among the members, some wishing that he should be taken away in the cloud, whereon the luminous streaks were again visible, but not so ruddy as before; others proposed that he should take an oath that he would not pull down any of the pillars. These latter prevailed. The old man burst into tears, and said, "Nearly for a hundred years have I watched over these pillars, and scarcely have I eaten by day, and scarcely have I slept by night, that my watch might be unbroken: and think ye I would pull them down?" So he laid his hand upon his heart, and swore that he would not pull down any of the pillars. Then the consistory was about to break up, but some of the most violent of the members would not permit it, but agitated the assembly by bitter speeches with much gesture. It was agreed, therefore, that a further oath should be taken of the old man, that he would cease to keep watch over the pillars by night. But he refused to take the oath. Thereupon arose a great confusion in the consistory; and the nobles and great men, to whom he had dedicated his books, came forward, and tore out the dedications with their own hands. Then all the assembly cried out, "To whom will you dedicate the chronicles of your night-watches now?" And he answered with calm enthusiasm, "To the mountains, then, and to the snows, to the yellow moors and the moaning pine-woods, and to the unchained air." There now grew a warm debate about this answer, and what it signified; and the old man was called upon to interpret it, and he would not. Then it was agreed that there was a very deep and bad meaning in it and so they cast the old man out, and the guards drove him towards the east. After this thirtytwo men rose up, and went into the cloud; and they speedily returned, and threw down into the middle a Sharp-edged Cross, and the consistory rose, and implements were brought, and the older members pared off and blunted the edges, and then the women polished them; and the consistory formed into a magnificent procession, and, standing in a circle, they forbade any one to give the old man corn, and wine, and oil, and light, and salt, and they offered a large reward to him who should find out some means by which they could deprive him of water. Then they marched away in stately order, and entered into the cloud, bearing the blunt-edged Cross with them. And the waves had fretted the pillars sadly, and many were fretted quite through, and some were east down, and the island began to vibrate, and I was afraid, but I waited for the voice. Yet no voice came, and in my fear I awoke, and found the ship rolling in the boisterous sea, and heard the waters dash and gurgle close to my head. After midnight I fell asleep, and dreamed again. Methought I was with the mysterious Stranger on a bright sunny bank of velvet turf, a little brook murmuring near, and a copse hard by, full of meadow sweet, the odor of which filled all the air. Every thing around spoke the voluptuous languor of midsummer. The Stranger asked me to explain all the doctrines and customs of my Church. So I took a sheet of vellum, and I wrote them all out in columns, in a fair hand, from the calendars and rubrics of the Service-books. He was much pleased with it, and said it was very beautiful and good. Then he proposed we should walk up the stream some little way. So I hid the vellum among the meadow-sweet, and we walked together up the stream. But a heavy shower of rain came on, and we took shelter in a cave which was in the face of a rock, all clasped with ivy, bind-weed, and eglantine. When the sun shone again, we returned to our bank, and I looked for the vellum, and the rain had washed all the characters away. Upon this the Stranger said I had deceived him, that if what I had written were true, no rain would have washed it away; and he would not believe me when I said it was true: but he was very angry. However, he said he would judge for himself. So we rose up, and went a long way for many weeks, till we came to Canterbury on Advent Sunday. From thence we went all over the land throughout the parishes, and the Stranger took strict note of all he saw and heard. At length we came to the banks of the Tweed. The Stranger would not cross over, but he lifted up his hands, and blessed the land on the other side. So we turned back again towards the south; and on Ascension-day we were in a forlorn and desolate chancel belonging to a spacious church. It was a dreary, unadorned place, for the beauty was lavished on the nave rather than the chancel, and over the Altar, a very mournful symbol, were seven empty white-washed niches. The stranger regarded them with indignation, but did not speak. When we came out of the church he turned to me, and said in a solemn voice, somewhat tremulous from deep emotion, "You have led me through a land of closed churches and hushed bells, of unlighted Altars and unstoled priests; Is England beneath an Interdict?" THE END OF BOOK III. JAN 301914 |