Recollections of a Rambler.

It was on a beautiful morning, in quite the beginning of May, that, leaving the Globe Hotel, on the Beacon Hill, Exmouth, I strolled forth at a very early hour, determining to ramble wherever chance might lead. There was no fear of my missing any particularly lovely spot in following this determination. The very watering-places combine all the charms of sea and country to an extent peculiar to this lovely county. Ten minutes suffice to bear the wanderer to such seeming solitude of hill and dale, and glen and wood—will scatter around him such a profusion of ever-varying yet ever beautiful scenery, that it is difficult to believe that all those artificial luxuries and pleasures necessary to the trifler and the fashionest, would we seek them, are close at hand.

Every season has its own charm in England. Even winter, in its stern, rude aspect, its brawling voice of winds and storms, has, in the deep, still haunts of nature, its own peculiar beauty. Spring, with its young, fresh joyousness, its sparkling glory of earth and sky—its gushing atmosphere; for, as the breeze comes laughing and dancing along, we can give it no other term. Summer, with its still and deeper feeling, as if the dancing light and glittering love of the youthful year had sobered into a being deeper, stronger, more fervid and intense. Then autumn, decking decay with such bright beauty, shedding a parting halo on the fading year; concentrating all of loveliness in that sweet, dreamy pensiveness, which, while it lingers almost mournfully on earth’s parting glories, looks through their passing light into their renovated being, reading in the death and resurrection of nature the spirit’s immortality.

One charm, indeed, spring possesses beyond those of the other seasons; it is, that almost every hour of the day is equally delicious; in the morning, noon, afternoon, or evening, we may come forth and make acquaintance with her in every variety of aspect, each one as lovely as the other. Evening indeed is the hour of that delicious musing which, in the very blessedness of the PRESENT, unconsciously recalls the loveliest images of the PAST, and adumbrates the FUTURE, by the thrilling whisper of our immortal goal. It is then that, as Wordsworth says—
“We are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul.”

But these are not the sensations of the morning; then life is infused with the PRESENT alone. We can neither recall, nor think, nor hope; we do but believe, and love, and feel, conscious only of the blessing of Existence, of the omnipotence of Love!

It was with all the elastic joyousness of such sensations I hastened up the Beacon Hill, pausing involuntarily on the top to gaze beneath me. There lay Old Ocean, slumbering in the early sunshine as a lake of molten gold, tinged here and there with the shadow of overhanging rocks, and ever and anon fringed with a snowy crest, as a passing breeze rocked the waves into heavier swell. The broad and graceful river, rushing boldly and proudly into its parent sea; its undulating course visible for miles up the land; its shores skirted with towns half buried in foliage; churches, towers, and villages coming forth in the glowing light from their background of hills dark with verdure; headlands, bold, rugged, and broken into every diversity of form; Powder-ham’s castellated mansion glancing through magnificent plantations, with their glades and lawns of emerald issuing from the deeper shadows as jewels of the sunshine. Mamhead just visible through its dark, dense woods; and farther still in the distance, woody uplands and barren rocks towering above the broken summits of the headlands, taking every grotesque form from the clouds lingering above them, and at length fading into ether, changing like phantasmagoria beneath the magic influence of light and shade, and mist and sun.

My path now lay across one or two fields, inlaid with a perfect mosaic of gold, and white and green, formed by the patches of grass, kingcup, and daisy, leading into those narrow, luxuriant lanes, with their gurgling streamlets and clustering flowers which mark at once the county of Devon.

The hedges rose high above my head, and from them sprung forth the oak, and elm, and beech, and ash, bearing the weight of centuries on their lofty trunks and far-spreading branches; the hawthorn, with its blossoms just tipping its rich green as with a shower of snow; and the holly standing forth, dark and stern, amid the more tender foliage of the early spring. Every field-gate or occasional break in the hedge disclosed a complete mass of hill, and wood, and orchard; on one side bounded by sea and sky, on the other stretching farther and farther inland, till hills met the sky, and seemed to close around the landscape. Every shade of green, from the darkest to the lightest, was visible in the tender foliage—some as if already clothed in the intenser hues of summer; others so lightly, so delicately shaded, that their exquisite tracery was distinctly marked against the clear blue sky. The orchards already lay as patches of snow in their verdant dells, and primroses and violets by thousands clustered on the banks of the clear, trickling streamlet which skirted the deep green hedge as a fringe of silver.

I do so love the primrose; there is something so sad and pensive in her meek, pale flowers, gleaming forth as silent stars from their darkly-closing leaves, and bending over the laughing waters, as if their very mirth were sad to her. And the deep purple violet, shrouding itself in silence, yet seeming in its very scent, to smile and whisper joy. And the speedwell, with its full blue petals and delicate stems, which literally bend beneath their weight of blossom, light and fragile as they are; the deep-red campion, with its gorgeous clusters, looking proudly down on its humbler brethren, rejoicing in its lofty home, that it may fade unplucked upon its stem; these and countless other flowers gemmed the hedge a very garniture of love.

There was no sound save the delicious music of the fresh springy breeze, as it wantoned with the glistening leaves, or played with the gushing waters, inciting them to break in tiny waves against the hedge; and the rich thrilling melody of the happy birds, calling to each other from tree to tree, or sending forth such a gush of song, such a trilling flow of rapture, that their slender throats seemed quivering with the effort; then would come silence, as startled and hushed by their own joy; and then a low twittering, with perhaps the distant call of the lonely cuckoo, and a burst of melody again.

After rambling amid such scenes and sounds for about two miles, a thick grove of lofty trees, interspersed with thatched roofs, ivy-clad and smoke-dyed walls, and chimneys of every architecture, marked its termination. The lane narrowed, and hastening onwards, a rustic gate opened into an old churchyard, surrounding a village church of such extreme old age, and so picturesque, that it sent me back in fancy centuries at once. There was the low, square belfry, indented and fractured, with lichen and moss, and flowering weeds springing from every crevice; the long and rambling choir, roofed with copper; the slender buttresses; the small-paned windows, some of Saxon, some of Tudor architecture; the large square porch or entrance, with its grotesque carvings, that could only belong to the middle ages. The very trees, massive alike in root, and trunk, and branch; yews so dark and thick, they seemed in the distance more as solid masonry than trees—looked as if they had stood there grim guardians of the holy dead for centuries; and grassy graves and quaint old tombs, so battered with age and atmosphere as wholly to obliterate their inscriptions—though some bore date as far back as 1500—strewed the ground, so closely congregated that there was no space for a foot between.

The very birds seemed imbued with the spirit of the place, for they were silent, either flying noiselessly over the graves, or winging their way to less sacred groves. A sudden sound awoke me from my musing, and transported me at once from past to present; a joyous peal burst forth from the old belfry, and a kindly voice accosted me with—“Maybe, you’d like to walk in, sir, and see the old place? You’d ha’ time to look round ye afore the wedding party comes; and if not, there’ll be time enow during the service.”

The offer was accepted so eagerly as to delight my old guide; for if one place in the country be more interesting to me than any other, it is an old village church, so buried in its own beautiful site that the roar of the railroad can never reach it; where we can stand still and breathe, apart from the rush and the turmoil, and the haste, still pressing onward—onward, in the vain strife for man’s intellect to keep pace with the giant he has raised, which is now the constant accompaniment of the neighbourhood of towns. The interior betrayed still greater age than the exterior; the windows were painted rudely but gaudily, throwing streams of coloured light where the early sunshine fell, and leaving the remainder of the interior in that dim twilight so in unison with holiness and age. An antique shrine, adorned with most grotesque, and to me incomprehensible carvings, ran between the nave and chancel. The nave, fitted up as a Protestant place of worship, with pews and seats, looked more modern than the chancel; though the very black oak of its furniture gave it a venerable appearance, and seemed to mark its date as among the earliest of the reformed churches, while the dilapidated pavement and crumbling seats of the chancel spoke of an age still further back. The font was roughly hewn out of a single stone. I was intently engaged in endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions and dates on the stone flooring, which appeared entirely made up of graves, when the entreaty of the old clerk that I would withdraw into a pew, as the wedding party was approaching, most abruptly scared away all my antiquarian lore, and transported me, very unwillingly, if the truth must be told, to the contemplation of that common, every-day occurrence, a modern wedding.

But one glance at the group, consisting of only six or seven persons, riveted my interest. In my whole London career I had never seen such a face of intellect, and soul, and beauty as that of the bride. Whether it was the contrast of such youthful grace and loveliness with the stern old shrine around, or the excessive agitation of the bridegroom, and the almost extraordinary self-possession of the bride, I know not; but no marriage ceremony ever affected me as this. Self-possessed as she was, there was no absence of feeling; her cheek was perfectly colourless, and at times there seemed a slight tremulous motion of the lips, as if the effort to retain her composure was too painful to be continued, and only persevered in for him. His responses were wholly inaudible; hers so distinct and thrilling, they affected me almost to tears. The clergyman himself, though young, and, by his gay careless face and manner, the only one who did not well assimilate with the scene, became gradually impressed with its unusual solemnity. The embrace with which, at the conclusion of the ceremony, the bridegroom folded the bride to his heart, was so full of passionate feeling, of such suppressed yet intense emotion, even I could scarcely witness it unmoved, and it completely checked the customary joyous greetings of their companions.

I followed them almost unconsciously from the church, saw them enter the two carriages waiting for them outside the little gate, and remained leaning on a tombstone overlooking the road, long after they had disappeared. My reverie was interrupted by a courteous address from the young clergyman who, having noticed my attendance in the church, volunteered the information which I so much desired.

Pierre Laval, the only son of a very rich planter in Martinique, having received the best education which an alternate residence in France and England could bestow, returned to his father only to feel that a residence in Martinique was about the most miserable thing that could happen to him, and so again made his appearance in England. He sought no profession, because he had no need to do so, his father’s possessions being immense. Joining in the very best society, in which a handsome face, elegant address, and highly cultivated mind gave him many advantages, he became acquainted with the reigning beauty of the season, Helen Campbell. Now Pierre had a decided aversion to cried-up beauties, and so he resolved that, however she might conquer others, she should never obtain any power over him. It is one thing to make a wise resolution, and another to keep it. It so happened that Helen Campbell possessed none of the repulsive attributes of an acknowledged beauty. She was in truth, much more lovely than he had anticipated, but it was the intellectuality of her sweet face which was its peculiar charm. She was frank, truthful, gay—nay, almost wild in her joyousness; and, moreover, possessed the spell of one of the sweetest voices, either in speech or song, which he had ever heard. Pierre struggled a long time, but it would not do; he was fairly conquered: and then for the first time, he imagined himself wanting in every quality likely to make that love reciprocal, and, by sudden silence and reserve, was in a fair way of actually creating the evil he dreaded, had not a mutual friend opened his eyes, and with sudden desperation he urged his suit, and discovered, to his inexpressible happiness, that his love was returned.

For a brief period all was joy. Pierre had written to his father, and did not harbour a single doubt as to his residence being permanently fixed in England, although Helen had made no such condition to his acceptance. Anxiously the arrival of the packet was anticipated; but instead of the answer expected, it brought news so overwhelming, that the unfortunate Pierre was at first verging on distraction.

Monsieur Laval was almost irretrievably ruined; a revolt in the slave population of the island had taken place, and his extensive plantations were burnt to ashes. Other heavy losses had congregated round him; and what with these misfortunes, and having been severely wounded in the revolt, his health appeared rapidly failing. Panic and confusion still reigned; but the friend who wrote, expressed the hope that, when all was quiet again, the Laval losses might not involve such utter ruin as at present appeared. Nothing was so earnestly desired, in fact, so indispensable, as the immediate presence of Pierre.

For some time the young man strove in vain to reduce his thoughts to order; and at length, hardly knowing what he did, he sought his betrothed, told her all, and with a desperate effort, offered to resign all his pretensions to her hand; he was a ruined man—must labour for years in Martinique; how could he ask his Helen to leave her luxurious home, country, friends, all, to bear with poverty and misery in a distant colony, for him? She heard him quietly to the end, and then clasping his hand, vowed nothing should part them. She was his by the most holy of all ties—mutual love and truth; and no persuasion, no effort, could turn her from his side. In vain her mother and all her friends seconded Laval’s appeal, urging the madness of the sacrifice. Helen’s only reply was, “Had the voice of man united us, would you thus persuade me? Would you not bid me follow my husband through weal and through woe? And shall I do less now, because freedom is in my power? I could desert him if I chose. No, no, mother, you have other children, who will be to you all I have been. Pierre has but me,” and no subsequent persuasion had power to shake her resolution. It was, however, thought advisable that Pierre should seek Martinique alone; and that when affairs were a little quiet, he should either return for her, or she should go to him. But how could she join him, an unprotected girl in a strange land? She saw that he hesitated to speak the only means, and so spoke them for him: “Give me the sanctity, the protection of your name, my Pierre, and then what tongue dare cast aspersions on a wife who joins her husband? If the day which unites us, must also bid us part, let it be so; but save me, as your wife, from attentions and notice, and persuasions which may be forced upon me.”

Pierre’s first answer was a wild and passionate embrace; his next, as passionate a burst of sorrow, that it should be his doom to banish her to a home so little congenial to her taste, as the burning climate would be to her health. And it was long ere she could soothe or chide him into composure; for the more brightly shone forth her unselfish love, the more bitterly he felt the extent of sacrifice she made.

Helen had to endure a very tempest of opposition and upbraiding as to her romantic far-fetched folly; but hers was not a mind to change or waver, when feeling and principle had alike dictated her resolution.

Pierre was to join his ship at Falmouth; and yearning for the quiet only found amid the repose of nature, Helen prevailed on her mother to reside for the next few months in Devonshire. Their bridal I had witnessed; and when I heard that the afternoon of that same day Pierre Laval was to part from his Helen for an indefinite period, that when united by the holiest of ties, made one for ever, but a few troubled hours were left them together, I no longer wondered at the emotion I had beheld.

Often and often has the vision of that morning haunted me with the vain longing to know if indeed that unworldly love had been blessed as it deserved, and when those loving and aching hearts did meet again. For years that olden shrine returned to me, as a dream of the far past in itself, blended with all the griefs and hopes of human hearts in the present; and never can I recall the old altar to my mind without beholding in fancy the sweet shadowy form of Helen Campbell, and the suppressed but terrible emotion of her Pierre.