Not a day passes over the earth, but men and women of no note do great deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows.of these obscure heroes, philosophers, and martyrs, the greater part will never be known till that hour, when many that are great shall be small, and the small great; but of others the world's knowledge may be said to sleep: their lives and characters lie hidden from nations in the annals that record them.The general reader cannot feel them, they are presented so curtly and coldly: they are not like breathing stories appealing to his heart, but little historic hail-stones striking him but to glance off his bosom: nor can he understand them; for epitomes are not narratives, as skeletons are not human figures.
Thus records of prime truths remain a dead letter to plain folk:
the writers have left so much to the imagination, and imagination is so rare a gift.Here, then, the writer of fiction may be of use to the public - as an interpreter.
There is a musty chronicle, written in intolerable Latin, and in it a chapter where every sentence holds a fact.Here is told, with harsh brevity, the strange history of a pair, who lived untrumpeted, and died unsung, four hundred years ago; and lie now, as unpitied, in that stern page, as fossils in a rock.Thus, living or dead, Fate is still unjust to them.For if I can but show you what lies below that dry chronicler's words, methinks you will correct the indifference of centuries, and give those two sore-tried souls a place in your heart - for a day.
It was past the middle of the fifteenth century; Louis XI was sovereign of France; Edward IV was wrongful king of England; and Philip "the Good," having by force and cunning dispossessed his cousin Jacqueline, and broken her heart, reigned undisturbed this many years in Holland, where our tale begins.
Elias, and Catherine his wife, lived in the little town of Tergou.
He traded, wholesale and retail, in cloth, silk, brown holland, and, above all, in curried leather, a material highly valued by the middling people, because it would stand twenty years' wear, and turn an ordinary knife, no small virtue in a jerkin of that century, in which folk were so liberal of their steel; even at dinner a man would leave his meat awhile, and carve you his neighbour, on a very moderate difference of opinion.
The couple were well to do, and would have been free from all earthly care, but for nine children.When these were coming into the world, one per annum, each was hailed with rejoicings, and the saints were thanked, not expostulated with; and when parents and children were all young together, the latter were looked upon as lovely little playthings invented by Heaven for the amusement, joy, and evening solace of people in business.
But as the olive-branches shot up, and the parents grew older, and saw with their own eyes the fate of large families, misgivings and care mingled with their love.They belonged to a singularly wise and provident people: in Holland reckless parents were as rare as disobedient children.So now when the huge loaf came in on a gigantic trencher, looking like a fortress in its moat, and, the tour of the table once made, seemed to have melted away, Elias and Catherine would look at one another and say, "Who is to find bread for them all when we are gone?"At this observation the younger ones needed all their filial respect to keep their little Dutch countenances; for in their opinion dinner and supper came by nature like sunrise and sunset, and, so long as that luminary should travel round the earth, so long as the brown loaf go round their family circle, and set in their stomachs only to rise again in the family oven.But the remark awakened the national thoughtfulness of the elder boys, and being often repeated, set several of the family thinking, some of them good thoughts, some ill thoughts, according to the nature of the thinkers.
"Kate, the children grow so, this table will soon be too small.""We cannot afford it, Eli," replied Catherine, answering not his words, but his thought, after the manner of women.
Their anxiety for the future took at times a less dismal but more mortifying turn.The free burghers had their pride as well as the nobles; and these two could not bear that any of their blood should go down in the burgh after their decease.
So by prudence and self-denial they managed to clothe all the little bodies, and feed all the great mouths, and yet put by a small hoard to meet the future; and, as it grew and grew, they felt a pleasure the miser hoarding for himself knows not.
One day the eldest boy but one, aged nineteen, came to his mother, and, with that outward composure which has so misled some persons as to the real nature of this people, begged her to intercede with his father to send him to Amsterdam, and place him with a merchant."It is the way of life that likes me: merchants are wealthy; I am good at numbers; prithee, good mother, take my part in this, and I shall ever be, as I am now, your debtor."Catherine threw up her hands with dismay and incredulity.
"What! leave Tergou!"
"What is one street to me more than another? If I can leave the folk of Tergou, I can surely leave the stones.""What! quit your poor father now he is no longer young?""Mother, if I can leave you, I can leave""What! leave your poor brothers and sisters, that love you so dear?""There are enough in the house without me.""What mean you, Richart? Who is more thought of than you Stay, have I spoken sharp to you? Have I been unkind to you?""Never that I know of; and if you had, you should never hear of it from me.Mother," said Richart gravely, but the tear was in his eye, "it all lies in a word, and nothing can change my mind.There will be one mouth less for you to feed.'
"There now, see what my tongue has done," said Catherine, and the next moment she began to cry.For she saw her first young bird on the edge of the nest trying his wings to fly into the world.
Richart had a calm, strong will, and she knew he never wasted a word.
