. r**"* .> •• THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES I o % . ^. // (/d^ ^/>^,yf^ ^v'? " ' "" ' .^'^ /rV^ty ( t:n..Oi^^^^ ~ { /^A.^:i^^Lj> HONEY FROM THE WEED Honey from the IVeed VERSES BY MARY COWDEN-CLARKE AUTHOR OF "THE CONCORDANCE TO SHAKESPEARE,' " THE GIRLHOOD OF SHAKESPEARe's HEROINES," "THE IRON COUSIN," ETC., ETC., ETC. ' Thus may we gather hone\ from the weed." — Shakespeare. LONDON: C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., i, PATERNOSTER SQUARE. 1881. lAU lights leserved.'} NOVELLO, EWER & CO., PRINTERS, 69 & 70, DEAN STREET, SOHO (\V.) PREFACE As one who wanders in a stately wood Amid the glories of the grand old trees, Stoops here and there to cull a wayside weed, A spray of fern, a white anemone, A blade of feathery grass, or harebell blue, Until a simple nosegay grows, brought home In token of the pleasant way gone through — So I, long traversing the sunny glades. The verdant depths, and lofty forest growths Of Shakespeare's verse, have happed at intervals On waifs and strays of fancy, here tied up In likeness of a handful of wild flowers ; Collected for the sake of that which they Record, and for the sake of those who crush Not under foot the smallest weed that may Possess one grace of shape or fragrance sweet. Villa Novello, Genoa, 1881. 8S0IG' O CONTENTS. PAGE Preface . . V A Parlour Romance . . I The Yule Log • 34 Minnie's Musings • 54 The Trust • 71 The Remittance . 105 An Idyl of London Streets . . . 158 The Battle of Melazzo i85o . • 170 Time's Healing • 174 Meanwhile • 175 Do! . 178 Sisterly Confidence . . . 182 Infant Supremacy . 184 Two Life-Pictures . 1S7 Donald's Courting . 190 Correggio's " Flight into Egypt" .. . 192 To Henrietta Moritz 1880 . • 194 Occasional Address (Tercentenary Celebration) .. . 196 Idem {" Merchant of Venice") . 198 Prologue (" School for Scandal ") . 201 Idem (" Much Ado About Nothing ") • 203 Idem (Shakespearian Charade) .. .. 1869 . 205 Occasional Epilogue (" Love's Labour's Lost") 1869 . . 20S Half Confessions . 211 Herself . . 212 Near and Dear. . . 214 Her Eyes . . . . . . . . . 216 Her Twinkle . 220 No and Yes . 221 VUl CONTENTS. Asking . . Believe me ! Serenade Idem Valentine to John Liston Four Stornelli . . November 22, 1858 Love Song Be true to me . . Shakespeare's Birthday Written at Dawn, April 23, 1869 No Sound doth break the silence Music's Blessing Music's Delight Invocation to Music Invocation to Sleep The Despairing Lover There is a stile The Declaration I come to Thee Good-morrow Too Late Mr. Right He My Bonnie Birdie The Little Bird The Mariner's Wife The Fisherman's Wife England. Spring . Summer. Autumn . Winter . The Fairy Ghost The Eventful Life of a Boy PAGE 221 222 222 223 224 225 229 230 231 232 ■ 233 234 235 235 236 236 237 . 238 • 239 . 240 . 241 . 242 ■ 243 • 244 ■ 245 , 246 • 247 . 248 ■ 251 ■ 252 . 252 . 253 • 253 ■ 254 ■ 259 CONTENTS. ix PAGE Answer to Twenty Questions I 867 . . 260 Wedding Song. . ] 874 . . 262 Amy's Wedding-Day . . 1 876 .. 263 Birthday Song. . • • 265 June 20, 1875 . . . . 267 Human Endeavour ,. 270 Sylvan Singers.. .. 271 Not yet . . .. 272 Just then (Honeymoon Song) •• 273 My Violet •• 274 True Love ; or, Wooing in the Wood •• 275 Home Kindness . . 276 To Nerina Gigliucci . . [878 .. 278 Madrigal •• 279 Idem •• 279 Idem .. 280 Glee . . 280 Idem .. 281 Song .. 281 Gifts . .. 282 Faithful .. 283 Acrostic .. 283 The Stars beyond the Cloud .. 284 Body and Soul . . r88o .. 286 Visions . . 1880 .. 287 All Those We love , , .. 288 May 13, 1880 , . .. 289 Riddle , , .. 291 To Morico Gigliucci , . 1880 .. 291 SONNETS. ToMissGuschl 1859 . . 292 To Miss Thormann .. .. ., .. 1859 .. 292 To Mrs. Greenaway .. ,. .. .. 1859 .. 293 On Baron Poerio • [859 .. 293 CONTENTS. To Mrs, Frederic Inman To Lucy Pickering To Cecilia Serle To Emma Novello To Clara Gigliucci To Sabilla Novello .. To Mary Sabilla Serle To Portia Gigliucci To Valeria Gigliucci . . To Portia and Valeria On a Ring of Leigh Hunt's Hair On hearing of Leigh Hunt's Death : i., ii Godsends: i., ii., iii., iv., v., vi. On Mrs. Somerville's Hair .. On Florence Nightingale's Hair On Garibaldi's Hair . . To Alexander Main : i., ii. On Convalescence : i., ii. On Labour and Leisure: i., ii., iii. November 8, 1871 At Midnight of All Souls' Sick-bed Reflection On a Deafness . . On pacing to and fro . . Expectation Renovation On a Desirable Residence : i., 11. To Henry Littleton . . To Sir Vincent Eyre . . To Samuel Timmins: i., 11 On receiving "A Treasury of English Sonnets" 1880 On George H. Calvert's Study of Shakespeare 1880 Moods . . Widowed Solace . . PAGE 1859 . • 294 1859 . • 294 1859 . • 295 1859 . . 296 1859 . • 297 1859 . • 297 i860 . . 298 1859 . . 298 i860 . • 299 1880 . . 300 1859 . • 300 1859 . • 301 i860 . • 302 1866 . • 305 1866 . • 306 1868 . • 307 1866 . • 308 I87I . • 309 1872 . • 310 • 312 1858 . • 313 1873 • • 314 1873 . • 315 1873 • . 316 1873 . • 317 1875 . • 317 1873 • . 318 I88I . • 319 1875 • • 320 1874 . . 321 1880 . ■ 322 1880 . • 323 1877 . • 324 1877 . • 324 1878 . • 325 CONTENTS. xi PAGE Thanksgiving . . 1878 .. 326 December i6, 187S • a • • 327 New Year's Eve 1879 .. 32S Bequest . . 1880 .. 329 Double Existence 1880 .. 330 My Mother's Letters : i., 11. .. 1880 .. 331 Our Terrace: i., 11., in., iv., v. 1880 .. 333 On re-reading some Letters . . 1880 .. 336 A Remonstrance 1880 . 337 Twilight 1880 . 338 Wounds.. 1880 . 339 A Morning Moon : i., 11. 1880 . 340 Varied from Shakespeare's 144th Sonnet . 1880 . • 342 Varied from Shakespeare's 105th Sonnet . 1880 . 343 To C. C. C: I., II 1859 . • 344 Idem : iii. 1859 . • 345 Idem : IV. . . . 1869 . • 345 Idem : V. 1875 . • 346 Idem : VI. 1878 . ■ 346 Idem: vii. 1878 . 347 Idem : viii 1880 . • 347 Idem : ix., x 1880 . • 34S Idem : XI. 1880 . • 349 Idem : xii 1880 . ■ 349 Idem: xiii., xiv I88I . • 350 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. Four months ago I thought him lost : I strove to think I did not care : But deep, deep down within my heart Was something very Hke despair. He often used to come and stay At brother WiUiam's pretty place, When I was on a visit there To see the famous boating-race. He, laughing, said, he'd " pull us out," To see how well the oarsmen wrought In practising ; but took us where We passed the time in doing naught. He used to row us out beneath The trees that overhung the stream ; Where, gliding on in cool, green light, We felt as if in pleasant dream. He talked with her — not much with me — With Alice, brother William's wife ; They kept up lively, sportive talk, A kind of amicable strife. B A PARLOUR ROMANCE. Sometimes he'd make us sing to him ; And AHce, after some demur, Would join her sweet-toned voice with mine; And then he thanked — not me, but her. I liked that best : I liked he should Not take much notice of so shy A mortal as myself; that she Should have to answer him, not I. And next she would insist that he Must make the harmony complete ; And so we found that he likewise Possessed a voice both full and sweet. We sang a dozen charming things ; Stray bits and pieces, in three parts, Remembered from our favourite stores, Gounod's, or Weber's, or Mozart's. And while he sang, his eyes would rest Upon the spot beneath my feet ; But sometimes suddenly upraised His glance, and mine unwares would meet. I did my best to look away. And not allow myself to note The droop or raising of his eyes ; But mine had learned the trick by rote Of watching — when 'twas turned from me — His face : and, do whate'er I could, My wayward eyes still followed his ; Yes, though I did my best, they would. A PARLOUR ROMANCE. I felt myself grow hot and cold, I told myself I would not do it ; And yet, the very next time, did — However sharply I might rue it. I took myself to task, and thought, I'm sure I care not whether down Or up he cast his eyes, or if He smile, as lost in thought, or frown. His gaze is fixed upon one spot. Perhaps because he's thinking how The next bar comes : or, p'rhaps, because He does not feel inclined just now To banter Alice with quick wit Like hers ; or else, perchance, he may Be musing on some others who Might sing with him some former day. Who knows ? Our music may recall Some better music to his thought ; Some softer, dearer voice than ours ; Some singing to which ours is naught. His look seems often inward bent On some remembered face and voice : And yet, when upward it is raised, It seems to thoroughly rejoice ; As if it took delight in what It gazes on ; and yet — how's this ? I'm pondering again upon his looks : What matters if I guess or miss B 2 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. Their meaning ? What is it to me ? But still — they're interesting looks — Expressive eyes — the sort of eyes One reads enigmas in, like books. The sort of eyes that draw one on To speculate upon their soft Intensity : and that, no doubt, Is why I watch his eyes so oft. I reasoned thus within myself. And fancied I was " fancy free " ; But all the while was fancying If fancy 'twere he fancied me. One afternoon, it chanced that he, And I, and Alice snugly sat Ensconced in parlour window-seat ; And had a quiet sober chat. At least, they had : I silent kept. And listened to their talk sedate ; Unusual in this lively pair, So fond of rallying debate. But now they held a grave discourse On subjects high and nobly good ; And well did Howard West — his name — Maintain the grounds on which he stood. I found how lofty was his creed, How firm his principles and pure: I learned to value, to esteem. Where first I— What ? Well, I'm not sure A PARLOUR ROMANCE. What 'twas I felt for Howard West : 'Twas interest, 'twas quite above A common liking ; yet, I think — I think — it could not have been — love ! And still they earnestly talked on. Until a servant came to say Seme visitors were come ; and so My sister Alice went away. He stayed : I plied my needle, mute : He took my scissors up, and clipped Small morsels off my reels of thread: I quietly worked on, but slipped Some stitches, though I tried to keep My hands from trembling ; for I felt His eyes upon me : but no word Fell from his lips. At last, I smelt The fragrant whiff of Will's cigar Outside the open window where We sat: he loungingly approach'd, And asked his friend to come and share His smoking in the elm-tree walk : But Howard shook his head and smiled Refusal : William leaned against The sill, and said to me, " Why, child, " How notably you're working! if You had to earn your bread, you could Not work more diligently ; come. Put by your stitchery ; be good, A PARLOUR ROMANCE. " And pleasantly play lazy, when We want you to amuse us, West And I : we like to have your looks ; Not that bent head, which I detest. " It don't allow the comment of The eye ; a man can't be aware If what he's said has pleased or not ; It isn't right, it isn't fair." " Not fair?" said Howard. Then he stopped, Significantly laughing. " No, Not fair;" retorted brother Will, In his blunt, headlong way ; " and so, " I hate to see a woman work As if her life depended on't ; Especially when rich, like you. Miss Nell, who from the very font " Were mistress of a good round sum ; Our Indian uncle leaving you — Not me — his sixty thousand pounds : What made the good old fellow do " So wise a trick, I wonder ? P'rhaps He knew that sister Nell would take Far better care of it than I, And work and stitch and drudge to make " It up a hundred thousand pounds ! A plum ! An actual money plum ! Now what would sister Nelly do With it, if she had such a sum ? " A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 7 And brother William pulled my curl That hung provokingly below His hand : I smiled at him, and looked A moment up : in doing so, I caught a glimpse of Howard's face : 'Twas deadly pale ; his very lips Were white ; but brother William goes Still rattling on, and lightly flips The ash from end of his cigar. " And, by-the-by," he said ; "you come Of age next month, child ; don't you, Nell ? I hope a feast, not ' kettle-drum,' " Will celebrate the grand event. What does my father say ? Does he Intend to have us all to spend The day ? What is the thing to be ? " A morning in the garden grounds ? Their modest limits set ablaze At night with lamps among the trees, And rockets sent up to amaze ♦' The country-folk ? How have you planned ?" " We mean to have a quiet day ; But hope you'll come, with Alice, Will ;" Was all I mustered voice to say. " A quiet day ! What, when you come Of age ! That memorable date Which sees you your own mistress, Nell, The mistress of your future fate 1" A PARLOUR ROMANCE. " But, brother mine, I do not wish My daughterhood to kill ; I would not have my father feel I'm independent of his will. *' I like to know and him to feel I'd rather be his guided child, Than have my own free mistress-ship ; So gentle has he been and mild." " You little goose, I do believe You would!" laughed brother William; "still 'Tis glorious to be the sole And thorough master of one's will." " The master, yes ; the mistress, no ;" I answered-: " Women mostly fear Responsibility, and wish The help and counsel they revere." To my relief, our Alice then Returned; and I, upgathering My needlework, the parlour left. Attempting some slight tune to sing. But when I crept to my own room, I threw myself upon the bed ; And lying dumbly there, as stunned, I thought o'er all that had been said. And still more all that had been looked : I thought of that pale face, those white And firm-set lips, as if he would Not let them quiver, held so tight. A PARLOUR ROMANCE. I thought of that sad stricken look His eyes had in the moment when I raised my head to answer Will : It was but for an instant then, But now it dwelt upon my sight Like some strange haunting portrait-face, That follows with persisting eyes Where'er one moves from place to place. My fortune ! Yes — 'twas hearing that Which caused the sudden change I'd seen But why ? Why ? Could it be because — Because — whatever might have been He felt must now be given up ? Oh, could it be because his sense Of honour told him he was poor And I was rich ? He has intense Abhorrence — that I know, I heard Him say so — of a man who makes A woman's wealth the means of his Advancement ; of a man who takes A wife as so much stock in trade To help him to begin the world And set him up in business For life ; or worse, to keep him curled In soft luxurious idleness. Not needing then to work for bread : As well, he said, and better, that A fellow starved or dropped down dead, lo A PARLOUR ROMANCE. Than be so base. He said as much, I well remember, on that day When we were by the river-side And fed the swans with bread: "We may- Who knows?" — half laughing, Alice said; " We some of us may come to want This bit of bread that now we throw Away to birds : 'tis waste, I grant." " I do not grant 'tis waste ; " said he : " It pleases us, and more the birds ; And therefore it has had its use : But this I'll grant, you've said true words " In saying we may come to want A piece of bread : in some remote Excursion 'mong the Alps, or some Delicious ramble in a boat " Along the shores of lonely lake, Where food is hard to find, and where The most fastidious might be glad To have a crust, the sorriest fare. " The richest of us may feel this ; Then well may I that am not rich At all ! " he laughing said. " And we," Said Alice, " know the relish which " Belongs to moderate means; for Will And I have not too much ; and you, You know, have not a sixpence yet, Poor church-mouse Nell ! the very few A PARLOUR ROMANCE. n " You have are what your father gives You for your pocket-money, dear ! " She nodded at me archly, v^^ith An irony to me quite clear, But which I saw, was lost on him, Who took her in good faith, and deemed Me penniless, as she implied ; A thought he rather liked, it seemed. For he went on, in sprightly mood, To speak more freely of himself Than usual ; and 'twas then we fell Into that talk of worldly pelf, Of seeking dower in a wife, As chief inducement, not free choice : And I remember well the tone Of scorn and loathing in his voice, As he denounced those men who act The fortune-hunter ; those who make A mercenary marriage ; those Who give up love for money's sake ; Who forfeit the divinest boon On earth, and of their own accord Renounce God's dearest gift, to make Secure of lodging and of board. And then he drew a pleasant sketch Of union where the two had dared To face together poverty ; And simply dressed and humbly fared, 12 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. Until the man's exertions earned Position, competence, and ease ; The woman's cheerful care the while Conducing — busiest of bees ! — To garner up the honey in Their hive of home and life : And as he drew that picture of The little busy cheerful wife, I fancied — was it fancy ? — that His eyes had rested tenderly On me : or had I built in air My castles all too slenderly ? However that might be, 'twas past : For now he found I was not poor. He never would confess he loved — E'en if he loved — I felt quite sure. And did he love ? That, that was still The question throbbing to and fro Within me, pulsing in my veins, And beating on my heart its blow Of passionate demand. At length I stifled its appeal, and would Not listen to its urgency ; But soon as possibly I could, I rose, and bathed my swollen lids, Arranged my ruffled hair, and cooled My burning temples with my palms ; And then I resolutely schooled A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 13 Myself to wear the wonted mien Of quietude that often won Me from my stalwart brother Will The names of silent little one, And placid chit that nothing moves. And when I told myself my look Was just as usual, I went down Into the parlour and betook Me to my needlework again. There WiUiam found me when, with shrill Short whistle, in he peeped, and cried : " Why, Nell, you're here, and stitching still! " I could not think where you had gone : I hunted for you everywhere, In library, in music-room ; Beneath the tree in open air ; " Down by the shady river-side, Your favourite seat ; but no, in none Of your own usual haunts could I Or Alice find you, Nell, not one; " And we were wanting you to tell The news : a telegram has come To summon West to town at once. I told him I was sure 'twas some " Announcement of good news, its words Were so mysterious ; but he Appears to think it rather a Forewarning hint of bad to be, 14 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. " He looks so thoughtful and cast down : A right good chap is West," said Will, "And most sincerely sorry I Should be, if aught befell him ill. " He's gone to put his traps to rights, And means to start by earliest train ; I don't half like to part with him So soon ; I thought he would remain " At least till you, Nell, went back home ; And as for Alice, she is quite Upset because he's going away So suddenly ; she says he might " Have waited till he had a more Precise intelligence ; for in The telegram, they said they'd tell More details soon : we could not win, " However, from him his consent To stay one hour longer than Was need ; he would insist he ought To go, and he's a steadfast man "Where principle and duty are Concerned : a sturdy fellow's West : There's naught can move him when he's sure He's doing what is right and best." And then Will bustled off again To help his friend, and bring him down A moment ere he left : and then Came sister Alice, in a brown, A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 15 Brown study ; she was deep in thought On what could be the cause of this Abrupt recall ; and seemed to fear It augured somewhat much amiss. For she was fond of William's friend ; Esteemed him highly, though a jest Was ever bandying between Herself and lively Howard West. But grave, not lively, looked he now When he came with Will to say " Good-bye ! " He said it briefly, but With fervour, in the manly way That Englishmen are wont to use When feeling much : he said it first To them : and then he came to me : Ah, that was hardest task, the worst To bear with quiet seeming ; but I bore it firmly, wondering at Myself for standing there so calm — As if I felt not even that. He stood an instant there, and made As if he'd take my hand ; but did Not touch it, after all; and mine. With sudden drop, beside me slid : He uttered nothing ; not as much To me as to the others ; said Not e'en the simple phrase, " Good-bye " ; But silently that instant staid. i5 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. Yet though he spoke no single word, His eyes were not without their speech ; They had their own mute eloquence That to my heart of heart did reach. From that one look I learned the truth : I saw it clearly, he loved me ; But saw, as clearly, that his love For ever undeclared would be. Another instant — he was gone : And Alice followed him, and Will Drove with him to the station ; I Remaining there, dead-cold and still As stone. Before a week was past, I begged my brother and his wife To let me go to my dear father. I longed to be at home : my life Seemed smitten into listlessness ; I only felt a constant dull And dreary pain, that nothing else But father-love could help to lull. I had that father-love ; I had It amply, fondly, as of old ; But though it soothed me as I hoped, It left me with that deadly cold Oppression which benumbed my frame ; And which with paralysing weight Deprived me of all strength to live. I battled hard against this state : A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 17 But ever more and more it crushed Me down, until I sank at last Beneath its heavy load ; and lay, While many, many weeks went past. On what to all appeared my bed Of death. But, no ; I did not die : My youth, my father's care, the will Of God, prevented that : and I Recovered. If, indeed, it might Be called recovery, which was But a return to that dull sense Of loss, that knew no moment's pause. I felt that he was lost to me ; And though I had no right to grieve, And would not own I grieved, yet still That feeling nothing could relieve. I sat one evening upon The hassock at my father's feet : My eyes were fixed in dreamy ga^e Upon the fire ; a host of sweet Yet bitter recollections thronged Upon me ; when my father bent Down towards me with a whisper that, For all its gentleness, quick sent The blood in torrents to my brow : " A silver penny for your thoughts. My quiet Nelly ; " were his words ; " You can't attempt to say that naught's c iS A PARLOUR ROMANCE. " The sum of them ; I've watched your face, And know its every line too well To doubt there's something troubling you. I long have thought that you could tell " Me, if you would, a story of Some secret fret : alas, my child, You know you have no mother now To counsel and console with mild " Benignant wisdom ; but, my dear, If you could summon courage to Confide your griefs, as though he were A woman, to your father, you " Would find him no less eager to Give comfort and advice than she. Come, Nelly, darling, trust me, love : Ay, lay your head upon my knee, "Just so, and then your tell-tale face Will hidden be, and you can speak Unfearingly." He put his hand Upon my hair, and smoothed my cheek; And somehow in my spirit rose A strength, a calm, it had not known For months : it let me talk to my Kind father now as if I'd grown A little child again ; and so I said : " Dear father, I will tell You something I've been thinking of; A fancy that your daughter Nell A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 19 " Has lately had : you know I came Of age when I was ill; and while I lay upon my sick-bed, I Remembered with a sort of smile " How rich I had become, and how My riches were of little good To me, but might be made of use To those who almost surely would " Survive me ; so I thought I'd lose No time, if I recovered, in Consulting you how I might make My will ; but never could begin " To speak to you, till you yourself, Kind father, gave me courage for The task. I wanted to explain What are my wishes, father, or " I rather ought to say, what are My hopes ; my hopes that you will see As I do in the three bequests I wish to make ; that you'll agree " They're right and fitting." Here I paused A moment, and my father said : " But why, my Nelly, should you think About your will ? You've left your bed " Of sickness now, and ought to think Of nothing just at present but How soonest to get well." He tried To speak in sprightly tone and put c 2 cr • 20 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. Some playfulness in what he said, Although his voice was tremblin_ Replied with steadier voice than he : " I do not feel afraid to die, " And think I have not long to live ; So, father, I had better not Put off what should be done at once : And therefore let me tell you what " I wish to do with uncle's gift. First, I should like to leave a third To you, my father, for your deeds Of charity ; I've often heard " You long for somewhat more to give Away in help to your own poor : Next, I should like to leave a third To WilHam and his wife; I'm sure " They would not sorry be to have A larger income, when the joy That Alice looks for comes to them : I know they hope 'twill be a boy, " And asked me to be godmother ; But I shall leave my christening gift For them to give him, shall I not, My father ?" Suddenly the lift Of his soft hand from off my hair Bespoke him moved : but soon, his mild Serenity regained, he said : " Go on, my dear ; go on, my child." A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 21 I nerved myself, and hurried on : " Dear father, as regards the rest — The last third of my wealth, I mean — I wish it left to Howard West." A silence followed, during which I heard the beating of my heart ; But presently my father said — His very quiet made me start — " And who is Howard West, my dear ? " I mustered breath to low reply : " He's William's friend, I met him there ; He is not rich ; and, father, I Should like to make him so, for he Would make a noble use of gold. It was my brother showed me this, When he of Howard's virtues told." My father answered nothing for A while ; but stooped and fondly kissed Me. I lay still and comforted ; And stole my hand around his wrist To hold the clasping smoothness 'gainst My throbbing forehead, which it seemed To calm. We sat for some time thus : A sense of peace fell on me, streamed Upon my heart, so long the seat Of secret trouble and unrest ; I felt that now I even could Think tranquilly of Howard West. 22 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. The being able to speak out His name to my dear father had Itself brought ease ; that dull dead weight Of aching dreariness and sad Depression left me, seeming raised As by a spell of magic power — The spell of parent's tenderness, Soft thrown around me in that hour Of fireside confidence. And who So fit to be the confidant Of daughter's heart-perplexities As a loved parent ? Why, for want Of parents' sympathy, should girls So often driven be to seek In so-called " bosom-friend " the help They fain would have from counsel meek Yet firm of their own mother ; or, If she be lost, from father's wise Experience and care ? It is Because too often parents' eyes Are apt to be unlenient, and To view unfavouringly those Their children think perfection ; which, If harshly shown, is sure to close The lips of the confider. But My father's kiss had softly told Me he approved — at least, that he Would give no disapproval cold A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 23 To my strong wish regarding The recipients I had chosen for That money I should never Hve to use — My Indian uncle's well-earned store. Thus musing placidly, I leaned In motionless content : until My father gently stirred, and said : " Come, Nelly mine, we've had our fill " Of quiet talk and quiet thought ; And now we'll prudently retire To rest : my invalid has had Enough of gazing in the fire. " To-morrow she and I will take An early drive to see our Will And Alice : we'll go slowly ; by The coppice lane and water-mill." But on the morrow I was not, My father thought, so strong and well As he had hoped ; and would not let Me go with him. He said he'd tell My sister Alice, that he'd played The tyrant, and forbidden me To venture out, but promised that He'd bring me with him next time he Drove over to their house. When he Was gone, I made our faithful Stoke Warm wrap me up in shawls and let Me go and sit beneath the oak. 24 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. At first she shook her head, my good Old nurse ; but when I showed how bright The sun fell near the tree, and yet That there was shade, she said I might Sit out for just an hour or so, If I would promise to be good. And honestly confess if I Felt chill : I promised that I would. And then the dear old woman brought Me out my work-basket, and I Luxuriated in the sense Of being once again in my Accustomed ways ere I fell ill — My garden-seat, my needle plying In dreamy fashion, as of old. That measured pace with sweet thoughts flying Like flitter-winged butterflies, Now here, now there, across my brain. I had not known for many a day. So peaceful — almost happy — train Of musings as the one that now Possessed me ; and I let it take Its way. I let it lead me on To when he (women always make The little pronoun " he " the name Of him they chiefly think of!), when He would be poor no more, but rich From Nelly's legacy ; and then A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 25 I wondered whether any thought Of her who once had sung to him With Alice in the boat, and fed The swans, and Hstened to the whim Of jesting at the thought we might All come to want a piece of bread, Would e'er recur to him ? Or his Own picture of the couple wed In poverty and happiness ? Or whether, even, he might glance At that fair sketch he'd drawn Of busy cheerful wife, perchance? I fancy 'twas because my nurse, Whenever she approached me, found Me looking quietly content. That she consented, when came round The more than " hour or so " agreed, To let me stay beneath the oak ; But when three hours had passed, and still I lingered, then good careful Stoke Insisted I should come back to The parlour. There I found a book That held me deep entranced until The shades of evening fairly took Me by surprise, in casting o'er The page a tint of grey. I laid Aside the volume then ; and while The twilight veiled the room, I played 26 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. Some wandering chords of harmony, By snatches murmuring to myself In lowest tones the words and tune. At last came lights, and Stoke herself, To tell me that our dinner-time Was near, but that my father had Not yet come back ; and did I think He meant to stay the night ? A lad Had brought a note from him, it seemed ; Which now she gave to me to read, As very likely it would tell If master stayed — quite sure, indeed. Thus nursey talked apace, to break The startle of bad news, should such Await me when I oped the note : But no ; it only said thus much : " I don't return to-night, dear child ; Because there happens to be here A guest, with whom I want to make Acquaintance: I may not, I fear, " Be home again just yet ; so bid Good Stoke put up what I shall need And send it by the messenger. Both William and his Alice plead " For me to make my visit not Too short ; but we shall see : I now Already long to be at home With Nelly mine, who well knows how A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 27 " I truly sign myself her own Affectionately faithful friend And father, Alexander Bruce," I had not nearly reached the end Of what I quickly read, before I found myself repeating, " Guest ! A guest my father wants to know : What if it should be Howard West ! " And all the while I tried to dine. And all the while good nursey talked, And all the while I tried to sleep — When, lastly, I had slowly walked Upstairs and gone to bed — my thought Was still, "What if 'twere Howard West!" The mere idea it might be he Sufficed to banish sleep and rest. Next morning nursey scolded me For having lain awake all night; As she could see, she said, I had. By heavy eyes and cheeks too bright With their pink spot on either side. I only laughed, and told her they Were trying to get colour while My father was detained away, That I might look less ghostly than I lately had, when he returned : But nursey still looked grave, and put Her hand against the spots that burned, 28 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. And muttered something vexedly, The while she helped me as I dressed : But I was once more thinking, " If It really should be Howard West ! " Another day, another night Went by, and nursey now spoke out ; She said, " My master's very wrong. And doesn't know what he's about " To stay away so long : but that Is so like men ; they never see What's close before their eyes : his child Might actually dying be " Of thousand foolish fancies, of Suspense and inward fret, he'd not Perceive it : no, not he!" " Hush, nurse ;" I said ; "be sure he's doing what " He thinks and knows is right ; I know My father always acts for best : '' I thought within myself: " What if He should be judging Howard West ? " What if he should be staying but To learn his worth and excellence ? To see if really he possess The principle and true good sense " That daughter Nelly said he had, And made her want to leave him some Of her dead uncle's money ? " Then Aloud I said : " You'll see, he'll come A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 29 *• Now very soon ; you know how hard It is to get from them away ; My brother William and his wife Are always sure to make him stay." Despotic nursey only gave A half-assenting grunt to this ; As she stooped over my arm-chair, And pressed upon my cheek a kiss. " It's just like you, my dove, to speak Up bravely, think and hope the best ; But now, lean back, and try and put A stop to thinking ; try and rest." She left me quiet, by myself, Beside the parlour-window, where I watched the sunset golden glow Amid long streaks of cloudlet fair. 'C> A ripple of encrimsoned lines Across a sky of pearly green. And dazzling radiance centred there That cast abroad its glorious sheen. The hills were steeped in purple gloom Beneath the brilliant upper light ; They looked the darker for the near Excess of that effulgence bright. So seemed my life, that had been near To happiness supremely bright ; But now seemed left in cold and gloom By the withdrawal of that light. 30 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. Yet, Still, the hills had had their hour Of revelling in sunshine rife ; So I had been the better for The love which beamed upon my life. What though it had been brief? what though It had been silently withheld ? It only had been kept unsaid By reticence that I beheld And knew for what it was ; that made Me but the more respect and love The man who thus could act, and let Right principle take place above E'en love itself. What though I'd lost Him from my earthly life, perchance In other and more perfect life — But who were those I saw advance ? Two figures yonder, coming on, Amid the golden halo shed Around them from the western sky. Now soft suffused with rosy red ; Two figures— surely, they — how came It that my heart so quickly guessed ? I knew that one my father was, The other none but Howard West. They came on, on : and by the time They reached the window where I sat, I'd bid my heart be still and calm. " I told you we should find her at A PARLOUR ROMANCE. 31 " The window in her favourite seat ;" My father said. " And how's my child ? How is she, quiet Nelly mine ? Prepared to welcome, with her mild "Low voice, her loving father and His hard-to-be-persuaded guest ? I'had some difficulty, I Assure you, child, with Howard West ; " He had some scruples, when he found You were not well, to come and pay A visit to us now : but I Would make him come ; I'd have my way. " It is not often that I find A fellow so congenial to My old-world notions of what should Make up a manly man, one who " At once becomes a valued friend, A cherished intimate : I ask His pardon for outsaying this Before his face ; but I can't mask " My liking for a man because He happens to be modest and Abashed when blunter men are frank And speak their mind." My father's hand Gave cordial grasp to Howard's, as He led him in, and brought him to The parlour where I sat. I saw That he was deeply moved, and knew 32 A PARLOUR ROMANCE. It was because he found me changed So much — so thin, and wanly pale ; He pressed the wasted hand, and looked This, when he found his voice would fail. " I told you, West," my father said, " This wilful little Nelly means To slip away from us, and leave Behind her something that she weens " Will comfort us for losing her : I look to you to prove to her That thinking thus she makes mistake ; We want herself; and much prefer "Her to her kindly meant bequests." My father bent a moment close Beside me, saying softly in My ear : " Dear quiet Nelly knows " He's worthy of all trust : I think So too : but, darling, mind you give Not leave your money to him. Mind ! I want my little Nell to live." My father left us. Howard's hand Had never loosed its folding clasp Upon the wasted hand it held ; And now I felt a closer grasp, With tender yet compulsive force, Take firm possession of the poor . Thin thing that he upgathered to His lips and breast, as making sure A PARLOUR ROMANCE. ^^ It was his own : his eyes asked mine If "twere not so : and mine told his He knew it well — as well he did. What need was there of words ? Our bliss Was perfect : ne'ertheless he said — He said — no matter what he said ; The gist of it, I think, was this — He asked me when we should be wed. Four months ago I thought him lost, I thought him lost to me for life : But now I know he is my own, And I'm to be his happy wife. D 34 THE YULE LOG. The evening was cloudless : but there hung A cloud upon the hearts of those who sat Beneath the moss-grown apple-tree in midst Of their small cottage garden ; for that night Must sailor Charley leave them all to go To sea. " 'Tis old," the grey-haired father said, As 'mong the almost leafless boughs he gaz'd ; " Time was when May beheld it full of bloom, With clusters flushing pink and white against The tender green ; and autumn brought a crop Of ruddy fruit that bent the branches down — So laden was the tree. But now 'tis old And fit for naught : ay, ay, we all must come To uselessness, old age, and then to death. 'Tis well if while we have our youth and strength We put forth blossoms good and fruit." " Sa}' not 'Tis fit for naught ! " exclaimed the cheery voice Of Charley. " See its mossy arms, how broad They spread, how soft and sheltering extend Above our heads, as if to gather us Beneath their loving canopy, and make Us feel the more together here at home. At home ! where still my ev'ry thought returns And nestles happily while I'm away ! I see you all, in thought, assembled here And sending out your thoughts to me across The sea: say not 'tis fit for naught, the dear Old apple-tree ! And more, besides the screen THE YULE LOG. 35 It makes above our rustic seat, yon clump Of gnarled canker'd wood, which grows apart, A burly limb excrescent, just will serve For our next Christmas log, our good Yule log! " •* But you- will not be here to fell it down," The wrinkl'd mother sighing said : " Ah, son ! How many ways shall we your absence feel ! " " If Fm not here to fell the clump, at least I will return for when 'tis burnt ! " he cried ; " I cannot be away at Christmas-tide ; I must be back among you all by then ; I must, I will be with you all, be sure ! Now, mind my words, you'll see me, I will come !" His wrinkl'd mother smil'd to hear his tone Of confidence ; his sister Peggy, with Her merry eyes, look'd gladly up ; and Ben, His younger brother, gave a joyful shout ; While gentle Mary Gray, his sweetheart and His promis'd wife, drew closer to his side And press'd his arm with both her clasping hands. " You will ? you will be sure to come ? you will Get leave of absence, then, you think ? I fear'd It would not be till after New Year's Day ; " She whisper'd, with a tremble in her voice. " Nay, that is when we shall be wedded, dear, I trust ; " he answered low ; " so, judge if I Will not strain ev'ry nerve to come back here Before the time ; besides, I feel I must Spend Christmas Day among you all at home ; I must, I will ; so, mark my words, Fll come ! You'll see me here ! " He gather'd her within His strong right arm, and held her to his breast With grasp as firm as were his tone and words ; And she felt hope and comfort fill her soul. But gravely then the grey-hair'd father spoke : D 2 36 THE YULE LOG. " My son, ' If God be willing,' pr'ythee add ; Your words of cheer and confidence are right ; But say ' If God be willing,' too, my lad.'' " 'Twas in my thought, I had it in my heart, My father ; " Charley said ; " 'tis so much part Of all I think and hope, I speak it not Aloud ; but none the less I breathe it still Within myself 'neath all I say and do. When our good ship, the Antelope, in stress Of weather, drives amain upon some stern Lee-shore, begirt with cliffs and frowning bluffs Forbidding access, threat'ning death, my cry Of ' Courage, messmates ! We will keep her off! ' Is ever follow'd by a deep ' Please God ! ' That echoes in my soul : or when, 'mid rocks That bristle 'neath the surging breakers white, Rough cresting the wide waste of waters dark. She glides with dang'rous swiftness, and I shout: ' 'Ware rocks ahead 1 We'll get herthrough, my lads ! ' ' If God be willing' bases still the loud Shrill tone wherewith I labour to outpierce The screams of whistling winds and din of weather : Believe it, father ; earnest faith and trust Are ever in my heart, though not mayhap Upon my lips ; and so, if God doth will, I'll surely come. But now, farewell ; 'tis time I should be gone ; farewell, my mother ; bear My absence well by thinking of the day When I shall back return ; farewell, my dear Ones all ; take care of one another till I come again to thank you for your love Of each I love." He grasped his father by The hand ; his mother kissed ; his sister and His brother Ben he hugg'd ; then snatch'd in haste His gentle Mary to his breast, as though THE YULE LOG. 37 He dar'd not trust himself or her with long Last words : a look ineffable — but one — One rapid passionately stifled sob, And he had darted off full speed ; was gone. Was gone ! A world of blank forlornness lay In those two words, which day by day were felt By Charley's dear ones, left to understand The full and bitter force of all involv'd Therein ; to try and hide from all the rest The pain at heart of each, the loneliness. The sense of loss and vacancy that ached Within. But then there came a letter, said He'd sailed ; was well ; look'd forward to the time Of hop'd-for home return ; bade them be sure To do the like ; and finished with his own Bright cheerful tone of confidence and trust. The days went by ; the weeks ; they swelled to months ; Then came the Autumn winds, that swept the trees And bar'd them of their leaves ; that sobb'd and moan'd, And filled the throbbing hearts of those at home With fears for him they loved at sea; and yet Withal a hope, a growing hope, a hope Expectant, yearning, day by day more strong, That he might any moment be at home ; Might take them by surprise, and come at once. December with its frosty sun set in ; No rain, no snow, but bracing, clear, and sharp. " High time," thought Ben, "to hew the Christmas log! Since Charley cannot get away, and be At home to fell the clump himself, I must ; 38 THE YULE LOG. That it may dry and season, ready for The Christmas blaze upon our cottage hearth. That ruddy glow and sparkle of the good Yule log ! How cheerily it looks ! How well Our Charley loves it ! And how like himself ! So full of warmth and brightness, comfort, life, And joyousness ! My spirits always rise Beside the Christmas fire and when I'm near My brother Charley ; both inspire a glad Courageous trust." As thus the lad ran on Within himself, he struck and chopp'd amain ; And dealt the gnarled branch such sturdy blows With well-directed axe, that soon he cleft A wide division 'twixt the bole and it ; Another stroke, and then it fell to earth : But as it fell, the dull deep heavy thud Of fallen wood was blended with a low Strange sound, a sound as of a human cry, A cry half forc'd from lips by deadly pain, A moan, a gasp, an anguish-utter'd tone. It startled Ben, who sharp look'd round, as if Some wounded creature needs must be close by. No one he saw : the little orchard ground Was still and peaceful in the frosty air ; The sparkling rime was glistening on the trees And grass; had one white fragment dropped, it might Almost be heard, so silent was the spot ; And then, with shrilly softness, there trill'd forth The few clear notes of sudden-singing robin, That made the silence but the surer seem. The boy drew breath ; for he had held it check 'd As listening whence that smother'd cry should come : What could it be ? Or had he really heard THE YULE LOG. 39 A cry at all? For now 'twas gone, he scarce Believ'd 'twas aught beyond a fancied sound: And yet it had been wonderfully like A human tone, and even strangely like — Or so he for a moment thought — the voice Of Charley : but he drew a lengthen'd breath. And laugh'd that notion from him, as he stoop'd And rais'd the sever'd branch, and bore it on His shoulders to the wood-house ; where he sang A blithe old Christmas carol while he shap'd The clump into a goodly sized log For burning when the time should come. And soon It came : the time of peace, goodwill, and joy : The starry eve, the Christmas Eve, the eve Of eves : and yet no news of sailor Charley ! "He will not come to-night, he'll come to-morrow;" They said with ill-assumed smile and look Of confidence : for still they would not let Themselves admit they felt a doubt he would Return for Christmas-tide as he had said He should. And Peggy stole away, and went Alone to lay the fire upon the hearth In their bright parlour-room, where twice or thrice A year the cottage party met to keep Their rarely holden festivals in state. Already she had deck'd it with green boughs Of shining holly, beaded coral-red ; With wreaths of ivy, dark and glossy leaf'd ; With clusters of arbutus and white tufts Of laurustinus, interwining sprays Of fanlike arbor-vitae ; while 'mid all There hung aloft a certain mystic branch, Its rounded-ended leaves begemm'd between 40 THE YULE LOG. By berry pearls ; 'neath which, if maiden pass, Her lips pay toll : but Peggy hurried on. Nor glanc'd once up, nor shyly smil'd at it ; Her mouth was grave, her eyes were downward bent. As straight she walk'd towards the lowly hearth, And knelt beside the heap of sticks plac'd there By Ben, together with the goodly log Of Yule, all ready to her hand : she laid The slender sticks and twigs across, a light And well-built mass ; then turn'd to lift the log ; And as she turn'd, the thought swept through her mind : " Ah, if but Charley now were here, he'd lift It for me with that strong right arm of his. That always seems beside me at a need When he's at home": and as the thought arose, There seem'd to rise beside her in the dusk A stalwart form, that stoop'd towards the log And aided her to raise it. Was she sure ? She look'd with straining eyes: ay, there it was : The figure of her brother Charley, dark, And dimly seen, but yet none else than his ; His sailor shoulders, broad and manly back, His curly hair and firmly well-set head : She could have heard the beating of her heart, While still she kept her fixed look upon The form so near her yet so far, so real And yet so insubstantial ; for it thus Appear'd to her : but even while she gaz'd, It faded, grew more indistinct, became A part of all the objects round it, lost Its shape and substance, and she felt and knew It to be naught but her own aching fancy That yearn'd for sight of him who absent still THE YULE LOG. 41 Remain'd : she gave a little shrug, half smile Half sigh, and chid herself for giving way To whimsies of the brain, and set herself In earnest to fulfil her task : " To-night We will not light our Christmas fire, but leave It till to-morrow," murmured she ; " when he, We trust, will be among us here to keep Our Christmas Eve and Day in one:" and so Withdrew, and clos'd the door, and left the room In sacred silence, darkness, solitude. Until the morning, which she hop'd would see The place illum'd by Charley's presence there No less than by the Yule log set ablaze. The morning came, and with it Mary Gray : She walk'd in quietly ; she ask'd no word Of news ; but in her eyes there sat a world Of soul-assur'd expectance ; greeted all With loving Christmas wishes : then she took Her part with Peggy in the busy work Of household preparation, festive cheer Of good old English beef with pudding crown'd ; And, while engag'd in tending on the roast. Brisk Peggy ask'd her friend to set alight The Christmas fire that she had ready laid : And Mary went into the parlour-room, So silent and so tranquil, with its shade Of verdant boughs, its altar-hearth ; a shrine It look'd of peace and blessed Christmas joy ; A hallov/'d temple, consecrate to home And happy gladness for the time supreme. She touch'd with flame the heap'd-up wood, and watched It burn : and as the lambent brightness rose And rose, and play'd around the good Yule log, 42 THE YULE LOG. And finally enkindled it to warmth And glow, and tower'd up a steady spire Of candent strength, there seem'd to glide A strong right arm around the waist of Mary, And 'neath her gentle head a shoulder firm ; So palpably she felt them there, she could Have cried " He's come ! " And yet she knew it was But image of her heart's desire — a shape — A something — mere embodying of her thought: Those eyes that seem'd to look into her own — That breath that crept among her hair and swept Her cheek — were they but reflex of her thought ? That touch of balmy softness on her lips — Could that be only fancy ? Surely not ! Th' impression was so absolute, she gave Her spirit up entirely to the sweet Beatitude, and breath'd aloud his name. The loving earnest eyes withdrew from hers, Grew dim, and seemed to melt away : the arm Receded, and the shoulder was no more Beneath her leaning head. She rous'd herself With effort from the dreamy bliss of strange And actual presence that possess'd her: went To find his parents old, to cheer them with Her talk, and help them pass the hours away Without too restless looking forth for him. Yet, spite of all, their glances constantly Would wander up the path by which he should Appear ; and still they spoke in idle phrase Of aught beside the one thing that engross'd Their thought : until the wrinkl'd mother sigh'd. And murmur'd low: "Not come, not come; my boy's Not come ; " and shook her aged head down-bent. " He'll come ; be sure, he'll come ; he will be here ; He said it, mother ; and you know he keeps THE YULE LOG. 43 His word ; " soft whisper'd in her ear the voice Of Mary ; " trust in him, have patient hope : Before the day is out, you'll see him here. If God permit." But dinner-time arriv'd. And yet no Charley. " Come, we will begin ; " The grey-hair'd father said, with trial at A smiling jest ; " who knows but he will come In pudding-time ? In time to drink the toast Of ' Merry Christmas and a good New Year'?" But dinner pass'd, and still no Charley came. Before they drew their chairs around the hearth. The grey-hair'd father solemnly arose, And filled his glass, and said : " God bless my son ! I would it had been His good will to let My agSd eyes behold him here at home On this blest day, to cheer our hearts and bring Us prospects of a surely happy year With him beside us : but God's will be done ! " He reverently rais'd his glass in act To drink, but stood suspended, motionless : " Great Heaven 1 he's there ! I see him there ! my son ! " His gaze was fix'd upon the hearth, where, in The rich red light thrown by the Christmas fire. He saw a form, the very figure of His sailor son : the old man mov'd a step Towards it ; but 'twas gone ; 'twas there no longer : " 'Tis strange," the old lips muttered ; " sure, I saw Him there, my Charley, my own sailor lad ! " He pass'd his hand across his brows, and sank Into his chair. " I saw him too," low said The wrinkl'd mother ; " saw him standing there, With smiling lips and eyes brimful of love ; 44 THE YULE LOG. I saw him clearly as I see you all : Alas ! 'twas only for a second ! Gone ! He's gone ! And we shall never see him more ! I know ; I'm sure ; it was his spirit sent, To let us understand he's dead ! My boy ! My Charley ! Oh, my brave, my darling boy ! " An awe fell on them all, a deep, deep awe ; And very sad and silently they sat Around their Christmas fire, and watch'd the log Of Yule to embers red and then to dusk White ash die out : with heavy hearts they bade Good-night : but gentle Mary Gray soft spoke. And said : " His word was kept ; God granted him To come ; he said we all should see him here ; And God vouchsaf'd him to our sight : Thank God ! " She press'd her lover's parents in her arms, And look'd them in the face with a strange calm Of faith and trust. And ever from that night She wore the same serene regard, and came And went, and made his parents her chief care. And sooth'd them with her placid words, and gave The cottage light with her sweet patient look And loving ways. But deadly pale she was, And thin and shrunk ; scarce half her former self She seem'd in bulk, so shadowy spare she grew ; A wasted figure, hollow cheek that made Her eyes look large, unearthly, and a step Of gliding weightlessness : a maiden ghost, Far rather than a living girl, she mov'd ; And once when Charley's mother notic'd it. And said she must not grow so thin and pale, She look'd more like a spirit than a lass Of flesh and blood, she smiled within herself And thought : " The more like him ! " But said Some cheering playful words to draw away The mother's mind from sadness. THE YULE LOG. 45 So, the weeks Lagg'd by, till the New Year was well-nigh two Months old: and yet no news. The sky was clear One afternoon : the February rains And churlish flaws had yielded to the bland First touch of mildness: Mary stood beside The cottage casement, looking forth upon The moss-grown apple-tree, 'neath which she last Had seen her sailor love ere he took leave : His sister Peggy crept close to her, and The two kept silent sympathetic gaze ; Each thinking of the same unspoken theme. At length fair Peggy, once so brisk and blithe. Said whisperingly : " Mary, if you fade Into a slender spectre thus, you"ll not Be long with us ; and we can not afford To lose you, dear ; you must remain on earth; My poor old father and my mother both Sore need you now, and more than ever, dear ; You must remain to comfort them ; you must!" " I'm going to him!" was Mary's low-breath'd soft Reply ; " you will not grudge me going to him. Dear Peggy, will you ? " Peggy answer'd not ; And both the girls stood hand in hand, with eyes Still bent upon the leafless apple-tree. " When its first budding green appears, you'll know Me gone to meet him, never more to part ; " Said Mary with a tender inward voice Of deep content: she paus'd ; and then said, "Hush ! Look there ! Do you see what I often see ? His figure, there, beneath the apple-tree ; Look, Peggy, look ! and tell me if you see It too ; it seems to me so plain this time, I cannot think but you must see it too." The face of Peggy flush'd to flame, her breath 46 THE YULE LOG. Was held, her hands were clasp'd and rais'd, stretch'd forth In eagerness of doubt and hope and joy At what she saw. " 'Tis he ! " she cried, " tis he! Dear Mary, it is he himself come back ! " She flung the casement wide, and call'd aloud : And then sprang forward Charley ; darted in ; And caught his Mary in his arms before She fell to earth : " My darling ! she has swoon'd ! I fear'd it would be thus ; I hung about The garden ere I'd enter, lest you might Have heard the tidings of my death, and sight Of me thus suddenly should startle your Dear mourning hearts. My Mary ! sweet, look up! Look up, my dear one ! see, your sailor is Return'd, unharm'd, unchang'd! Return'd to you, To all his dear ones ! Sweet, revive !" At sound Of his lov'd voice, her senses, like a flight Of scatter'd doves, came fluttering back, and took Their rest within his close embrace ; while Peggy Quick ran to tell the joyful news, and fetch Her father, mother, brother Ben. And when They came, and fulness of first happiness Had calm'd a little, Charley told them how His messmate, brave Will Hardy, had been cause That he still liv'd and safely had return'd : " My friend," he added, " is at hand ; he did But stay to let my mad impatience have Its way ; had his advice been taken, he Would first have come, and broken the glad news; But I could not restrain my eagerness, And dear I might have paid for my" — he look'd At Mary, stopp'd, and then went on: "Will's here; I'll hail him ; he shall tell you all the yarn Of our adventures." Saying this, he gave THE YULE LOG. 47 A seaman's shout; and through the porch there came A bronz'd young mariner, with aspect frank, And handsome open face, who made himself At once at home, and took his seat among The cottage circle as he'd been a part Of it from childhood : willingly he told The story of his friend's and his own last Sea-voyage ; how the good ship Antelope Had sail'd to distant unfrequented regions ; 'Mid spicy islands, grov'd with lofty trees Of palmy foliage, thick with jungle wood And rampant climbing plants that flung their arms In wanton lush luxuriance around The tallest barks, festooning all the space With garlands, drooping blossoms, pendent fruits Of gorgeous hue ; high stems behung with nuts Colossal, rough of rind with milky core ; Stiff spiky leaves with thorny edge, in midst Of which rose stately pine-apples, brown gold; And store of roots delicious, yielding food Abundant, succulent : and told them how In one of these far islands it bechanc'd That Charley and himself with certain of Their crew were sent ashore for water fresh : "The springs," said Will, "lay up a little way Beyond the beach, among green slopes that show'd In emerald brightness 'gainst a dark thick wood ; And straight for these we made : we had been there Before, though no one had we seen; the place Seem'd uninhabited ; no creature save The birds, who flew about in myriads. With jewell'd wings and throats of amethyst, Of ruby, topaz, sapphire ; living gems They glanc'd amid the trees. We'd fill'd our casks, 48 THE YULE LOG. And were returning to our ship, when pounc'd Upon us, like a swoop of hawks, a horde Of savage creatures, wild, and scarcely men ; So brutish were their motions, glaring eyes, And spring ferocious, leaping at our throats And dashing with their clubs abrupt assault. We kept them off as stoutly as we could. With knives and cutlasses drawn forth at haste ; But numbers made them more than match for us. Pell-mell they drove our messmates to their boats, While Charley and myself were left behind : For he had been the foremost in the fray. And now lay senseless on the earth ; a blow Had struck him, and with dull, deep heavy thud He fell, uttering a single sharp-forc'd cry." Here Ben half broke into some question ; but Suppress'd it, held his breath, and Will went on : " i rais'd him in my arms and bore him tow'rds The shadow of the wood to screen him from The burning sun and hide him from the horde, Who might come back ; but they return'd no more, And solitude the most profound was mine Within the deep recesses of the dark Green forest, gloom'd with thickly woven roof. Of overarching giant trees : and one There was so huge, so agfed and decay'd, Its trunk was hollow as a cave ; and this I made our hut : I heap'd a bed of leaves. And laid my friend thereon, and search'd his wound : 'Twas on his head, a ghastly bruising dint. That stunn'd him into deathlike torpor ; pulse There seem'd none ; breath unheard ; all colour gone: I thought his life extinct, and could have wept THE YULE LOG. 49 Hot woman's tears upon his marble face. But near at hand I found a freshet clear, And lav'd his temples with the crystal cold Until a merest flitter stirr'd his lids, That made my heart leap up ; it show'd me that He liv'd. He liv'd, indeed, but hardly liv'd ; So slender was the thread mysterious That held vitality within him : long He lay in that condition, corpselike white And motionless : but when at length he woke To consciousness, fierce fever seiz'd him, and He rav'd in wild distraction ; to and fro His head turn'd ceaselessly ; his arms, flung wide. Were toss'd in vain endeavour : madly tried To throw himself from off" his couch of leaves, ' And struggl'd with me to be up, away, Away to England, home, and you : for so His ravings ever ran : * I must be back ! I promis'd ! They expect me ! Hold me not, I say! I must, I will be back!' Then chang'd His tone to gentlest deprecation, low And plaintive, humbly suppliant: ' Dear God, Deny me not ! Vouchsafe me to return ! let me see them there at home ! I said 1 would be there, if such were Thy good will ! And let it be Thy will, dear God ! O let It be Thy will ! I cannot stay away ! ' And then his earnestness would ramble off Into faint mutterings of ' Mary's hair ' — ' Those gentle wistful eyes that soft beseech Me to return ' — of ' Peggy's merry glance And witching smile that beckon me to come' — And so would sigh and shiver tremblingly, E 50 THE YULE LOG. Sink down despondent, only to fling forth Again his arms, and start into fresh raves Of wandering delirium. And so The dreary time went by, until one day — 'Twas Christmas Eve — he laps'd into a state Akin to that first dreadful torpor : stretch 'd He lay, in lethargy so absolute. His senses steep'd in such profound oblivion, The spirit seem'd indeed to have left its cage Of flesh, and wing'd its flight far, far away : I knew he was not dead, for still I felt At intervals the dull, deep sluggish beat Of his slow-toiling heart, like muffled boom Of minute-gun from some distressed ship At sea : but as I watch'd him through those long, Long six-and-thirty hours of trance, I ask'd Myself the question, o'er and o'er again : ' His spirit is not here, 't has passed its bars And flown ; but whither flown ? Unto the skies Not yet 'tis gone. Then where? On earth? O'er sea ? Can God have gifted it with power to soar With dove-like instinct to the distant nest Where dwell its dear ones ? Hath it found its way, Mysteriously endow'd, to that lov'd home Where centres all its wishes, fondest hopes ? Hath strong desire prevailed ? Doth sympathy Exist with such intensity of might, It can convey with magic potency The spirit where it listeth ? 'Tis not here : Then whither, whither hath it flown ? '" "It came To us," in low-breath'd whisper Peggy said; " God sent it here ; we saw him, felt him here ; THE YULE LOG. 51 His spirit was permitted to return To us, while absent from its fleshly bounds : But tell us more ; go on ; how he reviv'd, How both of you surviv'd that time ; go on, Go on." " I've little more to tell ;" said Will ; " For, strange to say, from that same deadly trance He woke to life, to health, to energy : He told me he had seen his cottage home, Its Christmas hearth, around it those he loved ; And seem'd restor'd to his old cheery strength Of spirit by the dream, or vision, or Whate'er it was : how may we know ? Suffice Us to adore the Power that doth create Such miracles of sympathy in love. Soon after Charley was his own strong self Again, we had the fortune good to spy A ship not too far out in offing to Perceive our hoisted signals : she put in : Took us aboard : and brought us straight to port. To England, where we hasten'd hither that Our safe arrival might precede whate'er Bad tidings should perchance have got afloat, That Charley and Will Hardy had been kill'd In an affray with savage islanders. But here we are, return'd in health and life ; Prepared to be receiv'd as heroes of Adventure, made the most of, cherish'd and Caress'd : mate Charley has, I see, secur'd Already some of his earn'd welcome home ;" Said Will, with archness in the glance he cast To where his friend sat leaning o'er the back Of Mary's chair ; " and as for me, he knew I had no friends, no sweetheart, no dear home To go to ; so he brought me here with him ; And you have ta'en me in with such a frank E 2 52 THE YULE LOG. And hospitable warmth, I ne'er shall feel Again I have no friends or home : perhaps — Who knows? — I may here find a sweetheart too.' He said no more just then ; but on the morrow, As Ben was showing him their cottage-garden, And telling him of what bechanc'd while he Was hewing down the Christmas log, Will saw Fair Peggy gathering some snowdrops and Some golden crocuses to deck their room, Their parlour-room, in honour of their guests. He went, with sailor promptness, to her side ; And, off'ring help, he linger'd near; " I learn'd," He said, " from Charley how to picture to Myself the merry eyes and witching smile Of Peggy ; and I dwelt upon their image Until I grew to long to see them : now I see, I find them more than true to his Description : and beyond their beauty, they Possess the charm of eloquence in mute Expression, saying how her brother's friend And fellow -wanderer is welcome, for His sake, to Peggy. Is it so ? " " Indeed It is ; " she earnestly replied ; " for his Dear sake you're dear, most dear, to all of us." " And for my own, I would be dear to you Yourself, sweet Peggy, " he rejoined ; " I know I must seem strangely sudden and abrupt ; But not to me is this a sudden thought: I've ponder'd on it, brooded o'er it in The watches of the night, the hours of eve ; I felt, before I saw you, I should love ; And love you, Peggy, I most surely do. With all my sailor heart ; say, can you take That heart and all its faithful honest love ? " Fair Peggy answer'd by no words ; but eyes THE YULE LOG. 53 And smile, with eloquence their own, said what Look'd very like a cordial " Yes." Howe'er That was, 'tis very certain, when the bells Rang out the wedding-peal for Charley and His bride, they rang besides for Will and his Sweet Peggy. Cottage annals farther say, That when the log of Yule next time was burnt. Two -christenings enhanced the festival. 54 MINNIE'S MUSINGS. PART I. He speaks but little when he's here ; A grave and peaceful look he wears ; His voice is easy, even, clear; And yet, I think he loves ! He talks with me, as with the rest ; Not more with me than them, and yet I sometimes think he likes it best ; I'm almost sure he loves ! But sister Annie's sprightly, gay, Her laugh is like the rippling rill, She's lovely as the flowers in May — Ah, whom is it he loves ? I see him watch her sunny smile, I see him note her airy form, And see his charmed gaze the while ; No wonder, if he love ! She's graceful, slender, shapely, tall ; She's very beautiful and bright ; I'm little, quiet, shy — that's all — Not one that he can love ! * MINNIE'S MUSINGS. 55 Last evening, in the shrubb'ry walk, I saw them, though they saw not me. They pass'd along in low-toned talk — The very tone of love ! Not many seem'd their words— he deals In sparing speech — but smiling, sweet, ,Yet earnest ; just the words one feels, Must be the words of love ! They pass'd ; he took her hand in his ; A light was in her shining eyes, A light of sparkling heartfelt bliss ; The light of happy love 1 Oh, Annie ! Dearest sister mine ! Thy happiness shall be to me Instead of that which I resign — All thought henceforth of love ! To see thee bless'd shall be my joy, For thy dear sake I'll never wed; For thee my life I will employ In solely sister love ! Just now, she came to me in glee, In breathless state of ecstasy, A rapture beautiful to see — A rapture of pure love. " You mouselike quiet Httle thing," She said, " how 'lone you're sitting here ! Do rouse yourself, and come and sing Some ballad of true love. 56 MINNIE'S MUSINGS. " He's waiting in the music-room, And made me promise I would send You there to let him know his doom Of hope, or hopeless love." " Of hope— of love ? " I falter'd ; stopp'd Then wicked Annie laugh'd, and peep'd Beneath my tell-tale eyelids, dropp'd In mute revealed love. " I guess'd it, dear," she said, with fold Of arms about me ; " guess, in turn. How danc'd my heart when I was told That Walter is in love. " I guess'd his secret too, and made Him half confess it as we walk'd Last night beneath the shrubb'ry shade. Dear Minnie, he's in love!" Another clasp, with cheeks that burn'd ; And then — and then — she made me go ; I went : and now I too have learn'd He loves, and whom he loves. PART II. My Walter — he's my husband now — My Walter said to me one day, " I wonder why it is and how Our Annie does not love. • " So sympathetic, fair withal. So cordially affectionate, I cannot think it natural That Annie should not love. MINNIE'S MUSINGS. 57 "And yet she turns indifferent ear To all advances, one by one, She will not for a moment hear A hint of offer'd love. " There's Blandford of Northaughton Glen, Sir Edwin Leigh of Ash-Tree Hurst ; Good fellows both, and manly men. Men whom I trust and love. "Will Blandford's heart is hers, I've heard. If she'd encourage him to speak ; Sir Edwin wants but half a word To make him own his love. " How is it, Minnie mine, that she Thus resolutely shuns my friends ? Dost think, my mouse, that it can be Bright Annie will not love ? " Can it be true that she is cold ? I mean, is cold to love itself; That she is warm, I know of old, In friend and sister love. " So happy am I with my wife. My darling little quiet mouse, I'd fain see Annie's daily life Of happy wedded love." " Dear Walter," I replied, " I've thought. With thee, 'tis strange our Annie shows No sign of preference, when sought By those who'd win her love. 58 MINNIE'S MUSINGS. " She's full of tenderness for all ; For me, for thee, for parents, friends ; For every prattling toddler small She kisses has, and love. " Her eyes so beaming, yet so kind, Her mouth so mischievous, yet sweet, Her voice that round one's heart doth wind, . Proclaim her form'd for love. "It is that she has not yet found The very man she could prefer ; 'Tis that prevents her, I'll be bound. From listening to love." Herewith I nodded my wise head, In such a final little way, That Walter laugh'd, and bant'ring said, " An oracle of love !" But that same evening he ask'd Our Annie which of his two friends She thought the pleasanter ; and task'd Her closely as to love. His brother fondness gave him right To question her ; and she replied With just her own sweet look of bright Sincerely open love. " Sir Edwin Leigh, and Blandford, both, Are gentlemen of merit, true ; But, brother Walter, by my troth. That is not cause for love. MINNIE'S MUSINGS. 59 " Unless you'd have me have the two, The merit of that one is wrong'd Whose left ; but what should poor I do With such a dual love ? " If merit be a ground of love, Why, all the meritorious men - 1 ought to take, and be above Slight scruples in my love." " Come, come," said Walter, " I suspect. For all your saucy merriment. You cannot seriously object To either man, my love." " To either? Nay, to neither, I ; They're both the very best of men, The men to treat respectfully. To anything but love. " The one's too good, the other just As bad ; the one's a sort of man So excellent, he gives disgust To all idea of love. " The other has the world's esteem, And that's enough, at least in my Opinion it doth surely seem Enough, without my love. " I know no jot against them, I ; But Walter, this you'll own is true ; They're irreproachable, that's why I cannot give them love." 6o MINNIE'S MUSINGS. " But Annie, have you made a vow, To give up thoughts of marriage, dear ? Are you resolv'd, come, tell us now, T' abjure for ever love ?" " Why, as to whether I will marry, I've not decided yet the point ; I only know that ' hateful Harry ' I'd love as soon as them." "Who's 'hateful Harry'?" Walter said. " Oh, he," said I, and laugh'd aloud, " Is one she nam'd so, when a lad ; A lad to loathe, not love." " Just so," said she ; " an odious boy A neighbour's son, who from a child Unto the age of hob'dehoy. Had none but mother's love. " None but a mother could descry A quality to like in him ; A mischief-loving imp that I Detested — couldn't love. " A wilful peremptory way He had, that teas'd my very soul ; A way of having his own say In spite of law or love. " He contradicted bluntly, flat ; He plagu'd me constantly at play, Though I a girl and he a brat, A brat no one could love. MINNIE'S MUSINGS. 6i " I named him ' hateful Hal ' or ' Harry,' I hated him most heartily ; So fancy whether him I'd marry, Or give to him my love ! "And yet I'd marry ' hateful Hal ' Far rather than the one or other ; This shows you that I never shall Give love to one of them." So saying, Annie off did flee. And caroll'd blithely as she went, " * My heart's my own, my will is free,' My love's still mine to give." PART III. Next day— the sun had not a cloud — Beneath the old oak-tree we sat At work, while Walter read aloud The love of fair Elaine. Then came a stranger bounding through The trees of skirting copse, and rais'd His cap, and smiling at us two, Said, " Ladies, neighbour love " Of old may warrant this address ; You have forgotten me, I fear ; But I remember you ; yes, yes ; The little girls so lov'd " By my dear mother ; " there he paus'd And then went on ; " my playmates once. And now " — he glanc'd at us, and caus'd A smile of love from Walter. ^-^„ 62 MINNIE'S MUSINGS. " 'Tis hateful Hal ! " exclaimed our Annie. " Precisely so ; " he laughing said ; " You know me well ; there are not many Can boast that name of love " You gave me formerly ; so call Me by it still ; I like it best." She redden 'd ; bit her lip ; let fall Some words of aught but love. " The very same, that hateful way Of his ; so masterful, so bluff! " I heard her mutteringly say, With eyes that flash'd no love. My Walter ask'd him courteously Of all his many wanderings ; " You are a sailor, sir, I see ; A calling that I love. " Your banded cap, your jacket blue. Your epaulette, and sunburnt cheek, All show me by these tokens true. You love a seaman's life." " Ay, that I do ! " frank Harry said ; " And yet, when I return at length. And see the happy life you've led — The life of home and love — " I feel that life on land may be, With books and women by your side, As nearly good as life at sea ; A life to lead and love." MINNIE'S MUSINGS. 63 My Walter smil'd and look'd at me, While Annie bit her lip again, And knit her brow, and tried to be Unlovely in a frown. " The same imperious lordly style ! So ! ' Women,' truly ! Likely he Should ever find one to beguile With needlework and love " His home on land, or bring him books, Or listen while he read aloud, Or tend upon him with her looks Of fond and happy love ! " She murmur'd this with flushing face. As Walter led his guest away. To show him o'er our pleasant place, Our home of happy love. Then seeing me still sitting there, She broke into a trilling laugh, And said, "Why, Minnie, do you care For stitching, still, my love ? " Can you remain so quiet, mouse, While Walter is with ' hateful Hal,' And making welcome to his house A man we cannot love ? " You know his hospitable way. His friendly, kindly, earnestness : If ' hateful Harry,' now, should stay ; Oh, think of that, my love ! " 64 MINNIE'S MUSINGS. " We'll try and bear it, dear, if so ; " I answered quietly : then rose : " I think I'll fold my work and go And see to it, my love." We went : she would my basket carry, And ran before : and soon we join'd The gentlemen — that ' hateful Harry' And Walter, my belov'd. It prov'd as she had said ; he had Been ask'd, and he had gladly stay'd. " Come, Annie," whisper'd I, " it's bad ; But never mind, my love ; " We'll make the best of it, and treat Him so politely that he can't Be churlish, rude, and bluffly meet With roughness so much love." 't>' Bright Annie gave a careless look, A careless toss of head, and smil'd ; Then pencil and her sketching took. Amusement that she loves. While I my needle closely plied ; And Walter ask'd, and Harry told Of countries distant, far and wide, That he had seen and lov'd. " And have you never chanc'd to meet In any of those foreign lands A woman 'hove all others sweet, A woman you could love ? " MINNIE'S MUSINGS. 65 " In none ; " said bluntly " hateful Hal " ; " Abroad I never once set eyes On any, and I never shall On any I could love. " The only woman in my life I could have lov'd, deep hated me ; So never shall I take a wife, And never shall I love." There came a silence on us all ; And shortly after took his leave Our guest ; but in the outer hall. He said to Walter, " Love, " Such love as you have shown to me, A manly love of friend to friend, A welcome home to one from sea. Brings hearty love in turn. " Believe a sailor rough who says In his rough way, I love you, friend ; I'll love you truly all my days In gratitude for love." He turned away, and darted out. Out in the balmy night of June ; And presently we heard a shout, A loving cheer, " Hurrah ! " 66 MINNIE'S MUSINGS. PART IV. Next morning Walter went to him ; And took him out a rambling walk, A walk among the birch-trees slim, The slender trees we love. The silver-stemmed birch-trees green, That cluster in our hill-side wood ; With pendent branches, boles of sheen, The graceful trees we love. And soon the sailor, hateful Harry, Came in and out, just as he pleas'd ; A moment only, or he'd tarry Like one at home and lov'd. And Walter lov'd him, and I grew To tolerate him for his sake ; And then, I think, I loved him too, Because my husband lov"d. Though still I called him by his name Of ' hateful Hal' ; in part because He lik'd to have it still the same. For mockery of love ; In part because our Annie us'd It always, with an emphasis And energy, that oft I mus'd How she, so full of love MINNIE'S MUSINGS. 67 For all beside, could have for one A hate so strong. Well, time went on : The summer season past and gone — The season of ripe love In fruit and flower, leaf and tree — One day that hateful Hal declar'd He must be off again to sea, And leave the friends he lov'd. I saw him give a sharp quick look At Annie as he spoke the words ; But she was buried in her book : Some tale of antique love. That look of his, in one swift flash Reveal'd to me his secret heart ; I saw 'twas Annie's self this rash Young sailor deeply lov'd. He said there was one whom he could Have lov'd, but that she hated him ; I saw now who it was ; but would She e'er change hate for love ? 'O'' " Impossible ! " I thought, as soft I crept away: and since I've learn'd What pass'd while I revolved oft The fate of Harry's love. He drew more near to where she sat Absorb'd in reading, as it seem'd, And then abruptly said, " What's that You're studying of love ? " F 2 68 MINNIE'S MUSINGS. " You hateful Hal ! " retorted she, Yet with a little break of voice, " Why come you thus disturbing me In story of true love ? " " Ay, ' hateful Hal ' ! " he said, and turn'd His face away ; " that same old name ! You always hated me ; I learn'd That long ago from love." •' From love 1 " she echoed, " surely never ! " " From love," he said vehemently, " From love in boyhood, manhood, ever ; From love that taught me fear. " I fear'd your bright blue laughing eyes, I fear'd your roguish smiling mouth ; I fear'd you did too sure despise My boyish ardent love. "I took to hiding it in rough Rude ways, that made you hate yet more A lad so peremptory, bluff; A lad you couldn't love. "And still you hate, I see it clear. You hate me worse than you did then ; Rough hateful Hal, who loves you dear, With all the strength of love. '&' " Well, be it so, I'm going away. To bear it bravely if I can ; But, Annie, to my dying day, My love is yours for hate. MINNIE'S MUSINGS. 69 " For hate I give you love in turn ; Say ' hateful Hal,' then, once again ; That name still somehow makes me burn — 'Twas giv'n by her I love. " From your dear lips it has a charm, It thrills me strangely through and through, It sounds as if it meant no harm. And still increas'd my love." " I thought your roughness was dislike ; How could I fancy it aught else ? It seem'd so very, very like ; I couldn't think it love." Her voice was low as she said this ; And then she tried to rally it ; " Well, ' hateful Hal,' sir, there it is, Since that's the name you love." " You hated when you gave it me, You hate me now, you'll hate me ever. Is it not so ? Or can it be, Oh, can it be, that love " — He stopp'd, breath'd short, then hurried on ; " Dear Annie — speak — do let me hear Your voice ; if but one word, but one, Forbids me not to love." He look'd at her with searching eyes, As if he'd read her very soul. Her soul of truth without disguise, Her soul of inward love. 70 MINNIE'S MUSINGS. Beneath his eyes her eyes did sink ; In tones half arch, half sweet, she said, " I almost now begin to think, Perhaps my hate was love." He trembled ; caught her hand in his ; He snatched it to his breast, his lips ; He gave it a quick fervent kiss Of eager hoping love. " Ay, * hateful Hal ' you still shall be, I'll always call you by that name ; For ' hateful Hal ' you are to me. The ' hateful Hal' I love ! " He took her in his arms so strong. He press'd her to his beating heart. And held her there full soft and long : Between them there was love. 71 THE TRUST. " Wilt thou make a trust a transgression ? " — Shakespeare. Ay, from my very boyhood I had seen And known her : Clarice Merton of the Hall ; A fine old stately mansion that had been The seat of all the Mertons since the time When Tudors reigned. As niece and heiress to Sir Horace Merton, she was mistress there Already : for the portly gentleman. Her uncle, loved the tall fair slender girl With all a father's fondness ; and she queened It with right royal dignity and grace. She looked the well-born lady that she was — The representative of ancient blood And birth : her every movement was instinct With native self-possession, high-bred ease. Her beauty was imperial, and made For sway. I well remember, when a lad, How it subdued myself: I used to see Her pass on horseback, with her uncle, through The lane that led from Merton Hal!, and oft I lingered by the way to watch for her. There was a roadside stile, half hidden by The thickly clustered hedge that shaded it ; And this was frequently my resting-place. Time after time I saw her passing by. Until her face and form were graven on My mind, and they became thenceforth to me The sole embodiment of womanhood's 72 THE TRUST. Perfection : by the roadside stile again And yet again I stood, and gazed my fill. She ne'er saw me : or saw me as one sees A pebble, twig, or blade of grass, that lies Upon the path one treads ; a thing of naught ; A thing unheeded, unremarked ; a thing That merely makes a part of all around. I knew full well both who and what she was ; But who and what was I ? Poor Edward Helme ; Of humble origin : an orphan left In earliest years, and bound apprentice to The village stonemason, who thought the lad Gave token of intelligence and power To learn, so took to him, and taught him skill In carving, modelling — the more refined, Artistic portions of his trade, for which The boy showed aptitude and special taste. I reached to early manhood thus, absorbed In two main sources of pursuit and thought : One — quiet, steady labour at my work, Whereat I earned an honest livelihood And gained my master's still-increased goodwill ; The other — evening rambles through the fields And lanes, where I might chance to see at times The object of my worshipping regard. If blessed with sight of her, my heart was filled For days with secret sense of deep content. I question whether Clarice Merton knew Of even my existence : but I knew Of hers; and that made mine a gladdened one. It happened that Sir Horace Merton wished To have some vases for the terrace steps And balustrade, above the grassy slope On which the mansion stood : he sent to my Employer, who despatched me to the Hall THE TRUST. 73 To take instructions. In a tremor of Excitement I set forth : but none of it Appeared beneath my usual quiet mien And sober aspect : I was always known Among our village folk for gravity And thoughtful look beyond my years : and they Would sometimes nickname me " Young Serious." That day my outward grave composure served Me well to hide the inward hurry of My spirits, as I found myself within Her very presence. She was standing with Her uncle on the terrace, where they both Received me : tall and stately even in Her girlish slenderness and grace, she leaned Against the marble balustrade and smoothed Caressingly the gorgeous throat of a Tame peacock, that with coy reluctance stooped Its neck to her familiar hand alone. The while Sir Horace spoke to me about The vases ; and I listened to his words Through all the mist of wilderment in which My thoughts were wrapped by consciousness of her And her proximity. Sir Horace talked With fluent dictate, affable command, The sort of kindly condescension used By one who gives his orders to a man He finds to be proficient in his trade, A clever artisan and competent. " A well-informed, intelligent young man," I heard Sir Horace say, as he dism.issed Me and rejoined his niece : " Indeed ? I did Not mark him," she replied with negligence. They spoke in but a half-low tone, with just That carelessness of being overheard Which people sometimes use when only their 74 THE TRUST. Inferiors are by. I felt it to The core : I was to her no more but simply The stonecutter, the mason's man, the clerk Sent by his master to receive and note The orders of Sir Horace Merton for The vases on the terrace balustrade ; And of no more account than was the stone, The marble, or the granite that he wrought. Yet, after all, what more could I expect? ,What more was natural ? She knew no jot Of me but what she saw ; and that was naught — Naught of the inner self, which p'rhaps contained A something worthy in its quality ; A certain sturdy manfulness and strong Reliability : at least, my good And constant friend, my master, used to give Me credit for possessing these, and I Believe I had them. Time went on ; and there Was coming blankness at the Hall. 'Twas said Sir Horace Merton's health was far from good. And that a long sea-voyage was prescribed ; 'Twas added that his niece was going with Him ; that she would not let him go alone. Although she dreaded leaving her old home ; Disliked the sea, and cared not for new scenes ; Was sure there was no place like Merton Hall, But told her uncle playfully, 'twas true She loved it more than any house or lands. Yet loved him more than house or lands or aught. All this reached village ears, as doings of The great are sure to reach their neighbours' ears, And form the theme of gossip comment : thus I learned the day was fixed for their departure, And pictured to myself the void that then Would yawn around my daily life. THE TRUST. 75 Meantime, It chanced that my employer had to send Abroad on confidential business ; And he chose me to execute the charge. I willingly obeyed ; for change of scene And action were the things I could have wished, To take me from the dull, dead, dreary round Of days and nights beset with aching sense Of loss, and absence, and soul's want, that would Be mine when Clarice Merton once was gone. A distant colony my mission had For goal ; I took my passage in a ship Was thither bound ; when who should prove to be My fellow-passengers but Clarice and Her uncle ! My intense surprise to learn They were on board leaped up like sudden fire Within my heart, and kindled into blaze A thousand embers of deep-smouldering joy That I had thought had been well nigh extinct. To find myself thus near her, thus in reach Of seeing her and hearing her, while I Remained unnoted, seemed renewal, ay. And more than a renewal of the old Enchanted times, when I beheld her pass Through Merton lanes, a vision pure and fair. My passage had been taken in the fore Part of the ship ; while they, of course, were aft, And had commodious cabins to themselves. So that I saw them as they walked the deck, Engaged in chat, and pacing to and fro. Sometimes she leaned upon his arm ; sometimes She gave him hers, when he seemed feeble, or Less well than usual ; always she appeared The gentle, graceful, and devoted child Attending on a parent's steps, alive To all that could alleviate and cheer. 76 THE TRUST. No wonder that he loved her as he did, Indulging her and making her his all. One day I heard Sir Horace say to her — " Who do you think I fancy that I saw On board this ship an hour ago?" " I can't Imagine," answered she ; " how should I guess ? Some one we know ?" " Well, not exactly know ; Some one that we have seen — a Merton man ; No other than that well-informed young man Sent up by White, the mason, to the Hall To take my orders for the vases. You Remember him ? " " Why — scarcely," she replied : " Oh, yes — I think I do : a quiet, grave Young man, that you thought well of, did you not ? " " He seemed to me intelligent and skilled," Sir Horace said ; " moreover, struck me as Remarkably trustworthy, and to be Relied upon in matters that required Attention. He impressed me favourably." " He did," returned she, with an absent air ; " I recollect it now ; he did." " I wonder what Has brought him here," replied her uncle ; " I Suppose that White has sent him out on some Commission to the colony ; I heard He had some dealings there." " Most likely," she Responded in a final way, as if No farther interest attached to what They talked of. After a short pause, she said, With animation — " Uncle, do you know What I've been thinking of? " " Of Merton Hall, Of course," Sir Horace smiling said; "your thoughts Are always hovering there, like doves around A dove-cot." '* I was thinking," she resumed, " Of how the dear old place must now be bathed THE TRUST. 77 In sunset light, and looking at its best. And yet I know not why I say ' its best ' ; It always looks its best — the best — to me." She laughed at her own sally, and went on To talk of their return to their loved home. I saw Sir Horace Merton's face assume A sudden sad expression : but it cleared Away.again, when she looked up at him. Some mornings after this I noticed him Upon the deck alone. As he caught sight Of me, he beckoned me to join him where He stood. He spoke most courteously — nay, with A kindly, almost friendly tone : he said It gave him pleasure to have met with one Who came from Merton village, seeming like A neighbour — one long known : he asked my name, And told me that he took a liking to Me when I came that time to Merton Hall ; That I inspired him with belief in my True faithfulness and manly character. I bowed my thanks, but nothing said ; I was So taken by surprise at this address. " Away from home," he said, " I feel the want Of some one I can talk to as a friend. To whom I may confide the fear that stings Me now acutely, for my niece's sake. I feel my health is failing fast, and should I die, she will be left in foreign lands Alone and unprotected. Helme, if so, I look to you to guard her, think for her, Watch over her unceasingly, and see Her safely home again to Merton Hall. Remember, Helme, I trust her to your care When I am gone, if go I must, while we Are far from home. It may seem strange to place yS THE TRUST. Such confidence in one of whom I know So httle ; but there's something in your look That tells me I may safely trust to you, That you'll be faithful to the trust. Do you Accept it, Helme ? " "I do," was all I said. With earnest firmness. What was in my heart Myself and my Creator only knew. " And now," Sir Horace said, " we'll speak no more Of this ; 'tis understood between us two. I would not have my niece suspect that I Have any present cause to fear my death ; 'Twould serve no purpose, and disquiet her." He turned to speak of other things ; and when His niece approached, she found him cheerfully In talk with one of the ship's company, A sailor, whose long yarns amused him oft. I kept aloof, thenceforward as before ; Because I thought I could perceive, for all Sir Horace thus had spoken to me, that He cared not I should join him when his niece Was with him. Whether it was from dread That Clarice should discover what he feared, Or whether it proceeded from a sense That she shared not his good opinion of Myself, I do not know ; but certain 'tis I felt that he was better pleased I should Not speak to him when she was by. Content It should be thus, I fell again into My way of watching her from distance, and Unseen, unnoticed, making her the one Bright jewel of my life. One night there was Alarm of fire aboard the ship : upon The instant all was noise, confusion, and Distress. I started up, threw on my clothes, THE TRUST. 79 And hurried upon deck. Already had The flames advanced, and now were Hcking their Dread way aloft, among the shrouds and rigging. Amid the burning glare I sudden saw Sir Horace and his niece — a ghastly group. Half dead with terror, she had sunk down at His feet, and held her face within her hands. He called to me aloud from where he stood : " For God's sake help her if you can, good friend ! Remember, Helme, the charge, the trust, I gave ! " He reeled and fell, the moment after, crushed By falling fragments of a blazing mast. I snatched her from the spot and drew her towards A spar I saw, and knew would float ; to which I fastened her : she made attempt to free Herself from my endeavour ; but I said : " Your uncle charged me take care of you ; He trusted you to me, and bade me try To save you." Then she yielded, and allowed Me do whate'er I would that I thought best. I hardly know how afterwards I found Myself upon the red-reflected waves. My precious spar in tow, held by one hand, While with the other I struck out and swam For life, for very life — my own, and one Far dearer than my own. I made some way : When all at once there came a noise that seemed To rend the air asunder, split the sky. The flames had reached the gunpowder : the ship Blew up : and not a soul survived the wreck. But — crowning horror of the whole to me — The roughness of the surge, the heave, the swell. At moment when the ship blew up, had wrenched My spar away, had torn it from my grasp. And borne it out of sight. A long loud cry So THE TRUST. Of anguish and despair broke from me, and I wept aloud in agony of heart. The roaring waters dashed in mockery Against my face, and swept my tears away As fast as they welled forth. Instinctively I struggled on ; but now had lost my wish For safety. What was life henceforth to me ? Why should I try to save it if I could Not save the one was life of life to me ? The bitter misery of that lone hour When, toiling on through buffet of the waves, The fierce emotions raging in my soul Were wilder than the horrors of the night, I shudder to recall : but after I Had swum a weary space, and felt upon The point of sinking, I became aware That I was now in smoother water, where My feet touched ground. Another stroke or two Soon brought me to the shore. A scene it was Of almost magic beauty and repose : A tropic moon shed broad effulgence o'er A stretch of wooded sward that skirted round A sheltered bay : tall palm-trees rose against A starry sky of deep and cloudless blue ; Unbroken silence reigned : but all this peace And harmony of loveliness extern Contrasted with the war within myself. " Why did I escape when she is lost ? " Was still the cry of my distracted heart. I wrung my hands, and flung myself full length ; Then started up, and wandered madly on, I knew not, cared not whither, in my grief. Along the margin of the moonlit bay My steps conveyed me, till I saw before Me on the ground a prostrate form : I sprang THE TRUST. 8 1 To it : oh, joy of joy ! 'Twas hers, 'twas hers ! Borne onward by the influx of the tide, The spar had drifted safely towards the shore, And landed on the bay's smooth shelving sand. She senseless lay ; her eyes were closed ; her hair Hung loose in tangled masses, scattered wide. A piteous sight : but, still, she breathed, she lived ! I gently disengaged her from the spar ; I raised her tenderly from off the sand. And carried her to where the green-sward made A better resting-place. I chafed her hands ; And soon I had the comfort of a change : A flutter of the breath, a quiver of The eyelids : then the eyes were opened with A dreamy wandering look that finally Met mine. "You know me?" whispered I ; "you do?" " Yes— yes ; I think you are the person that My uncle liked." She sighed and closed her eyes ; As though 'twere too much effort yet to think. Just near to where we were there was a knoll Of rocky moss-grown ground, in which I saw A deep recess, a hollow, like a cave : To this I bore her ; placed her on a couch Of soft dry leaves I piled up high, and left Her to the healing balm of sleep. I kept Incessant watch that night around the cave. But naught approached to frighten or molest. The place seemed desert, perfect solitude ; But whether it were continent or isle I knew not. It abounded with wild fruits ; Among the bluffs and cliffs beyond the bay A multitude of sea-birds laid their eggs ; Innumerable shell-fish swarmed the beach. And clustered on dwarf rocks beneath the cliffs : G 82 THE TRUST. So, food there lacked not in this land of fair Seclusion. After the first violence Of grief had passed for her loved uncle's loss, Sweet Clarice drooped into an apathy, A languor of indifference to all Around, the most pathetic ; she took note Of nothing, interest in nothing, cared For nothing, ate the meals I brought, arranged The flowers I culled, accepted all I did, And acquiesced in all I ventured to Suggest for her behoof; but, listlessly. And with a perfect quietude, she showed That she did not intend to rouse herself; She meant to be her own sole guide ; she held Her will alone responsible to rule Her ways ; and if her ways were moody, sad. Why, sad and moody they should be, if so She chose. She surely was the mistress and Best judge of her own acts ? and to preserve Volition independently of me ? To live her life thus irrespectively Of my approof ? She seemed resolved to let Me see how, notwithstanding fate had thrown Her on my hands, she still reserved her right Of born supremacy. All this was not Asserted ; nay, far from it. But it was To be inferred from every look and tone — The eloquence of tacit, passive will In ladies of high birth to one beneath Themselves. One evening, when I brought Her supper of wild honey, bread-fruit, and Some pearly eggs, I was about to leave Her that I might go eat my own apart THE TRUST. 83 As usual. With a slight and languid lift Of her bent head, she murmured: "Where do you Contrive to lodge ? You make this cave my house — ■ A very roomy, comfortable one it is, With tapestry of moss, and curtained well By long festoons of pendent climbing plants ; A perfect bower of graceful green-clad warmth. Yet shade ; a mingling of dry roof, dry walls, With freshness of the open air, due heat And cool combined; just what a house should be — But where do you reside ? " I told her I Had shelter found within a crevice-nook Of rock, not far from her house-cave. "And is It tolerably habitable ? " she Inquired, with half a smile ; " We're neighbours still. It seems, as we were formerly, I heard. Oh, by-the-bye, what is your name ? I don't Know even that ; and it is fit I know My neighbour's name." I told her it was Helme. " A name most suitable, indeed," she said, A little scornfully ; " You've been the helm To guide me into port, to steer me safe, And to control my course e'er since you brought Me to this haven ; but a helm's control, You know, exists on sea and not on land ; It ceases to have power when on shore." " A helm exerts his agency when need Demands, and when the helmsman's hand doth sway," I answered quietly : " The hand doth rule, The helm doth but obey the hand. Your hand Shall give the signal when the helm exceeds Its proper office." I withdrew as I Said this ; and afterwards I noticed that G 2 84 THE TRUST. Her manner changed to less of frigidness And distance. But it varied much ; and she Was sometimes querulous, perverse, just like A petted saucy child ; at others, she Was pensive, absent, wrapped in her own thoughts ; But always ladylike and polished, and Supreme in native beauty most refined. In one of her despondent moods, I tried To waken in her a desire to see And know more of the place in which we lived : To visit some adjacent spots that in Themselves were charming, and commanded views Of exquisite enchantment ; for I knew That exercise and freshened interest In all that Nature had so plenteously Bespread around us on this fertile land Of rich production, beautiful, profuse. And genial in extreme, would serve to bring Her back to healthfuller condition. " Will You not attempt a walk to yonder point, MissMerton?" I once asked; "You know not how Transcendant is the prospect thence attained. It grandly stretches far along the coast Beyond this bay, and is a matchless scene. The headland is within your easy reach, And will not overtax your strength to climb." " I am not easily fatigued," she said ; " I thank you, but I care not for fine views, New scenes. I told my uncle so, once on A time," she sadly added ; " there's no place To equal Merton Hall, in my regard," " Alas, that you must wait ere you can hope To see it ! " I replied. " Who knows if I Shall ever see the dear old place again ! " She said with falling tears, then checked herself, THE TRUST. 85 And muttered : " Ah, this walk — suppose I were To take it after all ? I may as well, Since yoti think it would do me good ; you are My medical adviser, Doctor Helme, As well as my adviser general, You know, at present, when I must depend On you for counsel, as for all." She spoke With. touch of bitterness in her sad tone ; Then said abruptly : " Forgive me ; I Am most ungracious, and ungrateful too, I feel ; but you will pardon what must seem Ingratitude for all that you have done And been to me, when you remember my Indulgent nurture, from my earliest years. It little did to well prepare me for The trials I have met with, and the strange Sad fate that has been mine. " ' 'More strange than e'en Your own sad fate appears to me the word Of ' pardon ' in your mouth, as asked b}^ you From me. Miss Merton," I returned; "'forgive' I cannot, since there's nothing to forgive." " There is," she answered quickly ; " ah, there is ; I know it but too well ; I'm angry with Myself when I think over my remiss Unthankfulness to you, kind Helme, who saved My life at sea, and have preserved it since. I do not think I should have been so base, So wanting in due gratitude, while I Was mistress of our old ancestral home, How is it that I've altered thus, and grown So other than my girlish self?" She turned Away as she concluded, and set forth To take the rambling walk I had proposed. On her return she came to where I was Engaged in fashioning a rude attempt 86 THE TRUST. At garden near hei- cave, and stood beside Me while I trained some climbing roses up : She watched me silently for a brief space, Then said abruptly, " What was it you meant — Aboard the burning ship, when, firm and strong, You lashed me to the saving spar — by those Few words you said, 'Your uncle charged me to Take care of you ; he trusted you to me.' What did they mean ? " " They meant what they expressed ; For, once Sir Horace gave you to my charge, Enjoined me to watch over you, to guard You if he died while in a foreign land. And see you safely back to Merton Hall," " He did ? " " He did ; he dreaded that his death Might happen any unexpected time. And leave you unprotected, far from home. No less he dreaded that his fear might reach Yourself, and keep you haunted with alarm For him." " Dear uncle, ever thoughtful, kind, And provident for welfare of your child. Your Clarice!" she exclaimed. "Then this waswhat Your own words signified, when 'mid the flames I heard 3'ou cry, ' Remember, Helme, the charge. The trust I gave !' " " It was," I said ; " you heard Them, then, yourself? " " I heard them plainly," she Replied ; " and wondered, even in that wild And fearful moment, at his strange accost. And surely 'twas most strange he should intrust His niece to one well-nigh unknown and quite Unproved." " There are some natures thus at once Confiding, ready to believe in what They think they see plain written in a face Of honest look," I answered, "True," she said ; " There are ; and my dear uncle had himself THE TRUST. 87 This readiness to put his faith in those He thought seemed worthy of his confidence. And so, it now appears, he trusted you. He gave me to your charge in solemn trust. You say ; what were the special points enjoined By this same trust ? How far does it extend ? " " I told you," I replied ; " it bade me guard, Watch over you, and do my utmost to Ensure your safety while away from home ; And then to see you safely back again To Merton Hall." " My ' safety,' " partly to Herself repeated she ; " and then to see Me 'safely' back to Merton Hall. Ay, 'safe' And well protected, ever was his care That I should be ; my kind good uncle ! " As She murmured these last words she moved away, And went into the cave to sit alone. But, some time after, she returned again To subject of the trust. It happened thus. I had been warning her aga^inst too late Protracting her long walks — which often now She took — at eventide. " It is the hour Of sunset that is most especially To be avoided," I had said. " In these Hot climates, while the sun is going down, There comes a sudden chill into the air, Insidious, treacherous, and not to be Encountered without really perilous Effect : I hope, I beg, you will not thus Run risk of being out at just that hour Of danger." "What! grave Doctor Helme again Prescribing ? Is it his good pleasure that I make my exercise, my air, my hours. Accord with his opinion, his most sage Decree? Is this included in the trust 88 THE TRUST. He undertook ? Does it empower him To guard my health, to watch my hours, dispose My time, appoint my walks ?" " The trust enjoined Me to keep watch, to guard, and to ensure Your safety with my utmost care ; I know It is not safe to walk at sunset, and I frankly tell you so, in consonance With one injunction of the trust which I Intend to steadily fulfil throughout, If so I be permitted," I replied. " Permitted ? " echoed she ; " by me, you mean ? " " By Heaven's will and blest vouchsafement," I Returned. She paused an instant; then resumed: " Am I to understand that you engaged In this same trust — and now intend to use The full authority it gives for you To carry out its dictates, and perform The duties it enjoins — in deference To my dear uncle's wish, or for the sake Of benefiting me ? Was it alone Because you thought to satisfy his mind, Or from the thought that I require your care ? — In short, to please my uncle, or please me, Did you accept, and now enforce this trust ? " "There could have been no thought of pleasing you. Miss Merton, when I pledged myself to take The trust your uncle gave. He charged me to Fulfil it faithfully : and so I mean to do. Please God ! " She said no more, but turned to look At some white blossoms, growing close at hand. Another time, a captiousness, a half Caprice and lady wilfulness displayed Themselves in her demeanour. " I have found Some little purple blossoms that remind Me of sweet English violets ; I thought THE TRUST. 89 That you would like them planted near Your cave, Miss Merton, so have brought you home . These clumps with roots." " I thank you, Helme," she said. But looked another way, with careless air. The Merton lane, the roadside stile, the hedge Near which I had so often lingered that I might have chance of seeing Clarice pass, And where I used to see the violets In spring-time lurk beneath the hedge, came full Upon my mind ; but memory I quenched. And said sedately : " Will you tell me where You best would like them placed. Miss Merton ? They Require the shade, and, if you please, I'll plant Them here." I pointed to the spot I meant. She did not answer for a moment ; and I looked at her for my directions. Then, Still keeping her fair face half turned away : " Pray call me Clarice," she exclaimed, in a Disdainful pettish way ; " I cannot bear The name * Miss Merton ' ; it reminds me of My old lost home and all its bygone joys." I started ; I had used it to myself A thousand times — her sweet, sweet Christian name ; But use it to herself I dared not ; no, I dared not ; for I knew how it would stir My manhood, and betray the love I vowed To keep concealed within my heart. " I cannot call you so, excuse me," I Replied ; " I cannot do it, e'en to please Yourself; forgive me." "Oh," she quickly said, " I make no point of it, since you will not Comply. Pray please yourself, not me ; I care Not what I'm called, not I, now happiness go THE TRUST. Is gone." She burst into a passion of Sad tears ; and there was nothing left for me To do but try and soothe her grief. At times She was thus petulant and wayward ; but At others gentle, smiling, docile to My slightest wish. I could not make her out. And yet sometimes I now began to have A fancy I could guess but only too, Too well what wrought these changes in her mood. I was dismayed at my own thought, and put It from me when it would recur and still Recur. Next time we were together, she Was in a sportively despotic vein. " As you would not consent to call me by My Christian name," she said, " now tell me yours : I want to know it." " Mine is Edward," I Replied. "A good old Saxon name," she said ; " One borne by British kings. I like it well ; And somewhere I have read its meaning is — Stay — ' Happy Guarder,' ' Keeper,' ' Warder ; ' Ay, It is ; I recollect ; and suited to yourself No less than is your surname. Let me see ; I like not surnames in a woman's mouth Addressed to men. I think henceforth I'll call You Edward Helme ; it so exactly hits Your character. Yes — Edward — Edward ; " she Repeated in approving tone ; " it sounds Appropriate and true." To hear her thus Repeat my name, affected me with strange Emotion ; but, according to my wont, I held my feelings under strong control, And naught appeared of agitation in My speech or look. I more and more resolved On this, the more I grew confirmed in my THE TRUST. 91 Suspicion of the source from whence arose These variable moods. What would have made My proudest, fondest hope, had she been where She could have still remained free mistress of Herself to give or to withhold, now formed My torture. Here, in this lone wilderness — Dependent as she was upon myself For sustenance, for all — ^and where no rite Of holy union could be ours — how dared I risk betrayal of my love, which might Draw forth the sweet confession of her own For me, if such indeed existed ? Should I break my faith and violate the trust So solemnly confided to my charge — So solemnly accepted by myself? No ; never ; come what might, I would be true And loyal to the death. None knew the cost. The struggle, the incessant agony Of this protracted strife between my love And my resolve, but God ; and He gave strength To vanquish self, and to preserve my trust. " Your good sea-jacket looks the worse for wear," She once said, smiling with a half shy glance At it; "I wish you'd let me mend this rent." Then, recollecting, she went on : " But, ah, Forgetful that I am ! I have no thread. No needle, nothing that a woman should Possess who claims to be good huswife, as I was at home." " A huswife ? You ! " I cried. " Why not ? A Lady of the Manor should Be notable, remedial, practical. Well able to perform all useful things." " Is mending Edward Helme's apparel one ? Strange task, methinks, for any lady ; for A Lady of the Manor, above all.' 92 THE TRUST. " It may be strange, but strange has been the lot Of this poor Lady of the Manor," said Sweet Clarice, pensively ; " and strange tasks fall To those who suffer strange reverse. Why should I not perform a simple office for A friend who has performed such onerous And endless ones for me ? " "A friend ? " I said, In lowest tone ; " Do you call Edward Helme A friend?" "A more than friend," she answered with A faltering voice ; " an earthly providence. One sent by Providence itself to help Me in my utmost need. What would have been My fate had you not saved and tended me ? — Become my good protector and my friend ? I well may call you ' friend,' " concluded she With earnestness. I made her no reply: How could I, and preserve my secret still ? We both remained in silence for a time : And then I quietly arose, and went To find some work : some good hard work might serve To quell the torment I endured. For I Had found that manual labour, bodily Exertion, best assuaged the tumults of My mind. And thus I made a hundred things Were needed for the cave : odd, useful, quaint Utensils of ornate device, and form Antique : her moss-grown house of rock was filled With plates and dishes, drinking-cups and jugs, Or graceful pateras for holding flowers, Deft moulded from the clay and baked in the Hot furnace of a tropic sun ; with knacks And trifles, curiously carved and wrought In wood by my good clasp-knife, which, most true To boyish habit, never left me, and Was in my pocket when I 'scaped the wreck. THE TRUST. 93 While working hard for Clarice I less felt The trouble at my heart : and, as I toiled, I whistled softly to myself some old Remembered tune or village song. When next We met, she had resumed her cold reserve ; Which gave way once — but once again — before It settled into steadily maintained Return to freezing distance, as of old. The conflicts I went through, the strict restraints I put upon myself, the guard I kept On every speech and word, on every look And tone, began to tell severely on My frame, as now I learned from what she said — " You are not looking well ; you're pale, you're thin. You work too hard — you toil from morn to night ; You ought to have some rest. Let me prescribe — I followed your prescriptions once, you know. So now take mine. I used to be a kind Of Lady Bountiful, among the odds And ends of things I did as Lady of The Manor. Let me order you some rest ; You are not looking well — indeed you're not." Her eyes dwelt gently on my face, her hand Was raised as if about to lay itself On mine ; her tone was womanly and low — Nay, tender, in its soft persuasiveness. I was so moved, so passionately moved, By her appeal, that for a moment I Had nigh forgotten all— my pledge, my vowed Forbearance, and my trust ; but tore myself Away in time and left her. " Stony, hard. Insensible, she must believe me ! " I Exclaimed, as, writhing under my distress, I plunged into the forest depths, that I 94 THE TRUST. Might wrestle with my pangs alone. In her Unconscious innocence, how should she know Or understand the reason why I must And ought to shun the growing tokens Of her most generous affection, if I still would keep my plighted word, my faith, My honour, in allegiance to my trust ? " For her dear sake, for hers, I must and will ! " Was ever now the secret sentence which Sustained me through my fierce ordeal fire, And kept my courage constant to the last. The last was close at hand. Soon after our Late interview, we clear descried a ship That neared our coast, put in for water to Our bay, and proved to be a merchantman, Far driven from its course by adverse winds. The captain took us both on board, and we Set sail for England. On the voyage home Fair Clarice held the level calm of her Indifference and lady quietude; It served at once to re-establish the Old space that set herself and me apart ; It tended more than aught else could have done To cast behind us the strange episode Of desert life that we together spent, As something done with, past, for ever gone. She was all suavity and graciousness ; Presented me to the sea-captain as The saver and preserver of her life ; She praised my courage and fidelity; Dwelt largely on the energy and zeal, The spirit and the self-possession I Displayed amid the horrors of the wreck ; Still making that, and not our desert life. THE TRUST. 95 The theme of her repeated narrative. It wrung my heart to hear her thus pohte, Thus courteous, bland, conventional, and marked In her acknowledgment of what I'd done. But I accepted patiently her will, Her tacitly expressed decree, that I Should be again no more than Edward Helme, That she should be again Miss Merton of The Hall. I sometimes felt inclined to smile A little bitterly at this decree, When I remembered the relations in Which lately we had stood together ; she The helpless, homeless waif, tossed to and fro By unregardful waves, then cast ashore Like some stray piece of sea-weed, broken from Its fellows, till upgathered by the hand Of one that sees its native beauty, and Doth keep it, value it, nay, treasure it For its inherent loveliness and grace ; While I, the finder of the waif, did play The part of keeper, guarder, treasurer, In tender recognition of its worth. She said the name of Edward meant as much. And I was happy in the privilege Of being to her these. Well, if she chose To re-exchange the characters we played, And be to me protectress and benign Approver, I would let her so esteem Herself: but, once arrived on English land, I, too, would back return to my old first Condition — quiet watcher from afar. On one occasion, while on board, it chanced That she and I were left together, as She leaned against the side and watched the stars. That one by one came peering forth, while in g6 THE TRUST. The east the sky was deepening into blue Of darker tint, when crimson sunlight failed. She held her head averted, fixed in gaze Upon the firmament, the while she said : " You soon will be relieved of your strange charge, Your troublesome and duty-burdened trust, Of which you have most faithfully discharged So many of the points imposed by my Lost uncle. I, obedient to his will, Have all along submitted to his terms Without complaint, and so I still intend To do, until you see me safely home again ; As bidden by the trust. When once we're there The limits of this vaguely worded trust Can be defined, adjusted ; for, you know. We never could agree exactly what It was that it enjoined. But this can wait Till we arrive." She stayed for no reply. But left me standing 'neath the starry sky. To that mute comforter I inwardly appealed Against the stabs her words had been to me. We reached beloved England ; and when there I thought we should have parted company At once ; but on my showing this to be My expectation, she declared the trust Would not be validly performed until I saw her " safely home." That " home " did not Mean English land alone, but, in her case, Meant Merton, her belov'd ancestral home ; " The words, you told me, of my uncle's charge Were, ' See her safely back to Merton Hall,' You know ; so there you still will have to go." I acquiesced, and I escorted her Unto the very gates, where she vyas met By friends and tenantry with welcome loud THE TRUST. 97 And joyfullest amaze, as one thought dead, But now returned to be once more the prized Young mistress of the mansion and domain. I made escape from all of this as soon As I discreetly could, and took my leave. She gave a smile of gracious, affable Farewell, while saying, " Pray remember, I Expect that you will come some day, when we Can settle any farther claims the trust May justify." I merely bowed, and straight Withdrew, reflecting on the words she used — "She spoke of 'claims.' What claims? I have no claims To make : no claim upon her gratitude. If that were what she meant." And I resolved That I would go no more to Merton Hall. Rejoicings grand and festive took place there. To grace her first arrival, and 'twas thought A round of gay assemblages would then Have followed these ; but Clarice Merton lived A life retired, sequestered, when she had Performed the hostess-duty that she owed To greeters in her circle of kind friends. Deep mourning worn for her lost uncle was The cause assigned for this complete and close Seclusion from society ; and she Was left to follow her own chosen course. Meanwhile I also had returned to Merton ; sought My old employer ; found him friendly as He ever had been towards me, and he gave Me cordial welcome ; told me how the news Had reached him of the wreck ; how he believed I perished in the burning ship ; and how He felt assured that only accident Akin to this would e'er have hindered me H 98 THE TRUST. From executing his commission ; for He knew my faithfulness of old, he said With his approving smile of fatherly Regard, He made me take up quarters in His house, as I had always done ; but now He treated me more like a son than clerk. " I'm growing an old man," he said, " and feel The want of help and younger energy In our good trade: from you, Ned, I can count On both, I know ; so stay with me and give Me what I need." And thus it was arranged. I heard from time to time, through village talk. Of Clarice. It was said she lived alone, Was seldom seen beyond the Alerton grounds, Except on some kind quiet errand of Benevolence and gentle charity ; Some visit to a cottage, where distress Or illness called for aid and sympathy : Unostentatiously and privately She went about, engaged in doing good. A thirst, a yearning, irrepressible, To see her once again, took feverish Possession of me : I grew restless and Unable to resist the strong desire To wander forth in hope of one last chance That I might look upon her face — myself Unseen, unknown — ere I took leave of it For ever. In the throb, the rack of my Fierce longing, I believed that if I could Behold her but once more, I would persuade My master to employ me where I might Promote his interests away from our Small country village ; then resolve to go And never to return, till snow of age Had settled on my head and on my heart. THE TRUST. gg Urged by my burning wish, I took my wa}' One evening to Merton Lane, and leaned Upon the stile, deep musing on the strange And varied scenes I had beheld since last I lingered in this tranquil place. My thoughts Were soothed to something like serenity By all its peaceful sweetness and repose : The trees were coming into leaf, the birds Were chirping their last hymn before the sun Went down ; a green delicious twilight shed Its softened shade upon the fading gold Of western glow. Ere quite 'twas passed, I spied Beneath the hedge some modest violets Just peeping 'mid the grass. With eagerness I stooped to gather the sweet blossoms, fraught With thousand memories as fragrant as Themselves : I fondled them, I pressed them to My lips, inhaled their odorous breath, and Unconsciously I murmured low-toned words Of soft address to them ; when something near, A shadow, a dark form, attracted my Attention, and I saw a lady, tall, And clothed in black, was standing but a pace Or two from where I was. So noiseless Had been her approach, and now so motionless, So silently, so phantom-like she stood, That well I might have thought she was her own Departed spirit, conjured to my side By my intense remembrance of herself: But, at a glance, I knew 'twas Clarice, and With hasty impulse thrust the violets Quick in my breast, and hid them there. She smiled — I thought disdainfully— and turned away Without a word. I walked as in a dream, H 2 loo THE TRUST. Returning home like one who had' beheld The spectre of his own dead happiness. That night there came a note from Merton Hall : It ran : " May I ask you to come to me To-morrow?" Signed "CM," No more. Its curt Expression, cold politeness, all seemed meant To show me distantly and freezingly That I was naught to her; that I was but The young man, Edward Helme ; she, well-born, rich, The Lady of the Hall : and yet, to me. As I stood gazing on those two well-formed And clear-cut letters of her name, she rose Before me as herself alone, the one Sole woman I had worshipped when a boy ; The woman I had faithfully preserved From een myself and her own guilelessness When chance intrusted her to me and my Protecting care in manhood; peerless, fair, Devoid of any grace conferred by birth Or wealth, her own sweet self presented still To my adoring thought the image of pure, Of womanly perfection. Sleep for me Was none that night. Next morning I went up To Merton Hall ; and on the way I schooled My beating heart to quietude might vie With hers — that calm and frigid quietude I knew too well in all its lady force Of well-bred distance, and cold courtesy. I found her on the terrace, as before : No peacock now was on the balustrade ; But on her shoulder perched a little dove, That from her palm took grain. She bowed her head THE TRUST. loi To me as I approached ; but still went on Attending to her bird, that fed at ease. Her colour varied ; but she strove to keep Both look and voice composed, as she, with eyes Still bent upon the dove, said : " You would not Oblige me by remembering my request To come that we might settle any claims Remaining unfulfilled of the old trust ; I had to summon you by letter, and Subdue whatever lady's pride forbade My writing to remind you of my wish : But I may well afford to sacrifice A little of punctilio, sure, for you ; Since in our desert life were levelled all The usual forms of civilised regard To set observances, distinctions, and Conventional appointed rules." "You speak Of ' claims,' I answered ; I am not aware That any claims exist. I tried, with all My best endeavour, to perform the points The trust enjoined ; and I believed they all Had been fulfilled, when I had brought you here. And seen you safely home to Merton Hall." " Ah, yes, we never could agree in what Those points consist ; and therefore 'twas I asked You to come hither, that we might decide How far they reach, and how much they include. You think them ended by your escort home : You think protection, guard, and watchfulness No longer needed for me, now I am Returned to safety and to Merton Hall ? You think your care for me may cease now I Have once resumed my station and my rank As Lady of the Manor— mistress of this place ? " THE TRUST. There was a break in her sweet voice as she Pronounced the words " your care for me," and that Old playful title used between us in Our desert life ; but with recovered tone Of steadiness, she hurried on : " You think Your task concluded, and my uncle's charge Completed now? Perchance it is, as you Regard the trust and all the claims it gives Me on your guardianship. But may not I Perceive some claims yet unfulfilled ? May I Not feel I may advance my claim to show The grateful sense I have, and ever shall Retain, of your devoted, manly care : Heroic bravery in saving me, Unceasing labour, forethought, fortitude For me, unfailing firmness, tolerance Throughout, when whims of woman mood must oft Have sorely tried your patience ? Do you think That I possess no claims ? My uncle's charge And trust, I know, must sure include the claim His Clarice has to show her gratitude." " Your gratitude is not what I would have ; If any guerdon be my due, there is One, higher far, I dare not, may not ask." My heart gave a wild bound when I perceived She shrank not at my words : I took her hand, And held it in my own with firm close grasp : " I never will ask this, if you forbid." The dove had flown away ; but the soft eyes Of Clarice still were downward bent, as she, In gentle whispered tone, said : " Will you tell Me what it was that made you treat those flowers So strangely in the lane last night ? " " You ask The truth ? " "I ask the truth." " In one word lies THE TRUST. 103 The truth ; but will you bear to hear it ? Will You not resent the truth ?'' "I ask it," she Repeated, quietly. "Then know 'twas love, Love long ago conceived, love ever since Concealed with careful painfullest attempt To bury it within the depths of my Own heart. 'Twas love that took me to the lane In boyhood, that I might have chance to see Fair Ciarice riding by ; 'twas love that made My rapture when I saved her from the sea ; 'Twas love that made my torture when I dared Not let her see my passion in our home Of desert life, lest she might grow to care For me, and even learn (Oh, mingled bliss And anguish !) to return my faithful love, When no all-hallowed rite of sacred tie Could there be ours : 'twas love and burning wish To see her, if but once again, that brought Me to the lane last night, and made me press The violets with fervour passionate. In thought of her and our sweet desert life." •- How could I guess 'twas love ? " she softly said ; *' Your manner was so strange, so grave, reserved. Constrained, so almost — as it seemed to me — Averse." " For y out' sake it was so ; for yours. All guardless, innocent, protectionless. As you were then, how could I be but thus, If I would not betray my charge, my trust ? " -"And now?" she asked, with frank, bewitching smile; "Well, now, you are Miss Merton of the Hall, While I am only" — " Noblest, purest, best. And truest-hearted man ! " she warmly said. With eyes that sparkled through bright jewel tears ; I04 THE TRUST. *' The sea-bruised girl cast at your very feet By tossing waves you took up tenderly, You treated with all delicate respect For womanhood, you cherished, treasured her — What should she be but yours ? " I clasped her to My heart : she was my own by her free gift : My Trust was trusted to me evermore. lOi THE REMITTANCE. "A good woman is worth gold." Young Bernard Thorpe and Richard Middleton Were friends, fast friends, from time when they were chums At school. A lively, sanguine, clever youth Was Richard ; while his friend was earnest and Industrious, content to win by slow Degrees. Dick Middleton was rather for An enterprise of dash and sudden gain ; While Bernard Thorpe preferred a steady rise, By diligence and perseverance earned. Before they were of age they both were launched In life, pursuing each the course was best Adapted to his character ; and ere Some years were past, they both were on the way To make large fortunes. Richard Middleton Went early out to India: Bernard had His office-desk in London, where he worked With assiduity and energy. They both were merchants : but the ventures of The one were made in the flush Orient ; The traffic of the other chiefly lay In the West Indies, where plantations large, With luscious rums and sugars brought in cash. Both were employed in making money ; one Abroad, at times acquiring sudden sums Of large amount ; the other, slow and sure, Amassing solid wealth. Dick Middleton io6 , THE REMITTANCE. Had married at eighteen, and taken his Young wife to India with him when he went : But Bernard Thorpe remained a bachelor. His residence was good, substantial ; one Of those old roomy gloomy mansions in The neighbourhood of Bedford Square, which once Found favour with rich City men ; warm, like Themselves, 'tis true, but wholly ugly and Unstylish, unattractive, void of grace Or cheerfulness. In this dull dwelling he Contented lived, his thoughts absorbed in gain — Not sordid gain — but gain that should exalt Him to the style of merchant-prince, the rank Sir Thomas Gresham held with such renown. Respectable in all, he had a most Respectable old housekeeper, who once Had been his mother's, and who knew him from A boy. She almost stood him in the place Of mother now, so motherly and good Was Mistress Wilson in her care of her Young master. By the Indian mail one year A letter came to Bernard Thorpe that gave Him much delight. It told him that he might Expect his old school-friend, Dick Middleton, In England shortly ; said the writer knew That Bernard Thorpe would gladly hear of his Return, and welcome him to English ground Again ; " although " (so ran the letter) " I Am only coming on a visit, and Shall soon go back to India, where a man May make a heap of guineas in a day. There, there's the place for minting money, my Dear friend : I almost wish the East and not The West had been your chosen mart, old boy. THE REMITTANCE. 107 But I have something now in view that will, Or I am very much mistaken, prove A field between them — that's neither here Nor there (I don't intend a pun) — which must Bring in enormous profits, and turn out A perfect El Dorado — truer far Than that Sir Walter Raleigh went to find. But more of this, friend, when we meet ; which will Be soon I hope. Yours, ever faithfully, Dick Middleton." When he arrived, his friend Insisted he should come to him at once : "You must, Dick;" Bernard said; "you must indulge My wish, and make my house your home while you Remain in England." " But my stay will be But short," said Richard ; "and it's scarce worth while To put you out for such a little time." " The less time you can give, the more I need To make the most of it. Come, Dick, you must Consent." " Oh, if I must, I must," said Dick; ' ' But Mistress What's-her-name, your housekeeper, Will wish me farther, with my truant ways Of darting in and out, at all odd hours ; Of keeping dinner waiting ; being out When I should be at home, and being in When she'd be glad to have my room instead Of company — as the old saying goes. I know I am unpunctual, terribly Irregular and unmethodical : My wife has often told me so ; though she Is gentlest of the gentle, and will bear From me, ay, almost anything. But how Can I expect your housekeeper to bear" — io8 THE REMITTANCE. " My housekeeper will bear whatever I Think fit and pleasant," answered Bernard with A smile ; " and your consenting to my wish Is fit and pleasant both : so it's agreed." The friends enjoyed their time together much. While Richard Middleton was staying there He entered headlong into the grand scheme That he had mentioned in his letter to His friend; though Bernard Thorpe did all he could To try dissuade the eager Richard from A too rash entrance into this vast field Of speculation, that presented such Alluring prospect and large promise of Returns. "An interest of cent.-per-cent. Dimensions always serves to startle me From joining in a project," Bernard said ; " Lest it should prove a bubble some fine day. And burst, with empty nothingness for the Investors, shareholders, and all concerned. No, no ; I always rather trust to small Sure gains, than to a dazzling possible Result of magnitude immense ; for large Percentage certainly implies large risk." "Ay, Bernard," smiled his friend; "you always were. You know, a something of a plodder; liked To take the cautious, prudent course : while I Loved rapid pace, excitement ; all the rush The speed, the impetus, the triumph of A swift arrival at my goal, to find Myself the prize-crowned conqueror." " Beware Lest you the racer's fate experience. Of check, impediment, or being thrown," Returned the other in a graver tone ; " Consider, Dick, ere yet it be too late." THE REMITTANCE. log ^' It is too late already, if you call ' Too late ' my being earl}' to secure A thumping slice of this good thing, a lot, A lion's share of shares, for next to naught, For a mere song, in fact ; they let me have This first advantage, since 'twas I that first Originated and promoted the Affair, It really is a splendid thing. Moreover they have made me treasurer, And one of the directors. I assure You, Bernard, it is sure to do ; it must, It shall, it will ; I'm certain that it will. I'll give you as a toast to-day — and drink It you will not refuse, I know — ' Success To Richard Middleton's new scheme, and may It bring him all the luck and cash that he Expects ! ' And that is not a little, I Can tell you, Master Bernard, dear old boy ! " In highest spirits went on Dick, until One day he came home late to dinner, and Went up at once to his own room to dress. A quarter of an hour elapsed — and then Another — and again a third ; but still No Dick appeared. Then Bernard rang the bell. And asked if Mr. Middleton had yet Come in. " Dear, yes, sir, to be sure, A good half-hour ago," was the reply; '' But p'rhaps he don't feel quite the thing," said Price, The old grey-headed butler, in a tone Of half mysterious, half fatherly Concern ; for Dick's good-natured lively ways And lavish pay for service done had gained Him favour in the household. Price's tone Drew notice from his master. " What is it no THE REMITTANCE. You mean ? " said he ; " Is Mr. Middleton Not well ? " "I don't exactly know, sir ; but He seemed to me to look quite queer — so white, So drawn, so strange, somehow." "I'll go and see To it myself," said Bernard ; and he ran Upstairs to see his friend. On opening The door he saw Dick sitting with his face Deep buried in his hands; complete despair Marked sunken head, distracted attitude ; While on the table lay an open case Of travelling pistols, close within his reach. His friend advanced with noiseless step and laid A gentle hand upon the shoulder of The stricken man : " Dick, what is this ? " he said With voice as tender as a woman's ; " tell Me what has chanced." " A blow, a heavy blow ; It struck me on the head, I fancy ; it Affects my head, I think ; but it will Pass away ; 'tis nothing, I dare say ; leave Me, Bernard ; I will try to get some sleep ; I only feel a little stunned : the blow Was hard." He tried to turn it off, and make It seem he'd met with some street accident. " Dick, tell me truly what has happened," said His friend. Then Dick burst forth in torrent wild Of words : " Impending ruin, utter loss, Destruction ! Worse than money loss, the loss Of honour, credit, reputation ; worse. Far worse ! I ne'er can raise my head again ! Best die at once, and end it all !" His eyes An instant turned to where the pistols lay Upon the table. Bernard closed the case, And put it in his pocket. " Dick," he said, " Be calm, be rational ; come, be yourself, Your bright and hopeful self; you always were THE REMITTAXCE. in A hopeful chap, you know — too sanguine, p'rhaps — But now [tis best encourage hope. Come, let's Consider how all this may be repaired. Averted ; think of ways and means ; devise Some mode of putting off the evil day. This scheme, of course, has failed ; I feared it would ; It is so, is it not ? " " It is," said Dick ; *' Dolt, blockhead that I was, to be so rash, So credulous !" " Is there no help ? No chance Of staving off the crash ? " asked Bernard. " None, None, none !" said Dick. " Unless I find the means To raise before to-morrow noon a sum Of fabulous amount, I'm beggared, and — Still deeper misery — dishonoured, lost, Undone ; for never after can I hope To rise, recover ground, make one more strong Attempt to try my fate with fortune, and Retrieve the past by ardent, strenuous Endeavour. Bankrupt, creditless, no chance Remains for me in life ; and life I care Not for, I will not have." " Dick, promise me That you will be a man, commit no act Of folly — worse than folly, wickedness — Do nothing desperate, and I in turn Will promise to think over this, and see What can be done before to-morrow noon. And now cheer up, my dear old boy, and come With me downstairs ; we'll have a glass of good Old Burgundy shall warm our hearts, and may — Who knows ? — inspire me with the eftest way To get you out of difficulty, and To set you on your legs of mercantile Stability again. Some food and wine Will do you good. The dinner — no, I will 112 THE REMITTANCE. Not call it so — the supper has been kept By us so long uneaten, that poor Price, And mistress cook, and mistress housekeeper, Are out of patience, sure, by this time." Thus Did Bernard rattle on, that Dick might not Relapse into his moody thought and black Despair : the two men seemed, as they sat there At table, to have changed respectively Their characters : Dick, downcast, sad, and mute, While Bernard was all brightness, passed the wine, And strove to keep his friend in spirits, cheer, and hope. When finished was the meal, and servants were Withdrawn, the two fell into graver talk. And Bernard made himself acquainted with The full particulars of Richard's case. The master of its every detailed fact. Then bidding Dick good night, and charging him To keep good heart, his friend retired to bed. But not to sleep : he lay awake in thought And earnest question with himself, how he Might rescue Richard, yet escape without The total wreck of his own fortunes ; for The sum required was one that almost would Demand his all, and leave him nearly stripped, Comparatively penniless, reduced. Restricted to the scantiest of means For keeping still his honoured calling as A merchant. But at length he firm made up His mind : " I cannot let old Dick be lost For want of my assistance, come what may ! He saved my life at school once, in his own Impetuous and headlong way, without Regard to consequence or danger to Himself: just as he now is, he was then ; THE REMITTANCE. 113 A thoughtless, generous chap, resolved to win Whate'er he sought at one bold dash, be it The life of his school chum, or be it wealth And eminence. Old Dick must not be lost, If any sacrifice of mine can save Him now. It is but going back to where I was, beginning life anew. I'll start Afresh with vigour and good will. I am Not thirty yet : there's time enough to make My fortune still." Next day he told his friend Of what he had resolved upon. Dick made Remonstrance ; said he could not think of such A noble sacrifice on Bernard's part ; That he could not accept a loan so large, So ruinously large ; but when he found That Bernard still persisted and remained Unmoved, Dick wavered, then began to yield, And lent an ear to Bernard's arguments : " Remember I, a bachelor," said Thorpe, " Can better far afford to be a poor And struggling man than you, a husband and A father, can afford to be without A shilling. Think a moment of your wife And child, and then I know you'll see the force Of what I say." " Besides," said Dick, " although This heavy loan will leave you straitened for A period, 'twill be but for a time ; Since once I am again in India, my Resources there will soon enable me To send you a remittance ; such a sum As amply will suffice to set you well Afloat again, till I can forward more And more, until the whole be gratefully Repaid." And thus it was agreed. By noon Next day the fate of Richard Middleton I 114 THE REMITTANCE. Was saved ; the fate of Bernard Thorpe was sealed : The one was free, the other bound — bound hand And foot to recommencement of his first Dull drudgery in early days, when he As .office-clerk, began the mercantile Career, day-dreaming of Dick Whittington, His humble origin, and glorious end. The time arrived for parting, and the two Took leave. "God bless you, dear old boy! good- bye ! When once I'm over there I'll forward the Remittance, never fear ! Expect it soon. Dear Bernard, generous friend!" And Dick set sail. Thus bare, thus cramped and maimed, A crippled man in capital and funds, Stout-hearted Bernard set to work to lay Again the first stone of his edifice. His building up a fortune regal in Its vastness. He began by practising The strictest prudence and economy, Retrenched his personal expenses to The merest need ; wore plainest garments ; took No recreation save his books and walks ; Reduced his household; lived on simplest fare ; But dwelt in the same roomy gloomy house. For three good reasons ; one, because he there Lived free of rent, since he had bought it for His own when he was rich ; the second was. Because it looked substantial, solid, like The dwelling of a well-established man ; The third, because to change it for a less Expensive one would challenge notice and Bespeak reverse and smaller means ; for he Endeavoured always to preserve the look Of being still as able as before THE REMITTANCE. 115 To meet all exigencies and sustain The business in previous magnitude. Its old repute, its long-established name, Its steady, firmly grounded credit, and Repute for punctuality and prompt Fulfilment of trade orders, constant in Its industry, activity for years. While Bernard's father was alive, and when The son succeeded him to be its head, Gave Bernard power to stem the tide Of difficulty threatening to whelm Him in its ilood : and still he toiled and toiled. And waited, waited, ever patiently, In expectation of the promised large Remittance coming from abroad, that might Redeem Dick's solemn pledge, as well as shield Himself from pressing calls, and urgent need To be prepared against ensuing chance Or imminent demand. But time went on ; And still no news from India, none from Dick. The lines increased on Bernard's knitted brow ; The crows of care began to set their feet With deep indent about his wistful eyes ; His cheek grew haggard, wan, with that sad look Is seen in faces early aged and worn By carking, pondering anxiety ; By absent-minded longing for some one Intensely wished occurrence; by a dull Persistent dwelling on a single strong Desire, to the exclusion of all else That's healthful, cheerful, hopeful for a man To think upon. Yet Bernard was still young, And hardly yet had reached the prime of life ; The more, then, was it sorrowful to mark I 2 ii6 THE REMITTANCE. The signs of that impending oldness in His face and its expression, with the bend Of his brown head ere it was grey, and stoop Of limbs that had not shrunk, but still possessed The firmness, suppleness, alertness of Their youth. He was a personable man, Of figure fine and tall, with countenance Refined, a forehead bland and thoughtful, eyes That glowed with generous fire, or softened with Benignity, and smile of sweetness most Ineffable : but all these comely points Were clouded by his growing care, and gnaw Of ever-biting keen solicitude. At last an Indian mail came in that brought The long-expected letter, which ran thus : " Dear Friend, — Alas for the remittance that I promised and I fully thought to send ! I've staked my last and lost : I thought to make One final stroke of fortune would repay You all, and more than all : but no, I'm ruined ; Ruined past redemption, past recall. I send you now, in lieu of the once-hoped Remittance, all that now is left to me — My beggared orphan child ; for orphan soon I feel she'll be : her mother is no more : Myself am struck to earth, am dying fast : This blow has killed me v/ith the bitter thought Of my poor girl thus left, and you unpaid ; I send her to you, Bernard, in my last Extremity: a charge instead of payment: And yet I know you will take care of her ; For have you not been always good to me ? Forbearing? Generous ? A more than friend ? Be kind to her, be kind to my poor Grace, If only for the sake of bygone times. THE REMITTANCE. 117 When I was your old schoolfellow and chum, Dick Middleton." The girl arrived : a slim Slight girl, scarce entered on her teens ; a shy And timid creature, with large eyes that shrank From gaze, yet seemed to fill her face, so out They stood above her pale, wan, wasted cheeks : A girl forlorn and unattractive she Appeared to Bernard Thorpe, as he at once Delivered her to Wilson's care, and gave His housekeeper the order to attend To all was needful for Miss Middleton. " An unformed girl, an awkward unformed girl ; " Was Bernard's muttered thought, as she withdrew ; " ' A charge instead of payment,' were the words Her father used, and true enough they are ; A charge indeed ! an onerous charge ! a charge The more for me to bear beyond what I Have had to bear: a charge entailing more Expense and outlay in the place of the Remittance promised, my own sum returned, Repaid: that sum so long expected, long Relied on, long and ardently desired ! That sum which would have helped to make me all I thought to be — a wealthy man, a man Respected as a reigning potentate Among his fellow-merchants, one who might Have raised high merchanthood e'en higher yet. What now is left me ? To remain for years A struggling man, an ever-struggling man ! But, patience, Bernard Thorpe, be patient still ! With patience, courage, persevering work. You yet may win the goal you've set your heart Upon. Till now you have relied on one Whose word you took : henceforth rely on none ii8 THE REMITTANCE. But God and your own self; be brave, be calm, Be firm and constant to your promised end ! " That end he more than ever held in view, Pursued, and still unflinching-ly resolved To gain : he laboured at his desk by night As well as day ; he spared nor toil, nor thought, No-r hand, nor brain : all day he spent in the Small pent-up city office, hard at work ; The evening he gave himself for brief Enjoyment of his dinner and his glass Of wine ; but long into the night he wrote. And looked into his ledgers, cash-accounts. His long ruled pages bound in calf, and all The rest of those important " books that are No books," according to the author-clerk Of London's venerable India House, Dear Elia, ever-honoured writer-friend. Sweet-hearted, witty, good and great Charles Lamb. The time allowed by Bernard Thorpe for rest. Repose of mind as well as hand, was when Just once in the whole four-and-twenty hours He saw the young girl, Grace, who had been sent So solemnly to his own guardianship And care. Her diffidence, her shyness, her Timidity, would fain have kept her from What she imagined might be taken as Intrusion ; but good Mistress Wilson would Not hear of Grace's dining anywhere But with the master of the house, and at The proper dinner-hour of set and state Repast for the chief meal of every day. She had her ready dressed and ready to Go down into the dining-room, against The well-known knock was heard, that she might there THE REMITTANCE. 119 Be seated to receive the merchant, when, Returning home, he ought to find and to Be met with welcome, was the sage and kind Assertion of the formal thoughtful dame : *' Foryou must know, my dear," she said, " that my Young master has lived much too much alone, In my opinion ; and he would be all The better for a little company ; Ay, even company of one so mere A girl as you are, dear, is cheerfuUer Than dining by himself: so you must go." Grace always went ; was punctual to the time ; And sat beside the fire, its bright red blaze Reflected dancingly, and lighting up With starry sparkles the small locket and The jet upon her mourning frock ; and so Brought into fuller, stronger contrast the Pale face and large dark eyes that spoke in dumb But plainly written characters the tale Of early saddened girlhood. There she sat In deepest thought, her loosely folded hands Across her lap, her eyes fixed dreamily Upon the coals, in which she seemed to see Strange pictures of the past old Indian life. Until came Bernard's knock, to wake her with A start from out her musing trance, and bring Her back to present life with all its yet More strange surroundings, as it seemed to her. When he came in she used to quick look up And see if in his face were aught amiss. Of coming change or fresh anxiety ; Then rose, and silently — as was her wont — Drew forward his arm-chair a little, as Presenting it, reminding him 'twas there Beside the fire ; and pointed to the rug 120 THE REMITTANCE. Where lay his slippers, warming, ready to Put on at once, ere he went up to dress More leisurely before they dined. All these Attentions, paid with utmost quietness, As quietly were taken by the man To whom they were so mutely offered ; for At most times Bernard was so absent, so Immersed in calculations and accounts. He rarely noticed what was passing. His Abstraction lessened somewhat as the meal Went on ; and by the time dessert was placed Upon the table, he became more free Of speech, more genial, more inclined to chat With Grace. She had been in the house some weeks. When once he said, while eating walnuts peeled By her, and put upon his plate with salt, In silence: " I've remembered, child, that I Ought long ere this to have bethought me of A school ; for I suppose you should be sent To school." He gave a sort of little sigh, As he said this, in thinking of the time That he must give to choosing some good school ; Some school well recommended, and well known To be a good one. " If you please," said Grace, With her large eyes raised suddenly to his, " I would much rather not be sent to school ; My mother used to tell me that she did Not like the thought of school for me. But if I'm troublesome or wrong in saying I Object, or telling you my mother's strong Objection, I will go to school." " No need, No need ;" said Bernard ; " we can think of some Still better mode of education ; for Of course you must be educated, child — THE REMITTANCE. 121 Now, mustn't you ? " " My mother taught me much," Said Grace ; " from quite a Httle, Httle girl She used to teach me all she knew, and take Great pains with me ; but I don't know ; perhaps I ought to learn some more. Do you think so ?" " I hardly know, indeed, myself," said he, With puzzled look ; " I know so little what Is reckoned right for a young lady's due And proper training ; but, if not a school, A governess might be engaged for you. Or teachers, masters, could come here at hours Appointed, certain days." " A governess Would want a salary, and cost a great. Great deal ; while Mistress Wilson takes good care Of me, and teaches me to sew and stitch, And lets me watch her make preserves and jams, With many other things it's well to learn ; And then there are the books upon the shelves In your small study, that she said I might Go into while you are away — you do Not mind it, do you ? — and from these I pick Out several I like to look at and To read." " You do ? " asked Bernard, much amused At Grace's quaintly stated plan for her Home schooling ; " but I should have thought those books You speak of much too dry to please the taste Of a young girl." " In one of them," said Grace, " I found a number of most curious prints, That entertain me always ; queer monkeys. Odd birds, strange places, heads of ancient men And women, monstrous fish and insects, all Of which I want to know about, and so 122 THE REMITTANCE. I read the pages near, and like that book Beyond the rest." " The Cyclopaedia, eh ? " Said Bernard, with a smile that lighted up His face, and long had been a stranger there ; " Well, well, your choice is rather different From what the usual run of damsels of Your age prefer ; but you are not among ' The usual run ' of girls ; and you know best, Of course, what interests and pleases you." " Not only pleases me, but teaches me," Said Grace, a little timidly, afraid That Bernard's manner might imply he thought She cared for nothing more than pastime in Her looking through his books ; " I learn while I Am turning over all those leaves, and if I do not learn enough, you can engage — ■ But, later on — some masters for me, if You please." " Ay, very well," said Bernard, much Relieved to find the matter settled for The present, turning as he spoke to where A writing-table always stood, that he Might go at once to work when food and rest Were taken. Grace was also glad to have Reprieve ; her haunting dread of adding to The merchant's outlay, when she knew his means Had been so straitened by that heavy loan. Of being one more burden among those Her father's act had laid on him to bear. Inspired her with a constant wish to save Him all expense, to spare in all she could, To try and aid him by economy. By active, helpful, frugal ways at home, And by avoiding for herself whate'er Cost money. Grace was thoughtful much beyond Her years : her mother delicate, she had THE REMITTANCE. 123 Been nurse, sick-cook, and comforter to her; Her father, thoughtless, lavish, careless, but Most fond of wife and child, had been of both The idol and the thought-for : thus it came That, from her earliest childhood, Grace had been Accustomed by her parents to be made Their little confidant in all their joys And griefs, their pleasures and their pains, their brief Good fortune, and their frequent intervals Of narrowed income ; causing her to have Reflection, patience, prudence, foresight, quick Perception, judgment, seldom seen in girls Of age so tender. One among the few Small luxuries that Bernard still allowed Himself at table, after his resolve To banish superfluities, was choice Though spare dessert, and strong black coffee formed, To him, its chief enjoyment. This he liked Made carefully, prepared with duest eye To preservation of its exquisite Aroma. On a certain evening He raised his coffee-cup, and sipped, and sipped, With extra relish of its grateful scent And flavour, till at length he asked : " Who made This coffee ? Mistress Wilson, I suppose, As usual ? Yet it seems to me she has Surpassed herself. But was it she ? I ought To be a judge of coflee, and I think I could be sure that this was made by some New hand. Who was it, Susan ? " " It was made To-day, sir, by Miss Middleton," said the Neat waiting-maid who served at table now 124 THE REMITTANCE. In place of Price, the butler, sent away When Bernard had reduced his household. " I Was sure I could not be mistaken ; it's Delicious ; quite a different, and still More delicate essential taste." He looked At Grace. Her usual paleness now had changed ^ To scarlet. " Mistress Wilson let me try," She said, in answer to his look ; " I had So often begged her leave to make it once, Because I wished to see if you would like The way I used to make it when I was In India, for my mother, who was fond Of coffee ; and she always liked it made By me." " I do not wonder ; so should I," Said Bernard, smilingly. " Would you ? " answered Grace, Delightedly. " Then might I make it for You every day — at breakfast time as well As dinner ?" " Certainly ; but breakfast time Is early, and requires you to be up At a still earlier time, if you would make The coffee ready for my breakfasting, Before I leave this house for office hours And City business." " I'm always up A good long while before your breakfast, and I will be sure to have the coffee made In time," she said. And so it was ; and Grace Was there to pour it out for him. Till then She had not liked to join him at that meal, Lest he, in hurry to be off, should find Her in the way ; but ever after, she Took courage, and both breakfasted and dined With him. Not only from the picture book, That drew a smile from Bernard, did she strive THE REMITTANCE. 125 To gather knowledge, but with diHgent Attention she read through most carefully The books he had thought " dry " for her, which in The study she had found ; they were a small But well-chosen collection, mostly works Of science, travel, and biography. They aided her to form her mind and fill It with a store of information, good, Available, and solid ; useful, fit To make her practical and sensible. She was already so, by nature and By circumstance ; her course of reading now But tending to confirm her previous bent. Another source of intellectual aid She had. There came sometimes at after-hours To Bernard's dwelling-house, on messages Of urgency, a young clerk from the house Of business in the City, who was sent Because he was a favourite of his, A steady worker and intelligent. This Henry Frankland worshipped Bernard ; but With certain awe and reverence inspired By former patronage bestowed upon Himself and family, and by the grave Reserve, with aspect dignified, that were The merchant's, even from his very youth. When Henry Frankland brought these messages It generally was when Bernard sat Enjoying his dessert ; but even that Gave way at once to business ; and he Went straight to where his writing-table stood, And wrote whatever letter, answer, or Directions wanted sending back for next Day's early morning post, first pointing to The dining-table, saying, hurriedly, 125 THE REMITTANCE. But kindly: " Frankland, help yourself to wine And fruit, or coffee, while I write this line." The " line " would often take an hour or two To write, as detail after detail would Suggest itself to Bernard's mind for each Minute and accurate instruction : thus It came that Frankland stayed, while Grace performed The hospitable duties, offering The cates to him, instead of letting him Attend upon himself; and often tea Was served ere Bernard had completed all He had to write. The first time Grace poured out A cup and offered it to Frankland, he, In tone subdued that might not interrupt The merchant as he wrote, said : " Shall I not Take some to Mr. Thorpe ? Will he not take Some tea ? " " No," was Grace's low reply ; " he But seldom drinks it till it's cold, and does Not like to be disturbed when writing; he Will come himself for some, if later on He care to have any; 'tis understood Between us ; so I never offer tea To him, but let it wait his pleasure." And Much low talk like this was held by Grace And Frankland, then and afterwards while he Awaited Bernard's written orders, and She brought her needlework, to give her hands Employment as she listened. For 'twas he That chiefly talked : habitually staid And sparing of her speech, Grace much preferred Remaining silent, when the clerk would tell Her what he thought might serve to entertain The lonely quiet girl thus living set Apart from all society, from all THE REMITTANCE. 127 Communion and companionship with those Of her own age. Till, by degrees, Grace learned To look for evenings when most probably Young Frankland might arrive with City-sent Despatches for the merchant; since she then Heard something of the outer world, and, what More interested her, some touches of That inner world wherein she dwelt and close Concentred all her thoughts. She heard from him Of Bernard's goodness to himself and all He dearly loved, when they in penury Were steeped, and, but for what the merchant did On their behalf, would probably have sunk O'erwhelmed : she heard from Frankland of the large Benevolence, the charity, the bland Mild kindliness that marked the merchant's mode Of giving ear to sufferers ; e'en when He could not give them aid in money, from His own less ample means, he furnished them With letters to his wealthier friends, and took Best pains to help them on their way to earn An independence for themselves. Besides These narratives, Grace gleaned from the young clerk Some knowledge that she wanted, for the clear And better comprehension of a branch Of information she had made her more Especial care to cull from those " dry " books She studied ; it was commerce, traffic, trade In mercantile and international Regard, she strove to understand ; and to Become acquainted with their various Requirements — skill in book-keeping, and in Arithmetic, in calculations of 128 THE REMITTANCE. Percentage, annual and compound rates Of interest, in home and foreign goods, In exports, imports, markets, prices, and The rest of those essential points for one Who wished to be proficient, and might be Efficient, as a merchant's helping-hand. She once heard Bernard say that his young clerk Was versed in business particulars. And first-rate as accountant ; so she asked Of Frankland help in certain points that still Perplexed her, and of which she could not quite Yet solve the mystery from what she read. Sometimes, when Grace's difficulties of Commercial study were adjusted, the Young clerk would turn to other subjects ; and, As gradually more and more at ease Became this murmured talk, he would confide To Grace some items of his personal Affairs ; as where his parents lived, and how He had an only sister, who with them Made home a paradise of peace and joy And comfort to him ; ne'ertheless, how he Looked forward, some fine da}', to make his home A still more happy one, by bringing there As wife a certain Lucy Mildmay, whom He loved and hoped to wed, when he should earn Sufficient income to support them all. Grace took great interest in this the first Love-story that her girlish life had known ; She felt a pride in being told so young Its secret, and she wished it all success With earnestness and warmth. It made a theme Of kindly social thought for her amid The solitary course her youth maintained. And yet, though solitary, it was far THE REMITTANCE. 129 From dull to her. She took delight in all She did ; and worked with zest at each pursuit With which she filled her time, in hope to make Her education what it should be, while Still keeping Bernard free from the expense Of schooling, governess, or masters. One Expense there was she could not spare him from ; For he himself insisted that she should Have an allowance quarterly, to spend As best she chose, for clothes, for trifles, such As all young ladies need, he had affirmed, And would not hear of any other plan. He told his housekeeper that Grace had showed Such great discretion, for so young a girl, In all she said about her learning from The books already in the house, he felt Assured she might be trusted to control Her own expenditure, and thought it best Young people should be early used to lay Out money for themselves, and learn betimes To regulate their income with a true And just economy. " I think so too," The dame had answered ; " and of all Young ladies that I ever saw. Miss Grace Is, sure, the cleverest at making and Arranging dresses, keeping them so neat and nice, So spick and span, they look bran new, Though now they're getting rather worn, it must Be owned ; but then they're still those same black frocks She brought with her from India — poor dear thing ! " " Then let her get some others," answered he. And so the subject of allowance ceased ; For Grace deferred to Bernard's wish in this As in all else. Her stipend once begun, K I30 THE^REMITTANCE. Among the first large purchases she made Was no less than a cottage piano, that She might keep up her music, taught her by Her mother, which she thought she could make means Of earning, if need were, some day ; and so She practised hard in her own room ; She also worked at drawing, sketching, as She had much aptitude for these. And fancied they, too, might be useful, if She had to earn ; for Grace was constant to Her character — prudent, provident, and wise. Two years slipped by with almost unperceived Transition, since she had been dwelling in The merchant's house ; when, after dinner, once, As Bernard sat engrossed with papers at His writing-table, Grace heard drop some words Of muttered worry from his lips : " How's this ? How's this ? To-night it seems as if I could Not reckon. Pshaw ! a simple sum like this ! Let's see, let's see ; the interest upon Eleven hundred pounds, at six per cent., For twenty-seven years, would bring — how much ? " He looked up for an instant, as in doubt, When Grace said softly, scarce above her breath : " One thousand seven hundred eighty-two, I think, sir, is it not ? " A cannon-shot Could hardly more have startled Bernard than This answer from a girl of Grace's age. He looked at her and laughed outright, a good Loud hearty laugh, a laugh that had not come From him for years. " Why, child ! " he said, " How long have you been mistress of accounts ? How long is it that you can tell about A capital with interest, and such THE REMITTANCE. 131 Hard-sounding mercantile up-reckonings ? "" Grace blushed bright crimson — partly shame to be Found out in what she secretly had learned, And partly with delight at Bernard's laugh ; For never had she heard him laugh — not once, Since she had known him : and the consciousness Of how his gravity was caused had oft Depressed her heart, which now leapt up at sound So new, so welcome. Through her blushes bright Her eyes were dancing ; and as Bernard looked At that young face, so usually pale, But now one glow of colour, vividness, And animation, wondered how he could Have ever thought her " unattractive," " You do not answer me," still laughing, he Continued : " Tell me how it is that you Have come to be a good accountant ? Why I might engage you as a clerk, if your Accomplishment be what it seems." " I ask No better," Grace replied ; " I'll be your clerk At home, if you will have me. You can try My services ; and if they please, they're at Your service, sir." She spoke with playfulness, Inspired by pleasure at his laugh. " But yet You have not told me how it is you gained Your clerkly knowledge ? " Bernard said. " I learned Much from your books ; and what I could not quite Make out from them, I asked your clerk to tell Me — to explain more clearl}', fully. He Had patience, and his explanations I Could always understand." " My clerk ? What do You mean? What clerk?" "The clerk that sometimes comes With messages to you. I heard you call K 2 132 THE REMITTANCE. Him Frankland, did I not ? " " Oh, ay, of course, Young Frankland ; yes, he is an excellent Accountant ; one well able to instruct You in the rudiments and science of Our noble mercantile pursuit : but still " — Here Bernard stopped, and said no more ; he turned To look again into his papers, while Grace plied her needle, happy in the thought Of Bernard's pleasant look and hearty laugh. And, after that, he often gladly used The clerkly knowledge and the clerkly hand Of Grace, in helping him to calculate And write ; he found her thoroughly well versed, Most competent, and ever happiest When she was busy helping him. Thus, two years more passed by unmarked, until One day an illness came to Grace : 'twas slight At first ; but soon became much worse, and then Proved fever ; fever that for long kept her A prisoner upstairs, nursed carefully And tenderly by good kind motherly Old Mistress Wilson, who from earliest Had taken Grace to her affection, loved Her like a daughter ; calling her " My dear " When speaking to herself, though always spoke Of her to Bernard, as " Miss Grace," and to All others as '.' Miss Middleton," with true Old-fashioned properness of due and right Distinction. Grace's illness was a time Of grief to all, for all had learned to love The gentle girl, so quaintly self-possessed, Yet modest, quiet, mild, in all her ways : But most of all the merchant felt the time While Grace was ill a period of grief And misery ; a want, a vacancy, THE REMITTANCE. 133 A blank, a loss, seemed fallen on his life; At breakfast how he missed the light quick step, So noiseless yet alert, that came to bring The coffee freshly made ; the sweet young face, So cheerful, placid, bright, that bade him a " Good morning," e'en before she spoke, and gave Him blithe " Good-bye " when he departed for The City ; but when most he missed her was Returning home for dinner ; missed the rest. The peacefulness, the soft repose yet cheer Of Grace's presence ; all the sympathy, The welcome, that her look, her tone, expressed Without the need of words to say how much His home-return delighted her. Instead, The news of " Not much better, sir, to-day," From Susan, with her former briskness now Subdued to stillness ; then the silence of The solitary meal, the sighs that oft Broke from him as he ate, in lieu of that Gay interchange of chat, which, since he had Become less absent-minded, she less shy And timid, passed between them while they dined. At length, however, came an evening When Susan met him with a brisker face And voice: "Oh, please, sir. Mistress Wilson bade Me give her duty and to say that if You'd like to come upstairs, sir, after you've Had dinner, she believes it wouldn't hurt Miss Middleton to see you, and to have A little chat for half an hour, as she's A good deal better, sir, to-day." He made An end of dinner very quickly, and He ran upstairs with lighter step than had Been his for days and days. He found Grace in A large arm-chair, propped up by pillows ; but 134 THE REMITTANCE. With beaming eyes, that shone like stars above Her hectic-flushed thin cheek, as he approached. The wavy chesnut hair hung loosely down Upon the muslin wrapper that took place Of those plain sober greys she wore when well ; Her arms fell languidly on either side, And wasted hand — when once it had been held Out greetingly to him — dropped feebly too. The shock of seing her so changed, so weak, Held Bernard silent, motionless ; while she Said little, in the joy of seeing him, " We're getting nicely on, sir, now," remarked Dame Wilson, cheerfully ; " we have been ill, Ay, very ill ; but we are coming round, I'm glad to say, and hope soon to be well, Quite well, and looking bonnily again." " We're looking ' bonnily ' already, as It seems to me," said Bernard, trying to Speak cheerily in tone. " These rosy cheeks Tell hopefully of coming health, I trust ; And, Grace, you've grown quite tall in this short time." " Ay, always during fever we grow fast," Said Wilson, with sententious primness ; " tall And slender — just a shade too slender, sir. Mayhap, at present ; but with feeding up And care we shall grow plump, and strong, and stout. All in good time." " Nay, ' stout ' we'll leave to you, Good Wilson," Bernard smiling said. " I meant, When I said 'stout,' " said Wilson, laughing at Her own full cheeks and double chin, " I meant, Of course, robust and hearty ; and I hope It won't be long before Miss Grace is that ; THE REMITTANCE. 135 For though she always was a slip, a mite, Yet wonderfully healthy, active in The house, she always was, that must be said. See what a pretty place she's made of her Own sitting-room ; it's all her doing, all Her planning and contriving ; and it cost So little too — ay, there's the beauty — cost A merest nothing ; for she worked at it Herself, and made the curtains, carpet, with Her clever little fingers, bless her ; sewed Away as if she got her living by Her needle ; stitched the seams, the hems, as though She liked tough work ; and then, by way of rest. Embroidered all these cushions, soft low chairs And footstools ; drew these pictures that are hung Around the walls, and " — " Stay, you must not thus Tell tales, nurse, out of school," said, laughing, Grace ; *' How you are running on." " My dear, I do So just o' purpose, making talk for you And master, that my patient mayn't be made To talk too much herself, the first time she Receives a visit." " ' Patient,' nurse}' ? It Is he that is the ' patient ' now, I think. If. you run on at such a rate." " No one •Can say that I am given much to talk," Said Wilson ; " goodness knows, I only talk To keep you lively, and amused, my dear, When you seem willing to enjoy a chat Sometimes while you are sewing at your work." " Suppose I say ' Good-night,' " said Bernard ; " if Allowed to come, I must not make my stay Too long, lest nurse should scold, and tell me that Our invalid exerts herself too much. If I behave with due discretion now. 136 THE REMITTANCE. I may, I hope, be promised I shall come To-morrow. Good night, Grace ! God bless you, Grace ! " As Bernard went downstairs he thought of his Last word. He had repeated " Grace " instead Of saying to her " child," as formerly : But now he felt he could not call her " child," He felt, while he was with her, that she had Become no longer like a child, a girl, A little creature sent to him for home, Protection, care, and guidance ; but a young And beautiful and sentient being, with A nature righteous, spirit wise and good, Well able to conduct itself by pure Instinctive innocence of impulse and Perception : no — no child ; but a young girl Irradiated, hallowed, by the bloom Of early womanhood that touched her with A saint-like glory, as she lay back there, So smiling, and so gentle, and so faint — More helpless than before, and yet more clad In spiritual strength, exalted, strong To help herself and others throughout life, If life were granted her. As Bernard's thought Arrived at this last clause, he inwardly Ejaculated : " God of mercy ! had She died, had she been taken from me, what Would life have now become to me ? A void, A weary, worthless void." He shuddered, turned From e'en the shadow of that possible, And drew his chair beside the fire that he Might dwell with thankfulness upon the blest Relief of knowing she was spared to him ; And then in mental fond review he passed Successively through all that Grace had been THE REMITTANCE. 137 To him ; her quiet unobtrusive help, Her pretty thoughtful, active, silent ways, Her never-failing punctuality, Her constant care, devotion, watchfulness For all his likings, comforts, and pursuits : No mother that he lost, no sister that He might have had, no chosen woman whom He might have made his wife, could better have Divined his every wish, or studied to Fulfil them pleasantly and welcomely. A something in this " might have been " there was That made the merchant start, as stung by what Had crept about his heart while musing thus. He rose abruptly, crushed the creeping thing. And turned to write till long past midnight, when All else but he had gone to rest. Next day, No sooner dinner done, than Bernard sent Upstairs to know if he might come and pay The invalid another visit, with Much sportive ceremony and parade Of deference to nurse's orders. She Sent down to say that " Master may, as soon As he thinks fit, and welcome, for we've made A great improvement since last evening." And Bernard found 'twas true; Grace looked much more Her former self, in quiet strength beneath A slender frame. The nurse permitted her To chat herself, and let her answer when The merchant spoke ; so he availed himself Of Wilson's gracious sanction, and addressed His questions freely to the invalid. He went about the room, examined its Adornments, praised their grace, simplicity, 138 THE REMITTANCE. And taste; then paused significantly, just Before the cottage-piano, looking straight At Grace. "Ah, yes," she said, "that was my one Extravagance ; but thought it well to make. Lest I should lose the little music that My mother taught me ; and I might have need Some day, I fancied, for accomplishments, In case I had to teach." " To teach ? " " Yes, teach ; Give lessons ; go as governess myself. If- you became unable still to keep Me here. Such things have been, I know; and if You had grown poorer, and could not have kept Me here, I should have liked to earn myself A living independently, and — who Can tell ? — helped you, besides, if you would let Me help." She spoke so gravely, with her own Old quaint and simple self-possession, blent With modest gentleness, that Bernard heard Her gravely in return. " You paid a large Amount for it, now, I suppose? " he asked. " A large amount for me to spend," she said ; " But not too much, considering what I Should surely lose had I not had the means Of practising." " Quite true," he answered, with A smile he could not now repress ; "you made A prudent calculation : how much gained By a judicious outlay, set against The price you pay — the best economy. And pray, now, may I ask what is it that You practise ? Playing, singing, what ? " "I play Four hours a day; and sing, at intervals, A couple more." " And might I farther ask. If I'm not indiscreet, to hear you play And sing? " said Bernard, laughingly. " I'm not THE REMITTANCE. 139 Accustomed to do either, as you well Can understand, to any ears but mine And nurse's ; but if you will promise to Be audience lenient as ourselves, I'll try My best." She had her chair wheeled over to The piano ; and played unaffectedly Some favourite pieces of her own, then sang A simple air or two she liked herself. Her voice was sweet, pathetic, capable Of giving full expression to a strain That needed feeling chiefly ; and her songs Were mostly these — soft Indian tunes, and scraps Of melody— regretful, wild ; replete With mournful, dirge-like, sad lament and wail. The merchant rendered duest homage by His silence and his moistened eyes, as Grace Concluded : she, a music-lover, well Could understand this best of praise. He then Resumed his walking round the room, and stopped At each successive sketch and picture ; found Them principally old remembered bits Of Indian scenery — rock, mountain, and ravine, Small fisher-hut, or ancient temple, with A single lofty tree of cocoa-nut. Thick jungle, tangled underwood, or else A river-side with boat fantastic-shaped. Amid them all there hung a portrait-sketch That Bernard knew at once — his old friend Dick ; The face was capitally hit — that look Of bright expectant eagerness and hope, So well remembered by the merchant, as He gazed upon the likeness. " Grace, did you Draw this ? " he said, at length. " I did," was her Low-toned reply ; " I took it once when he Was reading to my mother, full of glee I40 THE REMITTANCE. At news he had received : she thought it like." " 'Tis very Hke," the merchant answered with A deep-drawn breath — " poor Dick ! poor Dick ! " Grace had Been nervously observing Bernard, as He looked upon the crayon-sketch ; but when She heard his sighing word there came a light Into her face — a sweet glad light — a light That seemed a softened reflex of the bright Expression in her father's : " Then you love Him still ? I thought — I feared" — she stopped. " I loved Him from a boy, he saved my life ; I love His memory still, in thinking of his bright And kindly nature. Could you fear I ceased To love your father ? Dear old eager Dick ! " " I fancied — dreaded— the remittance that He failed to send, might cause you to" — " He sent A treasure, priceless household treasure, that Outvalues all the sums of India ! " said The merchant in an earnest under-breath ; And, for a moment, not a word beyond Was uttered by himself or Grace. He then Began to talk of other things, and fell To asking her about the simple white Soft draperies that curtained shadingly The windows in harmonious contrast with The grasslike green of carpet, and of walls That papered were with trellis, bowered in By woodbine, jasmine, climbing rose ; while round The base there ran a garland-bordering Of clustered ferns and wild anemones. Recalling rustic gardens, woodland glades. And pleasant, country, open-air retreats. THE REMITTANCE. 141 " How did you manage, Grace, to ornament Your room with all these elegancies for So small a sum as Wilson vouches that You spent ? You must not henceforth limit your Ingenious thrift to furnishing your own Apartments only ; through the house your care And taste must now extend ; and let me, too. Enjoy the pleasure and the benefit." " Most gladly," she returned. " I never dared Attempt a change downstairs; I fancied you Preferred to have all left exactly as It ever had been. Now beware the wave Of Grace's fairy wand ; its potency Shall be most fully tried, thus summoned by Your invocation ; you have called it forth To exercise its spell ; take care it does Not ruin you in articles undreamed Of by the former furnishers employed — Conventional upholsterers, with all Their heavy durable moreens and stuffs." " I'm reckless, Grace ! Perform your fairy will \ Be boundless in your magical behests ! And play the powerful enchantress in Your vast commands ! I can afford to meet Prosaic bills, and write out cheques, with aught Else may assist to summon up the aid Of ministering spirits you may need To bring you silks from Samarcand, or rich Brocades and damasks from the looms of far Cathay or Persia — where you will." " You talk Of bills and cheques, and such ' prosaic' charms Of incantation ; but methinks your thoughts Have wandered to the realms of poesy : I fancy I have somewhere seen the words Of • silken Samarcand ' and ' far Cathay.' " 142 THE REMITTANCE. " I know but little of the poets, Grace," Said Bernard, " saving one, who wrote a play Beginning with a spirited account Of what a merchant's haunting fears must be Lest ' rocks ' should split his ' gentle vessel's side, Should ' scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with her silks.' But let's return to prose — and understand That I am now no longer poor, but rich : You look surprised, Grace ; well you may ; for I Have gone on quietly at work to gain The ground I lost, through these few years, and made No outward change, although at present I Possess abundant wealth ; so, in plain prose, Be sure you use it freely, Grace, and turn The house to Palace of Aladdin in A trice." " Free use of cash, with liberty To use my taste, I have Aladdin's lamp," She answered, " therefore you may soon expect To see the magic change you authorise." But modern genii, although they're swayed To speed by money, still take time to bring About their transformations ; workmen once Within a house, the marvels of their slow Advance vie with the marvels they effect : So, while her gnomes wrought out her mandates with Precision equal to her own in all She ordered, Grace was taken down to the Seaside by careful Mistress Wilson, that She might recover perfectly before The mansion was arranged according to Her wish. The time of Grace's absence was A weary one to Bernard ; but he plunged THE REMITTANCE. 3 Into his merchant work, and slipped away At intervals from town, with pretext that He must tell Grace how gnomes and genii Got on while she played truant by the sea. At length the whole was finished, and return Was gladly made to the old London home ; Old home, but newly, tastefully adorned : The "roomy," now no longer "gloomy" house, Had brightness, cheerfulness, and elegance. The dining-room where Bernard so enjoyed His genial hour of rest, good fare, and chat, Was made chief scene of Grace's care and taste. The lumbering old sideboard, horsehair chairs Ranged side by side along in formal row. The window curtains, with their rigid folds Of stiff, unyielding, thick moreen, in hue A dingy brown half faded into drab, The clumsy girandoles, the ugly grate, The high old-fashioned chimney-piece, beyond One's reach, its marble yellowed through by stain Of smoke and age, the walls left pictureless And blank, with ponderous flock-papering That dull absorbed the light into its own Grim red — were all replaced by paintings choice, By sculpture exquisite, by colours of A delicate harmonious tint ; while the old Monotony of " willow-pattern " plates And dishes now gave way to porcelain Of dainty flowered device, set off by glass And silver, sparkling in a million rays Of shifting jewelled light — now amethyst. Now topaz, sapphire, ruby, emerald. As crowning loveliness to all the rest, Grace decked the table daily with rich groups Of ruddy fruits, placed on the frosted glass 144 THE REMITTANCE. And frosted silver of a branched epergne : While freshest flowers she placed with artist eye And fingers ; some in feathery sprays down drooped From crystal brim of a tall vase, some massed In flatter tazzas of Etruscan ware And form. Contrasted colour, shape, and scent Delicious, all were there to yield delight. Now Bernard's home was what a home should be, A shrine of beauty, comfort, and repose. Thus time moved on apace, and two years more Had nearly passed, when in the City was Announced a ball for some large charity That interested all the world, and roused The mingled sympathies of love for deeds Benevolent, and dancing. Bernard was Entreated by the Lady-Patroness To give his aid and to promote the thing. He sent a handsome contribution and Took tickets home to Grace, with smiling look, Demanding if she cared to go. " Of course You will. The question hardly need be asked. What girl would think of saying ' No ' to ball Proposed ? What sensible young lady would Refuse a dance? "Not I," said Grace, "the thought Of my first ball already flutters at My heart ; in part because it is my first, In part because I fear I may not know Enough of dancing to acquit myself With credit. But I mean to try, and if I fail, I can amuse my eyes, if not My feet, by looking on at others." " Ah, That shows how little of a dancer you Have ever been. I've heard that to a good Enthusiastic dancer few things are THE REMITTANCE. 145 More hard than playing the looker-on. Be that. However, as it may, I've asked the wife Of an old business friend of mine to act The chaperone, and take you, Grace/' " But you Will go yourself, will you not ? " she asked With quick look up ; " you do not mean to stay In peace at home, and shabbily leave me To go with this strange lady, do you ? " " No," Said he ; " for once I'll play the youngster, and Again enjoy a ball. For this one will To me be an enjoyment, since I mean To see how Grace ' acquits ' herself." " Don't go With sly intent to entertain yourself At my expense, and laugh at my defects Of inexperience ; for if you do I'll make you dance one dance with me, and show How your unpractised steps exceed my own In awkwardness." " I ask no better than You should accept me for a partner, Grace ; I fear the stoop my shoulders have acquired By years of bending o'er my merchant work At office-desk would make you hesitate, Ere figuring with one would cut so bad A figure in a ball-room. You would blush To have a partner like myself." He spoke In playful tone, but glanced with earnestness At Grace's face, which at the moment wore Just such a blush as he alluded to, While answering with smile should match his tone : *' You want a compliment ; you know how good The figure is, you thus — conceited that You are !— draw notice to, affecting to Dispraise. But fear not I shall e'er invite You ; lest I might become the envy of L 146 THE REMITTANCE. All ladies in the room." He could not quite Determine how much irony might lurk In Grace's laughing speech ; but hid whate'er Of trouble and disturbing doubt he felt Beneath responsive rallying. The night Arrived, and Lady Bullion came, arrayed In matron lappets, diamonds, and gown Of velvet, to conduct the novice, Grace : Who, robed in simple white, looked lovelier, The merchant thought, than any maiden he Had ever seen. He asked himself if this Could be the " unformed awkward girl " he called Her to himself when she had first arrived ; This graceful, modest, perfect creature, fair And beautiful in nature as in form. And others found her fair no less than he : Fat Lady Bullion vowed she was quite proud To have the charge of one who'd prove to be Without a doubt the beauty of the ball ; And the event confirmed her ladyship's Prediction. Partners pressed in numbers to Be introduced and granted leave to ask If she would hold herself engaged for next One after fourth ensuing dance ; and thus Did Bernard find he should have little chance Of the dance she had said she meant to make Him dance with her. But just as he began To give up hope, Grace beckoned him beside Her chair, and said with archness in her tone, But with a rosy flush upon her cheek : " You've seen how Grace ' acquits herself; should you Refuse to try how ' bad a figure ' you Would make with her as partner, if she told THE REMITTANCE. 147 You she has kept one dance — the promised dance — For you ? " For answer, Bernard took her hand, . His eyes expressing speechless joy, and led Her to her place, with more of triumph in His heart than had been there to gladden it Since he had been a happy boy, elate. With life before him, full of conscious power To reach his highest aim of glorious Achievement. But when once the dance was done, And Grace was claimed by younger partners, more Accomplished dancers, a reaction came: " Fool, self-deluder that I am ! Why do I let my thoughts take that most fruitless bent ? Why will they wander in that hopeless track I have so often told myself is closed Against me, past all chance of leading to The paradise of happiness that might Have been, were I a younger man ? She likes Me as her father's friend, no more. Be mute, Be patient, Bernard ! Be not you your own Misleader, and destroyer of what joy Is still within your reach. Her innocent Devotion and affection are now yours ; Why risk their loss by rash betrayal of Your deeper feeling for herself? Be mute, Be prudent ; rest contented with the share You have in her most gentle, loving heart, And lose it not by seeking love itself." But on the following day his self-communed Resolves were put severely to the proof. A certain Mayfair Baronet had seen The City Belle and danced with her. He asked Her name, her parentage, and found she was The ward of Bernard Thorpe, with whom Sir John Had had some money dealings recently. L 2 148 THE REMITTANCE. He called at once upon the merchant at His office ; and in easy way began To speak his mind : " Look here, you see, I'll tell You frankly what has brought me here to-day ; At your great City Ball last night I saw — Was introduced to your Miss Middleton — I danced with her ; I hear she is your ward ? " " She is my ward," was Bernard's answer, with A cold incline of head. " Well, then, she is, Without exception, the most beautiful — The finest girl I've seen for many a day. I was so struck with her, that — 'pon my soul — I came to you at once to-day to ask — A beauty such as hers excuses what May seem abrupt, unusual, my dear sir ; But she herself is so unusual in Her handsomeness that really, now, a man Can't help himself, you know. Of course, you staid, Calm, middle-agers hardly understand This sort of thing : you money-worshippers Can scarcely be expected to allow For hare-brained fellows like myself, who can't, By Jove, be prudent where a lovely girl's Concerned ; but still, dear sir, you'll pardon me For coming straight to ask you" — "What, Sir John?" Was Bernard's curt inquiry. " Well, to ask If you'll permit me — beauty, my dear sir, Is irresistible, and so " — " And so. Sir John ? " " And so, my dearest sir, you see, I come at once to ask your leave to court Miss Middleton — to offer her — to pay Her my addresses." " You're aware. Sir John, Her father left her portionless ? " " I've heard Some story of a loan not paid — of a THE REMITTANCE. 149 Remittance never sent — I'm not quite sure About the facts ; but think that I have heard Her father was a careless scamp, who " — " Stay," The merchant cried, " her father was my friend, My dearest, oldest friend. Sir John ; I will Not hear him spoken ill of." "Well, at least I've heard he was a thoughtless chap, who left His daughter without fortune ; you, dear sir. Just said as much, that she was portionless. Worth nothing, did you not ? " " Worth nothing ! —I? Grace Middleton worth nothing?" '■'■Has nothing. Dear sir, is what I should have said, of course ; I meant Miss Middleton is dowerless ; You understand ? " " Oh, yes, I understand," Said Bernard quietly. " But you may give Her something, though, yourself, you know, dear sir; She's almost like a daughter to you ; or Perhaps do something for her at your death." " My death ? " "Of course it's to be hoped that may Be long deferred, dear sir ; but when it comes, You know, you might leave something handsome in Your will." " My will ? " " Ay, in your will : of course A man like you, a wealthy man, a man So prudent as you are, has made his will. It needn't make one's death more near, you know. You must be getting on, though, now I come To think of it ; yet not by any means Advanced in years : to fellows like myself Of twenty-three, a man like you seems old. If fair the question, now, what is your age ? It can't be fifty yet." "Just thirty-six." " Indeed ! I should have given you more, I own. But then, hard work, you know, and laying up I50 THE REMITTANCE. The lucre, makes us all look older, eh? You'll think of my proposal, my dear sir, And give it the advantage of your own Good word, when you submit it to the fair Miss Middleton ? " "I promise you I will lay Before her your proposal for her due Consideration," answered Bernard Thorpe; " And now I'll wish you a good morning, if You please, Sir John ; my time is not my own ; I have appointment with the directors of North Western at eleven o'clock. I know You will excuse me." " Certainly, dear sir ; You wealthy City men are never at Your own disposal. We West-enders have Advantage of you there ; but as for more Substantial cash advantage, why — ha, ha \ It must be owned you have decidedly Advantage over us." Sir John took leave ; And that same evening, when Bernard sat With Grace beside the fire, he said: "You danced Last night with young Sir John Bodapperton." " I did ? " said Grace ; " I daresay that I did. And knew but little of the honour I Enjoyed, there were so many candidates For my poor hand to dance, I hardly could Distinguish them apart, still less by name. I think, though, now, I do remember that One name among the several that were Pronounced by Lady Bullion, when they came To bow and beg to be presented. He Is fair and lanky, is he not ? with just A morsel of light sandy whisker, that He pulled and pulled, while he was dancing, with The bright intention — as it seemed to me — • Of making it grow longer ere he'd done." THE REMITTANCE. 151 " You thought it ' honour ' to be asked to dance By him : what will you think when I inform You that he offers you the honour of Becoming, if you please, the partner of His life ? " " Of his ? " she answered, in a tone So unmistakably contemptuous, That Bernard laughed outright, and she in turn, To w.itness his amusement. " Poor Sir John ; I see that I shall have to break his heart By telling him of your refusal, your Point-blank refusal." " Well, please say that I Decline the honour he proposes ; that Will be the proper style, I fancy." " Ay, Exactly," Bernard said. " Among the rest Of those who danced with me last night, at least A dozen were worth fifty of Sir John ; And one there was, an old acquaintance, that I was quite glad to see again — your clerk. Young Mr. Frankland, who so frequently At one time used to come with messages To you. I've often meant to ask you why He never comes of late ; I hope he still Is with you as a clerk ? " " Yes," Bernard said, " He still is in our house of business." " Then how is it he never comes now to Your dwelling-house ? I feel quite sure he has Done nothing that should forfeit your esteem. I know he prized it highly, and from what I know of him, I'm confident he can Have done no ill." " You speak with warmth, Grace, you Avouch your confidence in one of whom You've seen but little ; what can you have known Of Henry Frankland that should warrant such Full confidence in his desert ? " "I speak 152 THE REMITTANCE. With warmth because I warmly feel," she said. " I feel quite certain Mr. Frankland has Committed nothing base, unworthy ; no Dishonourable action that should cause You to forbid his coming here ; now tell Me, has he ? " *' None," said Bernard, drily. " I Was sure of it ; I told you so ; I knew He could have done no ill. From what I've seen Of him, I feel that he's incapable Of meanness or disgraceful conduct ; and In justice, nothing less should make you change The former friendliness you showed him, And damage his good name by letting him No longer enter your own private house. Consider, how his feelings will be hurt. And how his prospects injured by so marked An alteration. Knowing well the high And honouring regard he has for you, The gratitude he feels for all you've done For him and his, I can imagine his Unhappiness, to find himself no more Entrusted with your messages, nor sent, As previously, to your own home. Forgive My warmly speaking — if too warm it be — But I feel earnestly in this ; and I Must always speak to you exactly as I feel." " Nay, God forbid you ever should Do otherwise," said Bernard, warmly as Herself; " but how, Grace, comes it that you know So much of Henry Frankland's character. Of what I have done for him and his. Of his regard, his gratitude, to me ? " " I saw a great deal of him when he used To come and wait while you wrote out replies To papers that he brought," said Grace ; " you know THE REMITTANCE. 153 I told you how I asked him to explain Whatever I could not make out from books On calculation and accounts : well, when All that was done, he sometimes talked of you, And sometimes of himself; and all he said Convinced me of his grateful nature, of His honourable character ; so I Was sure he could have done no act that ought To forfeit him your trust." " He used his time With good effect, and made the most of it," Said Bernard bitterly ; " it seems he talked So eloquently of himself, that you Imbibed impression of his worth enough To render you his advocate and make You plead his cause with warmth and fervour that Might fill with envy any other man Less favoured. What would poor Sir John have said Could he have made a like impression ? " " He ! " Said Grace, with scornful emphasis again. " Sir John's not worthy to be named with such A man as Henry Frankland ; though the one May be a baronet, the other but A merchant's clerk." " The merchant's clerk Is to be envied, Grace, if he have gained The favour that the baronet has sought In vain." " The 'favour' ? " echoed Grace, at length Observing Bernard's strangely bitter tone Of sadness. " Yes, your favour, favouring Opinion, preference." *' I have a high, A very high opinion of the one. While of Sir John, I fear, 'tis very low ; But if by ' preference ' you mean the sort Of liking asked by the lank Baronet, For neither of them have I that," said Grace, With laughing frankness. " All the better for 154 THE REMITTANCE. Myself it should be so," continued she ; Since Henry Frankland told me once his hope To marry Lucy Mildmay, his betrothed, When better salary shall justify The match." " To marry ! " Bernard cried, in tone Now clear as clouded 'twas before ; " I've heard No word of this : how comes it that you know A secret so important, while to me 'Twas never breathed ? " " He thought me likely, I Suppose, to sympathise with what he said ; Of you he has too great an awe ; and feared. Perhaps, you might not quite approve ; or, still More likely, dreaded mentioning his wish. Lest it might seem like begging you to raise A salary that you yourself had been The means of his obtaining." " ' Awe ' of me ? He thinks most probably that I'm too old To have much sympathy with lovers, and Their hopes of marriage." "You! too old?" said Grace, With genuine surprise. " Too old to think Of love, to care for love ; and if he should, What wonder ? An old bachelor like me Is sure to be regarded as stone deaf To lovers' hopes, and dead to love itself." A sudden pang of vital agony. That gave sharp negative to Bernard's words, Shot through him as he spoke, and made him start From forth his chair to pace the room in wild Disorder irrepressible. Then by An effort, mastering himself, he came To Grace's side, and strove to steady down His voice to more of calmness as he said : " I can no longer bear this torture of Perpetual struggle to suppress the truth. THE REMITTANCE. 155 Grace, what would you think were you told by me A love-story? Would j'ozf think me too old To care for love ? Would you believe me deaf And dead to love ? " " Too old ? " again said Grace ; But now with agitation in her tone, Besides surprise ; " confide to me your love You'll have my sympathy, believe me ; your Commencement tells me that your story is Of hopeless love ; how strange it should be so ! How stranger still I never guessed you loved ; Yet saw you all that is most loving and Most loveable. But tell me who she is : I know so little of your outer life, you know ; I only know you in your home." Grace spoke With firmness, spite of agitation and A secret pain she ne'er had felt before ; But very low and gentle was her voice. " It is my inner life I tell you of," Said Bernard. " True,'' Grace answered ; " what I meant Was life outside this house — your friendships, your Attachments, which are all beyond the sphere Wherein I've seen you, known you, learned to make You centre of my interest and thought." A little tremble came in Grace's voice As she said this, but she went on : " You need Not fear indifference because I do Not know the lady ; I shall feel for you." " You have not heard my story, Grace," he said. " No ; tell it me." " You do not know how mad, How rash I've been ; how I have let my thoughts Entwine themselves around perfection in A gentle woman's shape : a creature so Endowed with every quality of good. Of tender, and of true ; of sensible, 156 THE REMITTANCE. Of gifted, and of prudent ; of modest, Of diffident, devoted, kind ; withal So beautiful, and — more than all — so young. That my own difference of years makes such Enamoured sense of her fair excellence No less than madness, and consignment of Myself to hopeless, endless misery — Unless, indeed, this young, this beautiful Perfection could perceive the youth of heart. The freshness of affection that survive To render years of small account, and serve As sacred light to cast into eclipse Defects that else would be but only too Apparent. Grace, 'tis you, 'tis you alone That can decide this doubt which long has made My secret torment of suspense, and now Impels me to speak out, that I may learn At once the worst — or best." As Bernard spoke; There spread a gradual beam of happy, glad Delight o'er Grace's face, a radiance of Content, that made her look as beautiful As even his adoring words proclaimed. He was not slow to read the speaking look ; And murmured : " Grace, you do not bid me fear The ' worst '? " " I bid you know the ' best '—if ' best ' You call the certainty that you have long Been loved by Grace ; unconsciously, but yet Most deeply, truly : without knowing it Herself, she must have loved you from the first, I think," she said, with sweet ingenuous eyes Soft raised to his. " When first she came to you, A helpless, timid girl, afraid to find Herself a burden and a worthless charge, A graceless, profitless young thing, you let Her try her best to expiate the wrong THE REMITTANCE. 157 Her father did you ; suffered her to help You and endeavour what she could to make Your home a home to you ; well might she learn To love you with a love that was at once Revering, grateful, worshipping, and fond ; Spontaneously it sprang, and unawares It grew to be the love you wish ; ay, love Itself." He folded her within his arms, And drew her to his heart of hearts. " My Grace, My own, my wife ! From first to last you've been A wife to me, a priceless home delight And treasure ; wifely in your childish care And ministry, most wifely in your youth Of sympathy and aid in my pursuits ; Now wifeliest in your acknowledged love. A thousandfold you have redeemed the pledge My old friend gave, and made me nobly rich : My Grace has proved the best remittance that Her father could have sent to Bernard Thorpe." 158 AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. With fog and mud and drizzling rain the town Was murk : the very gasHghts blurr'd with damp, Thick, heavy air : the sky hung hke a pall Above the houses dimly seen in rows Of shadowy height. A carriage stood before The portal of a stately mansion there. As ready for its mistresses : to take Them forth to some bright scene of dance Or festive music, ball, or opera ; Where lights and luxury were things of course, As much a portion of the scene as were_ The mud and darkness of the streets that night. Upon the pavement, like a half-seen ghost. There loiter'd near the figure of a girl, A woman ; something feminine of form, But most unfeminine withal ; a creature With lost abandon'd look, a dogged look Of bold defiance, yet a scared and dread Expression, as of a hunted-down wild beast. She stood with savage glance, half furtive, half Disdainful, reckless, impudent ; a glance Not good in any human face, still less A woman's ; there she stood — and shrank and shiver'd Thin wrapp'd in her old threadbare shawl and gown. With gaunt wan cheeks, and restless sunken eyes. All youth and freshness seemed gone out of her, Although but twenty autumns she had seen. And yet a touch of childlike fancy lurk'd AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 159 In what she did — to stand there gazing at The grand luxurious carriage, and to wait Until its mistresses came forth, that she Might see their dresses — that was all — their dresses ! To stand there, shivering in the wet and cold, That she might catch a glimpse of finery And rich attire ! so potent is the taste For elegance and grace in girlish mind. It rath-er sees a handsome dress adorn Another, than see no good dress at all. And yet this girl half mocked herself for so Remaining there : " Why should I stay ? What for? I know what I shall see ; some haughty minx Step out, and trip across the pavement damp In satin shoes ; like a sleek cat, that can't Abide to wet its squeamish velvet paw. Proud cat ! what right has she to be so fair And fortunate, and I so foul and poor ? Forsooth, because she's born a lad}^ I A nobody ; one doomed to be a drab. An outcast, refuse of the pavement edge. The gutter ; filth that's only fit for drains And sewers, made to drift away the orts From cities. Ay, what better am I than The dirt and offal swept along yon kennel ? While she" — By this, the mansion door was flung Wide open, and a burst of light appear'd Within the spacious hall, that showed where down The stairs came stepping with a stately pace A lady elderly and portly ; cloaked In furs and ample folds of costly silk. Two powder'd footmen waited her descent ; Two more attended to the carriage-door. And gave their aid, while she placed foot upon i6o AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. The step and made the Ught-hung carriage swerve And swing with her important weight, as in She stepp'd. Then down the stairs came gHding soft A graceful figure ; Hthe and easy, quick In movement, yet composed, and full of that Possessed demeanour that belongs to those Brought up from childhood never to commit A single act of awkwardness or aught Ungain. The figure had a face that match'd In beauty and attraction : bright, and young, And very frank ; beaming with kindliness ; Sweet violet eyes, and mouth like rosebud fresh. A little hood of blue and swan's-down clos'd Around the winning face, and seemed to pet And fold it in with loving warmth, as if 'Twere glad to nestle near and minister To so much loveliness : and on she came, This young bright lady beauty, and stepp'd out Into the night, where stood the outcast girl. From moment that she first caught sight of that Sweet lady face, the girl had fix'd a rapt And fascinated gaze upon its beauty ; She seemed unable to withdraw her eyes, And made involuntary movement forward To look the more intently at the face That so enthrall'd her. " Now, young woman," said The footman, " where are you a-coming to ? Stand back, and don't block up the way ; stand back ! " " Take care, Nathaniel ; " said the lady voice In gentle tone ; " take care, or you will throw The poor girl down ; don't push her off so roughly. How pale and scared she looks ; she totters— is She ill ? " " No, no, my lady ; no, not she : AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. i6i She's drunk, I think." " Poor thing ! Poor girl ! " and with A look compassionate, the lady young Moved slowly on and stepped into her coach. It rolled away ; and with it passed the fair Bright vision that had bless'd the eyes of her Who gazed, and left her haunted. Like as one That, after many dreary weeks of fast From seeing the green fields, has spent a day Amid their glories, still beholds a host Of leaves and boughs beneath his lids whene'er He shuts his eyes, so this girl's sight was fraught With images of the fresh beauty she Had seen ; it seemed to fill her senses to Th' exclusion of aught else ; to take the place Of darkness, wet and mud ; to let her see No other than its radiant self, and flood Her eyes, her thoughts, with brightness, purity And beatific grace. She drew a deep Long sigh, and turned to go, as if she walked In sleep, possess'd by some entrancing dream. " She look'd at me — she pitied me — she would Not let the fellow drive me off! Good heart ! It looks from out her face ! That bright young face!" Thus coursed her still-recurring thought, as back She took her way through crowded thoroughfares And jostling passers-by. Night after night The girl returned to linger in the square. Where she had seen the face that spell-bound her. It drew her there ; it kept before her eyes All day, and fill'd her with the need to go At night and see its veritable self Again and yet again. It came to be U i62 AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. The object of her idolising fancy, The one bright starlike point in all her grim And dingy life's horizon : something that Supplied the famine of her heart for goodness, For purity, for kindliness, and beauty — All things that are instinctively a want To even natures most depraved by vice And vicious teaching ; yearn 'd for, p'rhaps, un'wares : But still they're yearn'd for, bent to, ay, and held In secret worship. So by her. She learn'd The name of her young lady cynosure, The rank, the whereabout, the daily wont ; She follow'd all her doings, knew her hours For driving out, for riding in the park, For visiting, for being at home ; and when She went to Court — and what the dress she wore ; Spell'd out the newspaper that gave th' account Of Lady Blanche de Lyle's costume at last Court ball or drawing-room : and when the time Arrived for all the London world to flock Away from town, she read of how the Earl And Countess Chute, with Lady Blanche de Lyle, Their daughter, had departed for their seat In Oxfordshire ; and then a blank seemed Fall'n on the city which no longer held The bright young lady star of her adoring ; But still she search'd the columns of each old Stray paper that e'er chanced into her hands For news of where and what her charmer was And did ; would hang enchanted o'er the lines That told of how the Lady Blanche rode to The Meet ; of how her Ladyship was seen To follow with great spirit through the run ; And how her party came up with the hounds, And she was chosen County Beauty to AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 163 Receive the fox's brush ; or how, at some Great archery affair, the prize was won By Lady Blanche de Lyle ; or how the Earl And Countess Chute and family were soon Expected back to town : then leaped the heart Of her who read ; and felt she then as if A light were shed around, and all things seemed The brighter. Spring was come : and e'en into The town came some reflection of the hues That flushed the vernal meads and skies away From smoke and grime ; soft slants of sunshine touched The tops of houses, fell upon the sides And angles of the tall white mansions, or Upon the long brick ranges of the streets. And glorified them with effects of light ; Above the roofs, a line of tender blue Took place of that grey streak that mostly marks The ridge where housetops meet the firmament In London ; wafted scents of balmy air Come playing through the thoroughfares at dawn. And carry sense of open downs afar Where grass and thyme are swept by breezy gusts Of morning wind, that crisply dry the drops Left by some passing shower of the night ; The baskets of the primrose-sellers bring Sweet thoughts of turfy banks rich-cover'd with The dainty yellow blossoms pale ; the cry Of " Violets, sweet violets! Come buy My violets 1 " recalls the shady lane Where 'neath the hedge lurk coyly the blue gems Of modest loveliness, like true and gentle eyea • That lie in wait to bless the look which seeks To win them earnestly : the parks have lost M 2 i64 AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. Their brownest driest tint, and something like Green sward carpets their centre space; their drives Are neat and smooth, and sprinkled duly by The dust-bedewing water-cart, that sends Its gush of wide-shed silvery jets adown In plenteous stream, and mimics well the fall Of mighty cataracts, cascades, that pour Their sheeted weight o'er rock, and fell, and steep. The grand old elms of Hyde put forth their leaves; St. James's and the Green Park wear a look Of urban-rural verdure ; while the trees Of gardens Kensington rise massively Against the western sky, their emerald tufts Of tender shoots and budding leaflet-sheaths Soft woven into one broad velvet surface Bespreading all those swelling curves that look At distance like the domes of sylvan fanes, Green cupolas. Tall beeches with their large Expansive branches, fanlike stretching out ; The grace of drooping birches, silver-stemm'd. The stately growth of regal oak ; the boughs Of Spanish chestnut, horrent with their spiked And taper leaves, the vividest of foliage ; The straight horse-chestnut, almost clumsy-shaped, So round and heavy is its outline, with Those formal rows of blossoms white and red Uprising one by one, a pyramid Of girandoles ; and yet formality That has its handsomeness among the more Irregular design of neighbour growths. The spring had brought out early token of The summer promise by and by ; and town Was smiling with the sunny sheen of May, When May is May indeed in dear old England. The girl had sauntered to the rails that skirt AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 165 The level line of Rotten Row ; to watch For that gay cavalcade of riders, men And women, mounted on the finest beasts. Equipped in trimmest trim ; among them there She looked for one, the fairest in her eyes ; The slenderest of waist, the winsomest Of form ; the one whose habit fell in folds Of sweep most graceful, with the hat that had The feather most bewitching in its droop Against the rich dark hair and rosy cheek And throat of purest white. And, hark! yes, hark! Now ! clatter-tramp, clatter-tramp, clatter-tramp ! On, on they come, pelting along, a throng Of gallopers, a crowd on horseback, at Full speed ! a sound of rippling laughter light, A merry buzz, ran pattering among The thump and clatter of the horses' hoofs, As on they raced. When suddenly a stop, A reining-up, a check confused of all The riders, as a wretched urchin boy Quick darted, close beneath the very feet Of the advancing throng, to cross the road. An oath of angry sympathy escaped The lips of sundry gentlemen ; a cry Of horror from the lady horsewomen : Bent down with pitying looks and eager voice The young sweet face, to ask how fared the lad ; If he were hurt — if badly — if 'twere much. They took him up and lifted him away ; And bore him to St. George's Hospital Close by ; the girl still watching how her own Bright lady star (as now she always called her) Went sorrowing after him to hear What said the surgeons to the case, and if They thought the boy would die, or whether they i66 ^iV IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. Deemed hopefully ; and rode away with sad Soft mournful eyes, when she was told there was But little chance for him. " Poor ragged Bill 1 " The girl low mutter'd to herself — (she knew The boy — a crossing-sweeper orphan lad — A reckless daring chap, in fifty scrapes A day) — " Poor ragged Bill ! I wish it had Been me had been run over, 'stead of you ! I'd give my life to have her look like that For me ! her eyes were wet, ay, really wet ; She has a feeling heart, a true kind heart, My own bright lady star ! " And after that. She noted not a day pass'd by without The Lady Blanche's going to inquire How fared the boy : and when she heard he would Recover, went to see him, took him help, And sat beside his bed with kindly words ; And when he left the hospital, she put Him to a school, where he might learn to gain His bread, and be a steady honest lad. And now the girl's fond worship knew no bounds ; It interblent itself with all she thought And did : she breathed it with her very breath ; It was her vital air of moral good, The one sole element of purity She lived in. From it came to her a sense Of better things ; of beauty in good deeds. Of trust, of truth, of virtue, in their own Divinest essence ; abnegation and Disinterestedness ; benevolence, And pleasure in the gentle exercise Of charity and kindliness ; the joy And solace of indulging generous thoughts Of others ; and the comfort in mere trying To rise above the slough of selfishness ; AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 167 Th' ineffable delight of impulse to Be good for goodness' sake : all these became Unconsciously apparent to the soul Of her who consciously beheld the bright Young beauty of her lady star, and saw Its fair effulgence — visible reflection Of spiritual life within. The girl, With softened nature, fell into the way Of thinking over things that ne'er before Had struck her, while she leaned against The back of some park-bench, and watch'd the sun Sink slowly down behind the distant trees Of bosky Kensington. " How glad I am I've seen her, known her 1 " Thus her musings ran : " I'm better for my love of her ; it makes Me feel the better, do the better — try, At least. I can't be pure, like her, of course ; I can't be good, like her ; but I can give Up things I like to do, as she does ; I Can do things that I do not like to do, As she does. How she'd give up, day by day, Her rides and drives to go and see poor Bill ! And how she'd sit and listen to his talk. Poor chap, and make him tell her how he felt And what he did, and how he lived, and where ! She couldn't much ha' liked all that o' course ; But she did it, ay, day after day. She did it, 'cause she know'd it did him good ; She did it, 'cause she know'd 'twas right and kind. And how she used to look when out she come From sitting with him ! how her bright young face Was just as if the sun was on it, like ! Her eyes all sparkle, and her cheeks flush'd up As if she'd heard some joyful news, or had Some present given her — my beauty bright ! i68 AN IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. How God must love her ! how He must be pleased With her ! — God help me ! I've heard tell of God : I wonder what he thinks of such as me. I didn't make myself the thing I am ; Perhaps he knows all that, and won't be hard With me because of it. Perhaps he sent Me her to make me better ; who can tell ? Perhaps he sent me her to love and think About, that I might be more happy, and Have something I can call my own that's good. Who knows ? At any rate, I've got her, and I'm glad and thankful that she's mine, mine, mine : I've made her mine myself, by loving her And watching her, and calling her my own, And feeling somehow that God gave me her." And time went on : and still the outcast girl Kept loving watch and worship, secretly. At lowly distance ; most content, nay, glad To know and be unknown, and make of that Pure lady bright her own life's guiding star. One day — a burning day, when the hot sun Came flaming out, and shone with tropic force — A day when London pavements struck a glare Like Afric sands against the eyes, and walls Reflected oven heat, scorching the hands Unwary laid upon them, casting o'er The shoulders an oppressive copper cloak, As walkers dared to skirt along their length — A day when shade became necessity, And people cross'd the way to gain a strip Of darkly cool relief — a day when dogs Were eyed askance and shrunk from with distrust — A day when beggars crawled away from spots Where usually they bask'd, and sought instead Some friendly refuge from the glow and warmth Of afternoon — a day when idlers most ^A^ IDYL OF LONDON STREETS. 169 Complain of languor, weariness, and bore Of having nothing upon earth to do ; While workers half incline to envy them Their power to sit at ease and lounge away The lazy hours, attempting to get rest — A day when eating is a task, and naught But ices seem a possible approach To food — a day when broil and brazen dazzle Seem wholly to pervade the air, and make A furnace of the town — on such a day As this the girl beheld, with beating heart, A carriage she well knew draw up before The entrance to a fashionable shop, Its glittering front o'ershaded by a blind Of ponderous slope ; out stepp'd a youthful form Of graceful buoyancy, and took its way across The flagstones at the very moment that The iron uprights of the blind gave way, Made sudden slip from some unwonted cause. And let the weight descend with crushing force. The girl, who saw the peril at a glance, Dashed forward, thrust the lady back, herself Receiving the whole brunt of the descent ; And dropp'd to earth, felled by the deadly blow. In that precedent particle of time Who knows what compensating flash of thought Was then vouchsafed ? The brain perchance conceiv'd The consolating image: " Death endured For her ! For her, my own bright lady star ! Thank God for letting my life purchase hers ! " And then there stood beside the fallen girl The lady pure, with hallowing tears of ruth Shed o'er the bruis'd and bleeding form of one Who died to save, of one whose instinct taught 'Twas blessedness to nobly sacrifice The erring self for innocent belov'd. 170 LINES FOUNDED ON AN INCIDENT AT THE BATTLE OF MELAZZO, RECOUNTED BY AN ITALIAN VOLUN- TEER IN THE SICILIAN BAND OF PATRIOTS UNDER GARIBALDI. Our night bivouac on that lone ground, The ruined castle on the hill, Our sleeping soldiers scattered round. The summer air so calm, so still, The watchfires casting fitful light — Now deepest shadows here and there, ' Now patches lurid red or bright — All soft subsiding into where The distant eastern sky began To pale and streak with coming dawn ; That dawn the herald to each man Of struggle 'gainst the yoke had gnawn Into his soul : I see it now — The whole of that impressive scene — My fellow-soldiers lying low. Steeped in their death-like sleep serene — (Alas, how soon it might be death Itself, I thought!) — the night — the morn — The starting up with earnest breath — The snatching up those arms we'd borne Already in the sacred cause — The eagerness of forming ranks, Without a moment's stint or pause — To join the glorious brave phalanx LINES, ETC. 171 Of him who led us on to gain Our heart's desire, our country's trust, Full freedom from the galling chain So long had crushed us in the dust. We found him, Garibaldi, there, Alert and ready for the strife ; His mouth firm-set, composed his air; Yet in his eye a fire and life That spoke his purpose glowing, strong, Unquenchable, as from the first It ever hath been : there among Us all he stood, his look athirst For action ; quiet all the rest. And calm, and simple ; one brave hand On sword, and one on hip ; his breast With no more corslet than the band That carelessly about him girt The red, the well-known martial shirt. He sent our small battalion forth To make a passage good across A bridge of most important worth : With some advantage, and some loss, We faced a battery defended By certain Naples cacciatori : On this, we knew full well, depended The great, the enviable glory — Achievement of the bridge. A roar Of guns now summoned us away And farther on : the thunderous pour Of cannon, and the lightning play Of bayonets, marked well the spot : There stood our General, face to foe, 172 LINES, ETC. Unmoved amid the hail of shot, As if he fated were, or no Perception had of fatal risk ; Right cheerfully he looked, and brisk. At sight of him, so gallant-brave, So gay, in peril of his life, My fellows burst into a rave Of " Viva Garibaldis ! " rife ; And " Viva Italias ! " rent the sky : I led the charge, and on we rushed : When, seeing us, he raised on high Both arms; and, running towards me, crushed Them down with heavy blow of fist Upon my chest, outshouting clear : — " Go back, you madmen ! Back ! Desist ! You'll all be cut to pieces here ! "* But nothing could have thrust me back : I saw, to gain that post was all In all ; a second rush, attack, And charge, in front of cannon-ball Not forty paces off; around I glanced : but four or five were near — My faithful " valorosi," bound By brotherhood of buying dear Our fondly hoped success at last : The path was strewn with dying, dead ; Some breathless struck, and prostrate cast. With gaping wounds that oozed and bled ; Some staring wide with stiffening eye ; Some placid-smiling as a child ; Some with a last despairing cry, A tortured prayer, or farewell wild. * Garibaldi's actual words are even more roughly strenuous in his own vernacular: "Jw dietro, canaglia, che andate a far vi massacrare ! " LINES, ETC. 173 Beside me kept my valiant friend, The brave Lombardi, who had dashed Among the foremost ; a cruel rend Of musket-shot his right hand smashed : And I was struck upon the breast So stunningly I almost thought I must be killed ; but then a test I still survived was swiftly brought In shape of pain — another ball Came piercing through my leg, and told Me feelingly I lived : my fall Was only groundward : whence I rolled And crawled to shelter of a house : Behind its corner there I found A group of comrades refuged close, With Garibaldi safe and sound ; Though near and round them flying still The balls came whistling loud and shrill. Brave Migliavacca sudden dropped, A ball had struck him on the head ; Our eager talk it scarce had stopped, Ere we beheld him lifeless, dead ! And while with pitying shuddering gaze We looked upon him, Cosenz next Received a shot that open lays His throat ; but he with laugh unvext Declares " 'Tis nothing, not a wound To signify." Ay, one and all, We'd reason to exult and sound A victory ; since that day's fall Beheld us masters of the field — Th' important bridge was ta'en and passed, Melazzo's self was forced to yield — A conquest surely not our last. 174 TIME'S HEALING. Time worketh wonders in his onward course : To those who bear their burdens with meek heart He lendeth courage, energy, and force. Then, "bring forth fruit with patience," O my soul ! Time creepeth with a feeble ling'ring pace, He bendeth down his aged back and stoops ; Yet aids the suff'ring in their toilsome race. Then, " bring forth fruit with patience," O my soul 1 Beneath the shelter of his soft dusk wing He leadeth on in welcome shade to peace, And gently smoothens every rugged thing. Then, " bring forth fruit with patience," O my soul ! His scythe, with noiseless surely sweeping swath. Mows down abuses, prejudices, wrongs ; Induces amity, assuages wrath. Then, "bring forth fruit with patience," O my soul I His kind old hand, for all its trembling eld, Hath oft the skill to disentangle knots That we have hopelessly intricate held. Then, " bring forth fruit with patience," O my soul ! The silent dropping of his hour-glass sand Is like the unheard stealing on of "joy " That " Cometh in the morning" from God's hand. Then, " bring forth fruit with patience," O my soul ! 175 MEANWHILE. A REVERIE OF " SWEET SIXTEEN." Repeating sophisms worn and tame In self-complacent even tone, They tell me 'twill be all the same When fifty years are past and gone : But what, meanwhile ? They bid me think, when I am old How trivial, slight all this will seem ; How little I shall care, I'm told, For what so vital now I deem : But, ah, meanwhile ! If half a hundred winters hence I find my heart grown still and cold. If time have blunted keenest sense, And buried feeling 'neath the mould, Yet, ah, meanwhile, The fifty springs and summers warm. The autumns with their fading hue. The gradually coming calm. Will have to be endured, gone through, That sad meanwhile. The crushing down of hopes and fears. The quenching out of youthful glow. The keeping in of countless tears. The teaching oneself not to show The pain meanwhile ; 176 MEANWHILE. The seeming to have conquer'd grief, The trying to appear at ease, The resolute withstood rehef Of weeping, sobbing, when we please, Those hours meanwhile. Those "hours"? Those days! those dismal nights! Those long, long nights that drear'ly glide ; When even by ourselves our rights To cry aloud are stout denied. That dark meanwhile ! Whereas, instead of preaching now Renouncement and reflection dull. If they would give me leave, I trow, I well could prove to them in full How my meanwhile Should pass in gloriously bright Anticipations, bringing fruit And harvest ripe ; my heart, still light, Would plant and set with firmest root, The glad meanwhile, A range of blossom-yielding flowers Of fertile growth and produce good ; They'd bring me happy shining hours, They'd bring me wholesome joyous food. The sweet meanwhile ; And when the fifty years were past, I should be mistress of a store Of garner'd golden grains at last Would make me rich for evermore. Ah, my meanwhile MEANWHILE. 177 Is surely better worth than theirs ! Why should remonstrance interfere ? Why seek to load me with their cares ? Why mayn't I be allow'd to rear My own meanwhile ? Sixteen, sometimes, when all is said. May best discern the true and wise ; Its younger sight may come in aid, When sixty fails from dimmer eyes : And so, meanwhile, I'll cherish hope and trust and faith ; I'll try to win them to my creed, Persuading sixty, till it saith My sixteen years are right indeed About meanwhile. N 178 DO! There is a little English word, Soft as the twitter of a bird ; And though its letters are but twain, Its power mighty is, and main : Do is the word ; do — do. If properly it be express'd, As though your voice the ear caress'd, 'Tis simply irresistible, A magic spell ineffable : Just utter'd so : " Do— do ! " Just think of it, when murmur'd low, 'Tween lovers walking, ling'ring slow ; A tender, fond, inducing tone, Meant for one listener alone : " Do, my dearest ; do — do ! " A note invites you to a visit : Perhaps you'd rather like to miss it — But after all the usual form A sentence comes, so brief, so warm : " Do come, dear friend ; do — do 1" Suppose you're asked to play or sing — You can't endure to do the thing — You've got upon your thumb a tumour, You're hoarse, you're ill, you're out of humour ; But when they say : " Do — do ! DO ! 179 " You'll give us so much pleasure, dear ; Some choice Gounod we long to hear, You can't refuse us just one air; Corhe, take your seat, love — here's the chair ; Now, there's a darling ; do ! " Imagine being call'd away When you would give the world to stay At writing, in some quiet nook Or reading, p'rhaps, a pleasant book ; Yet if the call be : " Do " Come here ! just look at this ! " Or, may be, "Just listen to this news ; Maude's baby Has caught the whooping-cough ; pray send The maid to say our help we'll lend ; Be quick, my dear ; do — do ! " You can't refuse if thus besought ; For my part, I have often thought There's not a thing can be refus'd If only this small word be us'd, This witching word, do — do ! When next you wish to gain a point Take my advice and try the joint 'Effect of voice, and look, and word ; Just breathe it out, with tone half heard : *' Do, my beloved ; do — do." Should you desire to win consent, Essay this sure experiment ; Accept this precept that I preach, Adopt the lesson that I teach — Do, my good friends ; do — do ! N 2 iSo DO 1 If you, young men, would court a wife And gain a partner for your life, Now, take my word, you can't do better Than follow this out to the letter : Think of it, youths ; do — do ! Her hands you clasp in both of yours ; Her eye your gaze implores, adjures ; In accents that both please and press. Your lips say this, with fervent stress : " Do, my own sweet ; do — do ! " If this don't win her straight to wed, I'll forfeit, willingly, my head ; I've faith in my instruction ; you Should have as firm conviction too. So try my word ; do — do ! This pretty little English word, I know no second, nor no third. That can compare with it in force. Considering its size, of course. Love it with me ; do — do ! "When spoken, most persuasive 'tis. Scarce less so than a coaxing kiss ; When written, it has winning sway If used in a peculiar way ; Quite simply put ; do — do ! Its very sound is like the coo Of ringdoves who in woods do woo ; It fits the mouth of — I know who (A certain sparkling Cousin Prue, To match her there are very few 1 DO ! i8i With lips of budding roses' hue And balmy as the morning dew. If she but call me " Cousin Hugh " And say: "You must, dear Hugh, do, do ! " With that sweet glance of hers, so true, A glance of goodness shining through Her merry eyes of heaven's blue, I yield at once — and so would you. Most charming ! — if you only knew — But I must mind, or I shall rue ; I'm parenthetic more than due), When she entreatingly doth sue : " Do, my dear one ; do — do 1 " l82 SISTERLY CONFIDENCE. Yes, I met him again, But I wasn't to blame : I was ask'd to the dance ; And I went — and he came. Stay — I think that I said, I'd be sure not to tell. And he brought me some flowers Of the loveliest hues, And would dance with me, Nell, And I could not refuse. Stay, I fancy I said, I'd be sure not to tell. And he spoke to me low. When no others were near, And I felt, darling Nell, He was more and more dear. But, stay — what have I said ? I had meant not to tell. And he look'd at me long. Held my hand close in his I And then, somehow, oh, Nell ! He press'd on it a kiss. Stay — I'm certain I meant To be sure not to tell. SISTERLY CONFIDENCE. 183 And he pour'd forth some words That express'd how his Hfe Would be worthless to him Without me as his wife. 'Twas so sweet, what he said ! Yet said how, I can't tell. I intended, you see, Not a word, dear, to tell ; But I could not refrain # From confiding in Nell. After what I have said. She'll be sure not to tell. You will promise me, dear. Say you will, sister Nell, To keep secret all this — Not repeat — never telL Come, now — all I have said I am sure you won't tell. i84 INFANT SUPREMACY. Baby, with thy starry eyes Full of innocent surprise At the wonders that thou see'st Round thee in perpetual feast. Tugging at thy sister's curls, Diving in her mouth for pearls, Clutching at her eyes of blue, Seizing everything that's new. Staring at the candle white, Tipp'd with flame of dazzling light; Screaming out in sudden glee, Crowing in thine ecstasy. Stretching chest, and legs, and arms, Doubling up thy tiny palms, Fighting, foining lustily, Sprawling on the nurse's knee. Half awake and half asleep. Burying thy nose full deep In thy mother's downy breast, Blinking, drinking, quite at rest. Smiling when thou look'st in space, Dost thou see an angel's face ? So 'tis said : we'll think it true, For the sake of us and you. INFANT SUPREMACY. 185 Toss'd on high by dear papa, Watch'd by happy-proud mamma, Flying up with all thy might, Kicking out for sheer delight. Doting aunts around thee throng, Thinking something must be wrong. If thou hast not all thou cravest While thou, red-faced, roar'st and ravest. Uncles meekly stand about. Waiting till it's well found out What the darling Baby wants That so puzzles all its aunts. Grandmamma is Baby's slave, Infinitely pleased to have Spectacles it fain would wear, Anything it likes to share. Grandpapa is Baby's fag. Glad to pick up ball or flag Dropp'd by Baby's heedless hand, Ready at its beck to stand. Diligently are construed Each of thy small accents crude ; Sagest meanings oft are heard In thy murmurs, pretty bird. Chirping in thy cosy cot, Crooning to thyself what not, Playing with thine own ten toes — Wisest wisdom, we suppose. i86 INFANT SUPREMACY. Though thou utter'st ne'er a word, Confidently 'tis averr'd This thou say'st and that thou say'st Aptly, patly, fitly, best. Only need'st thou look a wish Noted is it with a " Hish ! Baby wishes for the moon. Yes, sweet, it shall have it soon : Take, meantime, this silver spoon.". Mighty art thou, little mite ! Reignest thou by Baby-right : All thou wilt thou hast, because All thy whims are held as laws. Cooing like a woodland dove. Fed on kisses, milk, and love ; First in every thought and heart, Ruler of the house thou art ! Universal is thy sway, From Land's End to far Cathay; ■ Sovereign, the world around, Every home where Baby's found. Shakespeare's words — with difference- Suit me for a reference ; Measure of the lines the same. Varying the theme and name. " Come, thou monarch dear, divine, Plumpy Baby with bright eyne ! In thy fat our lips be drown'd ; With thy grace our joys be crown'd ! Hug us, till the room go round ; Hug us, till the room go round ! " TWO LIFE-PICTURES. I once was seated in the upper tier Of boxes at the theatre : by me sat My husband ; both of us were deep absorbed In watching Edmund Kean Othello play. Between the acts, a thing of painted cheeks, And powdered throat, and hardened eye and smile Put on, flounced rustling in and placed herself Beside us ; lightly looked around the house ; Then fell into a dull abstracted mood And gazed out straight before her into space. As if she nothing saw of playhouse, stage. Or audience, but as if her sight beheld Some inward mournful thought of haunting force That drew her spell-bound to confront it still. A listless recklessness was in her air; But in her hand she held with rigid grasp A bunch of freshest flowers, sweet and pure, That made strange contrast with her tainted self: White lily-bells of spotless innocence ; Pink rosebuds, all one blush unto the core ; And — mockery of name ! — heartsease were there, With gold and purple opulence of bloom. She desperately seemed to clutch at them As at one last remaining source of clean Immaculacy left to her in life. The odour of the roses and the scent Of delicatest valley-lilies shed A balmy fragrance that surrounded her With atmosphere of freshest purity, Wherein she seemed to draw a freer breath, i88 TWO LIFE.PICTURES. Away from that foul stench of sin in which She dwelt. Methought it was redeeming gift Vouchsafed by Heaven to keep alive in her The faith in virtue, the belief in good, The yearning after purity, e'en though Herself had forfeited its holiness. I once was seated in a railway train : My husband by my side : just opposite To us there sat a quakeress, young, fair. But dressed in primmest suit of dust-like drab ; Demurely silent ; folded hands across Each other ; eyes cast down ; her mouth set close, Expressionless ; her thoughts apparently engaged With vacancy and nothingness, as though She'd strictly bid them ne'er admit one glimpse Of aught unseemly, worldly, or profane ; She looked as if to her unseemliness And worldliness and vile profanity Included were in naturalest things ; As if 'twere worldly to admire God's world, Unseemly to behold his fairest works, Profane to witness all their glorious Perfection : so, complacently she sat, Unsympathising, cold, unsensitive. Concentred in herself, and ne'er cast glance At scenes of rural beauty which we passed, Or saw the setting sun that threw his rays Athwart the landscape in a stream of gold. She kept the red silk blind drawn closely down On her side of the carriage, and her eyes Ne'er once she raised. But Nature, outraged at The pretty Quakeress's steady slight. By its own magic willed her to obey Its laws, and steeped her in the ruddy light TWO LIFE-PICTURES. 189 Cast by the fulgent sun right through the bhnd, Until she sat amid a halo of Soft roseate bloom, her cheeks, her forehead fair. Her folded hands, aglow with colour rich ; Her very dress, for all its stony drab. Was made to flame in gorgeous ruby hues. While flush carnation tinged her kerchief white. Unconsciously she sat, bathed in the flood Of crimson glory; forced, against herself, To wear the livery that best beseems Fair youth, and let her face express the tide Of warm and vivid feelings proper to Life's bounteous springtime. I go DONALD'S COURTING. Young Donald leaned with folded arms, And chatted at the window-sill : I listened, but I spoke no word ; My spinning-wheel kept going still : Old Grannie sat in her arm-chair. Young Donald told her all the news, Repeated them all o'er again : I listened, but I spoke no word ; My spinning-wheel I plied amain : Old Grannie nodded in her chair. Young Donald crept round to the door, And lifted quietly the latch : I heard him, but I spoke no word ; My spinning gave a sudden catch : Old Grannie dozed in her arm-chair. Young Donald sat him by my side, He looked at me, but held his peace : I hardly breathed, I spoke no word. And somehow let my spinning cease : Old Grannie slumbered in her chair. Young Donald asked me in my ear. If love for him I e'er could feel : I gave him answer with my eyes ; Unheeded stood my spinning-wheel : Old Grannie slept in her arm-chair. DONALD'S COURTING. 191 My Donald caught me In his arms, And clasp'd me close as ne'er before ; We neither of us spoke a word : My spinning-wheel fell on the floor : Old Grannie woke up in her chair. My Donald went to her and said : " Dear Grannie, will you let us wed ? " I knelt before her, spoke no word : She laid her hand upon my head ; Old Grannie smiled in her arm-chair. My Donald smiled to see her smile : " My bairns," she said, " I give consent ; I see now why the spinning-wheel Was overturned, and what it meant ! " Old Grannie laughed in her arm-chair. igs STANZAS ON CORREGGIO'S PICTURE OF ^'THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT." (for setting to music.) Saint Joseph holds the sacred Child, While gently sleeps the Mother mild ; Who, weary, and with travel spent, Enjoys the slumber Heaven has sent. Rest, Mother, rest ! Take soft repose. While smoothly on the vessel goes. Small guardian angels guide the boat, That on the shining stream doth float ; One dips the oar with graceful ease. His curls blown lightly by the breeze. Rest, Mother, rest ! Take soft repose. While smoothly on the vessel goes. Three others lift an awning spread To screen the sun from Mary's head, And, shading her from noontide heat, They make it canopy her seat. Rest, Mother, rest ! Take soft repose, While smoothly on the vessel goes. Two little angel faces more With smiles the Babe divine adore, In rapture note the Infant charms Close nestled in Saint Joseph's arms. Rest, Mother, rest ! Take soft repose. While smoothly on the vessel goes. STANZAS, ETC. 193 Amid the sedges calmly glides The shallop with its angel guides ; Their wings uplifted seem to waft An aiding motion to the craft. Rest, Mother, rest ! Take soft repose, While smoothly on the vessel goes. Benignest Peace doth brooding wait Above the happy hallowed freight, And sheds reflected soothing rays Upon our spirit as we gaze. Rest, Mother, rest ! Take soft repose, While smoothly on the vessel goes. Oh, choice Correggio ! Painter rare ! To whom was given this vision fair ; Thine art enables us to see The tender picture granted thee. Rest, Mother, rest ! Take soft repose. While smoothly on the vessel goes. 154 LINES TO HENRIETTA MORITZ. That damsel in the story-book, whose lips Dropped diamonds and pearls whene'er she spoke, Prefigures thee, whose gifted finger-tips A stream of brilliant pearly notes evoke Whene'er thou wilt — bright, rounded, liquid gems. Like those that leap and sparkle, trembling swim. Then mingle with the sheeted glass that hems A fountain's edge, broad-spreading to its brim ; Light rippling water-drops that race amain Adown the brook, now lingering to bedeck The grass that skirts the bank, now caught again Amid the swirl of onward rush and wreck Resistless of the torrent sweep. Anon The mighty wash of waves, that surging dash With aye-recurrent ponderous swing upon The rocks ; or sudden elemental crash Of thunderous wind, uprooting mountain pines, Loud storming thro' ravines with giant groan, Till sobbing, gasping, spent, it shrilly whines Discordant, sinks into a long-drawn moan, And lulls to silence. Wealth of jewel-sounds In grandest magnitude, in deepest thrill. In softest, sweetest touch, with thee abounds. Dear lady-friend, to richly give at will : And we, thy grateful listeners, ever long For more, still more, from that small bounteous hand — So small in size, so large in gift — so strong, Yet downy soft — so like a fairy wand LINES TO HENRIETTA MORITZ. 195 Its potency of magic sway and might To conjure visions 'fore th' enchanted eye By simple wafture, forcible yet light. Of all thy spells, methinks, there's one that I Feel most subduing, most enthralling, though I fancy thou dost rate it but of small Account — a trifle — slight, demanding no Great execution ; but, to me, its fall And rise, its tender depth of sweet appeal, Unspeakably excite me, e'en to tears ; And when thou play'st it, in my heart I feel How music can arouse yet calm our fears — How a musician's dainty little hand Can summon spirits of divinest kind To give us glimpses of a Heavenly Land And soothe to peace the aching mind. o 2 igS OCCASIONAL ADDRESS FOR A DRAMATIC EVENING. APRIL 13, 1864. This April month, this pleasant month of spring, With Shakespeare's ever-honour'd name doth ring! And through all corners of the peopled earth Men vie in celebration of his birth ! Three hundred years ago he first drew breath — A life of fame began that knew no death ; An actor-author, writer for the stage, Who made the plays he wrote a mirror-page Wherein mankind might see themselves display'd In living colours that will never fade. Some pay him homage with a sculptured stone. Some found a scholarship, and some are prone To think a grammar-school " the eftest way " ; Some plan museums, book-rooms, and defray The cost of spreading knowledge as the mode Of best revering him who truly show'd That " Knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly To Heav'n ; " and some, again, there are who try To fitly honour him who play'd and wrote. By playing too, and therefore aptly quote In his own words "The play, the play's the thing, Whereby we Shakespeare greatest honour bring ! " For this, my gentle audience, now you see Us here to-night — my actor-friends and me. The Philadelphion Society, With super-excellent propriety, OCCASIONAL ADDRESS, ETC. 197 Have thought it suitable to act a play, As practical and eligible way Of manifesting reverential love For one whose poet-genius ranks above All other playwrights ; one who wisely knew The value of the drama as the true Refiner of the thoughts and aims of man — At once a potent and delightful plan. If, then, you think we've pleaded well our cause, Give us your hands in token of applause ; For Shakespeare's Birthday Tercentenary Bestow your plaudits loud and plenary : For him, for us, his humble fellow-actors in a play, Now kindly raise a hearty, English, univoiced Hooray! igS OCCASIONAL ADDRESS FOR AN AMATEUR PERFORMANCE OF SHAKESPEARE'S '^ MERCHANT OF VENICE." WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER I4, 1864. The knights of old, to prove their ladies' charms Oft broke a lance, and did their feats of arms : To-night we Shake our Spear — or act Shakespeare — In honour of a truth he shows most clear: The rights of man to man, and what is due From Jew to Christian, Christian to a Jew ; That harshness shown to one of alien creed Is sure to sow the pestilential seed Of hate, revertge, and all unholy fruit That in oppressed races take deep root. Antonio's most unchristianlike disdain Of Hebrew Shylock and his sordid gain, His "Jewish gaberdine " and " patient shrug," Inevitably stirr'd and surely dug The depth of deadly malice and despite Which only waits its turn to sharply smite Its former foe, when once beneath its heel. And teach th' oppressor stingingly to feel That those who 're treated with unjust contempt Will " better the instruction," and attempt To crush the one who crushed them when he could, Repaying ill with ill — not good by good. OCCASIONAL ADDRESS, ETC. igg Ne'er shown forbearance, justice, kindness, trust, What wonder if they naturally must Imbibe the lesson taught them all along Of enmity, of rancour, and of bitter wrong ? If Shylock's cruel, who was cruel first ? If he demand, with fierce, insatiate thirst For blood, fulfilment of the forfeit bond. He scarcely goes but one short step beyond Th' example they themselves before have set ; And they but sheer retaliation get. Who call'd him "dog," and on his garment " spat " ? Was Shylock likely e'er to pardon that ? If " as a stranger cur " they oft him spurn'd. Was it not likely that his bosom burn'd With thought of vengeance at some future day, If e'er the chance should come within his way ? 'Mong Christians he had seen revers'd the law That bids us love our enemies, and saw How so-called Christian men could scoff and rail On those without their own exclusive pale ; Instead of practising what they profess'd. In their own persons their own laws transgressd. But not alone the moral of the Jew, In this immortal play, the Poet drew : The story of the caskets serves to show How judgment and discrimination go To make a chance a certainty, and gain For wife a peerless lady, who doth reign In all our hearts as most supremely /rtiV Among a class who have the name^not rare — Of being MM-fair ; I mean the lawyer race ; They all, you will allow, maintain a case Through thick and thin, and try to gain the day; Whatever right or wrong beneath there may 200 OCCASIONAL ADDRESS, ETC. Be compromis'd, or inward conscience hurt, To win, they'll spatter lots of legal dirt. But Portia, as a woman-lawyer should, Still preaches "mercy," gentleness, and good; She strives to lure the Jew into relenting, To touch his wolfish heart into repenting; She first attempts to make him " tear his bond," And not pursue his vengeance thus beyond The bounds of human brotherhood with such Remorseless, eager, murd'rous, bloodhound clutch; She leaves no point unurg'd, no word unsaid, That might him from his fell intent have led ; And only when she finds it all in vain. Defeats him by conviction clear and plain. The fairest lawyer yet upon record. The noblest amongst judges — not a lord — Sweet Portia lives acknowledg'd and receiv'd : A verdict that at once will be perceiv'd. And now dispose yourselves to kindly hear Our play, ourselves, and, more than all, Shake- speare : Be pleas'd to think 'tis him you chiefly take ; And judge us leniently, for his good sake. 20I OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE FOR AN AMATEUR PERFORMANCE. FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1865. To-night we've taken for our chosen play A comedy that's matchless in its way — "The School for Scandal," fam'd among revivals, In fact, that's rivall'd only by " The Rivals "; For wit like Sheridan's, so choice, so rare, With naught but with itself can fit compare. Less artfully built-up than Congreve's style. Where sentence follows sentence in a pile Of studiously constructed repartee. And each retort we almost can foresee : Less gross than Wycherley's or Farquhar's vein, Where humour is so broad that it doth stain The hearer's cheek with blushes, and arrests The cordial laugh that follows purer jests. But Brinsley scorns the double-meaning word, The ribald hint, suggested more than heard ; His finer wit relies on its own force. And seeks not aid from equivoque or coarse Allusion : free, 'and unconstrained and gay ; Full of airy and spontaneous play ; Of pungent satire that is void of gall ; Of pointed lessons that come home to all ; So gracefully, so easily it flows. So full of verse-like harmony his prose, So neatly are his phrases turn'd and tim'd, That every line's an epigram unrhym'd. His characters are portraits, every one ; His plots are most ingenious, full of fun ; 202 OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, ETC. His scenes are " situations," still maintain'd ; His " action " ever lively, well sustain'd; His dialogue a diamond, whose ray- Is all one sparkle in perpetual play. The present drama is indeed a " School " Where every one may learn — not born a fool — That scandal is a fashionable vice ; That malice is genteel, and slander nice ; That calumny can stab in accents bland ; And, by th' insidious wave of a white hand. Or nod, or whisper, reputations fall, When subtle inuendo poisons all. Joe Surface, with his sentimental cant, His moral axioms, and his virtuous rant. Enacting the immaculate, defames By scores the characters of men and dames ; And while pretending to a blameless life. Seeks to pervert his friend Sir Peter's wife. Fair names and fames by dozens are at stake, Attack'd by such a gentleman as Snake ; And Lady Sneerwell's arrows hit the mark. Though aim'd at reputations in the dark ; Her secret machinations shun the light, But visibly and surely cast their blight : The tongues of Crabtree, Backbite, are accurst, While Mrs. Candour's is of all the worst ; For open slander one may meet and dare. But treach'rous partisanship who can bear ? All this our author makes us feel and see. All this he teaches us most wittily. And now, for us, the actor-scholars in his" School," We hope you'll kindly bear in mind the golden rule, " Take will for deed " ; and, if you can, award the prize : 'Tis your approval : then — applaud us to the skies. 203 OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE FOR AN AMATEUR PERFORMANCE OF SHAKESPEARE'S -''MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHINGS FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1866. The modest title that our Shakespeare gave His play, accords with many other things Besides the drama that we're met to enact : For instance, with the fuss and fume for place. Position, empty name and sinecure, Whose very soul is pay for " nothing " done ; With all the trouble ta'en by thieves to rob Some " lute-case," which, like Bardolph's, borne "twelve leagues," Brings but "three-halfpence"; or with swindler's pains, Bestow'd upon some trick not worth a straw, A world of care and skill that's thrown away On fruitless fraud, which, if devoted to An honest industry, would lead to wealth ; With all the struggle, bloodshed, cost of life, Of cash, the wounds and mutilations, grief Of friends surviving, nation's gen'ral loss. That go to make up all that is involv'd In that three-letter'd little word of WAR ; With backbiting, ill-natur'd calumny And spite, that drudge unceasingly to strip A neighbour of his name and fame, which when They're lost, what gain results to the detractor? 204 OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, ETC. Just " nothing," after all his " Much ado ! " And thus with myriad other things beyond, The title of our this night's play conforms E'en better than with Shakespeare's plot itself: Was Hero's slander " nothing " ? Or her shame, Her misery, her agony to find Herself a bride rejected in the face Of all her friends by him she hop'd Would be her husband, her protector, yet By him to be revil'd, thrown off, cast back, Beside the very nuptial altar-rail ? Was all this " nothing " ? Surely, no. But then Shall we complain that Shakespeare nam'd his play Amiss ? Not so : the title that he gave. Has this in common with his every line And word — it comprehends inclusively A wide extent of application, serves Not only playfully to mark the fact That all th' aspersion in the play is false And naught, but serves to satirise the large Amount of " Much Ado " that's going on In this good world of ours "about "sheer "Nothing." Our chief concern regarding it to-night Is your acceptance of the name in such A spirit, that you will not think it hits Our acting : since we pledge ourselves to take The utmost pains in our performance : then, We trust you will not say 'tis " Much Ado About " a " Nothing " ; but that you will say Our " Much Ado " is " Nothing " to the gain You make in pleasure, seeing Shakespeare's play So lovingly enacted by the troop Of Philadelphions,* your faithful friends. * Written by M. C. C. at the request of the members of the Philadelphion Society. 205 PROLOGUE TO A SHAKESPEARIAN ACROSTIC CHARADE. 'Tis often said, if you're at loss to find A motto for whatever comes to mind, You've only to look into Shakespeare's page ; And there you'll see all sorts of maxims sage That suit all subjects, and that illustrate (Without concerning your own empty pate) Their subtlest meanings with much fuller force Than you can hope to do by any course But this : he always furnishes a word, A passage, or a line that ne'er occurr'd To any brain so perfectly as his : And therefore, for this reason clearly 'tis That he's consulted when apt words are wanted : Thus much, we think, will readily be granted. Well, granting this, we thought we couldn't do better Than search his book for every needed letter In our to-night's proposed Charade acrostic ; And, if we do not fail in our prognostic, We fancy we'll succeed in pleasing you By this device Shakespearian and new. Attend, then, while its plan we thus explain : A scene from " As You Like It " first makes plain Th' initial letter of our chosen word (To miss it would be certainly absurd) ; The second by a scene from " Much Ado " Is shown ; the third by sample touch or two 2o6 PROLOGUE, ETC. From charming " Winter's Tale ; " while fourth and last A scene from " Midsummer Night's Dream " is pass'd Before your eyes ; concluding with the whole Completed word, denoted by a sole And simple leaf-crown'd portrait of the man We all delight to honour. Then you can Have no more doubt what is th' acrostic word ; Its guessing then need no more be deferr'd. And now there's nothing farther to be said, Than to entreat attention may be paid To one small fact. Our actors hope you'll be Indulgent to whate'er defects you see ; And bear in mind they're nervous at the thought Of playing Shakespeare as he should and ought To be enacted : but they'll do their best ; And put your lenient judgment to the test, By making up in love to Shakespeare's verse For want of skill in speaking, or aught worse. Our scenery, moreover, is as plain As that which Shakespeare's stage did e'er attain When he did write and act : or, older still, When classic Grecians summon'd at their will The fancies of spectators to believe In whatsoever place they should receive As represented, by the simple means Of writing up above the several scenes The phrase, "a grove," "a temple," or "< room " ; " A royal palace," " garden," or " a tomb." And so we only follow in the track Of antique Art, when we inscribe at back Of stage the name of each successive scene. And trust to your imagination keen PROLOGUE, ETC. 207 For filling up the vision of the spot That's requisite, according to the plot. In winding up this p'rhaps too long oration, Accept a little note of preparation : Permit us just to give you this one hint : Of loud applause be sure you do not stint ; You've naught to do, to make all things seem right, But kindly clap your hands with all your might. 208 OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE TO SHAKESPEARE'S "LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOSTr (written for an amateur performance at the request of mr. alfred littleton.) " King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day, And then 'twill end. Biron. That's too long for a play." Princess. Nay, good my Lord Biron, you do mistake ; A play, if ably writ and played, may make The onward lapse of years seem simply true And natural : the task appointed you Of playing out your play in forcing smiles From sick-bed wretches, you will see, beguiles The term of waiting for your lady's love. If well you play your part. Be, then, above Despondency ; since that will never serve To win your cause : be hopeful, lords ; deserve To conquer, and the victory is yours. Triumphant is the courage that endures. Farewell ! Success attend you all ! But now I drop my royal princessship to bow Before our friends, and humbly crave for leave To speak the Epilogue, which may receive Acceptance as the substituted close To this our acted play, instead of those OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE, ETC. 209 More antique forms of songs in praise of Spring And Winter, that demand good voice to sing. [Advancing, and addressing the audience. ~\ Thus far, then, gentles all, Love's Labour's lost : But yet, not wholly so ; for in the end — The year's probation honestly gone through — The word is then to be. Love's Labour's won. No labour underta'en for love can e'er Be lost entirely : it repays itself. The love of springtime sends us forth in hope To gather violets : not one we find : But n.one the less the search has been enjoy'd. The walk, the open air, the clear blue sky, The wide green sweep of lawn or meadow's sward. The sun-bejewelled rivulet, the hedge Of hawthorn, with its tangled mass of briar And bramble, intervolved with briony — The well-named " Traveller's Joy "—that straggles o'er In rich confusion and profusion : there We stoop and peer amid the wayside turf. Amid the emerald blades of vernal grass, The giant sturdiness of dock-leaves broad, The delicater fronds of palmy fern, The hemlock umbels, and the grey-green stalks Of ragged-robins red, that lift their heads With saucy carelessness of picturesque Effect, like hedgeside ruddy gipsy boys Unconscious of their native beauty wild, But gladsome in their right to grow and thrive By Nature's law alone. We hardly miss The violets we came to seek, repaid By so much unsought loveliness instead. No poorest little deed that's done for Love's p 2IO OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE, ETC. Sweet sake but brings its own sure recompense. We hold a twig to save a drowning midge, The insect crawls upon the proffer'd stem, And drags its saturated weight along. Until the deadly burden wet is left ; Then fluttering emancipated wings, Flies off" to airy freedom, leaving us To gaze forsaken : ne'ertheless we've had The joy of rescuing the fragile thing, With all its mysteries of hair-slight limbs. Its gauzy pinions, and its crest of down. No toil or enterprise is ever lost, That hath the consecrating motive. Love : The gravest work, the gayest avocation, If but pursued from purely loving cause, Unfailingly reaps harvest and bears fruit. The getting up a play for love of Art Implies a labour manifold, 'tis true : The casting characters, the studying parts, The reconciling claims of self-esteem. The due regard to fit ability ; The long rehearsals, and the patient wait For zest of actual performance-night : But still, our pains are balanced by our gains ; The care bestowed in conning Shakespeare's line Has earned us truer knowledge of its worth. Its grace, its inner core of meaning deep ; And now we hope to win a crowning test That we have not in vain essay'd to please, — If you your kindly plaudits will accord, Our Loving Labour has its best reward. 211 HALF CONFESSIONS. Who it is I met yestreen, With winsome face and simple dress, Who it is has gentlest e'en, I will not tell, but you may guess. Who it is that whispers low, With glances shy that look a yes, Who it is that says not no, I will not tell, but you may guess. Who it is with blushing cheek And tell-tale eyes that still confess Love for me she will not speak, I will not tell, but you may guess. Who it is that lets me kiss Her snowdrop hand, her golden tress. Who it is makes all my bliss I will not tell, but you may guess. Who it is will be my wife When once I win her word to bless. Who'll be mine, my own for life, I will not tell, but you may guess. p 2 212 HERSELF. Her bonny mou', her bonny mou', How weel it says the words " I lo'e ! " Her ruddy Hp, her ruddy Hp, How soft it yields the sweets I sip. Her gleefu' e'e, how bright its glance ! It gars my very pulses dance, When near my cheek I feel her curl, As through the reel we swiftly whirl. Her winsome form, her waist sae slim. Her little feet, her ankles trim, Her shapely shoulders smooth and white. How gracefu' are they in my sight ! But 'tis na lip or sparkling e'e — Though very, very dear they be, Nor yet her little twinkling feet. Though they are very, very sweet. 'Tis na her shape or slender waist. Though they're exactly to my taste. Nor yet her wavy shining hair. That mak's her sae surpassing fair. It is her tJiochts sae honest, clear, That in her artless e'en appear, It is her look sae pure, sae true. That penetrates me through and through. HERSELF. 213 It is her heart that winneth mine, Her heart of innocence divine ; Her heart, from its own goodness light, That makes her lo'ely in my sight. It is her spirit, chaste, yet warm, That gi'es to her her greatest charm ; It is herself that I adore, That mak's me hers — ay, to the core. 214 NEAR AND DEAR. In all her moods she's dear to me. She's ever welcome near to me ; Dear, most dear, Near, most near. Is wifey mine to me I' Her voice is gentle, sweet, and low ; She hath an ear for others' woe ; She hath a smile for others' joy ; She's neither over-free nor coy. She hath a grave attentive look, When hearing read a thoughtful book; She hath a laugh that ringeth out With gladsome little tuneful shout, When listening to a merry tale ; She hath a cheek that turneth pale, When crime or cruelty she hears ; An eye that brimmeth o'er with tears At word of sorrows nobly borne. Or fortitude of soul forlorn ; A quivering lip, a trembling start Betray th' emotions of her heart At sound of treachery or wrong ; But murmurs she an inward song, In happy sympathy of pure delight With all that's high and just and right. NEAR AND DEAR. 215 She has a woman's instinct true, A genuine native spirit-clue, That draws her towards the nobly pure. As with a strong resistless lure ; That her repels with equal force From aught that's evil, foul, or coarse ; That makes her cheerful look, or sad. In consonance with good or bad. She's kindly kind to every one. She's kindest kind to me alone ; She's loving to all folk that be. Her love of loves she gives to me. In all her moods she's dear to me, I'd have her ever near to me ; Near and dear, Dear and near, Is wifey mine to me ! 2l5 HER EYES. Those charming, merry, dancing eyes, That seem to say a thousand things ; Those darhng, roguish, glancing eyes From which a world of gladness springs. Those curly uptum'd lashes bright. That twinkle archly golden shade Amid the dazzling beams of light From forth her eyelids white are ray'd. That frank yet modest open gaze, That fearless yet most gentle look — I watch them all, in every phase. And read their meaning like a book, I follow them with mine, until I dread lest she may think me bold ; And then my very heart turns chill Lest she, reproving, should be cold. And change that candid, winning glance For looks of distance and restraint ; The very thought of such a chance Doth make my breath come short and faint. Yet still my rebel eyes will keep Pursuit of hers, in spite of me ; Do what I can, they furtive creep Away, and after, constantly. HER EYES. 217 And whether grave or whether gay Th' expression of those eyes of hers, They've always something fresh to say That still allures me, ne'er deters. They eloquently shine thro' tears, When aught pathetic is the theme ; But soon as mirthfulness appears. With animated smiles they beam. On me those eyes too rarely turn ; But when they do, I feel my own With eager joy dilate and burn — Ah ! joy too swiftly past and gone ! For fleetingly as rarely look Of hers meets mine : a lightning flash, And then 'tis o'er ; as if it took A pleasure in the sudden dash Of answering brightness it illumes In mine ; yet chooses not to stay To see the fire it kindling dooms As soon as born to fade away. I ask myself if this be sign Of little liking or disdain ; Or p'rhaps indifference so fine It cares not if her look remain To scathe, or quickly be withdrawn To disappoint : but then, if not ? My life I sometimes think I'd pawn To know the truth ; if not, then what ? 2i8 HER EYES. What, what doth mean that look of hers ? That little tantalising look Which, oh, so sparingly occurs. No sooner darted than forsook. If not dislike, disdain — or worse, Indifference — then, can it be, She feels for me the sweet reverse Of these, and has for me — for me — A preference, a liking, love ? I tremble as I think the word, I dare not utter it above My breath ; I murmur it unheard. If love indeed it should be — love ! And love for me, that makes those eyes Still shrink from mine ! My gentle dove, It thrills me through, the bare surmise. It gives me courage to implore To know the truth : this very day I will compel those eyes, before They turn so flittingly away. To rest on mine, to speak the truth. To tell me what their look doth mean ; To say, without or reck or ruth, If it bespeak aversion keen, Or if, indeed, it augurs bliss, And leaves me free, in mine own fashion, To thank those eyes, by sacred kiss Imprinted on their lids with passion. HER EYES. 219 Dear, charming, merry, dancing eyes, O say to mine those thousand things You're wont to say to others' eyes ; Let my chief gladness be't that springs From forth those darhng cherish'd eyes : Their looks of love alone be mine; For others let their brightness shine ! Be mine those dearest eyes for life, When she who owns them is my wife ! 220 HER TWINKLE. What is the magic lurking in her eyes ? — 'Tis not their shape, their colour, or their size ; 'Tis none of these I worshipfuUy prize : It is that little, radiant, roguish twinkle. The dimple in a maiden's blushing cheek, The look that in a picture seems to speak, The lustre in a silver planet meek — Is to her eye its loving little twinkle. The ruby sparkle in a priceless gem, The point in epigram or apothegm, The zest intent that lives in each of them — Is to her eye its sprightly little twinkle. A thousand pleasant things it seems to say, More jocund sweet than children at their play Or tumbling in the meadows 'mong the hay — That lovely little, dancing, glancing twinkle. When on myself its merry light doth beam, A blissful flood throughout my frame doth stream. And all my being saturate doth seem With rays of happy sunshine from her twinkle. It fills my heart with rapture at her charms, It makes me long to catch her in my arms, To shield her throughout life from all its harms. And thank her in my own way for her twinkle. 221 NO AND YES. Her modest words they say " No, no ; " Her gentle looks still " Ay " express : Which I obey, you well may guess, Between these signs of No and Yes. For though her lip, in word, says " No," When I its ruby red would press ; It says, I blissfully confess. In its own way, " Yes, yes ; yes, yes." ASKING. (set to music by the rev. w. borrow.) He stole from my bodice a rose, My cheek was its colour the while ; But ah, the sly rogue ! he well knows, Had he ask'd it, I must have said no. He snatch'd from my lips a soft kiss ; I tried at a frown — 'twas a smile ; For ah, the sly rogue ! he knows this, Had he ask'd it, I must have said no. That "asking" in love's a mistake. It puts one in mind to refuse ; 'Tis best not to ask, but to take, For it saves one the need to say no. Yet, stay — this is folly I've said ; Some things should be ask'd if desir'd : My rogue hopes my promise to wed ; When he asks me, I will not say no. 222 BELIEVE ME ! 4 I will not vow by yonder moon, Or by the balmy breath of June : I'll only tell thee that I love : Believe me, dear, believe me ! I'll love thee with a faith sincere. With meaning honest, simple, clear, I'll love thee with my truth of heart : Believe me, dear, believe me 1 Thine own sweet graces all attest Thou'rt form'd to be belov'd the best ; Believe, then, in my fervent love : Believe me, dear, believe me ! SERENADE. Music, with thy downy wing, Fan her senses while we sing; O'er her fancy subtly creep, Lulling it to dreamless sleep. Music, softly sung and play'd. Shed thy balm upon this maid ; Through and through her fancy steep, Soothing it to dreamless sleep. Music, with thy magic wand. Touch her by supreme command ; Spell-bound yet her fancy keep. Charm it into dreamless sleep. 223 SERENADE. O, come to thy window ! Sweet one, appear ! Thy lover, his friends, are waiting thee here : Our music receive, 'tis homage to thee ; He sues for thy love, his pleaders are we. O, come to thy window 1 Sweet one, appear ! And lend to our strain thy favouring ear ; Approve of our music, happy are we ; Accept of his suit, and happy is he. O, come to thy window ! Sweet one, appear ! If music and moonlight be to thee dear, Enjoy them this night, in pure air and free ; Our serenade hear, thy lover's fond plea. 224 VALENTINE. (sent to JOHN LISTON, BY SABILLA NOVELLO, FEBRUARY I4, 1845.) With scrupulous modesty, suiting a prude, I'll venture to " hope that I do not intrude" ; (^) But really, so many fair graces combine, I cannot but choose thee for my Valentine. My heart dwells with rapture on many a thought By Adam Brock's (^) laughter to memory brought ; Billy Lackaday's {^) humour so cockney and smart, And Lubin Log's (*) family, dear to his heart ; Tony Lumpkin, (^) the lout, so rude to his Ma, And Acres {^) with new-fangled oaths and French pas ; The pathos of Russet (^) so manly and touching, That left to be wished for an absolute nothing. But why, then, this list should I farther insist on. When all is combined in th' unmatchable Liston ? (1) His constant and famous speech in "Paul Pry." (2) In " Charles Xllth of Sweden." (3) In " Sweethearts and Wives." (*) In " Love, Law, and Physic." (6) In " She Stoops to Conquer." (6) In "The Rivals." (■0 In " The Jealous Wife." 225 UNLESS.^ {No. I.) (set to music by JOSEPH ROECKEL.) When yesterday I left you, darling Nell, I felt as tho' it were for ever, dear ; You look'd so cold, so how I cannot tell, You seem'd to banish me for evermore : Unless, indeed — You'd make it up, and let's be friends again ! Our lovers' quarrel grew from nothing, Nell, How it arose, I can't imagine, dear ; If you or I began, I cannot tell ; I only know 'twill part us evermore : Unless, indeed — You'd make it up, and let's be friends again ! I'm very, very wretched, darling Nell ; I fancy you are fretting too, my dear ; Nay, sure of it, tho' how I cannot tell ; In short, we're both unhappy evermore ; Unless, indeed — We make it up, and be good friends again ! • Imitated from the Italian "Stornello," a kind of national ballad, the chief characteristic of which is playful familiarity. (Suggestion to Composer and Performer.) No. i. In setting these words to music, the first four lines should be made a slow and mournful strain of regret; then, the "Unless, indeed" — should be lingering and very hesitating, and, finally, the conclud- ing line should be in extremely quick time, with rapid and joyous tune. The singer should put much sadness of expression into the commencement; changing to archness and vivacity at the close of each stanza. Q 226 MAKING UP MY MIND* (No. 2.) He often teases me to frankly say If I like best Sir William or Sir John ; He presses me to tell him whether they Or others take my fancy most of all : And I reply, I can't make up my mind. He plagues me to be partner in the dance ; To promise him my hand for next quadrille ; T' engage myself three waltzes in advance ; To let him lead me to the supper-room : But I reply, I've not made up my mind. If he would ask me whom I love the best ; If he besought my hand for life ; If he but spoke in earnest, not in jest. And told me he loved me as I love him — I might reply, I've quite made up my mind. * Imitated from the Italian " Stornello." 227 AFTER ALL.* {No. 3.) I'm sometimes puzzled which I most admire, Belinda's wealth of lovely golden hair, Letitia's jet-black eyes of sparkling fire. Or bright Matilda's skin so dazzling fair : But— after all, My little Flo' loves me, and I love her. My fancy now and then is led astray By Lucy's graceful shape and slender waist ; By Milly's dainty feet I'm drawn away, Or half beguiled by Dora's tact and taste : But— after all. My little Flo' loves me, and I love her. When steadily I think of her, I'm safe ; My heart its loyal constancy avers ; I'm not a fickle wandering stray or waif; I'm proof against all other charms but hers : For — after all, I love my little Flo', and she loves me. * Imitated from the Italian " Stomello." Q 2 228 AND YET* {No. 4.) I see him look at Linda's wavy hair, I see him watch Cecilia's winning smile, I see him notice Maud's complexion fair; My h^art with dread is beating all the while : And yet — I'm almost sure he loves me best of all. I see him glance at Milly's fairy feet. And follow all their movements with a smile, I see him charmed by many maidens sweet ; My heart with dread fast beating all the while, And yet — I'm almost sure he loves me best of all. For when he takes my hand in both of his, And looks at me with his confiding smile, My every doubt and fear are set at ease. Although my heart is beating all the while : And — yes ! I'm sure, quite sure, he loves me best of all. * Imitated from the Italian " Stornello." 22g THE TWENTY-SECOND OF NOVEMBER. This day to Saint Cecilia's name Devoted in perpetual fame, Was chosen well to be the date Of sealing Clara's wedded fate. The Patron Saint of Music's Art And she, whose voice goes to the heart, In songs of sacred faith and trust. Their celebration surely must Deserve to have on self-same day ; And though November 'tis — not May, Yet points of harmony there are To make the distance far from far Between the Songstress and the Saint, On floral grounds — as I shall paint. Cecilia's wreath of blended rose And lily, that with odour flows ; Unseen, but fragrantly perceiv'd ; From angel hands divine receiv'd. Was typified when Clara crown'd With English rose the man who found Th' Italian lilies of his name Lack'd rosy bloom — that very same — To make them flowers of perfect hue For endless beauty, fresh and true. In love and purity to live. United by young buds that give Immortal bliss to married pair. Still newly springing, ever fair. 230 A LOVE SONG. (set to music by miss macirone.) So dearly do I love thee, dear, in sooth, I cannot hope thy love can equal mine : But love me with thy heart and with thy truth ; They needs must satisfy me, being thine. Then love me well, my love, and love me true ; Oh, love me half as well as I love 3'ou ! So boundless is my love, my sweet, for you. That half would fill my measure of content ; A double portion is of right your due : To this agreement let us both consent. Then love me well, my love, and love me true ; Oh, love me half as well as I love you ! Our mutual share of love thus order'd fair, Shall ne'er become the source of fond dispute : I'll love thee with a love beyond compare ; Thou'lt love me to the utmost of my suit. Then love me well, my love, and love me true ; Oh, love me half as well as I love you ! 23I BE TRUE TO ME, MY LOVE! (set to music by the rev. w. borrow.) With thee my thoughts are calm and sweet, Without thee they are wild and sad ; With thee my life is all complete, Without thee it is stormy, mad : Be true to me, my love, be true ! I'm nothing, if I have not you. With thee my heart is aye at rest, Without thee it is tempest-tost ; With thee my life is fully blest, Without thee I am wreck'd and lost : Be true to me, my love, be true ! I'm nothing, if I have not you. 232 SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. The twenty-third of April, O ! St. George's day, and Shakespeare's day, The pride of merry England ho 1 Sing all a hearty hip, hurrah ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! The twenty-third of April, boys, Is for us all a glorious day ; Then sing it with a merry noise, A musical hip, hip, hurrah ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! The twenty-third of April, lads, Should be a celebrated day ; Then celebrate it, sons and dads. With our united hip, hurrah ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! 233 WRITTEN AT DAWN, ON THE 23RD OF APRIL, l86g. Five decades have elapsed since I, a child, Was taught to know and love thy poet name, O Shakespeare mine ! I may say " mine " ; for art Thou not possessed by all who have the boon To see thy wondrous merits, and perceive The boundless good thou art to men ? As for Mine own poor part, I owe to thee a debt Of gratitude through life : thou'st been to me A comfort and a stay in many a pinch Of sore distress ; a soother of sad thought : A help in time of trouble ; a good friend And counsellor at need, whose sage advice Came ever unobtrusive, yet sufficing ; A gentle monitor, that took to task Unseen, unheard, by witnessers, and spared The shame of aught save self-avowal, led To quiet self-reform ; enhancer of Delight when joys arrived ; bestowing sight More keen in things of Art ; an aid to view The wealth of Nature with an eye of love And heart of thankfulness, to raise the mind In rapture, exaltation, and devout Emotion to the Giver of all good : Yea, this and countless more I owe to thee, Thou nobly, truly great ! Accept my lines Of faithful fervent homage on this day That saw thee born. Now breaks the coming morn : 234 SONG Now peereth out the first pale streak of East : Now faint grey lines with ambient hints appear : And presently a more pervading haze Of silvery-yellow hue : lastly, the sun Himself upriseth, like the lord of all, And floods the sky with universal light ; So, Shakespeare, thou ; thy beams are cast abroad To pour upon the world effulgence wide, Impartial : on the lowliest cottage thatch, As on the lofty palace roof, they shine : On solitary headlands, and on peaks Where snow eternally doth lie, the sun Bespreads his roseate lustre at approach Of dawn ; or turns to gold the mountain tops At eve : so thou, the lornest, most remote Of nooks dost visit with thy bright and large Beneficence ; dost bring the warmth and glow And cheer of geniality, the sense Of growth and progress, culture and refinement, With fruitfulness and ripe prosperity. Where'er thine influence rests : Thou, like the sun, Prevailest to illumine and to bless ! SONG. No sound doth break the silence of the night, Save yonder fountain's ever gentle play In measur'd fall of softest show'rs alway, That time the beating of our hearts, my love. And, hark ! the nightingale, embower'd near. Breathes forth its happy plenitude of song In notes of fluty sweetness, ling'ring, long, That chant the music of our hearts, my love. 235 MUSICS BLESSING. Music man's great blessing is : Changes dolour into bliss, Gives his cares a gentle kiss, Setting them at rest, I wis. Trouble it doth softly ease. Bidding it be still and cease ; Joyfulness it doth increase. Bringing happiness and peace. MUSIC'S DELIGHT. Sing we now a grateful measure, Praising Music as our treasure : What so good for spending leisure ? What so sweet in giving pleasure ? Music hath no jot of badness, Music filleth all with gladness, Music comforteth in sadness ; It hath power to soothe e'en madness. *When distracted we are driven. All our mind at six and seven. Music as a boon is given. Turning earth into a heaven. * Occasional couplet, to be substituted when appropriate : f Music brings us here at seven, X Keeps us here until eleven. 236 INVOCATION TO MUSIC. When o'er the keys my fingers stray In search of tones to lull my care, I feel my sadness melt away, As clouds dissolve in summer air. O Music, sent to soothe and bless, Vouchsafe me thy divine caress ! Come, fold me in thy soft embrace, And waft my spirit into bliss 1 With tenderness my cares efface. As by the touch of mother's kiss. O Music, sent to soothe and bless. Vouchsafe me thy divine caress ! INVOCATION TO SLEEP. Sleep, thou balmy comfort. Sleep, Near my lady's bower keep ! Smoothly from her grieving sweep ; Sorrow in oblivion steep : On those eyes late made to weep, Lay thy fingers, gentle Sleep ! Sweetly o'er her senses creep ; Fold her 'neath thy wings, Sleep ! 237 THE DESPAIRING LOVER. She let me take her hand in mine, She let me keep it folded there ; She let me look her in the eyes, And yet she left me to despair ! She let me think I'd won her heart, That I was fondly shrin&d there ; That she had given me her faith. And yet she left me to despair. And she is gone, my cruel love ! As heartless as supremely fair ! She went without a word or look. And left me to my dark despair ! That she is lost, is bitter grief; But that I'd try to bravely bear : That she is false is keenest pang, 'Tis that that darkens my despair. 238 SONG. There is a stile beneath a tree, Is very — very dear to me : The stile gives rest, the tree gives shade, And there for many an hour I've stay'd. But neither rest nor shade, you see, Quite gives the spot its charms to me ; Another reason, I must say. It is, that makes me like to stay. An arm that holds me on the stile, Frank eyes that look in mine the while, A voice that murmurs in my ear. All make the place so very dear. Oh, pleasant stile ! oh, shady tree ! A cherished thought you are to me : Oh, faithful arm, frank eyes, fond voice ! You make my inward heart rejoice. 239 THE DECLARATION. (set to music by chas. r. tennant, esq.) What makes my heart so wildly throb ? I'm glad, not sorry — yet I sob : What ails me that I cannot rest ? He told me what I partly guessed. Why will the tears o'erflow my eyes ? It must have been the glad surprise : Surprise to find I rightly guessed, Delight to hear he loved me best. *&' The words he said I hardly knew; But — eager, ardent, rapid, few — Their meaning flashed upon my sight In flood of almost blinding light. My quivering lip, my varying cheek. Revealed the truth I could not speak : Contented with my tell-tale look, He silently my answer took. A sudden joy affects like grief: But with joy's tumult comes relief To feel all fears are set at rest. As when he drew me to his breast. 240 / COME TO THEE, MY LOVE, I COME! SONG. In tedious bondage long held fast The weary hours of absence past, I come to thee, my love, at last ! I come to thee, my love, I come ! Fulfilled the part allotted me, Hard duty done now sets me free, On wings of joy I fly to thee ! I come to thee, my love, I come ! Endured with many a stifled moan. An age of waiting sad and lone : But now — oh, happiness ! — 'tis gone ! I come to thee, my love, I come ! 241 GOOD-MORROW. (set to music by miss macirone.) Good-morrow to my lady bright, I'll early sing beneath her bower ; Let others serenade by night, I choose the brilliant morning hour : Good-morrow, love, good-morrow ! The morn is fair, and like my love ; Benignant, gracious, so is she ; It sheds a radiance from above ; It smiles on all, as she on me : Good-morrow, love, good-morrow ! Appear, my love, and beam with light ; Th)'^ lattice is mine orient ; Arise, and bless my longing sight ; My heart awaits thee, jubilant : Good-morrow, love, good-morrow ! R 242 TOO LATE. Two mournful words, minute in length, Fall on the ear with dire import ; Though seeming small, of greatest strength, They shut out hope, of earthly sort : Too late ! Too late ! When erring man would fain atone For injuries that bring remorse, He finds his purpose futile grown By those two words that check his course : Too late ! Too late ! They strike, as with a dooming chime, The soul that vainly would retrieve The past, the lost, lamented time ; And leaves it nothing but to grieve : Too late ! Too late ! One sole resource to man remains. When his sick heart hath made this moan Divinest mercy still contains A cure for all : with that alone 'Tis ne'er too late. 243 MR. RIGHT. They press me to make haste and choose ; They pester and they worry ; They tell me I've no time to lose : But surely there's no hurry — I'll wait for Mr. Right. They say that I'm too hard to please, Too dainty, too fastidious : I only ask to choose at ease ; And — not to be invidious — To wait for Mr. Right. They recommend me Colonel Blank, Because he's rich as Croesus ; They introduce me men of rank : That's not the way to please us — I'll wait for Mr. Ri^ht. 'b' I will not wed till I can love, Of that I am determin'd ; Mere interest I am above : So, once for all — I'm firm in't — I'll wait for Mr. Right. K 2 244 He won me with that look of his, So manly and so clear ; He won me with that glance of his. So gentle and so dear. He won me with that laugh of his. So pleasant and so frank ; He won me with that voice of his ; Into my heart it sank. He won me with that eye of his, So eloquent and pure ; He won me with that tongue of his. Which did my love allure. You shall not know that name of his. Nor hear it breathed by me : You cannot guess that name of his ; I said no more than " he.'' 245 MY BONNIE BIRDIE ! '(set to music by CHARLES DESANGES.) The lark may sing with mountain glee ; The blackbird warble mellowly ; The throstle pipe full clear and free ; But let me hear my own sweet bird — My bonnie Birdie ! My bird has eyes of azure bright ; Her song alone is my delight ; But wings she has not yet for flight : An earthly angel is my bird — My bonnie Birdie ! Then come, my bird, and with me rest ; And stray no farther than my breast ; But make this heart thy home, thy nest, My mate, my wife, my own sweet bird ! My bonnie Birdie ! 246 THE LITTLE BIRD. A little bird whispereth me As softly as softly can be ; And, perch'd on invisible tree, Deliciously low singeth he. He twittereth close in mine ear, That none but myself may him hear To me he is perfectly clear ; And tells me of one the most dear. He says to me many a thing That no other bird did e'er sing ; Delightfullest news does he bring, And never's in haste to take wing. He's a strange little wonderful bird, As ever was seen or was heard ; He lets me know many a word Of a person who makes up our third. My little bird's secret and sweet, Through him we in spirit oft meet ; My love and I kindly him treat, And give him our bosom for seat. 247 THE MARINER'S WIFE. My sailor husband's on the main, Far, far away ! Oh, send him swiftly home again ; Let him not stay ! He thinks upon his faithful Sue, Far, far away ! He will return, as fond and true ; Let him not stay ! Ye winds and waves in foreign seas, Far, far away I Ah, set this anxious heart at ease ; Let him not stay ! Be gracious to him. Powers above ; Far, far away ! Oh, waft him to his waiting love ; Let him not stay ! 248 THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE. A BALLAD. Come home to me, Willie, Come home from the sea, Come home to thy baby, Come home, lad, to me. The wild winds are raging, There's storm in the sky ; I tremble while singing Our babe's lullaby. I try to be brave. Will ; I try, lad, I do ; But hard is it, Willie, When watching for you. The sound of the waves, lad. The sound of the sea, It fills me with terror, While waiting for thee ! I fancy the tumult. The turmoil, the toss, The darkness, the struggle. Oh, Heaven, the loss ! What ails thee, my babie ? Did mother give start ? Oh, hush thee, my darling. Lie close to my heart. THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE. 249 I'll hope for thy father, I will not think thus ; I'll trust him to One Will send him to us. What ail'st thou, my baby ? What see'st thou, out there ? 'Tis only the storm-clouds At which thou "dost stare. 'Tis naught but their shadow, That flits by so fast ; But heed it not, baby, 'Tis past, dear, 'tis past. Turn this way thy face, babe, Turn close to my breast ; 'Tis nothing thou look'st at, Oh, rest thee, babe, rest ! 'Tis I have disturbed thee With fanciful fears, 'Tis mother has wak'd thee With fast-falling tears. Now still thee, babe, still thee, 'Tis not father's wraith ; Oh, gaze not about thee. He's not come to scath. I will not believe it, I will not e'en think The horrible fancies That make my heart shrink, 250 THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE. I'll pray for thy father, I'll fervently pray ; Now, close thine eyes, baby, 'Tis nothing, I say. But, hark ! There is something A footstep — hark, hark ! A swift-coming footstep, I hear through the dark. Joy, joy ! It is Willie ! 'Tis no one but he ! I know it is Willie That thus claspeth me. Thou'rt come to me, Willie, Thou'rt come from the sea ; Thou'rt come to thy baby, Thou'rt come, love, to me ! Oh, welcome, my Willie, Oh, welcome from sea ; Oh, welcome to baby. Oh, welcome to me ! 251 ENGLAND. (set to music by J. L. HATTON.) England, O England ! dear land of our birth, Land of the fair, and the brave, and the free. England, dear England, the first of the earth ! Some pride is forgiven us, singing of thee. Near thee, away from thee, still 'tis the same; Still we must cherish thee, thrill at thy name ; Joy in thy nobleness, honour thy fame ; Even to vaunt of thee, are we to blame ? England, England, belov'd native land ! Land of the generously helpful and strong, Sing we thy praises in brotherly band ; Lift we our voices in heartiest song. SPRING. (set as four part-songs by WALTER MACFARREN.) A glee for jovial, happy Spring, The season when the nightingale In rapture doth her heart outfling. Rejoicing every hill and dale. With song we'll laud the jovial Spring, As doth the voiceful nightingale ; We'll let our voices cheerful ring, And tuneful make the woodland vale. All glory to the jovial Spring, The season of the nightingale ; Like her, its praises will we sing, And greet it with a loud " All hail ! " SUMMER. Summer, with your genial noons, Summer, with your golden moons, Summer, with your skies of blue, Warmly will we welcome you I Summer, gladd'ner of the young, Ever be your praises sung ! Summer, banisher of cold, Truly welcome to the old ! Summer, with your leafy bowers. Softest showers, heaps of flowers, Open, airy, happy hours, We rejoice to have you ours. 253 A UTUMN. Thy praises, Autumn, will we sing ! Thou, ruddy as thy ruby wine ; Compar'd with thee, how pale the Spring ! Thy colouring how richly fine ! Ripe golden corn and purple grape. With peach and apple's rosy cheek, Combining hue with grace of shape. Who shall their beauties fitly speak ? The eye, the taste, thou dost rejoice ; To love thee. Autumn, who can fail ? Then let us pledge thee, heart and voice. In loving cup, thine own bright ale. WINTER. Winter hath its merits too ; Never think that they are few ; Winter hath its blazing fires ; Right good cheer at hearths of sires. Winter hath its frosty stars ; While, within, its household Lars Shine with tenfold sparkling light Near the holly, glossy bright. Sing we then the Winter cold. Sturdy, vigorous, and bold ; Winter sing, with all our might ; Have we not his Christmas night ? 254 THE FAIRY GHOST. (written for a young girl's album.) The sky had been aflame with burning gold ; Down sank the sun, with crimson splendours crown'd ; As deepen'd the cerulean into blue Of darker, fuller depth, out shone the stars. Revealing their glad eyes ; then rose the moon, In radiance pure, filling the vast serene With universal glow of mellowness, Benignity, and soft pervading light : What time Aurelia — tempted forth alone T' enjoy the middle summer's lovely night In quiet musings, open-air'd and free. Betook her to a wood, which legends said Of yore was haunted by the fays and elves ; And where they held their wonted revelry Of song and roundel in quaint circling maze ; Frisking and darting thro' the bladed grass ; Now wafted floating, o'er the rushy pool ; Now pendent, flaunting from some bloomy spray; Just swinging lazily, by zephyr's breath Mov'd to and fro in idle lightsome play; Anon all eagerness and busy work. Rifling the sweets from musk-buds or the cups Of bean-flowers, lime-blossoms, the stor'd wealth Of jasmine, eglantine, and thymy banks Where fragrant sweeps of scent in clouds arise. Lulling and swelling, lingering in their fall. Expanding in their soar, like music-strains THE FAIRY GHOST. 255 Charming the sense with alternated flush Of upborne richness, or subsiding down To dwell in latent still-returning flow Of perfum'd freshness, or melodious sound. Aurelia mus'd of those small fairy folk. Their sportive graces, deeds, and airy ways. Their frolics, gambols, mirthful antics, wiles. Their freaks of mischief, innocent in fun. Too playful to be fraught with any harm, And griev'd to think their reign should be no more; She felt regret that reason and belief Taught her no longer to expect the sight Of elfin troops, of Oberon the king. Of bright Titania, and the tricksome Puck ; For " gone were all that merry band " ; so wrote, At least, a poet sage who doubtless knew The truth ; and sinking down upon a bank. With half-heav'd sigh, Aurelia paus'd to rest, And ponder, and deplore the bygone race Who peopled bravely the green forests old. Adorning them with shapes of beauty rare, Of fancy strange and fair, of fashion quaint, Of hue most brilliant, dainty in device, Of form the gracefuUest — nimble, merry sprites, Emphatically nam'd " the good " ; and good In fact they were, if not of purpose good ; For they gave rise to good, in happy thoughts, Ideas of mirth and sprightliness, and all The train of cheerful imagery born Of such believ'd existences : And so Aurelia deemed ; and so regretful sat. With eyes bedimm'd by dewy trembling tears That seem'd prepar'd to fall and weep the loss Of Fairies and their kind : until a sound, Scarce loud enough to start a little mouse, 256 THE FAIRY GHOST. A lizard, or quick-necked watchful bird, Light fell upon the ear of her who lay Reclining on the bank in museful mood, With brush or rustle such as falling leaf Might cause upon a heap of leaves below. Aurelia turn'd her head, and was aware Of something pois'd upon a pliant branch Of briony that flung its garland length Beside Aurelia's seat : the something seem'd A figure small ; of undefined shape ; Of shadowy indistinctness ; yet as if Compos'd of sheeny substance, silv'ry grey ; As though a filmy gossamer, that spreads Its bright-weav'd threads across the summer fields. Had wrought a garment to enwrap the form That rested on the wreath of briony. Aurelia gaz'd : and studied to discern Aright the tiny being perch'd so near : Yes, there it stood ; dim, faint, but surely there ; A slender, misty, insubstantial thing. But still an atom visible — a point Whereon to concentrate the sight, and make It feel assur'd it sees ; and still, the more She look'd, the more she knew she saw a thing Slight, silver-hu'd, minute — a flitting shade — Like greyish flue, or down of cygnet stirr'd By sudden puff of air. Wistful its glance : And then the maid bethought, how she had heard That beings unearthly wait till first accost From mortals come ; and thus she strove to break The spell of silence brooding o'er the wood. Which held her beating heart in mute surmise. With aw'd and breathless lips Aurelia said : "What art thou, shadowy slender thing? From whence ? THE FAIRY GHOST. 257 What wouldst ? Art thou indeed a form ? Or but A fantasy, a wandering whim of brain, That night and forest-glooms do paint on air. Embodied only from the woof of thought ? " At last it spoke ; and answer'd with a voice Thin and attenuate, Hke whisp'ring reeds : *' AureHa, human maiden, Hst to me ; To those who mourn our race with ruth sincere, It given is, at seasons rare and seld, To see our forms appear — but ghostly now. And all amort, bedwindl'd to a shade, As I am : yet, grieve not ; though dead and gone, We fairies still survive in other sphere ; We still our dance and roundelay pursue ; Still do we our pranksome feats enact ; Still gambol merry in the forest glade ; Still chase each other in the moonshine bright ; Still frolic on the smooth brown sea-beach sands ; Still, rainbow-rob'd, and clad in brightest tints, We filch the honey-drops from op'ning flow'rs ; But, as I said, 'tis in another sphere — The poets' line ; there is our boundless realm. Our endless reign, our never-dying life ; Endue your sight with pow'r of vision strong Deriv'd from them ; through them acquire the light To rightly see our shapes ; instinct with fine And vital beauty, then shall you behold Us once again disporting in the woods And fields as we were wont in times of yore And not alone the fairy race and tribe Of elves shall mortal eyesight still behold ; The fauns, the dryads, and the sylvan gods. The naiads, nereids, river deities, The sea-born populace with sounding conchs, And shrill-blown shells, and onward-rolling cars s 258 THE FAIRY GHOST. O'er em'rald waves translucent with the shine Of beamy rays from rising orient sun, Cast slanting 'thwart the waters from some ridge Of mountain-top that beetles o'er the main ; All these shall once more rise to view for those Who look with eyes that borrow keener sight From poesy. Study, then, its visual lore, Its wisdom ocular, its guiding hints To clear perceive in beauteous vivid trace Things past and gone and dead to common eyes : Learn thence, Aurelia, to behold us still ; And mourn no more for what was erst our life : We're living yet — in an immortal way — To bless the sight poetically wrought : Adieu ! Farewell, ye fairy-loving maid ! " Another moment, and the voice had ceas'd ; Another yet, and vanish'd was the tuft Of silver film-clad flue from off the branch. Aurelia rose, and thoughtfully retrac'd Her steps tow'rd home ; and calmlyslept that night. 259 THE EVENTFUL LIFE OF A BOY : RECOUNTED BY HIMSELF IN FIVE STANZAS. There was a time I cannot well remember ; But I was born the middle of November : My favourite food was chiefly milk and pap, My usual seat was on my nurse's lap. 'Twas when I was a baby boy. There was a time when I was sent to school, And though no genius, certainly no fool ; I learnt by rote the whole of Eton grammar, And through Cornelius Nepos I could hammer. 'Twas when I was a biggish boy. There was a time I went into the Army ; The cannon balls flew round, but didn't harm me : I winged a fellow in a duel once, Who had the impudence to call me dunce. 'Twas when I was a grown-up boy. There came a time when I was still a beau, And still could take my ride in Rotten Row ; The ladies gave me still a favouring glance, But didn't quite so often with me dance. 'Twas when I was an oldish boy. And now there comes a time when games of whist Are all the battles won by my own fist ; Yet even over those — 'tis very odd — I often find myself inclined to nod. Ah, well ! I'm now a worn-out boy. s 2 26o ANSWER TO TWENTY QUESTIONS. A trusting Patience is the virtue that I covet ; It helps us bravely thro' Life's trials, and I love it ; That " Time's the nurse and breeder of all good," I've heard. And as a motto I esteem it a good word. The Rose, among the flowers, is my favourite ; The Oak, above all trees, doth most my fancy hit : Grace Darling's noble courage gives her foremost place. While Louis Nap. I hold the basest of the base. My favourite diversion's reading pleasant books ; And writing suits me best — I mean my own pot- hooks; I'm fond of needlework, but darning I detest ; Of weaknesses, I own, I like the least the best. Each season, in its turn, delights me most. Since Spring and Summer, Autumn, even Winter, boast The myriad charms of gracious Nature's bounteous hand. And all as marvels of her endless power stand. Of works of art I most prefer the most artistic ; And violet's the hue that makes me eulogistic : Motelli is the sculptor that straight won my heart By group of " Paolo and Francesca" — true high art. 'Tis difficult to choose one painter 'hove the rest ; But, perhaps, Murillo, altogether, I love best. There's not a doubt that Shakespeare is my sove- reign poet : I trust my faithful long devotion serves to show it. ANSWER TO TWENTY QUESTIONS. 261 Orlando is a hero greatly to my mind, And worthy of his charming lady, Rosalind ; While Imogen of heroines is surely queen. So rich in woman's highest qualities she's seen. Dear children more than please, they give me great delight ; And I could wish to have them ever in my sight ; With all their pretty looks, and all their winning ways, They keep me always young, and lengthen out my days. Of dark and bright — I shun the first and seek the last ; Endeavouring a hopeful eye on all to cast. The only solitude I like is that of two ; The sociality I like is that of few. I'm but responsive when I'm asked to give reply ; And never give suggestions save when friends apply For my advice : and as to whether I admire An "animated No;" why, yes, when I require To give a most decided negative at once In answer to a bore, a torment, or a dunce. Now — not to keep you any longer in the dark — I'll sign my name instanter, Mary Cowden Clarke. 262 WEDDING SONG. Come, lovely June ! Bring summer skies. With cloudless blue benignant eyes, To smile on Annie's Wedding-Day. Come, lovely June, of blooming hue ! Bring roses freshly gemm'd with dew, To deck sweet Annie's Wedding-Day. Come, lovely June, thou month of joy ! Bring happiness without alloy, To bless dear Annie's Wedding-Day. 263 AMY'S WEDDING-DAY. Our Amy is to be a wife : How can we part with her ? She's portion of our daily life : We cannot part with her. Our Amy's been our great delight : How shall we part with her? She's been our cheer, our joy, our light : We will not part with her. Yet Amy fain would be a wife. If we would part with her : Shall we make sad her bright young life ? We ought to part with her. She still may form our great delight ; We hardly part with her : She still may cheer us with her light ; We need not part with her. Though Amy now becomes a wife. We shall not part with her : She'll gladden still our daily life, We do not part with her. Remember how we love her look : Don't make us part with her ! Oh, " think of that, good Master Brooke! " Don't let us part with her ! 264 AMY'S WEDDING-DAY. If she by marriage us forsook, Alas, to part with her ! We couldn't brook it, Master Brooke : We would not part with her. , But, once our Amy's Mistress Brooke She'll be with you and us : She'll ne'er forsake her parent nook ; You both will be with us ! 265 BIRTHDAY SONG. DECEMBER I5, 1876. Huzza, for Eighty-nine ! An age so rare and fine, When health and peace combine, Is Heaven's gift divine. What need is there of wine To honour Eighty-nine? Outpouring love is fine Beyond the juice of vine ! With tapers seventeen The cake is crown'd, I ween With eight, for decades, green, Nine white, for years, between. A health to Uncle Charley! To darling Uncle Charley ! May blessings be in store For him for evermore ! A smile where'er he moves, A kiss for all he loves. He's loved by nephews, nieces, With love that ne'er decreases. The partner of his life, His glad and happy wife, Thus hails her Eighty-nine, And proudly calls him " Mine ! " 266 BIRTHDAY SONG. Additional Stanzas written next day. To greet Charles Cowden Clarke On reaching Eighty-nine, Come letters of high mark From friends in endless line. From friends in England dear, From distant friends and near, They all one way incline, Saluting Eighty-nine. " God bless thee, dear old friend ! ' 'Tis thus they mostly end — " God bless thee, Eighty-nine! May happiness be thine 1 " Old Time, with hand benign. Has touch'd thee with his sign. And made thee Eighty-nine With gentleness condign. P.S. To all, thus answers Eighty-nine : " God bless you, dear ones mine ! May all who reach my years Rejoice like me, my dears ! " 267 THE 20TH OF JUNE, 1875. These birthday Hnes are fondly penned In hope that they will not offend, Or even chance to weary her, My darling niece, Valeria 1 A cockney rhyme, it must be owned, This r and a together toned ; But p'rhaps it may not weary her, My darling niece, Valeria ! So partial to her Aunty she, I hardly fear she'll censure me. She will not let it weary her, My charming niece, Valeria ! She'll make the best of aught I do. She always does — that's nothing new ! She will not think I weary her. My darling niece, Valeria ! And so I'll prose on farther still ; To prose in verse cannot be ill Adapted to unweary her, My darling niece, Valeria ! I wonder whether jy^i she's tired ! These lines must surely be admired ! There's nothing here can weary her, My charming niece, Valeria ! 268 THE 20TS OF JUNE, 1875. So full of spirit and good sense, Their merit ought to be immense ; They cannot, cannot weary her, My charming niece, Valeria ! No one can call them " very dull " ('Tis only slang that says " a mull ") ; Impossible they weary her, My charming niece, Valeria ! In fact, she'll find them full of fire, Apollo's self might be their sire. How can they then a-weary her, My darling niece, Valeria? She's much too clever her own self To put them by upon the shelf. And frankly say they weary her. My charming niece, Valeria ! She is so wise and witty both That really I should be quite loth To fancy they could weary her, My charming niece, Valeria ! And since she hath both wisdom, wit, That both are here she will admit. And not allow I weary her. My charming niece, Valeria ! Ill-natured folk might call this stuff. And tell me I have penned enough To thoroughly outweary her, My charming niece, Valeria ! THE 20 w OF JUNE, 1875. 269 If such should be the case, suppose I change the metre at the close That that at least mayn't weary her, My darling niece, Valeria ! If I could think my verse would weary her, I would not write this to Valeria ; But as I fancy it may cheery her, I'll send this greeting to Valeria, My heart with birthday wishes for her burns : God bless my dear-loved niece, Valeria ! And send her many happy glad returns Of this sweet day of June, Valeria ! 270 HUMAN ENDEAVOUR. Imperfect is the best that we can do ; Yet do our best our duty is to do, Put all our heart in it with fervour true, Just do our best and leave the rest to God. Some trifling oversight in our own deed, Or others misconducting doth mislead, Producing imperfection's evil seed ; Still, do our best and leave the rest to God. Ay, after all our carefullest attempt And pains to make it from all faults exempt, It brings us naught but scornfullest contempt ; Still, do our best, and leave the rest to God. For, if we do our best, e'en though we fail. Though in the sight of man 'tis no avail. Yet in the sight of God it will prevail ; He knows we've done our best with faith in Him. 271 SYLVAN SINGERS. At morn the soaring Skylark fills the air With thrilling outpour of his hymnal rare : Soft cooing in the wood, the whole day through, The Dove croons low, so constant and so true. At eve, the Blackbird's full and fluty note Amid the stillness welcomely doth float : When stars illume the copse with sparkling ray, The Nightingale trills forth his tender lay. In Spring, the Cuckoo and the sprightly Thrush Make musical each leafy tree and bush : In Summer, all the warblers seek the shade. And chant their choral strains in forest glade, In Autumn, fewest singing birds we hear, This else abundant season of the year : In Winter, Robin Redbreast in the croft Sits carolling his notelets shrilly soft. 272 NOT YET. I asked her when we should be wed, Besought her name an early day, I knew no rest till then, I said : Her blushing cheek was turned away ; " Not yet," she softly said, " Not yet." I asked her should I go to sea. And try if absence gave me rest : She glanc'd up suddenly at me. Then hid her face upon my breast : " Not yet," she softly said, " Not yet." Again I asked, " When shall it be You'll make me yours for evermore ? When will you give yourself to me ? " She looked at me as ne'er before. And softly said, " Whene'er you will." 273 jfUST THEN. A HONEYMOON SONG. Upon the grass, beneath a tree, My love and I sat happily ; My cheek to hers drew near, more near, I whispered something in her ear. Just then, a Httle bird began to sing. Our honeymoon, beneath that tree, My love and I spent merrily ; I told her she was not amiss, And gave her many a laughing kiss. Just then, a ringdove coo'd above our heads. Of married life, beneath that tree, My love and I talked cheerily ; We counted endless joys to share, And hoped for little cause of care. Just then, a raven flew across the path. Up through the boughs of the old tree, My love and I looked trustfully ; We gazed into the clear blue sky. And thought of Him who dwells on high. Just then, the sun shone forth in glory bright. 274 MY VIOLET. My love's a modest violet, Her eyes as blue, herself as sweet : Oh, green the lane where first I met My dainty woodland violet. So timid is my violet, She still looks shyly when we meet ; Though now I many times have met My shrinking gentle violet. So charming is my violet, She is my dearest, deepest joy ; I fain would in my bosom set My fragrant lovely violet. But so reserved is violet, So bashful, maidenly, and coy, I dare not whisper to her yet, " I wish for wife my violet." 275 TRUE LOVE; OR, WOOING IN THE WOOD. " Roo-coo, roo-coo," cooed dove to dove, Among the leafy boughs above : " Oh, love me true," said my true love, " Do love me true ! " " I do, my Prue ; whom should I love If 'tis not you, who are above In love and truth the very dove ? I love you true." Thus loves and doves each other wooed ; And, musically mutual, cooed ; Warmed 'mid the coolness of the wood. With love so true. Our poet says, " 'Tis silly sooth " ; In other words, " 'Tis simple truth " ; Then who but feels some tender ruth For love when true ? T 2 276 HOME KINDNESS. What with kindness can compare ? Yet, alas, too often rare ! Bluffly, thoughtlessly, withheld. Angry thought and sudden wrath Turn aside their bitter scath, Met by kindly spoken word. Gentle glance, or mute caress, Hand's soft reassuring press, Well sustain the fainting soul. '& One kind word from those we love Courage gives us far above Highest praise from others' mouth. One kind look from those we love Comfort gives us far above Loudest sympathy express'd. Spare not, then, kind word or look, Ye who live in Home's sweet nook ! Balm and healing kindness brings. Loving-kindness cures all ills; Helps to cure, at least, and stills Aching hearts till strength they gain. HOME KINDNESS. 277 Chiefly, always bear in mind, Let not one alone be kind. Mutual be forbearing love. Patience, tenderness, and truth, To each other shown, good sooth. Make of Home a Heaven on earth. 278 TO NERINA GIGLIUCCI. Thy mother's crispy curls of jet, Thy mother's eyes' dark brilHancy Are mirror'd faithfully in thee, O rightly named Nerina ! Thy mother's title fondly given In pleasant courtship days bygone Is made for thee, sweet little one, O rightly named Nerina ! Thy father, when he calls thee thus Will think of her whom thus he styled, And love thee doubly well, dear child, O rightly named Nerina ! A maiden whom I called " Black Pearl " Thy mother, darling babe, is now : A pearl is she, a pearl art thou, O rightly named Nerina ! May Heaven appoint thy fate to be Of diamond brightness, pearly clear! And nothing black be thine, my dear, Except thy name, Nerina 1 279 MADRIGAL. My heart is stol'n away By Love, sly rogue, at play. The theft I would forgive If for it he would give Fair Chloe's heart to me For ever mine to be. MADRIGAL. Why do I love my own true love ? Because he's true as true can be: Why does my own true love love me ? Because I'm true, as true as he. We to each other are so true, There's naught our two hearts may divide ; Lose what we may of worth beside, True love with us will aye abide. 28o MADRIGAL. Alas, there's much amiss with me, I am not as I used to be ; With a fal lal la, heigh-ho ! Alas, my Phoebe's cold to me, Most cruel and perverse is she ; With a fal lal la, heigh-ho She will not give her heart to me, And says so with a mocking glee : With a fal lal la, heigh-ho ! The little gipsy cozens me, She stole my heart yet keeps hers free ; With a fal lal la, heigh-ho ! Alas, alas, this, this is why I mope about and sadly sigh ; With a fal lal la, heigh-ho ! GLEE. A rustic little cot Has fallen to our lot ; But in it love abides. Worth all the world besides. A simple home is ours; But nested in by flowers, And snugly holds us three — My wife, and love, and me. 28 1 GLEE. Keep your heart up bravely, boys ! Treat all trifles as but toys : When there comes a serious sorrow, Think a joy may come to-morrow. Keep your heart up bravely, boys ! Weigh your sorrows with your joys : Though affliction's sometimes sent, Happiness is often lent. Keep your heart up bravely, then ! Be prepared for all, like men : Bear whatever comes amiss, Gratefully enjoy your bliss. SONG. He gave me a fairing, that time ; 'Twas under the boughs of the lime : It chanced there was nobody by. Or maybe I might have felt shy : For something he gave me besides, And what should it be but a kiss ? Full many a sweet thing he said. When asking my promise to wed : I gave it him under the tree — 'Twas well there was no one to see ; For something I gave him besides, And what should it be but a kiss ? 282 GIFTS. A gift my love has given me ; Now pr'ythee guess what it can be : A dainty little posy neat, That looks so gay and smells so sweet. Another gift he's given to me ; Now pr'ythee guess what it can be : A tender little cooing dove, That tells me of his perfect love. A priceless gift he's given to me ; Now pr'ythee guess what it can be : " A little bright gold wedding ring, To me the very dearest thing. 283 FAITHFUL. Oh, love me still, as I love thee, Though thou art gone, and I remain : We cannot wholly be apart, Uv^e are faithful, heart to heart. Oh, love me still, as I love thee: I'm happy yet, if thou lov'st me. Though we are sunder'd for a while, Our spirits can together be : If faithfully we trust and love. Eternal union's ours above. Then love me still, as I love thee We're happy yet, if faithful we. ACROSTIC. A woman beautifully clear and bright, M ade up of Nature's harmonies aright ; E ndow'd with intellect and fine good sense : L ive diamonds her eyes, with flash intense I Uumining her vivid speaking face, A nd showing outwardly her inward grace. 284 THE STARS BEYOND THE CLOUD. (first and two last stanzas set to music by berthold tours.) When dark the sky and louring all around The night is gathering in 'mid threaten'd storm, When far from home we wander on in dread, Or anxious vigils keep on sleepless bed. We still can firmly bid our fainting souls : ' ' Take heart ! The stars are there beyond the cloud . " When faith is shaken in all human truth, Most men seem false and women fickle prove, When trust in worth appears a folly weak, And we in vain for earthly comfort seek. We still can whisper to our aching souls : " Take heart 1 the stars are there beyond the cloud." When evil for a time rides rampantly, Injustice reigns and innocence succumbs. When blind and wilful error gains apace. And virtue to prevailing vice gives place. We refuge take in whispering to our souls : "Wait, wait ! The stars are there beyond the cloud. When mystery envelopes seeming wrong. Mistake and calumny environ right, When purity's belied and merit veil'd. Unkindly judged or cruelly assail'd, We patience gather, whispering to our souls : "Await ! the stars are there beyond the cloud." THE STARS BEYOND THE CLOUD. 285 When, sore perplex'd, we cannot understand The ways of God to man, and wondering see The wicked thrive and villainy succeed. The lilies droop, and flourishing the weed, We can but whisper to our puzzled souls : " Be sure, the stars are there beyond the cloud." When, helpless, we behold the sobbing child Or gentle age by illness stricken down, When near the bed of suffering we remain Unable to alleviate the pain, Relief is in the simple thought our souls Breathe low: "The stars are there beyond the cloud." When bowed beneath the load of care we sink. And feel as crushed by burdens we must bear. When almost ceasing effort to be strong, And ready to exclaim "I've borne too long ! " Then, brave, yet meek, we whisper to our souls : " Look up ! the stars are there beyond the cloud." When deep discouragement and self-distrust Give way to hope and peaceful calm. When mists of earth grow clear, more clear. And light of Heaven draws near, more near, Revivingly we bid our upraised souls : " Behold ! the stars are there beyond the cloud," When life is fading from our feeble ken. And scarce regretfully we watch it fade, So empty and bereft the world has grown Of those we best have loved and best have known, 'Tis then we gladly bid our trusting souls : " Rejoice ! the stars are there beyond the cloud." 286 BODY AND SOUL. The roses on thy grave are now breast high : Keen as their thorns the thought that thou dost He Beneath, instead of in mine arms — and yet — Thy spirit, Hke the fragrance of the rose, Within my heart doth evermore repose. 287 VISIONS. In bliss with God, with those we've loved and lost, With universal Nature and her laws All fully understood, is what my soul Delights to picture thee, my own beloved. Since now thou'rt gone from earth and art thyself A spirit bless'd among th' immortal host ! Oh, dost thou, in thy new and higher life, Still think of me as with thee, part of thee, The half of thine own self, as when thou wast Beside me here ? I feel, I know, thou dost : God puts assurance of it in my heart. And makes me calm in the belief that now Thou know'st the depth and truth of all my love For thee : which, when thou wert but human like Myself, thou could'st not fully know. The star. Thy favourite of all the heavenly train. Bright Sirius — now nightly visible. Aglow with diamond sparkles red and green, Intensest sudden darts of light, that shoot Athwart the firmament to where I stand — Seems sending vivid warranties of love Undying, felt by thee for me, and felt By thee from me. I watch with avid eye These throbs scintillant, take them into my Dejected heart, that beats responsive throbs. And swells with upward yearning toward thee in Thy blue abode serene, my Charles, my Charles ! 288 ^^ALL THOSE WE LOVE!'' " All those we love ! " my Father's fav'rite toast : To them we drink, of them we think, when most Our souls are tuned to kindly mirth ; A toast embracing those we have on earth And those we only have in heart and Heaven. " All those we love !" Let's sing the hallow'd toast ; Including as it does a tender host Of living dear ones, blessed memories ; A starry circle of enduring ties That crown our joys on earth and hopes of Heaven. 289 MAY THIRTEEN, 1880. To please my darling little niece, I fain would write a birthday piece- — Some merry, quaint, amusing verse : And therefore I must first rehearse The various freakish forms of rhyme That suit to make harmonious chime With both her pretty Christian names, That might become the highest dames. A Queen and Princess bear them now ; And certainly, we all know how Distinguished those two ladies are ! Of course, I don't put on a par With them my own grandniece for rank'; But setting rank aside, I thank My stars she's not a whit less good, Less dear to me ; and they too would, I know, be first to quite agree With what I say, and think with me That very good and very dear She is ; for that's a fact most clear. Well, let's return to the main thing — The anniversary that we sing. The birthday which we celebrate This month of May, the thirteenth date, When seven years old my niece will be ; And many more, I trust, she'll see ! Now, shall I style her Beatrice (The English way), and with a kiss Invoke all blessings on her head ? Or (in Italian fashion said) Pronounce her name as Beatrice, And pat her cheek so fair, so peachy ? u ago MAY THIRTEEN, 1880. Or what if I should chance to fix On that rare form of Beatrix Implying that she's full of tricks ? Nay, p'rhaps it would be rather nice, For fun, to call her Beatrice : But then, I fear, Papa would wince, And fancy I'd gone crazy, since No person ever sounds it so Except an ignoramus low. At one time, I have heard, they thought Of calling her — it came to naught— By her first name, Vittoria ; Which would have been a glory, a Remembrance of the lady-friend Of Michael Angelo, and send Our thoughts to fair Colonna's worth ; Whose nobleness was less of birth Than goodness, virtue, intellect. Still, I am glad they did elect To keep the title, Beatrice : 'Twould have been difficult to teach me Use any other name than that By which I knew her when she sat A baby on my knee ; besides, It well befits her, who resides For most part on Italian land. The land her ancestors had hand In rendering illustrious, Renowned, potential, glorious. Then here's to darling Beatrice ! Oh, may she live to gladly reach the Extremest term of good old age ; And be through life a happy sage, Have cheerful wisdom, kindly ways, And fond affection all her days ! 2gr A RIDDLE. WRITTEN FOR BEATRICE ON HER SEVENTH BIRTHDAY. My first is a second, by usual rule ; My second's a first, recited at school ; My third is a third, if an h you take ; My whole is a darling, and no mistake. TO MORICO GIGLIUCCI. Dear new-born Lily-bud, oh, may'st thou prove As branch of olive in the mouth of dove. To herald lasting peace and joy and love For parent stem ! Oh, may it be thy fate To gloriously still perpetuate The Lily name thou bear'st,* and renovate With later honours all its old renown ! For this, sweet Lily-blossom, freshly blown. We trust thou'rt sent by Heav'n our hopes to crown ! We hail thee gladly, gratefully, on earth ; We hail thee at the moment of thy birth ; We hail thee as our cherish'd flower of worth : Oh, may'st thou live a life of noble deeds ! A life that scatters none but wholesome seeds. And brings its own reward of happy meeds. * The name " Gigliucci " is Italian for " little lilies." U 2 2g2 TO MISS GUSCHL. Dear Barbara, thy fingers fleet and fine, That skim the keys Hke sea-bird hovering. Light pois'd and air-borne on the level wing. Pour out their music, touch'd with gift divine, In memory's echo, to this brain of mine; And visionary strains they often sing Melodiously within me, murmuring A faint delicious descant, soft, benign. Endowments such as thine have double power : To charm the senses with their present spell ; And soothe, when absent, with remember'd knell Of sounds that lived in richly plenteous shower. Struck by the hand of masterfullest skill ; Now sweet and low, now strong and firm as will. TO MISS THORMANN. Lady, from thy great kinsman, Mendelssohn, Thou dost derive a hand that grandly gives Its largess musical with a grace that lives. In bounteous freedom, fulness, wealth of tone. On listener's ear: gift that belongs alone To those whom Nature perfectly achieves, Bestowing on them choicest donatives — Virtue, intellect, and genius, all in one. 'Tis privilege to hear the spirit rare Of masterful composer thus transfused Through living fingers admirably used To rendering his works with nicest care : And so felicitously dost thou play his strain, That in thy felicity Felix lives again. 293 TO MRS. GREEN AW AY, Rose, my dear friend, whose modesty will shrink, I know, to find yourself addressed in verse ; And wonder that some subject really worse Had not been ta'en ; and diffidently think Yourself the worst ; unless indeed love wink, As Shakespeare says it can (with eyes perverse) On homely object — as on negro nurse A fair child smiles, when it to rest doth sink. But you, dear Rose, need no such partial sight : The clearest and most candid mind can see Virtues to love and to revere in thee ; A judgment true; unerring aim for right ; A constant loving heart ; unselfish views ; Worthy of better than thy friend's poor muse. ON BARON POERIO. Oft have I lain awake, and thought on one Whose night was made of days and years struck dark By tyrant's will : yet, latent, lurk'd a spark No dungeon's damp could quench ; it bravely won Self-light, self-glow, 'neath miseries would stun A less divinely kindred spirit : nor cark Nor care extinguish'd Hope ; like morning lark Upborne by wings that shimmer in the sun. It ever strove and strove to rise and rise. And keep its heav'nward course, and reach the skies. There to derive new strength, new life, new fire. Now it flames free, a grand and lofty pyre, As beacon to the world — that Hope of soul Is far beyond a despot's brute control. 294 TO MRS. FREDERIC IN MAN. Mariel mine, that you chose me for friend, Despite my doubHng your young years in age, Doth swell my heart with joy, and doth engage A kind of modest pride which will attend The thought of being loved for no one end But pure responsive liking ; appanage That rightfully belongs, as well-earned wage, To true spontaneous love. Thereon depend A thousand grateful feelings ; therefrom spring A host of mutual sympathies, a world Of tastes reciprocal, held closely furled In inmost heart for lavishment and sharing With her whose impulse has allied us both In happy, trustful, loving friendship-troth. TO MISS PICKERING. Dear Lucy, who, like Shakespeare's good old^king, Hast ever " borne thy faculties so meek " — Vers'd as thou art in Latin and in Greek, Acquainted, too, with many another thing Into a woman's province entering — It sets one's reason all abroad to seek The cause why you, with frame so fragile weak. Should be so strong to master hard learning. The winged insect, that too rude a brush Deprives of life with instantaneous crush, Hath learn'd to build his dainty waxen cell Up-garnering the golden honey well : Fragility with high ability Can co-exist in strange affinity. 295 TO CECILIA SERLE. Cecilia, younger sister mine, to you Who played Moliere's "old woman" for me when The years of neither reached six more than ten, And bade me venture on the pathway new Of authorship with such crude lines and few As I had tremblingly attempted then — Encouraging the efforts of my pen ; To you especially a verse is due. In gratitude I send you this poor sonnet : Receive it with the same indulgent scan You always gave to writing or to plan ; To essay, story, or to new-made bonnet Your elder sister's hand had tried to frame, Secure heryoung" old woman "ne'er would blame. 296 TO EMMA NOVELLO. My sister Emma, most of all art thou Associate in my thought with him we lost ; Dear Edward ! whose bright promis'd path was cross'd By Death's cold shadow : I remember how 'Twas you were always his companion most Preferr'd, while at the easel he'd endow With colour'd life the paintings we have now — Surviv'd to form his glory and our boast. 'Twas you imbibed our brother's taste for Art — Adopting it, for his sake, as your own — When at his side you sat, and, studious grown, Laid by the idler and the merrier part You played so long as mirth beguiled his hours, To gain a kindred portion of his powers. 297 TO CLARA GIGLIUCCI. Clara, my sister, whose enchanting voice Hath might to send out notes Hke soaring lark ; Or vibrant sounds flung forth as at a mark, Hurled like Discobolean throw of quoits ; Plaintive or gay, severe or blithe, at choice ; Next veiled in gloom, then bright as stricken spark ; But ever summoning the soul to hark With thrilling ear — to hearken and rejoice In that full stream of potent utterance Which pours its liquid, pure, melodious flow, Making each hearer's bosom throb and glow Entranced ; now mournful, now in gladsome dance, Now awe-struck at thy holy tones and strong ; Anon uproused by Jacobitish song. TO SABILLA NOVELLO. Sabilla, youngest of my sisters four, In you are blended gifts that well combine Those that elsewhere conspicuously shine : Cecilia's judgment ; Emma's pencil (more Left-handed, you will say, than hers) ; a store Of Clara's monarch tone and powers fine In music ; skill to read the native line Of Dante's, Goethe's, and Cervantes' lore, Besides Moliere's vivacious repartee ; Accomplished, too, in language of your own — Gay raillery, and sportive fancy shown Whene'er occasion yields a playful plea For manifesting wit, that ne'er out-bounds The lady's tact to hit, yet give no wounds. 298 TO MARY SABILLA SERLE. My niece and godchild, Mary, well hast thou The promise of thy childhood years fulfiU'd : Then baby tones in baby accents trill'd That Handel-Milton song — we scarce knew how — Of " Let me wander not unseen " ; and now In singing and in playing thou art skill'd To such degree of polish as hath fill'd The heart of those who love thee with o'erflow Of gladness. Long may'st thou continue thus, My god-daughter, to proudly gladden us ; Like full blown beauty of the open rose, Where perfume, colour, form, and grace disclose Themselves perfected — bui'sting from the bud Which held them shrin'd beneath its close green hood. TO PORTIA GIGLIUCCI. Two Shakespeare women bear my niece's name: The Roman's " true and honourable wife " ; And lady lawyer, who from Shylock's knife Redeem'd the Venice merchant, when he came To pay the bond the wolfish Jew did frame With purpose to ensnare Antonio's life. Both these in goodly qualities are rife ; Both these are Portias, nobly known to fame. Be you, my Portia — though but known to those Who love you in your home and round of friends — A living type of what the poet shows To woman's highest exaltation tends ; A wifely truth and love unto the death, Refinement, sense, and feeling in one breath. 299 TO VALERIA GIGLIUCCI. (irregular sonnet.) Valeria, my niece, whose Roman birth Becomes thee well ; thy name on Shakespeare's page. Doth shine effulgent ; there, from age to age, It beams — "The moon of Rome": that all the earth May witness how a woman's modest worth, Recorded by a poet, doth engage Th' admiring gaze of reverent and sage Beholders. History itself no dearth Of praise awards ; for Plutarch nobly tells The story of Valeria's timely thought ; With speech of wisest counsel, which impels Th' appeal that saves her country, and which wrought Coriolanus to relent. May thou thus act, My darling, when the time arrives to prove the fact I augur from thy early promise — womanhood Complete in all things lovely, gentle, wise, and good. 300 TO PORTIA AND VALERIA. Your love, you darling nieces mine, has been A coronal among the wreaths made mine, By blest vouchsafement of the Hand Divine, In bountifully rich and rarely seen Abundance ; wreaths that blossom and keep green Themselves, while casting a perennial shine "Upon the lives they garland and entwine — Enhancing happiness, relieving teen. True love has been my best of boons through life, With parents, brothers, sisters, valued friends, And sacred-happy love 'tween man and wife. That not the very grave itself e'er ends ; The love 'tween child and mother has been known To me through you, as dear as if mine own. ON A RING OF LEIGH HUNTS HAIR. Nor coal, nor jet, nor raven's wing more black Than this small crispy plait of ebon hair: And well I can remember when the rare Young poet-head, in eager thought thrown back, Bore just such clusters ; ere the whitening rack Of years and toil, devoted to the care For human weal, had blanch'd and given an air Of snow-bright halo to the mass once black. In public service, in high contemplations, In poesy's excitement, in the earnest Culture of divinest aspirations. Thy sable curls grew grey; and now thou turnest Them to radiant lustre, silver-golden, Touch'd by that Light no eye hath yet beholden. 301 SONNETS ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF LEIGH HUNT. I. The world grows empty : fadingly and fast The dear ones and the great ones of my life Melt forth, and leave me but the shadows rife Of those who blissful made my peopled past ; Shadows that in their numerousness cast A sense of desolation, sharp as knife, Upon the soul ; perplexing it with strife Against the vacancy, the void, the vast Unfruitful desert which the earth becomes To one who loses thus the cherish'd friends Of youth. The loss of each beloved sends An aching consciousness of want that dumbs The voice to silence — akin to the dead blank All things became, when down the sad heart sank. II. And yet not so would'st thou thyself have view'd Affliction ; thy true poet-soul knew how The sorest thwartings patiently to bow To wisest teachings ; that they still renew'd In thee strong hope, firm trust, a faith imbued With cheerful spirit — constant to avow The good of e'en things evil, and allow All ills to pass with courage unsubdued. Philosophy like thine turns to pure gold Earth's dross : imprisonment assum'd a grace, A dignity, as borne by thee in bold Defence of Liberty and Right ; thy face Reflected thy heart's sun 'mid sickness, pain, And grief; nay, loss itself thou mad'st a gain. 302 SONNETS ON GODSENDS. I. Straight from the hand of God comes many a gift, Fraught with heaHng and with consolation For a world of toil and tribulation ; And yet from which we blindly shrink and shift, As from a burden onerous to lift. Work itself, hard, drudging occupation, Comes in shape of blessed dispensation To those who wisely can perceive the drift Of such a boon to assuage the pangs of mind. Sadness, suspense, anxiety, or worse. Rankle from wounding words and looks unkind. The desolation of friends' eyes averse. Nay, e'en the anguish of a recent loss. Akin to that was felt beneath the Cross. II. Work is a Godsend most divine, direct : The call to active duty, the stern need For prompt alacrity and instant deed, Teaches the soul its forces to collect, Assists it still to raise itself erect When beaten prostrate like the wind-blown reed By stormy flaw ; it sows the fruitful seed Of vigorous resolves, that will protect And grow around fresh shoots of budding hope, Preserving them from frost of chill despair — Will keep them free from canker-slough, with scope For spreads of tender leaflets, and prepare The way for future blossoms that may twine A garland for the brow no more supine. SONNETS ON GODSENDS. 303 III. All the year round come Godsends evermore, Manifold and multiform, like wild flowers In summer-time, when warmth and genial showers Have made the lanes and meads a broider'd floor, Rainbow-hued, bright, and deep-ingrained more Than hall for dancers' footing, where the hours Bring speedy blur : proudly the foxglove towers, Behung with white or purple bells, a store Of pyramided beauty ; faintly blush Dwarf mallows, lilac, veined with soft threading ; Poppies, casting their vivid scarlet flush Athwart the golden corn ; umbel-spreading Hemlock ; meek-eyed violets, amid the rank Tall rampant clamberers up hedge and bank. IV. Not more variety in wayside weeds Than in the Godsends lavishly bestow'd On man, who takes them often like a load Of worthless or unvalued waifs ; and heeds No jot their purpose, nor discerning reads Their undevelop'd good ; upon the road He lets them lie, trod like the toad Beneath his foot ; and, thoughtless, on proceeds. But, like the jewel in the reptile's head. Or like the wholesome virtues in the herb, Latent, unnotic'd, dully left unread, Cast by in carelessness, or mood acerb, The gem-bright eyes unseen, the healthful juice unsought. The Godsend's sacred lesson still remains un- taught. 304 SONNETS ON GODSENDS. V. A stormy sky, with glimpse of promise fair ; A trial bravely borne ; a sickness gone ; An unexpected sob from heart of stone ; A touch of magnanimity — too rare — In one whose candour takes you unaware ; The luxury of weeping when alone, What time volition lies all prone After stout will has done its best to bear The tension of composure hard-sustain'd Before the eyes of others ; a child's cry, Where loud roaring ends in laughter gained ; A smile from sadden'd heart, you scarce know why : These sweets distill'd from bitterness of gall. To my thought, are no less than Godsends all. VI. An old expressive simple word is this Of Godsend, just a something sent from God, The fountain of all good : an almost odd And quaint directness — like a given kiss ; Familiar-holy, pure in granted bliss. Free and offhand, perhaps, as friendly nod ; But dear and cherish'd as the grassy sod That lies above the head we daily miss From out our life, making that life a kind Of death. As special graces, treasure Godsends ! Oh, let us grateful-hearted bear in mind The more inobvious, as the clearer ends For which they are vouchsaf 'd to those on whom They fall, like stars, to brighten night and gloom. 305 ON RECEIVING A LOCK OF MRS. MARY SOMERVILLE'S HAIR. That head — which long among the stars hath dwelt In thought sublime and speculation rare, In scientific knowledge past compare, In deep research and questions that have dealt With Nature's laws to make them seen and felt — That head now yields this tress of still dark hair. At sight of which, besprent with argent fair, Methought my touched imagination knelt. It looks as though, communing with the stars, It had received some beams of silv'ry light. Some reflex of Diana's crescent white. Or steel-bright rays shorn from the crest of Mars, A gift it is from one endowed with lore divine, And proudly, gratefully, I treasure it as mine. 3o6 ON A LOCK OF FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE'S HAIR. Once smooth'd away upon that gentle head Beneath the simple cap of snowy white ; Which mov'd, in silence of each passing night, Around the wounded soldier's pallet-bed, And beams of blessed helpful promise shed, Like far-seen beacon to the aching sight Of seamen, straining for the hopeful light Through blinding, bruising waves, sore spent, half dead. The very shadow of that head benign Was reverently kiss'd, as by it past, And on the pillow coolness, soothing, cast ; A sense of healing watchful care ; a sign Of one who, sleepless in devotion pure, Brought with her presence comfort, aid, and cure. 307 ON A LOCK OF HAIR FROM GARIBALDI. That brow which lifted up its dauntless look In front of old abuses, errors, wrongs, With energy that rightfully belongs To patriot soul ; and, sternly frowning, took Its place to quell them down, and ne'er forsook Its steadfast gaze, amid their hostile throngs ; But led his "thousand," with glad shouts and songs, To conquest sure, like hero in a book : That brow so stern and yet so tranquil calm, Those temples, with their furrow'd lines of care, Yet wearing still a quiet, peaceful air, To foes so fierce, to friends so full of balm That head, which ne'er to tyranny hath bent, To me this hallow'd lock of hair hath sent. X 2 3oS TO ALEXANDER MAIN. How can I, on the nonce, compose a sonnet ? To gratify friend Alexander Alain My muse is, most assuredly, full fain : But if I'm not in cue to write ? Plague on it ! If only, now, 'twere just to make a bonnet, I might succeed, I might to that attain ; That asks but thread-and-needle skill, not brain : Yet stay, I've writ eight lines, I've almost done it ! I'll try to end ; yet he's a judge of verse. And I'm afraid he'll say of mine, "What stuff! " But, then, though it is bad, he has read worse ; Moreover he is partial, that's enough. He'll see, at least, I've sought to make him smile, By daring this strange sonnet to compile. II. You see I have endeavour'd to obey Your complimentarily kind request ; At any rate, my friend, I've done my best To make" you for a moment mirthful, gay. By sending you this piece of scribbled play, This hasty trifle jotted down in jest That I might promptly follow your behest, And not to any wish of yours say nay. You wish'd me to contribute to your book ; And feeling that I could not now succeed In penning aught that's good, this way I took To prove my readiness — by double deed : Since quality there lacks, 'tis quantity must do ; You ask'd me for a sonnet, and I send you two. 509 CONVALESCENCE. I. First, gratitude to God within the soul ; A lulHng sense of comfort, trust, repose, As when on parent's breast a child doth close Its tear-gemm'd eyes : then cheeringly console The looks and voices of dear friends whose whole Device is dedicate to us in those Sweet offices of love, abating throes Of pain, and smoothing on to healthful goal. Next, come contemplative soft musing hours Of gazing from our window on the sky. The garden ; where, beneath, around, on high. Are calming sights and hues : amid the flowers We see for younger lives the hopes of future years, In Heaven's blue our train of loved and lost appears. II. Receipt of letters from our absent friends Sheds double brightness o'er the cheerful meal Of breakfast : words of sympathy that heal Our ills, while record of their welfare sends A thrill of animating vigour, lends Reflected energy and strength : we feel As though, through them, we still take part and deal 'With active life, its interests, its ends. 'Tis almost worth the being ill, to prove Th' extent of all our blessings, getting well ; They multiply around us to dispel Ungrateful murmurs, and to raise above Self-pitying plaints : God's graciousgift of renova- tion. Friends' love, this simple verse — thanksgiving aspiration. 3IO SONNETS ON LABOUR AND LEISURE. I. A Greek philosopher has wisely said, The end of labour's leisure : be it so ; But first, we ought to definitely know What's meant by leisure. Is it to be dead To active life, to be well clothed, well fed, And idle sit all day ? I only know Such ease would hardship be to me, as though Condemn'd to pass my every hour in bed. But if by leisure's meant to have full time For thinking, acting, walking, resting, all Without the sense of pressure — that I call Blest privilege : well worth our while to climb The steepest path, with labour's closest strain, The height serene of Leisure Work to gain. II. Enforced inaction is as hard to some As hardest work to others : the dull weight Of doing nothing when the mind's elate, Alert, and eager to fulfil the dumb Yet urgent inward impulses that come In throngs, doth burdensomely grind and grate Upon the spirit with the stress of fate. And hold the faculties in deadly numb. But strenuous exertion, at a pinch, When needful cause exists for extra moil; An effort made to the extremest inch Of possibility, or long calm toil Sustained with trusting patience to the end, Are positive enjoyments, I contend. SONNETS ON LABOUR AND LEISURE. 311 III. Then, after Labour in our strength and youth, With energy and perseverance firm, Comes Leisure — as / understand the term — Sweet Leisure, in its plentitude and truth ; The leisure to be free from the uncouth Necessity of letting John affirm We're " not at home " to friends, or else confirm His words by being "absent" when his ruth Permits them to come in and talk with us. The leisure for a chat without the fuss Of saying " we're engaged," or feeling so ; The leisure for a drive, a quiet row Upon the river ; leisure for a host Of pleasant things that formerly would cost The sacrifice of more momentous tasks ; The leisure for enjoying Art, which asks Attention in its due delight ; or rhymes. For which we had " no time " in busy times ; The leisure to peruse the last new book, Or through the magazines to cast a look ; The leisure to arrange in vase or glasses Fresh flowers, leafy ferns, or drooping grasses ; The leisure for dear needlework — that best Of all resources for a woman's rest. When, tired with too much headwork at a stretch, Her brains repose while fingers nimbly stitch ; The leisure to make up no end of " lovely bonnets," Or time to pen (like this !) long-ending playful sonnets. 312 NOVEMBER EIGHT, 1871. Still-born ! The little being upon whom So many hopes were fixed has ne'er drawn breath ; Borne tenderly away at once by Death, As though to save it consciousness of doom. Upon her couch, within the soft-hush'd room, The gentle mother lies, resign'd beneath God's will ; but weepingly unweaves the wreath Of buds 'mid which her blossom ne'er must bloom. O buds of promis'd joy ! O blossom lost ! Gone from among the flowers of our life 1 Your fragrance will be miss'd, however rife Our other sweets henceforth may be : yet most Meantime remains our comfort to revive, The parent Rose is spared to live and thrive. 313 AT MIDNIGHT OF ALL SOULS. I hear the rushing of the Sea of Time ; Whose mighty waters, in their pauseless whelm, Suck down, resistless, nation, race, and realm. Like rotting seaweed, drench'd in ooze and slime. Ocean ! incarnardin'd with countless crime; Green with drown'd hopes, and wreck of joyous prime ; Salt with the myriad tears of human woes ; Toss'd with the surge and tumult of earth's throes ; We note thy shifting sands, and pace thy shore ; We watch thy ebbing tides, and list thy roar, Heark'ning, with awe, th' innumerable things Told in thy billowy thunderings ; Until, by the coming of our one appointed wave, We're swept into th' eddy of that universal grave. 314 SICK-BED REFLECTION. From angle of the bed whereon I lie — White-curtained, softly, shroudingly, from glare Of southern sunlight that doth broadly stare — I see a patch of welcome clear blue sky Reflected in a picture-sketch close by, Of Child and Virgin, called " Riposo," where The Mother, seated on the ground, with bare Tired feet, gives from her breast the bland supply Of Nature's earliest, sweetest food to Him Who lived to help the way-worn, sick, and sad. The patch of heavenly blue, the sketch half dim 'Neath glassy surface-reflex, render glad My illness-wearied heart, inspire fresh strength To bear, in hope of health again at length. 315 ON A DEAFNESS. I. As one shut out in cold and darkness drear, Beyond the strains of minstrelsy within, Beyond the reach of talking's pleasant din, When eager voices ring their changes clear, In conversation full of welcome cheer — As one whose senses only murmurs win Of muffled nothingness, dim, sparse, and thin — Thus feel I with this cruel deafened ear. From me, who whilom heard the slightest sound, From me, who revelled in the finest tones Of music-notes or speaking-voice around My happy life, nigh forceth heavy groans This torture of dull numbness in my head That almost seems as if already dead. II. Yet I will cheerfully indulge the hope That this affliction may soon pass away, Like drifting storm-cloud on a summer day : Its suddenness of advent gives good scope To trust it may as suddenly elope ; It came upon me in a whelming way, As though besmothered by a load of hay ; Believing this may lift, I will not mope. A swelt'ring heap of pillows, feather-bed, And quilt of eider-down in thick brocade, A wadded hood lined heavily with lead, A hundred-weight of flannel stuffing laid Around my nape, suggest the dreadful numbness That strikes attempt to speak it into dumbness. 3i6 SONNET, COMPOSED WHILE PACING TO AND FRO AT NIGHT IN OUR PICTURE GALLERY. The spirits of our dear lost Dead are oft Around us : in our moments of distress, Of doubt, of self-mistrust, they're near to bless Us with a sense of subtle presence, soft, Invisible, but felt; they raise aloft The fainting soul from out its worst excess Of weary sadness and dejectedness, In sympathy for what themselves have doff'd. With shining wings, aye free from mortal dust They hover o'er to shield us and enfold ; They comfort us with yearning love that must Prevail to help and steadfastly uphold ; They bid us take fresh heart, and firmly trust In Him they now for evermore behold. 317 EXPECTATION. As when the sea lies grey and smooth and still, With long-stretch'd level lines of leaden sky That either burst to tempest tossing high And all the air with dread confusion fill — Or gently break into dispersion till Blue rifts of heaven's depth between them lie In soft assurance of serenity, And one bright gleam illumes the distant hill : So wait I in apparent calm for those Expected news the post will surely bring ; When all my soul's horizon in will close With darkest storm-clouds, surging, clamouring- Or open tranquilly to hope and peace. Cerulean, golden, setting heart at ease, RENOVATION. The softened glow of sunset in the West, The glimmer of the planet in the sky. The murmur of the Baby voice close by That talks itself unconsciously to rest, Like the low prattle of young birds in nest — As I sit watching at the door a-nigh. In case the little one should sudden cry — A sense of rapturous quiet fills my breast. Ay, quiet and the deepest gratitude That sunset, starlight. Baby's voice are sent In God's own gift of blessed latitude To renovate the spirit with content When, bruised by late anxiety and dread, It drooped, and sickened, and was all but dead. 3i8 ON A DESIRABLE RESIDENCE. I. To live within the view of open space Of sky, and sea, and far outstretching land, Is privilege and hourly blessing grand: As age advances, double is the case Of benefit derived from Nature's face Thus constantly beheld : while doomed to stand Inactive, frame and limbs worn out, a bland Activity of soul may now take place. In sight of boundless firmament, and wide Extent of rolling Ocean's ceaseless tide, Of woods, and fields, and undulating hills, A sense of liberty and power fills The soul ; and, leaning back in our arm-chair. We range with ease through realms of earth, sea, air. II. The buoyant motion and resistless force Of aye-succeeding waves, that tumble each O'er each in race to whelm the sandy beach, Or break against hard rocks that in the course Of time they fret and wear, or fill with hoarse And thund'rous roars vast caves that inward reach. Is gifted with an eloquence like speech To urge idea of action as resource For feeble and infirm beholders : thus. The sweep of upland, vale, or meadow fair, Suggests fertility and growth and care To cultivate ; long walks, hard rides, to us Familiar once : 'bove all, the ordered speed Of planets satisfies our mental need. 319 TO HENRY LITTLETON. Kind Friend — who in thy boyhood won the firm Regard of him whose judgment clearly knew How to award the estimation due, Ay, even then, to virtues in their germ, That since have shone conspicuous in their term Of full matureness — virtues giv'n to few In stronger excellence of sterling, true Perfection ; one who would not hurt a worm, And yet, though gentle-natured, can be stern To wrong ; and who by ceaseless energy. By diligence, by noble industry. Hast master'd fortune only these could earn — Accept my lines for sake of him who's gone. Whose mind and mine, thou know'st, were always one. 320 TO MAJOR-GENERAL SIR VINCENT EYRE : ON RECEIVING FROM HIM A SONNET IN MEMORY OF JOHN KEATS. The gallant brow once crown'd by the red hand Of Mars amid Cabul's rebellious strife With laurels blood-besprent, near costing Hfe, Now wears a laurel-wreath that well may stand Beside the first, since placed by bright command Of Phoebus' self, the Poet-god : thus rife In bays the man who wielded erst the knife Of War, and now the pen's more potent wand. That breast on which was set as its due right The Star of India's ruddy blaze of light, Recording martial deeds, has shown of late How gently it can mourn th' untimely fate Of early-stricken Keats in moving strain, Lamenting tenderly his death and pain. 321 TO SAMUEL TIMMINS. I. The house where Shakespeare first saw Hght Is sent to me in effigy by one Whom I have never seen, but who hath done Repeated kindnesses, nor few nor sHght, But make me feel I know him well by sight Of grateful friendship, shining like the sun That Shakespeare's baby eyes first look'd upon, To make all vivified and clear and bright. It shows to those whom distance keeps apart, And e'en to those who ne'er have known or seen Each other, that within their mutual heart Which serves to manifest with purest sheen The constancy and faithfulness that gain Undying love to countervail all pain. II. One morn, in Birmingham, a stranger sat At breakfast, feeling somewhat lonely there ; As not a soul, for aught he knew, did care One jot about his coming : so he ate With rueful downcast looks upon his plate. And thought but little of his tempting fare While thinking much upon the dramas rare He came to lecture on and highly rate. But all at once there beam'd into the room A face of frankest welcome that dispell'd The previous sense of solitary gloom, A voice of friendliness, a hand outheld, That since has been unceasing in its acts Of friendship, speaking fervently in facts. Y 322 ON RECEIVING 'M TREASURY OF ENGLISH sonnets:' John Mills, dear valued friend of him we've lost, Accept my thanks for this Aladdin gift Of priceless fruit-like gems, with careful sift Stored up and garnered in unsparing cost Of labour-love, to yield at will a host Of richest thought-suggestions that uplift The soul when sadly it inclines to drift Away down-cast, like scatter'd weeds wind-toss'd. In the joint names of us who cannot be Disjoin'd — no, not by even Death itself — Take loving earnest thanks for giving me A book that henceforth rests upon our shelf In company with those we used to cherish And read together — books that ne'er will perish. 323 ON READING GEORGE H. CALVERTS " SHAKESPEARE : A BIOGRAPHICAL AND ESTHETIC STUDY." Oh, that my Charles had lived to read this book With me ; to revel in its fervent praise Of him who wore supreme Apollo's bays, Who straight in Nature's sun-bright face could look, Transcribing faithfully what thence he took. With eagle might of firm undazzled gaze ; His page the reflex of her golden rays, Himself liege-lord of her he ne'er forsook. We both — as now but one, alas ! can do — Would from our heart have thanked the man whose part Has been to bring distinctly into view The essence beauty of our Poet's art. And show with strength of finest eloquence The source divine of Shakespeare's excellence. V 2 324 MOODS. A sense of awe at all that doth surround Us mortals in this universal frame Of sky, and sea, and mountains all a-flame With sunrise, noontide, sunset, in a round Supremely order'd, strikes us with profound Humility, discouragement, self-blame, To feel we know so little of these same Grand patent miracles that thus abound. At times comes this : at others comes a sense Of ecstasy, of comfort, deep delight, Beatitude and gratitude intense To merely live within this wondrous sight. When either mood of mind doth most prevail. Trust, simple trust, is all that can avail. WIDOWED. A torn half-sheet of writing thrown away, Disfio^ured, crumpled, meaningless, and blurr'd, With scarce one clear intelligible word — A poor, fragmentary, disjointed stray. That naught coherent or worth heed doth say — A thing devoid of sense, inane, absurd — A script inscrutable, a song unheard, A remnant given over to decay. Such, such am I, asunder rent from him Who made my life harmonious, smooth, distinct In purpose and felicity: the dim. Defaced lines, the syllables dislink'd, God's own good time, in patient trust await, For firm reunion set for ever straight. 325 SOLACE. (irregular sonnet.) Unspeakable the comfort in the thought Of tendernesses interchanged long, long Ago : a gentle word, a look, a throng Of then scarce-heeded loving trifles wrought Their sounds for future melody, and brought The murmur'd music of their memory-song To soften pangs of anguish, bitter, strong. With consolation sweet, else vainly sought. O lips of balmy touch ! that never breathed A word but kind, a tone but fond ! O eyes ! That ne'er met mine but with a look of love ! The grief to know ye gone for aye from earth Is strangely solaced by the consciousness Ye never gave me aught but blessedness : And hope to find ye still unchanged in Heaven Makes hope of Heaven dearer yet to me. 326 THANKSGIVING. O Thou— Thyself the Infinite of Love— Who hast with bounteous hand bestow'd on me Through Hfe full measure of the ecstasy Of love, who from Thine azure heights above Hast sent upon the pinions of thy dove Continued waftage of benignity, Through Mother's blessed care and ministry ; Through Father's strong affection, naught could move ; Through Husband's tenderness, from first to last A lover's love and constancy maintain'd — For all this love that made existence past So happy and so bright, enjoyed, attain'd. Accept my fervent thanks, O God ! And now Its mem'ry even is comfort, well know'st Thou! 327 DECEMBER SIXTEEN, 1878. " A girl— both child and mother doing well ! " The joyful news comes bounding o'er the sea And land, to bring us blissful certainty. O longed-for little one ! Let this verse tell How welcome is thy birth : a fairy spell Thou art, enhancing all our Christmas glee, Enriching our New Year by having thee, A fairer sprite than Spenser's Florimel. Fond friends in England, friends in Italy, Thy birth, dear child, exultingly will greet ; And many a winter hearth will brighter be By reason of thy coming, Baby sweet ! To Him who sent this priceless Christmas gift In fervent gratitude our hearts we lift. 328 NEW YEAR'S EVE. Upon the threshold of another year I stand : to-morrow's sun will open wide Its portals. What within them may betide ? What new, or unexpected, may appear ? What solemn chance, or what event to cheer? A range of veiled shapes, set side by side, I dimly see awaiting there to glide Each one upon us, in its turn, more near. Shall I be still on earth, to see unveil'd These shapes ? Shall I behold them clearly then As now I vision-like descry them, paled By distance ? Will they come within my ken Of living sight ? Or shall I view them, passing, past. With sense immortal — seeing, knowing all at last ? 329 BEQUEST. Each tender-sacred blessing and caress He gave me in our bygone wedded years Its own especial hallowing appears To have bequeathed, with an immortal stress Upon my heart and lips, intense impress : They help to calm despairing fears And chase away those sternly held-back tears That heavily the drooping heart oppress. Oh, Love, that in thy gentle-potent might Art stronger than the ruthless giant, Death ! Oh, Love, that with thy vital balmy breath Hast power to fan into a radiant light The spark within the darkness of the grave, I thank Him who to me thy fulness gave ! 330 DOUBLE EXISTENCE. Two lives are lived by many a living soul, An outer and an inner life : the one, In sympathy writh friends, in open tone Express'd, and frankly patent to the whole Community 'midst whom our days do roll Their course. The other, secret, mute, alone With God and our own thoughts, laid bare and prone Before His eye — their judge and witness sole. A crowd of musings, hopes, high aspirations, Of penitential tears, sharp agonies. Of earnest strivings, conscious aberrations, We pass among and through without surmise By those who, from our cradle to our grave Can mark how staidly, calmly, we behave. 331 ON RE-READING MY DEAR MOTHER'S LAST-WRITTEN LETTERS TO ME. I. Oh, Mother ! past all mothers good and kind ! I take into the inmost of my heart Thy words of love and confidence, a part Of thine own being interfused and twined With mine to elevate and make refined Its essence ; thus thy spirit to impart, As once thou gav'st, with throes of willing smart, Corporeal frame to body and to mind. 'Tis more than quarter-century since thou These letters penned, since thou didst leave this earth ; I read them with the hallowed feeling now That they are sent to me from where thy worth Receives its heavenly reward for all It was to us on whom thy blessings fall. 332 ON RE-READING, ETC. II. This morning, as I reperused thy lines Of Mother love and care, the nightingale Poured forth its early song amid the pale Grey-golden light aslant between the pines And belt of gayer trees that round confines This pleasant house. Such sounds and sights avail To typify thy words, which never fail To raise the soul when sadly it repines. Oh, thou, who wrote such helpful words to thy E'er grateful daughter, look upon her still, Behold her soothed beneath the soft spring sky By letters that her eyes and heart upfill By thought of thee, surviving e'en thy loss And aiding her to bear whate'er may cross. 333 OUR TERRACE. I. I pace the Terrace up and down where thou And I were wont to walk together when Thou wert on earth beside me. Then, oh, then, I had thy hand in mine, I saw thee bow Thy head down towards me with a gesture how Confiding, earnest, fond ! Dear, best of men ! I listened to thy voice the while the wren Her small shrill note chirped near to us. But now. Thy tones, thy presence, thy corporeal self Are gone from me ! Their memory alone Are blended with the chirp of that bird-elf. With gracious sounds and sights that thus have grown To be embodiments of thee, my love, Who watchest me from yonder blue above ! II. Such "gracious sounds and sights" are rife around This pleasant spot, Italian in its grace. Its richly coloured amplitude of space, Its wealth of blossoms that superb abound, Its blue expanse of sky and sea and ground Of distant mountains, with deep azure trace — Distinguishable scarcely is the place Where strictly the horizon may be found. The sails, bright snowy flecks upon the wave, Reflections seem of those white clouds that sail Through aether : all is peaceful silence, save When notes of feathered warblers tell their tale Of happiness with their outpouring song, As now alone, alas, I pace along. 334 OUR TERRACE. III. Oh, well may " gracious sounds and sights " bring thee To mind, who wert all gracious, all benign ! Who never uttered word, or made a sign That was not gracious, when thou spok'st to mel Not once, through all the happy years that we Together were, didst thou the least repine When we were poor ; but with a courage fine Thou cheerful wert, and blithe as blithe could be. No syllable impatient or cross word, No pettish movement, not one peevish tone. Can I recall that e'er I saw or heard : In health, all brightness; ill, no single moan ; But, ever patient, hopeful, hearty, kind — As excellent in heart and soul as mind. IV. And thus, my love, my Charles, doth God permit Thee to be with me still as here I walk ; To hear thy gentle elevating talk In Nature's gracious sounds that soothing flit Around me ; to behold thee as I sit In one of those two seats wherein we'd balk Our pacing and take rest ; no slender stalk. Or spray, or blade of grass, but brings with it Thine image ; so sufficing in its form, Consummate in its character create. Containing latent virtues multiform For those allowed to know their good innate, As I, thank God, was granted thus to con By heart thyself and have thee, though thou'rt gone. OUR TERRACE. 335 V. When erst I paced our Terrace to and fro Alone, I kept thee with me by a look Each time I passed the window where, with book In hand, thou sat'st and never fail'dst to throw An answering glance and smile at me. But no Bent head or quick responsive glance, that took Me to thee then, now makes the window nook A magnet for my eyes : the subtle glow Of memory is all remains to mark The spot and fill it with thine image there. Instead, my gaze seeks higher for the spark Divine, thy spirit, yonder in the air, The universal all-embracing span Of heaven's blue, thou best-beloved man ! 336 ON RE-READING SOME LETTERS OF MY CHARLES TO HIS SISTER ISABELLA, WHICH WERE RETURNED TO US WHEN SHE DIED. As one who, searching in a drawer for some Laid-by apparel, encountereth the sweet Enduring scent of lavender — so greet Me in these long-uphoarded words a sum Of countless comforts, cordial strengths, that come With perfume of undying love to meet My famished senses and pour out a treat Fit to revive them from their faintness numb. Dear sister Bell! To thee of me he writes In full outspoken warmth and fervour fond. And dwells upon our wedded life's delights With happy unreserve. Thou from beyond The grave hath sent this fragrant solace. Take My heartfelt thanks for his and thine own sake. 337 A REMONSTRANCE. My soul — that birdlike beat'st thy wings in vain Against perplexing bars — with ceaseless bruise Of spirit and with efforts that contuse Thy feebleness, thou mak'st perpetual strain To pierce the veil of mystery and pain That cramps thee in : oh, fluttering soul ! Why use Such constant futile struggles, which confuse Thy sense, and nothing but defeat can gain ? A restless longing to behold again My lost Beloved, to penetrate the haze Of time and space and distance that retain Us from each other's love-contented gaze, Is mine. Yet learn, my soul, from this my rhyme To closely furl thy wings and wait God's time. 338 TWILIGHT. At dusk I often slip away and creep To our own whilom room — now mine alone !- And listen to the inward undertone Of my heart's memories, the while I weep — And watch the fitful firelight glinting sweep O'er statuettes and pictures, thickly sown With old associations, forcing moan But half suppress'd, as when we restless sleep. Oh, quiet shadowy room, so dear to him, So dear to me — the scene of so much peace And joy to both — within thy twilight dim On bygone days I muse without surcease : I live again our happy wedded life And feel I am my own Beloved's wife. 339 WOUNDS. Some wounds there are we know will ne'er be healed ; Nor do we care to have them cured or set Aside, or put beyond our inward fret : We only strive to keep them well concealed. And by no murmur let them be revealed. Why cause our friends one fruitless sad regret ? Why suffer them to see our eyes are wet With tears that courage teaches may be sealed Beneath resolved patience to endure ? God sends such courage and the mental strength To use it, if we trust His mercy pure. He wisely judges what shall be the length Of time we have to bear: oh, may it be, That pain borne bravely wins joy heavenly ! Z 2 340 A MORNING MOON. (irregular sonnet.) I. The faintest thread of silvery bow is there, Discernible in golden azure sky, 'Mid which the rosy cloudlets sail on high — The morning moon, the waning moon, so fair Yet slender in its beauty, that mine eye, If straying for a moment, has to try Afresh to find the spot in heaven where The Cynthian gem maintains its coy repair — This lovely sight — but one of myriad more That Nature prodigally spreads around In bountiful, benign, abundant store. To comfort hearts forlorn upon Earth's ground — Thou, thou, my love in Heaven, surely see'st, Enjoyest, from the largest to the least ; Behold'st them with a comprehending sight, The sight of souls endowed with final light. A MORNING MOON. 341 II. To think that thou and I, my Charles, still gaze Together on the glories of the vast Grand universal frame by Nature cast Around to fill man's soul with glad amaze, Methinks assuages pain, and helps to raise My drooping heart when brooding over past Delights, in trusting that until at last We're reunited evermore, our ways Remain the same — adoring God-sent sights, Beholding Him in them, receiving as His boon direct the tender soothing lights Of sunshine, moonbeam, star-ray, when it has Touched lucently the surface of the rippled sea And made a seeming pathway to eternity. 342 VARIED FROM SHAKESPEARE'S 1441// SONNET. Three loves I've had of comfort through my Hfe Which Hke good spirits did suggest me still : My father, mother, him who called me wife. Allaying by affection ev'ry ill. They vied with one another who should bless Me most, evolving all was best within My nature, teaching it the loveliness And bliss of virtue, misery of sin. These angels upon earth were given to me By God Himself as nearest dearest friends And guardian spirits of my soul to be (Such spirits He beneficently sends), Three loves supreme to be my heart's best food And bring to me chief happiness and good. 343 VARIED FROM SHAKESPEARE'S io^th SONNET. Let not my love be called idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my thoughts and praises be Of one, but one, still such and ever so. Kind was my love to me, and always kind. Still constant in a wondrous excellence ; Therefore my verse, to constancy confin'd, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Dear, kind, and true is all my argument — Dear, kind, and true, varying to other words ; And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. Dear, kind, and true, have often lived alone, Which three, in mine own Charles, were found in one. 344 TO C. C. C. I. It fills my heart with joy to think of thee : Thou art so altogether real and good, So genuine in thy every mood ; Whether in mirth's exuberance of glee Thou laugh'st a ringing laugh right heartily, Or when on man's injustice thou dost brood — Sad meditation's bitterest food — With face sincere in mournful gravity. My Charles, from youth my guide and my best friend ! The thought of thee brings gladness to my heart. Full bliss when near, a comfort when apart ; And thus 'twill be, I feel, until life's end : For thou art manly-soul'd and truest of the true, Worthy of all love — e'en the love I bear to 3'ou. II. So one we are, to praise thee seems self-praise: Yet we are one but by the might of love ; Since thy fine essence sets thee far above Her whom thou chosest sharer of thy days, Esteeming her thine equal in all ways. To this thy generous nature did thee move, More than desert in her thou e'er could'st prove : 'Twas thine own excellence that help'd to raise. For — genial, full of warmest sympathies. Large-hearted, bounteous, greatly tolerant, Poetic-minded, spirits high-buoyant. Most gentle, kindly, humorous, and wise — Thy varied goodness wrought unconsciously. And stirr'd an emulative good in me. TO C. C. C. 345 III. What well inclin'd thou found'st, that didst thou cherish, Asserting no superior will or might, Assuming no prerogative from clearer light : What ill defect there was, thou mad'st it perish. Exacting no observance blindly slavish ; But mildly taught by dint of purest right Made evident, unurg'd, to reason's sight : Prescribing no jot, thou ruled'st by a wish. Thy ways make children treat thee as their own : With thee the young Valeria prates apace. Sits on thy knee; persuasive, smoothes thy face, And — patronisingly famihar grown — Oft kissing it, calls thee her " dearest boy," And makes thy silver'd hair her fav'rite toy. IV. (DECEMBER FIFTEEN, l86g.) Thy eighty-second birthday sees thee still The same, my Charles ! Some natures ne'er grow old : Their essence is so vital and uncold That no advance of shadowy years may chill The innate sunshine : there it lies to fill The daily homes of those around with gold Glad warmth, to cheer and genially enfold With constant comfort whomsoe'er it will. Thy loving friends, thy proud and happy wife, Have basked beneath its ever-shining ray, Have felt the bright benignant influence play Upon their onward course of passing life To help them ever trustfully sustain Their God-sent share of mingled bliss and pain. 345 TO C. C. C. (DECEMBER FIFTEEN, 1875.) And thou hast reached to eighty-eight, my love! And forty-seven of those years have seen Our wedded happiness in Hfe serene Of mutual comfort, help, and joy above The share most mortals are ordained to prove ; Our way has lain through pleasant paths and green, Full of contentment has existence been : All this our deepest gratitude doth move. Together, hand-in-hand, we've been allowed To work, to write, to read, to pass through life With thanks perpetual, heartfelt, not loud, To Him who made us happy man and wife. Together, hand-in-hand, may we be still Throughout Eternity, by God's good will. VI. Sometimes when I sit quietly and muse On bygone times and long-departed joys, I hear with startling clearness thy loved voice In sudden ringing laugh, that still renews An echo of my then delight to use Whatever wile might win that pleasant noise Of heartfelt mirth from thee : the veriest toys Of fancy served to please us and amuse. Our own old favourite books read o'er and o'er Ne'er failed to charm again and yet again : We freshly savoured all the pith and core Of jests from Sheridan's or Moliere's brain ; Jack Falstaff's racy wit ne'er lost its zest, And Shakespeare's fun we always found the best. TO C. C. C. 347 VII. A bright true spirit hadst thou, Charles, my own 1 " Touch'd to fine issues " certainly it was ; And, kindled warmly to a noble cause For sympathy, v/ith fire responsive shone. Sometimes, from mere apparent nothings grown — A witty thought, a droll suggestive pause — Would clear crow forth thy jubilant Ha-has ! With sparkles of the eye and cheery tone. Anon some grave injustice, cruel wrong. Would force from thee indignant protest, strong. Poured forth in many a fierce vehement word. How present to my mental eye appears Thy sympathetic nature, promptly stirred To cordial laughter or to earnest tears. VIII. (new year's day.) Although thou art in Heaven, I on earth, My greeting I must give thee, as of old. Whene'er another year hath past us roU'd, Whene'er another year hath its new birth. That which hath made the years supremely worth Is our affection to each other told With firm conviction that 'twill constant hold 'Gainst Time, 'gainst Death itself, and know no dearth Or diminution. Mine is more intense Than ever: thine, I feel as sure, is just The love it always was — in truest sense A perfect love and full of perfect trust — The dearest love that ever blessed the life Of woman, and thy happy, happy wife. 348 TO C. C, C. IX. If, coming into our own quiet room, I were to see thy figure standing there, How would my soul sustain or even dare Believe the blinding light amid the gloom ? How bear the mingled awe and joy would bloom Within me ? Should I paralysedly stare Upon thy semblance, hardly yet aware If it meant bliss restored or instant doom ? I know that I should fling me on thy breast, Instinctively should clasp thee in mine arms, Should feel that all my cares were set at rest, Myself securely haven'd from all harms : My lips would seek from thine the rapturous breath. Or bid thee take me to delicious death. X. At times a longing so acute doth seize Me for thee, dearest, I can scarce refrain From uttering a wild sharp cry of pain ; A hungry craving naught can e'er appease. Or bring my heart its old accustomed ease. To see thee, hear thee, touch thee yet again. And so dissolve away in softest rain Of tears upon thy breast, attaining peace Eternal, blended once for all with thee. Imperishable love between us two Has been our gift from God : the power to see This gift supreme lends courage to renew My patient trust, and set my heart at rest, Submissive ever to His great behest. TO C. C. C. 349 XI. ON A PROSPECT OF SEEING PUBLISHED THE SECOND SERIES OF " SHAKESPEARE-CHARACTERS." Small rosy clouds endapple morning's blue ; Then bars of gold, that broaden more and more, Bespread the East, uplighting sea and shore : So rise within my soul glad thoughts of you, My Charles, and of your love so deep, so true. And with these thoughts arise to-day a store Of sunny hopes that only dawned before In twilight held obscure ; but now renew Their brightness, and assume substantial shape. Oh, may I live to witness your desire Fulfilled, and, rescued from all chance of 'scape. These written words of yours, instinct with fire Shakespearianly kindled, put in print. Completing your intention without stint. XII. (DECEMBER FIFTEEN, 1880.) Communing thus with thee in verse, I seem To still hold converse with thee face to face. Although between us two th' abysm of space Hath drawn its veil of blue expanse : a beam Direct from central sunlight sheds a gleam, Methinks, upon thee in thy hallowed place Among the blessed bright immortal race Of spirits whom we see in blissful dream. This day, which gave thee birth, I greet with these Poor lines ; that I may feel as though I spoke Them to thyself, my Charles, my love, and please My fancy with believing I invoke Some still supremer touch of joy to thee, E'en where thou art, bethinking thee of me. 350 TO C. C. C. XIII. At night, when I am thinking of thee, dear. With more than usual energy of thought, Meseems as though it actually brought Thy spirit in its vital presence near ; Ay, in this very room, v^^here without fear I lie and listen if there may be caught Some slightest rustle, faintest sound, or aught That may assure me thou art truly here. So earnestly my thoughts go forth to meet With thine, methinks it cannot be but both Our spirits meet at moments thus, in troth, In close conjunction, mystical, yet sweet ; As when, of old, we mingled thoughts and soul In one transcendent undivided whole. XIV. (on completing my collected VOLUME OF VERSES.) This book — like all I've done since childhood years — Is dedicate to thee, my Charles ; for thou. As when thou wert on earth, in Heaven now, Regardest, with fond interest that cheers Attempt, e'en trifle such as this appears. Except to eyes that lovingly endow With grace small seedling efforts which do bow Their heads and wither amid trembling fears. If winds severe of criticism " shake Their buds from growing." Thou, therefore, and all Who've loved and love us both, I think, will take This handful of verse-blossoms, simple, small. Yet from the garden of my heart, where grow Perpetual flowers of love, deep set, down low. ^>> UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. THE LJim^.Hr DIVERSITY OF CAUFOKNUS LOS AlVGEL^::^ m. Clarke - 144^3 Honey from the C753h weed UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAQUTY AA 000 368 879 3 PR hhS3 C753h