The Strife of the Roses and Days of the Tudors in the West Part 30

Singularly coincident,--as with the Paleologi at Landulph, so with the second of the Gorges of Budockshed,--the recital of his life and burial does not end all we have to say of him. In speaking of "St.

Buddocks," as Risdon calls it, he narrates the following:--

"The church of this parish once stood in a remote and unhealthy place by the river side, but Robert Budshed rebuilt it in a place more convenient, at his own cost; whereof (see the fate!) his own daughter first possessed the place for her burial; and in this church there is a tomb erected to the memory of Tristram Gorges and Elizabeth his wife, daughter of Cole, which about thirty years after his funeral was taken up by occasion of burying another of that tribe in his sepulture; in whose coffin digged up, the carca.s.s was found with the flesh fallen on his ridge-bone like a jelly, there lying all his bones in order, as they that were eye-witnesses have delivered."[52]

[52] Robert Budockshed thus spoken of as builder of the present church of St. Budeaux, married Anne daughter of Sir Thomas Pomeroy, knt., and lived three generations before Roger of the monument. Lysons says it was rebuilt in 1563, the era of _Roger_ Budockshed. Tradition records that the former church was at Budockshed.

Enow of death and his doings. Now for the lesson of reflection that the lives and aims of the princ.i.p.al characters in this little story of to-day's wandering suggest to us. We take a farewell view from the delightful acclivity on which the church of St. Budeaux is situate, with panorama of the wide-spreading Tamar and its ramifications at our feet, and the great Cornish hills retreating inimitably in the distance beyond;--then slowly retrace our steps down to the river's side at Budockshed, and are soon again afloat, half-drifting, half-sailing, making for our haven at Saltash pa.s.sage. Another and strange dream of the vicissitudes of human life, finds its fulfilment in the one case over the grave of the imperial exile at rest among the peasantry of the hamlet in the little sanctuary yonder. Driven from his native clime,--bereft of all his kingly traditions,--the splendid empire he may have been born to rule the possession of the barbarian invader,--himself dependant on the bounty of a stranger,--and his royal name extinct,--such was the fate of Paleologus; conditions which instruct us, that the same inexorable law of mutability affects equally a dynasty, whether its residence be in a palace or a cottage.

There is no station privileged against the misfortunes that afflict our common mortal conditions.

But what of the emigrant commemorated at St. Budeaux, Sir Ferdinando?

He voluntarily left his English home to help found the magnificent commonwealth, that in a single century has absorbed a whole continent, in extent infinitely larger than the realms the Constantines in their fullest glory presided over, and whose existence was altogether unknown when their last representative lost his crown and his life.

How different the errands of these men in their migrations from their native land. But no emperor rules the destinies of the nation he helped to found; the charm of simple and equal citizens.h.i.+p is the secret of its strength; and while the memorial of Paleologus is viewed with curious sympathy by the wayfarer, as being only the interesting reminder of an extinct rule,--the tomb of Gorges has been renovated by the descendants of those pioneers he helped to conduct across the broad Atlantic, and left with them the deathless heritage of liberty and progress.

Again we are enveloped in the gloom of the great bridge, another pleasant day's voyaging is ended, and as our foot touches the sh.o.r.e, a suggestive farewell thought follows us across the river, bearing on its wing the motto inscribed on the sun-dial over the porch of the church of St. Budeaux:--

"EX HOC MOMENTO PENDET aeTERNITAS."

Upon this moment--here we part, Until the coming dawn arise And we are spared,--nay, do not start, The present moment as it flies Is all the dower Life gives the heart, All that the miser Time supplies.

Upon this moment--yon bridge vast, That spans the deep and darkling tide, To that frail link which joins at last Life to eternity so wide, Is as the gossamer, that's cast Across the green dell's dewy side.

Upon this moment--warm hands greet, Though glance be hid by shadows dim, Hark to those fisher children! sweet Singing their votive evening hymn,-- Their dreams will be again to meet, All undisturbed by truth so grim.

No sword of Damocles infest Life's subtle thread of moments spun, This day is ours--with loving zest Cease not 'till all its work be done, Then fold thy hands, and take thy rest, And calmly wait to-morrow's sun.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

RESURGAM

[Ill.u.s.tration: Portrait]