“Soft on thy tomb shall fond Remembrance shedThe warm yet unavailing tear,And purple flowers that deck the honored deadShall strew the loved and honored bier.”
“Soft on thy tomb shall fond Remembrance shedThe warm yet unavailing tear,And purple flowers that deck the honored deadShall strew the loved and honored bier.”
“Soft on thy tomb shall fond Remembrance shedThe warm yet unavailing tear,And purple flowers that deck the honored deadShall strew the loved and honored bier.”
Failure to comply with the contract does not, let us hope, entail forfeiture of the earnest-money; or the honored dead might be grieved. Theslab is out of his tomb, and leans foolishly against it; the railings are rotted, and there are no more lasting ornaments than blisters and stains, which are the work of the weather, and not the result of the “warm yet unavailing tear.” The eyes that promised to shed them have been closed any time these seventy years.
Let us go about and moralize cheaply on the tombstones, trailing the robe of pious reflection up and down the pathways of the grave. Here is a big and stately tomb sacred to “Lucia,” who died in 1776A.D., aged 23. Here also be verses which an irreverent thumb can bring to light. Thus they wrote, when their hearts were heavy in them, one hundred and sixteen years ago:
“What needs the emblem, what the plaintive strain,What all the arts that sculpture e’er expressed,To tell the treasure that these walls contain?Let those declare it most who knew her best.“The tender pity she would oft displayShall be with interest at her shrine returned,Connubial love, connubial tears repay,And Lucia loved shall still be Lucia mourned.“Though closed the lips, though stopped the tuneful breath,The silent, clay-cold monitress shall teach—In all the alarming eloquence of deathWith double pathos to the heart shall preach.“Shall teach the virtuous maid, the faithful wife,If young and fair, that young and fair was she,Then close the useful lesson of her life,And tell them what she is, they soon must be.”
“What needs the emblem, what the plaintive strain,What all the arts that sculpture e’er expressed,To tell the treasure that these walls contain?Let those declare it most who knew her best.“The tender pity she would oft displayShall be with interest at her shrine returned,Connubial love, connubial tears repay,And Lucia loved shall still be Lucia mourned.“Though closed the lips, though stopped the tuneful breath,The silent, clay-cold monitress shall teach—In all the alarming eloquence of deathWith double pathos to the heart shall preach.“Shall teach the virtuous maid, the faithful wife,If young and fair, that young and fair was she,Then close the useful lesson of her life,And tell them what she is, they soon must be.”
“What needs the emblem, what the plaintive strain,What all the arts that sculpture e’er expressed,To tell the treasure that these walls contain?Let those declare it most who knew her best.
“The tender pity she would oft displayShall be with interest at her shrine returned,Connubial love, connubial tears repay,And Lucia loved shall still be Lucia mourned.
“Though closed the lips, though stopped the tuneful breath,The silent, clay-cold monitress shall teach—In all the alarming eloquence of deathWith double pathos to the heart shall preach.
“Shall teach the virtuous maid, the faithful wife,If young and fair, that young and fair was she,Then close the useful lesson of her life,And tell them what she is, they soon must be.”
That goes well, even after all these years, does it not? and seems to bring Lucia very near, in spite of what the later generation is pleased to call the stiltedness of the old-time verse.
Who will declare the merits of Lucia—dead in her spring before there was even aHickey’s Gazetteto chronicle the amusements of Calcutta, and publish, with scurrilous asterisks, theliaisonsof heads of departments? What pot-bellied East Indiaman brought the “virtuous maid” up the river, and did Lucia “make her bargain,” as the cant of those times went, on the first, second, or third day after her arrival? Or did she, with the others of the batch, give a spinsters’ ball as a last trial—following the custom of the country? No. She was a fair Kentish maiden, sent out, at a cost of five hundred pounds, English money, under the captain’s charge, to wed the man of her choice, andheknew Clive well, had had dealings with Omichand, and talked to men who had lived through the terrible night in the Black Hole. He was a rich man, Lucia’s battered tomb proves it, and he gave Lucia all that her heart could wish.A green-painted boat to take the air in on the river of evenings. Coffree slave-boys who could play on the French horn, and even a very elegant, neat coach with a genteel rutlan roof ornamented with flowers very highly finished, ten best polished plate glasses, ornamented with a few elegant medallions enriched with mother-o’-pearl, that she might take her drive on the course as befitted a factor’s wife. All these things he gave her. And when the convoys came up the river, and the guns thundered, and the servants of the Honorable the East India Company drank to the king’s health, be sure that Lucia before all the other ladies in the fort had her choice of the new stuffs from England and was cordially hated in consequence. Tilly Kettle painted her picture a little before she died, and the hot-blooded young writers did duel with small swords in the fort ditch for the honor of piloting her through a minuet at the Calcutta theatre or the Punch House. But Warren Hastings danced with her instead, and the writers were confounded—every man of them. She was a toast far up the river. And she walked in the evening on the bastions of Fort-William, and said: “La! I protest!” It was there that she exchanged congratulations with all her friends on the 20th of October,when those who were alive gathered together to felicitate themselves on having come through another hot season; and the men—even the sober factor saw no wrong here—got most royally and Britishly drunk on Madeira that had twice rounded the Cape. But Lucia fell sick, and the doctor—he who went home after seven years with five lakhs and a half, and a corner of this vast graveyard to his account—said that it was a pukka or putrid fever, and the system required strengthening. So they fed Lucia on hot curries, and mulled wine worked up with spirits and fortified with spices, for nearly a week; at the end of which time she closed her eyes on the weary, weary river and the fort forever, and a gallant, with a turn forbelles lettres, wept openly as men did then and had no shame of it, and composed the verses above set, and thought himself a neat hand at the pen—stap his vitals! But the factor was so grieved that he could write nothing at all—could only spend his money—and he counted his wealth by lakhs—on a sumptuous grave. A little later on he took comfort, and when the next batch came out——
But this has nothing whatever to do with the story of Lucia, the virtuous maid, the faithful wife. Her ghost went to Mrs. Westland’s powder ball, and looked very beautiful.