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Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est film6 d partir de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m^thode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 ™ "■'""■ itiiiiriimn AWAY FROM NEWSPAPERDOM AND OTHER POEMS jW . ■»i .'.W I l l|l , l lll |.L„, .1,1 111 ^^PR> AWAY FROM NEWSPAPERDOM AND OTHER POEMS BY BERNARD McEVOY With Decorations by g. a. REID, R.C.A. TOROXTO: GEORGE N. MORANG. •"iimights Resentd. ''" ^ilWffi HHIMIlj A/) r6^o^ /^ 7094S Entered accorJin? to Act of the Harliamjiit of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven, by GEORGE N. MORANG. in the Oflice of the Minister of Agricuitire. 7 -' ;''liy ii .iii|l | ]i ii»i .] i l ili II 1 ; iil .y i j>i j n i ,,^,] i ji i .ui ! i |. | ]| i »iii i, | I |j_ CONTENTS , Away irom Nkwm-ai'Krdom - AnsELMO AM> BEkNARIUNE ^ Kl-EGV ON THE DeATII 01- SiR JOHN A. MACDONALI) * L«ESL1E ' - m ' • •. - The Enii of the Day • . . Deai and Blind . . . , ' KiNsHir asu Friendship V To II. II. W. .... Ik I Were Asked to Say ». IIope ..... / To Some who Wrote Verses on Tennyson's Death Two Visitors .... t I Materials . - . Saviours— A Dream *- William J. O'Connor— Chami'IOn Oarsman , For a Christening i- Bells ok St Ives .... V At a Lecture on Lunacy r*oa 9 Si 57 6l 63 6$ 67 68 69 70 71 74 75 78 79 8o 8i H To C. AND M. I A SoNc oi- Like * Farewell to Summer ^ Alas ! Alas ! for Mortal Chance Mother's Summer Song . A Japanese Porcelain Dowl Imagines Vit.k v a i'hotor.raili in a shop window L The Lesson of Life Tell Me Not Woman Bad May Be -The Mass Bell Which Is She? - I'lETY and Horseflesh I Tarot TwENi Y Knots an Hour • The Two Devils Maud ... . TlIK Kc.OTIST Song of the Factory Worker The Town of Dishmachree - A Warwickshire Story Margaret in the Valley • rAGi 84 86 87 89 90 92 93 94 95 lOI 102 io\ 105 109 I II 114 116 119 120 122 124 12S vl. Wii ,.rim . . .i."' ' "!riy ' ir.i" " ." ' .TTT "^ .1., 1- TiiK Knchantbi) Chair Misunderstanding ■ I'OPIAkS COMRADESIIII' ^ SCARHORO' IlEir.HTS KfcVlSElJ I'KOOIS . \oi FOR I UK Few ^ To AN Artist - Christmas, 1896 129 IJ3 1.55 '3'> 140 •44 VII. \\ '} Hwa^ from Mcwspapcvboni To My Wife To you and to our son across tlie sea, Who came three thousand miles to spend witli us His long vacation, ihese I dedicate: Like wild llowers homeward hrouj^'ht by wayfarers ; Like catches whistled when the band has passed; Like suntlecked cloudlets when the sun has set. Vtll. AWAY FROM NEWSPAPERD^M Iproloouc Hurry the pencil on and let it fly Across the manuscript ; lay scissors down And put away the paste. A final word To " point " the " moral and adorn " the " tale," Then leave your thou<;hts for type's arbitrament (Cold lead may mutilate, but cannot kill). Now for the street, the station, and the rail ! I never rail at rails — but rather, bless The twin steel pathway to the possible, Mysterious always where it farthest blends In dim perspective. Heaven be bless'd for rails ! And bless'd be every patient engineer Who helped their strong tame dragon to evolve — From dark abysmal depths of ore and fire — To where the creature, gently breathing, stands Controll'd, though monstrous ; who, in half an hour. Turns us from citizens to villagers; Prologue. Bears us from stone-paved streets to quiet woods, Gives us the hum of bees for that of trade, And to our mother nature brings us bacl< As though he loved us : till the landscape sweet Grows beauteous and more tender in the sun That westering gleams across it ; wild flowers bloom Close by the rail, and the sweet air of fields Welcomes our coming with its wholesome breath. A moment and the throbbing train is gone And dwindles out of sight around the curve ; Then each one, blythe and happy, seeks his home. And there are happy waiting faces, too, To welcome us ; hands that are thrust in ours With tender trust, and little feet keep time Beside our path. And some there are that wait For those who never more will come again. Happy the man who, as each eve comes round, Can leave behind him thus his load of care Like the dark cloud that o'er the city lies ; Happy the man that, nurtured by such joys, Takes up his load again with added strength ; Who in such interchange can pass his days Till the Eternal City looms in sight, And he walks towards it through the fields of Heaven ! 10 A Zbc ©rcbavb From the verandah stretched a wilderness — An orchard it had been ; an old gray house, Upon its verge, silent and empty stood Fronting the road, with darkened window panes — The home of some old settler that was dead — Its log-built sides weathered by many a storm. The scattered apple trees were old and gnarled : Grass grew around them, rankly; wandering cows Came through the broken fence and brows'd at will ; And here and there a heap of brushwood lay As if once gathered for the winter fire, Gone out forever — for no pennon blue Waves from the chimney now — the flag of home, Of fireside, and of kindred — all are gone ! ^~ 1^ It The Orchard. Yet to my city eyes — tired of prim tidiness And masterpieces of the gardener's art — Scroll'd beds, and ribbon borders, and what not — The formal tasks of Adam's latest son — This wilderness was sweet, and sweet its flowers That grew in sunny corners. Those old trees Within the network of their boughs enmeshed My truant fancy, till I seem'd to see The long and silent pilgrimage of years, And to my spirit came, with airy tread Those who had lived and worked in years before. O Canada ! The child of faith and toil : Fruit of the labours of the pioneers Who from the forest hewed thy fertile fields, Forget not those who in a bygone day Freely gave thee their lives ; who in the bush First set up homes and built the sacred fire That burns here still ; who, far from home and friends. Made here a conquest that surprised the world ! Nothing is commonplace except to him Who is himself prosaic. Alpine views Make poets weep, but only bore the fool ; And poets find more poetry in the dust Than dullards find in Alps. Thus through the whole Sweet realm of nature, 'tis the poet's eye Alone that sees, his brain alone that knows — Though in imaginings the poet lives. And these denied him he must sink and die. So with our orchard : seen with common eyes 'Twas but a rood or two of grass and weeds, 12 The Orchard. With a few apple trees ; yet now and then It took the shape and hue of fairyland : The changing lights of summer afternoons Filled it with beauty, till we sat and gazed Peaceful, content ; and gather'd fruitage there Swect»ir than ever grew on mortal trees ! How changed our orchard as the seasons sped ! How changed its spaces as the hours went by ! For not alone did Spring and Summer write Their messages on leaf, and branch, and fruit ; Autumn proclaim her presence ; Winter say "I'm here "; but every hour ticked by the clock Had character and graces of its own. For every beauteous spot on this fair earth Has many aspects — is not twice the same In the same day. Life's rich variety Informs it with a difference. The morn Has mystic pearly grays that noon has not, And evening sings romantic lullabies 'Neath every tree. When falls the glooming night What mystery grows in every shadow'd glade ! So responds nature to our souls, that change With every day. To be the stagnant same Through all the year is to be commonplace — To be a man of wood — an image, graved From a dull block, and not a living soul. O sweetest time of orchard blossommg ! When odours faint and sweet were in the air, And pinky buds unfolded robes of white That deck'd the trees as if for Whitsuntide ; '3 ) t The Orchard. O richest time when glow'd the noonday heat, And bees were busy and their songs were sun^ Above us as we sat ; and gayest butterflies Came wavering o'er the green, and settled here, And settled there ; and sweet caressing winds Blew showering petals down on sweetest turf, And golden- cV>roated orioles blithely sang ! How sweet your memory, now that winter's snows Lie bald and bare around us, and the trees Pray with uplifted arms to frigid skies ! The time of fruitage came. When, rounding on the trees, the blushing spheres Grew bigger while we slept, and the wind's hand Plucked here and there and strewed them on the turf And sometimes in the night, when all was still. We heard them fall upon the grassy earth, Attracted by the mother whence they sprang ; Then, silence ; and the mystery of night. O golden year ! that such sweet treasures poured Into our laps ! And village children came, And, gathering them, went happy to their homes. 1 1. 14 -—-•"■—"" ■ ~' n rmninnniTi -|i i i)H iiai|i ii Zbc Cburcb Back from the dusty road, midst whispering trees, The church stood, sheltered in a calm retreat — A grassy space amid the peaceful fields. Behind it ran the rail, and near it lay The parsonage in which its builder died. So here, between two roads — the turnpike one, The road of steam the other — rose a roof Sacred to Heaven — to which all roads may tend. Yet so sequestered was its neighborhood, The bird would nest unfriglited, and the liowers Bloom there unplucked within this vale of rest. On Sunday morning quiet broke the day. And for long hours no trains went thundering by ; A peaceful sky of blue, unvexed by smoke, Hung o'er the scene ; far off the city's noise ; Far off the cares and business of the week. No loaded wains were on the well-worn road ; No sound of labour came across the fields, As through the silent peace of things at rest We walked to church. The happy butterfly, Whose life's a holiday, alighted near, •i i The Church. Or fluttered idly by from flower to flower ; In the tall pines the wind sang. O'er the fields The landscape quivered in the glowing heat And all the time was sweet. A holy peace Brooded o'er all. And then the church bell rang. What is it in this clangour wakes the soul And bids it turn to thoughts of prayer anc^ God ? Is it that through the landscape of our life, Floating benignly over hills of years, There come the vibrant sound of other bells That once we heard — or that our fathers heard — Calling persistently to prayer ? They say, who know, A sound once flung upon the firmament Echoes unceasingly around the world ; So may these throbbing tones of other days Echo within our souls, and wake again Whene'er we hear the sound of Sabbath bells. i |. 1 I* I love the good old Church of England That wheresoe'er her roving children dwell Builds there a House of God and bids them pray The self-same prayers their fathers prayed of yore I love her ancient calm and piety, Her noble grace, her grar simplicity, Her disregard of modern cavillings, Her decent forms that keep, from week to week And year to year, an open path to Heaven, And teach in plain, strong, Anglo-Saxon words Man's duty to his brother and his God. i6 ■»w>M. iM I M U rtlVill ll P III iV The Church. But hush ! the creaking bell-rope stops ; the bell Gives one more stroke, then silently it sways. The organ's tones float o'er the assembled crowd And cease. In firm, full, manly tones The parson calls his people to their prayers ; And then the chant rings out ; the anc'ent Psalms Are read once more. For sacred use ani wont Hold here their sway and calm the fever ad soul. There are who love the new, And evermore would seek some changeful strain ; Who entertainment more than worship crave ; Who tire of iterated liturgy As gourmands tire of bread. But simple folk — Like those that kneel around us — know full well The cares of life, and, hungry for the food That comes from Heaven, eat and are satisfied. They tread the humble way their fathers trod And find, like they did, that it leads to God. Still stands the Pulpit as in days of old When mouldering fanes were new. The stone decays ; The preacher's office lives : for though men scoff, They yet would hear of heaven, and hell, and God. And still the Voice that spoke in ancient times Through seers and prophets, speaks to-day. Men preach As best they may when rings the Sabbath bell. For 'tis their office to. The world would stare At one who said ** I cannot speak to-day " ; " The sacred oracles to me are dumb." »7 I t^l it' ?? The Church. So flowing speech is valued, and the art Of sermon-making, whether enriched or not By Inspiration. So the priest, whose words Come like a rapid brook swelled by the rains, Never fails hearers. Preachers too there are Who in their dire conceit do map out God. Others, with vain philosophy, attempt To solve the unsoluble ; others still Scribble errata on the sacred pa<;e. Bringing foot-rules to mystic poetry ; Testing with mathematics Holy Writ, And feeding souls with dull chronologies. But in the little church of which I write, Spirit felt spirit and with joy adored. A i8 »«*«B«*4»«I0SiaiM«r-«BftSfiW:>!lig«-? ii W!W!Www< few ::-~-:- ' i: ■ T '^ :. ■■ '! •-.'•■ : -':':: ■ 1 Vv:r^.,^^o^^" ^^yr^i'^^,^"^ jS^ 'V"S 1 1 ■■ 1 20 mmmmmfifi '"t«?-**'«^ vr -...^p,T«.. ^be Sunsets The gorgeous burning day has end at last, And the sjn sinks. Yet far, and wide, and high He writes his farewells on the arching heaven, \\ hile black — like sentinels — stand the silent trees In shadowed mystery. A peaceful light, Neither of day or night, encompasses Our path, while we — like wand'ring children, hushed By something that they cannot comprehend — Look upward, questioning, yet fearing not, And gaze at reddening glories in the west With silent worship. Then, the village passed. Heaven seems to lie beyond the distant wood ; The world is left behind, the day forgot ; The cool reviving air blows o'er the fields. Soon turns the landscape from a group of farms To fancy's theatre. Gone the garish day 1 Gone the necessities of sordid life ! Before the noble drama of the skies The daily farce of living shrinks and dies. 21 , I I ' ii ' i . I 1^ 'V/V' I 1 ''■I << Zbc Dillaoe Street tores where one was not hurried ; quiet cots, And more pretentious houses lined the Street That lay alonj,^ the valley. Various build Marked all the dwellings, and their diverse dates Were set forth by their style. The clapboard shed ; Houses of brick ; the lo<; hut in the rear — Once dwelt in, now a barn — all these were there And gardens gay with flowers, and apple trees, And many a rural charm. The country round Supplied good custom : people drove for miles Through long straight roads to this their market place ; Unharnessed at the inn ; discussed the crops, The prices and the weather — sometimes politics ; And when they went to buy they bought with care, As those whose money was but hardly earned. Nor were the patient, kindly storekeepers Averse to the long chaffer. All was there From shoestrings to silk products of the loom ; From nails to ploughs; from buttons to a churn. The stores were marts of miscellaneousness In which one felt at home, and roamed around ; Talked here and there, and gained the country style ; Forgot the date — it seemed like years ago Till the train whistle sounded through the vale And spoke the steam and hurry of the time In far-off cities ; then for a little time The place grew lively, but it soon relapsed Into its wholesome charm of antique peace. 22 -.«-*» m*Ht«-wi»rt>kl uiM«ttlW"Wvg itsfeJ9tiyaf?ta ^H * n ww fa*'rtVp>w«'W i ir^^ The Village Street. But evening was the time to see the Street In all its glory. Oil lamps here and there Dotted the darkness. The farmers' work Being over for the day they stood in groups — Slow talking ; sometimes silent. Curling smoke Rose from their pipes. The touch of quiet night Seemed sv.eet to them after the glaie of sun, Patiently borne throughout the live-long day. And now and then a dainty flitting form — Some young Canadian beauty — passed along With bird-like step and such a pair of eyes As well might set a rustic's heart on hre ; (For everywhere is told the tale of love) ; And maidens fair as the Dominion knows Uphold our standard of fair womanhood. Nor must I fail to tell Of how the barber's shop was visited, The object — conversation. He who sat There to be barbed was but a mild excuse For curiosity. Neighbours' affairs Were duly canvassed : for in village life They love their neighbours' business as their own. Still, in the stores, by blinking oil lamps' light, Business went gravely on till bed time came, And one by one the echoing footsteps died. And o'er the street fell dark and peaceful night. as ( I j I \l Zhc IRivcc Come with me to the river, by this road that falls Ever to lower levels, till a wooden bridge Stretches its length across the devious stream ; Then climb the fence and let us lose ourselves In the umbrageous growth upon the bank, While through the openings in the shading leaves We glimpse the verdurous flats that flank the marge, And see the water shining in the sun, And rippling o'er the shallows. In our ears The steady waterfall below the mill Makes sweetest music. This hot afternoon A sleepy quiet overhangs the scene That well might lull to slumber, could our eyes Forget the sylvan sweetness of the vale. Forget the bosky trees of various green, The rich grass of the marshes, and the blue Of the deep sky — reflected here and there In still calm reaches where the water lies Deep and translucent, save when a trout jumps Or zephyr ruflles. Later still 24 ••■♦ ""Mww nwWKi lium """""iii'ii'iiii^'niii I miinlHuiiMMMiiji Come with me through the village. Cross with me The lower bridge. Come when the sun has set, But left the sky all glorious ; look up stream, And let the picture grow into your brain As it has grown in mine. I close my eyes At any time, and lo! the silhouette Of the old mill against the amber sky ; The colours on the pool, as if a path Of iridescent gold and gems led on To some unearthly glorious land of light, Where mortal pain and sorrow could not dwell. A sacred splendour fills this valley fair Through which the river flows. A mystery Of tender beauty dwells in every grove, As though the spirits of each summer past, And every spring and autumn lingered there Whispering sweet memories to the soul that hears Nature's fine melodies. Yet here, remote. Fancy hears murmurs of the ocean's wave ; They speak, these ripples of an inland stream. Of the Atlantic's vast immensity. And thus our lives, hemmed in by inland shores Expand at last into the Eternal Sea ! as . f ifeto. ' ; il ' iJaj ^^SS: . c55a^^j.jfei« I Bpilooue. The years pass, one by one — the summers come, Bestow their flowers and fruit, then fade away Like rose leaves dear in memory's scented vase, That but recall the beauty that is gone. But O ! my friends who know this home of mine, Think of me gently when in time to come You call to mind how we have sat beneath These spreading trees. If I have passed Into the spaces of the unknown night, Remember me with kindness ; say that I Was one to whom sweet Nature kindly spoke. And told her joys and sorrows — sometimes breathed Her fondest love, in words I could not tell ! Hi ii ' 1 1 , ■ 1 ■i 1 H I |H| Hf i 1 f- 2G « ■ ■ SI { ANSELMO AND BERNARDINE 27 W « w ii»li | ..i fcM { )i II Characters aneelmO, a painter. tlbC Duke of /RontCCbinO, an Italian Connois^'Ht. (Terence, Anselmol'i groom, JSernardtne, niece of Montechino. 2)0r0tbB» an old nurse, i6IIen, a cook, ^Oail, a serving maid. WUlagcre, jflsbermen, etc. 28 Enselmo anb ffiernarbine A DRAMATIC ROMANCE. SCENE I.—Anselmo's Stiniio, Waynfiete Hall, Cardiganshire. Anselmo. The night comes on, child, put away your brush, We have worked lon^^ enoujjjh. The day was young When we began ; and now the evening star Hangs in the firmament. Beknakdine. A most auspicious star! Rememberest thou The night I first awoke to love and thee ? The storm that smote the earth and sea had passed, The angry heaven had cleared its brow and smiled — And so the clouds had left my fever'd brain. I, waking, found our ancient Dorothy Bathing my brows, and chafing my cold hands. 'Twas twilight ; through the window as 1 lay I saw the evening star. And soon you came, Anselmo : bent on me your kindly eyes. In which I saw a heaven of trust and love ; 29 U mil u i i> * t u I .■ I i'l Anselmo and Bernardine. And then I sank in sleep and dreamt again — Dreamt that I was an angel — you and I Walked through sweet fields of tender grass and flowers, The heartening sun above us. Anselmo. 'Twas a dear omen, child ! Five happy years Have passed since then, and each has happier grown ! Bernardine. Why do you call me child ? I'm woman grown : Nay, but to-day I found a gray hair glistening Among my gipsy locks of raven black ! Anselmo. There might be more than one ; that night of doom That brought you to me ended years of nights That well might age you. What a fate it was That broke your fettering chain ! All through that day I had been restless, nor could paint nor read. Conscious of some impending destiny, I took the road that leads down to the shore. And there, unquiet, paced beside the sea That ever higher rose as broke the storm. The lightning flashed, and the loud thunder rolled, Yet that but calmed me. Then I saw your ship Come driving on straight for the pitiless rocks : Beheld a something floating on the waves — Now rising, now engulphed, and, caring not V"hr''-her I lived or died, dashed through the surf VI .1 rt^ cued you as by a miracle. .30 Ansel mo and Bernard ine. Your flowing liair was floating seaweed like Upon the storm drift ; grasping it, I turned And fought for life with that wild murderous sea, Until I drew you from its desperate clutch, Thank Heaven ! . Beknaruine. I, only, saved from that unlucky ship ! 'Twas a strange birth, yet then my Hfe began : The years that went before were chaos — worse, Were living death, when he that l)anned my life And tried to bend me to his purposes : Seemed a Mephisto in his direful strength. And yet I thought I loved him : he was kind Once ; I, a careless-hearted loving girl. Anselmo. Think not of him ; he sleeps beneath the waves. Beknardine. 'Tis quickly said, yet sometimes when I think Of those green ocean caves, I see him rise And bend on me a stern and fleshless gaze. And then he turns and sin^s into the deep. Anselmo. Think not so dolefully, my Bernardine ; The sea is deep, and in its mighty heart Great currents pulse and throb, and that which sinks Rolls onward, ceaseless, on the undertow ; Wanders athwart the wide meridians Into strange distances of ocean depths. Ztsli Jsjl . 1 Anselmo and Bernardinc. So our past lives, that sink in deeps of Time, Are carried ever further from our gaze ; Even the gold and pearls that decked them pass Into the limbo of forgotten things ; So Bernardine, we'll live and love to-day ! Bernardine. 1 thought you cold The first three years I lived here. You, apart, Lived for your art and books, and seemed, sometimes, Afraid of me ; filled with distrust of me. Anselmo. My Bernardine, I was an anchorite. I had no pleasant memories of your sex ; Nay, hated them. ; therefore had shut me up In the retirement of this hermitage, Far from the roads that throb like arteries ; Far from the gadding fashions of the time ; And here, where ancient trees their shadows throw Across the mossy turf, I found relief. My world was shut in by the boundaries Of this far-spreading park. The dappled deer. Meek-eyed and timid, fed from out my hand. I sought no news of town or parliament, The sleepy caw of rooks was sweeter far Than echoes of great speeches ; babbling brooks Than talk of clubs, or ball-rooms. Once a month. Perhaps, some caller came to see my work. Wondering that he whose fame the world had known — I speak it humbly — lived a buried life ; But there — 'twas resurrected when you came ! P 1 1 iJ ^v '%, Anselmo and Hcrnardine. Bernardink. How great I thouj^ht you — so I think you, still — But with a dilferencc. Now I speak to you, Fearlessly bold, and look into your eyes ; Yet it was with a timid, fearful heart I told you I had studied art in Rome. And you, with a keen look that searched me through Seemed then at last to see me ; for till then You had not deigned, I think ; you were so rapt With classic women, one of flesh and blood Seemed poor and commonplace. Anselmo. Those pouting lips I'll kiss if thus you jeer ! Bernardine. Confess that I was here three years before you knew Me worth the knowing. Be just, Anselmo. Anselmo. Well, if you will, I do. Is it not strange That, self-engrossed, we miss the noble grace Ot our environment ? Let Death but come With his enmarbling touch to those we know. We see them beautiful. It was Life, not Death That showed me thee, my dearest — it was Love. Bernardine. I'd loved you long before. Dwelling apart In my high turret-chambers tiiat your grace 33 WkimmM Anselmo and Hcrnardine. K ' y U i'l! V-: Endowed me with — call it the museum In which you stowed the curious specimen You'd rescued from the deep. Anselmo. Hold ! I protest ; call it the fairy palace To which the princess did betake herself. Bernardine. Dwelling apart, I say, I watched you oft From my retreat. A happy life I led Those three long years. My maid and Dorothy Tended me well. And when that lawyer came With those grave documents of evidence That I was heiress to ten thousand pounds Duly invested ; like a fairy tale All seemed. Anselmo. (aside) Thank God, she does not guess — good lawyer that! Bernardine. Then I began to paint, enjoining Dorothy She should not tell you. Then I stole at night Into your studio. My shaded lamp Showed me your glorious work ; I nearly dropt ! The things I had imagined, there were limned, The things I'd dreamed of, there were bodied forth With master hand. I crept, disheartened, back ; Burnt my crude studies ; put away my paints. And threw myself with sobs upon my bed. Next day I wandered — an unhappy sprite — Wondering the sun could shine and birds could sing ! 34 Anselmo and Hcrnardine. Poor Bernardine Anselmo. Bernardine. It was a year before I tried again ; You know the rest. Anselmo. Disciple ! comrade ! well I know the rest ! You made me glad when I was desolate, Strong when my heart was weak. You gave me life. I saw your genius rise and glow in you, Like an enstrcngthening sun. Poetry and art Were all our life, and as we worked, we loved. Now, like mosaic all our pictures are ; Your hand is here, mine there, yet none can tell Except ourselves, where you end — I begin, The whole is rendered with such equal touch. For in you Bernardine, though passing years Have calmed my pulses, while your life-blood flows In fullest current, I have found my mate. But see ! the moon is up ; shall we go forth ? You know our walk beneath the lichened trees. Bernardine. A cloud has hid the star — I hear the roll Of distant thunder. Anselmo. Nay, 'tis your fancy. Will you sing to me Before we go ? [Bernardine plays and sin^s.] 35 '".r'rf*-*'V>'-"^-'^ ^ S(f n t Anselmo and Bcrnardinc. SONG. When the dawn shyly breaks, Over the hill, And night her mantle takes, And all is still; The day conies but to fade, The night will soon return, The sun is only made, A little while to burn ! But when my love for thee Dawned in my breast. And in thy constancy, I found my rest ; Twas for eternal skies The sun arose ; The love-light in thine eyes No sunset knows ! Anselmo. How well the music of your tender voice Becomes the sweetness of these faithful words ; And best of all I can believe them true. (Exeunt.) fr jl 36 Ansclmo and Rernardine. SCENE II.— The Kitchen. Tkrence. {comin!:; in hastily.) Sure all the winds have broken loose to-night, Hark to the lashing storm ! the sky is black Save when the lightning zig-zags thro' the dark And, for a moment, blinds one. Ellen. The thunder shakes the house ; there was a crash An hour ago, as if a bolt had fallen. Terence. A bolt did fall. As I my horses groomed I saw an ink-black cloud above the hill Grow ever bigger ; then a dazzling light Leapt from its bosom, and a crack, like doom Half deafened me : the fountain on the lawn, That played full height, sank to a dribbling stream As if its source upon the distant hill The fierce hot tongue of lightning had licked dry, And, where the bolt fell, there a grave is dug. Ellen. God save us ! Terence. Just as the dread bolt fell — before the roll Of the succeeding thunder died away — Up rides a stranger, on a coal-black steed. Dark as the cloud that overhung the hill ; He looked so devilish I crossed myself. 37 f «; Anselmo and Bernardine. Black browed he was, black-haired, with eye so keen, I dreaded he should turn it where I stood ; Yet with a smile upon his face he rode, Reining his fiery horse with such a hand As one might use in sunny exercise, Seeing me, he said, "good fellow, who lives here?" "Anselmo, sir, the painter," I replied. "Indeed! I'm in luck's way — I've heard of him ; Here take my horse." With that my lord dismounts, Stalks up the terrace flight and clangs the bell, Just as the first big drops began to fall. Ellen. I wonder who he is ? Joan, the new maid. Answered the bell, and said she liked him not. He smiled at her and twirled his great moustache And would have chucked her underneath the chin But she drew back in dudgeon. I'll break his head! Terence. Ellen. Oh, so you'll champion Joan ? I thought her face Had trapped you, Terence ! Now, before she came You thought me pretty — said you loved me well. And," twice, you kissed me : vowed my eyes and shape Were all you thought of. Oh, the men, the men ! Terence {seizing her hands). You jealous Nell ! To think that one light word Just that • I'd break his head,' should anger you, 3« Anselmo and Bernardine. As if I'd courted Joan in earnest. Rather yo" Should praise me as defending all your sex. Ellen. hang the sex! One woman for one man, 1 say. Come, let me go, you jackanapes, You Turk, hands off I say ! Terence. Not till you've kissed me Nell. The brightest eyes Are those that smile forgiveness on their love. Should tVv'cnty new maids come, I'd love but you ! 'Tis not alone I know you women want All a man's heart ; his body and his soul, Till not the tiniest scrap of him shall stray From its allegiance ; but I also know You are the one that's mistress of my heart. And I shall know no change. Ellen. Dear Terence 39 Anselmo and Bernardine. SCENE III. — The Drawing-room^ WaynfieU Hall. The Duke of Montechino. Who would have dreamt to find this home of art Amid the wilds of Wales ! My noblest room But ill compares with this. Anselmo, here Shows travelled lore, as well as learned ease And ample wealth. That Roman vase is rare This statue all the master's touch reveals. Are these Anselmo's painting[s ? They are great With noble character ; strength and pure grace The poetry and glory of the brush Meet in each one. These solid Englishmen Too often miss the noble sentiment That should inform a room with harmony, Their houses oft are rich, but out of tune ; But here's a man of most exacting taste. Enter Anselmo. Your Grace is welcome ! E'en the driving storm. That made you seek the shelter of my roof, Is admirable for this consequence. Duke. I am indeed your debtor and the storm's. Though I may say that your wild rocky coast Has been unkind to me. Five years ago — Not far from here I think — our ship was lost And every soul on board except myself Perished. 40 Anselmo and Bernardine. Anselmo (Agitated). Say you so my Lord ? Duke. That was a fearful night — a storm more dire Than rages now without. And, worst of all My niece, who was the apple of my eye Was lost. Anselmo. Dreadful ! That storm I vividly recall, I heard, too, of the shipwreck. Duke. Poor Bernardine ! She was a wayward girl ; The course of years and travel may have dulled The poignant edge of sorrow in my heart But, in this place her memory revives. She was artistic ; and this treasured room Brings her before me. Anselmo. How did your Grace escape on that fell night .'* Duke. Just as the wave that swept me overboard Broke on the ship, I gripped a spar that lay Upon the deck, and held on like grim death. Nature's first law is that we save ourselves You know. Thus driven, helpless, out to sea, I kept afloat, and, by a lucky chance Was picked up by a passing ship ; to read At the first port we touched, that all on board Were lost. 4t ft f '■'/ Anselmo and Bernardine. Anselmo. A fearful fate ! And your poor Bernardine ? Duke. Her lover, even now, is scarce consoled. Anselmo. She was betrothed? Duke. I meant her for a worthy friend of mine, Who paid her most devoted court ; The matter would have ripened in a month. Her maiden coyness melted like the snow ; I saw it. Yet she kept him off and on As girls will : saying neither yea nor nay. But that is over now. Why bring the past From its deep-covered grave ? Of other things And pleasanter we'll talk. Your pictures here ; These are your work ? Anselmo. They are your Grace — such as they are they're mine. Duke. I, who am called a judge, pronounce them fine. But that my purse has grown attenuate These latter days, I'd buy a few of them And hang them on my walls. Anselmo. I do not sell, my lord. That day has past, When I too felt the pangs of hope deferred, 42 Anselmo and Bernardine. And worked as many a painter does : his heart Dull with despair, hunger, and poverty ; When, asking for his bread, he gets the stone The critics give him. Thank God that is past. Duke. Then as a suppliant I must come, and beg A sketch or two — I pray you thwart me not; I trow that in this full portfolio here There's many a bright presentment of your art. More oft the hasty sketch sets forth the soul Of your true artist than his finished work ; For painters are inspired as poets are. And thoughts are transient as the diamond dew The thieving sun steals from the lavish earth ; So, through the first, few, rapid, hasty lines — In w^hich a painter wraps his fresh idea — Pure beauty shines ; as shows some goddess' form — Carved by a Grecian sculptor — through her robe. Anselmo„ Your words betray a knowledge most profound ; I fear my sketches will but poorly please So keen a judge; pray you be lenient! (Opens portfolio.) Duke. That face ! my niece ! where did you get that face } 'Tis she herself — and here she is again ! Anselmo. A fancy portrait, Duke — is that your Bernardine ? Then her true spirit must have wandered here ; 43 I' ■ '} li: ^} Aiiselmo and Bernardine. The painter's soul oft mirrors heaven and earth, And who shall tell what spirit-faces pass And fill his mind with beauty ? Like you this ? It is a landscape some few miles from here : Or this of peasants perhaps may please your eye ? Duke. I'll hold to this— -'is wonderful — herself! So that you ^ive i ■ e this I'll go, content ; Give me the two — you have the face in mind, You soon can sketch another. ""' l-SELMO. Just as you will — b; i: h .n I'd q;"ive you this; I value those two f-^ces. DUKS. I too, my good Anselmo. Grant this boon And I am truly grateful. Have I won ? Anselmo. Be it so my lord. [Aside.] Would he were gone ! I fear he will request The fair original when next he speaks. There is insistent mastery in his tones. Duke. I thank you heartily. The storm has passed, And see, the moonlight lies o'er vale and hill ; By your good leave I'll take the road again, I sleep to-night at Cardigan. 44 'e w^riMx'WKi'arwwfcMti Anselmo and Bernardine. Anselmo. My groom shall bring your horse. Duke. Farewell, Anselmo ; I shall speak your name With reverence in Italy, where art Has her true home. Here she is exiled. No? I see your eyebrows lift. Well — have your way, I know that Englishmen are masterful ; So were we once — so some of us are still. [Exit Duke] Anselmo. Now might he sink into the very earth Now might the lightning strike him, or the flood Suck him to whelming death — so nevermore He came across me ! What a fool was I — A coward fool — a coward, cringing fool, That to his face I did not boldly say ; " Your Bernardine is here, and here shall stay " For all your mouthing tyranny of words — •* I'll hold her with my life." How easy seems The path of valour when the chance is gone : The strongest words are those we might have used ; The brightest deeds are those we might have done ; But Opportunity comes round but once. And leaves the heart irresolute to chafe At its own weakness. So the end is this — That murder's in my mind ; O dastard soul — That could not speak — but now would strike him dead 45 Anselmo and Bernardine. Enter Bernardine. Anselmo ! what is wrong ; your face is sad Why pace you thus distraught ? Tell me my love Who was your visitor? Anselmo. A wandering knave, and I'm a coward fool ! Bernardine. Nay, do not give me riddles. Am I not Your own, your true companion ? I but want To cheer you if I may : I do not pry. Anselmo. Forgive me Bernardine my petulance. Doubt not my love. I long to haste the day Of our forthcoming nuptials, when in church We hear the sacred words that make us one ; Till then time moves too slowly : and, besides " There's many a slip," the proverb says, " between The cup and lip." Till thus you're really mine The shadow of some dark impending fate Seems sometimes o'er my path. Bernardine. How well I knew the shadow, years ago ! The shadow of a suitor that I loathed, But yet my guardian ever forced on me — Urging his rank and riches, till my soul Rebelled in hate. [Enter Terence, hastily.] 46 f! ii Anselmo and Hernardine. • Anselmo. WhyiTerence ! what's the matter ? You are pale And out of breath. Terence. Bad news sir — dreadful news ! The gentleman Who left your door but now, is drowned and dead. Anselmo. Drowned and dead ! My God ! Then is the guilt of murder on my soul I wished him dead and now he's dead indeed. Bernardine. What means this fearful thinpj — these frenzied words? Terence. Mounting his horse, he took the bridle path That leads beside the river, where the cliff Rises straight up on one side, and, below The bank falls to the torrent, that to-night — Swelled by the rains — sweeps down an angry flood ; Scarce twenty yards he rode, when from the cliff A mass of rock and soil, storm-loosened, fell. The ground gaped wide beneath him ; horse and man Went down together and were swallowed up In the wild roaring river. Anselmo. A fearful end ! Could you do nothing, Terence ? 47 Anselmo and Bernardinc. Tekence. Nothing; the path is blocked, there's no way down, The torrent madly sweeps right out to sea. Bernardine. Be not so deep distressed Anselmo. All That could be done was done. This sudden end That seems so dread might yet be painless too. I for his soul will pray, and tell my beads The whole night long, although I know him not, For death, like birth, makes all mankind akin. [Exit Bernardine,] Anselmo. Go light my studio lamps Terence. [Exit Terence.] Now I'm alone, with murder on my soul. I wished him dead ; the Devil heard my prayer. I SCENE IV.—Anselmo's Studio. Anselmo. This is the second night, and sleepless still I wait the weary dawn that even now Begins once more to turn the black to gray, But leaves my conscience dark as Egypt's night. [Goes to the window.] How often I have watched with joy the dawn Break over nature. Slow at first the light 48 iam Ansclino and Bcrnardine. Reveals each hill and tree: the shadows lurk In this retreat and that, l)ut hide in vain From all-pervading day that each recess Searches and penetrates. So comes the dawn Of the Eternal Day when not a thought Or deed of darkness shall evade the eye Of God Almighty. Call it what we will : Mere superstition, or a mind o'erwrought, It pricks us still ; and in the hours of night Makes thorny softest pillow. Who a.e those Who prate that hell is not ? Our memories Are hell enough ; and in the hush of night They preach of long, eternal agony. [Enter Bernardine, with a lamp.] Bernardine. Will you not, dearest, let me share your grief.'* What is it troubles you ? Have I not tried To be your faithful love? But love is naught That is not strong enough to bear a load — That does not long to bear it. Load me down With your most weighty burdens. Let me feel Their pressure and their spite. Be cross with me And tell me I am but a fool ; but hide From me no trifle of what troubles you. Think you that I could sleep when you did not ? Or this poor lamp go out while yours was lit ? These two nights I have watched and prayed for you. Do you not know that I would die for you — That if you were condemned to lowest hell I would go there with you and think it heaven ? 49 nsp fiS i , i i if Anselmo and HLTiiardine. Anselmo. My dearest angel ! I believe in heaven When you are here. And I will hide no more My darkling secret. Know then, Bernardine, The guest that perished in that angry flood Was your own uncle. Bernardine. My uncle ? Dear Anselmo, but he died At sea, five years ago. Anselmo. The duke of Montechino was not dead ; He was picked up at sea. And here he came ; And, when he went, I prayed that he might die So now it seems that I have murdered him. Bernardine. Oh, cruel fate ! But, dearest, I am yours. What if you wished him dead ? I know that you — Who would not hurt a fly — are not to blame. Anselmo. You are too kind, my love ; why, if we stood Now at the altar, I should see his face, And hear his voice forbidding us. [Knocking without.] Voices. Anselmo! Anselmo! Open the door! so Anselmo ami Hernardinc. (Enter villagers escortiw^ the Duke of Montechino, attired in fisherman's clothes.) DuKi:. How now, Anselmo ! Here I come again ; I am the man your Sliakespearc wrote about No "drowning mark" on me ! Anselmo. My God ! 'Tis he ! I thank Thee, Lord of Life ! [Embraces /tim.] Duke, you are welcome as the crystal draught To him who faints with thirst : as is reprieve To him who on the scaffold waits his end. Duke. Thus twice the sea that rages round your coast Has spewed me forth. Whether I am indeed Too sickly sweet a morsel for its taste I know not — perhaps too bitter. Thi.. I know, These clothes smell monstrous fishy. I might be The prophet Jonah — recent from his whale ! Anselmo. Tell me how you escaped. Duke. The story grows monotonous. A boat Starting with others for the fishing grounds Hauled off its course and cast a hook for me ; Then in a smoky cabin the rough crew Poured burning spirits down my gasping throat. And rubbed me into life again. 5> M*^"r"":: Anselmo and Bernardine. Anselmo. Thank God ! Thank God ! How sweet the daylight is 1 Come in, my lord ; I've something great to say, And you, my friends, come in. Duke. Bernardine ! Anselmo. [Taking Bernardine' s hand.\ 'Tis she, my lord ; and she and I are one ; To-morrow morn our wedding bells shall ring. You have been rescued from the wildering deep That you might give your blessing on the day. For nothing now shall part my love from me. Duke. I see you tricked me, friend ; but be it so, I war no more with Fate. My Bernardine, Let me embrace you. I will wish you joy. For there's a power that guards a loving maid, That's past our reckoning. 5* L"v Anselmo and Bernardine. SCENE V. The Sea Shore. Anselmo, Bernardine and the Duke. A yacht in the distance. Duke. Thus ends a week of wonders. Yonder sails The man I thought would wed you Bernardine, For he and I are sailing round the world. It was arranged that he should seek me here When I had ceased my lonely pilgrimage Among these hills and vales. I little thought That 1 should see once more my Bernardine, Little he dreams that you he wooed are here ; But now you are Anselmo's lawful wife, And he will bear not you but me away. Anselmo. See ! The boat puts off for you. Duke. They saw our signal. Think of me, you two As kindly as you can — as one who thinks Of you most kindly. I have learned that fate Exceeds our strength in matters of the heart. And you are guarded by some greater Power Than reason wots of. Fast the boat comes on, And soon will ground upon the pebbly strand ; Farewell, Anselmo! Farewell, Bernardine! [They embrace ; the ])ukc embarks and is rowed away.] 53 Anselmo and Bernardine. Anselmo. How sweet the sunshine lies on sea and land, The green translucent waves laugh in their glee, The birds sing sweetest notes from bough to bough, And from the sky a kindly blessing drops On every thankful heart ! The bounteous sea, That gave you to me, Bernardine, Speaks with a thousand voices on this day. And promises delightful joys to come ; No more its voice is sad and desolate, But evermore in tones of joy shall sing ! Bernardine. And it shall be the image of my love — So wide, so deep, so joyous and profound lEIeo^ on tbe Beatb of Sir Sohn B. flDacbonalb. As each day came and went the light, Our hopes grew slighter and more slight ; Then bells tolled tidings thro' the night : ** Sir John is dead." Rest after strain ; peace after fight ; Sir John is dead. To-day the news flies far away, " He's dead," the whispering people say; How can the sunshine be so gay. While dead he lies ? Half-mast the flag ; cloud garish day, ^ For dead he lies. So jauntily he held his own. His will had such determined throne, By death for him to be o'erthrown Seems against nature. Could not Death take some miser lone ? Some stony creature ? Are there no sad, lugubrious folk, Who weary of their mortal yoke ? He never did : him fate ne'er broke ; To man or woman, Always with friendly smile he spoke, He was so human ! 55 Si, I Death of Sir John A. Macdonald. Alas ! the tiresome dullards live, And long discourses grimly give, To which one's mind becomes a sieve; But his words brightened Nights dark and argumentative, As if it lightened ! This praise be his by tongue and pen, That well he read his fellow-men, He knew just how to strike, and when, He knew our nature ; The rich, the poor, were in his ken, Their every feature. His daring railroad, eager, great, Spanned rock and plain inanimate. But living hearts throughout the State Were his by capture, And every thronged electorate Heard him with rapture. Play o'er him no funereal airs ! No ** Dead March " blare when forth he fares, These may be saved : let them be theirs He leaves behind him. He lives : and when end all our cares, Please God, we'll find him. Iv V 56 U ^l«Mie Xeslie <^^ January loth-ijth i88y. HE chilly dawn shows through the frosted pane And wakes me from an all-night troubled dream; The church-tower scarcely looms through densest mist, The trees are beauteous with snow tracery, As if decked out for some festivity. Alas that such a day should dawn on me, It is the day of Leslie's funeral ! My poor sweet-heart who bore this blossom bright, Wake thou not yet, and may thy dreams be sweet; Wake thou not yet ! perchance his little hand, Free now from earth's encumbering cerements. Touches thy brain with some sweet fantasy. And takes thee to a land where all is bright. And where no mist, or cold, or death., hath sway. Wake thou not yet ! nor think it is the morn. When from our sight must sink his beauteous form Into that open grave amidst the snow ; Wake thou not yet ! So now in this gray silence of the dawn. Let me set down the thoughts that in me rise. And tender memories of our dear one's life, That flock like little birds around my head. Light on my couch and trill their elegies. 57 ■^^H ^1 V, ^^^K « '■■, ■ ^^B ■ '■i .' ' ^H. 9 \ '^H a ^:r. li ^1 11 [ ■ I !i' Leslie. O blue-eyed darling of the sunny hair, Gone from our arms, our hearts, our board, our home, How shall I paint thee for a stranger's eye ? Too great the task ! but yet I may inscribe Some glimpse of thee upon a lasting page. Which, to a friendly soul, shall call thee back When years have dulled and blurred thy memory . Yet no mere inventory would I spin. Of items coldly drawn to tedious length ; Aid me O Lord ! my eyes are dim with tears. ii M m M ! tf! llii! I think I see him standing at my knee. His soft, warm pressure thrilling to my heart, As looking eagerly into my face He told "a story," for of such conceits His four years' memory held a wondrous store ; Of lions, tigers, beasts in antres vast, That made you hold your breath to hear of them ; And always came some grand heroic " man " Armed with death-dealing gun, or mighty sword ; And as he told of him, the little bard. So earnest, he came near to frowning as he gazed, Looked with intensest force into your eyes, To see that you were properly impressed ; Yet all the while there was a glance that shewed He knew 'twas make-up. Or, methinks I see His little form prepared for daily school ; Quaint little legs, and tiny feet that seemed Too small to tread the world's rough, jostling ways. Peeped out beneath his childish garb of brown ; Upon his head a boatman's knitted cap, 58 Leslie. And round his throat a looseh^ knit blue shawl That wondrously showed off his yellow hair ; Norse-king he seemed in little, fierce and brave, As ever Norse-king was that ever lived ; A bold, big heart beat in that little form, That went right on and counted not the cost. His make was stout and plump, his face was cherub-like, Nor shrank he to attack when season came, A foeman seven times o'er his height and size. For he was brave, determined, of one mind, And knew his mind, and carried out his thought. How deft his fingers were ! how quick to move; Sweet little soft white hands with backs full plump, And tapering fingers — just the hand for skill ; And just as quick and clever was his brain. He chose his words, and though his " R's " were " L's ", His talking was precise and clear as mine. So many words he knew dear prattling soul ! Sometimes on Sunday eve with brothers three, He'd say, "Now father, have a sermon, do." *' Sermon " he called it, and so down they sat A.nd fixed on me their keen, enquiring gaze ; Sure never preacher had directer " call ;" And in some simple words I'd tell again, Stories that through the ages hush the world, Of Jesus, David, Joseph, Abraham ; The story of the errant prodigal ; Or him that through the desert sought his sheep. Ah ! how his dear face showed a soul attent, A heart that felt each turn the story took 59 hi •' I, :Vl Leslie. As if 'twere now and not in times of eld ! And when the *' questions" came, for much they loved To show to me how much they treasured up, His was the hand most eagerly thrust out In true school-fashion, his the answering tongue That most surprised me with its keen comments. But now for thee my stories are no more Dear heart, thou'rt gathered to the saints of old. How shall we ever think of Christmas Day And not remember Leslie, darling of our hearts ? His vigour, brilliance, skill to entertain ? His little recitation "Naughty Hugh," Given with some touches of the actor's art. Lives with us still — we scarce can think him dead — Nor yet can feel that he who charmed us then Is quite beyond our reach. Alas! too soon the star of Christmas set, Alas ! too soon the star of home's withdrawn ; Our eyes with agonizing tears are wet; And sadly o'er the landscape creeps the dawn ; Farewell, sweet laddie, always blithe and gay. For we to thy dear grave must take our way. == '. 1 : — =-— =-^^^--^T^= — ' —r — (-— - ____.=, _^..^ _r.__^__ T| .iT~^f -i-r i - 4 i. . .■ J. J. . ^^■MlB^H LA. ^^ ^^V 1 , , ♦l*^ ' WW W .'» "W •V J»«W ^^£=^^i-..„ w^^mmm ^^^^^^^^^^ Zbc JEnb of tbe Daie The day is done : with weary feet I tread the way that leads me home ; The bells the curfew hour repeat, Across the vale from tower and dome. Unspoken yearning fills my heart, Nor thought can reach, nor fancy tell, Nor memory heal the aching smart, I've learnt, of late, to know so well. How fared it with our child to-day ? Who at our board we do not see ; The voyager who went away Alone, across the shadowy sea. What brought the hours for him I love ? What angel-tasks of work or play ? What tender touch in heaven above Guided him through this life-long day ? Did sunrise flood his path with light ? To some sweet school he went I wist. With heaven's glory all bedight. And gates of pearl and amethyst. 61 1 1 The End of the Day. When out he came with troops of friends, So brightly pure, so <;ladly gay, Did one thougiit such as memory sends Come fluttering down this earthward way ? To touch me with its rose-leaf touch, And thrill me with mysterious joy ? Did he, of whom we think so much. Remember he's his father's boy ? Thought he of us : turned he this way ? Was there one step of memory born, As if he'd make for home and say All he had done at school that morn ? No answer comes : there's none to tell, My heart can only sob and wail. And listen to the curfew bell. That tolls the hour across the vale. Come soothing sleep ; come holy night ; In visions I may see once more The little presence, angel-bright. That went for aye from out our door ! And who can tell — ah, who can tell, Or fathom heaven's deep mystery ? Perhaps in some ambrosial dell In cherub sleep he'll dream of me ! 62 Deaf anb BlinJ) I heard musicians play ; And harp and viol, cornet and bassoon, And deep sweet strings gave forth their harmony, Trying their best to say All that the Master wrote : yet when the croon Of the last wailing chord had slowly stopt. The players — all unfeeling — spoke of beer, And, with a ghastly leer, Retailed the latest scandal : music dropt. Whereat I marvelled sore. For heaven seemed opened by their minstrelsy ; Strange that they entered not ! and were content With opening thus its door, Leaving it wide for others and for me : '* It is their way," said Hans, my artist friend, And to his studio eager led the way, Where, on his easel, lay His latest landscape ; ah ! you know the end ? 63 < ' l\ I 11 Deaf and Blind. For while, with entranced eye, I saw his work transH