The daily dispatch. [volume] (Richmond [Va.]) 1850-1884, 1868-01-03
times-ahe whom he has looked upon and


Like a man who, has accomplished =
mission. he now walks steadily onward
regains the highway, and begins tne as
cent towards the moors-to the lower
ones which lie at the base of the higher,
and more remote. Deeper pecame sne
snow, wilder the scene, neither man' ho,
bird, nor beast, giving life to tine Whlee ali
waste. By-and by-he comes to q 10" son
tary homesteads, and beyond these 10
lonely graveyard, where the deao steep
externally amidst the great hush OF nature.
He must pause moment, for here lies q
moor school-boy who died Of cold and
fever. Gray nursed him, Gray loved him.
GRAY cannot turn away-perhaps forever,
without saying farewell to the lnsentlens
dust.
As he DIVORCES to the gate of entrance
into this lone battle-ground, a middle-aged
gentleman comes toward it from the rear
of tire small matched church, aud STRIVING
to undo the latch cannot; his myers may
be cold. He may have entered the grave
ward from some other route. For DAYS
there has been no pesser-in. Be this as IL
NAV. the gentleman cannot make egress.
GRAY burries forward, and from his side
undoes the latch.
"Thank you," says the gentleman, rails
ing his hat, d" a courtesy is always p!eAsant'
even on a lonely Yorkshire moor. thalR
you-a happy Cnrstmas-good day." he
is handsome, thoughtful man OF mlddie
life his hair just touched with gray, MS
manner prompt, his words curt, like one
whose dealings arc many with men ana
the world. Perhaps he is a Yorkshire
manufacturer-who knows ?-many nave
factories in the hollows of these moors-
rich. exact, earnest men-gatherlDg whole
populations round them, and making steam
their willing slaves.
When the stranger is out of sight Gray
passes in, and following the footsteps in the
snow, they led him to simple grave-stone
at the rear Of the church, off which the
snow has been recently brushed on it IS
recorded the death of two old persons-man
and wife-who died some five years before.
Their names were Fielding; their married
life a long one, considering the years they
lived. Isl
81 thought as MUCH" says Gray to him
self, "that gentleman was MIR. Fielding,
the rich spinner, and this the grave of his
father and mother. have heard that he
was as noble son as he is a noble father,
husband, master, and man. Yes | thought
there was a likeness in his face to the boy
that came to Tubbs's 10 be taught draw
ing, half year ago. How often does the
| prosaic hide the depths OF poetic nature
This is his visit to his parents grave, on
the anniversary Of their death; and who
knows of what worth such visitation and
self. communion may be? The virtues OF
wear may be soWn thus III a single
hour ~
GRAY passes on to the school-boy's soi-
tary grave. No reverent feet have VISITED
it-no revcrent hand scraped OIL the daz-
zling snow. The marks where the little
redbreasts have hoped rossit are plainly
visible, and yet it is not solitary: the wind
sings a dirge, the snow presses downily, and
at night the moonlight sweeps over 1t and
slyers it with glory Under the arch OF
Heaven no single thing but what has some
hymn sung to it-some tears Wept over It
by Nature
The poor usher resumes his walk pre-.
sently, for he has far to 60. The cold is
benumbing, the snow deeper, yet be
presses on and he stops to find small
flask in the pocket of his overcoat from
this he sips drop of brandy lit holds but
little), and then he plods on. The DAY
begins to fade-the distance is yet conside-
rable-he grows anxious. ...
| At length the moor dips downward into
4 valley, and beyond this is the higher
bleakcr, lonelier moor, across which lies
the station he wishes to reach through the
valley sweeps a vast water power, and
here stands the wondrous mill, in which
daily work three thousand people, EN-,
ployed by John Fielding, the great cotton
lord. But the mighty giant of spindle and
mule sleeps to-day, the fires are low, and
labor rests her hands! Some miles from
the mill the mansion of the cotton lord
stands embosomed in woods, and here at
the foot of the fell is cluster Of cot
tages.
Descending to one of these he asks a
woman standing at the door the nearest
way 20 the opposite fell.
"Why, cross the beck by the bridge,
and take the road afore thee. But eh, sir,
its coming On wild night for the -moors
and now I'm think, if ye go for GraystQne
(Mr. Fieldilg's park auent there) you'd
lind it more sheltered like, and bitnigher
still. You can't miss the way if We keep
this side the beck to the mill then cross
it, and bit beyond get into the park by
the stile the path then'l take thee by
Graystone pool-a mighty piece of water,
all frozen over noW-and toward the end
leads up the way on to the moors. You
can't miss it, though it's coming on WIG
night, fear" &, .yE.f
GRAY hurries on, passes the mill, the
mill hands, cottages almost all OF them
teuautless to. day-fnds his way to the
nooI and so to its furthest side nearest
Tho moor. AS he approaches the road
leading thereto he sees man dressed like
servant standing on the bank, as II at
tending three or four boys who are skating
ND and down the pond. They are all Of
them fine, handsome, athletic lads, and
GRAY knows them to be his old drawing
pupils, the Fieldings. Though he has no in.
tention of approaching them, for they are
skating some distance from whore he has
to turn OF, he cannot refrain from staying
q moment to watch them. AS he does SO
a bell at the hall rings loud and clear; it,
echoes are taken up in the solemn moors,
and reGchoed back again.
Gentlemen" said the servant, "there
is the first dinner. bell you had better re-
turn now"
They prepare as it seems to obey by
skating towards the shore and Gray turns
away, not willing to be recognized and de-
tanned, for he feels desolate and low in
heart. For him no welcoming feast is
spread, no ear listens for him, no eye ex-
poets him. Snow before him, snow be-
hind him-a sad and solemn scene to him
Yet the SHOWS Of winter hide the buds OF