Chapter XII. Mr and Mrs Glegg at Home

InordertoseeMrandMrsGleggathome,wemustenterthetownofStOgg’s,—thatvenerabletownwiththeredflutedroofsandthebroadwarehousegables,wheretheblackshipsunladethemselvesoftheirburthensfromthefarnorth,andcarryaway,inexchange,thepreciousinlandproducts,thewell-crushedcheeseandthesoftfleeceswhichmyrefinedreadershavedoubtlessbecomeacquaintedwiththroughthemediumofthebestclassicpastorals. Itisoneofthoseold,oldtownswhichimpressoneasacontinuationandoutgrowthofnature,asmuchasthenestsofthebower-birdsorthewindinggalleriesofthewhiteantsatownwhichcarriesthetracesofitslonggrowthandhistorylikeamillennialtree,andhassprungupanddevelopedinthesamespotbetweentheriverandthelowhillfromthetimewhentheRomanlegionsturnedtheirbacksonitfromthecamponthehillside,andthelong-hairedsea-kingscameuptheriverandlookedwithfierce,eagereyesatthefatnessoftheland.Itisatown“familiarwithforgottenyears.”TheshadowoftheSaxonhero-kingstillwalkstherefitfully,reviewingthescenesofhisyouthandlove-time,andismetbythegloomiershadowofthedreadfulheathenDane,whowasstabbedinthemidstofhiswarriorsbytheswordofaninvisibleavenger,andwhorisesonautumneveningslikeawhitemistfromhistumulusonthehill,andhoversinthecourtoftheoldhallbytheriver-side,thespotwherehewasthusmiraculouslyslaininthedaysbeforetheoldhallwasbuilt.ItwastheNormanswhobegantobuildthatfineoldhall,whichis,likethetown,tellingofthethoughtsandhandsofwidelysunderedgenerationsbutitisallsooldthatwelookwithlovingpardonatitsinconsistencies,andarewellcontentthattheywhobuiltthestoneoriel,andtheywhobuilttheGothicfa?adeandtowersoffinestsmallbrickworkwiththetrefoilornament,andthewindowsandbattlementsdefinedwithstone,didnotsacrilegiouslypulldowntheancienthalf-timberedbodywithitsoak-roofedbanqueting-hall. Butoldereventhanthisoldhallisperhapsthebitofwallnowbuiltintothebelfryoftheparishchurch,andsaidtobearemnantoftheoriginalchapeldedicatedtoStOgg,thepatronsaintofthisancienttown,ofwhosehistoryIpossessseveralmanuscriptversions.Iinclinetothebriefest,since,ifitshouldnotbewhollytrue,itisatleastlikelytocontaintheleastfalsehood.“OggthesonofBeorl,”saysmyprivatehagiographer,“wasaboatmanwhogainedascantylivingbyferryingpassengersacrosstheriverFloss.Anditcametopass,oneeveningwhenthewindswerehigh,thattheresatmoaningbythebrinkoftheriverawomanwithachildinherarmsandshewascladinrags,andhadawornandwitheredlook,andshecravedtoberowedacrosstheriver.Andthementhereaboutquestionedher,andsaid,‘Whereforedostthoudesiretocrosstheriver?Tarrytillthemorning,andtakeshelterhereforthenightsoshaltthoubewiseandnotfoolish.’Stillshewentontomournandcrave.ButOggthesonofBeorlcameupandsaid,‘Iwillferrytheeacrossitisenoughthatthyheartneedsit.’Andheferriedheracross.Anditcametopass,whenshesteppedashore,thatherragswereturnedintorobesofflowingwhite,andherfacebecamebrightwithexceedingbeauty,andtherewasagloryaroundit,sothatsheshedalightonthewaterlikethemooninitsbrightness.Andshesaid,‘Ogg,thesonofBeorl,thouartblessedinthatthoudidstnotquestionandwranglewiththeheart’sneed,butwastsmittenwithpity,anddidststraightwayrelievethesame.Andfromhenceforthwhosostepsintothyboatshallbeinnoperilfromthestormandwheneveritputsforthtotherescue,itshallsavethelivesbothofmenandbeasts.’Andwhenthefloodscame,manyweresavedbyreasonofthatblessingontheboat.ButwhenOggthesonofBeorldied,behold,inthepartingofhissoul,theboatlooseditselffromitsmoorings,andwasfloatedwiththeebbingtideingreatswiftnesstotheocean,andwasseennomore.Yetitwaswitnessedinthefloodsofaftertime,thatatthecomingonofeventide,OggthesonofBeorlwasalwaysseenwithhisboatuponthewide-spreadingwaters,andtheBlessedVirginsatintheprow,sheddingalightaroundasofthemooninitsbrightness,sothattherowersinthegatheringdarknesstookheartandpulledanew.” Thislegend,onesees,reflectsfromafar-offtimethevisitationofthefloods,which,evenwhentheylefthumanlifeuntouched,werewidelyfataltothehelplesscattle,andsweptassuddendeathoverallsmallerlivingthings.Butthetownknewworsetroubleseventhanthefloods,—troublesofthecivilwars,whenitwasacontinualfighting-place,wherefirstPuritansthankedGodforthebloodoftheLoyalists,andthenLoyaliststhankedGodforthebloodofthePuritans.Manyhonestcitizenslostalltheirpossessionsforconscience’sakeinthosetimes,andwentforthbeggaredfromtheirnativetown.Doubtlesstherearemanyhousesstandingnowonwhichthosehonestcitizensturnedtheirbacksinsorrow,—quaint-gabledhouseslookingontheriver,jammedbetweennewerwarehouses,andpenetratedbysurprisingpassages,whichturnandturnatsharpanglestilltheyleadyououtonamuddystrandoverflowedcontinuallybytherushingtide.Everywherethebrickhouseshaveamellowlook,andinMrsGlegg’sdaytherewasnoincongruousnew-fashionedsmartness,noplate-glassinshop-windows,nofreshstucco-facingorotherfallaciousattempttomakefineoldredStOgg’sweartheairofatownthatsprangupyesterday.Theshop-windowsweresmallandunpretendingforthefarmers’wivesanddaughterswhocametodotheirshoppingonmarket-dayswerenottobew