Latest / December Tales / The Church Yard

Transcript

The Church Yard · December Tales

• 0:00
  Section five of December Tales by William h Ainsworth. This LibriVox recording is in
• 0:07
  the public domain. Read by Ben Tucker mar Hark. The bells John John,
• 0:15
  Those are the church bells of Saint Mary Ottery, mar I know it
• 0:20
  John, Saint Mary Ottery, my native village in the sweet shire of Devon.
• 0:25
  Those are the bells John Woodville. The churchyard. That spirit is never
• 0:34
  idle, that doth waken the soul to sights and contemplations deep even from out
• 0:39
  the desert's seeming sleep. A sob is heaved, that but the leaves are
• 0:43
  shaken cornwall. Among my stated rambles, there is one which I retread with
• 0:50
  pleasure, unalloyed by repetition. It is a path which leads to a churchyard.
• 0:55
  And here I have lingered for hours, unwearied, occupied by the reflections
• 0:59
  produced by surrounding objects. The spot of which I speak is situated on an
• 1:03
  eminence which commands a lovely prospect. I have been seated on my favorite seat,
• 1:10
  a large mossy stone over which a spreading beach throws its shade. When
• 1:14
  the close of day was approaching, there was the stone church, with its
• 1:18
  somber ivy grown walls and steeple, the thick leafy grove with its music breathing
• 1:23
  inhabitants, The green hill, and the little murmuring rivulet that wandered at its
• 1:29
  bottom over its pebble gemmed bed, dashing its light spray over its violet banks.
• 1:34
  The whitewashed cottage and barn with the horseshoe nailed over the door, the
• 1:38
  lingering relic of drooping faith and demonology, the spreading fields and the clump of
• 1:44
  trees and thinly scattered habitations. And farther on the majestic windings of the river,
• 1:49
  beyond which dim hills raised their eternal barrier to close all further view,
• 1:55
  and most of all, the deep, gentle shade of evening sinking and reddening
• 2:00
  on hill and plain and valley. It is then that the soul, emancipated
• 2:04
  from earthly thoughts and earthly hopes, holds closer sympathy with the scenes around and
• 2:09
  holier visionings flit before the mind. And what spot could better harmonize with such
• 2:15
  thoughts than the one I have described? A churchyard is, of all places,
• 2:20
  the one most calculated to call up those feelings which abstracted from the pleasures
• 2:24
  are uncontaminated with the evils of the world. In the evening, too,
• 2:30
  the charm is stronger. On every side lie relics of mortality. The fantastic
• 2:36
  or fearful shapes which the gloom lends to, indistinct objects like a demon thing
• 2:42
  or shadow hovering give a mysterious awe to this ultima thool of human schemes.
• 2:49
  And the doubtful certainty, if the expression may be used of shortly becoming a
• 2:53
  companion of the moldering dust and hideous corruption beneath us. Doubtful as to its
• 2:59
  period, but certain as it regards the event is fraught with deep, though
• 3:02
  fearful, and appalling interest. Am I wrong in saying that this is the
• 3:07
  place, the school, the theater for a poet. Is it not here
• 3:12
  that the casualties of rank and station are destroyed? And is it not the
• 3:15
  work of the poet also to overlook these accidental distinguishments, to develop the rise
• 3:22
  of simple and unadorned loveliness, and to see and properly to estimate the intrinsic
• 3:28
  excellence of things and actions. Death is your only sure balance in which to
• 3:32
  weigh the real worth or importance of individuals. The magic girdle that fits none
• 3:38
  but those whose deeds have been pure, the wild steed that none can manage,
• 3:44
  but those who encounter him undismayed, the infallible touch stone of greatness or
• 3:49
  power. He is like the gust which blows away the thistle down of splendor
• 3:53
  and vanity, and exposes the nakedness which lies beneath. He is the best
• 3:59
  of friends, who leaves us from our cares, our greatest enemy, who
• 4:02
  bereaves us of that we love best, our life. In short, he
• 4:08
  is the most paradoxical of things, who in every day present but never seen,
• 4:14
  the most unwelcome of visitors, who, whenever he comes, as an
• 4:16
  unwished for guest. I am fond of a church, particularly an old one.
• 4:23
  It is, as it were, the home for the soul, the
• 4:25
  refuge from the world. And I am fond of its venerable antique gloom,
• 4:30
  its painted windows, its monuments which speak of the dead and their house,
• 4:34
  the grave, and of its music. There is an awful, solemn beauty
• 4:39
  in church music which stills each unhallowed thought, each wish that speaks of earth,
• 4:45
  and throws its calm of holiness over the mind. The deep roll of
• 4:47
  the organ, the thrilling enthusiasm creating sound of human voices trembling to the throne
• 4:54
  of eternity, which, when I think of, I reflect with complacency upon
• 4:58
  the abodes of Monkish super stition, those deep solitudes and awful cells, where
• 5:03
  heavenly pensive contemplation dwells, and ever musing melancholy reigns, And could almost wish
• 5:11
  that I had been an inhabitant of them, blessed with peace and undisturbed with
• 5:15
  vice and folly. Pushaw, pushaw. I am dreaming. And these are
• 5:18
  the dreams of a poet doomed to wake an essay writer. But there is
• 5:24
  another ornament to a church, the greatest, perhaps in my estimation, its
• 5:28
  bells, its organs of speech with which it calls together fellow worshippers. I
• 5:33
  love these eloquent inanimations, these metallic tractors of the soul, whose vibrations call
• 5:40
  up into view the past which is fled the present, which dies in its
• 5:44
  existence, and the future, which will fade away like its predecessors. That
• 5:48
  simple stroke of two pieces of metal gives me an infinity of ideas, the
• 5:53
  burst into life and quick sinking into nothing. The reiteration of the strokes,
• 5:58
  one succeeding another in measured intervals. All speak of the mutability of everything earthly,
• 6:05
  and the rapid succession of beings which bloom and perish and are forgotten.
• 6:11
  I cannot admire the Mahometan custom of employing the human voice as a substitute for
• 6:15
  bells. Methinks the invitation which cause to such exercises of devotion should be addressed
• 6:20
  to the mind in some sound which may awaken suitable thoughts not spoken in the
• 6:26
  every day dialect of business and pleasure. An english people will continue, in
• 6:30
  my thinking, to be very preferable to a Turkish minaret. And what is
• 6:35
  it that lends this magic to so simple a music? What is it but
• 6:39
  that which lends beauty to every thing, the fertile power of association. It
• 6:45
  is the connection which subsists between it and the inward workings of the soul,
• 6:50
  the relation which it bears to the operations of life and of death, which
• 6:55
  renders it thus pleasing. It is this principle of association which is the vivifying
• 7:00
  soul of matter, which gives interest and beauty to inanimate objects, which engages
• 7:04
  the soul through the medium of the senses, which is the spirit of poetry.
• 7:10
  It is not the mere sentiment conveyed by the words of the poet.
• 7:14
  It is the flood of sweet and gentle reminiscences which starts upon the reader,
• 7:18
  varied, as it must of necessity be indifferent individuals, as their respective views,
• 7:25
  characters, situations, and mental organizations differ, from which is derived the
• 7:29
  highest pleasure of poetical compositions. I am not young. I am indeed approaching
• 7:34
  to the period when I shall cease to indict those dotings of age. But
• 7:39
  in these recurrences to the feelings of past days consists my fondest pleasure. These
• 7:46
  and a few other loved associations linger in my memory, and shall sink with
• 7:49
  me to my peaceful bed. It was a saying worthy of Pope that he
• 7:55
  should not care to have an old stump pulled down, which he had known
• 7:58
  in his childhood. I am deeply imbued, I might say, saturated with
• 8:03
  such feelings. I have a piece of an oak which grew by the school
• 8:07
  where I was educated, and has long since fallen a prey to the acts
• 8:09
  of the spoiler. I remember, as well as I do anything, the
• 8:13
  cutting down of the venerable tree, how we crowded about it, and how
• 8:18
  each busy dyscipulous was cutting off relics of their old friend. The branches which
• 8:24
  were left by the workmen as useless, were gathered up and in the evening
• 8:28
  made into a bonfire. Then too we had a feast, and we sat
• 8:33
  round the glowing embers, with every one his apple, his gingerbread, his
• 8:37
  nuts, and his glass of currant wine. Then tails of school heroism and
• 8:43
  school mischief were recounted, and still the wit became brighter. As the fire
• 8:46
  decayed, the mirth and fun grew fast and furious. Ah, those were
• 8:54
  happy days. I often visit this scene of my infant years. The school
• 8:58
  is there, with the stone owl with its goggle eyes perched above it.
• 9:05
  There is the playground, the dark stone walls with their soft and solemn brownness.
• 9:09
  But I will write an essay on the school in my school days.
• 9:13
  There are many faces too, but they are strange to me. Those are
• 9:18
  of my time, alas where are they? They are scattered over the world.
• 9:24
  Those that survive. At least there was zouch and See with his bright
• 9:28
  wit and clear judgment, and Philips with his lively sallies of good humored mirth,
• 9:35
  and dozens whom I could mention one of them, I must mention.
• 9:39
  Tis are the most singular and offensive mortal I ever met. With R.
• 9:43
  Fell in love a single thing of common occurrence and slight moment with most men.
• 9:48
  But it was otherwise with him. His constitution was delicate and his feelings
• 9:54
  sensitive beyond conception of any But his intimates to such a being. To love
• 9:58
  is he loved was an exertion of energies, almost alarming. He succeeded the
• 10:05
  object of his adoration loved him. The day was fixed for their marriage.
• 10:09
  Before it came, she died, and ER's fond ties were broken. From
• 10:15
  that hour, all his time was spent in retracing the walks they had taken
• 10:18
  together. There was a rose tree which she had planted, and R watched
• 10:22
  over it with incessant care, for he was the slave of sympathy. I
• 10:28
  found it near him. One day He said to me, you see that
• 10:31
  tree. I shall live as long as it no longer. He would not
• 10:35
  be persuaded that it was a mere whim of the imagination. Two months after
• 10:39
  this he died. I passed through the garden the tree was withered. I
• 10:46
  am perfectly sensible. Not half my readers will believe this story. To those
• 10:50
  who do, who will look upon it as an instance of the strong power
• 10:54
  of the imagination over the mental and physical faculties, I relate that short notice
• 11:00
  of a gentle and innocent being poor r. It is a humble stone that
• 11:05
  covers his remains and yonder churchyard. His name is unknown save to a few,
• 11:11
  but by those it will be long honored, loved, and wept over.
• 11:16
  End of Section five. The churchyard