, crushed before the moth, whose only song should be the miserere, whose only prayer 'G.o.d be merciful to me a sinner!"

There was a long pause, and I began to fear that my friend was shaken in his mind, for he continued to look steadfastly into the clear black water, where he had skimmed off the green velvet coating with his stick.

"Ay, and is it even so? and is it Tom Cringle who thinks and says that I am a man likely to profess to believe what he knows in his heart to be a lie? A Roman Catholic! Had I lived before the Roman Conquest I would have been a Druid, for it is not under the echoing domes of our magnificent cathedrals, with all the grandeur of our ritual, the flaming tapers, and bands of choristers, and the pealing organ, and smoking censers, and silver-toned bells, and white-robed priests, that the depths of my heart are stirred up. It is here, and not in a temple made with hands, however gorgeous--here, in the secret places of the everlasting forest,--it is in such a place as this that I feel the immortal spark within me kindling into a flame, and wavering up heavenward. I am superst.i.tious, Thomas, I am superst.i.tious, when left alone in such a scene as this. I can walk through a country churchyard at midnight, and stumble amongst the rank gra.s.s that covers the graves of those I have lived with and loved, even if they be 'green in death, and festering in their shrouds,' with the wind moaning amongst the stunted yew-trees, and the rain splashing and scattering on the moss covered tombstones, and the blinding blue lightning flashing, while the headstones glance like an array of sheeted ghosts, and the thunder is grumbling overhead, without a qualm-direness of this kind cannot once daunt me; it is here and now, when all nature sleeps in the ardent noontide, that I become superst.i.tious, and would not willingly be left alone. Thoughts too deep for tears!--ay, indeed, and there be such thoughts, that, long after time has allowed them to subside, and when, to the cold eye of the world, all is clear and smooth above, will, when stirred up, like the sediment of this fountain of the wood, discolour and embitter the whole stream of life once more, even after the lapse of long long years. When my heart crushing loss was recent--when the wound was green, I could not walk abroad at this to me witching time of day, without a stock or a stone, a distant mark on the hill-side, or the outline of the grey cliff above, taking the very fashion of her face, or figure, on which I would gaze, and gaze, as if spell-bound, until I knew not whether to call it a grouping of the imagination, or a reality from without--or her, with whom I fondly hoped to have travelled the weary road of life. Friends approved--fortune smiled--one little month, and we should have been one; but it pleased Him, to whom in my present frame of mind I dare not look up, to blight my beautiful flower, to canker my rose-bud, to change the fair countenance of my Elizabeth, and send her away. She drooped and died, even like that pale flower under the scorching sun; and I was driven forth to worship Mammon, in these sweltering climes; but the sting remains, the barbed arrow sticks fast."

Here the cleared surface of the water, into which he was steadfastly looking, was gradually contracted into a small round spot about a foot in diameter, by the settling back of the green floating matter that he had skimmed aside. His countenance became very pale; he appeared even more excited than he had hitherto been.

"By heavens! look in that water, if the green covering of it has not arranged itself round the clear spot into the shape of a medallion into her features! I had dreamed of such things before, but now it is a palpable reality--it is her face--her straight nose--her Grecian upper lip--her beautiful forehead, and her very bust!--even,"

'As when years apace had bound her lovely waist with woman's zone.'

"Oh, Elizabeth--Elizabeth!"

Here his whole frame shook with the most intense emotion, but at length, tears, unwonted tears, did come to his relief, and he hid his face in his hands, and wept bitterly. I was now convinced he was mad, but I durst not interrupt him. At length he slowly removed his hands, by which time, however, a beautiful small black diver, the most minute species of duck that I ever saw--it was not so big as my fist--but which is common in woodland ponds in the West Indies, had risen in the centre of the eye of the fountain, while all was so still that it floated quietly like a leaf on the water, apparently without the least fear of us.

"The devil appeared in Paradise under the shape of a cormorant," said Mr Bang, half angrily, as he gazed sternly at the unlooked for visitor; "what imp art thou?"

Tip--the little fellow dived; presently it rose again in the same place, and lifting up its little foot, scratched the side of its tiny yellow bill and little red-spotted head, shook its small wings, bright and changeable as shot silk, with a snow-white pen-feather in each, and then tipped up its little purple tail, and once more disappeared.

Aaron's features were gradually relaxing; a change was coming over the spirit of his dream. The bird appeared for the third time, looked him in the face, first turning up one little sparkling eye, and then another, with its neck changing its hues like a pigeon's. Aaron began to smile; he gently raised his stick--"Do you c.o.c.k your fud at me, you tiny thief, you?"--and thereupon he struck at it with his stick. Tip the duck dived, and did not rise again; and all that he got was a sprinkling shower in the face, from the water flashing up at his blow, and once more the green covering settled back again, and the bust of his dead love, or what he fancied to be so, disappeared. Aaron laughed outright, arose, and began to shout to the black guide, who, along with Pegtop, had taken the beasts into the wood in search of provender.

"Ayez le bont de donnez moi mon cheval? Bring us the horsos, Ma.s.sa Bungo-venga los quadrupedos--make haste, vite, mucho, mucho."

Come, there is my Ma.s.sa Aaron once more, at all events, thought I; but oh, how unlike the Aaron of five minutes ago!

"So now let us mount, my boy," said he, and we shoved along until the evening fell, and the sun bid us good-by very abruptly. "Cheep, Cheep," sung the lizards--"chirp, chirp," sung the crickets, "snore, snore," moaned the tree-toad--and it was night.

"Dame Nature shifts the scene without much warning here, Thomas," said Ma.s.sa Aaron; "we must get along, Doechez, mon cher--doechez, diggez votre spurs into the flankibus of votre cheval, mon ami," shouted Aaron to our guide.

"Oui, monsieur," replied the man, 'mais'

I did not like this ominous "but," nevertheless we rode on. No more did Ma.s.sa Aaron. The guide repeated his mais again. "Mais, mon filo," said Bang, "mais--que meanez vous by baaing comme un sheep, eh? Que vizzy vous, eh?"

We were at this time riding in a bridle-road, to which the worst sheep paths in Westmoreland would have been a railway, with our horses every now and then stumbling and coming down on their noses on the deep red earth, while we as often stood a chance of being pitched bodily against some tree on the path-side. But we were by this time all alive again, the dullness of repletion having evaporated; and Mr Bang, I fancied, began to peer anxiously about him, and to fidget a good deal, and to murmur and grumble something in his gizzard about "arms--no arms," as, feeling in his starboard holster, he detected a regular long cork of claret, where he had hoped to clutch a pistol, while in the larboard, by the praiseworthy forethought of our guide, a good roasted capon was ensconced. "I say, Tom tohoo mind I don't shoot you," presenting the bottle of claret. "If it had been soda water, and the wire not all the stronger, I might have had a chance in this climate--but we are somewhat caught here, my dear we have no arms."

"Poo," said I, "never mind--no danger at hand, take my word for it."

"May be not, may be not--but, Pegtop, you scoundrel, why did you not fetch my pistols?"

"Eigh, you go fight, ma.s.sa?"

"Fight! no, you b.o.o.by; but could not your own numscull--the fellow's a fool--so come--ride on, ride on."

Presently we came to an open s.p.a.ce, free of trees, where the moon shone brightly; it was a round precipitous hollow, that had been excavated apparently by the action of a small clear stream or spout of water, that sparkled in the moonbeams like a web of silver tissue, as it leaped in a crystal arch over our heads from the top of a rock about twenty feet high, that rose on our right hand, the summit clearly and sharply defined against the blue firmament, while, on the left, was a small hollow or ravine, down which the rivulet gurgled and vanished; while ahead the same impervious forest prevailed, beneath which we had been travelling for so many hours.

The road led right through this rugged hollow, crossing it about the middle, or, if any thing, nearer the base of the cliff; and the whole clear s.p.a.ce between the rock and the branches of the opposite trees might have measured twenty yards. In front of us, the path took a turn to the left, as if again entering below the dark shadow of the wood; but towards the right, with the moon shining brightly on it, there was a most beautiful bank, clear of underwood, and covered with the finest short velvet gra.s.s that could be dreamed of as a fitting sward to be pressed by fairy feet. We all halted in the centre of the open s.p.a.ce.

"See how the moonlight sleeps on yonder bank!" said I.

"I don't know what sleeps there, Tom," said Aaron; "but does that figure sleep, think you?" pointing to the dark crest of the precipitous eminence of the right hand, from which the moonlight rill was gushing, as if it had been smitten by the rod of the Prophet.

I started, and looked--a dark half--naked figure, with an enormous cap of the s.h.a.ggy skin of some wild creature, was kneeling on one knee, on the very pinnacle with a carabine resting across his thigh. I noticed our guide tremble from head to foot, but he did not speak.

"Vous avez des arms?" said Bang, as he continued with great fluency, but little grammar; "ayez le bonte de c.o.c.kez votre pistolettes?"

The man gave no answer. We heard the click of the carabine lock.

"Zounds!" said Aaron, with his usual energy when excited, "if you won't use them, give them to me;" and forthwith he s.n.a.t.c.hed both pistols from our guide's holsters. "Now, Tom, get on. Shove t'other blackie a-head of you, Pegtop, will you? Confound you for forgetting my Mantons, you villain. I will bring up the rear."

"Well, I will get on," said I. "but here, give me a pistol."

"Ridez vous en avant, blackimoribus ambos--en avant, you black rascals laissez le Capitan and me pour fightez"--shouted Bang, as the black guide, guessing his meaning, spurred his horse against the moonlight bank.

"Ah--ah!" exclaimed the man, as he wheeled about after he had ridden a pace or two under the shadow of the trees--"Voila ces autres brigands la."