LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VII, Issue 741, 3 November 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

OUR MIDDY. That was the name Harry Grenville was known by all through the village. High and low, rich and poor, called that boy * Our Middy.’ He was the darling of everybody. His mother is the widow of the squire of the parish, and I am the clergyman’s wife. I have known Mrs Grenville intimately since my marriage, which followed immediately on my husband being presented to the vicarage of Grayford. We had been engaged for ten years, hoping for a living to marry on ; and, at last, when I was thirty, and had given up hoping for something by every post came the wonderful news, only a few lines—he was vicar of Grenford, through Mr Grenville, an old college friend, Down on my knees I went and thanked God. Then I looked at myself in the glass. What a worn, faded-looking thing for a bride; and I had been so fresh and fair ten years ago ! After that I went downstairs and told my aunt, who had given me a home for many years.

*At last. Carry,’ she said, *at last! Well, dear, I hope you’ll be happy. You might have been Mrs Hunt the last eight years, you know, and all those five little Hunt’s might have been yours.’ ‘ I don't envy Mrs Hunt the very least, my dear aunt.’ ‘A nice open carriage with red wheels, too, Carry, and a pair of greys. Aou’ll never have more than a pony carriage. And such a perfect establishment ; butler, two footmen, and a boy. Oh, dear, I suppose a dozen of each will do, Carry V ‘ A dozen, dear aunt! What of, footmen or carriages V * Dear Carry, what a jumble you are making. Jnder-linen, my love, I was speaking of.’

‘Oh, I beg pardon, aunty; a dozen? I never had more than six,’

‘ A dozen or fourteen it should be. My dear father always had his things marked one, two, three, up to twelve, and he always insisted on wearing number one shirt with number one shirt and number one socks and number one drawers. It made him quite fidgety if he happened to get number eleven shirt and number seven socks together. Very neat, tidy man he always was. You see, my dear,’ continued my aunt, pursuing her own train of thought, ‘ you knew Mr Woodhouse before you knew Mr Hunt, so he had no chance ; your mind was made up ; but if Mr Woodhouse had been Mr Hunt, and Mr Hunt been Mr Woodhouse, I wonder if things would have turned out differently. You would then have known Mr Hunt the longest. I can’t make it out at all. Such china, and such a wonderful cook 1 I’m so glad I’ve not worn that new silk, Carry. Easter was so cold, I did’nt put it on, and now it will do nicely for my wedding-gown.’ ‘ Aunty, arc you going to be married ? ’ I said, kissing the dear old face. My aunt blushed, and declared I was so upset that I could not speak a word of sense. Well, I was married, and my dear aunt wore the new silk, and we went straight to Grenford on a lovely summer day. Michael’s old housekeeper and her niece had been settled there a week beforehand, and the furniture of his bachelor days, with some few additions, was all we had to begin with. But how pretty it all looked when we walked across the fields from the station. The scent of a gloire de dijon rose always recalls that summer even ing to me. I never see any so fine as ours. What a strange power flowers and music have—how they bring back with a sudden thrill daj s that are past, friends who have ‘gone home to rest,’ whilst we are still toiling over our task ! And when all was quiet and peaceful, Michael took the big key of the church, and we went through the garden, under the lime trees, and into the church, and kneeling again before the altar, prayed our prayers for ourselves and for each other : that now when God had given us our desire He might not send leaness withal into our souls.

Within the year Mr Grenville died, and it was after his death that my with Mrs Grenville deepened into friendship and affection. She Avas as nearly perfect as I imagine any human being can be ; one of the few who can always be showering benefits on others without making |them feel under obligations. It was such a pleasure to her to do a kindness, it almost seemed as if a hearty appreciation of it made her the one who was obliged. I never saw anything so beautiful as her manner in a cottage, and the whole parish adored her. Harry was like his mother, and the most loving and lovable boy I ever met. He was always in mischief, yet everyone loved him. He painted my large white cat like a tiger, and file poor animal had to be killed ; but there were floods of tears, and the only punishment I inflicted was not letting him dig the hole and superintend the burial. He was a clever lad, though never given to study overmuch. He was very fond of music. He did not inherit this from his mother, and his guardian, an old-fashioned sort of unmusical man, objected strongly to his learning. It led young men into low society, he thought. Such a mistake ! I am certain music is a talent to foster in a boy. Harry would sit quiet by the hour when I was playing, and I was the culprit who taught him. And wonderful progress he made.

It was a sort of secret from his mother which she was well aware of all the time. 1 never shall forget one Sunday afternoon when Harry ventured to perform on the grand pianoforte in the drawing-room. I happened to be in the garden with Mrs Grenville when the sounds of * Camperdown Racecourse,’ and ‘ Map Bang,’ reached us. His mother turned, half shocked, half amused, and entering by the open window, she said in a reproachful tone, ‘My dear Harry, I cannot have such tunes on Sunday. ’ ‘ That is hard lines,’ said Harry, turning round on the music stool, ‘ when I’ve had the trouble of finding out the chords, and put Amen to it, like they do the hymns in church 1’ From a child he always said he would be a sailor, and nothing else would satisfy him. He passed the examination, and returned home in triumph and in uniform ; two years in the training-ship and a year at sea. He was sixteen now, grown and sunburnt improved in every way. The first Sunday when he joined oux’ choir, absorbed in the music, and singing like a bird, I thought I never had seen a more beautiful young face : and his high, clear voice was glorious in the dear old hymn, ‘ Crown Him Lord of all.’

How happy mother and son were for those few weeks 1 Harry was devoted to her; all his life she had been his friend and companion, and shared every thought. * I hope to get the Humane Society’s medal mother, some day.’ ‘Yes, my boy, I hope you may,’ said Mrs Grenville.

‘ And the Victoria Cross, mother! Oh, I must get that; you would like me to get that ?’

‘ Yes, my boy,’ she answered, but there was a far-away look in her eyes, as if petitioning the Great Captain to cover his curly head in the day of battle. And he visited all the cottages and told them all he had seen, and everyone admired him, and half the lads wished to go with him when he went to sea again in October, 1869. He only returned last summer as a sublieutenant. Such a happy meeting ! Dear Mrs Grenville said it almost made amends for his long absence. And then he fell in love with my young cousin, Helen Wood, who was staying with us. There is something so taking in the earnest simplicity of a boy’s love, so different from anything else ; and I never treated it as a serious thing, for I knew Helen, besides being several years older than he was, had been engaged some time, and I knew also her intended was in the navy, which quite accounted for her being always ready to listen to Harry’s yarns. I did not know, however, until Captain Lee arrived, that he had been the commander of Harry’s ship; and Harry’s amazement that she should be engaged to such an old man (Captain Lee was hve-and-thirty) amused us much at the time. Perhaps these little details are too trivial to mention now, when the end has come; and yet why should his merry, loving life be hidden away and forgotten ? I suppose no boy ever passed through ‘ the waves of this troublesome world,’ as his mother used to say, with a purer heart, or a brighter, happier spirit. That line of our great poet, ‘ God make thee good as thou art beautiful,’ was realised in him.

I am only giving a sketch, and it is all too recent to require description or words of mine ; all I need say is, Captain Lee got command of the Fury, was ordered to the Gold Coast, and that Harry asked to be appointed to her. God help England when her sons are not ready to volunteer, and God help the mothers when they are. God help the aching hearts that are weeping sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country! ‘ I may have a chance of the Victoria Cross, you know, mother, now,’ he said that last evening. ‘Yes, my boy,’ she said, quietly, her white fingers lingering lovingly in the curls, from which she had just cut a long thick lock. ‘Yes, my boy,’ but I saw her lip quiver, and the far-away look came into her eyes again, praying for the curly head in the day of battle—praying he might yet come again from the land of the enemy. ***** From Captain Lee, K.N., to Mrs Woodhouse. ‘ Dear Mrs Woodhouse, —I grieve much to write particulars of the death of young Grenville, the bravest lad that ever was, beloved by all, regretted by all. He asked me to write to you to break it to his mother, but I fear Mrs Grenville will have learnt it by telegram before this reaches you, though I write by the first mail. ‘ He was not far from me, and by darting forward received the shot intended for myself. He was shot near the spine, and fell. 1 saw it was a mortal wound as soon as we raised him, but he was calm and quite conscious. “Captain,” he said, “tell Helen I saved you, she’ll be so glad. And tell my dear mother ’—there he stopped, and tears filled his eyes (and mine too, I may most truly say) —‘ dear mother,’ he went on, ‘we wanted the Victoria Cross, mother and I; tell her I tried for it—and I’ve always said my prayers —and I’m glad I did—troublesome waves of this world—tell her, please sir—she knows what I mean—and I’ve no pain.’ ‘ No, there was no pain. His young face, looking really “ as it had been the face of an angel,” so calmjto the last—and the last came very soon—showed there was no pain. And just before the last—you know what a splendid voice he had—just before the last he suddenly sung two lines of a favorite hymn : “ The night is dark,’and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on*’ ‘lt was the last effort; the low, clear notes, and the touching words, ‘I am far from home,’ were quite overpowering to all who heard him. ‘ What can I say ? what words can express my sorrow, my distress, that he should have given his young life for mine ? How can I write to poor Mrs Grenville ! He thought for her and asked me to write to you. “Break it gently to my mother, ’he said. \Vhen I think of her, I feel keenly that no words of mine can be any consolation—that nothing can be of any comfort to her except the thought, the sure and certain hope, that her brave boy tried to win a Cross—but has won a Crown instead. ‘ Believe me, sincerely yours, ‘Arthur Lee. ‘December 10th, 1873.’