The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1854-11-16

the tears slowly trickled down her wan cheeks,
and Tell In her lap UNDECIDED. Kepric was ST.
lent, Tor he had no consolation to offer, even II
consolation could have been awaiting, in that
The first dark hour OF no,hingress,
The last OF danger and distress.
Such was the spectacle, which met the eyes
OF those high-born men, who had come down
from their high place into the lowlya village,
with the intention of bestowng happiness and
awakening gratitude, and now found them
| selves placed front to front with one far might
| Ter than themselves, whose presence left no
room for JOY, even with those the least used to
such emotion.
1t Is, however, fear, but too much the case
even with the more refined and better nur-
tured classes of the present century, while
We are compassionating the sorrows and even
endeayoring to alleviate the miseries Of our
poorer and lesscultivated brethren, to underval-
ue the depth of their sensations to fancy that the
same events harrow not up their less vivid SEN
sibilities, and inflict not on their coarseS and
lessiptellectual natures the same agoaiess ,shich
they effect upon our own. But, although it
may be true that, in the very poor, the necessi-
ty of immediate labor, of all-engrossing occu-
patton, rendering thought and reflection On the
past Impossible, sooner removes from them the
pressure of past grief, than from those who can
afford to brood over it in INDECENT despair, and
indulge in morbid and selfish wo, there Gan be
no doubt that, in the early moments of 4 new
bereavement, the agony is acute to the dull
est and heaviest as TO the loftiest and most i'm
aginative intellect. Since it is the heart itself
that is touched in the first instance and, though
In after hours imagination may assume its
share, SO that the most imaginative minds
dwell longest on the bygone suffering, the heart
is the same in the peasant as in the peer, and
| that of the wisest of the sons of men bleeds
neither more nor less profusely than that of the
rudest clown.
And so, perchance, in some sort it was now.
For, after pausing and looking reverently on
the sad picture, until it was evident that they
were entirely overlooked, if not unseen, Sir
Philip de Morvile took step or two forward
into the cottage, his sounding tread at once
calling all eyes toward his person, in a sort of
haltstupid mixture of alarm and astonishment.
For in those days, tho steps of Norman
| baron rarely descended to the serf-s quarters,
unless they were echoed by the clanking strides
| of armed subordnates, and too often followed
Ivy the clank of shackles or the sound of the
hated scourge. Sir Philip was indeed, as il has
been observed, an evcn-tempered and Just mas
ter, as things went in those times; that is to
| say, he was neither personally cruel nor exact
ing of labor; nor was he niggardly in proyi-
ding for his people nor did he, when it came
before his eyes, tolerate oppression, or permit
useless severity on the part of subordinates
who were often worse tyrants and tormentors
than the lords. Still, his kindliest mood amount
ed to little more than bare Indifference; and
he certainly knew and studied less concerning
anything beyond the mere physical wants and
condition of his thralls and bondsmen. than he
did of his hawks or hounds.
All the inmates, therefore, looked up in won
| n tharu iya1 yrith
tainly for the first time in his life the castelar,
entered the humble tenement of the serf of the
SOIL
But all idea of fear passed away on the in
slant; for the kni gifts face was open and calm
| though grave, and his voice was gentle, and
even subdued, as he spoke
| "Soh!" he said, "what is this Kenric? that
coming down to see if we might not heal up
thy hearts and cheer thy spirits by good tidings
we find worse sorrow, for which we looked not
nor can reverse it 10y any mortal doing. Who
is the boy?"
"Pardon that rise not, beausre, to reply to
YOU answered the serf, "but this right leg of
mine will not bear me; and when the hand of
sickness hold us down, good will must make
shift in lien of good service. 1t is my nephew
Adhemar, Sir Philip, the only son of my young
| est brother Edgar, who was drowned wear
since in the great food of the Idle"
"ln striving to rescue my old, blind, Destrier
| Sir Roland alb | remember him stout
and willing lad! But / knew not, or forgot,
that he thy brother. And so this Is his
son." he added, striding up to the side Of the
rude bier, and laying his broad hand upft his
brow. HE is young" he said, mu.ingly,
very young to die. But we must all die one
| day. Kenric; and who knows but it is rest to
die young?"
AT least, the ancient Greeks and Romans
said So, interposed Yvo de Taillebois, speaking
for the first time. "They have proverb, that,
| whomsOever the gods love, dies young.
81 think it is best, beausre,r answered the
serf 4" it is never cold in the grave, in the
dreariest storms; nor sultry in the scorching
August. And they are never hungry there !;
nor sorefooted, nor weary unto death. | think
it IS best to die young, before one has tasted
overmuch sorrow here on earth, to burden his
heart, and make him stubborn and malicious
1t this | was saying to old Algifu, as your
noblenesses entered, but she has never held her
head up since my brother Edgar died; he was
her tavorite, since she always held that he had
most favor of our grandfather
"She is very old?" said Sir Philip half
questioning, half musing. "She is very old?"
"Above hundred years, Sir Philip, have
heard Father Eadbald say, who died twenty
years since, at the abbey, como next Michaelmas.
1t should have been he who married herr Her
mother was the last free woman Of ou; race
We had three hydes of land, I've heard Ter tell
in those DAYS. down by the banks of Id)s, held
of old Waltheof, who gave his name to til your
noble castle. But they arc all gone bcft re us /;
and we must follow them, when our day zones.
And then, as ] tell Agifu, we shall be free, all,
if not equal; for the most virtuOus must be
first there, as Father Engelram tells us. May
4 N,r I'D fba int. ba hon
"Comc, Kcnric," said de Morville, cheering
ly, thou talkest now more like to n gray
brother, than to the stout woodman, who
struck'st yon brave blow, but q while since,
and saved Sir Yvo's fair lady Guendolen.
Faith it was bravely DONE and well; and
well shall come of it to you, believe me-. 1t is
| to speak of that to thee that VIC came hither !;
but this BOYS death hath put it from our minds
But, bark We, boy! | will send down some
wenches hither, from the castle, with ale and
mead for his lykewake, and linen for shroud ;
and Father Engeram shall see to the church
service and there shall be double dole to
the poor at the abbey and myself will pay ten
| marks, in masses for his soul If he died
serf he shall be buried as though he were
freeman, and franklns SON. and all ftf thy
sake, and for the good blow thou strucke2t but
| three hours agone."
| kenric's brow flushed high, whether q was
with qualification, gratitude, or from wound
| ed pride but he suffered confusedly. SO he
attempted to thank his lord, and only fourd his
tongue, as he related to his grandmother, in his
native language, the promises and goodlg prof.
fers of the castelar,; and she for moment
spoke eagerly in reply, but then seemed to for
get and was silent. word or two passed in
| French between the mobiles, Yvo de Tailiebois
urging that the time was inopportune for speak
/ e Al. Al