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Loraque la document eat trop grand pour Atra raproduit en un aeul ciichA, il eat filmA A partir da Tangle aupAriaur gauche, do gauche A droite, et do haut an baa, en prenant la nombre d'imagea nAcaaaaira. Lea diagrammea suivanta lllustrant la mAthoda. by errata ned to lent une pelure, fapon A 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 \ ■ 4 THE Land of Napioa t and other •l ■: Essays in Prose and Verse. By Bertram Tennyson, Q.C. Thk Spkotator Printins and PuauaHiNQ Co. MoOSOMIN, N.W.T. ^^r-K^. ^^t^i^'^ .*fi?if^^'A ttihfV" 5^^3i-i%'j^->f«f-'' ^^'y.i:4 ^«3^ '"^i' I- m| ■■ ^r.^ ,-,^k ' S") ._,-■», %.- ■'■»ft;«- •<*, '+Ar''- ^^ !•«< •.« ? ■ -'-■■■^ -j^y^-**...^ %^-j!&»;J *-'»,» ^7~ i''«.--aii*«» » %* t"-.?^ rj i V »■«< »y *«.^4' «> » -K L^--' ^ * "■A- i^5-»' A 'S^'^ji -< US,*'' % *%M, . #**•.•• ^^ '* ^^*'j^ ^^ ^t 9"^^'^^ ^i ^S#?:^w* ^i/^ e/'>r^'^ f>^ ^ \ LA THE LAND OF NAPIOA La Ess2 Thc 3 THE Land of Napioa and other Essays in Prose and Verse. By Bertram Tennyson, Q.C. Thc S^KCTATon Printing and Publishino Co. MoosoMiN, N.Wver 114 HEIMWEH. England to the Colonies - - - - 120 The Bi-oken Chord 122 Heiniweh - - 126 iyontents. The P The Mirror 157 The Modish Maid ------ 158 Villanelle 159 H. M. S. Calliope - - - . - 160 Epilogue - - - 16:J 128 130 132 134 137 142 145 149 152 im 157 158 159 160 163 1 hare to thank the editors of Baili/s Magazine, The Toronto Week, Tlie Qved and The Moosomin Spectator for their ctnirtesy in allonnng me to nse articles already contributed to their jonrnah. Other articles were contributed to the nou- defunct New England Magazine. I owe the Indian Legend in the beginnlnq of the first essay to an author whose name I Juive unfortunately forgotten, but I take this opportunity to acknowledge my indebtedness. ERRATA. On page 80, tifth line : For " Phoebus" read *'Phaethon." On pacfe 32, last line of third verse : For "Ned" read "Nab;" also in last lino of page 137. On pt*ge 130, ninth line : For " Set " read "Yet." In befoiM uny I Tliose — arm bered yard ; This : adolef lacks peare inakii iiatior Unite ifc wc never utter.'i aside tryme will fi one t of the Tht man, or art forgec them them PREFACE. In i)utt.inoj this little volunio of essays before the public I am not actuuted by any misconception of its merits pt^r .se. Those who attempt literature in Canada — amongst whom I hope I may be num- bered — are but as labourers in the vine- yard ; outriders of the king to come. This young giantess, Canada, flinging her adolescent limbs from sea to sea, as yet hicks a voice ; such a voice as Shakes- peare's is to England, Dante's to Italy, making those countries articulate amongst nations. In this we are not alone. The United States lias not yet found its voice; it would be prosumpticm to predict it never will, but it is a long time in finding utterance. VVe are homogeneous (^setting aside our French-Canadian fellow-coun- trymen, who, it is more than probable, will find their own point of view) more at one than the heterogeneous population of the United States. There can be no doubt that the great man, be he poet, philosopher, statesman or artist, does but gather up the links forged by many forerunners, and passing them through the fire of his genius welds them into one enduring chain. The 11 Preface. labourers are forgotten ; the master workman remains. This being so it may be pertinent to enquire wherein lies the unknown labourer's reward ? The answer is simple. In the satisfied feeling of work well done as far as in him lies, the sense of having taken one step forward to the desired goal. It must not be forgotten also that the artist's (even the inferior artist's) chief necessity is t«) create, even though the creation be faulty. Among the foremost of these labourers in the cause of art it would bean injustice not to remember one, Archibald Lamp- man ; indeed he may rise t« far higher things, for he is, I believe, still young, and has, we may hope, many years of usefulness befrire him. It is most regret- able that owing to the absence of paying magazines in Canada, and, perhaps, to an indifference to good work among our own countrymen, he is driven to enrich- ing American (as distinguished from Canadian) periodical literature ; thus in a sense being lost to us In venturing on the above remarks in re- gard to America I do not wish to be mis- understood. It is true they have not yet developed any great masters of the plastic arts, or of literature, though we must not forget Edgar Allen Poe, in his own pecu- Preface. Ill e master ; so it may »in lies the 1? The lied feelin|i< him lies, one step t must not ist's (even essity is t«) 1 be faulty. ! labourers ^n injustice ild Lamp- far higher ?till young, y years of lost regret- of paying liaps, to an mong our to enrich- ihed from ; thus in larks in re- to be mis- avenot yet the plastic e must not own pecu- liar line, and, perhaps, Elihu Vedder in his ; but in the realm of practical science it is only necessary to mention Edison to hail a giant amongst men, and the Lord Chief Justice of England, than whom there is none more competent to judge, lately referred to Daniel Webster as " perhaps the greatest forensic figure the world has ever seen." They have the masters hand, but where is the master's voice ? In calling a division of this work *' Heimweh," I would not be under- stood as disparaging the country of my adoption. It is a magnificent country capable of producing a race of noble men and women ; but, in moments of depres- sion especially, the mind is apt to fly back to the scenes of youth, when, time having smoothed all asperities away, the land of one's birth, seen through the vista of years, often takes on sunlit hues which are, perhaps, mere phantasy. There has been some very foolish writ- ing upon the unfitness of our surround- ings here in Canada to produce poetic art. Wherever mankind is with its joys and sorrows ; wherever nature spreads her changing panorama of sky, field and flood, there will be a theme for the poet. Na- ture is not at fault, but perhaps the seer IV Preface. is yet wantinijf. " Every umn sees in nature that which he brings eyes to see." Nature is indeed a divine palimpsest re-written by the hand of man, under- neath which scrawl a mystic writing may be traced by honest study. Some critics seem almost to lament the lack of great national disasters, the absence of great wars, as if the drama of life and history were only unfohled to furnish •■*. theme for the poetaster. Canada t(K) has had her wars, not perhaps of world ;vide impor- tance ; there has been no shaking of dynasties, no tumldingofdespotsfroni their thrones ; but if the poet desires a subject for martial verses, the smallest skirmish will as well aflford him thrilling incidents as the most earth shaking of Marathon's or Waterloo's. In Canada, if not in the whole of the m tdern world, the practical powers of the mind are often developed at the expense of tl: a imaginative. Whether this atrophj' of tlie fancy is a necessary concomitant of the increase of the practical power, it is not within the scope of this article to discuss ; but the fact remains that the cultivation ^f the imaginative powers is neglected. The race for wealth and position is not all in all ; let us sometimes pause in the Preface. v ,11 sees ill grateful shade of w lyside fancies, to 'es to see." renew our courage for the fray, and wipe palimpsest the dust of the world from our parohefl laii, under- and blackened lips with the sweet watei-s vritin:^ may of forgetfulness ; so at least we shall not joiiie critics always be hard and unlovely men and :k of great women. ce of jjfreat There is one thing missing for which ud history the people of a new countrj- are not *. theme for responsible. Not for them the nmiance las had her which hangs round ruined ciistle ami ide impor- breithes from historic l>attie fields ; their ihakiiig of steps are not forever on an empire's R from their dust, nor does the twilight «if history half ;s a subject discover and half conceal a ge«»rge powers is * ition is iiot luse in the *H ON I altogel one -A could 1 very tl literar being : where! paintii concei The howev origin, the 1^ colour them coinmi leapt hesitai to the tho ba came < Indiar ON BOOKS AND CIVILIZATION. '* Letters are and will always remain altogether the noblest of the Arts — the one Art, perhaps, with which society could not by any possibility dispense — our very thinking in daily life having taken literary form, and some kind of r ading being really as necessary to us as bread ; whereas a civilizr.tion deprived of music, painting, or the drama is at least conceivable. John Oldcastle." There is an Indian legend, which bears, however, intrinsic evidence of modern origin, to this effect : In the beginning the Manitou made three men, of what colour history sayeth not, and bringing them to the bank of a turbulent river commanded them to plunge therein. One leapt instantly into the water, another hesitated a little before trusting himself to the wild waters, the last lingered on tho bank ; but plunged at last. The first came out a white man, the second a red Indian, and the third d negro. Whether 'Books and Civilization. this curious difference in colour arose from the fact of the mud at the bottom being stirred up we are not informed ; but it seems probable. Then, the Great Spirit produced three parcels, one a great one one medium sized, one small, and, think- ing some reparation due to the negro on account of his sable skin, offered him the first choice. Greedily the negro seized on the largest package and found therein, the spade, the mattock, and the hoe ; from whence it comes that his descendants have been slaves and servants unto this day. The next choice was given to the red man, who, undeterred by the negro's misfortune, chose the next bi^est of the number, and found therein powder, shot and the implements of the chase. From that day to this, therefore, his children have been nomads and hunters, averse to peaceful and settled pursuits. Now the white man was left with Hobson's choice, and he, pickiiig up the smallest parcel with some trepidation, opened it and found -and here the acumen of the race who invented the legend is well illustrat- ed — pens, ink and [japer. From whence ^t comes that the white man is lord over the red and the black whenever they come in contact. We do little honour however to our great- est benefactors. Caxton's name is only mentior a note Ulustrat in cor • divining the wor Niebelu treasure the won off Haga But thei land anc the rod magic w transmu form bu world nc and com How as one the old, ances one's fi in the pi other fr duction thereaft< gay as I at me if me mor( interdict the sme Books and Civilization. 3 arose from torn being }d ; but it eat Spirit great one^ nd, think- negro on id him the ;ro seized d therein, the hoe ; ascendants unto this en to the he negro's est of the ^der, shot je. Fn>m s children averse to Now the l's choice, )st parcel it and the race illustrat- n whence lord over ;hey come our great- e is only mentioned in Hume's History of England in a note of two lines, and that note only Ulustrative of Lord River's generosity, not in commendation of Caxton. The divining rod (which whoso findeth ruleth the world) was hid in the hoard of the Niebelung's gold ; but Hagan sunk the treasure deep in Rhine stream and with it the wonderful rod. And Kremhild smote off Hagan 's head and the secret was lost. But there came another from the Rhine land and he it was who again discovered the rod, forsaking the treasure for the magic wand, and the divining rod, by the transmutation of the centuries, altered in form but not in potentiality, sways the world now in the form of author's pen and compositor's stick. How lonely one feels sometimes, as one finds oneself agreeing with the old, bitter jest that one's acquaint- ances would fill a cathedral, but one's friends would find ample room in the pulpit. Yet, for my part, I have other friends, my books. Their intro- duction costs but a small initial sum, thereafter nothing ; they are grave or gay as I choose ; they take not umbrage at me if I cut them, but rather open out to me more and more ; they put no stern interdiction on my pipe, on the contrary, the smell of tobacco is good for them ; Boohs and Civilization. they expect not evening dress and tor- turing collar, but are fully content with my most ragged dressing gown ; nay, they even condescend to come te my bed cham- ber audience. They are my courtiers, my jesters, my councillors — nay, oftentimes my censors ; but with a grave sedateness of manner that .arries no sting with their reproof. I, even I, the man of no account, unknown to the breath of fame, finding fortune but a harsh step mother, can, when I will, through the magic of the printing oitice, sit among the gods and bid them discourse. With what disgust do I review my surroundings sometimes : the mean wooden tenements ; the noisome back yards, foul with cabbage stumps and other nameless horrors ; the snow melting away from the black and greasy streets ; the cheerless flat of the surrounding country, with here and there a clump of fire blasted aspen poplars standing forlorn and dismal in the snowdrifts; yet I have only to seek my lodging and there, on a rough wooden book shelf, stand my beloved books, as ragged as FalstaflTs army, but with what hearts of gold! I take one down, and straightway the snowdrifts of the icy nortli melt away while I roam through the Elysian fields or sit in the courts of Kings. How they carry civilization with them m. Books and Civilization. 188 and tor- ontent with nay, they y bed cham- Durtiers, my oftentimeH sedatenesH If with their no account, nie, finding lother, can, lagic of the e gods and review my iieaii wooden c yards, foul er nanielesH my from the he cheerless ■y, with here lasted aspen d dismal in »nly to seek »ugh wooden id books, as :t with what down, and the icy north ihrough the rts of Kings, n with them into the wilds, so that the dweller at the foot of the Rockies or the missionary in savage Africa, can walk in fancy through the streets of Rome, bask in the sunshine of the Mediterranean littoral, or hear the cheery Yoicks ! forrard Awa-a-ay I I in grey December, when the woods are yet wet with the morning mists, and, led by some trustworthy and well-known whim- per, the hounds crash into chorus as reynard steals away. You remember, too, Bret Harte's exquisite concert : "The fir trees gathered closer in the shadows Listening in every spray While the whole Camp with Nell on English meadows Wandered and lost their way." It is strange how little touches of civilization affect one in out of the way places. A passing cow-boy hums an air, from the " Mascotte " let us say, and straightway the mind flies back to the days when we yet walked on *' the sweet .diady side of Pall Mall." Apropos of the *' Mascotte " song, to what strange places does the influence of civilization spread. I remember, some years ^o, '*I dare not say how many, but not many," when I was but a stripling, I remember, I repeat, going up the River Gambia, on the West Coast of Africa, to a place called McCarthy's Island (strange Hibernian name in barbarous Africa !) 6 Books and Civilization. many miles in the interior. The primeval forest came down to the very edge of the muddy river up which our gun vessel made its way, and wherein sported the graceful hippopotamus and the bland crocodile. On reaching our destination I, (who already fancied myself a philosopher) leaned my arms on the poop railing listened to the monotonous drone of a tom-tom from a neighbouring village, gazing pensively at the rolling stream and and sombre forest. "Here," said I to myself, '* at last have we come where the trammels of civilization are unknown. Here we shall see man in all his primitive freshness, ignorant of the vices of older peoples." As I thus communed with myself an object caught my eye floating on the turbid current. It was an empty bottle of Hollands gin, and observe,, floating down (it couldn't well float up, against the current, for that matter, but, anyhow, down) from even further regions of the unknown. The sight of that gin bottle afiected me almost to tears ; remember it was empty. It was evident that the missionaries had penetrated even thus far. After that it was possible to conceive dusky matrons guarding black but comely was Booka and Civilization. i primeval ge of the nn vessel orted the he bland ination I, ilosopher) p railing rone of a y village, ,ream and said I to (vhere the unknown. I primitive !s of older nyself an on the ottle of floating gainst the anyhow, ns of the ;in bottle lember it r.sionarieu conceive ut comely i damsels from the approaches of needy fortune hunters in breech-clouts, and in- triguing for the favourable consideration of the sons of ebony chieftains. All this story has recurred to me because I saw a bottle of gin just now. Scent, too, is a wonderful key to unlock the cells of memory. The scent of wild roses always sends me wandering down a lane in the far north of England ; the passing waft of perfume has bridged the gulf of ye;irs with a single span ; the mountains stand clear cut against the evening sky, outlined on that wonderful sunset green which was never yet on painter's canvas, and mirror their shadowy bulk in the lake below. I can hear the ring of a rowlock as someone rows across the lake and mark the V shaped ripple at the stern of his boat. Hark ! A dog barks at a farmstead up on the mountain side ; all this during the brief period of a passing odour. The smell of an onion, too ; but. pshaw ! I wander from my subject which, was " Books," was it not ? McCarthy's island ! To come across the place in the remoteness of the Gambia was like picking up a bottle of Dublin bn wn stout in I he Sahara, and the sound of its name like the tinkle of a banjo iv the Vale of Tempe. The vul- garity of intense modernity impinges, 8 Books and Civilization. nowadays, the aristocratic conservatism of remote antiquity, and Tommy Atkins swaggers through the streets of Cairo and a slouch hatted Mashonaland policeman — lately enrolled from the ranks of the Gaiety Mashers — has some dim recollec- tion of the Queen of Sheba as he sits by his camp fire in the ruins of Zimbabwe ; even here, on our own prairies, the tennis net is spread where the wandering redman erstwhile pitched his teepee, and the apparition of a modern young lady, in fashionable garb, in the track where the wild herd thundered, reminds one of a rose blossoming in the eyeless socket of a bison skull. In spite of our boasted advance, how- ever, there are still lessons to be learned from wild and savage races. The Zulu is as remarkable for forensic ability as he is for courage in battle — where by the way, he exhibits many of the tactics of the Romans ; the Kroomen of West Africa, too, have long ago arrived at a system of government which our own socialists sigh for in vain. The tribe is governed by the Elders, and the rule as regards property is that no man shall acquire more than a given maximum — in cattle I presume. Should he do so, in defiance of the laws, he is, on discovery brought before the Elder, and, on being •n. Books and Cimlization. 9 onservatism nmy Atkins of Cairo and d policeman •anks of the iim recollec- 3 he sits by Zimbabwe ; 58, the tennis jring redman je, and the ing lady, in !k where the ids one of a ess socket of Ivance, how- io be learned The Zulu ability as he here by the )he tactics of en of West arrived at a ich our own The tribe is 1 the rule as lo man shall naximum — in he do so, in on discovery nd, on being found guilty, sentenced to divide his surplus amongst the deserving poor. Another tribe, whose name I have forgotten, allow their public orators to speak only so long as they can stand on one leg ; a rule which might with some advantage be introduced into some coun- tries nearer home, and, if it should result in our most distinguished legislators being noted more for strength of leg than strength of lungs, the loss to the country might not be so great after all. However we may admire the virtues of savage races, we still cling to a belief in our own advance, which has been very real, and which has been largely brought about by books. Books have brought down the inspired idea from age to age unsullied, and free thought, free speech, free press, have let the light into the dark places of the world and struck the shackles from the slave. By means of books we converse with the wise of all ages and benefit by their most carefully considered and weighty thoughts ; by means of printed matter, too, man gets in touch with man and old prejudices and abuses die away ; above all, books teach divine philosophy. "Philosophy," says Seneca, " is not a theory for popular ac- ceptance and aiming at display. It is not in words but in deeds. Its vocation i 10 Books and Ciiilization. i'ii i : i I is not to help us to spend time agreeably, or to remove ennui from our leisure : it moulds and fashions the mind, sets an order in life, directs our actions, points out what ought to be done and to be left undone ; it sits at the helm and guides the course when the voyager is perplexed by dangers on either hand. Without it n;itod my purposed plan and settled what I am to do, or chance leaves my plan no room. Be each of these, or all jf them together, true, I reply, philosophy is our duty : Whether destniy constrains by an inexorable law, or God is Judge of the universe and settles its order, or chance irregularly impels and confounds the affairs of man, philosophy ought to be our safeguard. It will encourage us to obey God willing- ly, to obey fortune without yielding ; it will teach to follow God, to put up with chance."* •Introduction to ** Epicureanism " by Wm. Wallace, M.A., translated from Seneca Epist. II 4 (Ep. i6). on. Soap Bubbles. 11 le agreeably, r leisure : it ind, sets an tions, points ud to be left and guides is perplexed Without it none secure- ur countless , and counsel )phy. Some philosophy What good d directs the if chance is rhat is fated rainst uncer- iible. Either urposed plan lo, or chance Be each of ther, true, I y : Whether 3xorable law, universe and je irregularly ffairs of man, ur safeguard. God willing- s yielding ; it put up with lism " by Wm. eneca Epist. II ON SOAP BUBBLES. It is well to ruminate over the dead cities of the past; to pace the streets of Pompei, so silent now, and imagine the time when they thronged with eager life. No man with a soul can stand in the vast arena at Rome and not feel his blood stir and the "goose flesh" creep down his spine as he seems to hear the famous "Ave Caesar morituri te salutant," and sees in imagination the thousands of lustful faces lean from the high stone galleries. In this remote land the traces of the peoples who lived and loved and struggled before us have faded from the face of nature like breath from a mirror, and nearly all our interest is in the mysteri- ous To Be. It is not without interest to watch the 12 Soap Bubbles. Mm social developnieiit of a little town like Woodville, ramparted round with dulness, set in the silent prairie, and condemned to a hopeless monotony; where art, music and the drama are practically un- known. To the observant man, in spite of these drawbacks, the rise from the primitive time >vhen we all dmnk out of one keg together to this more conven- tional day is not witln>ut its lesson, for this handful of human beings, far on the wind-swept plains, represents in its own way the great world in miniature. Here we have the same much ignorance and rare wisdom, the same foolish loves, the same tortuous ambitions and social aspirations. Mrs. Wholesale Merchant takes the pas from Mrs. Retail Merchant as a duchess ttikes precedence of a count- ess, and the same arts are employed to elect a town councillor as are used to appoint a Cabinet Minister. We get our politics, as do most other peoples, from the newspaper, and discuss the question of the hour in bar rooms in lieu of clubs. For society news we dis- cuss the man who got on the spree last week, why Mrs. Blank lost her servant, and the last new case of infantile measles. Our chronicles do not even aspire to the dignity of small beer; they are but milk and water, and yet they are, after all, as Soap Bubbles. 13 ittle town like id with duliiess, \nd condemned y; where art, practically un- b man, in spite rise from the 1 dmnk out of more conven- its lesson, for ings, far on the ents in its own niature. Here ignorance and )lish loves, the s and social esale Merchant etail Merchant snce of a count- re employed to IS are used to r. do most other )er, and discuss 1 bar rooms in r news we dis- the spree last st her servant, fantile measles, n aspire to the f are but milk 'e, after all, as important in the long run as the last divorce in high life and the newest turf scandal. "It is a mad world, my ma.sters," let us blow our bubbles with the rest, for they all alike are soap and water and burst sooner or later. " I think the studies of the wise. The hero's noisy quarrel. The majesty of woman's eyes. The poet's cherished laurel. And all that makes us lean or fat. And ali that charms or troubles,— This bubble is more br"ght than that. But still they all are bubbles." The ways of a little town like Wood- ville become more and more conventional as time goes on and we fall more and more into line. The world was hardly astonished when, at our annual races, a cert^ain Comte de X appeared on the scene with a liveried footman behind his carriage; but this was merely a flower of french fancy; a blossom born to bloom but for a day. This greater conventionality is due to the women, who love set rules of conduct. Before their advent into this wide country men broadened out into a distinct individu- ality, and recovered that originality which was hitherto forced into a groove in the older countries. We most of us know hundreds of youths in England apparently 14 Soap Bubbles. cast in the same mould, sayiiig the same things, wearing the same clothes, freijuent- ing the same places, worshipping the same actresses, and generally occupying and enjoying themselves in the same old foolish fashion; blowing soap bubbles in fact. But that will aU be changed as soon as one of them gets on the prairies, and the man as he is will soon jjeep through the rents and tatters of his former manner as his elbows do in fact show through his ragged coat. We can all remember some typical case of a tenderfoot just emanci- pated from school or college and blase with a six months' experience of London Music Halls. He was wont to say, and he ought to have known, that he pos- sessed a thorough knowledge of life; he told us he avoided women, who were all false; he believed in the honesty of no man, and was wary of sharpers : never- theless he was easily imposed upon, and for the first year he paid extravagantly for everything. His outfit was gorgeous; but his beautiful clothes were soon re- placed by ragged overalls, and his full dress consisted of brown duck, wide white hat and Mexican spurs; and as he rode down the princi)^)al thoroughfare, ensconsed in a huge Mexican saddle, beneath the combined weight of which and the rider his cayuse staggered, he Soap Bubbles. 15 jriiig the same thes, fre«|uent- [)piiig the same Kxjupyiiig and the same old ap bubbles in lianged as soon i^iries, and the [) through the ner manner as nr through his jmember some b just emanci- lege and blase ice of London it to say, and , that he pos- Ige of life; he who were all lionesty of no arpers : never- sed upon, and extravagantly was gorgeous; were soon re- , and his full 11 duck, wide irs; and as he thoroughfare, ixican saddle, ight of which staggered, he was a sight to make his mother weep. From this weird garb he was wont to burst suddenly, as a butterfly trom the chrysalis, into sp; "ted waistcoats of splen- did dye and the high white collars of Masherdom when the fancy seized him and the much despised women were about; but he still retained, to crown the edifice, his cowboy hat, regarding which it was an article of faith with hiin that the brim should be looped at the side with a horse shoe nail. He was a laugh- ing stock to that wideawake bird, the old timer, yet, when he caught the ways of the country, he was disdainful of new comers; he could smoke nothing but Egyptian cigarettes when he first arrived; he was easily content with a plug of chew- ing tobacco in a short time ; he had fre- quent bursts of homesickness, and longed for his brandy and soda or his bitter; but in a short time "Forty-rod is good enough for me, and I'll take it straight, thank you." He was quite confident he could shoot flying with the splendid revolver he had bought in Bond street, though he had never tried, and he in- structed new comers in that art with great gravity, and he cherished a wild idea that he could sit a bucking broncho, but his friends had no share in that be- lief. His species is almost extinct, though 16 Soap Bubbles. a few specimens might, perhaps, be caught in the recesses of the Elk Mountain even now, and I am given to understand that there is quite a herd in the foothills of the Rockies and about the ranching country. ;il! Over ths Ridge of the World. 17 OVER THE RIDGE OF THE WORLD. Spring came tardily this year of Grace 1893, after a long hard winter. On Sun- day, the 7th of May, there was little sign of green grass as I strolled past the mill, vhich lay gasping in great slow breaths as if it panted after the exertion of the past week. In the little tree clumps north of the town the willow buds were just be- ginning to sprout, and I stretched out my hand to pluck one, but drew it back again, unwilling to break the promise of a single blossom after so many months of sterility. Three days later I was in the train steaming across the monotonous alkali desert which lies to the west, be- tween us and the '*Ridge of the World," as the Indians sometimes call the Rocky Mountams.* The journey is one that all the world takes nowadays, and a description of my own journey would seem superfluous were it not that I travelled under ex- ceptional circumstances. Ten and a-half years of unbroken residence on the *This is only hearsay, and may be a mistake caused by the East Indian name " Roof of the World " for the Pamirs. If not, the coincidence is a very curious and surprising one and worth investigation. «ii'! I 18 (her the Ridge of the World. plains, just topped off as it were by al- most six months of winter, should leave the mind of any one not totally oblivions to the aspects of nature singularly open to impressions. Add to this the fact that the writer is of singularly unsocial habits at times, apt to turn away to consider the wayside flower at his feet, when the crowd rushes agape and headlong to see the mountain peaks, and it is likely that at times he may stumble on something, perhaps of little im[>ortance, but, it may be, hitherto unobserved. Mor ff>ver, to leave the impersonal, it so happened that I entered the train garbed, as the Brit- ish tourist loves to travel, in shooting coat and knickerbockers. The effect of this was that as T made my way down the aisle of the Pullman car the ladies averted their looks as from one im- properly dressed, and from amidst the circle of men I heard the ominous word dude, (pnmounced " dood"), as my nether integuments came into view. From the hollow whe: -, the town of Calgary stands the snowy peaks of the mountains just show here and there like tents upon the low hill tops, and it is not till you rise out of the shallow valley of the Bow and Elbow rivers that the long range of hills co.nes fully in sight. The approach is not imposing. The action of Over the Ridge of tJie World. 19 the greu*- interniil forces of nature has tilted the range upward on the eustern side, leaving it rooted to the west, and the exposed cliffs of brown stone that face the pl.uns lo(»k like mud banks streaked with snow. It is not till you have advanced some way into the moun- tains that you realize how a})plicable is another name given them by the Indians. They call them "The Hills (►f Life and Death," for, sjvy they, it is to these lofty crests that the departing spirit wings its way, and, pausing tt> Uvke breath before a stronger flight, looks backward on its past life and forward to the Happy Hunting Grounds. At Glacier, true to my singular views, the great glacier pleased me but little, seeming but a dirty heap t>f snow; yet one little incident charmed nte. On the tables of the hotel were great heaps of golden flowers of most sweet perfume, and feloniously extracting one I carried it to the hotel clerk and asked him its name. "I do not remember its Latin name," replied he affably; "but it is a lily and only grows where the avalanche has been." Now who would care for the Latin name of a flower with such poetic instincts ? The hotel clerk had the root of the matter if he had forgotten his erudition. And talking of avalanches II 20 Over the Ridge of the World. ' mm reminds me that they cull them snow slides in the mountains. Now I am quite willing to admit that many terms peculiar to this continent are necessary and enrich the language, but here is one that distinctly impoverishes it. A snow slide may mean the descent of the winter's snow from the roof of :^ wooden shanty, but an avalanche is a different matter. The word is from the Swiss patois, originally derived from the Latin ad-mllam, to the valley, through the old French verb avaler, which means, liter- ally, to descend, and therefore the word avalanche means to descend to the valley. Snow-slide conveys no such meaning in itself and is, consequently, a vastly in- ferior word. Past Glacier the avalanches hang im- pending over the valley, and the sides r)f the mountains are scarped with a thous- and wounds, till the bones of old mother Earth are bare where the torrents of snow have cut swathes through the pine forests. Mount Sir Donald and the Hermit stand opposite to each other and hurl their bolts to the valley, and the avalanches lie about the bases of the hills strewn with the ruins of noble trees; but the golden lily springs in the track of the destroyer. You only catch glimpses of the twin giants, Mount Hermit and Over the Ridge of the World. * 21 Mount Donald as you glide from one snow shed to another, and in these long, dim corridors the sparkle of a lantern here and there apprises you of the cease- less vigilance which watches over your welfare. 1 have not spoken of the Kicking Horse Pass over which Mount Stephen towers, giant amongst mountains, nor of the famous trestle bridge. Their sur- roundings are picturesque and grand, but terrifying, and chiefly to be admired when left behind; but after the roaring rush through the Albert Canon the grow- ing greenery and milder beauties wn mountains destitute of the purple heather which forms the chief glory of the Highlands of Scotland. Not but what the Frazer has terrors of its own, as the train gliding round impossible curves and trestles "where the porter of the Pullman car could shake hands with the engineer," heels over like a boat under a smart breeze, making you stagger down the aisles like a landsman ungifted with sea legs; but the mountains now are clothed to their summits with forest green, the breath of the ocean-born breezes fans your face, and as you approach the coast the track is fringed with ferns, the trees f'l I !i II 1 1 mm m 111 I. I 22 ' Over the Ridge of the World. are forest monarehs, the streams are alive with trout. You are entering a new world where the blizzard bloweth not and the wild rose hedges the lanes after the snow has fallen on the prairies. flow shall I speak of the rival merits of Vancouver and Victoria ? I have g;>od friends, both old and new, in either city to whom I owe a debt of gratitude nol to be told in idle words. Suffice it to say that if I desired a place to live in I should choose Victoria; and if I wanted to specu- late in town lots I should do si> in Van- couver; but as circumstances will not allow me to do the one, and the lack of money debars any speculation in the other, I am not called upon to decide. Unlike ' ' Stout Cortez upon a peak in Darien " I was not struck dumb with surprise at the first sight of the Pacific. To say truth the harbour at Vancouver, though an excellent anchorage deep and landlocked, capable of holding a navy, does not remind one of the sea, but, rather, of an inland lake. It is all the better for this from the point of view of safety ; but it is not the sea. Nor is the Sound any better, as the discharge of the Frazer sadly sullies the water. The ''Narrows," however, are beautiful with the thousands of wooded islands and little hamlets nestling to the water's edge. A Over the Ridge of the World. 23 . school of grampuses spouted and rolled round the entrance of the Narrows and a seal lifted its mild countenance as we entered; a nesting tagle flew across with a branch in its claws, and thousands of herrings silvered the calm water with tiny splashes; from a wooded bay a Siwash canoe slid out with its high prow like the beak of a miniature Long ship of the Vikings. The first sight of Victoria reminded me strongly of Genoa; why it would be hard to say, for the latter is a city of white stone; but a nearer inspection dispelled the illusion. Victoria has no narrow, dark streets with only a strip of blue sky overhead, and the only real working goldsmith's shop I saw was in China town. The accusing knickerbockers had long been discarded, giving place to Jerome's "cylindrical bags;" but I was near falling into as great an error here as on my first introdu tion to the railway train. As I hurried up Government street towards the hotel I was painfully aware that something was radically wrong with my costume. Suddenly the dread- ful truth flashed across me, and dashing down Trant's alley, I hastily turned up my trousers at the bottom and re-emerged into Government street in the full dress of fashionable Victoria. n ! 'I liiiii m I 24t Over the Ridge of the Wmld. ruining over It was almost certainly in England," and I had come very near blasting myself forever in the eyes of society. Victoria was green with gardens and lawns and sweet with lilac blossoms; but far sweeter and gayer blossoms are to be seen every day in Government street. The breezes of the Pacific are as certainly the cause of the roses of maidenhood as they are of the blossoms of the hedge- rows. They had three days* horse racing at Victoria while I was there, and the first day I passed very pleasantly in the pine woods with a party of children, gathering moss to decorate the theatre for a coming amateur performance. After we had filled our bags with moss we repaired to a little wayside inn called, I think, the Half Way House, but just as probably the "Golden Lion " or the " Blue Boar." Here the elders regaled themselves with shandygaff and the youngsters with ginger beer, till the electric car, gliding through the pine woods, obligingly paused a moment for us, and then carried un swiftly into civilization. The ne^kt day at the races proper I made one of a crowd of woebegone sports- men watching an unexciting procession of three gallop twice round the half-mile Over the Ridije of the World. 25 track. Hfiil it not been thut my friend's clog cart was horsed witli a polo pony, who objected to electric cars, (which are " frequent and p.iinfui and free" in the environs of Victoria,) and that the road- aide ditclies are deep, the day would have held little excitement. As it was, the imminent danger to one's neck was ex- hilerating if nothing else. The mania of land speculation has, I suppose, in great measure passed away, but the sjjirit is still there. Wandering one day down Government street I dropped into a real estate office and be- gan to examine the map (jf British Columbia. To me there came shortly a prosperous and aflable gentleman, who, observing my gaze tixed on the deline- ation «)f the district of the Okanagan Valley, became at once communicative. He l«)oked n)e up and down and sized me up as a Britisher lately out. He en- quired how long I had been in the country and I answered, truthfully, two weeks. He further enquired how long 1 inteiided to stay and my reason for being in British Columbia. I answered both questions truthfully and categorically — one week and the chance of some trout fishing. Seeing the drift of his thought and recognizing a photograph on the wall to be that of Harrow cricket team, I :ly||||lil,!l I I 1 ! ! 26 Over the Ridije of the World. drew it with the ;irk attention "I see you have a photograph of the Harrow eleven." He rose at the remark like a trout to a fvvourite fly. " That is the eleven my son is playin*- in; he is at Harrow. Were you at ti . hist cricket match r' "Well," I replied, "I have been to several and I hardly thought it worth while this time." Hardly, con- sidering I must have crosseti the Atlantic to see it: but of course he was in the dark. That last remark .settled his hitliert(», perhaps, doubtful view of the situation. He apj)eared to p«jnder deeply for some little time and then delivere«l himself thus : "It W(mld be a great pity if you left this country without seeing the Okanagan district. In fact, let me see I Yes, there is not much doing in the office at present, and, if you like, I can take a run down with you and show you the best parts." Of course I thanked him for his kindness and declined t4) take advantage of it. " Not at all, not at all,"' he replied; "business is slack here at present and I should be glad to go with you. In fact I have some property there myself which needs looking after." I had thought so before, but this added strengtii to my convictions. "You are very giM)d,' I replied, "and I shall be very glad io accept your ofler. The fact is I have I door Y I I proxir 't l| opene faint i was e( have .» the st Tur China and ti thing might pig-ta the ot clink I gambl s«»und music (her the Ridfje oj the iVorJd. liefird a good deal of this district liefore." A pleased smile played over his counte- nance as he responded : "What, are they talking of the Okanagan over in England?" "Well, hai-dly that," I re- plied, "but the fact is I have been ten years in the North-West, and " — . His jaw dropped and a look of imminent business crossed his face. "Excuse nie," he murmured; "but I see cust«miers who must be attended to." We shook hands, and he vanished. For some time afterwards I stayed examining the map, and as I made my way at last towards the door he happened to be standing in close proximity. With great ]x>liteness he opened it for me, and as I pas.sed him a faint smile flickered over his face, which was echoed in mine. So must the Augurs have smiled as they passed each other on the streets of Rome. Turn down one of the little alleys in Cliina Town close by the big Joss House, and turn to the right or left, and for any- thing you can see to the ctmtntry, you might be in Pekin. The blue-coated, pig-tailed Chinamen swarm everywhere, the odour of opium is in the air and the clink of copper coins comes from the gambling houses. From the theatre sounds the discordant brjiy of Chinese music, and within the s;»d-faced Oriental * ! lli 1 . 1! .'■'!] it i I iiii i 11 I ! ^l' It Mi.i. iiill P II 28 Orer the Ridtje of the World, sits smoking innuinenibie cigarettes, turning a face <»f impenetnible stileninity to the stage, on which fanbistically at- tired actors make long set speeches in a shrill unnatural voice. They say these plays are largely religitms and ceremonial and one c.-m well nelieve that they are not farcical. If they introduce religious ceremonies into their theatres they make up for it in their temples where you might almost hang your hat on the effigy of their god without advei-se comment. The embroidei-y work of their temple screens is lovely in the extreme and the Joss sits enshrined in a blaze of colours which the Chinese understand how to blend if we do not. Leaning against the altar with my hat on my head in imitation of a Chinese friend, 1 listened to a story connected with a hu£;e and uncouth weapon something like an overgrown brush hook. It appears that the god came down fnrni Heaven and put the enemies of the Flowery Kingdom to flight with this trenchant blade; but whether the tale be true or not it was evident that my friend fnmi whose lips the story came ha«l very little faith in it. He delivered himself of the history in fluent and grammatical English, but in the depths of his shrewd almond eyes a little imp of scepticism lurked whicli Over the Ridge of the World. 29 winked at a small demon of unbelief in mine. At the very feet of the god him- self, however, it was as well to keep up appearances, for you never know what may happen and the big brush hook looked dangerous. We never keep up I apj)earances in Christian countries in order to "hedge " of course; but in that strange eastern temple with the scent of [the burning Joss sticks in my nostrils, [the silent shadows of the attendant [priests slipping past me and the black [bearded god gazing stonily at vacancy [above me, while his subject purred to me «8oftly of old time days of miracle and §wonder, my fine, wholesome, Christian intolerance of all other creeds save my )wn was temporarily shaken. From the incense heavy atmosphere of bhe heathen temple to the sunshine of the uea coast is a change indeed, and there is )ne little bay in the island which is, I [believe, in its own way, the most beauti- ful in the world. On one side of Shoal Bay mass of moss-covered rocks, perhaps lone hundred and fifty feet high, tumbles [to the sea, with here and there a few [{tines starting from its crevices and r^ar [the seaward end a noble manzsratii all [aglow in the sunshine. A little old [fashioned farm nestles amidst its orchards [on the flat and a green lawn slopes to- i ! i m 'fI ll!lllll I III I I I ! 11 no Orer the Hldfje of the Witdd. wards the water, t«> be lost in a thicket of wild roses and sweet briars through which a winding path leads you to the beach and the cool, deej), green water of the l)?iy. 0\\ the day I was there a laden scliooner was beating seaward to the blue water, beyond which the range of the Olympian hills showed clean cut, blue and be'utiful, with Mount Baker to the southward lifting its lofty crest clothed with everlasting snow. The air was clear fro.n the Pacific and odorous with pine. Only the least little ripple lipped the white sand. It was all the beauty of England and Italy in one. Alas I Fate, the inexorable, with his attendant minions the C(doured porter and the conductor, is ever ready to waft us away on wings of steam from the fairest scenes, which, put in plain English, means that my time and money were spent and it was time I was back to the dollar mill. Once out on the plains again I became aware of a new car which we had picked up somewhere in the mountains while I slept, and a brief quaere to the coloured |)orter elicited the information that it be- hmgtd to a private family "towering" from "Noo York," and as I was anxious to see a real American girl I laid in wait in the smoking room of the Pullman and awaited developements. I was not kei)t st in a thicket of rs through which «)U to the beach len water of the as there a laden ward to the bhie he range of the clean cut, blue mt Baker to the iftv crest clothed The air was nd odorous with :tle ripple lipped all the beauty of e. xorable, with his )loured porter and ready to waft us . from the fairest .in English, means f were spent and o the dollar mill. s again I became ;h we had picked ii>untains while 1 e to the coloured mation that it be- uily "towering" IS I was anxious to I laid in wait in the Pullman and I was not kept Over the Bkhje of the World. 'M long in suspense for shortly there stepped on the platform an American young hidy as we are taught to know her in novels. She was fair, she was fragile, and one alone of her rings must have contained at least twenty diamonds of great brilliancy ianck one summer night after a long day's work at the S office. All was dark as 1 opened th*^ door. I had to kick the lower panel to facilitate my en- try, and it was evident that Akenside was from home. Home is a (jueer name to give that crazy attic away up under the sbirs ; but it was all the home we pos- sessed while we waited for that pro- blematical fame which seemed so long in coming. Having stumbled over the coal box, and nearly upset Akenside's easel, I eventually found the match box on the floor and lit the lamp. The room, with its slanting ceiling and uncarpeted floor, « .'■ifl Bohemia. In the Volley of Bohemia. 33 )li OF BOHEMIA. iAM IN AN ATTIC. liis, or, to put it c of which I was Akenside, about mer night after a J S office. All li«^door. I had to I facilitate my eii- that Akenside was a (jueer name tf» vay up under the ;he home we pos- :ed for that pro- seemed so hmg ill ver the coal box. kcnside's easel, I match box on the The room, with I uncarpeted floor, seen by the hazy light of the lamp, the chimney whereof had not been cleaned for a month, looked but cheerless after the comfortiible office and well lighted streets ; but 1 was in high spirits, for had I not that afternoon met the wealthy and famous B (noted for his kindness and liberality to those at the foot of the lad- der), who had invited me to a conver- sazicme that night ? After months of squalor and the companionship found in taverns and music halls (not that I wish to disparage Akenside — good old chap — there never was a truer comrade), I ^was once more to enter a brilliant draw- ing room, hear the soft music of women's voices, and see the jewels glisten on the snowy bosom of beauty, enter into the conversation of men of my own intellec- tu;il endowment, and rub shoulders with the powerful and wealthy. I, the half- starved litteniteur, the follower of Henri Murger, was about to fancy myself a rich Philistine ; nay, no doubt, I was to par- take of a bountiful, a luxurious supper. Pondering pleasurably over these mat- ters I drew from my pocket a small parcel containing a white tie, a pair of silk socks, and a pair of white gloves. 1 gazed on these superfluities (bought at the expense of my dinner, for was I not to have a supper fit for a king that \rr 34 In the Valley of Bjhemia. evening () with delight, and foresaw my triumphal entry into halls of dazzling light. To my surprise and relief I found water in tho broken lipped and liandleless ewer, and 1 knew^ where a white dress shirt, belonging to Akenside, had lain wrapped in newspapers for many a week. I felt a soft and soothing joy at the re- flection that my dress clothes had been rescued from mine uncle's about a week previously, during a period of brief and almost unei.'r.:,pled prosperity consequent upon a lare and contiding magazine editor ; dress clt)thes still perfectly re- spectable, if not of the newest cut, which had come into my possession before my father died, and I , well, it is no use raking uj) old stories about a young fool. Having found my razor in one of Aken- side's boots, after a protracted search, I propj)ed a sudl! triangular piece of look- ing glass against the lamp and proceeded to flay myself alive. How well I remember the room at that moment. Akensidr two. Then I became frenzied. I turned over the contents of the cupboard and the shelf again ; I even looked into the coal box and under the pillows and beneath the mattresses, but with the like result- nothing. As I stood in despair in the middle of the room, amidst a chaos of f Bohemia. here, and the luy itude of scientific le cupboard door ts head ; the room r some time, and t matches mingled ooks on the floor, 5 scene I was about led softly at the ccruciating torture, from my chin, I considered where jthes ; but thinking proceeded to rout > dress clothes were Akenside's shirt, ed my white tie I on njy white stock- i- shoes. The shelf t.s, and with grow- • I got down n the bed and roared with laughter till the attic rang again. Here was I, having surreptitiously abstracted Akenside's one 3lean shirt, anathematizing hmi for Dawning my dress clothes. The fact is lo especial blame could be sittached to ikenside, for, in our easy philosophy, bhe presentation of the ])a\vn ticket was a mfticient guarantee of good faith, and we lad both often been guilty of the same trick before, with f.-ir less disastrous efFects, lowever. I reflected ruefully on what I had lost ; )ut of cf)urse could not but j)erceive that ikenside was ignorant of my invitation that evening. The wearing oi eeped through the bars, disgust and tniazenient on their faces, and others there were who pressed their faces against the gates and looked with a touch of regret at the revelry within. For revelry there was of every kind. Sunny glades .'ere there, and many a gay pavilion, )ver which floated the flag of Spain and from from whence came a sound of music and icing. There were also dismal swamps, peeking with miasma, and bordered with fuarled trees, heavy with hoary mosn. In ^heir gloomy shade, here and there, ,'alked a solitary tigure, but the vast naiority lived in the sunlight. As I threaded niy way though the gay ralks, I became aware of two curious cir- kumstances. The universal language was Mie, strange indeed tf) my ear, but per- fectly clear to my understanding, and the |aces of nearly all the inhabitants were imiliar ; nay, men and women I had litherto only dreamed of, passed me, or t .' 42 In the Valleij of Bohemia. were passed by me, every moment. That dame de comptoir must be Becky Sharpe, aiid the gallant she is flirting: with, as she serves him with a glass of Rhenish, is none other fhan d'Artagnan in the uni- form of a nnjusquetaire of the Guards ; that small dark man who stole away just now, after having deftly explored my pockets, (and who is now reciting a ballade to an admiring crowd), is Villon, villain and poet. Falstaffe sits at the door of yonder inn talking to Master Shallow, and shaking his fat sides ; Dante goes by, alone amid the throng, and Shelley lec- tures on vegetarianism beneath the shiule of a pleasant grove. On the slopes of the Mount of Knowledge sit " Plato the nise and large browed Verulam, The first of those who know," And he who wrote those lines, late come, but lai^ely welcome, sits with calm eyed Shakespeare, Milton, blind no more, but far-seeing as his soul, and many an eastern mage ; Horace is deep in conver- sation with Omar Khayani, and Lamb is jesting with Montaigne. Opposite the Mount of Knowledge, and across the valley, is the Hill of Liberty, steep with precipices and scarred with the lightning. Above it the thunder clouds gather, and there are many climb- ing its :strait sides. Sobieski, and Kos- In the Valley of Bi.ktmia . 43 ciusko, and Czartoryski; Cavour, Maz- I zini and Garibaldi, Leonidas, and Marco :Bozzaris the Suliote, and Byron, spent jwitli excesses, but striving upward still. And there are not wanting others : Zwingle, and Luther, and Melancthon, Coife the high priest with his lance, and jHuss, and bitter Calvin. Beyond all, the prop of heaven, clear [cut against the blue, unreachable, ini- Imaculate, untrodden by the foot of man, [unstained by the flight of centuries, un- [troubled bj' the st^^rms below, its snowy jeak glittering in the sun, towers the [ount of Truth, -rMlone with Eternity and the Infinite. Near one of the great gates I beheld a {raybeard, who held forth unceasingly in a strong Scotch accent to an ever in- n-easing crowd. Outside the great gate, listening, with but little attention, stood a jrowd with familiar faces, and, as I looked more attentively, I saw that those outside ^ert indeed familiar to me, being none >ther than mine own contemporaries in ;ianada, many of them high in power. ?eeing them, I pressed forward through the crowd to greet them, but arrested my course as the speaker's voice became ar- ticulate to me. Thus he spoke, and all, perforce, listened. " Is democracy a creed outworn ? A 44 In the ViiUe\i of Boheuiia. il questkm, no doubt, (luite unspeakably foolish to most people, yet, to a few, a matter f»f some inipoitance, nay, a ques- tion, perha})s, of the most vital sort to all persons, tho' coming within the pur- view of only a few. Tlie democracy of Athens was not rightly a democracy, a ruling through the votes of the many- headed, at all, but rather an aristocracy. An aristocracy, if you will, of right citi- zenship, of intellect (which is individual power), but still an aristocraoy indubit- ably. Democracy, rightly understood, sprang into being through the pen of Rousseau in the " Contrat Sociale," to be baptized in blood by the French Revolution, and from that time onward to be the ruling spirit in social life, gathering, as it goes on, ever increasing impetus, carrying us with it — whither ? "This young hobbledehoy giant of Canada of yours, flinging it.-, adolescent limbs from Atlantic to Pacific, has many troubles before it ; but also a great opportunity. Consider how, in these days of universal knowledge, education of the masses, public schools, and what not, the history of the world lies o])en for its enlightment ; for examples to imitate and imeptitudes to avoid ; chiefly the latter truly, but not altctgether st>. To nations, as to individuals, comes the hour In the Vnlle\i of Boltem'm. 45 when the Si)liinx cries ' Whence C iiuiiti- culutely at first, more loudly and clearly as time goes by. With nations now in their dotage or strong manhood y<»u have no manner of business whatever ; but your own ' whence '. ' and ' whither i ' is a most momentous matter. With nations it is as with individuals. Can they read the riddle of Destiny, propounded by the Sphinx i Of each man she asks daily, in mild voice, yet with a terrible significance : ' Knowest thou the meaning of this Day : ' Answer her riddle, it is well with thee. Answer it not, pass on regarding it not, it will answer itself ; the solution for thee is a thing of teeth and claws. '* Here, in this half chaotic new country, man is again face to face with the hour which comes but once, ' for that hour man is free and master of his Destiny.' "The (juestion then arises, shall we let it slip by unnoticed, and in the same no- way wander on to become involved in the same nineteenth century labyrinth in which the older naticnis wander ; or shall we, taking thought betimes, taking warn- ing from the mistakes which have been, face the future with a new front ? "Viewing the land then with philoso- phic eye, we see a very army of the Practical Workers mainly, not Thinkers, perhaps, altogether too few of these latter. •' t ki'i 46 In the Valleij of Bohemi(t. i iB !:1;i The struggle is for life and the iiecessuries of life, in which world-batvle the more graceful arts must seem but futile, the jewels and gewgaws of life principally these products of the Thinker, not the plain substantial homespun for protection against rough weather. Yet to the right making of even corduroys is there not a mind wanting, without which all were vain stitching and idle snipping of go«jd cloth? *' A very army of Philistines tills tlie land, therefore, strong armed and of equally strong common sense, the scouts of that great Anglo-Saxon army, a Hun- like horde, which seems destined to overrun the waste places of the earth ; deserted at least of all but unproductive barbarians, redskinned or otherwise. A great ad- vancing tide of civilized whites, sometimes not civilized, but so naming themselves, pressed t the Vdlleii of Bohemia. 47 itiries tills the rnied and of le, the scouts army, a Hun- ned to overrun 1 ; deserted at ve barbarians, A great ad- tes, sometimes ig themselves, rd by natural not, obeying >n,' till prairie ladian prairies v\'ths, acknow- iters and smile I red fyfe and ion then, and y for govern - How, then, is this governing to be done ? ' In the old way by party, doubtless once necessary, nay, good and right; but how appearing now ? Perhaj)s worn out and not useful — nay, unthinkably obstructive. "Is it to be party government then ? The government of the vestry board, of which that at Westminster is at rm of idealization ; but notwithstandinsr that, still a vestry board, with its petty quar- relhng over personal interests, its bumbledom and its self-seeking, in which self-interest stands first, and, facile princeps^ adherence to party next, and, last of all, nigh hidden and oftenest quite forgotten, comes love of country; if indeed we are to count this last as an ap- preciable factor at all, and not rather something much talked of, but in reality non-existant. In this connection it is not without value, nay, rather of the utmost moment, that we enquire, ' Who is to be our Ideal man ? ' ; to what does every individual look as the highest type, towards the realization of which every nerve is to be strained, every thought subordinated ? Is it to be the red face and white waistcoat of the idealized corner grocer, conveniently blind to the sand in the sugar, but loudest in his respimses in conventicle, chapel, or epis- i m H: 11 48 In the Vnlle.]i of Bohemui. copaliaii edifice, tit whom there seems but one goal in life easily symbolised thus — $ — whose very act, and thought, and function is ruled by this huge Sindbad old man of the nineteenth century, the omnipotent g(;lden calf before which all men bow the knee ? "Does he of the white waistcoat and most decorous broad cloth'd respectability profess friendship for any man ^ be sure that he lias calculated the advantage to his <»vvn most respectable self ; does he give in charity that he may be rewarded hereafter ! or rather that he may })e recompensed in more substantial manner {to his thinking) by the filling of his till here^ Does he cleave to any political party ? be sure he seeks a sinecure. Does he not join himself to that congregation whicii comprises most worshippers, not becjiuse its numbers argue the greatest truthfulness (tf that particular view of Christianity, but because the greater number of fellow-worshippers on holy days the greater the inHux of customers on week days for sanded sugar and shoddy cloth !* Does n«)t the great Manunon God, brooding in vast bat-form overhead, <|uite blot out tiie view to this Man-fearer of ( )nu higher and, therefore, far withdrawn I Take thought that ye who boast eman- cipation from all itleals — as vaiii un- In the Valley of Bohemia. 4J) deavouis— that, in your hard-headed conimou sense ye do not fall hopelessly mired in the bog of utilitarianism, and that when your time comes, as it surely must, to read the riddle of the Sphinx, ye fall not a prey to the teeth and claws, which haply befalling you, no white waist- coats, bank accounts, nor church attend- ances shall in anywise serve as protective armour ; but otherwise, as a mesh to your feet, as ye turn to fly from the open jaws. " Thinkest thou O man of much faith, to make thy way V)lack-coated, largi^ stomach'd, lip-serving heavenward. Nay, rather, weighed down by bank balances, company shares, and what not epht;i.ieral trumperies, thou goest otherwhepe. The mystic syinbol $ shines to thee in the shadow of the bat- winged.. IVIammon as the Roman eagle to the legion, the Cross to the early Christian. Thou fool ! the wild Bohemian in the midst of his tobacco smoke and empty beer pewters, does homage yet to some ideal, were it but st)me pagan worship of beauty ; but thou hast set up a big gross man, fat-faced and smug of aspect ; him thou hast [)laced on pedestal of ledger and day book, and so placed contentedly worshippest. Truly with thee ' God is the Brocken phantom of self, projected on the mists of the nonego." 60 In the Valley of Bohemia. A peal of thunder rolled from the hill of Liberty, the audience scattered in dis- may and faded from my sight, and I awoke t.o find the moon down, the city asleep and silent, the attic plunged in cimmerian gloom and Akenside cursing in the darkness. ::', 'I Rmnstatenient of Sidney Kendal. 51 THE REINSTATEMENT OF SID- NEY KENDAL. Some of the incidents of this story I witnessed myself ; some the chief actor told me himself ; and some of the facts 1 have gathered from others. I cannot pretend to tell it in all its beauty, adorned with the flowers of rhetoric, and other things, with which Kendal embellished it when he was half seas over, for I am more at home with a marlinspike than a pen, but as I am in for a yarn or a song, here goes ! • Kendal had got off on one of his periodical sprees, and instead of getting decently drunk at the club like an officer and a gentleman, and boaiding the 8hi|) at night when only the officer of the watch and the quarter-master at the 52 Beinstotement of Sidney Kendal. I I! 15" 10 accommodation ladder would have seen him, and the sentry would have helped him to turn in, he chose to wander in strange places, break his leave, and finish up at the " British " an inn of no repute. He chose also to fall asleep on the high stoop leaning over the railing, and awoke in the morning to find himself standing Oil his head in the street outside, and had it not been for the special providence which watches (rather immorally one would think) over the wanderings of the squiffy, and th*» thickness of his skull, a coroner's inquest, arms reversed, the "Dead March " in "Saul," and three volleys over his grave, would have sup- plied the place of this story. As it was the fall annoyed him so excessively tliat, espying Joe the half caste Malay boatman, as he gathered himself together, he chose to fix his misfortunes on that individual and incon- tinently went for him. Joe was no slouch with his fists either, but Kendal was one of the strongest men in the service and a denu)n to cross counter. Joe caught him a fair facer with his left as he bored in on him, but Kendal's right landed across him all ihe same on the point of the jaw, and Joe went to grass a disorganized heap entreating Massa Kendal f<»r mercy. A truce was thereupon patched up on Reinstatement of Sidney Kendal. 53 the basis of an interchange of clothes, which had a sufficiently ludicrous effect, ,s Kendal had commenced the evening before by going to a gold lace ball at the Admiral's. Whither Kendal afterwards strayed that day he has divulged to no man ; got astray in the "Brook" or the "Kloof," perhaps; but while the ship's company were fallen in at evening quar- ters a frousy individual, in whom tha skipper but just recognized Kendal, stum- bled on board and saluted the quarter deck. The Captain called a midshipman, who carried a message to the officer of the watch, and Kendal found himself under arrest. At Divisions next morning the officer of the watch, the quartermaster and Corporal stood at the gangway to receive a half caste in a lieutenant's full dress uniform, clamorous for Massa Kendal and his own proper rags. The ship's company ^aa in ecstasies, the junior officers grinned, the skipper was like a lion prepared to pounce oi; his prey. Kendal was a first rate seaman and had influence somewhere, but he was getting too notorious and a court martial followed. The last I saw of Kendal, for that time, he was going over the side in plain clothes mi ii I 1 * it U 54 Beinstatement of Sidney Kendal. J s I . ^t I r as we were striking upper yai'ds and top gallant masts in a howling south-easter, with the sky as blue as an Italian one. As a last insult to the authorities Kendal had shaved his beard and waxed his moustaches to a point, but I could see he felt the disgrace keenly. Afterwards he drifted out of sight of all his chums, to ro-appear after a couple of years in a highly original and creditable manner. It was in this way. Kendal was a mighty good seaman and a reliable man barring his one failing ; but he was no good unless he was in blue water. His pecplegot him into Hie P. andO. running to Hong Kong, and he made several voyages; but broke out again, had a row with the old man whom he threatened to take up by the scruff of the neck and drop overboard, and found himself a drift in Hong Kong- After a miserable time on shore for a few weeks he got the billet of third mate on one of the Jardine line opium steamers running from Hong Kong up through the Formosa Strait and along the coast to Shanghai calling at Foochoo, Ningpo and those places on the way. She was called the "Urusan" I remember. The company were not very particular how their officers behaved on shore, if they could handle a mixed ship's company 1 Reinstatement of Sidney Kendal. 55 and look after a ship at sea. Kendal could do both these things with the aid of a handspike and his knowledge of seamanship, and they consequently valued him. They had no reason to regret their appointment after the third trip. It appears they were in the strait one still, dark morning, the sea as level as glass and the coming day not yet tingeing the sky, with no sound to be heard except the throb of the screw, the steady scend of water from the cut water along the side aft to the boiling wake, and the morn- ing watch just beginning to stir, with the sound of buckets on the deck and the occasional swish of a swab, for it was Saturday morning. The officer of the middle wat %■■■ M^ f 66 Beinstatement of Sidney Kendal. water in the boilers cooling, or she would have blown up and Kendal with her. Well, the sampans soon took him off and he was a great hero after he had told his story, and very drunk he was for a week at everybody's expense, and the owners rewarded him handsomely after they had raised the ship, which was not so much damaged as you would think, being an iron vessel. Bestof all, thougk, wasthatthe Admiralty did what they have seldom or never done before; that is reinstated him in his rank in the service, but at the bot- tom of the list of lieutenants of course About here this yarn should end if .' had made it all up out of my own head, but, you see, I didn't, and there is a sort of sequel, or moral, perhaps you might call it, which is, I believe, the correct caper, as our American cousins say. Kendal kept all right fc>r about a year and fellows used to like to hear him spin b.s one big yarn; but one Christmas nigiit, when t} ^ ship was coming home from Halifax, to pay off, Kendal had the tirst watch He had tuched into the champ-.^ii pretty ireely at mess and the fresh "Jr >n deck didn't make him any steadier, r.) d tae fellows in the ward room, vvho ,i>\ no watch to keep, were holding it down pretty lively and poor Kendal could just hear "Rolling Home" Beinstt coming uj reminded ing ship, a the midsh to have k down belo wine of wl It ivas a fii and a cou House, an helped hin the middy, Kendal; b the champ' different ai made him t the break directly. It was a three knot all plain sa master and have had a; warning vo ship gently the watch s rouse Kenc uiidshij)ma all, decided and not ror somebody i room Avoulc Reinstatement of Sidney Kendal. 67 coming up through the skylight, and it reminded him of the night on the burn- ing ship, and he felt so comfortable he sent the midshipman of the watch, who ought to have known better and lied to him, down belo^v for a bottle of burgundy, a wine of which he was particularly fond. It >vas a fine night and he took the b-^ttle and a couple of glasses into the Chart House, and the midshipman of the watch helped him to drink it. It didn't hurt the middy, who had not been going it like Kendal; but with the latter, on top of all the champagne and punch and stuflF, it was different and it went to his head. That made him sleepy, so he just lay down by the break of the poop and was snoring directly. It was a line night with only a gentle three knot breeze and the corvette under all plain sail; but I fancy the quarter" master and the men at the wheel must have had an extra tot or two, for with no warning voice to check them they got the ship gently aback. The midshipman of the watch saw it just too late and tried to rouse Kendal, but it was no go, so the midshipman, who was pretty smart after all, decided to turn her round on her heel and not ronse the watch, for he knew somebody in the captain's cabin or ward room would hear his voice and wonder •;*•»% 68 HeindatPAuent of Sidney Kendal. what the dickens Kendal was at letting his midshipman of the watch take charge. He roused up the men at the wheel and she was coming round like a charm, when ihe skipper, who was just turning in, glanced up at his tell-tale and saw that the ship was ten points out and going oil' fast. He jumped on deck and in two rain utes the stars iii the firmament fairly shook. Well, of course, there was no getting round being asleep on duty and Kendal got bounced pretty quick, and where he is now I don't know. Died in an opium den, perhaps, or reformed, married a pretty girl, turned sky pilot and took the family living. Either is equally likely in this incomprehynsibj ; world. Hi! there, you y >ungsters, the fork's in the beam ; you go and ttun in. I'll tell you unothei yarn anoihei night. ^ THE ''To the fa Where the To our neii! And the liu To the plou With the gi To the weifj And the wa Following death, the binder of s] of its famili and yellow j of a friend by most the though its L flower and v It, or its ! of France, r there it decl THE LAND OF NAPIOA. " To the far-flunuj fenceless pniirie Where the quick-cloud shadows trail, To our neit^h hour's barn — in the oftincj — And the line of the new-cut rail. To the plough in her leat^ue-long furrow With the sjrey lake gulls behind — To the weifjjht of a half-year's winter And the warm west western wind I " — Rudyard Kiplinor. Ftdlowing close on wintei s lingering death, the pasque flower, that pale har- l)injj[er of spring, appears, ancl the sight of its familiar blossoms amongst the sere and yellow grass, is welcome as the face of a friend in an a^en land. Miscalled by most the crocus it is really an anem(»ne, though its local names are many, pastjue flower and wind flower being among them. It, or its sister, is plentiful in the south of France, round Mentone anil Nice, but there it docks itself with a braver purple. ft. Hi I .y*!] ^J 70 The Land of Napioa. Ti It takes its name of pasque flower from thence, through its use in decorating the churches at Easter, the time of the Pass- over ; but here it conies too late for our festival. There is a legend in some parts of England, according to Edward FitzGerald, the translator of the "Rubaiyat," to the eflFect that the pasquo flower only blooms where Danish blood has been spilt, nota- bly on the Fleam Dyke in Cambridgeshire; on our wide j rairies its blossoms count by millions, and the sides of the swelling hillocks are often a faint purple with the sheen of them ; if human blood is necessavy to their production what rivers of human gore rhe forj^otten Mound Builders must have shed. The legend accords ill with the anemime's beauty, yet their range of colour is from a rare, pure white, unstained as our snows, to an almost riotous purple ; where they stand, like Keats' wine cup. " With purple stained mouth." The pasque flower reigns alone for almost a month sometimes, but after, the other flowers following in a gay procession, outstare with their brighter beauties the modest spring blossnm, which yet holds a steadfast place in our regard for its promise of the spring; and when the yellow breasted meadow lark trills his still untinished song from amongst the lilac petals winter is ini are witli us Summer flowers. \\ colour the spread her lovingly tha diverse yet The colour! unanimity, unibon, anc they breath ears. "Heard nu unhean Are sweetei And the oho "Pipe to th The farm should be C( present touc city, we hav ty| 3writer, telephone bt debtor upon meadow larl Come wit morning. Tl ed, and sadd of town the Mexican spi The Land' of Na pi oa. 71 .# >* lilac petals we know that the long, cruel winter is indeed dead, and hope and spring are with us once more. Summer comes with her masque of dowers. With what infinite variety ol" colour the loving hand of Nature has spread her palette, mixing thn colours so lovingly that though the hues he never so diverse yet they are always in accord. The colours made by man lack that unanimity, but the flowers are ever in unibon, and ne discord mars the pcean they breath to heaven, unheard of mortal ears. ** Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter," And the choir ot flowers " Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone." The farmers' life, otherwise so hard, should be constantly solaced by its ever present touch witli nature ; here, in the city, we have only the ceasless tick of the ty| 3writer, the sharp insistence of the telephoiiie bell, the reluctant foot of the debtor upon the stairs, in place ()f the meadow lark and the free air of heaven. Come with me this pleasant sunmier morning. The bronchos are fed, and water- ed, and saddled, and as we trot gaily out of town the heavy spade bit and jingling Mexican spur make a pleasant musical <^i • *^5 I H"'* I m I- N 4 ■s'M 72 The Land of Napwa. chiming. No reason to a{»ply armed heel to quivering flanks, for as our steeds snuli' the morning air, and feel the summer dancing through their veins, they stretch them- selves in a rousing gallop, which soon takes us through the environs of our little western town out on to the [trairie beyond. Leaving the black and winding trail we brush through the rustling grass, scatter- ing dew drops from the rose petals as we go A flock of wild ducks rise from a wayside slough, and a fox steals away ahead, followed by a rattling "Gone Away I " which quickens his gliding pace till he disappears over a rise in the ground, which shortly after opposes to us its green and grassy round, like the swell of a mighty wave, and on its summit we pull up a moment to take in the prospect and breathe our horses. The morning air is still, for no wind has yet awakened, and from a distant farm house, tree-hidden from our gaze, a cock-crow comes, clear and detiant ; we hear a dog bark very far away, and nearer at hand a farmer shouts to his team ; the long shadows stretch away from the lately risen sun across the rolling prairie, and away in the distance in the long blue line of the Pipestone Valley. Ihat is our destination, and, rousing our horses, we dash across the prairie towards it, through a beautiful tigerlilliest paign brok( the univer.' park -like \< ride brings ley, which, ing the sub mighty rive died sadly t fringed wit grey willow of rhe bar downward i of snowy pt by an islar flowers. Fj in many a b shadow, the lonely valle; turies, lon€ hebitude ! . sea once cov not the upp€ ing shadow great bould from its mel mystic twili the land ros< the great lak ting, amongi which once h The Land of Napioa. 73 a beautiful country }j;emmed with scarlet tiger lillies and golden mangolds, the cham- paign broken here and there by clumps of the universal aspen poplar, which give a park-like look to the scenery. An hour's ride brings us out on a vast and silent val- ley, which, doubtless, once, ages ago, dur- ing the subsidence of the waters, held a mighty river. Now the stream has dwin- dled sadly to a winding and lazy brook, fringed with soft maple and clumps of grey willow. From our place at the top of the bank the valley slopes sharply downward in «me foaming, smooth cascade of snowy petals, broken here and there by an island knoll of tender blue flax flowers. Far below the brook loses itself in many a backward curve, here grey in shadow, there a sabre's gleam. What a lonely valley this has been for many cen- turies, lonely without any touch of hebitude ! A vast, and probably shallow, sea once covered all this land, which knew not the upper air, save through the float- ing shadow of an iceberg, or from some great boulder, plunging silently down from its melting ice vehicle through the mystic twilight of the waters. Slowly the land rose and the water drained oft to the groat lakes and the greater seas, cut- ting, amongst others, this great valley, which once held a huj^e and turbid river r^-^^i A «?, • rHi \' H ¥i^1 r^^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 1.25 Hi ^ tss. 125 12.2 Ui4U4 ■ 1.8 1.6 -► V % // PholograiJiic Sdenoes Carporatian as WB.T MAM STRKT Wn(TII.N.Y. i4sao (7U)87>-4S03 4^ The Linal of NapUxi. to its brim. All tlii' l.uul, then, inus h'-ive heeii a weltering clmos of iniul. swept hy rain storms, unlovely, lifeless, wjiste. Let the scientist tell, if he can, h<»w it grew to the beauty it now piesents. and has presented for many thousand years. Enough for us tliat its beauties are now spread for our delectation after all these ye;;rs, during which the only sounds that broke its stillness were the bark of a fo\ from the hill, the peal of sunnner thunder overhead, the wail of ;i hawk poised in the blue. Perhaps, at long inteivals, the wandeiing Indian pitched his smoke-stained tepee on its banks, or even roused its echoes with his war-who(»p, and stained the wateis of its stream with human blood ; but, in the main, the valley has waited silently for the white man, and has garnered up rich stores for his beho<>f through many years ; waited wiiile two mighty old-world nations struggled for its possession, knowing it not. The lengthening shadows, warn us to be gone, l)ack to our fellow-men in the little hive of industry. The bronchos have had an i He time all day in the rich grass, and step out briskly towards lu»nje. The almost inevitable result «)f a hot day is apparent. Huge and sullen and nigrescent the thunder-clouds are embat- tled in tlu the settin higher uit awe-inspir is still Ker( aware of t them to til s(Uig. A 1 scarlet epn his black v evensong throated n sive ; a grt with mine like A gag, bittern boo marsh ; fr< clarion of hasting fr nightly qu We havt friends of at hand, gently froi springs \\\i the oppoJ sign, and roll of thel of H flash, a hand black, lit the sun hi tletl in the west, all fringed with tire fnmi the setting sun, und moving noirer and higher with u sImw majesty whlcli is very awe-inspiring; but where! we are the aii- is still serene, and the hirds are not yet aware of the storm, wliicli will sooi» send them to their leafy coverts ami hush their song. A rice hird sits on a bulrush, his scarlet epaulets showing up vividly against his blade n.niform ; a bob-o-link sings his evensong from a spray, and a yellow- throateil meadow lark trills back respon- sive ; a grey jdover walks hurriedly away with mincing steps, walking delicately, like AgHg, and bowing as he goes ; the bittern booms his deej) bass from a distant marsh ; from overhead comes the warlike clarion of a passing flock of wild geese hasting from the wheat flelds to their nightly quarters. We have loitered, watching these many friends of ours until the storm is really at hand. The wind, which betore blew gently from the east, now drops, and anon springs up again and blows stronger from the opposite (]|uarter. We know that sigti, and il hardly needs the muttered roll of the thunder, and the pale [)hantom of a flash, to make us rouse our horses t(» a hand gallop. The we.t is a sombre black, lit now and then by the lightning ; the sun has gone down ; but h)I there i i I? 76 The Land of Napioa. the exquisite blue of the eust, as yet un- invaded by the storm, trembles a star. Summer wanes and the woods are braw with scarlet and gold, but alas ! the flush of autumn is but the hectic colour of a beauty doomed to death. Soft misty days of Indian Summer may C(mie as the summer rallies for awhile, but the white death of winter creeps ever iiigher, and the autumn days are done. Winter is here on the wide plains, and as night dons its dusky helm crested with stars far up in the north the watch tires of Napioa are lit. Winter on these western plains is indeed a grim Jotun, holding the w<»rld firm in his icy grip; bidding the streams stand still. All day a pitiless, cold, blue sky, and along the plain the drift of the upper snow like 6ne sand. As far as the eye can reach wave after wave of white, blind- ing snow, a shallow, silent sea. The birds, all but a very few, have fled hmg ago to the genial South ; the wolf skulks far from the eye of man, or flees before his face, a swift grey shadow on the waste. But when night falls, mayhap. Nature uses her inexhaustible palette once more, and paints the heavens for us. It may be a vast bird broods over us, his wings — the feathers whereof are flashing with a crimson which man has never dreamed of — touching either horizon: a colour which cai: Nature h or, perhap shows thai l<>w as he i for his vai l)right and white arn latch of Jotunheini tipped bloi portent of Withal flcwing wa but in the drift of rh» a startled with a whi past, spect white as t and far o melanchol horizon th as she lift!' light from makes the Cutting shining st able East Midgard growing o the East c which CHii only come from the heart of Nature herself throbs in the zenith : or, perhaps, the pale li<,'ht in the North shows that the watch tires of Napioa are l(»w as he sists by the embers and mourns for his vanishinj^ children. Or again the bright and ci»lourless flash is from the milk white arnis of Gerda, as she lifts the latch of her father's do«»r in gloomy Jotunheim : and yet again the pale shafts, tipped blood red, may hang overheard a portent of war. Withal there is n«) pleasant sound of flt'.wing water, no stir of wind swept leaves ; but in the added stillness of the night the drift of the snow is audible, and, perhaps, a startled grouse rises from its snow bed with a whirr of wings, or a white owl flits past, spectral in the snowlight; a hare as white as the owl hops as silently away, and far <»tf a wolf raises a long drawn melancholy cry. As the njoon clears the horizon the northern lights fall back, -md as she lifts on her upward way the double light from moon and reflecting snow plain, makes the night as clear as day. Cutting the level plain two bands of shining steel appear, c(»ming from illimit- able East to boundless West, like the Midgard Snake, circling the earth, and growing on the silence far and faint from the East comes a steady throb increasing I. r 78 The Land of Nupum. momently in volume. It is the l)e;it of Thor's h.immer, and astliesounfl increases and the rails begin to treml)le and hum a brisiht eye appears in the distance, gnuvinu' swiftly larger, till with a shriek and a roai-, with flying mane of sparks, defiant of the frost, devouring the leaL'ues, the modern Thor goes thundering past. Who shall write tht^ song of the Paciti*; express. It is the link that binds us to the world, the Civilizer which has brought the storied East to the wild West ; by its means new friends have come, possibly to be intimately connected with our future lives ; by it uiany have departed to be seen no more. Those things which are closely connected with our lives gather round themselves, however intrinsically ugly they may be, a beauty which is not their own. The
: "Her tiering canvas, like sheeted silver s[»read," under full sail, " walking the waters like a thing of life," was the most beautiful thing that the hand of man ever constructed ; but you may be sure the modern sailor—after he has lived three or four years aboard her, kei)t wa'-ch at night in her, drunk his hard earned grog and eaten salt pork in her, won through a score of tempests with her — loves his quaint ironclad coloss- us as well as any Jack Tar loved his Victory o drivers it attributes soldier hi) alouair : an uncouth mes- senger, but a swift one. He has seen the avalanches crashing, and his screams have douted the crags ; the pines have watched him in silence, and the torrents raced him in vain ; the eagles regard him from their eyries and wonder, the mountain goat stands afar off; he has conquered the mountains in their fastness, and the rocks have not bewildered him ; the barrier that nature builded has not withstood him, and the hill slopes are in vain. Westward i»e goes where the Mountain Jotuns wjtde knee deep in the sea, and the untrauuiiclled w.ivts kiss the green islands in the blue. The .sk. Tnder fo< and crisp, town of V as cham[); if taki^n i bells on ^ he drove to pull U| the land Hastily oi "Say! luMne?'" ''Righ "VVoH, ni ''Then with the landlord minutes i " Rig! "Get heJ BLIZZARD. The sky whs as blue as an Italian «uie. rmlei" foot the snow was oeautifully whU* and crisp, even in the streets of the little town of VVoodville. The air was as brisk as champagne, but a chanipai;ne that bit if taken in larj^e ({uantitics. The sleijjh bells on Stansfield's horses ranj; merrily as he drove down from the principal store, to pull up opposite the door of the hotel as the landlord in his shirt sleeves c.nuf iiastily out and shouted : "Say I Stan', are you pulling out f«»r luMne?" "Right away," replied StansHeld, "VVoa, mare." "There's a wonia'. going out to stay with the Moreton outfit," continued the landlord; "She'll be ready in two minutes if you'll give her a lift." " Right you are," assented Stanstield ; "Get her to hurry up like a ijood chap." H2 Hliwiinl. The laiulloi'l letunicl fo the hotel, liiid ill ci very few iiiiiiiites ;i luueli l)iiii(l]ed uj» figure WHS coiulucted out, introduced to StiiiisHeld, and, after she had iieeii tucked well in with the buffalo rohe, the sleigh went gail}' jingling d(»wn tlu; Main Street and out into the open country. The twt> said little, for conversation was liot easy when the one had his fur collar turned up to meet his cap, and the other was well muffled in shawls. Their way le«l through a pleasant, well wooded and settled country along a broadly marked trail for some seven miles, till they reached the Sandstone Creek, and that crossed they emerged on a wide, white plain, destitute of trees, which, however, was well known to Stansfield, who often cross-^d it. Here and there, but at rare intervals, h house could be ^een in the distance like a strange shaped vessel on the wide expanse ; now and again a flock of snow birds rose before the horses, wheeled and settled again. In spite of the cold it was a pleasant February day for the North-West. But a change had come over the weather, a change not unmarked by StanstieW. A white haze, like a low cloud bank, had risen in the west, and the wind began to blow a little. Bye and bye the loose sur- face snow like fine Stansfiek voice, bul '' Is it i paiiion, li enshroudi " Oh : ing a che« ''The wn the snow The wit of flying p hori/on b< twice Stai swerved ; plungeul-«-:, 84 Hrr.-.mtl. horses will .stainl nil right." He was away .some time, aiul the woman was he •;iniiinli one end ti the tug fro horse .startei kicked his w other niomei: Stansfield's h appeared in 1 The .situat The blizzard un bated fury horses were i with a weal< One faint ra Hlhznrd. 85 his side Jiltenuiteil <(uerulous wailint^s at iliu colli Hiid (luspjiiritiir .silunce. The simw flew thick as ever and the cold was intense; it was iin[)(issihle to see farther than the horses heads, and for rhis reason when they he^^an to dip down a sudden incline ScansHeld was (|uite un- pre|mred with his numb hands to hold them hack. For a moment he half hoped the incline leil to the Creek, but he was quickly undeceived as the lutrses plunged heavily in the deep snow at the bottom of the ravine, and then fell on their noses. There was a sudden jar and crash as the tonjjue slipped from the neck yoke, struck the frozen j^round and splintered in two. The lior.ses regained their feet, half swung round and started to kick ; the iron came i»fl one end of the near Whipple tree and the tug from the other end ; the free horse started ahead and the off horse kicked his Whipple tree in two. In an- other mf hope alone remained. Kr m. 86 mh::ar(l. The nivine, proliahly, lod t«. tl»e Siindstmn' (/i'v,'ek,Hiul l»y follMwiiig itswiiidiiijjjs, wliicli wore suit' to l»e ni.-iny, they iiiii;ht if theii- streuj^th held out eventually ro?ieh tlw Creek. The only other poKsihle ulternjitivt' was to turn the .slei<{h box on its side tor H break wind, antl lie down wrapped in furs behind its shelter till the stod ahme in the vast white plain and scan the horizon as he might nothing was in view. Nothing. As for the woman she was not to be seen, but that mattered little, she was beyond all hell) from man. The sun went down, the stars came out, later the moon rose, flooding the snow with a ghastly radiance, and Stanstield walked through the niglit. Morning f amber ed away. Still he walked and still the horizon was broad and blank. Stansfield was walking in a dogged way towards a ter- race in the prairio which obstructed his forward view. Surmounting it he gazed on the surrounding country ; it was as Vdank as the sky above him. Then he fell on his knees with arm« outstretched and prayed aloud in that vast wilderness to God the all merciful, the all powerful, to succor him in this his utmost need. The rising sun struck from him a huge shadow across the snow in the form of a gigantic cross ; the pitiless blue heaven looked down with an ironical smile on the solitary man wrestling for iiis life asrainst nature in her mosi cruel mood. He rose igain, and, with some sort of faith in him from the fervency of his (»wa outcry, went forward pnying no heed whitner he be bent his steps, with hi.s eyes upon the ground. As he walked thus he suddenly stopped, then went forward eagerly, for he had seen the tracks «)f a man's foot- prints upon the snow, leading in the direction he was then travelling in. Far different was his feelings to those of Robinson Crusoe at a similar fight. His heart was suffused with joy and gratitude to God, hope again sprang up in his I bosom, and he felt agnin the imniineiit presence of cheerful humankind and the warmth of houses. His eyes again search- ed the wild and still blank horizon, but though nothing was in sight, as ever, he knew, as every plainsman does, that the seeming flatness of the prairie was but an optical illusion and that many houses might be concealed in its hollows and ravines. Taking this new guide, he bci^ame aware of the tracks of another man which led into the footprints he was already following. This sight confirmed his hopes, for, through his previous walk he was followed by a haunting fear that, per- haps, the footsteps he followed were those of some unfortunate, astray like himself. But now this was impossible ; this second track was confirmation strong as Holy writ, and he pressed forward with new energy. He walked thus for about half an hour until he was aware of a third set of tracks leading into these he followed. For one moment his heart bounded with even greater joy, but it was but momen- tary. He cast a swift glance right and left and recognized a small bunch of willow he had already passed. He was walking round in an ever nar- rowing circh It is impo s'on of fee wretch's soi on wings, to greatest dej circle. For mute, and th and raising 1 cursed the ( him to die, his cup with hope ; and looked down Ma' er, with before. He curseq down to die made of steri to his feet at ate, heedle.^s The aun w the horizon, surface of th Stansfield fe eyes, a premi drew his cajj possible, anc he went as f eyes with h»f But now h rowing circle, following his own footsteps. It is impossible to describe the revul- sion of feeling that wrung the poor wretch's soul. From being buoyed, as on wings, to Heaven, to be dashed to the greatest depth of Hell; Dante's frozen circle. For a space of time he stood mute, and then fell on his knees as before, and raising his clinched hand to Heaven cursed the God who had not only left him to die, but had added bitterness to his cup with that last drop of blighted hope ; and the pitiless blue heavens looked down on the man blaspheming his Ma' er, with the same ironical smile as before. He cursed his God, but did nwt lie down to die ; the Anglo Saxon race are made of sterner stuff than that ; he rose to his feet and stumbled forward, desper- ate, heedle.ss of where he we'it. The sun. was now some distance above the horizon, and the glare frt)m the white surface of the snow became intolerable. Stansfield felt little sharp pricks in his eyes, a premonition he well knew, so he drew his cap as close over his brows as possible, and, as it did not signify whither he went as far as he knew, covered his eyes with h»s hand as much as possible. But now being unable to see he stum- M 92 Blizzard. bled over Kiiiall inequalities in the huovv, and frequently had to throw out his hands to save himself from fallini;, necessarily constantly exposing his eyes, and the sun light stabbed them like a knife. Soon 1ms eyes began to run with mucous, and shortly he was unable to open them : henceforward all was night. Onward he went, often falling, some- times running, having no account of time, or whither he went ; while to his agonized soul came the conviction that he might pass within a few yards of shelter know- ing it not. Hunger was dead within him ; but he was consumed with thirst. Strange amongst abundance of snow this should l>e the case, but the verdict af huntsmen and plainsmen on this point seems to be unanimous. The small quantity of re.-il liquid possible to take at a time seems to aggravate the thirst. On, on, he went, minutes might be hours, hours days. He mii?ht be again walking in a circle or still farther out into the illimital)le inane ; and as he wandered thus, lost to hope, his hands frozen, his legs stifi' tu the knees, he heard the barking of a dog. He raised his tired head erect once more, and turned his sightless eyes towards the sound; he listen».ai«*»'^?3^9'V.':^iiaEJSii''*-'»S*«:-'- THE OUTLANDER A Vignette. He WHS :in Outlaiider, from where the fringe of the Ocean of Empire breaks white in the snows of the Desohite plains at the liases of the Hills of Life and Death. Not lM>rn an Outlander, he early recognized that versifying is not a paying imde in the Old, or any other. Country, and that it is as well to relieve the pres- sure of millions even by one ; especially if that et, nor even a wiediocre poet ; there are none. Painting, music and the drama are not, in the Outlands, save that which the Outlanders can construct for themselves. which is II true expor of Art fror Divide— wl Divide — bi a great loi things, drt years, to tl in flat con ence, led h And yet does little little Engia her sons an Over there swift hand, on sultry heaves on t where the | and the da wall, as yoi herd ; out grimmer c work abroi with their ii As it was the first fai mother lam as the only his emotion not a poet fi^',. The OutUimhi. \Y,) which is naturally had. There are it is true exponeiitH of the ^W(i latter vehicles of Art from Stiuth of the Great Invisihln Divide— which, however, is a very real Divide — but they make matters worse, so a great longing for the Arts, and other things, drew the Outlander, after many- years, to that land which early teaching, in flat contradiction to acquired experi- ence, led him to call his own. And yet it was his own. How much does little England, and how much do little Englanders too, know of the work her s» •^■r'' m^- Qn CANADA TO BRITANNIA. Great mother in the world across the wave. Far sundered by the waters though we be, Howe'er self seekers in their folly rave, The ties of kinship hold across the sea ; And we, thy children of a larger land, Safe in the promise that the past has shown. Trust to the power of thy mighty hand. Till all our thews increased, our stature grf)wn, Though kinsmen still to thee, we dare to stand alone. ( )h I strong and brave, a beacon to the world ; Light through the ages, star to guide the free ; Though all thy realm were into ruin hurled, And blackest chaos, still should Liberty Blazon thy name the first upon her scroll : And if in heavy aftertime the knell. The death knell of thy vanished power toll, Are we not The tale of well / But whatso( Cleave to th And one in Hold fast til For you. for Th e charter ( Fur both al and sun Has Cromw down ; And many iron fro Have we no Whether at I Lane? ( )r later, on Our loyal ait And should And Britaii vohmtei 'Tis but the We knew be fear, Learn thou, also dar( Cunadii to Biifounin. w: Ave we not here, the couiiiiij years to tell The tale of nil thy i^lory, which is ouis as w ell ^ r But whatstje'er the f'Jture hides we still Cleave to the nieinory of the days gone hy. And one in feelinjj;, one in heart and will, Hold fast the links of forj/ed history. For you. for us, the stalwart Barons wrung Theeharter of our freedom from the Crown ; Fur both alike has Shakespeare thought and sung ; Has Cromwell pulled a tyrant's power down ; And many a hero faced grim Danger's iron frown. the tht Have we not sto<(d together in the van ; VVMietheratQueenst«>n Heights, orLundy's Lane ( Or later, on the scorching wide Houdan, Our loyal aid has not been all in vain ; And should the sun break on a wilder day, Anuch of fear. Learn thou, where Britons go, Canadians also dare. -»s««.«»ij»«r««*4«**«"*^*<*"^B0*^ 106 Canada to Bntannkt. When thy tierce giip with Gaul thy power drew Away Columbia worsted thee, and yet. The freedom that she fought for she but knew Through thee, and we were foolish to forget The way her Southern States have learnt so well To stoop beneath her mandates, and to bow Their necks beneath her power ; shall we swell Her alien ranks ? We will not break our vow, We woidd have peace with her ; but deartr still art thf»u. VVhat power then shall teach us to forget/ The same brave banner freely floats above T}iy stormy island with the salt seas wet ; Owriandofproinisewehave learnt tolove- Thouknowesthowithas been,how thosefew Arpents of snow the French king flungaw ay Flourished beneath thy aegis well, and grew. From ocean unto ocean, till, to-day Breaks over countless fields that own thy Sovereign sway. m Yet, weep not. Mother, if we part at last ; God's ways with men are hidden ; but behold : Does not the record of thy glorious past. The sturdy truths of liberty unfold 'i (■a inula tit Britonnin. 107 few. past. And shall we fail to rend them? should we part, In after years, the hope of days to be Will rise the same in every loyal heart ; One tongue, one goal, and steadfast eyes to see The way to f?lory lies in emul tting Thee. m^ .f^mH THE SEASONS. ^orlli-^VcMf Tcrrllorirs. 1. How fares the world/ the winter .sl«>wly dies ; Breathes from the south a wraith of suniiner air, That l)rings to mind a dream of Aarmer skies, To tell the worM it need not yet despair. Life stirs through all the budded willows, breaks Pale-hued and passionless where wind- flowers lirow, Faint heralds of the glory Flora shakes From her full hands, when summer breezes bl k recall ; The lily on Has seen t their fa So fall the thrown Broadcast to Good deeds! Spring forth Harvest full round A sapphire 1 Where autu bound The gold anc Yet is her ivi The choices they fal Spring, sunn and pas^ And universf The »SV(f.so>?.s. 101) II. lMi«lsuunner,aiid thesccnteil nv»rniiijr, wet With frfigrant clew drops, where the zephyrs lull A thousand roses, and the violet Gleams in the eyeless socket of a skull ( )f some slain bison of the countless horde Tiiat shook the i)lain, all gone beyonw ; Where the soft-footed wolf slides side- long by. Gaunt-ribbed and lank with care, Watching the passer with suspicious eye Before he seeks his lair; A wide clear sky, wherein the jewelled stars. In frosty radiance gleaming. Pale into milder splendour where the bars Of northern lights are streaming. M The waves the bill And left The tittihg Where ii crown 1 ^Var passed weep, (And see yield), For those w Unbrokei Till that shall b( Saw ye that shun, The grey crow) Search thro by one Review t row '^ For he is de Lord of h BATOCHE. 1885. The w.-ives of war rolled backward from the land And left stern Desolation lone and grim, The fitting monarch of a shattered strand, Where none as yet dared wrest the crown from him. War passed away; hut some wert^; left t«» weep, (And seek the solace time alone can yield), For those who silent by the river keep Unbroken vigil o'er the battle field. Till thar last judgment day, when all shall be revealed. Saw ye that lone one (whom the buzzards shun, The grey coyote, and the night black crow) Search through the stricken field, and one by one Review the swarthy warriors' ghastly r()W 'I For he is dead who woo'd her jn his prime ; Lord of her life, his sun untimely set, iS2i '"- I Hill wnmm 112 Hatoche. Can jiuiiht assuasie hersorn»w, or will time VVipe all her toarsuwa}', when \ nin regret Cries to her wi(l«>we 1 iieart r<» hold his image yet / Though v'ctors we, and iiiu ri<>;hteuus cause. To hold unrent the union of the land, A touch of kind by narure bids us pause. And own the force of Death's all level- ling hand. Far in the East, where lingers yesterday. And in the West, where breaks another UMUTOW, Fond hearts were breaking in tlie suuie wild wa}'. Or kneeling at the like dear shrines, to borrow Surcea.se from gnawning [lain, or balm for bitter sorrow. Beneath n<» pompous urn of carven woe. And where no thrn friei shroud O'er both a His cry i Cn.seen, uier's 1 No sound here, (Save 'ti poor- w N\ here onc^ cheer. As the k the hil The echoes I'nrufflei The hare is been ; All undis And blu^ blossoi li(ltiH'll>^. 11 :: flow. The trembling iioplar .iiul the snliMuii |»ine ; There is thy fane, oh tlead I lit i>y the pale uioon.shine. Held in our hearts, yu need no cenota[)h. No lettered marble t«» ensure your fame, For all the sonijjs of Mother Nature laugh i)ur nitmuuiental epitaphs to shame. .And earth has cast her mantlb over all. On friend and foe the same wide shroud of green. O'er both alike the meadow lark shall call His cry of welcmue to his mate unseen. Unseen, but heard afar through sum mer's leafy screen. No M)un«l disturbs the summer evening here, (Save 'tis the 'plaining of the whi[)- poor-will,) Where once was heard the soul awakening cheer. As the long line went storming down the hill. The echoes sleep in yonder steep ravine ; I'nniffled now the northern river tlows ; The hare is couching where the dead have been ; All undisturbed the prairie tiower blows; And blushes sweet and fair the many blo.ssoni'd rose. -.-««*«»,, THE NORTHERN LOVER. *» You asked me but the other day how Love Appenreth now ; far from his ancient haunts, His groves deserted, and the larger gods Who ruled from high Olympus clean forgot ; Zeus vanished quite and Here ; and the vale Of Tenipe vacant of their votaries. Whose temples drop to ruin ; and I stood Tongue-tied before your beauty, stam- mering, Some feeble answer of a maid, who grows Far sweeter 'mid the snow-drifts of the North Than all the dames of dark -eyed Thessaly. But after, as I mused, the purpose grew To shape an answer for you. The N'^rthern Lover. 115 In the pHst The ancients used ti> limn him hs a boy ; A rosy boy, afloat on gauzy wings ; A butterfly of passion who has drawn A feebler arrow from a loosened string Since Pysche caught his fancy. Such a god Roams in the orange groves, by Southern seas. On perfumed midnights, when the night- ingale Pours all his passion, and the silver wave. Like lispings of old Neptune, sleepily Lips the stone wharves of Genoa, or the bay Where tierce Vesuvius beacons to the deep That lies past slumb'ring Capri. In the North Are other ways and other gods ; I rode Last night beneath the stars, that clear and keen, Blazed through the frost ; but as the morning drew To oust the shadows, clouds began to steal Between me and the wan and paling sky ; The ghostly Northern Light, which thro' the dark Stood up in serried phalanx to the stars, Fell back with all its spear3 before the dawn, 11« The Noiihern Locer. That broke with dim reluctance ; slow, and few. The snowtlakes fell, faint s^limnierini^ throLisjh the t5rey ; A plover rose from out the withered edge Of froxen waters, startled by the tread Of coining hoofs — wheeled on an unseen w ing. Piped down the wind and plaintive died away. Methought I found the secret you would learn Told by the contrast ; in this Northern land VVe have no tiuje for trifling ; you, and I, In the sweet [)ast, have seen the wild moon rise Blood-red and misty o'er the level snows, And after— through the st()rni wrack rising high — Sail overhead in palhd majesty, Till in her cold, pale gleam and feeble smile, From out the ln»oded gloom of mantling furs Thy true eyes shone, and put the stars to shame. With what divine enchantment Love has wrought In those past days thou k no west ; as 1 know The Northern Lorer. 117 ► \vs, I'HC'k jeblo ling stars has as 1 How on that winter midnight, Love, to n7e As a grown god. came earthward slantiuf' down ( >n eagle [linions. We who face the blast ( )f Northern winters, scorn the puny dart From Cupid's quiver, and the hurt that heals As soon as given ; leave we to the South Their graceful fancy of an idle br>y, With aim uncertain ; our much miiihtier god Bound me a captive ; then, his errand done, Spnrned with his focjt the earth and far away. Flashed to high heaven, and dwelt among the stars ; Himself a st"ar that not the blackest night, X(>r storm, nor time, can ever quite obscure. ■'■: i ' 'i i i, , ."''V -*M<*I« HE ENGLAND TO THE COLONIES. Once within a mighty forest Stood a stately tree. Every bird that sought her branches Could in safety be. Though the driving storms of winter Many a tree laid lf)\v. Still the oak stood steadfast ever. In the wind and snow. ' Many an acorn falling from her Flourished in the shade. Growing stalwart in the shelter That their parent made. Many a hundred years she's stood there, VVhile the saplings grew. Spreading out their sturdy branches To the overblue. Now at last she's growing older, If the adverse blast Come with lowering skies and thunder. Fast, and yet ni(»re fast ; Emjhind to the (M<»iifs 121 leie, If the stormy gust of winter Aivl the hurrit'Hiie Shake the oak in all her bi'anches Drench her with the rain ; Stand between her and the tempest, Break in part the breeze, Let her roots still hold their fastness Oh I you younger trees. Lest her mighty bulk in falling From a place so high, Leaves you naked to the tempest Of the winter sky. She it was who gave you being. Can vou then forget ? Seeing all her ancient glories, Pass without regret. THE BROKEN CHORD. Mendelssohn, trying to compose the Fairy Dance in Act IV. [of the Midsumnncr Niprhtv Dreaml, was interrupted by one of his children who begged him to come and play in the garden. The Musician paying no attention to the appeal, the child caught at his moving hand and so produced a peculiar and beautiful chord, a sort of shirred movement, which Mendelssohn introduced into the " Fairies Dance."— Walter Powell, in "The Week," March 7, 1890. I. Deaf to all iiiundHiie sounds and faraway, Wheie Queen Titania's fairy followers keep. Their moonlit revels in the forest, deep From crowned Athens and the garish day, The Master with the Mighty Poet strayed. And heeded not the pause in childish play Nor heard the soft entreaty wh'spering made To leave the Athenian sward ; Till bolder grown the impatient, childish hand, Plucked tl touch fi And all the Breathed in Ah I wande pine ^Vorld-wear sin. Before the 1 Of life's lonj resign Thy bitter k eye See the orb't Once more b die ? Thy hope is Take this as A childish, t May touch youth, And bid the( Its clasp sha King, Mad nioiiarc scene, Playeth wild Queen ; The Broken Chord. 12a Plucked the rapt Master's waiKlering touch astray, Autl all the songs of vanished fairyland Breathed in that broken chord. Ah I wanderer in the dusty ways, you pine ^Vorld-weary, for the days that knew nt)t sin. Before the bitter strife and ceaseless din Of life's long warfare ; wouldst thou then resign Thy bitter knowledge, and with fancy's eye See the orb'd moon on fairy revels shine Once more before the time has come to die ? Thy hope is n«)t all vain. Take this as witness of a living truth, A childish, trusting hand if laid in thine, May touch a silver chord of vanished youth. And bid thee dream again. ?. '^■''-'■%i II. Its clasp shall lead thee where the Fairy King, Mad monarch of the misty woodland scene, Playeth wild pranks to spite his wayward Queen ; ',''<^^';" 1^' tt tfi ^ 124 Thr Brokfu Vhonl. Or jests awhile with thos'j, wh«», whikUt- From out the Cltv of the Violet Oiovvii, Strayed to the mazy round where fairies swing, Aiivl on the thyniy-shadowed hank lay down To wait the guiding day. Oh I mighty poet of rlie magic pen And great musician, ever shall ye sing. The same sweet song to tired souls of men Who halt upon the way : Ft)rever in thy airy fantasy Bottom, the weaver's hairy ass's head Crushes the flowers on his fairy bed. And Cobweb hunts the red-hipped hum- ble bee ; And Puck, misusing l«»ve-in-idleness, Shall make Lysander from his Ilermiji tlee ; Forever shall fair Helen in distress Be righted by the ¥;\y ; So that no man can say those days are fled, But, only, mortals are too blind to see That, when Orion trembles overhead. Titan ia :itill holds sway. illli HEIMWEH. I Written after hearing .Tiingnuinn's ''Ileim- weh." Tlie piece of music from wliieh it was played went down, witli many others, at the founderinKof the "(^rrgcn." audaloiie of all the music survived the iinme/sion ] [The Pi-ebnh'.] The jjfroves, the lawns of lovely England .seen; So far awav in this wild land of snows : But as the music grows From prelude into stately chords, a dream Conies of a dearer land ; and this wide plain Turns t<» that little island in the main, I dare to call. The fairest land of all ; F(»r the blue of the prairie heaven is not so blue as the sea, Nor the sward of a prairie landscajje as green as that isle can be. i. ,-.>-r i-:-^ ,^ *.'-^9ir. •■?';■ ^'r. 120 HeimtreJi. Play on, piny «>ii, the links of thought you bind Have bridf^ecl the gulf of years with one swift Hpan, 80 that once more I can Cross over to the land long left behind, And see through mists of many bitter years. Ay I through the mist of sudden starting tears. My youth once more On that remembered shore, For the spell of the measured music can caiTy from other lands A dream of days half forgotten, and the touch of hmi; severed liaiids. iStrike stronger chordit.] For now the music hath a deej^er tone Than any that its chords had known before It left the English shore ; A mightier music than was once its own, Born from Atlantic thunder and the wail Of harp-strung rigging to the northern {{ale ; Wild music borne, Blown from a Trittm's horn, O'er the leagues of western waters, fa r down the wind, until At th*^ sound of his deep sea music the leaping waves are still. Helmweh. 127 StrHiij{e thut of all the sweet airs moulder- ing there This oiieHldiie survives the cruel sea ; Some god has treasured thee : Apollo I Thou I Lord of the tuneful lyre, Hiist somehow fathomed my dee}) desire To hear again That half-ft»rgotten strain, That speaks like an old-world st'>ry to the heart of a little child. Or tells of ways long untrodden, and the woodland pathways wild. [Ah! play »»«» «M*re.] For all was only fancy like to those Faint wave- horn echoes in :i couched shell. That only dimly tell The inland dweller of the wave that flows On far-off shores ; 'twas mine own ear that made Such wondrous magic out of what you played. Yet, though 'tis jiast, Some memory will last, Of moist sea breezes blowing over down and moor and dell ; Let the last notes steal gently forth that bid mv dream farewell. ;»vj\ _•• ■. 4_7« (^WB^^ ^^kJit-^f^'-^fi THE PORTRAIT AND THE PANSY. Low in the prairie gmss h well-known hue Beguiled nie into friendship, for I thought One only flm o'er the sea, Which, when the dew lay wet, On early summer mornings, deep within Some bosky hollow, used tt» j)eep at me; Twas but a pansy that I stooped to greet, A wild, blue, pansy bl<)ssom, truth to tell, Fair t<» the outward eye, but not so sweet As that (me which I rec«)llect so well As dearer far, and every whit as fair Yet, when I held the stranger in my hand. Oh I faint and sweet fronj memory's distant shore. TJie Portrait and the Pansy. 129 Here in this alien air, The summer odours of my native land Stole back in fancy to my soul once more. I came across her portrait unaware, Among torgotten trifles hid away ; I had not thought her face would look so fair After these years ; it seemed but yester" day We parted, and a week since first we met. Faint phantom of my living love it lies. The portrait there before me, pale and grey, A faded image, yet. It is herself that lot>ks me in the eyes. As once before, witching my soul away. One backward iflance o'er the white shoulder flung ; [t is herself — ah ! no 'tis but a ghost Of the dead past ; where is the voice that sung ; My heart to hers ? the picture calls a host Of memories back, but not the best of all — The perfume of the violet, the part That lends the last sweet touch ; the magic thrill This never can recall. Yet, in the empty chambers of my heart Some echo of her music lingers still. |iil • K'---:':.. \ -v.... i*Vho waits the coming of the luoMiilight hoar, To prank himself to dance his Queen before. Ttie Ballade of the Lost Fairies. 131 But all unpeopled is the w(»odland scene, No ni.igic can the buried past restove, Alas I no fairies dance upon the jwreen. Where are they, then, the little folk, who knows Where they have iJfathereil 'neath the moon's pale ray ? They are not where the Western ft)rest grows, And those old haunts in which they us«d to stray Have been deserted by them many a day. They will return to England, nevermore, ( )usied from all their haunts by that harsh r«>ar Of smoky furnaces, which nightly screen The moon from open glade and forest floor, Alas I no fairies dance upon the green. ENVOI. Gone are the gay oM times they knew of yore, And this new world holds not within her store Sweet fancies of another world, unseen; And, though wo may be wiser than before, . Alas I no fairies dance upon the green. H^' "^: 5' • ,. . 'P '. ■ ■i^: .A^. ZSi 1' ■! W^v4 »>■ . ■:.: JbTI THE SENTRY. 'TwHK the sentry said to his comrade In camp by the river shore, " Let us go when the war is over And see our home once m(»re. You remember how together We weathered out the gale, Couched 'neath a rock's rough shelter In hmely Borrodaile. Or how Helvellyn, flinging His echo hi^h and far, oeemed listening to the challenge Flung back by bold Ned Scaur i We shall see through mists, sun-smitten* Our northern mountains rise. Like the hills in fabled story At the gates of Paradise. We shall see the moonlight flooding With radiance, lake and fell. Touch with a fairy splendour The land we love so well." The Sentry. 133 Day dawns, and the nij^ht is over, At his post the sentry falls ; He has seen his northern country And its mist wreathed mountain tvalls. For his eyes had a clearer vision, To mortal sight, debarred. When at his post the challenaje Of death relieved his jj;uard. He shall hear no more in the darkness The sudden, swift alarms. The cry for help of the wound^jd, Or the bugle's call to arms. For he waits, with the silent army, Till every human soul Cries — Here ! to the last dread suuniions Of God's great muster roll. Sr-^-'-, , -'^'•. :'^*?-4j r '>*'?,'-« /.s your seat asjirin as ei'er, is i/ow^- eye as h'een and true. Can yon rope a Jlying foreleg, as once tjon used to do. Can yon, ride a bricking hnfurlio, ran yon spot a stranger's hixoid, Or head the wild stampede at night and tnrn the rushing hand '{ BRONCHO DAYS. How is it with you now, old chum I In England's crowded ways To you iniured in brick and stone the thought of other days, Must sometimes come when breezes stir the roses on your lawn, And once again you rise with me and saddle up at dj'wn. The light is level on the sward, the old times come again, Your broncho feels the warning heel and reaches at the rein ; Brourhi) lUiyti. 135 Oh I iiieirily the henvy hit chimes in with jingling spur, The flapping fiin.ij;es on our chnpps make just a pleasant stir. The hoof strokes fall with rhythmic beat, the road is flying by, And all the world is yet asleep, save <»nly vou and I, The bronchos feel their oats to-day, the world is wild and wide. Let go their heads, and let them swing their galop stride for stride. And when we stop beside the slough to let our horses drink. The air is pure, and close at hand, a tuneful bob-o-linc', Sings his sweet matins to the morn ; perched low upon a spray, The meadow lark calls back to him, responsive to his lay. The pasque blooms linger here and there ; the tiger lily gems With points of red the grassy sward, and on their slender stems The fragile blue-bells nod their heads to every passing breeze, That shakes the petal from the rose and whispers to the trees. .-.v** ■ -:i'. li! ■ '■^'■^'l fV- .1."V1 '^■. ?•*'&, 13f> Bri'urhn Days. 'Tis rtll H dream, nn ocean wide is cold between us twain. And nevermore together shall we ride the Western plain. Or camped in comfort hear the wolf, and on the skyline clear See the quick broncho lift his head and slant a startled ear. The world is fair in this new land, and yet I envy you, For we have not th« primrose jwle, and though 'tis just as blue, The violet in exik^ here, throws out a scentless bloom. The rose is fair as England's rose, bui has not its perfume. No thrush sings English ballads, no blackbird whistles clear. No skylark wings to heaven the day's sweet pioneer. And chief of all the sights I love I long to see the glade. Where the lily of the valley grows beneath the C4>ppice shade ; Or, in rip Ben eat tha But we do I Two ok gre And wt one 'Tis to t And chief of all the sounds I love, 1 long to hear the sea, Break on the shores of England when the scud is flying free. Broncho Days. (Ir, in its calmer moments, when the ripplv«i kiss the strand. Beneath the tall white cliffs of chalk, that guard the English land. But we'll meet some day (»r other, no doubt, at last, in town, Two old bow-windowed begj^ars, with the grey streaked thro' the brown ; And we'll agree in spite of fate, there's one thing all repays, 'Tis to fight once more the battles (»f our good old broncho days. Thus far I wrote, in hope that you would sometime scan these rhymes. And overlook their many faults for sake oi youthful times ; But, wider than the <»cean, between us yawns the grave. And one is left, the other sleeps beyond the restless wave. Sleep in your quiet churchyard, true heart that's still at last, Whose every red pulsation beat friend- ship firm and fast ; Pray God the stories of our youth are not all (juite in vain, I hope for some world far from this where old friends meet again. m Ih'onch(f Days. The sky is clear above me, and the tvrf Is sovnd helmv. The free ivind Jlies to meet me, and fans me (ts I go^ The tree-tops bend and rustle, the trorld is fair to see. But yon are not beside me now, nor ever mort' idll be. Ml CUMBRIAN VALES AND FELLS. To William WnfMni, on readiiuf " Luhe- land Once More.^' On these plains where the broodhig silence is broken only by wail of hnwk Or soiitidof the wind in the secret grasses, that tell a tale for the breeze to bear To the aspen poplars which quake and tremble, astir with the secret nature holds : Here, in this loi.ely land of silence, I read your chant of the English hills And my heart went back to the meres and mountains I knew of old ni the dear home land. For I heard the echo from high Helvellyn Hung back in challenge from bold Ned Scaur, ^Mk^^^h^^^^BM IIW Cumbrian Valen tnid FelLs. o .^lul saw throuj^li the mist the penkN sun smitten rise tn ;i hei«;ht before un- known. Where the L:ini;cl;ile Pikes stand up t henven like jirinnts watching tlie vale below. And the insect creatures toilinji; slowly with blast of powder and swini^ of pick. Delving the hills tluit have ston the plain, The bones of those we weeping seek when summer comes a^ain. Our pack is bred from hounds who knew the 8h)pe of heathered hill, The wieaths of mist on Scottish crags, the high tarn dark and still; The noble red deer's antltred pride, that held them all at bay. When, soiled at last, he faced the foe, at closing (»f the day. No one of all our grim, gaunt hounds a warning whimper gave ; Our pack is silent swift as death, and cruel as the grjive ; A lifted head, a starting eye, a moment's pause — and lo ! The hounds are straight upon the track, like arrows from the bow Oh I you must ride, as never yet, you rode, when down the wind, The fox stole from the shaking gorse, and left you far behind ; i-'".-^?*f«»i "•« •!<,■'iv M^ ■M^MtTW'liitlli l/i'l'* 146 Plebeian »•(/«»> ». His WHS that hardest \r,irt That tries the staunchest heart ; Bettor the headlong charge when hini- drods die ; Than the relentless foe Watching to strike the hlow. And the slow waiting while the bullets No friends ; no hope ; but like a star, High duty shining thr«»ugh the clouds of war. No stately Gf>thic fane Roofs in the hero slain, But the wide sky above the desert sands; No graven stone shall tell Where at the last he fell, And, if interred at all, by alien hands, Thrust in a shallow grave to wait The last loud summons to the fallen great. No more can England boiist, Her name from coast to coast, Shall be a passport to her wandering sons; Once they could freely roam, As in their Island home. Safe far abroad is underneath her guns ; Or, should mishap for vengeance call. Swift would her anger on the oppressor fall. But, let thi Fall with it On those w mand ; The heart <: In Loudon' And in the StiJl to its ( In spite of i -s^X Omd on. 151 of But, let the meed of blaniH, Fall with its weight of shame On those who lacked the courage to coui- inand ; The heart, of England beats In London's thronging streets, And in the quiet places of the land. Still to its old traditions true. In spite of all our rulers failed to dw. *»'-*Sv,,. »«--rf,| CACCIAGUIDA'S PROPHESY OF DANTE'S BANISHMENT. PARADTSO, CANTO XVII. ARGUMENT. Diiiitc having met Cacciaguida, his ancestor, in Paradise, tiie latter prophcsien his banish- n cnt from Florence and his seeking refnge with Can Grande, and exhorts him to cast aside fear and testify to that wiiich he has witnessed in Infernal and Supernal regions. I. As by his cruel step-daiue's act unjust Hippolytus from Athens tk liis way, So from beloved Florence thou'lt be thrust. n. Already it awaits thee ; where each day Sees our Lord Jesus made a thin^ of sale, Is one who longs to see thee thrust away. III. Him shall no blame attach to ; but a wale Of wrath shall follow thee whom he ensnares And casts forever from his country's pale. l'ruphf.s\f of Jhniteti l^ohinhineni. 153 be IV. Thou slmlt have pinof then how the stiHiijjtM* fares Who eats the bread of others, and be spent \Vith j^oing u|» an«l down .mothers stairs. V. When first the bow of banishment is bent, From all thy loved ones th<»u shall be debarred ; 'Tis this that points the airow that is sent. VI. All thy sad way shall impious fools retard; Wild curses rise at thee from every side ; Thus too shall thy stern exile long be niarred. VII. Yet after, shall thou see their f<»reheuds dyed Incarnadine, so that all men may see Full plainly blaz,oned how they foully lied. VIII. In those daj's shall it seem full well to thee That thou hast stood alone against all ill. What time thou sought'st the Lom- bard's courtesy. IX. Then when the voice of that pure soul was still. y - . ''I r.v 154 Fropheay of Dmde's Bamsh^nent. Pvophe His labour finished, like to one wlu) turns The Wfirpecl woof tc) the perfect web at will. X. Thus T bejjan, as one who strongly yearns* Being in doubt, some counsel from a friend Who loves him, and who uprightly discerns. XI. Well see I, father, how the bitter end Conies spurring on, and well I know the blow Falls heaviest on us when we least defend. XII. Therefore, 'tis well that I should rightly know, That if the highest place be lost to view, I by my singing may take place below. XIII. For I a sad and bitter world came through ; Me, o'er the summit with the forehead bright. The eyes of mine own lady upward drew. XIV. And afterward, through heaven, from light to light. Full many things I learned will savour well To those who, hearing, read my words aright. Came the r On conscie: o'ercMs The acid of That cry of To rock the The hearts last. Far down t Such pains t VVho by the INOTE.— I 1 Faradiso as I the reason fc last two vers 4) Prophesij of D #> #> h- \ I m ^ 4' ir WHIP-POOR-WILL. Beneath the.se northern skies We boast no nightingale ; Here only plaintive whip-poor-will Takes up the tale. When the day's noise is still, And life shakes off its cares, Her harsher notes may soiuid as sweet To lovers' ears As those which nightly greet Italia's maidens fair, Where Naples' orange y^roves perfume The summer air. Here, also, Howers bloom And Cupid holds his sway ; Here lovers wander hand in hand At ch>8e of day; Here, as in every land. The same sweet tale is told — The whispered words which never stale. However old. So, since no nightingale Enraptured holds them still. Love gives his votaries the song Of whip-poor-will. -^"-^^-^^-^^ :-■:'' St- THE MIRROR. T;ike thou the i^lass, mid when therein Thou look'st thyself to see, Renieinber that my constant heart As well reHeeteth thee. The glass will show thy face its twni ; Tlie truer heart of n)e Will sIkjw as well thy c<>uiiterpart, If that thou distant he. The glass will let thy image fade When thou art far away ; But from my heart it cannot pass, Wherever thou may'st stray. And since I keep so true, fair maid, Ah I let me hope, some day, That thou (vilt use me as thy glass And bid me ovyr stay. V 4- 1^ THE MODISH MAID. (HondeaK.) With form divine hikI face s<» fair, With that soft look aiul modest air, - What man bat needs must bow the knee, And render homage unto thee, Since thou art (juite beyt id compare I But ah. fond lover, have a care ; That look may mask a deadly snare, Take not so seriously The modish maid. Thv love she'll never learn to share ; No soul informs her beauty rare ; A taste for chiffons, possibly, May stir her soft frivolity, — But never passion ; so beware The modish maid. T Stern Fate Wliar thou Beyond th< Whoe'er rli VVhetlier a Not one w< Oh I man (i Compoulid Thou hast 1 Then, f(»rw Thou goest Into tht! dH There is no A litem, sti The niyriac W'he tiler tc ( )r all unco What use t The great y -<; i i MJg ^il ^ VILLANELLE. Stern F.ite, can prophets say, WHiat thou huHt in thy keeping, Beyond the shf)rte8t day ( Whoe'er the god.s that sway, Whether awake or sleeping, Not one word will they say. Oh I man of mortal clay, Cc»mpoulid of joy and weeping, Thou hast thy work, tliy play , Then, forward on thy way Thou goest, hlindly leaping, Into the dark ; astray. There is no time to stay, A stern, strong ami i', sweeping The myriads away ; Whether to endless day, ( )r all unconscious sleeping, What use to ask / for they. The great gods, will not say. -'''V^'''^"^$^''^V^ hf t H. M. S. CALLIOPE. Self inttrest doth hold the world in tlirull, So say the modern pundits ; thar were well If I And onour cauie not in the case at all nianl ikind were bound to buy and se 11. If couraf^e, love of country, faith, the call Of high endeavour had no tale co tell. The world, in truth, were but a trader's stall Set out with base connnodities to swell The swindler's hoard : the Anglt»-Saxon race, Chief merchants, hucksters, clamorous and loud. Immodest, soulle.^^s, calling t(» the crowd To buy their wares and seek no other place. Napoleon's "land of trader's," overHow- ing The greed of gain on all the world bestowing. H.M.S. Calliupe. 161 II. And thou, Coluuibiu, greatest child, in stxjth. The chief est sinner in that sordid crew. Hast thou fulfilled the promise of thy youth ? Ts this tht; work thou did'st set out to do ? Hast set thy foot without remorse or ruth On all those hijy;her dreams thy founders drew, From out the strife with men and lands uncouth Seeini{ o'er all a glimpse of heaven's blue!' The tired world looked to thy virgin held To breed a race of men -not millionaires Blind to all higher aims, the hopes, the fears Of struggling poverty, and grimly steeled To Uieir own ends : Oh ! thou may'st yet be free, Whate'er thy faults, mankind hath hope from thee. in. There gleams a star : the wave-smote Calliope, Forged through the tempest to the open main. Saved from the shock of that insatiate sea Scourged into madness by the hurricane. ?■"• r=«i^' 1H2 H.M.I^. Calliope. Saved ; with a messjige that should solace thee, Oolimibia, for thy loss, a nobler strain Runs through thy sailors of stern bravery Than prompts the merchant's sordid i;reed of gain. The cheer that from the Trenton's ship- wrecked crew Rani< through the stfjrm, shall echo through all tuiie, Their epitaph, far tru«r than the rhyme Gra"3d on a lyiny headstone, for they, knew No hope ; but cheering with their latest breath. Went down the weltering seas to wreck • and death. ^ Like the fir spring. When all t song, Uncertain il ( )r if, peich wrong So I have throng 1 rise herea Though noc strong That waft i bring A gift more ion, To one, wht) tent I wrote, and Looked on t compasi Read 'twixt meant. Forgave mv ^ ^k ^k ^k f^ TV" W" EPILOGUE. Like the first notes that tledglini^s try in spring. When all the groves are jubilant with song, Uncertain if they yet have learnt to sing, Or if, perchance, their early strophes are wrong ; So I have sung ; if from the mingled throng I rise hereafter on a surer wing, Though noc the eagle pinions broad and strong That waft the great immortals, I may bring A gift more seemly and in worthier fash- ion, To one, who knowing with what fair in- tent I wrote, and with elusive metre strove. Looked on these lines and in her sweet compassion Read 'twixt the lines, divining what was meant, Forgave my faults and only saw my love. FINIS.