CHILDREN love to listen to
stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their
imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom
they never saw. It
was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear
about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a
hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the
scene -- so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country --
of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the
ballad of the Children in the Wood. Certain it is that the whole story of the
children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon
the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin
Redbreasts, till a foolish rich Person pulled it down to set up a marble one of
modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here
Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called
upbraiding. Then I went on to say, how religious and how
good their great. grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by
everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had
only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the
mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and
more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining
county; but still, she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own,
and kept
up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards
came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped
and carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if
someone were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and
stick them up in Lady C.'stawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as
much as to say, "that would be foolish indeed." And then I told how,
when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor,
and some of the gentry too, of the neighborhood for many miles around, to show
their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious
woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a great
part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands. Then I told what a
tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how
in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer -- here Alice's little right
foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted -- the best dancer, I
was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer,
came, and bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend her good
spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so
good and religious. Then I told how she
was used to sleep by herself in alone chamber of the great lone house; and how
she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight
gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said "those
innocents would do her no harm;" and how frightened I used to be, though
in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good
or religious as she -- and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded all
his eye-brows and tried to look courageous. Then I told how good she was to all her
grand-children, having us to the great-house in the holy days, where I in
particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of
the Twelve Caesars,that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads
would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I never
could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms,
with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels,
with the gilding almost rubbed out -- sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned
gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary
gardening man would cross me -- and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the
walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were
forbidden fruit, unless now and then, -- and because I had more pleasure in
strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs, and
picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but
to look at -- or in lying a out upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden
smells around me -- or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy
myself ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful
warmth -- or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at
the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway
down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent frisking,
-- I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet
flavours of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such like common baits of
children. Here John slyly
deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by
Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to
relinquish them for the present as irrelevant. Then in somewhat a more heightened tone, I
told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grand-children,
yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L----, because he was so
handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of
moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most
mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and
make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when
there were any out -- and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but
had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries -- and how
their uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the
admiration of every body, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially;
and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame- footed boy -- for he was a good bit
older than me -- many a mile when I could not walk pain; --and how in after life he
became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear)make allowances enough for him when
he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had
been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he died, though he had not been dead
an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there
is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at
first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or
take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him
all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his
kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be
quarreling with him (for we quarreled sometimes), rather than not have him
again, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been
when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell a crying, and asked if
their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked
up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them, some
stories about their pretty dead mother. Then I told how for seven long years, in hope
sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice
W---n; and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them
what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens -- when suddenly,
turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such
a reality of re-presentment, that I became in doubt which of them stood there
before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the
children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till
nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance,
which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech;
"We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice
called Bartrum father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what
might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages
before we have existence, and a name" ------ and immediately awaking, I
found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen
asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side -- but John L. (or James
Elia) was gone forever.