Yes, reader, we must settle accounts now. I have only to the final fates of some of the personages whose acquaintance we have made in this , and then you and I must shake hands, and for the present separate.
Let us turn to the curates—to the much-loved, though long-neglected. Come forward, modest merit! Malone, I see, answers the invocation. He knows his own description when he hears it.
No, Peter Augustus; we can have nothing to say to you. It won't do. Impossible to trust ourselves with the tale of your deeds and destinies. Are you not aware, Peter, that a public has its crotchets; that the unvarnished truth does not answer; that plain facts will not digest? Do you not know that the of the real pig is no more now than it was in days of yore? Were I to give the of your life and conversation, the public would sweep off in hysterics, and there would be a wild cry for sal-volatile and burnt feathers. "Impossible!" would be pronounced here; "untrue!" would be responded there; "inartistic!" would be solemnly . Note well. Whenever you present the actual, simple truth, it is, somehow, always denounced as a lie—they disown it, cast it off, throw it on the parish; whereas the product of your own imagination, the figment, the sheer fiction, is adopted, petted, termed pretty, proper, sweetly natural—the little, spurious gets all the comfits, the honest, bantling all the . Such is the way of the world, Peter; and as you are the , rude, unwashed, and naughty, you must stand down.
Make way for Mr. Sweeting.
Here he comes, with his lady on his arm—the most556 splendid and the weightiest woman in Yorkshire—Mrs. Sweeting, Miss Dora Sykes. They were married under the happiest , Mr. Sweeting having been just inducted to a comfortable living, and Mr. Sykes being in circumstances to give Dora a handsome portion. They lived long and happily together, beloved by their parishioners and by a numerous circle of friends.
There! I think the has been put on very nicely.
Advance, Mr. Donne.
This gentleman turned out admirably—far better than either you or I could possibly have expected, reader. He, too, married a most sensible, quiet, lady-like little woman. The match was the making of him. He became an exemplary domestic character, and a truly active parish priest (as a he, to his dying day, refused to act). The outside of the cup and platter he up with the best polishing-powder; the furniture of the altar and temple he looked after with the of an upholsterer, the care of a cabinet-maker. His little school, his little church, his little parsonage, all owed their erection to him; and they did him credit. Each was a model in its way. If uniformity and taste in architecture had been the same thing as and earnestness in religion, what a shepherd of a flock Mr. Donne would have made! There was one art in the mastery of which nothing mortal ever surpassed Mr. Donne: it was that of begging. By his own unassisted efforts he begged all the money for all his erections. In this matter he had a grasp of plan, a scope of action quite unique. He begged of high and low—of the shoeless cottage and the coroneted duke. He sent out begging-letters far and wide—to old Queen Charlotte, to the princesses her daughters, to her sons the royal dukes, to the Prince Regent, to Lord Castlereagh, to every member of the then in office; and, what is more , he screwed something out of every one of these personages. It is on record that he got five pounds from the close-fisted old lady Queen Charlotte, and two guineas from the royal her son. When Mr. Donne set out on begging expeditions, he armed himself in a complete suit of mail. That you had given a hundred pounds yesterday was with him no reason why you should not give two hundred to-day. He would tell you so to your face, and, ten to one, get the money out of you. People gave to get rid of him. After all, he did some557 good with the cash. He was useful in his day and generation.
Perhaps I ought to remark that on the and sudden vanishing of Mr. Malone from the stage of Briarfield parish (you cannot know how it happened, reader; your curiosity must be robbed to pay your elegant love of the pretty and pleasing), there came as his successor another Irish curate, Mr. Macarthey. I am happy to be able to inform you, with truth, that this gentleman did as much credit to his country as Malone had done it . He proved himself as decent, decorous, and as Peter was , , and—— This last I choose to suppress, because it would let the cat out of the bag. He laboured faithfully in the parish. The schools, both Sunday and day schools, flourished under his sway like green bay trees. Being human, of course he had his faults. These, however, were proper, steady-going, clerical faults—what many would call . The circumstance of finding himself invited to tea with a would unhinge him for a week. The spectacle of a Quaker wearing his hat in the church, the thought of an unbaptized fellow-creature being with Christian rites—these things could make strange in Mr. Macarthey's physical and mental economy. Otherwise he was and rational, and charitable.
I doubt not a justice-loving public will have remarked, ere this, that I have thus far shown a criminal in pursuing, , and bringing to punishment the would-be assassin of Mr. Robert Moore. Here was a fine opening to lead my willing readers a dance, at once decorous and exciting—a dance of law and gospel, of the , the dock, and the "dead-thraw." You might have liked it, reader, but I should not. I and my subject would presently have quarrelled, and then I should have broken down. I was happy to find that facts me from the attempt. The murderer was never punished, for the good reason that he was never caught—the result of the further circumstance that he was never pursued. The made a , as if they were going to rise and do things; but since Moore himself, instead of urging and leading them as heretofore, lay still on his little cottage-couch, laughing in his sleeve, and with every feature of his pale, foreign face, they considered better of it, and after fulfilling certain558 indispensable forms, resolved to let the matter quietly drop, which they did.
Mr. Moore knew who had shot him, and all Briarfield knew. It was no other than Michael Hartley, the half-crazed once before to, a Antinomian in religion, and a mad leveller in politics. The poor soul died of tremens a year after the attempt on Moore, and Robert gave his wretched widow a guinea to bury him.
The winter is over and gone; spring has followed with beamy and shadowy, with flowery and showery flight. We are now in the heart of summer—in mid-June—the June of 1812.
It is burning weather. The air is deep and red gold. It fits the time; it fits the age; it fits the present spirit of the nations. The nineteenth century wantons in its giant ; the Titan boy mountains in his game, and rocks in his wild sport. This summer Bonaparte is in the saddle; he and his host Russian deserts. He has with him Frenchmen and Poles, Italians and children of the Rhine, six hundred thousand strong. He marches on old Moscow. Under old Moscow's walls the rude Cossack waits him. ! he waits without fear of the ruin rolling on. He puts his trust in a snow-cloud; the , the wind, and the hail-storm are his refuge; his allies are the elements—air, fire, water. And what are these? Three terrible archangels ever stationed before the throne of Jehovah. They stand clothed in white, girdled with golden girdles; they uplift vials, brimming with the of God. Their time is the day of ; their signal, the word of the Lord of hosts, "thundering with the voice of His excellency."
"Hast thou entered into the treasures of the snow? or hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have reserved against the time of trouble, against the day of battle and war?
"Go your ways. Pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth."
It is done. The earth is with fire; the sea becomes "as the blood of a dead man;" the islands flee away; the mountains are not found.
In this year, Lord Wellington assumed the in Spain.559 They made him generalissimo, for their own salvation's sake. In this year he took Badajos, he fought the field of Vittoria, he captured Pampeluna, he stormed San Sebastian; in this year he won Salamanca.
Men of Manchester, I beg your pardon for this slight résumé of warlike facts, but it is of no consequence. Lord Wellington is, for you, only a decayed old gentleman now. I rather think some of you have called him a "dotard;" you have him with his age and the loss of his physical . What fine heroes you are yourselves! Men like you have a right to on what is mortal in a demigod. at your ease; your scorn can never break his grand old heart.
But come, friends, whether Quakers or cotton-printers, let us hold a peace-congress, and let out our quietly. We have been talking with unseemly zeal about battles and butchering generals; we arrive now at a triumph in your line. On the 18th of June 1812 the Orders in Council were , and the blockaded ports thrown open. You know very well—such of you as are old enough to remember—you made Yorkshire and Lancashire shake with your shout on that occasion. The ringers cracked a bell in Briarfield belfry; it is to this day. The Association of Merchants and Manufacturers dined together at Stilbro', and one and all went home in such a as their wives would never wish to witness more. Liverpool started and snorted like a river-horse roused amongst his reeds by thunder. Some of the American merchants felt threatenings of apoplexy, and had themselves bled—all, like wise men, at this first moment of prosperity, prepared to rush into the of , and to new difficulties, in whose depths they might lose themselves at some future day. Stocks which had been accumulating for years now went off in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. were lightened, ships were ; work , wages rose; the good time seemed come. These might be , but they were brilliant—to some they were even true. At that , in that single month of June, many a solid fortune was realized.
When a whole province rejoices, the humblest of its inhabitants tastes a festal feeling; the sound of public bells rouses the most , as if with a call to be gay. And so Caroline Helstone thought, when she560 dressed herself more carefully than usual on the day of this trading triumph, and went, in her neatest muslin, to spend the afternoon at Fieldhead, there to superintend certain millinery preparations for a great event, the last appeal in these matters being reserved for her taste. She decided on the wreath, the veil, the dress to be worn at the altar. She chose various robes and fashions for more ordinary occasions, without much reference to the bride's opinion—that lady, indeed, being in a somewhat impracticable mood.
Louis had difficulties, and he had found them—in fact, his mistress had shown herself provoking, putting off her marriage day by day, week by week, month by month, at first him with soft of , and in the end rousing his whole deliberate but nature to revolt against her tyranny, at once so sweet and so intolerable.
It had needed a sort of tempest-shock to bring her to the point; but there she was at last, to a day. There she lay, conquered by love, and bound with a .
Thus and restricted, she pined, like any other chained of deserts. Her captor alone could cheer her; his society only could make for the lost privilege of liberty. In his absence she sat or wandered alone, little, and ate less.
She furthered no preparations for her ; Louis was himself obliged to direct all arrangements. He was virtually master of Fieldhead weeks before he became so nominally—the least , the kindest master that ever was, but with his lady absolute. She without a word or a struggle. "Go to Mr. Moore, ask Mr. Moore," was her answer when to for orders. Never was wooer of wealthy bride so from the subaltern part, so compelled to assume a character.
In all this Miss Keeldar partly yielded to her ; but a remark she made a year afterwards proved that she partly also acted on system. "Louis," she said, "would never have learned to rule if she had not ceased to govern. The incapacity of the sovereign had developed the powers of the ."
It had been intended that Miss Helstone should act as561 bridesmaid at the approaching nuptials, but Fortune had her another part.
She came home in time to water her plants. She had performed this little task. The last flower attended to was a rose-tree, which bloomed in a quiet green nook at the back of the house. This plant had received the shower; she was now resting a minute. Near the wall stood a fragment of sculptured stone—a relic—once, perhaps, the base of a cross. She mounted it, that she might better command the view. She had still the watering pot in one hand; with the other her pretty dress was held lightly aside, to avoid drops. She gazed over the wall, along some lonely fields; beyond three dusk trees, rising side by side against the sky; beyond a thorn at the head of a solitary lane far off. She surveyed the dusk , where bonfires were . The summer evening was warm; the bell-music was ; the blue smoke of the fires looked soft, their red flame bright. Above them, in the sky whence the sun had vanished, twinkled a silver point—the star of love.
Caroline was not unhappy that evening—far otherwise; but as she gazed she sighed, and as she sighed a hand circled her, and rested quietly on her waist. Caroline thought she knew who had near; she received the touch unstartled.
"I am looking at Venus, mamma. See, she is beautiful. How white her is, compared with the deep red of the bonfires!"
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