The
Three Graves.
THE THREE GRAVES.
A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE.
[The Author has published the following humble fragment, encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended to be dramatic; that is suited to the narrator; and the metre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient to justify the adoption of such a style, in any metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all events, it is not presented as Poetry, and it is in no way connected with the Author's judgement concerning Poetic diction. Its merits, if any, are exclusively psychological[errata 1]). The story which must have been supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts is as follows.
Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen, her bosom-friend Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions to Mary's Mother, a widow-woman bordering on her fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and from having had no other children but Mary and another Daughter (the Father died in their infancy) retaining, for the greater part, her personal attractions and comeliness of appearance; but a woman of low education and violent temper. The answer which she at once returned to Edward's application was remarkable—" Well, Edward! you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my Daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under the Mother's eyes; and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future Son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive Facts, and of no very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the names and the scene of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange detractions from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart still mistaking her increasing fondness for motherly affection; she at length, overcome by her miserable passion, after much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion—O Edward! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you—she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very day settle all my property on you.—The Lover's eyes were now opened: and thus taken by surprize, whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of guilt of the the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud voice, that approached to a scream, she prayed for a Curse both on him and on her own Child. Mary happened to be in the room directly above them, heard Edward's laugh and her Mother's blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing the fall, ran up stairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a reconciliation with her Mother, she was married to him.—And here the third part of the Tale begins. I was not led to chuse this story from any partiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an Idea violently and suddenly imprest on it. I had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effect of the Oby Witchraft on the Negroes in the West-Indies, and Hearne's deeply interesting Anecdotes of similar workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my Readers who have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to those works for the passages alluded to); and I conceived the design of shewing that instances of this kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the beginning.
The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a country church-yard, to a Traveller whose curiosity had been awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the first of these was the name, and dates, as usual: on the second, no name, but only a date, and the words, The Mercy of God is infinite.]
The Grapes upon the Vicar's wall
Were ripe as ripe could be;
And yellow leaves in Sun and Wind
Were falling from the Tree.
On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane
Still swung the strikes of corn:
Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday—
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
Up through that wood behind the church.
There leads from Edward's door
A mossy track, all over bough'd,
For half a mile or more.
And from their house-door by that track
The Bride and Bridegroom went;
Sweet Mary, tho' she was not gay,
Seem'd chearful and content.
But when they to the church-yard came,
I've heard poor Mary say,
As soon as she stept into the Sun,
Her heart it died away.
And when the Vicar join'd their hands,
Her limbs did creep and freeze;
But when they pray'd, she thought she saw
Her mother on her knees.
And o'er the church-path they return'd—
I saw poor Mary's back,
Just as she stept beneath the boughs
Into the mossy track.
Her feet upon the mossy track
The married maiden set:
That moment—I have lieard her say—
She wish'd she could forget.
The shade o'er-flush'd her limbs with heat—
Then came a chill like death:
And when the merry bells rang out,
They seem'd to stop her breath.
Beneath the foulest Mother's curse
No child could ever thrive:
A Mother is a Mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
So five months pass'd: the Mother still
Would never heal the strife;
But Edward was a loving man
And Mary a fond wife.
"My sister may not visit us,
My mother says her nay:
O Edward! you are all to me,
I wish for your sake I could be
More lifesome and more gay.
I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed
I know I have no reason!
Perhaps I am not well in health,
And 'tis a gloomy season."
'Twas a drizzly time—no ice, no snow!
And on the few fine days
She stirr'd not out, lest she might meet
Her mother in the ways.
But Ellen, spite of miry ways
And weather dark and dreary,
Trudg'd every day to Edward's house,
And made them all more cheary.
Oh! Ellen was a faithful Friend,
More dear than any Sister!
As cheerful too as singing lark;
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark,
And then they always miss'd her.
And now Ash-Wednesday came—that day
But few to Church repair:
For on that day you know we read
The Commination prayer.
Our late old Vicar, a kind man,
Once, Sir! he said to me,
He wish'd that service was clean out
Of our good Liturgy.
The Mother walk'd into the church—
To Ellen's seat she went:
Tho' Ellen always kept her church
All church-days during Lent.
And gentle Ellen welcom'd her
With courteous looks and mild:
Thought she, "what if her heart should melt,
And all be reconcil'd!"
The day was scarcely like a day—
The clouds were black outright:
And many a night, with half a Moon,
I've seen the church more light.
The wind was wild; against the glass
The rain did beat and bicker;
The church-tower swaying over head
You scarce could hear the Vicar!
And then and there the Mother knelt,
And audibly she cried—
Oh! may a clinging curse consume
This woman by my side!
O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven,
Altho' thou take my life—
O curse this woman, at whose house
Young Edward wooed his wife.
By night and day, in bed and bower,
O let her cursed be!!!
So having pray'd, steady and slow.
She rose up from her knee!
And left the church, nor e'er again
The church-door enter'd she.
I saw poor Ellen kneeling still,
So pale! I guess'd not why:
When she stood up, there plainly was
A trouble in her eye.
And when the prayers were done, we all
Came round and ask'd her why:
Giddy she seem'd, and, sure, there was
A trouble in her eye.
But ere she from the church-door stepp'd
She smil'd and told us why:
"It was a wicked woman's curse"
Quoth she, "and what care I?"
She smil'd, and smil'd, and pass'd it off
E'er from the door she stept—
But all agree it would have been
Much better had she wept.
And if her heart was not at ease,
This was her constant cry—
"It was a wicked woman's curse—
God's good, and what care I?"
There was a hurry in her looks,
Her struggles she redoubled:
"It was a wicked woman's curse,
And why should I be troubled?"
These tears will come—I dandled her
When 'twas the merest fairy—
Good creature! and she hid it all:
She told it not to Mary.
But Mary heard the tale: her arms
Round Ellen's neck she threw;
"O Ellen, Ellen, she curs'd me,
And now she hath curs'd you!"
I saw young Edward by himself
Stalk fast adown the lee,
He snatcht a stick from every fence,
A twig from every tree.
He snapt them still with hand or knee,
And then away they flew!
As if with his uneasy limbs
He knew not what to do!
You see, good sir I that single hill?
His farm lies underneath:
He heard it there, he heard it all,
And only gnash'd his teeth.
Now Ellen was a darling love
In all his joys and cares:
And Ellen's name and Mary's name
Fast-link'd they both together came,
Whene'er he said his prayers.
And in the moment of his prayers
He lov'd them both alike:
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy
Upon his heart did strike!
He reach'd his home, and by his looks
They saw his inward strife:
And they clung round him with their arms,
Both Ellen and his wife.
And Mary could not check her tears.
So on his breast she bow'd;
Then Frenzy melted into Grief,
And Edward wept aloud.
Dear Ellen did not weep at all,
But closelier did she cling.
And turn'd her face and look'd as if
She saw some frightful thing.
PART IV.
I hold it no good mark;
'Tis wicked in the Sun and Moon,
And bad luck in the dark!
You see that Grave? The Lord, he gives,
The Lord, he takes away:
Oh! 'tis the child of my old age
Lies there as cold as clay.
Except that grave, you scarce see one
That was not dug by me
I'd rather dance upon 'em all
Than tread upon these three!
"Aye, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale."
"You, Sir! are but a lad;
This month I'm in my seventieth year.
And still it makes me sad.
And Mary's sister told it me.
For three good hours and more;
Tho' I had heard it, in the main.
From Edward's self, before.
Well! it pass'd off! the gentle Ellen
Did well nigh dote on Mary;
And she went oftener than before,
And Mary lov'd her more and more:
She manag'd all the dairy.
To market she on market-days.
To church on Sundays came;
All seem'd the same: all seem'd so, Sir!
But all was not the same!
Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no!
But she was seldom cheerful;
And Edward look'd as if he thought
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.
When by herself, she to herself
Must sing some merry rhime;
She could not now be glad for hours,
Yet silent all the time.
And when she sooth'd her friend, thro' all
Her soothing words 'twas plain
She had a sore grief of her own,
A haunting in her brain.
And oft she said, I'm not grown thin!
And then her wrist she spann'd:
And once when Mary was down-cast,
She took her by the hand.
And gaz'd upon her, and at first
She gently press'd her hand;
Then harder, till her grasp at length
Did gripe like a convulsion!
Alas! said she, we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion!
And once her both arms suddenly
Round Mary's neck she flung.
And her heart panted, and she felt
The words upon her tongue.
She felt them coming, but no power
Had she the words to smother;
And with a kind of shriek she cried,
"Oh Christ! you're like your Mother!'
So gentle Ellen now no more
Could make this sad house cheary;
And Mary's melancholy ways
Drove Edward wild and weary.
Lingering he rais'd his latch at eve.
Though tired in heart and limb:
He lov'd no other place, and yet
Home was no home to him.
One evening he took up a book,
And nothing in it read;
Then flung it down, and groaning cried,
Oh! Heaven! that I were dead.
Mary look'd up into his face,
And nothing to him said;
She tried to smile, and on his arm
Mournfully leaned her head.
And he burst into tears, and fell
Upon his knees in prayer:
Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,
It is too great to bear!
'Twas such a foggy time as makes
Old Sextons, Sir! like me,
Rest on their spades to cough; the spring
Was late uncommonly.
And then the hot days, all at once,
They came, we knew not how:
You look'd about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough.
It happen'd then ('twas in the bower
A furlong up the wood:
Perhaps you know the place, and yet
I scarce know how you shou'd)
No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh
To any pasture-plot;
But cluster'd near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies mark'd the spot.
Those hollies of themselves a shape
As of an arbor took,
A close, round arbor; and it stands
Not three strides from a brook.
Within this arbor, which was still
With scarlet berries hung,
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn,
Just as the first bell rung.
'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet
To hear the Sabbath-bell,
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell.
His limbs along the moss, his head
Upon a mossy heap,
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:
That brook e'en on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep.
And he had pass'd a restless night,
And was not well in health;
The women sat down by his side,
And talk'd as 'twere by stealth.
"The Sun peeps thro' the close thick leaves,
"See, dearest Ellen! see!
"'Tis in the leaves, a little Sun,
"No bigger than your ee;
"A tiny Sun, and it has got
"A perfect glory too:
"Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,
Make up a glory, gay and bright,
"Round that small orb, so blue."
And then they argued of those rays,
What colour they might be:
Says this, "they're mostly green;" says that,
"They're amber-like to me."
So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts,
Were troubling Edward's rest;
But soon they heard his hard quick pants,
And the thumping in his breast.
"A Mother, too!" these self-same words
Did Edward mutter plain;
His face was drawn back on itself,
With horror and huge pain.
Both groan'd at once, for both knew well
What thoughts were in his mind;
When he wak'd up, and star'd like one
That hath been just struck blind.
He sat upright; and ere the dream
Had had time to depart,
"O God, forgive me! (he exclaim'd)
"I have torn out her heart."
Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst
Into ungentle laughter;
And Mary shiver'd, where she sat,
And never she smil'd after.
Carmen religuum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow!
and To-morrow and To-morrow!—
Errata