Stranger.

Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty,

Breaking the highway stones,—and ’tis a task

Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours.

Old Man.

Why yes! for one with such a weight of years

Upon his back. I’ve lived here, man and boy,

In this same parish, near the age of man

For I am hard upon threescore and ten.

I can remember sixty years ago

The beautifying of this mansion here

When my late Lady’s father, the old Squire

Came to the estate.

Stranger.

Why then you have outlasted

All his improvements, for you see they’re making

Great alterations here.

Old Man.

Aye-great indeed!

And if my poor old Lady could rise up—

God rest her soul! ’twould grieve her to behold

The wicked work is here.

Stranger.

They’ve set about it

In right good earnest. All the front is gone,

Here’s to be turf they tell me, and a road

Round to the door. There were some yew trees too

Stood in the court.

Old Man.

Aye Master! fine old trees!

My grandfather could just remember back

When they were planted there. It was my task

To keep them trimm’d, and ’twas a pleasure to me!

All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall!

My poor old Lady many a time would come

And tell me where to shear, for she had played

In childhood under them, and ’twas her pride

To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say

On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have

A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs

And your pert poplar trees;—I could as soon

Have plough’d my father’s grave as cut them down!

Stranger.

But ’twill be lighter and more chearful now,

A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road

Round for the carriage,—now it suits my taste.

I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh,

And then there’s some variety about it.

In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose,

And the laburnum with its golden flowers

Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes

The bright red berries of the mountain ash,

With firs enough in winter to look green,

And show that something lives. Sure this is better

Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look

All the year round like winter, and for ever

Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs

So dry and bare!

Old Man.

Ah! so the new Squire thinks

And pretty work he makes of it! what ’tis

To have a stranger come to an old house!

Stranger.

It seems you know him not?

Old Man.

No Sir, not I.

They tell me he’s expected daily now,

But in my Lady’s time he never came

But once, for they were very distant kin.

If he had played about here when a child

In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,

And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers,

That fell so thick, he had not had the heart

To mar all thus.

Stranger.

Come—come! all a not wrong.

Those old dark windows—

Old Man.

They’re demolish’d too—

As if he could not see thro’ casement glass!

The very red-breasts that so regular

Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs,

Won’t know the window now!

Stranger.

Nay they were high

And then so darken’d up with jessamine,

Harbouring the vermine;—that was a fine tree

However. Did it not grow in and line

The porch?

Old Man.

All over it: it did one good

To pass within ten yards when ’twas in blossom.

There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside.

My Lady loved at evening to sit there

And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet

And slept in the sun; ’twas an old favourite dog

She did not love him less that he was old

And feeble, and he always had a place

By the fire-side, and when he died at last

She made me dig a grave in the garden for him.

Ah I she was good to all! a woful day

’Twas for the poor when to her grave she went!

Stranger.

They lost a friend then?

Old Man.

You’re a stranger here

Or would not ask that question. Were they sick?

She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs

She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter

When weekly she distributed the bread

In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear

The blessings on her! and I warrant them

They were a blessing to her when her wealth

Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir!

It would have warm’d your heart if you had seen

Her Christmas kitchen,—how the blazing fire

Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs

So chearful red,—and as for misseltoe,

The finest bough that grew in the country round

Was mark’d for Madam. Then her old ale went

So bountiful about! a Christmas cask,

And ’twas a noble one! God help me Sir!

But I shall never see such days again.

Stranger.

Things may be better yet than you suppose

And you should hope the best.

Old Man.

It don’t look well

These alterations Sir! I’m an old man

And love the good old fashions; we don’t find

Old bounty in new houses. They’ve destroyed

All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk

Grubb’d up, and they do say that the great row

Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top

They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think

To live to see all this, and ’tis perhaps

A comfort I shan’t live to see it long.

Stranger.

But sure all changes are not needs for the worse

My friend.

Old Man.

May-hap they mayn’t Sir;—for all that

I like what I’ve been us’d to. I remember

All this from a child up, and now to lose it,

’Tis losing an old friend. There’s nothing left

As ’twas;—I go abroad and only meet

With men whose fathers I remember boys;

The brook that used to run before my door

That’s gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt

To climb are down; and I see nothing now

That tells me of old times, except the stones

In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope

Have many years in store,—but pray to God

You mayn’t be left the last of all your friends.

Stranger.

Well! well! you’ve one friend more than you’re aware of.

If the Squire’s taste don’t suit with your’s, I warrant

That’s all you’ll quarrel with: walk in and taste

His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady

E’er broached a better cask. You did not know me,

But we’re acquainted now. ’Twould not be easy

To make you like the outside; but within—

That is not changed my friend! you’ll always find

The same old bounty and old welcome there.