,M,9-NRLF 
 
 3fl4 
 
BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
BY THE AUTHOR OF HILDA, 
 
 OLRIG GRANGE : a Poem in Six Books. Third 
 Edition, in Extra Foolscap 8vo, Cloth. Price 
 6s. 6d. 
 
 " This remarkable poem will at once give its anonymous author 
 a high place among contemporary English poets, and it ought to 
 exercise a potent and beneficial influence on the political opinions 
 
 of the cultivated classes The demoralizing influence of 
 
 our existing aristocratic institutions on the most gifted and noblest 
 members of the aristocracy, has never been so subtly and so power- 
 fully delineated as in 'Olrig Grange.'" Examiner. 
 
 BORLAND HALL: a Poem in Six Books. 
 Second Edition, in Extra Foolscap 8vo, Cloth. 
 
 [Out of print. 
 
 " Singularly brilliant and passionately fervent, a verse melodious 
 and various in measure, and command of language unusually extensive 
 and apt, and an exquisite sensibility to all natural loveliness." 
 English Independent. 
 
 RABAN; or, LIFE SPLINTERS. Extra 
 Foolscap 8vo. Price 75. 6d. 
 
 " ' Raban.' . . . This exquisite poem is a worthy successor to 
 ' Hilda/ though utterly unlike it either in the warp or in the woof 
 of the story." Spectator, March 19, 1881. 
 
 " We do not hesitate to say that ' Raban ' is by far, not only the 
 most beautiful poem which Mr. Smith has produced, but the one 
 from which the most important results may be expected. Without 
 being didactic he teaches, and without preaching preaches the most 
 eloquent of sermons." Westminster Review. 
 
 GLASGOW : JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, 
 
 PUBLISHERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 
 LONDON : MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
HILDA; AMONG THE BROKEN GODS. 
 
 BY THE A UTHOR OF 
 "OLR1G GRANGE," "BORLAND HALL," AND "RABAN" 
 
PUBLISHED BY 
 
 JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. 
 
 London, .... Hamilton, Adams and Co. 
 
 Cambridge. . . . Macmillan and Co. 
 
 Edinburgh, . . . Douglas and Foulis. 
 
 MDCCCLXXXII. 
 A II rights reserved. 
 
HILDA 
 
 AMONG THE BROKEN GODS 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER C. SMITH 
 
 THIRD EDITION 
 
 JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS 
 
 PUBLISHERS TO THE UNIVERSITY 
 1882 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
PS 5>5<? 
 
 S|^ 
 
 in 
 
 Jftartin, $.&$. 
 
 I HAVE no "Shootings in the Highlands," 
 
 Nor house in some "Marine Parade," 
 Nor yacht to sail 'mong sunny islands, 
 With prow low-rippling through the silence 
 Of quiet waters deep-embayed. 
 
 And yet when Autumn tints the woods, 
 
 I have my little pleasure-trip 
 Among the haunted solitudes 
 Where Silence on Parnassus broods, 
 
 With blushing ringer on her lip. 
 
 524 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 It costs me neither railway fare, 
 Nor bill for tailor or for draper, 
 
 Nor rent of summer lodgings bare ; 
 
 I get my little change of air 
 
 For nothing but some pens and paper. 
 
 And there I make from day to day 
 
 The world I live in hill and dale, 
 And seas where slimy monsters play, 
 And sunny glade and gardens gay, 
 The haunt of thrush and nightingale. 
 
 Alone, I muse by fern-frilled rill, 
 
 Or hold discourse with wives and yeomen, 
 Or dainty maidens moping still 
 For fantasy ; and at my will 
 
 They come and go, my men and women. 
 
 Last autumn, somehow for there's law 
 Controlling even a world so plastic 
 On every picture that I saw 
 There fell a shade of gloom and awe 
 From solemn pile Ecclesiastic ; 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 From tottering steeple, falling cross, 
 
 From storied window rudely shattered, 
 From nave and chancel suffering loss, 
 From priest and people as they toss 
 The creeds about in fragments tattered. 
 
 And now I bring my autumn booty, 
 
 Spoil of the sunny hours to thee 
 Who gave'st an English tongue to Goethe, 
 To Heine's wit, Catullus' beauty, 
 And sympathy and help to me 
 
 But a slight offering, nothing more 
 
 Than you shall get from lark or linnet, 
 Or homely sparrow at the door 
 A song which from the heart I pour, 
 It's only worth the heart that's in it. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PROLOGUE, 
 
 CLAUD MAXWELL, POET, 
 
 HILDA, SAINT-WIFE, ........ 51 
 
 WINIFRED URQUHART t MATERIALIST, ... 12$ 
 
 LUKE SPROTT, EVANGELIST, ...... 161 
 
xii CONTENTS. 
 
 gxuxk <$ifth. 
 
 REV. ELPHINSTONE BELL, PRIEST, .... 203 
 
 EPILOGUE, 240 
 
 L: ENVOI, 245 
 
TT is a Church of the Ages, all 
 
 Arched and pillared and grandly towered, 
 With many a niche on the buttressed wall, 
 
 And delicate tracery, scrolled and flowered : 
 Gargoyles gape, and arches fly 
 From base to base of the pinnacles high, 
 And the great cross points to the solemn sky. 
 
 A stately Church, and a Church all through, 
 
 Everywhere shaped by a thought divine, 
 With symbols of Him who is Just and True, 
 
 And emblems of Him who is Bread and Wine; 
 It is dowered with wealth of land and gold, 
 And memories high of the days of old, 
 And of sheep that were lost gathered into its fold. 
 
2 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Lord bishops sleep their slumber deep, 
 
 Under mitre and crosier carved in stone ; 
 There are brasses quaint for the warrior saint 
 
 Who had battled at Acre and Ascalon; 
 In the low-groined crypts lie kings and earls, 
 Resting now from their plots and quarrels, 
 But they mix not their dust with the rustic carles. 
 
 It is not day, and it is not dark, 
 And the altar-lights are burning dim; 
 
 One sings, but it is not priest nor clerk, 
 
 And he chaunts no psalm, and he sings no hymn. 
 
 Who are these that are trooping in, 
 
 With grimy visage, and bearded chin, 
 
 Rude and unmannered, with noisy din? 
 
 Some one is wailing a poor soul ailing 
 
 Down in the dim aisles far away; 
 Who is that droning? is he intoning 
 
 The great Athanasian curse to-day? 
 Silence that chatter and laughter there, 
 And do not stand bonneted up to stare 
 Hush ! that is surely the voice of prayer. 
 
PROLOGUE. 3 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 They have made thy Temple a place abhorred, 
 They have mocked thy Christ, for his own betrayed 
 him ; 
 
 And now they have taken away my Lord, 
 
 Ah woe! and I know not where they have laid him. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 Now that the gods are certainly dead 
 
 Brahma and Zeus and the Father, and all 
 With a desk and a lime-light overhead, 
 
 We might use this up for a lecture-hall. 
 We could shew them things on the altar there 
 
 Bringing the light to the proper focus 
 Wonderful transformations rare, 
 
 Would beat the priests with their hocus-pocus : 
 With two or three chemicals we could make 
 
 Nature her miracle-power surrender, 
 And a glass, at the angle fit, would wake 
 
 A ghost as well as the witch of Endor. 
 Everything here would give point to my hits 
 At the monk's huge faith, and his little wits, 
 As I drive at Bigots, and shout for Truth, 
 And laugh at the dreams of the world's raw youth. 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 THIRD VOICE. 
 
 A pest on all the reforming crew, 
 Savant or Puritan, old or new ! 
 See how the rogues come tramping in, 
 Now that they have not to praise or pray 
 Faugh ! what a breath of tobacco and gin ! 
 They crowd to church because God is away ! 
 And they've smashed that pitying angel's face, 
 That touched one's heart with its tender grace r 
 None of their brute-wits can ever replace, 
 If there be angels good or bad, 
 I very much doubt, and I do not much care ; 
 But yet what a pitying look it had. 
 Beaming down from the oriel there ! 
 Will no one silence that idiot's chatter 
 About laws, forsooth, of health and riches? 
 I'd rather the old priest's "stabat-mater"- 
 If we had but the ordeal now for witches, 
 Wouldn't I souse him into the water ! 
 
 FOURTH VOICE. 
 
 Anathema Maranatha ! Hark ! 
 Be he sinner or be he saint, 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 There is no place in the saving Ark 
 
 For one who keeps but a cobweb faint 
 
 Of doubt in his heart, or doubt in his head, 
 
 About any one article I have read. 
 
 " Credo," that is the key of heaven ; 
 
 The more incredible, so much more 
 
 Virtue lies in the Credo given 
 
 To open the everlasting door. 
 
 Thurifer, let the censer wave : 
 
 " Hoc est corpus, 7 ' lift it high ; 
 
 Christ is risen from the stone sealed grave ; 
 
 Now let us forth with him, and die 
 
 Into the life that comes thereby. 
 
 In high procession the priests will go 
 
 Chaunting the Dies Irae low, 
 
 Dies tlla, sad and slow. 
 
 So the Church in the days of old, 
 
 Robed in linen and purple and gold, 
 
 Foiled the Devil, and all his tricks, 
 
 And drove out the swine with a crucifix. 
 
 FIRST VOICE (far away). 
 
 They have taken away my Lord, 
 
 And I know not where they have laid him ! 
 
6 PROLOGUE. 
 
 So it went wailing down the long aisle, 
 
 Mixed with the hum of the priest and the people ; 
 And a shudder passed through the massive pile, 
 From the low-groined crypt to the cross on the 
 
 steeple : 
 
 And the glimmering lights on the altar died, 
 No more the priest-hymn sobbed and sighed, 
 But a hollow wind wailed through the transept wide. 
 
BOOK FIRST. 
 
 (Elaitb Jttaxtoll, ftott. 
 
 T DO not blame thee, Hilda; did not blame thee 
 
 even then 
 When all my life fell dark, and all my way was 
 
 hard to see; 
 And when I drifted, aimless, among clear-purposed 
 
 men, 
 
 Though often wroth at myself, I yet could never 
 be wroth with thee. 
 
 Where art thou, where, my darling? for thou art 
 
 my darling still, 
 So gladsome and so winsome, and in beauty so 
 
 complete ! 
 The old home is as you left it, waiting for my 
 
 love to fill 
 
 Her corner by the fireside, or the sunny window 
 seat. 
 
8 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 But nevermore thou comest, though evermore I go 
 Where thoughts of thee shall meet me as a sure- 
 returning pain; 
 I cannot keep from that which only keeps alive 
 
 my woe, 
 
 And I would not keep from it until thou comest 
 back again. 
 
 Lonely now the old familiar walks beside the 
 
 brattling brooks, 
 And lone with awful silence are the evening 
 
 hours I sit; 
 I think. I should go mad, but for the trick of 
 
 writing books, 
 
 Though I care but for the writing, not for that 
 which I have writ. 
 
 Dead is all the old ambition ; dead the heart to 
 
 lettered fame, 
 Though the humour has its pranks yet, and the 
 
 fancy will have play ; 
 I heed not for the Public praise, nor for the Critic's 
 
 blame, 
 
 Nor for the larger shadow that I cast upon my 
 way. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 9 
 
 O my rose was only budding when I laid it on 
 
 my breast, 
 And I watched the leaves unfolding, and the 
 
 tender blushes flit ; 
 Now my rose is broke and withered and I broke 
 
 it, whom it blest 
 
 Yet the fragrance haunts my life still, and is all 
 that sweetens it. 
 
 No, I do not blame you, Hilda; we were both of 
 
 us so young, 
 
 And I had a peremptory way, ungracious, unbe- 
 seeming, 
 And a petulant hot humour, and an often silent 
 
 tongue 
 
 Which you thought betokened anger, when my 
 mind was only dreaming. 
 
 But I had no right to dream when I was called 
 
 to play the man, 
 And to cherish, with fond love, the love that put 
 
 its trust in me : 
 
 Better lose the wayward Artist in the drudging Artisan 
 Than take the yoke of love, and live as free among 
 the free. 
 
I0 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 And O how could I mar, with one unsettling doubt, 
 
 the Faith 
 Which consecrated all the homely duty of her 
 
 days, 
 
 And winged quick seeds of hope beyond the bound- 
 ing wall of death 
 
 To make a life Eternal, full of peace and bliss 
 and praise? 
 
 Who would -take from any weary head the pillow 
 
 of its rest, 
 Smoothed by a mother's hand, and leave it so 
 
 to ache and throb? 
 Or break beneath the unfledged soul the shaped 
 
 and sheltering nest, 
 
 And bid it on the bare bough sing, when it 
 can only sob? 
 
 But we wake in the young morning when the light 
 
 is breaking forth, 
 And look out on its misty gleams, as if the noon 
 
 were full ; 
 And the Infinite around seems but a larger kind 
 
 of earth 
 
 Ensphering this, and measured by the self-same 
 handy rule. 
 
CLA UD MAXWELL. 1 1 
 
 Then, doubtful shadows come and go, and we, of 
 
 nothing sure, 
 Have yet no qualms in trifling with a tranquil faith 
 
 and true ! 
 Ay me ! it was her quiet faith that made her heart so 
 
 pure, 
 
 Yet I troubled its calm waters with the wanton 
 stones I threw. 
 
 But O I loved you, Hilda, and will love you ever- 
 more ; 
 I cannot choose but love you, be the anguish 
 
 what it will, 
 
 For the very pain of loving is all other joys before : 
 Though you broke my heart in pieces, every bit 
 would love you still. 
 
 Though you broke my heart in pieces, I would 
 
 love you more than all 
 Who might seek to bind it up again; for love 
 
 alone can bind 
 What only love can break; and all the fragments 
 
 broken small 
 
 Would but glass as many Hildas in the mirror 
 of my mind. 
 
12 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 What memories gather round me, sitting by the 
 
 lonely hearth ! 
 They will not leave the house, those flitting 
 
 ghosts of other days; 
 Here a whispering, there a rustling, or an echo of 
 
 old mirth, 
 
 Or a face that from the darkness looketh with a 
 wistful gaze. 
 
 Ah me, but to remember how I placed you with 
 
 your back 
 Against the old wych-elm tree in the golden 
 
 summer tide, 
 As we went, with slate and satchel, down the 
 
 dim, green Lovers' Walk, 
 
 And half in fear, and half in fun, you vowed to 
 be my bride ! 
 
 But with me it was right earnest; I exulted from 
 
 that day 
 That mine thou wert, and mine alone, and ever 
 
 must be mine ; 
 And I played protector grandly if our schoolmates 
 
 in their play 
 
 Did but touch thy finger roughly, or lift their 
 eyes to thine. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 13 
 
 had we ne'er as children played together in the 
 
 street, 
 Never waded in the burns, nor plaited rushes on 
 
 the lea, 
 Never busked us with the blue bells, never chanced 
 
 on earth to meet, 
 Till we looked upon each other when our Love 
 
 had eyes to see ! 
 
 For cousinship will hardly grow to perfect wedded 
 
 love ; 
 There lacks the charm of wonder, and the 
 
 mystery of fear ; 
 
 It fits too easy on us, like a worn, familiar glove, 
 And we tend it not so nicely, though we hold 
 it all as dear. 
 
 1 cannot but remember we were still but girl and 
 
 boy 
 That night we went to buy the ring, how fain 
 
 we were to linger, 
 Half-afraid and half ashamed to ask about the 
 
 mystic toy, 
 And how they all slipped loosely up and down 
 
 the taper-finger. 
 
I 4 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 Then our cottage, and the garden with the sea- 
 pink borders ! Now, 
 I bethink me, we came to it ere the apple-blossom 
 
 fell, 
 And the bloom was on our love as the bloom was 
 
 on the bough, 
 
 And there was singing in the trees, and in our 
 hearts as well 
 
 Singing of our happy fancies, singing of our joyous 
 
 hopes ! 
 All our life was filled with singing, as the skylark 
 
 fills the sky : 
 O the music of that gladness, in our hearts and 
 
 in the copse, 
 
 Swelling with a tender sweetness, and the peace 
 that came thereby. 
 
 Then, the lengthening summer twilights, as we 
 
 looked down on the river 
 Gleaming silvery in the shallows, glooming darkly 
 
 in the pools ! 
 And the silent, sleepy village, with its blue smoke 
 
 curling ever 
 
 Welcome sight to weary labour plodding home- 
 ward with its tools ! 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 15 
 
 And the tall green cones of poplar that around the 
 
 kirkyard stood, 
 And the gilded weather-cock that flashed the 
 
 sunlight from the spire, 
 And the red glow on the window panes ; and then 
 
 the quiet mood 
 
 That came on with the stars, and drew us 
 closer to the fire ! 
 
 I would not but remember those welcome, winsome 
 
 hours 
 That crowned the day's fit labour with fit recom- 
 
 pence of rest, 
 And how we watched the laden bees amid the 
 
 honeyed flowers : 
 
 Yet I hardly seemed at home in life, but some- 
 how like a guest. 
 
 There was a feeling haunted me, that all might be 
 
 untrue 
 An unreal, phantom idyll an illusion of the 
 
 brain ; 
 It did not look like fact, but like a dream that 
 
 only knew 
 
 The lawlessness of Fancy, and had banished 
 grief and pain. 
 
1 6 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 So passed in tender bliss the weeks and months 
 
 of love and peace, 
 And I wondered when I should awake, and find 
 
 the dream was gone; 
 So passed the year and day, and still the wonder 
 
 did not cease, 
 
 Although there came a frustrate hope that left 
 us still alone. 
 
 So passed the time in services of love and patient 
 
 duty, 
 And there was no cloud of trouble, and no fret 
 
 of wearing strife ; 
 And still its memories cling to me, and clothe 
 
 with dreams of beauty, 
 
 As with ivy green and wallflower, the dim ruin 
 of my life. 
 
 For it is a dim, grey ruin where no cheerful work 
 
 is done, 
 Nor sound of gladness heard, but only moaning 
 
 of the wind, 
 And lonely desolation sits aweary of the sun, 
 
 With little caring for myself, and little for my 
 kind. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 17 
 
 I know that that is wrong; that it is weak to yield 
 
 to it; 
 That manhood has its duty even when life is 
 
 cold and grey- 
 Duty never half so noble, nor so strengthening and 
 
 fit, 
 
 As when the clouds have gathered thick, and 
 darkened all the day. 
 
 I plead not for myself; I know that I am weak 
 
 and poor, 
 A creature of the sunshine, and my sunshine was 
 
 so brief: 
 I have no heart to struggle now ; I only can 
 
 endure, 
 
 And let the tide sweep on, as I sit clinging to 
 my grief. 
 
 What was it, first, that broke the spell, and showed 
 
 that we were twain 
 
 United, and yet sundered by a strain of char- 
 acter ? 
 
 A trifle, yet it smote me with a disappointing pain 
 Sharper than a grief more real, for it marred my 
 thought of her. 
 
1 8 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 I had a fond ambition, and she did not share 
 
 in it; 
 I thought to make her famous, and she did not 
 
 care for fame ; 
 And I often sat a-dreaming, and watched the 
 
 moonbeams flit 
 
 With the river flickering through them, and its 
 ripple all aflame. 
 
 Bit from days of early childhood with the love of 
 
 rhythmic song, 
 I had yet a curious shame for that which was 
 
 my secret pride, 
 And would hide my work in midnight, as if doing 
 
 something wrong, 
 
 Though I hoped the world would yet admire the 
 thing I strove to hide. 
 
 How I covered reams of paper ! how I treasured 
 
 every scrap ! 
 I might outgrow the fancy, yet was loath to let 
 
 it go: 
 How I watched the moods of Nature, as I lay 
 
 upon her lap, 
 
 And she spoke to me by flowers and birds, and 
 streams that murmured low ! 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 19 
 
 The winter and the summer and the morning and 
 
 the night, 
 
 All seasons and all creatures brought her mes- 
 sages to me; 
 I loved the very newt that crawled among the 
 
 lilies bright, 
 
 And the tiger-branded wasp, and the drowsy 
 yellow bee. 
 
 And the silence of the mountains spoke unutter- 
 able things; 
 And the sounding of the ocean was as silence 
 
 in my soul; 
 And close to me, and conscious, lying warm as 
 
 brooding wings, 
 
 Lay the Mystery of mysteries that quickeneth the 
 whole. 
 
 I was glancing only lately at those stiff and futile 
 
 rhymes, 
 Where half-formed thought was struggling for the 
 
 forms of perfect Art, 
 And thinking how I treasured them, and read them 
 
 many times; 
 
 And even then to burn them, somehow went 
 against my heart. 
 
20 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 Poor stuff they are enow a drift of dry and 
 
 shrivelled weed, 
 Marking where once the tide of froth and flying 
 
 scud had been ; 
 
 Yet will I keep this fragment, for scrawled on it I read, 
 " My husband's nicest verses, though I scarce 
 know what they mean : 
 
 CONTRASTS. 
 
 Twain are they, sundered each from each, 
 
 Though oft together they are brought : 
 Discoursing in a common speech, 
 
 Yet having scarce a common thought ; 
 The same sun warmed them all their days r 
 
 They breathe one air of life serene; 
 Yet, moving on their several ways, 
 
 They walk with a whole world between, 
 
 I think they never meet without 
 
 Some sharp encounter of their wits; 
 And neither hints a faith or doubt, 
 
 The other does not take to bits; 
 For what the one regards with awe, 
 
 The other holds a creed outworn ; 
 And what this boasts as perfect law, 
 
 That turns to laughter with his scorn. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 2I 
 
 No envious grudge is in their hearts, 
 
 Detracting from the honour due 
 To nobler worth, or greater parts, 
 
 Or larger grasp, or clearer view : 
 Simply there is a gulf between 
 
 Their ways of life, and modes of thought, 
 And nothing is by either seen 
 
 But as the other likes it not. 
 
 With vision keen and thought complete 
 
 Cool-headed Warham holds his 'way, 
 And all that lies about his feet 
 
 He makes it his, and clear as day^ 
 All common things of natural birth 
 
 He sets forth in a novel sense ; 
 But never leaves the common earth 
 
 To seek the dim Omnipotence. 
 
 He gathers knowledge hour by hour, 
 
 Forgetting nought that once he knew, 
 And handling it with conscious power 
 
 As matter certified and true ; 
 And all he knows gives added might 
 
 That still with harder thought combines; 
 We wonder at the shining light, 
 
 He wonders less the more it shines ! 
 
22 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 He has slight pity for our pain, 
 
 For weakness, he has none at all ! 
 He is not proud, he is not vain ; 
 
 He is not either great or small; 
 But he is strong and hard and clear 
 
 As is a frosty winter day. 
 And never sheds an idle tear, 
 
 Nor flings an idle word away. 
 
 He cannot breathe but in the breath 
 
 Of certainty and knowledge clear ; 
 And where we have to walk by Faith 
 
 He will not go ; or will not fear 
 To search into the mysteries, 
 
 And bid the haunting shadows go ; 
 And yet, with all he knows and sees, 
 
 True wisdom somehow does not grow. 
 
 But Cromer is of finer make, 
 
 And doth with subtler thoughts commune- 
 Thoughts singing oft in dim daybreak, 
 
 And silent oft in blaze of noon; 
 He sees the process Warham saw, 
 
 But to the Power he is not blind, 
 Beholds the working of the Law, 
 
 And bows to that which lies behind. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 23 
 
 Seeking what knife can ne'er dissect, 
 
 Nor flame-wrapt blowpipe can set free, 
 Nor chemic test can e'er detect, 
 
 But only kindred mind can see, 
 He finds in everything a light 
 
 Which, shunning finest power of sense, 
 Does more to make a man of might 
 
 Than knowledge of the Why or Whence. 
 
 And much he knows, and much he thinks, 
 
 But he is more than all he knows; 
 For still aspiring, still he drinks 
 
 Fresh inspiration as he goes, 
 More careful that the man should grow 
 
 Than that the mind should understand: 
 He loves all creatures here below, 
 
 And touches all with tender hand. 
 
 He pities all the pained and weak, 
 
 And feels for their unhappy fate; 
 Simple and true and brave and meek, 
 
 He does not know that he is great; 
 He looks to heaven with wondering gaze, 
 
 And earth with awe by him is trod ; 
 We marvel at the words he says, 
 
 He, at the silences of God. 
 
2 4 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 Thus on their several ways they go, 
 
 And neither other comprehends, 
 Yet it was God that made them so., 
 
 And they do serve His several ends ; 
 That seeks for light to walk in it, 
 
 And this for God to live in Him-; 
 One questions with a searching wit, 
 
 The other trusts where all is dim. 
 
 Why quarrel with their several parts, 
 
 Where each is good if one is best? 
 ^And who shall say that this departs, 
 
 Restful, unto Eternal rest, 
 While he who loves the light goes down 
 
 Into the darkness of the night? 
 Life grows unto its perfect crown, 
 
 And light unto a larger light. 
 
 I often spoke to Hilda of the poetry that lay 
 In all the rich and wondrous life that compassed 
 
 us about, 
 At the firesides of the people, in the wild-flowers 
 
 by the way, 
 
 In our trials, and our sorrows, in our Faith too, 
 and our doubt. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 25 
 
 But she did not care for verses ; thought all poets 
 
 must be poor ; 
 And would rather some more money than be 
 
 sung about in rhyme : 
 Yet she kissed my cheek and forehead, and vowed 
 
 that she was sure 
 
 I should write a name immortal 'mong the great 
 ones of the time. 
 
 O she knew that she was stupid,; how I ever 
 
 came to wed 
 Such a silly girl as she was, she never could 
 
 make out; 
 But she could not keep the garden, if I would 
 
 have every bed 
 
 Free for birds and beasts and creatures to write 
 poetry about. 
 
 It was nice to hear the throstles answering on the 
 
 evening breeze, 
 And to watch the short, sharp rushes of the 
 
 blackbird on the lawn; 
 But there would not be a cherry left upon the 
 
 loaded trees, 
 
 And the pease were black with cawing rooks 
 about the early dawn. 
 
26 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 A shadow fell on me at this ; for love, young love, 
 
 had thrown 
 A glamour all about her, wreathed a glory round 
 
 her face, 
 Sought in her high inspiration ; and one does not 
 
 like to own 
 
 That his dream is somewhat faded, and a little 
 common-place. 
 
 Vexed, and slightly disappointed ! still our love 
 
 was fond and true, 
 And trustful and sufficing ; so it did not matter 
 
 much ; 
 But I sat the more alone, and hid my labour from 
 
 her view, 
 
 For I felt the poet's shrinking from unsympa- 
 thetic touch. 
 
 And my speech grew shallow to her, and my feel- 
 ing oft was spent 
 
 In small enforced humour to laugh poetry away ; 
 And crackling jests would flicker round the higher 
 
 sentiment, 
 
 Turning pathos into laughter, and earnest into 
 play. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 27 
 
 Of course, it was not good for me; but I could 
 
 shelter her, 
 Belying my own nature; and I scrupled not at 
 
 that, 
 If I might but dream in secret when the owlets 
 
 were astir, 
 
 And hooted from the ivy to the moon-bewildered 
 bat. 
 
 And just on this point only there was silence 
 
 'twixt us twain; 
 But silence bringeth sorrow where the trust 
 
 should be complete ; 
 Love likes not shallow mirth, too ; and a fear 
 
 sprang up amain, 
 
 That in the deeper life of life we yet might 
 fail to meet 
 
 Not that spinning rhymes and verses is the deeper 
 
 life of life, 
 Though it may be a true fashion which that 
 
 deeper life shall wear; 
 But if heart must mate with heart to make the 
 
 husband and the wife, 
 
 Mind should also match with mind to make the 
 perfect wedded pair. 
 
28 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 Not so with me and Hilda; there was love, and 
 
 nothing more : 
 But some ballads I had written, brought me 
 
 praise and also pay ; 
 Then she changed her mind about them, as she 
 
 tinkled o'er and o'er 
 
 The little store of guineas that had dropt upon 
 her way. 
 
 Surely welcome were the guineas ; but I had not 
 
 writ for gold, 
 And the gold was all she cared for, and I could 
 
 have cursed the thing; 
 But she had the care of housekeeping, and troubles 
 
 manifold, 
 
 That were bound upon her spirit by the slender 
 marriage ring. 
 
 I should have thought of that, for it was burden- 
 ing her youth 
 Her youth that never knew a care until she 
 
 came to me; 
 But I only saw that everything went orderly and 
 
 smooth, 
 
 And wist not of the frets and fears of small 
 economy. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 29 
 
 Then, the handling of those guineas seemed to 
 
 turn her little head ; 
 She was sure that I could write a score of 
 
 better songs a week, 
 
 And she need not vex her heart about the milk- 
 books, or the bread, 
 
 Or the men that came with nasty bills, and 
 always looked so sleek. 
 
 And she wanted something pretty a bit of orna- 
 ment, 
 A dress, or some fresh furnishing to brighten up a 
 
 room ; 
 And we named them quaintly after, each, its poem, 
 
 as we spent 
 
 The little roll of gold that made her life again 
 to bloom. 
 
 "Noche Triste," was a ballad of the fall of 
 
 Mexico, 
 And also a chintz curtain in our little parlour 
 
 hung ; 
 And a band of scarlet ribbon, knotting up into a 
 
 bow, 
 
 Had its name of "English Harold" from a 
 song that I had sung. 
 
3 o CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 Trifles ! yet they lit our home with lamps of sweet 
 
 significance. 
 Made every chamber live, and put a soul in 
 
 chairs and stools, 
 
 That linked them with oar highest, as the moon- 
 beams where they glance 
 
 Silver with a heavenly beauty even the common 
 water-pools. 
 
 Trifles ! little homely trifles ; fireside jests that lose 
 
 their way 
 Out of doors ; yet what a pathos in their memory 
 
 may dwell ! 
 For I thought my very heart would break when 
 
 coming yesterday 
 
 On that rag of scarlet ribbon fastening up the 
 jargonelle. 
 
 Twice-paid I deemed my verses when the trifle 
 
 they had brought 
 Brightened her evening muslin then, and made her 
 
 face to shine ; 
 And now it all came back to point the misery of 
 
 our lot, 
 
 As with a twice-told sorrow, in that ribbon's fate 
 and mine. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 31 
 
 Hilda scarcely read my verses, never sang a song 
 
 of mine, 
 Though her voice was like a plaintive bird's, and 
 
 thrilled you through and through; 
 I have wept to hear her evening hymn, or Psalm 
 
 with crabbed line, 
 
 Ring through the open casement as the stars 
 lit up the blue. 
 
 But she scarcely read my verses; even some that 
 
 I had writ 
 Of our wooing and our wedding, gave her but 
 
 a passing thought; 
 I was pleased to see her pleased, but still there 
 
 was a sting in it, 
 
 When she prized my labour only for the thing 
 that it had bought. 
 
 Yet I would not be disheartened ; my purpose only 
 
 rose 
 The higher, and my fancies were but cherished 
 
 more and more; 
 I would seek out fresher fountains whose living 
 
 water flows, 
 
 Unnoticed, in a land where song had rarely 
 been before. 
 
32 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 I would sing the life I saw the world that lay 
 
 about our door; 
 Its passion and its longing, its error and its 
 
 sin : 
 It was fresh, if rather sunless, and it deepened 
 
 more and more 
 
 As I tilled the field whose harvest I was fain to 
 gather in. 
 
 Thus, long and late I brooded, well resolved 
 
 to make my mark 
 On the great age we live in, and my silence 
 
 deeper grew; 
 I went musing in the day-time, and sat mooning 
 
 in the dark, 
 
 And the rush of sudden fancies made my slum- 
 bers broken too. 
 
 For the vision grew upon me, the more I did 
 
 attain, 
 Dwarfing still my poor achievement with some 
 
 glimpse of nobler fruit; 
 I scarce had caught a measure when some diviner 
 
 strain, 
 
 A-singing sweetly in my heart, would sing the 
 other mute. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 33 
 
 Those were days of rich invention, like fresh gold- 
 fields, when they find 
 Nuggets studding the first spadeful, grains that 
 
 yellow all the sand; 
 One has by and by to crush the quartz to 
 
 grind the barren mind, 
 
 And pick a little precious thought with weary 
 heart and hand. 
 
 But those were fruitful times, when thought ran 
 
 faster than the pen, 
 And moulds of quaint invention shaped a hundred 
 
 dainty strains, 
 As I touched with playful fancy the odd characters 
 
 of men 
 
 With kindly humours in their hearts, or maggots 
 in their brains. 
 
 If I have won a little niche I know it is but 
 
 small 
 In Fame's proud temple, it was then I won it, 
 
 being true, 
 
 And sparing not myself, and without effort natural, 
 And singing ever from my heart, and only what 
 
 I knew. 
 
 c 
 
34 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 For mine eye was opened wide to all the glory 
 
 and the beauty, 
 And also to the error, and the failure, and the 
 
 strife ; 
 My heart had tasted sorrow, as it clung to love 
 
 and duty, 
 
 And I felt my art was deepened with the deep- 
 ening of my life. 
 
 I sought about among the common facts of com- 
 mon day, 
 What chanced me in a corner, or what met me 
 
 in a crowd, 
 For the undertones of pathos murmuring softly by 
 
 the way, 
 
 Or quaint, droll humours, mirthful with a laughter 
 never loud. 
 
 I cared not for the converse of Respectability, 
 Choosing rather the blank Innocent that saun- 
 tered down the street, 
 Singing the broken fragment of some weird old 
 
 melody, 
 
 As he drifted, to and fro, with vagrant thought 
 and aimless feet. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 35 
 
 All the smug and well-conditioned, growing rich, 
 
 and growing stout, 
 And the men that fussed and wrangled about 
 
 the Kirk and State, 
 And genteel, superior people, dressing well and 
 
 dining out, 
 
 I found them very dull, though their content was 
 very great. 
 
 I stored up thoughts and pictures ; for I knew that 
 
 Art is long, 
 That you cannot rear a temple like a hut of 
 
 sticks and turf; 
 But I did not think what perils on a woman's life 
 
 may throng, 
 
 Sitting lonely with her thoughts that chafe and 
 murmur like the surf. 
 
 Ever more and more absorbed, I hardly noted as 
 
 they came 
 The changing moods, the chills, the frets that 
 
 daily did increase ; 
 I would dig the deep foundations of a long-abiding 
 
 Fame, 
 
 And wist not that they undermined my home of 
 love and peace. 
 
36 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 Ah me ! that hungry passion ! and it looked so 
 
 innocent ! 
 A minister of love, belike, to brighten all our 
 
 day, 
 
 To gild the petty care of life, and homely inci- 
 dent, 
 
 As we sat like summer birds, and sang our 
 troubles all away ! 
 
 And yet it was self-seeking, let me paint it as I 
 
 will, 
 But the poet's eager craving for the vanity of 
 
 Fame, 
 But the witchery of Art enchanted with its own 
 
 sweet skill, 
 
 Seeking less to better life, than just to make 
 itself a name. 
 
 And perchance she saw its shallowness, as I did 
 
 by and by, 
 And was truer to the fact, in all her seeming 
 
 common-place, 
 And the simple, homely method of her quiet life, 
 
 than I 
 
 With my thoughts away in dreamland, and its 
 haze about my face. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 37 
 
 For I have not won the glory which I lost my 
 
 peace to gain ; 
 The critic world has praised me in a kindly sort 
 
 of way, 
 But I have not struck a chord that thrilled the 
 
 common heart of men, 
 
 Nor blazed forth as a star upon the forefront of 
 the day. 
 
 And yet the passion hankers in me, net to be 
 
 gainsaid, 
 In spite of all misgiving, and the verdict of the 
 
 crowd, 
 And I do not care for poverty, neglect, or little 
 
 bread, 
 If I may but spin my verses, though I only spin 
 
 my shroud. 
 
 *****#** 
 That was the first night-frost that blanched our 
 
 young life's tender bloom : 
 Not much; and we had love enough to throw 
 
 it off, had I 
 But taken thought of that pale face which in the 
 
 silent room 
 
 Turned ever to the Kirkyard with a tear-dimmed, 
 weary eye : 
 
38 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 Turned ever to the Kirkyard where the little grave 
 
 was green 
 That buried her young hope, and made her 
 
 motherhood a wail, 
 Silent and yet unceasing, for the bliss that might 
 
 have been, 
 
 But now was lying in a shroud, and nailed with 
 coffin-nail. 
 
 I did take thought a little then ; and brought an old 
 
 school friend 
 To cheer her in her sorrow but the girl was hard 
 
 as steel, 
 Who tried, I fear, to mar the peace I hoped that 
 
 she would mend, 
 
 And blended coldest sceptic thought with strangely 
 burning zeal : 
 
 A girl so unlike Hilda that I wot not how they 
 
 drew 
 
 Together for a moment sharp-witted, and without 
 An atmosphere around her mind ; but many things 
 
 she knew, 
 
 And had not any light of faith, nor any shade 
 of doubt. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 39 
 
 Of course we did not know it ; but it was unlucky 
 
 fate 
 That brought into my life then such a thread of 
 
 unbelief, 
 Confirming troubled fancies that had come to me 
 
 of late, 
 
 And brooded o'er my life with dim foreboding of 
 new grief. 
 
 For pondering, as I could, the things around me, 
 
 I began 
 To piece them, bit by bit, into some pattern of 
 
 clear thought; 
 And lo ! they grew too vast to fit into my little 
 
 plan, 
 
 And squared not with the hard and narrow faith 
 that I had got. 
 
 I had worn my baby-creed, just as a thing of course, 
 
 till now, 
 Unthinking if it fitted on the grown man as the 
 
 child; 
 
 My mother made it for me when the yet un- 
 shadowed brow 
 
 Was crowned with sunny curls, and the young 
 soul was undefiled. 
 
4 o CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 But it was a thing apart from me, and compassed 
 
 round with dread; 
 Unquestioned and unsearched, it lay bathed in 
 
 an awful Ijght, 
 Sacred as writ which had been sealed by the 
 
 beloved dead, 
 And beautiful with memories of piety and right. 
 
 But now my mind was darkened o'er with dim, dis- 
 turbing doubt, 
 And many roots of faith appeared to strike no 
 
 further down 
 Than customary thoughts that I had never reasoned 
 
 out, 
 
 Nor felt their pressure on my soul to own them, 
 or disown. 
 
 Could any juggling art transfer the sin that I had 
 
 done, 
 Unto another soul, and give His innocence to 
 
 me? 
 Could any claim of other's right be mine to stand 
 
 upon, 
 
 And urge His sinless sorrow as my justifying 
 plea? 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 4 ! 
 
 And could 1 think the world lay all beneath the 
 
 wrath of God, 
 Seeing it folded in His light, and kept with tender 
 
 care? 
 
 Or that the Father's love could grasp an everlast- 
 ing rod, 
 
 Nor falter as it hearkened to the wail of dim 
 despair ? 
 
 Could every heart be wholly wicked, every soul 
 
 untrue, 
 As if it were a spark from hell that kindled all 
 
 desire ? 
 Could all be set to rights again when God had 
 
 gleaned a few, 
 
 While the harvest of the nations was faggoted 
 for fire? 
 
 At first I feared the venturous thought, and laid 
 
 it quick aside; 
 But still it would return, although in other form 
 
 it came. 
 Is He not ever merciful who loved us all, and 
 
 died, 
 
 Gracious to-day and yesterday, and evermore 
 the same? 
 
42 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 Trembling, I fluttered to and fro, like moth about 
 
 the flame, 
 Now saying, "It is light, and I must come unto 
 
 the light:" 
 
 Then pausing, for the moth unto a swift destruc- 
 tion came, 
 
 When, curious for the light, it left the dim and 
 dusky night. 
 
 I think it did not grow to be strong-hearted faith 
 
 in me; 
 I only dared to doubt, and then made pictures 
 
 of my doubt; 
 This way the better reason drew that I might 
 
 clearly see; 
 
 That way old custom dragged, and bade me 
 cast the reason out. 
 
 So wave on wave arose, and burst, and eddied 
 
 back again, 
 But still the tide swelled higher till it covered all 
 
 the beach ; 
 I saw old landmarks vanish, yet that smote me not 
 
 with pain, 
 
 Nor leaped my heart with gladness at the truth 
 it hoped to reach. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 43 
 
 I longed for light ; but all the light I found was 
 
 second-hand ; 
 Reflected thought that had been tossed about, for 
 
 ages past, 
 From surface-minds that vainly claimed alone to 
 
 understand 
 
 The mystery of the Light that is like shadow on 
 us cast. 
 
 They say that doubt is weak; but yet, if life be in 
 
 the doubt, 
 The living doubt is more than Faith that life did 
 
 never know; 
 Pulp and jelly of the shell-fish, clasped in bony 
 
 mail without, 
 
 Crack the joinings and the sutures that the life 
 within may grow. 
 
 Could I only have believed with all my heart 
 
 and soul and rnind ! 
 But faith was slowly breaking up, and parting 
 
 like a cloud, 
 And yet the light that through the rifts was glancing 
 
 from behind, 
 
 Looked sickly in the wavering mist that wrapped 
 it like a shroud. 
 
44 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 A zone of large indifference, then, I made, where 
 
 easy hope 
 Linked faith and unfaith, arm in arm, and sung 
 
 along the road; 
 All would somehow yet come right at least, I did 
 
 not mean to mope, 
 
 If I could not feel the lightness, yet I would 
 not feel the load. 
 
 God was larger than the creeds : they were the 
 
 cunning compromise 
 For unanimous decision of the many and the 
 
 few; 
 Rafts that leaked at every log, so loose the binding 
 
 of their ties : 
 
 But they floated, and the thoughtless held that 
 therefore they were true. 
 
 This was the one decree, that God should yet be 
 
 all in all, 
 And in the Christ would reconcile all things in 
 
 earth and heaven, 
 And a new Paradise arise more glorious from the 
 
 Fall, 
 
 And bread of life be sweeter, raised from sin's 
 disturbing leaven. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 45 
 
 By and by, I hinted lightly at this dawning hope 
 
 of mine 
 To Hilda, in a quaint conceit of ballad rudely 
 
 rhymed : 
 It put her friend in raptures, and she vowed it 
 
 most divine, 
 
 But it seemed a sorry jest to her, and wicked 
 and ill-timed. 
 
 Well ; it was a foolish trifle, burnt well-nigh as soon 
 
 as writ, 
 A dream of death, and how all life shall come to 
 
 fulness then, 
 And how the love that sweetens earth, and mirth 
 
 that brightens it 
 
 Could never darken Heaven, for God had given 
 them unto men. 
 
 Was it strange, when Hilda frowned, that I should 
 
 turn me to her friend, 
 Who clapped her hands, ecstatic, and would 
 
 have me read again? 
 Perhaps she overdid it ; and it turned out in the 
 
 end 
 
 That she was false and faithless but I did not 
 know her then. 
 
46 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 Maybe, I should have seen that there was nothing 
 
 in my rhyme 
 To lift up eyes of worship, softly swimming in 
 
 a tear, 
 Or to part the eager lips with breathless rapture, 
 
 all the time, 
 
 As the humour of the dreamer dropt upon the 
 listening ear. 
 
 No doubt, she overdid it, turning up her thin. 
 
 brown face 
 With the dark eyes and eager; I had called 
 
 her Caberfae, 
 She looked so like a startled deer that, in a lonely 
 
 place, 
 
 Lifts her head among the bracken at the dawning 
 of the day. 
 
 And somehow, after that, she filled my life up, as 
 
 the tide 
 Creeps, beneath the waving tangles, up the sloping, 
 
 shingly shore, 
 And along the quiet sands, and softly lapping at 
 
 your side, 
 
 Girds about you ere you wot, and is behind you 
 and before. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 47 
 
 She would look through books of reference, and 
 
 mark the places right, 
 And copy papers nicely, and be useful fifty 
 
 ways; 
 And sometimes on the darkling thought would 
 
 glance a piercing light, 
 
 Or with woman's nice suggestion touch a senti- 
 ment or phrase. 
 
 I looked to her for sympathy, I leant on her for 
 
 aid; 
 Fanatical for Reason, still she loved the poet's 
 
 Art, 
 Or vowed she loved it dearly; and how cleverly 
 
 she played, 
 
 With artillery of praise upon the outworks of the 
 heart ! 
 
 Ere long, I did not care to hear her raptures, 
 
 for they came 
 
 To be mere ejaculations, monotonous, without 
 Any critical discernment; and I felt a growing 
 
 shame 
 
 At the lauds which she kept singing, and the things 
 they were about. 
 
48 CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 And, besides, my floating doubts, which were like 
 
 mists that slowly trail 
 O'er the mountains, adding mystery and grandeur 
 
 to their shapes, 
 Were in her a chilling drizzle, or a driving sleet 
 
 and hail, 
 
 Hiding sun and moon and stars, and all the 
 shining seas and capes. 
 
 I could not cast her off, but yet I heeded not how 
 
 soon 
 She took herself away now, with that bitter sneer 
 
 of hers ; 
 She was as coldly chaste as are "the glimpses of 
 
 the moon," 
 
 But she laughed at all the faiths of men, and 
 all their characters. 
 
 And I saw that Hilda pined away she did not 
 
 fret nor frown, 
 But, whatever our discourse, she let a pallid 
 
 silence linger 
 On her lips, from hour to hour, while moving 
 
 slowly up and down, 
 
 From the knuckle to the point, the marriage-ring 
 upon her finger. 
 
CLAUD MAXWELL. 
 
 49 
 
 For Hilda had a faith serene, clear as the evening 
 
 star, 
 Keen-piercing through the changeful glow with 
 
 its unchanging gleam, 
 Wheeling in some calm zone where neither doubts 
 
 nor tremours are, 
 
 Nor shadowy, dim misgivings, that perchance we 
 only dream. 
 
 And now she was amazed because old Faiths broke 
 
 up in me, 
 With little feeling of a loss, or hope of higher 
 
 gain, 
 But like the ice-pack piled and crashing on the 
 
 fog-banked sea, 
 
 The which her love beheld with fear and shiver- 
 ing and pain. 
 
BOOK SECOND. 
 
 HILDA S DIARY. 
 
 March, 18 
 
 T I 7INIFRED Urquhart and I, when we were tall 
 
 school-girls, 
 Chatting of wooings and weddings while twisting 
 
 our hair up in curls, 
 Or whispering some hush-secret, which was not 
 
 secret a bit, 
 
 Only we were confidential, and made a secret of it 
 Winnie and I made a paction, silly things that we 
 
 were ! 
 That she would be sure to tell me, and I must 
 
 be sure to tell her, 
 
 Whoever, first of us, wedded, all the bitter and sweet 
 Of the life of marriage that makes the life of a 
 
 woman complete ; 
 
5 2 HILDA, 
 
 The hope, the fear, and the bliss too, we were to 
 
 set down all, 
 And none of our Gardens of Eden be hid by a 
 
 hedge or a wall. 
 
 So now she writes me a letter, all underlined, to say 
 She trusts that I do not forget the promise I made 
 
 that day; 
 Hints that, perhaps, I might keep a Diary locked 
 
 with a key, 
 And sacred To Early Friendship, which no other eye 
 
 should see; 
 And hopes that I will not act like commonplace 
 
 wives, who drop 
 Their friends and their French and pianos, and 
 
 put to the Past a full stop, 
 Now to begin a new paragraph all about beeves and 
 
 muttons, 
 Darning, and troubles with servants, and gentlemen's 
 
 shirts and buttons. 
 Why does marriage, she adds, so often a woman 
 
 degrade ? 
 Why is the wife so silly, who was ever so bright as 
 
 a maid? 
 Why should a husband like to fallow her intellect, 
 
SAINT-WIPE. 53 
 
 And starve it on housekeeping cares that lower her 
 
 self-respect ? 
 
 But she is sure that mine is all that he ought to be, 
 Worthy of love and devotion, almost worthy of me. 
 Yet, O the young love of girls ! it is purer, truer, 
 
 and better! 
 And so she concludes with a prayer for a long and 
 
 an early letter. 
 
 This has set me a-thinking that, maybe, I ought 
 
 to write 
 The things that my heart is full of, as the noon 
 
 of heaven with light, 
 The thoughts that I had not before, which give me 
 
 a larger life, 
 And the bliss that never I knew till he called me 
 
 his own little wife. 
 
 Not that I mean to keep a silly promise like that 
 Winnie is clever and scheming; I know what she 
 
 wants to be at. 
 Give her a word, good or bad, and she'd spin such 
 
 a web from the hint, 
 And colour a meaningless phrase with so suspicious 
 
 a tint, 
 That folk would begin to whisper, sure there was 
 
 something amiss : 
 
54 HILDA, 
 
 And then she would write me, bewailing the world 
 
 and its wickedness. 
 Dearly she loves a mystery, dearly she loves to be 
 
 thought 
 To know what she ought not to know, and to wit 
 
 what none else ever wot : 
 For Winnie is clever and scheming, even when she 
 
 looks like a fool; 
 She was not liked by the girls, and she was not 
 
 happy at school, 
 But I came to be fond of her, rather, by having to 
 
 take her part, 
 When others were hard upon her, and said that 
 
 she had not a heart; 
 Which is not true, I am sure, nor yet the tales that 
 
 they told 
 Of wicked books she had read before she was 
 
 twelve years old. 
 
 I have heard that, since she came home, she culti- 
 vates science, and writes, 
 And lectures over the country, most of the winter 
 
 nights, 
 Having her hair cut short, and her finger-tips black 
 
 with ink : 
 But Winnie could never forget what is due to a lady, 
 
 I think. 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 
 
 55 
 
 I am going to write in my book, but not for her 
 
 eyes to see : 
 Ought I to hide it from him who keeps not a thought 
 
 from me? 
 O there is something in marriage like the veil of 
 
 the temple of old, 
 That screened the Holy of Holies with blue and 
 
 purple and gold ; 
 Something that makes a chamber where none but 
 
 the one may come, 
 A sacredness too, and a silence, where joy that is 
 
 deepest is dumb. 
 And it is in that secret chamber where chiefly my 
 
 days are passed, 
 With a feeling of something holy, and a shadow of 
 
 something vast, 
 Till he comes, who alone is free to come and to 
 
 go as he will, 
 Till he comes, and the brooding silence begins to 
 
 pulse and thrill. 
 
 come, for my heart is weary, waiting, my love 
 
 for thee ! 
 
 1 will lock my bliss from the world, but my love 
 
 shall have ever the key. 
 
5 6 HILDA, 
 
 March, 18 
 
 When I remember the way we girls were wont to talk 
 Up in our rooms at night, or out on the daily walk, 
 It seems like an unreal echo, ever so far away 
 From the clear realm of nature, and light of the 
 
 sun and the day. 
 Yet it sounded to us, at the time, like absolute 
 
 reason and good, 
 As we chattered of woman's rights, and babbled in 
 
 wrathful mood 
 Of Maries, thoughtful and wise, that often were met 
 
 at school, 
 
 Changed into careful Marthas under a husband's rule, 
 Heedless of mental culture, losing their nimble wits, 
 To be housemaids dusting the rooms, or cookmaids 
 
 turning the spits. 
 Winnie was great on that I thought she was 
 
 eloquent even, 
 As the small face kindled up with a light, as it 
 
 were, from heaven, 
 
 Vowing the wife became a traitor to woman in this, 
 Betraying a noble cause for a petting word or a kiss ; 
 Wronging her husband, too, by giving a lower aim 
 Of self-indulgence to life, which he knew not at 
 
 home till she came. 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 
 
 57 
 
 What greater wrong could she do him than teach 
 
 him only to care 
 For dainties, and kickshaws, and slippers, and naps 
 
 in the easy chair? 
 But Nature is more than Logic, and wedlock is 
 
 more than we 
 Dreamed of then in our folly ; and great is the change 
 
 now in me : 
 Motherhood, if it should come, will work more 
 
 wonders still, 
 For love it is all in all, and it does whatsoever 
 
 it will; 
 
 Dusting, darning, drudging, nothing is great or small, 
 Nothing is mean or irksome, love will hallow it all ; 
 Sacrifice there is none if only I see him glad, 
 And all my pleasure is gone if he be heavy and sad. 
 
 April, 1 8 
 
 Past is the honeymoon ; and I think it was not so good 
 As the home-coming together, in quiet, thoughtful 
 
 mood. 
 Then our life truly began : it was like a dream 
 
 before 
 A dream in a boat while the pale moon glimmered 
 
 from sea to shore, 
 
58 HILDA, 
 
 And we went swaying about still under the stars, 
 
 and heard 
 Dreamily plashing billow, and dreamily whispered 
 
 word. 
 Why should we go a-jaunting when the heart wants 
 
 to repose 
 From agitation of bliss, and to know whereto it 
 
 grows ? 
 Nothing felt real to me then, or brought me the 
 
 feeling of rest, 
 As we sped hither and thither, like birds flying 
 
 far from the nest, 
 Hid in the bosk of the greenwood, where they are 
 
 longing to be, 
 And cosy and warm, and sweet with the scent of 
 
 the sheltering tree. 
 I did not like then to say it, because all his plans 
 
 had been laid 
 To visit some beautiful spot which poets had famous 
 
 made, 
 Or look on some ancient Abbey that sweetly went 
 
 down to decay, 
 Wrapt in the ivy green, amid trees in the lichen 
 
 grey, 
 And all with me there beside him, he said, to 
 
 brighten the view, 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 59 
 
 And bathe it for him in a light which for ever would 
 
 make it new. 
 Therefore my voice was silent ; but O, how I wearied 
 
 to see 
 The house-fire which love was to kindle, the home 
 
 where my life was to be ! 
 For all the pert maids at the inns where we hoped 
 
 for a little to hide, 
 Scanning my bonnets and dresses, would smirk at 
 
 the new-made bride ; 
 Scarcely a railway porter but knew my trunks to 
 
 be out 
 Fresh on a marriage trip, and led me, blushing, 
 
 about, 
 
 While Claud was looking so handsome and self- 
 possessed, like a king, 
 
 Proud and tender and ready, and seeing to every- 
 thing. 
 It is not nice to be stared at by everyone that 
 
 you meet, 
 As they smile and whisper together, and scan you 
 
 from head to feet. 
 And I knew not the rest of love till we sat in 
 
 our little white room, 
 Close together, and watched the stars coming out of 
 
 the gloom, 
 
60 HILDA, 
 
 In the hush of a raptured moment, his strong arm 
 
 clasping me round, 
 As on his bosom I leant to feel all the peace 
 
 I had found; 
 And he said, " We will fold our wings now, for here 
 
 I have made you a nest, 
 And lined it warm with the down of love that 
 
 is warm in my breast." 
 O, he can say such things ! And I cannot say 
 
 them to him; 
 I am quietest when I am gladdest; but my heart 
 
 was filled to the brim. 
 Just a moment before, and my trembling would not 
 
 cease, 
 But now the shiver was stilled in a thrill of bliss 
 
 and peace. 
 
 April, 1 8 
 
 Our home is a bright little cottage, half-smothered 
 
 in yellow rose, 
 Not yet blooming, however; a still river sullenly 
 
 flows 
 Deep at the foot of a broomy brae, and the leaping 
 
 trout 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 6 1 
 
 Ripple its gloom in the evening as May-flies flicker 
 about. 
 
 Nor is it all so sullen, for down in a farther reach 
 
 It leaps and sparkles and gleams o'er the stones of 
 a pebbly beach, 
 
 Under the birch and the hazel, just coming to leaf, 
 and there are 
 
 Blue-bell patches of sky made bright with the prim- 
 rose star. 
 
 Behind is a group of fir-trees, five of them, red- 
 armed firs, 
 
 Druid sisters he calls them, that moan when the 
 night-wind stirs; 
 
 Last of a great pine forest that stubs the heath 
 with its roots 
 
 For miles, till you come to a tarn where gulls and 
 little round coots 
 
 Are dipping and diving all day in a quiet solitude ; 
 
 There the bee haunts, and the air is blithe, and 
 the lapwings brood. 
 
 I hear the curlew scream, and the grouse-cock 
 crowing at dawn, 
 
 And yet when I stand at the door, where the cow- 
 slips laugh on the lawn- 
 It is only a patch of green turf, enough to pasture 
 a lark 
 
 
62 HILDA, 
 
 I see the sleepy old town, and the spires of the 
 
 Minster dark, 
 And catch a glimpse of the sea waves white on the 
 
 yellow sand, 
 Where the river leaps at the bar, and the coastguard 
 
 houses stand. 
 
 We have a bright little garden down on a sunny slope, 
 Bordered with sea-pinks, and sweet with the songs 
 
 and the blossoms of hope. 
 O it is all too good for me; often I catch myself 
 
 singing 
 In very lightness of heart, and I seem like the birds 
 
 to be winging 
 Merry from room to room, as they flutter from bush 
 
 to tree, 
 And each has her mate a-coming, and mine, too, is 
 
 coming to me. 
 
 Am I wrong to be always so happy? This world 
 
 is full of grief; 
 Yet there is laughter of sunshine to see the crisp 
 
 green on the leaf, 
 Daylight is ringing with song-birds, and brooklets are 
 
 crooning by night ; 
 And why should I make a shadow where God 
 
 makes all so bright? 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 63 
 
 Earth may be wicked and weary, yet cannot I help 
 
 being glad ; 
 There is sunshine without and within me, and how 
 
 should I mope or be sad? 
 God would not flood me with blessings, meaning 
 
 me only to pine 
 Amid all the bounties and beauties He pours upon 
 
 me and mine ; 
 Therefore will I be grateful, and therefore will I 
 
 rejoice ; 
 My heart is singing within me ; sing on, O heart 
 
 and voice. 
 
 May, 1 8 
 
 Winnie has writ me again she offers a visit in June ; 
 Some day she must come, I daresay, but that is 
 
 an age too soon. 
 What could I do with her? I should be like one 
 
 reading a book, 
 Lost in the story and passion, while she would 
 
 be eager to look 
 Over my shoulder to find out what was absorbing 
 
 me so, 
 And why, when my heart is so happy, the tears 
 
 are so ready to flow; 
 
64 HILDA, 
 
 And now she would hurry, and now would tarry 
 
 my turning the leaf; 
 And I'd hate her in less than a week ; and I know 
 
 it would end in grief. 
 Alone ! I must be alone, to read my romance, for 
 
 the plot 
 Is only slowly unfolding ; and O what a hero 
 
 I've got ! 
 
 Noble and true and brave, all that a hero should be ; 
 So much better than I am; and great is his love 
 
 to me ; 
 Yet not greater than mine is, save that his mind 
 
 is more, 
 For O I love him, I love, as a God I could 
 
 almost adore. 
 That makes me tremble at times, for O if an 
 
 idol I make, 
 What if my idol were broken? Truly my heart 
 
 it would break. 
 What, if heaven should be wroth at my shrining 
 
 and sainting a man 
 
 Sinful and mortal as I ? Yet God too I love all I can ; 
 And my heart is truer to Him the more I am 
 
 loved and caressed ; 
 Surely He cannot be jealous of love He has 
 
 bidden and blessed. 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 
 
 June, 1 8 
 
 We have walks as the evenings lengthen; some- 
 times over the moor, 
 
 Many-tinted and shadowed ; brisk is the air there 
 and pure 
 
 Among the brown heath and the brachen that now 
 from its snake-like bonds, 
 
 Under the sun's deft fingers, is slowly uncoiling 
 its fronds; 
 
 Close-packed now, by-and-by they, overlapping, will 
 hide 
 
 The flower of the slender orchis purpling close by 
 their side. 
 
 Dry on the knolls is the whin-bush, massing its golden 
 bloom ; 
 
 The cotton-grass low in the marshes tosses its small 
 white plume ; 
 
 And from the hollows is wafted the scent of bog- 
 myrtle or birch 
 
 Fragrant after the rain ; but, best of all, is the search 
 
 Among the roots of the heather for stag- moss' 
 antlers green 
 
 Branching over the earth, far-spreading, and rarely 
 
 seen. 
 
 E 
 
66 HILDA, 
 
 Here and there is a cottage, too, looking just like 
 
 the heath, 
 Green on the roof with house-leek, brown with its 
 
 turf- wall beneath. 
 Children play at the door, they are dirty and happy 
 
 and fair, 
 Sunbrowned all of their faces, sunbleached their 
 
 lint-white hair; 
 The mother is milking the cow, the dog lies coiled 
 
 in the sun, 
 The fowls for the roost are making, and the 
 
 labourer's day is done. 
 Sometimes we rest on a bank, and hear in the 
 
 evening calm, 
 Just as the stars come out, the sough of their 
 
 grateful psalm. 
 
 Often we go to the sea-marge, where the long sands 
 
 give place 
 To a belt of dark red crags, storm-beaten, which 
 
 grimly face 
 The baffled billows that lie ever panting below at 
 
 their feet, 
 Or gurgling in black -throated caves where they foam 
 
 and mine and beat. 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 67 
 
 Perched on the cliff is a village, and far in the 
 
 cove below 
 The boats are beached on the shingle, waiting the 
 
 tide to flow; 
 Hard-visaged, bunchy women are baiting the lines 
 
 in hope, 
 Or carrying laden creels, slow, up the long, shelving 
 
 slope, 
 Or spreading their fish on the rocks, or welcoming 
 
 men from the sea, 
 As the lugger trips daintily in, and the flapping 
 
 sail is free. 
 
 One thing strikes me about my husband's way with 
 
 the folk, 
 Whether the moorland shepherds, or fishermen 
 
 perched on the rock. 
 Freely we enter their homes, for he seems to be 
 
 known to them all, 
 And knows who is there in the corner, and who in 
 
 the bed in the wall, 
 And the idiot dreamily singing by the grandam 
 
 racked with pain, 
 And the lad that went off to the sea, and has never 
 
 come back asrain 
 
68 HILDA, 
 
 All the home life of the people, their good and 
 
 their evil hap. 
 
 So every door flies open just after a warning tap, 
 And everywhere he is met with a welcome glad and 
 
 free ; 
 The dogs come fawning upon him, the children get 
 
 up on his knee, 
 Great, rough hands are held out to give him a hearty 
 
 g ri P, 
 And the mother's face is shining as he kisses the 
 
 baby's lip. 
 Of course they are happy to see me, too, for my 
 
 husband's sake, 
 Only they daintily touch me, as fearful perchance 
 
 I may break, 
 And, making ungainly curtseys, they have not a 
 
 word to say; 
 But O I am proud to see him so loved in this 
 
 lovingest way. 
 
 Sometimes I think, for myself, I would like to tidy 
 
 the room, 
 To open the window a bit, and get rid of the 
 
 smoke and the gloom, 
 To teach the children a lesson, or read a page 
 
 from the Book 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 69 
 
 To the sick man tossed on his pillow, or the old 
 
 man propped in his nook. 
 But he does not try, in the least, to do any good, 
 
 and yet 
 
 Somehow they seem to like him all the better for it. 
 He is just like one of themselves, and talks of the 
 
 weather and crops, 
 The ewes and gimmers and lambs, or the luggers and 
 
 nets and ropes, 
 The take of fish, or the beds of mussels they have 
 
 for bait, 
 Or the old man's aching bones, or the teething 
 
 baby's state, 
 Laughing and joking with all. or telling a story, 
 
 perhaps, 
 To the children gaping around him, while grandfather 
 
 nods and naps; 
 Yet somehow, all the time, he seems as if reading a 
 
 book 
 Full of nature and humour, and leaves with a 
 
 thoughtful look. 
 
 Once I hinted that I would gladly be doing some 
 
 good 
 Among these neighbours of ours : and he said in his 
 
 gentlest mood, 
 
7 o HILDA, 
 
 "Yes, I suppose it is right to do all the good that 
 
 you can; 
 Only don't break up the peace of their homes, with a 
 
 cut-and-dry plan 
 Of tracts and visits and lessons, and scolding the 
 
 women for dirt, 
 And tramping on everyone's toes, and sitting on 
 
 everyone's skirt. 
 For when you know them as I do, and all their 
 
 sorrows and cares, 
 The brave hearts they keep through it all, their 
 
 patience, their faith, and the prayers, 
 Self-forgetting, that thrill here loud on the stormy 
 
 shore 
 For those on the stormy sea, they never may look 
 
 on more, 
 Then you may feel like me, half-ashamed of the 
 
 good you can do, 
 Compared with the good you are getting from 
 
 lives so human and true. 
 But try it you're better than I only mind they 
 
 have hearts like your own; 
 And hearts philanthropic, at times, have the trick 
 
 of the old hearts of stone." 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 
 
 November, 18 
 
 What is it ails me now? I hardly have written a 
 
 line 
 For days and weeks and months in this private 
 
 record of mine. 
 I seemed to have nothing to say, and I did not 
 
 seem to care, 
 And the days have gone wearily by, though there 
 
 was not a cloud in the air. 
 I think that my love is more, yet life is little and 
 
 low, 
 And surely a fulness of life from a fulness of love 
 
 should grow, 
 For love is summer, when all should be a-blooming 
 
 and singing; 
 Yet none of the old things now the old sweet 
 
 bliss are bringing. 
 
 I go a-dr earning and weary, every day and all; 
 Something is aching within me, I fret at the simplest 
 
 call 
 Of common-place duty that once I went about 
 
 cheerful and gay, 
 Tripping and singing, light-hearted, all through the 
 
 hours of the day. 
 
72 HILDA, 
 
 But everything burdens me now; and I could cry 
 
 at a kiss 
 From the dear lips that I love so : What is the 
 
 meaning of this? 
 I am not unhappy; at least, I have nothing to 
 
 make me : and yet 
 My gladness is broken and dashed, and comes by 
 
 the mood and the fit : 
 I weep when I'm left alone ; and when he comes 
 
 home, there are tears 
 That mix with the smile of my greeting, and fill 
 
 him with fond, loving fears. 
 I want to be cheerful and happy, I want to be 
 
 busy and good, 
 Yet I lounge through the day, doing nothing, and 
 
 plain like the dove in the wood. 
 What can it be ? And my ring, too, will slip to my 
 
 finger tip, 
 And it gives me a catch in the throat, and a pain, 
 
 and a quivering lip : 
 I know it is silly, and yet I cannot get rid of the 
 
 fear 
 That his love may grow loose as my ring, and be 
 
 lost while I think it is here. 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 73 
 
 November, 18 
 
 I wonder if every student sits brooding far into the 
 night, 
 
 And hides from the wife of his bosom the thing he 
 is fain to write. 
 
 Can it be right to conceal the work he is labour- 
 ing at ? 
 
 I want to sit up beside him, but he will not listen 
 to that; 
 
 Yet rest I cannot; I lie there, sleepless, and feign- 
 ing to sleep, 
 
 When, in the hush of the darkness, soft to my side 
 he will creep, 
 
 Fearing to rouse me lying, broad-awake, all through 
 the hours, 
 
 Watching the moonbeams flitting, or hearing the 
 patter of showers, 
 
 The grey owl screech to the b'at, or the moan 
 of the throbbing sea, 
 
 Or puzzling over the house-books, which will not 
 come right with me. 
 
 We are not rich, and, maybe, I do not keep house 
 as I might, 
 
 Though I want to be thrifty, and debt is a thing 
 that I hate outright; 
 
74 HILDA, 
 
 Still there is waste, no doubt, and he has a right 
 
 to complain, 
 And maids are so careless, and break things that 
 
 cannot be mended again ; 
 And will have their young men coming : and how 
 
 can I say them nay, 
 
 When I recall how I longed to see him at evening grey? 
 I scrimp and save, and, at times, I am almost weary 
 
 of life i 
 It would have been better for him had he married 
 
 a managing wife. 
 Yet all' my cares were as nothing if only my husband 
 
 were right, 
 If he were not so silent by day, if he were not 
 
 so dreamy at night, 
 If he cared for things in the house as he cared for 
 
 them once on a time, 
 If he sat by my side in the evenings, and made 
 
 my life sweet and sublime, 
 If he did not joke at my questions a wife is 
 
 not meant for sport, 
 
 Always put off with a jest ; and jesting is not his forte. 
 Yet O he loves me, he loves ; and I hate myself 
 
 when I complain, 
 
 Only the hunger of love ever breeds the dream- 
 vision of pain. 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 
 
 75 
 
 What is he always writing ? Sometimes I tremble 
 
 to think, 
 
 What, if it be of Religion ? what, if he be on the brink 
 Of falling away from the Faith, and the way which 
 
 his fathers trod, 
 And, as the minister told us, out of the hand of 
 
 God? 
 Rarely he goes to Church, though he tells me I 
 
 ought to go, 
 When the kirk-bells on the Sabbath are chiming 
 
 soft and low; 
 u You have your window," he says, " for outlook 
 
 on all the vast, 
 Dim, everlasting hills, and the shadows on earth 
 
 they cast, 
 The old church-window that shines with white-winged 
 
 angel forms, 
 And martyred saints they are bearing from earth's 
 
 most bitter storms; 
 And life would be dark to you, dear, lacking the 
 
 light that it brings, 
 Even though the cobwebs dim the aureoles now, and 
 
 the wings. 
 
 I have my outlook too, but not so pretty as yours 
 With dreams of the saintly souls, and the love that 
 
 all endures ; 
 
7 6 HILDA, 
 
 Colder my light and harder, but clearer, at least, 
 
 to me, 
 For cobwebbed angels somehow help not rny vision 
 
 to see. 
 But to the same Eternal, we look for the breaking 
 
 day, 
 Of an age that is surely coming, when shadows 
 
 shall flee away." 
 I am troubled at sayings like these, though I 
 
 hardly know what they mean, 
 And I pray that he yet may see the truth which my 
 
 heart has seen. 
 For O he loves me, loves me, ever so tender and 
 
 true ! 
 And yet if he loves not God, O what shall my 
 
 poor heart do ? 
 
 December, 18 
 Last night we went to Thorshaven ; the things that 
 
 I heard and saw 
 Of the " work " now going on there have filled me 
 
 with wonder and awe. 
 I had been told of their meetings, and how they 
 
 rarely would cease 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 77 
 
 Till many were conscience-stricken, and many were 
 
 filled with peace ; 
 How the whole village was changed its drunkards 
 
 sober and calm, 
 Lips that were wont to blaspheme now thrilling the 
 
 air with a psalm ; 
 Boats were launched with a prayer, and the oars 
 
 were timed to a hymn ; 
 And when the lines were set, or the ropes and 
 
 the sails were trim, 
 Some one took up the tale of the fishers on 
 
 Galilee, 
 And told how the Lord drew nigh to them, walking 
 
 over the sea. 
 These were the marvels I heard, and O my heart 
 
 longed to be there 
 Where the good Spirit was working, and grace was 
 
 like dew in the air 
 Dropping on thirsty grass, and making it live 
 
 anew. 
 Maybe my husband, beholding, would see that the 
 
 Gospel was true; 
 Maybe his soul would be touched ; and maybe my 
 
 own dull faith 
 Would be refreshed and revived, for it seemed at 
 
 the point of death. 
 
78 HILDA, 
 
 The night was starry and cold, but just a night for 
 
 a walk, 
 Brisk, in the tingling air ; and at first I was fain 
 
 to talk, 
 His coming had made me so glad then, only my 
 
 thoughts would not rest, 
 Flitting about like the swallows that twitter around 
 
 their nest, 
 And then skim away to the river, and dip where 
 
 the shadows lie 
 Clear in the glassy calm, which they flick with their 
 
 wings as they fly ; 
 So would I chatter a little ; but by-and-by thought 
 
 was away 
 To the village perched on the cliff, and the people 
 
 there gathered to pray, 
 So -that in silence at length, arm in arm, swiftly we 
 
 sped 
 On by the beetling crags, till we came to a low 
 
 rude shed 
 Roofed with the upturned hull of a wreck that had 
 
 drifted ashore, 
 Battered by surf on the shingle there for a month 
 
 and more ; 
 Gallantly once she had ridden the waves, and the 
 
 tempest braved 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 
 
 79 
 
 And true hearts then had been lost in her ; now in 
 
 her wreck they were saved. 
 Crowds were thronging about it; there was a crowd 
 
 inside 
 Singing a hymn that blended well with the wash 
 
 of the tide 
 A wail of sorrow for sin, that sw r elled to a yearning 
 
 hope; 
 Then I heard some one praying, but caught not 
 
 the words nor the scope, 
 For many were sobbing aloud ; we squeezed a little 
 
 way in, 
 
 Under a guttering candle stuck in a sconce of tin, 
 The flame blown about by the wind, and shedding 
 
 uncertain light 
 Down on rough weather-beat faces. Clear and cold 
 
 was the night ; 
 Outside, the passionless moon and the quiet stars; 
 
 but here, 
 O what a tempest of trouble and sorrow, and anguish 
 
 and fear ! 
 O what a peace, at last, that folded its wings on 
 
 a calm 
 Throng of spirits entranced, and singing a grateful 
 
 psalm ! 
 
80 HILDA, 
 
 He was a keen-eyed, wiry, beetle-browed man who 
 
 spoke, 
 The pale-faced smith of our village ; and simply he 
 
 pled with the folk, 
 His voice half saying half singing the faithful message 
 
 he bore, 
 
 Weirdly and hoarse, like the waves that were crash- 
 ing down on the shore. 
 It was not aught that he said he was just a plain, 
 
 blunt man, 
 Earnest, I thought, and acquainted with God and 
 
 the wonderful Plan 
 Saving by surety of Him who hung for our sins 
 
 on the cross, 
 And tasted of death for our guilt, that we might 
 
 have gain in His loss 
 A plain, blunt man, not a scholar ; sometimes his 
 
 sayings were odd, 
 Nor could I help a smile, though he spake of the 
 
 great thoughts of God ; 
 But of the fisher-folk no one smiled, let him say 
 
 what he would; 
 It was not a season for laughter, nor were they at 
 
 all in the mood. 
 
 " The strength of sin is the law," he said ; " it is 
 like the tree 
 
SAINT-WIPE. 8r 
 
 Serpents take for a purchase in lands where the 
 serpents be ; 
 
 Clean and straight is its trunk, as the law too is 
 right in its scope, 
 
 Slippery the coils and the folds round its bark that 
 are twined like a rope, 
 
 Crushing each bone of its victim, and grinding the 
 life out, within ; 
 
 So is the purchase of Law, for breaking the soul 
 by its sin : 
 
 O how feeble and helpless we are in its terrible 
 grip! 
 
 For the law cannot be broken, and these knots 
 never will slip ! 
 
 Coming along the street, I saw the old serpent to- 
 night, 
 
 Plainly as eyes could behold him and O 'twas a 
 sorrowful sight ! 
 
 Coiling round old men and children, as in a statue 
 I know, 
 
 Carved with his cunningest art by a wise Greek ages 
 ago, 
 
 But there to save his children the Father was wrest- 
 ling grim, 
 
 Here, with shouting and singing, they were all wor- 
 shipping him. 
 
82 HILDA, 
 
 Yes, I have seen the old serpent, the Devil, the 
 
 father of lies ; 
 And he had not a hoof or a horn, or a tail to 
 
 whisk at the flies ; 
 Old men were buying his curses, children were 
 
 taking his fire 
 Home to their mothers in bottles, as briskly as hell 
 
 could desire. 
 Busy he is at Thorshaven, sails in your luggers with 
 
 you, 
 Never a boat goes to sea but the devil is one of 
 
 the crew; 
 You carry him too in your creels, and he is 
 
 defiling your way, 
 With swearing and lying and cheating, and breaking 
 
 the Sabbath day, 
 And sins that I will not speak of, sins that all of 
 
 you know. 
 But O the blood of the Lamb it will wash you 
 
 whiter than snow." 
 Always he came back to that, the blood that was 
 
 shed for sin, 
 Cleansing our way on the earth, and purging the 
 
 soul within; 
 He shewed to me all my guilt, he shewed me the 
 
 love of God 
 

 SAINT- WIFE. 83 
 
 Until I wept at the plague of my heart, and the 
 
 way I had trod, 
 And the pity that sought me out, and the grace 
 
 that died for me. 
 And all were sobbing and swaying about like the 
 
 waves of the sea. 
 Then one dropped on the floor, and writhed in a 
 
 foaming fit; 
 " Glory to God," cried the preacher, " He'll snaffle 
 
 the fiend with his bit ; 
 Let her alone ; while the devil is wrestling with her, 
 
 we will pray; 
 Peace will come like the stars, and light as the 
 
 dawn of the day." 
 Then another was smitten, and lay there with 
 
 never a breath 
 In her thin nostril, it seemed, and pallid and cold 
 
 as death; 
 I thought she was gone, till at length a smile of 
 
 serenest grace 
 Broke on her lips, and beamed all over her lovely 
 
 face. 
 She was the first to find Peace, and she said, "1 
 
 have seen my love; 
 He's not in the depths of the ocean, but high 
 
 in the heavens above ; 
 
84 HILDA, 
 
 His head is not twined round with tangles, but 
 
 wreathed with a wreath of palm, 
 And lo ! in his hand is a harp, and loud in his 
 
 mouth is a psalm." 
 (Her lover was drowned last spring, and his body 
 
 had never been found, 
 Till she saw him in faith, in her trance there, robed 
 
 in white raiment and crowned.) 
 Thus it went on for hours, at first with the women, 
 
 but then, 
 Ere long, the power and the wonder smote the 
 
 strong hearts of the men ; 
 Awed and amazed I stood, unable to stir from 
 
 the place, 
 Sometimes thinking my heart might be touched by 
 
 its marvellous grace, 
 
 Sometimes feeling my flesh creep at an unearthly voice, 
 Sometimes thrilling to hear their songs who for joy 
 
 did rejoice. 
 At length there fell a great calm, and the lights 
 
 were glimmering dim, 
 And the moon was low in the heaven, when we 
 
 sang the parting hymn. 
 
 On the way homeward I said, " Surely the Lord was 
 there ; " 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 85 
 
 And he, "No doubt, and up in yon star too, and 
 
 everywhere ; 
 Hard to say where He is not. Wonderful? Yes, 
 
 I admit; 
 Hard to say what is not wonderful, when you look 
 
 closely at it; 
 Why, I have wondered for hours at a flower, or a 
 
 lichened stone, 
 Or star-moss red on the heath, or a star-fish dry 
 
 as a bone 
 On the grey shore, till the tide-wave brought back 
 
 the pulses of life. 
 But does not yon queer evangelist tell a good story, 
 
 dear wife? 
 Done them some good, you think ? Ah ! Well we 
 
 will hope so at least; 
 God is a chemist who works with stuff that would 
 
 sicken a priest. 
 I think it did good to that girl whose lover was 
 
 drowned at sea, 
 Gave her some comfort she wished; but it would 
 
 not do good to me ! " 
 Thus I come home heavy-hearted; he always is 
 
 ready to mock, 
 
 Turning from anything serious, still with a good- 
 humoured joke. 
 
86 HILDA, 
 
 December 18 
 
 Now I know why he sits so late and alone in 
 
 his room, 
 And why there comes over his face that shadow I 
 
 took for gloom, 
 Which falls like a sudden haze all over the summer 
 
 sky, 
 
 And makes him look stony and cold, with a dream- 
 like fixed eye, 
 
 Seeing not what we see, for the outer vision is dim, 
 As he looks on a world unseen, and hears it 
 
 singing to him. 
 Often it filled me with fear, for I thought he was 
 
 wroth with me ; 
 But he is not angry at all only trying, he says, 
 
 to see 
 Thoughts that are hard to get at, and hardly worth 
 
 getting when done ; 
 But the fool's habit of dreaming he learnt when 
 
 living alone ; 
 I must not fancy he sulks ; he was only a bit of a 
 
 poet 
 Dram-drinking verses in secret, and hoping that no 
 
 one would know it. 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 87 
 
 So then he brought me some poems, writ for our 
 
 marriage-day, 
 " Orange-blossoms " he calls' them, " A wreath for a 
 
 wedding gay." 
 I do not know that I care for poems though 
 
 hymns are sweet 
 I do not want to be talked of, or sung some day 
 
 in the street, 
 And at the time I was plagued with these horrible 
 
 tradesmen's books, 
 And maybe my words were dry, and listless also 
 
 my looks. 
 They are nice enough verses, I fancy but O those 
 
 dreadful bills ! 
 And he just laughs at my trouble, and calls it the 
 
 care that kills 
 A faithless terror of bakers and butchers and 
 
 Philistines, 
 Unworthy a true believer in orthodox, sound divines. 
 
 Well, they are pretty verses, and so I will write 
 
 them here 
 But how can he pen such trifles with that shadow 
 
 of debt so near? 
 
88 HILDA, 
 
 ORANGE-BLOSSOMS. 
 
 BUDDING. 
 
 It was the gloaming of the day, 
 
 And first pale glimmer of the moon, 
 The fishing-boats were in the bay, 
 And to and fro they seemed to sway, 
 Rhythmic, to a mystic tune, 
 In the pale glimmer of the moon. 
 
 We sat us on a thymy bank, 
 
 Where sea-pink and the wild-rose grew, 
 And blue campanulas were rank, 
 And wild geranium blossoms drank 
 Red sunsets that enriched their hue, 
 And pansies twinkled, gold and blue. 
 
 And fronting us the broad sea-sand 
 
 Spread, ribbed and freckled, to the spray 
 Crisp-curving to the curving land, 
 And plashing on the pebbly strand; 
 Beyond, the vague, vast waters lay 
 Lazily heaving in the bay. 
 
SAINT- WIPE. 89 
 
 Three children played along the beach 
 With laughter, as the small waves broke ; 
 
 I heard their laughter and their speech 
 
 Rippling along the sandy beach, 
 
 Though fear and trouble in me woke 
 Like the waves surging as they broke. 
 
 I told my love, and for a space 
 She gazed out far away from me. 
 
 throbbing heart, how still the place ! 
 Was that a smile that lit her face? 
 
 Or but the moon drawn from the sea 
 To kiss the lips that can bless me? 
 
 1 told the love you knew before ; 
 You said, I did not need to tell, 
 
 And that you would not answer more, 
 
 For that I also knew before 
 
 The secret of your heart so well 
 
 It did not need that you should tell. 
 
 BLOOMING. 
 
 O bleak November morning chill, 
 
 When trees are bare, and haws are ripe ! 
 
90 HILDA, 
 
 Hopping upon my window sill 
 
 I heard the cheery redbreast pipe \ 
 And through the crackling twigs there ran 
 A twitter of birds since day began. 
 
 With great frost-ferns the panes were white. 
 
 The fields were white with dusty snow, 
 The trees, all crystalled overnight, 
 
 In white robes made a ghostly show, 
 And where the fountain used to drip 
 The ice had clutched it in its grip. 
 
 Chanticleer at barn-door crew, 
 
 Geese were gobbling 'mong the stubble, 
 My dog in circles round me flew, 
 
 Barking loud at its shadow-double, 
 And ploughed the crisp frost with his nose 
 Right where the cluttering partridge rose. 
 
 Crowding close, the dainty sheep 
 Nibbled by the bridled brook, 
 
 The hare pricked up her ears to leap 
 Behind the ricks to a quiet nook ; 
 
 Knee-deep in straw the black ox lowed, 
 
 His every breath like a steaming cloud. 
 

 SAINT-WIFE. 
 
 Jenny, looking tossed and tumbled, 
 Stept out with her milking-pails ; 
 
 Yawning Robin crept and grumbled, 
 Blowing on his finger-nails, 
 
 Tingling fingers, purple-tipped, 
 
 Sharply by the frost-wind nipped. 
 
 But I laughed at ice and snow, 
 Shouting to the shrill north-wind ; 
 
 She is mine, I said, and no 
 Winter in the world I find ; 
 
 Love, my life is filled with thee, 
 
 And all is summer now with me. 
 
 BURSTING. 
 
 O pathway through the meadow green, 
 And thou, grey style, beneath the thorn, 
 And murmurous river softly borne 
 
 In dimpling ripplets hardly seen, 
 
 Sweet path by happy footsteps worn, 
 If all our visions linger there, 
 The poet now shall find thine air, 
 
 More fancy-full than early morn. 
 
92 HILDA, 
 
 We wandered in a dreamland fair, 
 Beside the huge, coiled willow trees, 
 Discoursing of a life to please 
 
 The man who took our grief and care. 
 
 Not ours the dull, ignoble ease 
 
 Of cushioned seats, or routs and balls, 
 Brain-dulling dinners, civil calls, 
 
 And poor respectabilities ; 
 
 Not ours to care for marble halls ; 
 A modest home, and frugal fare, 
 With love for cobwebbed wines and rare, 
 
 And peace for pictures on the walls 
 
 For more than these we would not care : 
 But generous culture should be ours, 
 And pious use of all our powers, 
 
 And knowledge, as the primal pair 
 
 Knew all the beasts and birds and flowers ; 
 And with our best we'd serve the Best, 
 And in His goodness find our rest, 
 
 Untroubled through the years and hours. 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 
 
 93 
 
 April, 1 8 
 
 These were the first of the poems he read to me 
 
 up in my room ; 
 By and by others came too like the coming of 
 
 spring with its bloom ; 
 And we are rich now and happy, and everything 
 
 goes quite smooth ; 
 All the newspapers praise him, but do not say 
 
 half of the truth : 
 I keep them all in a book, and read them often 
 
 alone. 
 They make me angry at times, when they speak 
 
 in a critical tone, 
 
 But I am happy and proud, for now I am no- 
 body's debtor, 
 Paying odd things with a verse which he writes me 
 
 as fast as a letter. 
 He laughs at me, vowing that poets should never 
 
 pay bills, but draw 
 At large on the shopkeeping world, exempt from 
 
 all action at law; 
 Honouring bakers and butchers enough by eating 
 
 their things; 
 For angels pay not a jot for repairing the plumes 
 
 of their wings, 
 
94 HILDA, 
 
 And bees are not charged by the flowers they visit 
 
 for tapping the honey 
 I am not quite sure what he means, but I know he 
 
 is loose about money. 
 
 May, 1 8 
 
 Sick ! I am sure death is coming : I never have felt 
 
 like this; 
 Such giddy sinkings and swimmings, and fainting 
 
 away into bliss ! 
 Life in the swooning of life, as if the soul fluttered 
 
 within, 
 Panting, exhausted, in hope to escape from the 
 
 body of sin ! 
 Heart, O my heart so unquiet, why wilt thou not 
 
 be at rest? 
 Clinging to this life of trouble, shrinking from life 
 
 of the blest ! 
 Better to be with Jesus ! yet husband and home too 
 
 are dear; 
 And O if my love be a sin, I cannot help sinning, 
 
 I fear. 
 All other idols are broken, this one I never can 
 
 break. 
 Could I be shut out of heaven because of the heaven 
 
 that I make 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 
 
 95 
 
 Out of my true love to him, and out of his great 
 
 love to me, 
 Arching as deep blue sky still over a deep blue sea ? 
 
 If this be death, as I take it, one thing fain would 
 
 I do, 
 Ere I go hence to the world where all things are 
 
 made new : 
 
 Again with my husband I'd walk, on the quiet Sab- 
 bath day, 
 When bells from the old kirk chiming call Christian 
 
 souls to pray, 
 Down by the green footpath, and the sweet-briar 
 
 hedge that leads 
 Straight to the house of the Lord through the 
 
 clover-scented meads; 
 Under the high arched roof there meekly to sit by 
 
 his side, 
 In love to remember the Love that bled for us 
 
 once, and died. 
 O it were good to think, if I should be taken 
 
 from him, 
 That once we sat there together, where falls the 
 
 light chastened and dim, 
 Through the tall thin-shafted windows, on hallowed 
 
 bread and wine, 
 
96 HILDA, 
 
 And vows that we vowed together, of life for the 
 love divine. 
 
 I cannot die till we do it : God would not call me 
 hence, 
 
 A broken life and unfinished, with a fruitless in- 
 fluence. 
 
 June, 1 8 
 
 Ah me ! we plot and plan, but the great God 
 
 orders all; 
 And that is not good to Him, which good we are 
 
 fain to call. 
 O how I longed and hoped for the high communion 
 
 day ! 
 O how my heart leaped up when he did not say 
 
 me nay ! 
 O how I prayed, and was glad and tremulous through 
 
 the Fast! 
 O how happy I was, with my hand on his arm, at 
 
 last, 
 
 Gravely pacing together, down by the broomy brae, 
 Along by the sweet-briar hedge, and the clover- 
 scented way, 
 All the maids robed in white, and the men in 
 
 their sober black, 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 97 
 
 Sweet birds a-singing, and sweet bells ringing ; 
 
 and Paradise back ! 
 
 Better I never had spoken ; better he had not gone ! 
 Better a yearning sorrow than a heart that is turned 
 
 to stone ! 
 
 What had come over our Pastor, he so gentle and 
 
 mild, 
 Leading his flock on the way as a father leadeth 
 
 his child, 
 That day of all days, to preach terrors of wrath 
 
 and hell, 
 Darkening God's house with smoke of those in the 
 
 pit that dwell? 
 
 it was dreadful to listen ! The very Psalms that 
 
 he chose 
 Rung in the ear like curses hurled at the heads 
 
 of foes; 
 The prayers were dry and dewless, and hard ; 
 
 and my heart grew sick, 
 To glance at my husband's face with its curious 
 
 laughing trick: 
 
 1 knew, in that furtive glance, that my hope was 
 
 worse than lost, 
 And that, in my effort to save, I had perilled and 
 
 harmed him most. 
 
 G 
 
98 HILDA, 
 
 Pained there we sat in our pews, the victims of one 
 
 man's mood, 
 And vainly tried to be patient ; and vainly tried to 
 
 be good ; 
 E'en the sweet symbols of sorrow and love of the 
 
 Crucified 
 Failed to lighten the gloom, for he took not his 
 
 place by my side. 
 Never I sat at the Table so barren of grace as 
 
 then, 
 Joyless and undevout, and wroth at the thoughts of 
 
 men. 
 I had brought to the living water a. thirsting soul 
 
 with care, 
 And there was no living water, but a broken cistern 
 
 there. 
 
 When we came home he sat alone in his room for 
 
 a while ; 
 But all that night he was gentle ; and said, at last, 
 
 with a smile ; 
 " You want to know what I think of our minister's 
 
 work to-day ; 
 But shrink to ask me outright, for the wild words 
 
 you fear I may say. 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 
 
 99 
 
 Why should you dread me, Hilda? You wished 
 
 to do me some good ; 
 
 So did the Parson, no doubt, if he only had under- 
 stood 
 
 The right way of going about it He made a mis- 
 take; that is all; 
 Hell is the weak point, you see, and a cleverer 
 
 general 
 Were fain to conceal the spot where the foe might 
 
 thrust him sore ; 
 But he is honest, and plays his tune by the regular 
 
 score. 
 You are vexed that I happened to hear only that 
 
 loud Devil's chorus 
 Very well done by the way which brought all the 
 
 horror before us, 
 When you had hoped to have only the lyric of love 
 
 and endurance, 
 Swelling out high, at the close, to the joy and the 
 
 hope and assurance. 
 But it is all of a piece, love, whether you like it 
 
 or no, 
 All of it close-knit together; branched, but the 
 
 branches grow 
 Out of the same deep root. I heard but the part 
 
 of a whole ; 
 
100 HILDA, 
 
 I know that the chorus needed the lyric to melt 
 
 the soul, 
 The lyric implies, too, the chorus; whichever you 
 
 chance to hear, 
 
 Always the other is present to fill the heart or the ear. 
 I am not an unbeliever, love; only I cannot wink 
 At things I had rather not see, and thoughts I 
 
 had rather not think; 
 Does it not seem, too, an odd way of quickening 
 
 love and faith, 
 Picturing wrath that refuses e'en the grim mercy 
 
 of death? 
 The higher my vision of God, the more I can 
 
 trust and pray; 
 The better I seem to know him, the broader appears 
 
 the way; 
 
 God and charity grow together; and I cannot see 
 Any dark moment of Time when Hope must cease 
 
 to be. 
 But will you hear what I thought, as that sermon 
 
 thundered on 
 With lurid flashes of horror, and God's heart turned 
 
 to stone? 
 
 So then he read to me this" Other-world ballad " he 
 calls it 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 10 1 
 
 Of the meek soul that for love heeds not what 
 
 sorrow befalls it, 
 Heeds not the bliss and the glory, but longs for 
 
 them that are lying 
 Dim in the outer darkness, tossed in the anguish 
 
 undying. 
 What can I think of it? what? who will guide me 
 
 aright 
 
 Me, a weak woman to walk on in the true path- 
 way of Light? 
 Sometimes it rings in my ear as deadly as error could 
 
 be; 
 Sometimes I feel in my heart it is true as the 
 
 gospel to me, 
 A thing I would do, myself, just then when my 
 
 Faith is most, 
 As I remember the love that suffered to save 
 
 the lost. 
 But through the years and the ages, the Church, 
 
 unchanging, cries, 
 
 Sad are the foolish virgins, and glad for ever the wise. 
 Dare I trust my heart's voice against the voice 
 
 of the whole? 
 Yet should the roar of the crowd ever drown the 
 
 true voice of the soul ? 
 O, if clear it were only ! 
 
102 HILDA, 
 
 THE SELF-EXILED. 
 
 There came a soul to the gate of Heaven 
 
 Gliding slow 
 A soul that was ransomed and forgiven, 
 
 And white as snow : 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 A mystic light beamed from the face 
 
 Of the radiant maid : 
 But there also lay on its tender grace 
 
 A mystic shade : 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 As sunlit clouds by a zephyr borne 
 
 Seem not to stir, 
 So to the golden gates of morn 
 
 They carried her : 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "Now open the gate, and let her in, 
 
 And fling it wide, 
 For she has been cleaned from stain of sin," 
 
 St. Peter cried: 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
103 
 
 SAINT-WIFE. 
 
 " Though I am cleansed from stain of sin/' 
 
 She answered low, 
 "I came not hither to enter in, 
 
 Nor may I go :" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "I come," she said, "to the pearly door, 
 
 To see the Throne 
 Where sits the Lamb on the Sapphire Floor, 
 
 With God alone :" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "I come to hear the new song they sing 
 
 To Him that died, 
 And note where the healing waters spring 
 
 From His pierced side ;" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "But I may not enter there," she said, 
 
 "For I must go 
 Across the gulf where the guilty dead 
 
 Lie in their woe :" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
io 4 HILDA, 
 
 " If I enter heaven I may not pass 
 
 To where they be, 
 Though the wail of their bitter pain, alas ! 
 
 Tormenteth me :" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "If I enter heaven I may not speak 
 
 My soul's desire 
 For them that are lying distraught and weak 
 
 In flaming fire;" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "I had a brother, and also another 
 
 Whom I loved well; 
 What if, in anguish, they curse each other 
 
 In depths of hell?" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "How could I touch the golden harps, 
 
 When all my praise 
 Would be so wrought with grief-full warps 
 
 Of their sad days?" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 105 
 
 "How love the loved who are sorrowing, 
 
 And yet be glad ? 
 How sing the songs ye are fain to sing, 
 
 While I am sad?" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 " O clear as glass is the golden street 
 
 Of the city fair, 
 And the tree of life it maketh sweet 
 
 The lightsome air:" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "And the white-robed saints with their crowns 
 and palms 
 
 Are good to see, 
 And O so grand are the sounding psalms ! 
 
 But not for me:" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "I come where there is no night," she said, 
 
 "To go away, 
 And help, if I yet may help, the dead 
 
 That have no day." 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
io6 HILDA, 
 
 St. Peter he turned the keys about, 
 
 And answered grim ; 
 "Can you love the Lord, and abide without, 
 
 Afar from Him ?" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "Can you love the Lord who died for you, 
 
 And leave the place 
 Where His glory is all disclosed to view, 
 
 And tender grace?" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "'They go not out who come in here; 
 
 It were not meet : 
 Nothing they lack, for He is here, 
 
 And bliss complete." 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "Should I be nearer Christ," she said, 
 
 "By pitying less 
 The sinful living, or woeful dead 
 
 In their helplessness?" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 107 
 
 "Should I be liker Christ were I 
 
 To love no more 
 The loved, who in their anguish lie 
 
 Outside the door?" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "Did He not hang on the cursed tree, 
 
 And bear its shame, 
 And clasp to His heart, for love of me, 
 
 My guilt and blame?" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "Should I be liker, nearer Him, 
 
 Forgetting this, 
 Singing all day with the Seraphim, 
 
 In selfish bliss?" 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 The Lord Himself stood by the gate, 
 
 And heard her speak 
 Those tender words compassionate, 
 
 Gentle and meek : 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
io8 HILDA, 
 
 Now, pity is the touch of God 
 
 In human hearts, 
 And from that way He ever trod 
 
 He ne'er departs : 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 And He said, " Now will I go with you, 
 
 Dear child of love, 
 I am weary of all this glory, too, 
 
 In heaven above : " 
 And the angels all were silent. 
 
 "We will go seek and save the lost, 
 
 If they will hear, 
 They who are worst but need me most, 
 
 And all are dear :" 
 And the angels were not' silent. 
 
 July, 18- 
 
 O my baby, my baby ! O sweet sunbeam of bliss ! 
 
 Brightening my earth for a moment as with a heaven- 
 sealing kiss : 
 
 O the sweet smile on his lips ! it haunts me by 
 night and by day ! 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 
 
 109 
 
 All his brief life was a smile that slowly faded 
 
 away, 
 As if he had just looked in on us here, on his 
 
 heavenward road, 
 And saw that we were not meet to rear up the 
 
 child of God. 
 Sometimes I try to think, O what a joy to have 
 
 given 
 Child of mine to the host that serve and praise in 
 
 heaven ! 
 He did not need to be christened, his robes were 
 
 clean and white, 
 Touching the earth but a moment, he passed to 
 
 the realm of light. 
 Sometimes I shudder to think of the earth and the 
 
 little grave 
 Under the great church tower where the budding 
 
 poplars wave. 
 
 my baby, my baby! whether in heaven or there, 
 Why am I here, and my baby left with no mother's 
 
 care? 
 
 1 thought I was dying at one time would I were 
 
 dying to-day; 
 O my baby, how could the Father take thee away ? 
 
HO HILDA, 
 
 August, 1 8 
 
 Winnie has come : my husband thought it might 
 
 cheer me a bit, 
 Having an old friend near me, clever and sparkling 
 
 with wit, 
 Sharing old memories with me, and full of the gossip 
 
 of town 
 The last new book or picture, or fashion of 
 
 bonnet or gown. 
 And she was nice, at first, with her chatter about 
 
 the old times, 
 When we were schoolmates, and sauntered under 
 
 the oaks and limes, 
 And heard the hum of the bees, and the hum of 
 
 our future in them, 
 Or watched the swift, brown squirrels climbing the 
 
 grey beech-stem ; 
 Bright little pictures she cut me out of the old 
 
 school-world 
 All about how we were dressed, and drilled, and 
 
 scolded, and curled, 
 And lectured; and then she knows where all the 
 
 girls have gone 
 "This with her husband to India, that to New 
 
 Zealand alone, 
 
SAINT-WIFE. m 
 
 "Trusting to pick up a husband somewhere away in 
 
 the bush, 
 " Or, maybe, to set up a school, or to open a shop at 
 
 a push. 
 
 " May Grant, the wildest of us, has married a low- 
 church vicar, 
 "Who holds by the orthodox faith, and port as 
 
 the orthodox liquor; 
 " While Helen, her sister, is all for chasubles, roods, 
 
 and stoles, 
 " Liftings and bowings, and Catholic manner of 
 
 saving souls ; 
 
 " Elphie Deering has sold herself to a widower, 
 " And drives in her carriage past his son who had 
 
 courted her; 
 " Others are strumming pianos, or working in Berlin 
 
 wools 
 " Pictures of foolish youths for catching the youthful 
 
 fools ; 
 
 " Lizzie Morrit is dead she was jilted by a dragoon, 
 " When all her fortune appeared to be railway shares 
 
 in the moon." 
 Winnie is clever, but sharp and sarcastic ; and lays 
 
 herself out 
 To please the men by her wit, which she scatters 
 
 like sparks about ; 
 
H2 HILDA, 
 
 No matter who may smart, if only herself may 
 
 shine 
 With her spirits unflagging, that sparkle and gleam 
 
 like wine. 
 I do not quite like her way with my husband ; but 
 
 all the same 
 I laugh, and she does me good, and I really 
 
 am glad that she came. 
 
 September, 18 
 
 Surely Winnie is changed ; we ne'er had been friends 
 
 together, 
 Had she always been ready to sting like a wasp in 
 
 October weather. 
 I think there is hardly a name she has not some 
 
 story about 
 Of all that we knew long ago a story suggesting 
 
 a doubt. 
 Each face that I used to remember as beaming 
 
 with kindly light, 
 Is smirched with something or other, and no one 
 
 escapes her spite. 
 Sneering with scornful laughter, turn wherever she 
 
 may, 
 All the glory is dimmed of all that come in her way ; 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 113 
 
 She creeps on the noblest natures stealthily as a cat, 
 Now with a bite of venom, and now with a wanton 
 
 pat, 
 Leaving them not till crushed. And one thing I 
 
 cannot abide, 
 The way that she flatters my husband even when 
 
 I am beside, 
 Now flopping down on her knees, and staring up 
 
 in his face, 
 Clasping her hands, and feigning an ecstacy quite 
 
 out of place ; 
 Pumping up tears at his pathos, or sighing with 
 
 heaving breast, 
 Or giggling and clapping her hands when his humour 
 
 is wickedest. 
 He is weak enough to believe her, which makes 
 
 me colder in praise, 
 
 And I care for poetry less than I ever did all my days. 
 She flatters him daily with words that are silky and 
 
 soft and sleek, 
 And no true wife can be pleased when seeing her 
 
 husband weak. 
 
 J Tis growing quite dreadful to hear her, now and 
 
 then, when she speaks 
 Jauntily of a Faith that needs no God, nor seeks 
 
H 4 HILDA, 
 
 To trace His work on the earth, or follow His way 
 
 on high, 
 
 Noting His glorious footprints clear in the starry sky ; 
 For Nature has in herself the reason for all that is, 
 And God is an unscientific, needless hypothesis, 
 Like witches, ghosts, and miracles dreams of the 
 
 slumbrous night 
 Which the great dawn of reason has driven away 
 
 with its light ! 
 
 Thereto my husband made answer and O I was 
 
 proud and glad ; 
 " Look you, Miss Winnie,'' he said, " it's your 
 
 method of science that's bad; 
 Good for its own end, of course ; but here it is 
 
 clearly at fault ; 
 God is not found by the tests that detect you an 
 
 acid or salt. 
 While you search only for secrets that process of 
 
 science sets free, 
 Nothing you'll find in the world, but matter to 
 
 handle or see. 
 Here is a book I am reading now ; what can your 
 
 method find there? 
 Boil it, or burn it, dissect it, let microscope scan 
 
 it with care ; 
 
SAINT-WIFE. i! 5 
 
 What does it show you but paper and ink and 
 
 leather and thread, 
 All made of chemical simples that, no doubt, you 
 
 have in your head? 
 But where is the thought, which is all the end and 
 
 use of the book, 
 And which flows on through its pages clear to my 
 
 mind as a brook 
 Rippling and singing sweet music to him that hath 
 
 ears to hear? 
 Have you an acid will test it? a glass that will 
 
 make it all clear? 
 
 Or scalpel to cut it ? And yet paper and leather and ink 
 All are but trash, if I find not the thought which 
 
 the writer can think. 
 What, now, if Spirit and God are the thought which 
 
 is written out plain 
 On the great page of the world, and your method 
 
 of seeking is vain?" 
 
 October, 18 
 
 I will not bear this any longer. I know that his 
 
 heart is mine; 
 But in my house no girl shall make my life sicken 
 
 and pine 
 
Il6 HILDA, 
 
 When dead which may soon be they may do 
 
 what they list; I shall be 
 With my sweet baby, who now smiles out of the 
 
 darkness on me ; 
 My baby, whose soft little hands pull steadily 
 
 at my heart, 
 To think of the better land, and cleave to the 
 
 better part. 
 But this is my home while I live, and none shall 
 
 bring trouble to it; 
 And he is my own while I live, and she, with 
 
 her saucy wit, 
 Shall not come between him and me. He cares 
 
 not for her in the least; 
 If she respected herself she might see that the 
 
 west and the east 
 Are not more sundered than he from a woman who 
 
 stings and pricks ; 
 He laughs at her sallies of wit, but he sees through 
 
 all of her tricks. 
 I know what is due to a wife; she thinks me a 
 
 poor, silly fool, 
 But I can be dignified too, and I don't mean to 
 
 sit down and pule. 
 Only last evening my ring slipped from my finger, 
 
 and ran 
 
SAINT-WIFE* 117 
 
 Under her chair my finger is thin and wasted and 
 
 wan 
 And picking it up, she put it, before my eyes, on 
 
 her own, 
 Bidding him look how it fitted her, tight to the 
 
 joint and the bone, 
 Just as if meant for her hand. And this was my 
 
 marriage ring ! 
 How can she sit by my fire, and smile in my face 
 
 and sting? 
 O it is dreadful, a woman who has innuendoes 
 
 and arts, 
 And looks so simple and sweet, while she knows she 
 
 is breaking hearts. 
 Yet I heed not her sneering; but O to be once 
 
 more alone, 
 To lay my head on his shoulder, and thrill at 
 
 the old true tone 
 Of love that cherished me once, ever petting his 
 
 fond little wife, 
 And making a nest for me, rounded of all the angles 
 
 of life. 
 
 Not that I care for petting I'm not of the March- 
 blossom kind, 
 
 Best in its velvet-sheath wrapt up from the bluster- 
 ing wind; 
 
Il8 HILDA, 
 
 Rough weather I could bear, if only his heart 
 
 were true 
 Unto the love he once bore me, and unto the 
 
 God he once knew. 
 
 That is what troubles me most. The time was I 
 
 prayed him to read 
 Daily the Book where my soul found help in my 
 
 sorest need, 
 Light when my day was dark, and strength to my 
 
 fainting wiU, 
 Comfort in time of trouble, and healing from 
 
 every ill. 
 Now there is nothing I dread so much as a text 
 
 from him; 
 It is as if all the old stars of heaven were changed 
 
 and dim, 
 Were not in their old places, and had not the 
 
 same clear sense, 
 Nor dropt on my spirit the dews which gave 
 
 it a gladness intense. 
 Changed is the meaning of all, though he keeps to 
 
 the words and names; 
 They are new pictures that look now out of the 
 
 antique frames ; 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 
 
 119 
 
 They are new words that he sings now to the old 
 
 tunes I know; 
 And strange is the taste of the streams now that in 
 
 the old channels flow. 
 " Lo ! as the rod of Aaron," he says, " to minds 
 
 perplexed 
 The critical art brings water e'en out of the flintiest 
 
 text, 
 Clears a way through the desert, and gives to us 
 
 angels' bread, 
 
 And quickens anew to life the Faith that was well- 
 nigh dead." 
 But when I'm fain to learn the faith he is fain to 
 
 boast, 
 O but it seems like another God speaking to men 
 
 not lost; 
 No more the gate is strait, nor heaven is hard 
 
 to win, 
 No more the world is fallen, nor death the wages 
 
 of sin 
 
 No more is there a curse now crucified on the tree 
 No more any Redeemer, nor ransom paid for me. 
 Nothing is as it used to be ; nothing is what it 
 
 seems ; 
 Nothing says what it used to say ; and the old 
 
 Faiths are all dreams ; 
 
120 HILDA, 
 
 Blindly the saints read the Scriptures, and like 
 dotards obeyed them 
 
 They've taken away my Lord, and I know not 
 where they have laid Him. 
 
 Now when I say this to him, he laughs in his good- 
 humoured way, 
 
 Putting me off with a jest, as one with a child might 
 play, 
 
 Which is not fair to his wife, however silly I be, 
 
 And I am not a fool, although I be not so clever as he. 
 
 But Winnie, seeing me vexed thus, silently smiles 
 where she sits, 
 
 Turning her eyebrows up, and sharpening her scorn- 
 ful wits, 
 
 Adding perhaps, by-and-by, "Ye buried your Lord 
 in a creed, 
 
 Dark as the Golgotha tomb, and there He lay dead, 
 indeed ; 
 
 Should you complain that He is not there for you 
 still to embalm 
 
 With unguents and spices, the while ye praise your 
 dead Christ in a psalm? 
 
 If there's a chance for your gospel to live, which I 
 very much doubt, 
 
 It is in this new resurrection the critics would fain 
 bring about, 
 
SAINT- WIFE. 121 
 
 Laying aside the grave-clothes, dogma, miracle, 
 
 myth, 
 All the dust that the ages have covered His glory 
 
 with, 
 That we may look on the simple man as He lived 
 
 and died, 
 Loved and loving and worshipped, and hated and 
 
 crucified." 
 So does she cap his wild words with others more 
 
 wild, and a sneer 
 Hardens her voice as she speaks, and grates on my 
 
 heart while I hear. 
 
 November, 18 
 
 Winnie has left us at length. I had some trouble 
 
 about it ; 
 He laughed at her flattery, vowing he hardly could 
 
 live now without it, 
 Called her a nice little goose, his Caberfae, with 
 
 the head, 
 Brown, of a startled deer just raised from its ferny 
 
 bed; 
 And not a thing would he do, and never a word 
 
 would he say ; 
 It was no business of his ; the girl might go or stay ; 
 
122 HILDA, 
 
 He would have nothing to do with it ; women had 
 
 ways of their own. 
 No man could venture on trying, of letting their 
 
 wishes be known. 
 He trusted I did not think that his heretic heart was 
 
 smit 
 By a girl, because her tongue had a trick of heretical 
 
 wit; 
 Sure, he was sound in heart, whatever his head 
 
 might be ; 
 
 And if not very devout, he was devoted to me; 
 And held to the saying of Paul as the anchor strong 
 
 of his life, 
 That maybe the faithless husband was saved by the 
 
 faith of his wife. 
 That is the way that he speaks now, always with 
 
 some poor jest, 
 Leaving a text in the mouth with a strange and 
 
 a bitter taste. 
 
 So he left me that morning. O how my heart beat wild ! 
 As I went into my room, and prayed to be kept 
 
 meek and mild, 
 Speaking the truth in love ; and I said to myself a 
 
 psalm 
 That nerved my soul to be patient, and dignified 
 
 too and calm. 
 
SAINT-WIFE. 123, 
 
 Hardly I know what followed. I meant to be firm, 
 
 but kind, 
 And for her own sake tell her the thing that was 
 
 in my mind ; 
 But on the hint of it only, Winnie broke out in her 
 
 wrath, 
 Scornful, vowing that I had all along darkened her 
 
 path, 
 Made her life fruitless, and that she laughed at my 
 
 pious advice ; 
 I was but a watery saint, and lapt in a fool's 
 
 Paradise ; 
 And she could shatter my baby-bliss, if she cared to 
 
 do it. 
 O how she pitied my husband ! mated, and now^ 
 
 too, he knew it, 
 Wived by mistake, with one who was wife of his 
 
 weakness only, 
 Hardly a housekeeper even, and leaving his intellect 
 
 lonely, 
 Having no part in his genius, meeting no play of 
 
 his wit, 
 Standing outside of his true life, only a drag upon 
 
 it! 
 Vain and weak as he was, had he met but a 
 
 woman of mind 
 
124 HILDA, SAINT WIFE. 
 
 He yet might have run in the race, but now he is 
 
 left far behind. 
 Thus she broke out in her wrath, and packing 
 
 her boxes the while, 
 Stole a look as she stabbed me, hiding a venomous 
 
 smile, 
 Furtive ; but I was heedless of all that she said 
 
 about me, 
 Till this slighting of him made me wroth afc a wife 
 
 ought to be. 
 Pity I lost my temper; but, all the same, truly I 
 
 would 
 Lose it to-morrow again if they say of him aught 
 
 but good. 
 
 Altogether, it was a weary and heartless day, 
 But there is light towards evening, and peace, too, 
 
 for she is away. 
 
BOOK THIRD. 
 
 SBinifrtb jlrxpihart, JEaterialist. 
 
 A T " Prinkle's Establishment, 
 
 On principles strictly religious, 
 For finishing girls," I spent 
 
 A year in a manner egregious ; 
 'Twas a school of the calender kind, 
 Meant to put a fine gloss on the mind. 
 
 It was there I met Hilda Dalguise, 
 And thought her enchantingly fair, 
 
 With drops of blue h.eaven for her eyes r 
 And bands of sunbeams for her hair, 
 
 And the form of a dainty, round dove 
 
 Just made for soft touches of love. 
 
126 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 I was not of the gushing-girl sort; 
 
 My soul with ambition was fired, 
 My tongue something sharp at retort, 
 
 And the people were few I admired : 
 And I know I detested a saint 
 More than gambling and powder and paint. 
 
 Yet I once had a fit of devotion, 
 And worked in the Sunday school, 
 
 And whipt up a frothy emotion, 
 
 And prayed and behaved like a fool ; 
 
 Till my eyes were opened to see 
 
 I was growing a small Pharisee. 
 
 But with Hilda I felt I could sit 
 All the day, just stroking her hair, 
 
 Now to smile at her sweet lack of wit, 
 Now to kiss her, for love, anywhere, 
 
 To pat her soft hand, or be near 
 
 The pink, pearly shell of her ear. 
 
 Sweet-breathed as a baby, her mind 
 Smelt all of the mother's milk still 
 
 Infant prayers, childish hymns, and the blind, 
 Pretty faiths they are fain to instil ; 
 
 And she seemed in her white fluffy dress, 
 
 Like a bird I must stroke and caress. 
 
127 
 
 MATERIALIST. 
 
 I pitied the beautiful child, 
 
 Knowing life as I thought that I did, 
 With her pure soul as yet undefiled, 
 
 Always doing the thing she was bid, 
 And believing all hearts were as true 
 As the one little heart that she knew. 
 
 I was just a year older than she, 
 But twenty years older in thought : 
 
 She hardly knew more than the bee 
 That wots where the honey is got, 
 
 Nor dreams that the great purple bell 
 
 Has poison hid in it as well. 
 
 Yet now I'm not sure that I knew 
 So very much more than she did: 
 
 There's an instinct for all that is true, 
 And for all by wise Nature forbid, 
 
 Which is deeper than such wit as then 
 
 I had gathered of life and of men. 
 
 I was young, and I thought myself old; 
 
 A fool, and conceited me wise; 
 I ran my crude thoughts in a mould 
 
 That shaped the crude thoughts into lies, 
 With a kind of Byronic belief 
 In a world full of baseness and grief. 
 
I2 3 WINIFRED URQUHAR7, 
 
 How much I have lived since then ! 
 
 What rubs I have gotten and given ! 
 Some whine for their childhood again, 
 
 Some pine for the quiet of heaven : 
 But my tent, I have no mind to strike it ; 
 'Tis a nice, wicked world, and I like it. 
 
 Old Prinkle I took for a prude, 
 
 With her hands in her black thread-mits, 
 
 Chap-fingered, and painfully good, 
 Yet half-scared out of her wits ; 
 
 And at first I could not make out 
 
 What troubled a soul so devout 
 
 Twas not the mere burden of care 
 For a score of commonplace girls, 
 
 Whose manners and dresses and hair, 
 Their finger-nails, teeth, and their curls, 
 
 With their morals and dinners and laughter, 
 
 'Twas her calling in life to look after. 
 
 But parents and guardians then wanted, 
 For girls at a " Finishing School," 
 
 The old wine of Faith well decanted 
 Into flasks which must also be full 
 
 Of the world, and of woman's ambition 
 
 To better her single condition. 
 
MATERIALIST. 129 
 
 So she had to be worldly-wise, 
 
 And train us for " marrying well ; " 
 
 And she had to put on a disguise, 
 
 And warn us of Death, too, and Hell ; 
 
 For the earthly young soul must be given 
 
 At least a top-dressing of Heaven. 
 
 'Twas against. the grain, I admit, 
 
 For she'd fain have been honest and true ; 
 She had neither much culture nor wit, 
 
 She was simply a woman that knew 
 About womanly ways and things, 
 Such as colours and dresses and rings. 
 
 A good soul, kindly and just, 
 
 But timid, and living in ways 
 She would never have chosen, but must, 
 
 If she meant to live out all her days 
 In the highly respectable station 
 Of finishing sound education. 
 
 Not a person to train the young mind, 
 For she was not at all intellectual, 
 
 And oft her religion would find 
 All its efforts were quite ineffectual 
 
 To fix her stray thoughts on devotion, 
 
 Or show the least touch of emotion. 
 
 I 
 
1 3 o WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 Thus, when sermon was over at noon 
 On Sunday, she'd question us on it ; 
 
 But her speech would wander off soon 
 To a ribbon, a gown, or a bonnet 
 
 Or anything pretty or new 
 
 She had seen in the minister's pew. 
 
 She used to bubble and bell 
 
 About ladylike manners and ways 
 
 In soft purling accents that well 
 Suggested her own brighter days ; 
 
 Then sighed and looked timid about, 
 
 As if sure that she should be found out. 
 
 And the terror that haunted her so 
 Was fear of the Governess, Lane, 
 
 Who was dismal and dreary as snow 
 When it thaws in a drizzle of rain, 
 
 And sharp-eyed, and wanted the school, 
 
 And held our dear Prinkle a fool 
 
 Lane had laws for all that we did, 
 And for every hour of the day ; 
 
 This and that we were strictly forbid, 
 So and so we were always to say ; 
 
 And we lived, like nuns in their cells, 
 
 'Mid an hourly ringing of bells. 
 
MA TERIAL1ST. 131 
 
 We never did any great wrong, 
 
 Such as schoolboys would do on a hint; 
 And therefore she had to be strong 
 
 On the tithing of anise and mint ; 
 And taught us to wet our hard pillows 
 At the lightest of light peccadilloes. 
 
 O the old-maiden morals we had, 
 So scrupulous, prim, and demure ! 
 
 What the decalogue never forbade 
 Our consciences could not endure : 
 
 But life was so low-pitched and sad, 
 
 It was quite a relief to be bad. 
 
 Then, the wearisome lessons ! the proper, 
 Dull prose that we read every day, 
 
 Which felt as if boiled in a copper 
 To take all the flavour away ! 
 
 The colourless paragraphs writ 
 
 Without reason or fancy or wit ! 
 
 Yet the poems were worse ; they were so 
 
 Lack-a-daisical pretty-sublime, 
 Spurting upward in little jets d'eau 
 
 To fall with a musical chime : 
 And we mouthed the sweet verses, Good heavens ! 
 How we mouthed, all at sixes and sevens ! 
 
132 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 Then the darning and hemming and stitching, 
 
 The broidery and the brocade, 
 The Berlin-wool figures bewitching, 
 
 And the wonderful trees that we made, 
 Like green triangles in bloom 
 Stuck hard on the stick of a broom ! 
 
 And the scales that we practised for hours, 
 Till we hated the sight of the keys ! 
 
 And the evenings when, ranged out like flowers, 
 We had our aesthetical teas, 
 
 With music, charades, and advices, 
 
 While the parents had sherry and ices ! 
 
 French was taught by a starved refugee 
 Who had hurled at all tyrants defiance ; 
 
 And a student, who stormed like the sea, 
 Administered globules of science 
 
 Well wrapt up in texts to make sure 
 
 That the bane should have always its cure. 
 
 And thus we were " finished " at last 
 
 On principles strictly religious, 
 Made ready " to come out " and cast 
 
 Our lines in the ocean prodigious ; 
 And begin the true business of life, 
 To find some one in want of a wife. 
 
MATERIALIST. 133 
 
 I do not blame Prinkle the least 
 She did what they asked her to do ; 
 
 They did not wish knowledge increased 
 Of the wise and the right and the true; 
 
 But they would have a gloss of devotion 
 
 On girls who had not a notion, 
 
 Except just to marry and dress, 
 
 And to see to their cooks and their dinners, 
 And live on in soft idleness, 
 
 And on Sunday to call themselves sinners, 
 And be mothers, ere long, of more fools 
 To be sent to more " Finishing schools." 
 
 They were all odious girls, except Hilda; 
 
 And she was a saint, and a pest 
 To Julia, Maria, Matilda, 
 
 Amelia, Joan, and the rest; 
 For her conscience was sure to forbid 
 Many things that we all of us did. 
 
 I never liked saints, as a rule, 
 
 Always flapping their texts in your face, 
 
 With warnings of sorrow and dule 
 
 To be dreed in that sulphurous place ; 
 
 Meanwhile they do no good in this, 
 
 As they strain at their glamour of bliss. 
 
WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 But Hilda you could not help loving 
 
 She was not too prosily pious; 
 And often our ways disapproving, 
 
 Yet she always stood faithfully by us, 
 And did not pretend to condemn 
 Earthly things while she coveted them. 
 
 She was not clever, except 
 
 That she warbled a song like a bird; 
 You'd have sat through a whole night, and wept 
 
 In a trance of delight, as you heard 
 The thrill of that exquisite strain, 
 Like the nightingale's lyrical pain. 
 
 Why do I dwell on all this, 
 
 Recalling those tender, low notes? 
 
 And why would I give for one kiss 
 
 Of her lips all my long-treasured thoughts? 
 
 Pshaw ! who ever yet understood 
 
 The why of each whimsical mood? 
 
 Besides, it's not true ; it is only 
 
 A waft of old sentiment blown 
 O'er my mind, as I sit rather lonely 
 
 Recalling the days that are gone; 
 But now is far better than then, 
 For I live in the thoughts of great men. 
 
MATERIALIST. 
 
 135 
 
 When I left old Prinkle's I said, 
 
 " Life is good, and I'll seek my good in it ; 
 'Twill go hard if my hand and my head 
 
 Cannot work for success there, and win it; 
 But I have not much beauty to boast, 
 I shall ne'er be a " belle " or a " toast." 
 
 So I felt as I turned from my glass, 
 
 Having looked at the brown little features ; 
 
 The eyes and the forehead might pass, 
 For they were an intelligent creature's ; 
 
 But the mouth had a sneer rather bitter, 
 
 When a young-lady simper were fitter. 
 
 But my brains I could trust to for thinking, 
 
 My fingers were clever to write, 
 And thus when my heart was half sinking, 
 
 It rose again higher in might; 
 And I vowed that I would not be sold 
 For treasures of silver and gold. 
 
 I do not affect to despise 
 
 The riches that make a full life, 
 
 With pictures and books and fair eyes, 
 Beaming on you, of mistress or wife; 
 
 Were I man, I would purchase, of course, 
 
 A mansion, a maid, and a horse. 
 
136 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 But it's not the same thing to be sold, 
 And, perhaps, to be laid on the shelf, 
 
 As it is to have and to hold 
 
 These chattels and goods for yourself; 
 
 And, besides, I was tired of the way 
 
 Men talked, who had nothing to say. 
 
 So I gave up the young-lady life, 
 
 The novels, the calls, and the moping, 
 
 And the hope to be somebody's wife, 
 And the cherished girl- dream of eloping, 
 
 Or taking some step that would ring 
 
 Unlike the dull commonplace thing. 
 
 I said, Men are stronger than we, 
 
 Though our minds be as subtle as theirs ; 
 
 For they train the high Reason to see, 
 While we put on fantastical airs, 
 
 And are fain to look silly, although 
 
 Our folly has cunning below. 
 
 But I would be true to my sex, 
 
 Would learn with the boldest to think, 
 
 Would grapple with things that perplex, 
 Would stand on the verge and the brink 
 
 Where the seen and the unseen are met, 
 
 There to gather what truth I could get. 
 
MATERIALIST, 137 
 
 I had " finished " my education, 
 But I found it was now to begin ; 
 
 For formless and void as creation, 
 
 With the wan diffuse light breaking in 
 
 On the first day of darkness, I knew 
 
 Neither what, nor how I should do. 
 
 So I read from morning till night, 
 Brows knit, and with resolute brain, 
 
 Till darkness turned slowly to light; 
 Yet it came with an aching pain, 
 
 For I passed not a word or a jot, 
 
 Till it gave up its treasure of thought. 
 
 Yet vague and unguided, I missed 
 The right path among many ways, 
 
 And found myself folded in mist 
 Of a dim metaphysical haze, 
 
 Till I went up to town, and began 
 
 The true science-study of man. 
 
 Then the first thing I learnt was, to know 
 
 I had everything yet to learn 
 To begin with the taproots that grow 
 
 In the life we can faintly discern, 
 And trace from the great mother-earth 
 The growth of our thought and our worth. 
 
I3 8 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 It was to an uncle I went, 
 
 A learned physician in town, 
 Whose evenings of leisure were spent 
 
 In converse with men of renown, 
 Who joined in a happy alliance 
 Of politics, letters, and science. 
 
 They talked of the small and the great, 
 They spoke of the near and the far, 
 
 They searched the dim secrets of Fate, 
 They traced through the fire-mist and star 
 
 The growth of the marvellous Whole, 
 
 And birth of the mind and the soul. 
 
 They asked for no God to explain, 
 They asked but slow shaping of time 
 
 To account for the thought in the brain, 
 And the conscience of duty and crime, 
 
 And the rich, varied life of the creature, 
 
 With its changes of organ and feature. 
 
 What a world of high wonder was this, 
 Growing all out of atoms in motion ! 
 
 Crowned at length with the glory and bliss 
 Of life in the earth and the ocean ! 
 
 And all by the pure force of law, 
 
 Without error or failure or flaw ! 
 
MATERIALIST. 139 
 
 So I turned to hard study of science 
 I had tasted it mixed up with creed, 
 
 But I broke up that foolish alliance, 
 
 Seeking truth, and the truth does not need 
 
 Poor safeguards of faith to secure 
 
 That the heart shall be humble and pure. 
 
 Truth only is good for the soul, 
 
 Truth only is safe to pursue, 
 And Truth will her secrets unroll 
 
 But to him who is fearless and true, 
 And will search out the fact with his test, 
 And bow where the reason is best. 
 
 I had the clear courage of truth, 
 And plunged into Hack el at once ; 
 
 The way was not easy and smooth 
 
 As they make ways in England and France: 
 
 But then it was thorough, and that 
 
 Was the end I was fain to be at. 
 
 How I toiled now that I had the key, 
 And gathered up fact and example ! 
 
 How the world opened up unto me 
 As knowledge grew lucid and ample ! 
 
 I hewed through the jungle a way 
 
 From the dark into clearness of day. 
 
14 o WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 All realms of dear nature I sought, 
 
 Far and near, both the vast and minute, 
 
 What from depths of the sea had been brought, 
 What had lain in the rocks at the root 
 
 Of the hills, and the dead and alive 
 
 From the lair and the nest and the hive. 
 
 Girls called with their mothers to see 
 The treasures my patience had stored, 
 
 And talked with a simper to me 
 
 Of the wonderful works of the Lord, 
 
 And the beautiful butterfly wings, 
 
 And the fishes and insects and " things." 
 
 They knew not the thoughts that I thought, 
 They dreamed not the visions I saw, 
 
 They wist not that, still as I wrought 
 In the footsteps of infinite law, 
 
 Their creeds seemed as vanishing cloud 
 
 Which had wrapped the dead mind in a shroud. 
 
 How I laughed at their priests, now I knew 
 The high priests of nature serene, 
 
 Who sought but the clear and the true, 
 And the law which for ever hath been, 
 
 And scorned every meaningless phrase 
 
 Where a lie lay, perdue, in a haze. 
 
MATERIALIST. 
 
 141 
 
 I thought how they spent their rich lives, 
 Sweeping heaven for lost links in the stars, 
 
 Or brooding o'er bees in their hives, 
 Or watching the ants in their wars, 
 
 Or peering with keen microscope 
 
 Where the vibriole whirls in the drop, 
 
 Or freezing through chill Arctic winters, 
 
 Ice-bound in the Polar sea, 
 Or daring wild beasts and adventures 
 
 For a tropical bird or a tree; 
 While the vicar grows wheezy anid fat, 
 And the minister sleek as a cat. 
 
 The apostles and martyrs, I said, 
 
 Of our new modern world are these; 
 
 They have struggled and suffered and bled, 
 They have sought neither honour nor ease, 
 
 But they lead the great march in the van 
 
 Of progress and freedom for man. 
 
 Facts, ordered and tested with skill, 
 They gather, which surely declare 
 
 The law which all beings fulfil, 
 
 And how through all ages they fare 
 
 From the cell to the organ, and soar 
 
 Ever up from the less to the more. 
 
I4 2 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 How my bosom swelled high as I rose 
 To the height of that formative thought, 
 
 And saw the dim fire-mist disclose 
 
 The worlds when as yet they were not, 
 
 And the life which was one day to flower 
 
 From its subtle and manifold power. 
 
 When a poem of nature was there ! 
 
 How it linked all being in one, 
 The tree and the bird in the air, 
 
 And the lichen that tints the grey stone, 
 And the coral that builds the wild reef, 
 With man and his glory and grief! 
 
 They tell of a Fall bringing thorns, 
 They talk of a Lost Paradise, 
 
 They prate of a devil with horns 
 Ever plotting some wicked device, 
 
 They will have it that death entered in, 
 
 When Eve ate the apple of sin. 
 
 But truth, searching out the old myths, 
 Sees growth evermore going on, 
 
 And, breaking old fetters like wyths, 
 
 Finds death when no sin could be done; 
 
 Not a lapse, but a law of survival, 
 
 Where the fittest treads down its weak rival. 
 
MA TERIALIST. 1 43 
 
 Poor fools ! we keep wrapping our minds 
 In the old tattered rags of the Jew, 
 
 And shiver and shake as fresh winds, 
 Cloud-driving, make larger our view; 
 
 And we draw our rags closer about, 
 
 Though the faith be as chill as the doubt. 
 
 But this is the truth that alone 
 Can save from the fever and fret, 
 
 That the high law changeth for none, 
 That it holds all enmeshed in its net, 
 
 And that life and death and endeavour 
 
 Ever have been, and shall be for ever. 
 
 And life is the fuller for each 
 Whose death makes it richer for all; 
 
 Immortal the race, bound to reach 
 Ever onward; but singly we fall 
 
 Into dim silent graves on the road, 
 
 As the weary soul lays down its load. 
 
 But the dim, silent graves by the way 
 Are the footprints of progress for man : 
 
 And we are not so selfish as they 
 Who only will die, if they can 
 
 Hope to knit up again from the dead 
 
 The old tangled hank of their thread. 
 
j 44 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 A nobler faith ours; for we know 
 That the organs, dissolving for ever, 
 
 Shall paint the spring-flowers as they grow. 
 But we shall return again never; 
 
 And we grudge not the life that shall give 
 
 Larger life unto them that do live. 
 
 We work for the good of the whole; 
 
 We work, and the rest cometh soon ; 
 We work with no fear for the soul; 
 
 We work in a light as of noon; 
 And the peace, by-and-by, shall be ours 
 Of the long drowsy grass and the flowers. 
 
 We have faith ; we have passed from the mist 
 
 Of doubt and denial and fear 
 Into high and calm realms that are kissed 
 
 By the sunshine of certainty clear; 
 And the great thought of duty is freed 
 From the dross of a self-seeking creed. 
 
 O the gladness I had as this grew 
 Into clearness now day after day ! 
 
 At first, I shrank back from the new, 
 
 Startling thoughts that it brought into play, 
 
 And the courage of truth that it needed, 
 
 And the loneliness as it proceeded. 
 
MATERIALIST. 145 
 
 But plunging, at length, in the tide, 
 
 I flung off the shivering fit, 
 As the current swept stately and wide, 
 
 And cast myself wholly on it ; 
 And slowly the loneliness found 
 A genial life gathering round. 
 
 No shade of a drear world to come 
 
 Lay dismally now on my earth; 
 No fruitless regretting struck dumb 
 
 The laughter of light-hearted mirth ; 
 I had conscience to prompt me, of course, 
 But never to sting with remorse. 
 
 The needle that points to the Pole 
 
 Does not prick the poor sailor who errs 
 
 As the big billows tumble and roll, 
 Or the long swell throbs and stirs ; 
 
 But simply, by night and by day, 
 
 The needle just tells him the way. 
 
 Even so was I merry and glad, 
 
 As I walked in the law and the light; 
 
 And so was I not very sad, 
 
 When I wandered at times from the right; 
 
 And ever the needle was true, 
 
 And showed me the thing I should do. 
 
146 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 I did not sin and repent, 
 
 And then fall a-sinning again, 
 As if conscience were properly meant 
 
 To keep up a blister of pain ; 
 But I tried to walk in the truth, 
 And to lose not a joy of my youth. 
 
 They say that a vanishing creed 
 
 Makes the heart very weary and sad, 
 
 That its wounds must be open and bleed, 
 That its ways must be evil and bad; 
 
 But I ne'er was in happier mood, 
 
 Nor so true to the right and the good. 
 
 Well; just then, I heard, by the way, 
 That Hilda was wedded, and wrote 
 
 A well-meaning letter, to say 
 
 How it pleased me to think of her lot, 
 
 Reminding her, too, like a fool, 
 
 Of a promise she gave me at school. 
 
 I offered a visit, to share 
 
 In the joy of a life that I loved ; 
 
 But I fancy she did not just care 
 To be kissed and " honeyed " and " doved " 
 
 Before me, but would be alone 
 
 Till the honeymoon sweetness was gone. 
 
MA TERIALIS T. 147 
 
 So she put me off for a year 
 
 With this and the other excuse, 
 Not one of them simple and clear, 
 
 But all of them shifty and loose ; 
 And yet when she finally sent, 
 And asked me to visit, I went. 
 
 Then I dropt on a scene quite idyllic, 
 
 A nook of the old paradise 
 A rose-embowered cot on a hillock, 
 
 With a garden sunny and nice, 
 And my saint and her poet, too, yawning 
 At the commonplace life that was dawning. 
 
 I cannot describe ; but I know 
 The country was not picturesque; 
 
 The granite lay barren below, 
 
 And a broad moor, as flat as my desk, 
 
 Stretched inwards, and down to the sea 
 
 There was hardly a bush or a tree. 
 
 But inside was pretty enough ; 
 
 The rooms all so fresh and so sweet 
 Not a jar, or a word that was rough, 
 
 Not a thing but was dainty and neat, 
 And Hilda so gentle and still, 
 Though the meek little fool had a will. 
 
1 48 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 I did not much take to her now ; 
 
 She seemed to be stunted in growth, 
 x\ pale, sickly bloom on a bough, 
 
 A flat, tasteless thing in the mouth ; 
 A chaste, cold, passionless ghost, 
 Weeping much for a babe she had lost. 
 
 I tried to cheer her a bit, 
 But she did not interest me; 
 
 She never did smack much of wit, 
 But now she was dull as the sea, 
 
 When the east wind blows its grey haar, 
 
 As it moans on the sand and the bar. 
 
 It was always that baby, forsooth ! 
 
 As if blossoms had never been nipt, 
 As if lambs never died in their youth, 
 
 As if no other babies had slipt 
 Away to the peace of the worm 
 From life, and its trouble and storm. 
 
 But her Poet was really a man ; 
 
 Not a clinker only of rhymes, 
 But one who could thoughtfully scan 
 
 The world, and the men, and the times. 
 And see their meanings, and sing 
 The vision of life which they bring. 
 
MATERIALIST. 
 
 He was not the least of a saint ; 
 
 But worked, with a patient might, 
 In the Artist's unconstraint, 
 
 With the Artist's frank delight 
 In the quaint, and the unexpected 
 Moulds with* his thought selected. 
 
 Still mooning in twilight dim, 
 His humour was just to croon 
 
 Any song that was pleasing to him, 
 Fresh words to the old, old tune, 
 
 And his thought was but half-expressed 
 
 In the manner of mirthful jest. 
 
 He had ever a kindly touch 
 
 In his quips and tricks and mocks, 
 
 But playfully hinted much 
 Abhorred by the orthodox; 
 
 Yet he trifled, when he should have smote 
 
 With the sharp battle-axe of his thought. 
 
 He was vain too he was a poet 
 You hardly could flatter enough ; 
 
 And you did not need to show it, 
 He could swallow the rankest stuff; 
 
 Though he laughed at himself as he did it, 
 
 Yet next time he did not forbid it. 
 
 149 
 
150 WINIFRED URQUHART 
 
 He never was thorough or strong, 
 
 But fanciful only, and odd, 
 Never sure of the right and the wrong, 
 
 And he still would believe in a God, 
 And talked, with a vague kind of beauty, 
 Of the soul, and its hope and its duty. 
 
 But that is the way with most men ; 
 
 They dare not much more than to doubt; 
 They dare not, one man out of ten, 
 
 To think their thought thoroughly out; 
 The practical plucks at their sleeve, 
 And they're frightened to shock and to grieve. 
 
 I played on his foible awhile : 
 And made myself useful to him, 
 
 Now giving a touch to his style, 
 Now setting his papers in trim, 
 
 Now glancing at nature to show it 
 
 In lights that are new to the poet. 
 
 But he never could cast off the shapes 
 
 Of shallow and silly romance 
 The frost-work that dims, as it drapes, 
 
 Our window, and hides from our glance 
 The beauty of truth, and the story 
 Of life with its wonder and glory. 
 
MATERIALIST. jej 
 
 ] 
 
 The poet will still be a child, 
 
 And will curtain the sun to his slumbers ; 
 At the great chemic laws he half smiled, 
 * And laughed at the rhythm of its numbers, 
 And joked at the glass or the knife 
 Detecting the secret of life. 
 
 Yet I liked him; but Hilda grew jealous 
 She cared not for verse or for rhyme, 
 
 Except as the wind in the bellows, 
 
 That brightened her hearth for the time ; 
 
 Yet she would have the whole of his heart, 
 
 And was touchy and sniffy and tart. 
 
 And one night he read us a ballad, 
 As we sat the work-table around, 
 
 Which his humour composed, like a salad, 
 Of any green stuff that it found 
 
 Cropping up on a fanciful soil, 
 
 And he mixed it with wit as with oil. 
 
 I am sure that I have it somewhere, 
 For I wrote it all down the next day: 
 
 Here it is ; and a sorry affair 
 It is to have made such a fray : 
 
 Yet 'twas like him, it must be confessed, 
 
 To make sentiment flower out of jest. 
 
WINIFRED LRQUHART, 
 
 JUDAS ISCARIOT. 
 
 The very Prince of Darkness 
 Came once to Heaven's gate, 
 
 Where Peter and the angels 
 Talk together, as they wait ; 
 
 And he brought with him a spirit 
 In a very dismal state. 
 
 Then Satan : " I'm in trouble, 
 And come here to get advice ; 
 
 I've been going up and down there 
 Where you think we are not nice, 
 
 And they will not have this fellow 
 Among them at any price. 
 
 " I took him first to Lamech 
 And the bloody race of Cain, 
 
 But they rose in flat rebellion, 
 
 That so mean a rogue should gain 
 
 A place with gallant fellows 
 Who in simple wrath had slain. 
 
MA TERIALIST. 1 5 3 
 
 " Then I thought of those wild Herods 
 
 With their burning diadem. 
 And their spirits, ever haunted 
 
 By the babes of Bethlehem : 
 But they would not have the traitor 
 
 Coming sneaking among them. 
 
 " After that I looked to Ahab, 
 
 And the panther Jezebel; 
 But she sprang up like a fury, 
 
 1 It were shame unspeakable 
 To lodge a half-hanged felon 
 
 Where a queen of men must dwell.' 
 
 "I'm afraid there's not a corner 
 
 Into which they'll let him in; 
 The common rogues are furious 
 
 To confound them with his sin, 
 And my people are excited, 
 
 And the place is full of din." 
 
 Then Peter: " Traitor Judas, 
 
 Thou hearest what he says, 
 How the murderers and demons 
 
 Abhor thee and thy ways, 
 Thou betrayer of the Holy, 
 
 Who the Ancient is of days." 
 
WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 Then Judas answered meekly : 
 "Yea, Peter, they are right; 
 
 Cain and Lamech, Ahab, Herod, 
 They were godless men of might, 
 
 But not so vile as I am 
 
 O they loathe me, and are right. 
 
 " Jezebel that slew the prophets, 
 Fawned not on the life she stole; 
 
 Ahab only smote the servants, 
 
 Not the Lord who bare our dole ; 
 
 There should be a hell expressly 
 For my miserable soul. 
 
 " Let my name be named with horror, 
 Let my place be wrapt in gloom, 
 
 Let me even be hell's lone outcast, 
 With a solitary doom 
 
 I that kissed Him, and betrayed Him 
 To the cross, and to the tomb." 
 
 Then Satan: "There's the mischief, 
 He goes whining like a saint ; 
 
 I could keep my people quiet, 
 But he'd have them penitent. 
 
 It's as bad as if a parson 
 
 Made their very hearts grow faint." 
 
MATERIALIST. t 155 
 
 But, as Peter looked on Judas, 
 
 Sunk in utter misery, 
 Lo ! there rose before his vision, 
 
 A grey morning by the sea, 
 And a weary, broken spirit 
 
 On the shores of Galilee. 
 
 " O once, too, I despaired, 
 
 For my Lord I had denied, 
 And once my heart was breaking, 
 
 For I cursed Him, and I lied; 
 I did not slay myself, but yet 
 
 I wish that I had died. 
 
 "Leave thy burden with me, Satan, 
 
 He is not too bad for me; 
 He will get 'his own place' duly, 
 
 And it is not mine to be 
 A breaker of the bruised, 
 
 Or the judge of such as he." 
 
 I praised it; but she gazed to heaven 
 As if he had sinned the great sin 
 
 Which is not atoned or forgiven, 
 And no touch of pity can win, 
 
 And nobody knows what it is, 
 
 But her soul sat and trembled for his. 
 
156 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 She said, "It was jesting with sin, 
 And nothing but grief came of that; 
 
 Few may play with the devil, and win, 
 Whatever the game they are at; 
 
 And Heaven was not surely a place 
 
 For one who despaired of its grace." 
 
 I said, " It was quaint and bizarre, 
 
 And its humour was what I liked best; 
 
 And I thought they were much on a par, 
 Who spoke, or in earnest or jest, 
 
 Of the souls of the bad or the just, 
 
 When their brains are a small pinch of dust." 
 
 She fired up at that ; " Did I mean 
 
 That the soul was all one as the brain ? 
 
 Had I only a faith in the Seen, 
 With its animal pleasure and pain? 
 
 Had I left the old paths that were trod 
 
 By the saints, and the true men of God ? " 
 
 I could not help smiling to see 
 
 Her look so bewildered and scared, 
 
 When her anger broke out upon me, 
 As if I had her husband ensnared 
 
 In some terrible plot to disown 
 
 All the gods that have ever been known. 
 
MATERIALIST. 
 
 157 
 
 "It was I made him mock and blaspheme 
 I who knew no more than the cat ! 
 
 And her life had been bright as a dream 
 Till I came with the dusk like a bat; 
 
 For I hated the name of the Lord, 
 
 Whom every true woman adored. 
 
 " I was impious, false, and cruel ; 
 
 I could sit at her fire, and sting; 
 I would fain rob her life of the jewel 
 
 She prized above everything; 
 Yet all that she might have forgiven, 
 But I mocked at her God up in heaven." 
 
 Of course, he behaved like a man, 
 
 Tried to soothe her, and smoothe matters down, 
 And then, backing out of it, ran 
 
 Away to some job of his own ; 
 But he got me persuaded to stay, 
 When I should have at once gone away. 
 
 That was weak, I confess ; but the place 
 Was nice, and his humour was pleasant, 
 
 And there was such a light in his face, 
 
 Now and then, when his wife was not present, 
 
 That well, I remained for a time, 
 
 Enduring her moods and his rhyme. 
 
158 WINIFRED URQUHART, 
 
 But her temper got worse every day; 
 
 She feared me, and her I despised ; 
 And he still let her have her own way, 
 
 Only soothed her, and meekly advised ; 
 So I left them, at last, in a trance 
 Of piety, love, and romance. 
 
 I hear that she blamed me because 
 I made myself useful to him ; 
 
 But what could I do when she chose 
 To be distant and silent and prim ? 
 
 In truth, she was never his mate, 
 
 Poor thing ! she was only his fate. 
 
 Of course, he was nothing to me ; 
 
 He wanted a slave in his wife, 
 Who should worship him low on her knee, 
 
 And serve with the breath of her life ; 
 And there's nothing I ever abhorred 
 Like a man for my Master and Lord. 
 
 My Master is science divine, 
 
 My Lord is the truth that I seek, 
 
 My service is Freedom, and mine 
 Was ne'er the poor heart of the meek : 
 
 I would lean upon none, for I live 
 
 On that which great Nature can give. 
 
MATERIALIST. it 
 
 Poor Hilda ! I give her my pity, 
 And I pity her husband still more ; 
 
 He will rhyme away life in a ditty, 
 She will make of her soul a heartsore; 
 
 Religion will quarrel in time 
 
 With Romance and he'll put it in rhyme : 
 
 And be comforted, too, as he reads 
 The tale of his sorrow and grief, 
 
 Binding up his poor heart, while it bleeds, 
 With the balm of a smooth-rhyming leaf; 
 
 He will drop for his Hilda a tear, 
 
 And gloat o'er his verse for a year. 
 
 Now I think of it, somebody said 
 
 That the crash had come some time ago ; 
 
 She had either gone off, or was dead, 
 And a poem from that was to grow, 
 
 Which was certain to touch every heart 
 
 With its feeling of fine tragic Art. 
 
 If I had not that paper to write 
 
 On the dawning of mind in Moluscs, 
 
 And that other to set people right 
 On the subject of Molars and Tusks, 
 
 I think, I would like just to see 
 
 What he says about Hilda and me. 
 
BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 , (Bbangdist. 
 
 VANGELIST and village smith, a man of good 
 
 report, 
 And cunning among cattle, known to all the 
 
 country near, 
 Luke could make the bellows snore, and also pain- 
 
 fully exhort, 
 
 And feared the Lord, and had a new religion once 
 a year. 
 
 He had been a Chartist leader in his hot and hope- 
 
 ful youth, 
 Talking gunpowder and bayonets about the rights 
 
 of man, 
 Until he got converted, when he preached about 
 
 the Truth, 
 The Blood and the Atonement, the Covenant 
 
 and Plan. 
 
 L 
 
1 62 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Tired of his parish kirk, he tried the Baptists for 
 
 a season, 
 Tired of them, and turned a Methodist, recanting 
 
 all the past, 
 Tired again, and took to shady faiths that shun 
 
 the ways of reason; 
 
 And every change, he vowed, had brought the 
 peace of God at last. 
 
 And every change had left a stratum of belief on 
 
 him, 
 With fossils here of Presbytery, there of his Baptist 
 
 time, 
 
 Then traces of the Methodist, and now the foot- 
 prints dim 
 
 Of reptiles that had sprawled across the later 
 mud and slime. 
 
 For partly Antinomian now, and partly Manichee, 
 He blundered back to church, and deemed that 
 
 he was orthodox, 
 And stormed at modern thinking as the raging of 
 
 the sea 
 
 That cast up mire and dirt upon the everlasting 
 rocks. 
 
EVANGELIST. 163 
 
 And yet his heart was right, although his thought 
 
 was so confused 
 A tangled knot of broken thrums he could not 
 
 extricate ; 
 All ordered thought of reason and of science he 
 
 abused, 
 
 But he was full of pity, and his love was very 
 great. 
 
 And because he was so earnest, and because he 
 
 spoke good words 
 Whose meaning none searched nicely, and because 
 
 he seemed to stir 
 Serious thoughts in careless hearts, as if he touched 
 
 their higher chords, 
 
 He was sought, and he was looked to as a chosen 
 minister. 
 
 A great broad-headed fellow, working hard through 
 
 all the week, 
 And thinking hard, the while he worked, upon 
 
 the fate of man, 
 He was fain to save the sinner and the erring, 
 
 and would speak 
 
 A world about the chaff and wheat, and sifting 
 with a fan. 
 
164 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 There was a thick husk in his voice that weirdly 
 
 rose and fell, 
 As with a knotted fist he smote upon a horny 
 
 palm, 
 And poured his prophet-burden about sin and death 
 
 and hell, 
 
 Now like tender, pleading Gospel, now like bitter 
 cursing Psalm. 
 
 The man had power, for certain, for he had a human 
 
 heart, 
 Gleams of humour, tender touches, too, of pathos, 
 
 and throughout 
 A vein of clear sincerity whose might is more 
 
 than art, 
 
 And the firmness of a soul that had not any 
 wavering doubt. 
 
 And when he came about our house, at first, I 
 
 liked to hear 
 His pithy words, good-humoured if you did not 
 
 say him nay; 
 And stories of himself that were like flotsam drifting 
 
 near 
 
 From tempests of an unknown sea whose storms 
 were far away. 
 
EVANGELIST. 165 
 
 And he had a keen shrewd humour, but it mostly 
 
 had to do 
 With the meaner part of nature, and was blind 
 
 to what is best; 
 He put his finger on a blot that shamed arid 
 
 humbled you, 
 
 And thought he read you truest, when you showed 
 unworthiest. 
 
 Though God was always in his mouth, you did not 
 
 feel the awe 
 Which hangs about the Presence, when he spoke 
 
 of the Supreme; 
 He was more at home with Satan; then he spake 
 
 as if he saw; 
 
 But to me his speech of God was like an echo 
 or a dream. 
 
 And yet I liked him, swinging with long strides at 
 
 gloaming late, 
 And stretching his vast limbs beside the blazing 
 
 winter fire, 
 With pale, lean face, and lanky hair, and speech 
 
 deliberate, 
 
 That never ceased to flood the house, and never 
 seemed to tire. 
 
i66 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Not that it was good to hear him, for it did not 
 
 raise you higher; 
 It showed your baser self, but did not rouse 
 
 the better part; 
 He could search the hidden evil, but he never could 
 
 inspire 
 
 Unto any nobler life by his unveiling of the 
 heart. 
 
 Man was not lovely to him, nor yet lovely was his 
 
 God; 
 The cynic thought breeds mostly bitter faith in 
 
 things divine; 
 Who sees no beauty in the soul that bears its 
 
 human load, 
 
 Shall see but little glory where the gods of glory 
 shine. 
 
 There was humour in his sayings, though he meant 
 
 them not for jest 
 Too earnest he for mirth, except a hard and 
 
 bitter grin; 
 Yet his shrewdness had an oddness, being quaintly 
 
 oft expressed, 
 
 And I laughed with laugh the keener that I had 
 to laugh within. 
 
EVANGELIST. 167 
 
 'Twas something fresh to me, to follow slowly up 
 
 and down 
 The windings of his tangled talk, and make the 
 
 thought complete; 
 
 I perused him like a volume whose leaves, dog- 
 eared and brown, 
 
 Held bits of the rough poetry that lies about 
 our feet. 
 
 There was a rude ideal which he struggled to attain, 
 A poem floating in his mind, but mangled by the 
 
 lack 
 Of ordered thought to shape the hope, the passion 
 
 and the pain; 
 
 And he blundered into broken paths to shun the 
 beaten track. 
 
 What puzzled me about him was, to see him still 
 
 so sure, 
 So changeful, yet so certain that his way was 
 
 always right; 
 And that his vision was so dim, although his heart 
 
 was pure, 
 
 And that he could so grossly err, yet be a 
 child of light. 
 
168 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 I read his meaning partly, as one reads a palimpsest, 
 Dimly traced upon the vellum under monkish 
 
 hymns and prayers 
 And trumpery tales of wonder ; and I understood 
 
 him best 
 
 When I watched his human kindness taking up 
 our human cares. 
 
 He fancied I was smitten with his views, when I 
 
 was only 
 Making him a curious study for the work I had 
 
 to do, 
 Just a theme for long reflection, as I sat in silence 
 
 lonely, 
 
 Shaping out the world around me in the poet's 
 large review. 
 
 But I had no right to trifle with the follies of a 
 
 friend, 
 Or to play upon his humour to find matter for 
 
 a book; 
 I might have known that that would come to some 
 
 unhappy end, 
 
 For to toy with human hearts, is more than 
 human hearts will brook. 
 
EVANGELIST. 169 
 
 'Tis the sin of art's fine passion that it only seeks 
 
 to know, 
 Not to perfect, any creature that his lot he may 
 
 fulfil; 
 It has charity to bear with any rankest weeds 
 
 that grow 
 
 Unto any picturesqueness, and to leave them 
 growing still. 
 
 Priest and prophet try to save, and so their work 
 
 is blessed; but mine 
 Strove only just to see, and reproduce the picture 
 
 true, 
 Making sacrifice of duty for the trimming of a 
 
 line, 
 
 Heeding not of higher wisdom in the itch for 
 something new. 
 
 O my heart and its misgivings ! I am never wholly 
 
 sure. 
 Was the art of Greece so perfect that its life 
 
 was also high? 
 Is the heavenly vision only seen what time the 
 
 heart is pure? 
 
 Is the poem but the poet as he dares to live 
 and die? 
 
iyo LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Could I be a mere onlooker, and yet see what 
 
 should be seen? 
 Standing calmly on the outside, could I paint this 
 
 life aright? 
 Nay, that could never come to any perfect fruit, I 
 
 ween, 
 
 Could yield but sickly blossom nipt by any frosty 
 night. 
 
 Better wield a pick or spade, or drive a furrow in 
 
 the soil, 
 Bear a hod, or hurl a barrow among fustian-wearing 
 
 men, 
 Win humblest daily bread by daily sweat of honest 
 
 toil, 
 
 Than live to find in life but stuff for scrawling with 
 a pen ! 
 
 One evening Luke, as usual, held discourse of 
 
 human ills, 
 
 And I turned me somewhat weary from his ever- 
 lasting bleat, 
 
 Monotonous, like sheep among the solitary hills, 
 As he mooned away to Hilda sitting on the window 
 seat. 
 
EVANGELIST. 171 
 
 Something, I know, had fretted me I cannot now 
 
 say what, 
 Only, living among dreams, and sitting far into 
 
 the night, 
 With none to bid good-speed unto the labour I 
 
 was at, 
 
 And a pained, though dumb suspicion that, per- 
 haps, I did not right 
 
 To peril all the tender bliss of home for such an aim, 
 Bred an irritable temper, when I was not all 
 
 alone, 
 And so it fevered me to hear though they were not 
 
 to blame 
 
 Her weary stitching needle, and his weary preach- 
 ing drone. 
 
 He had, somehow, raised the wonder that begets 
 
 a woman's faith, 
 The sense of power and mystery that awes her 
 
 with belief; 
 His God was not the Father that giveth life and 
 
 breath, 
 
 Yet she looked to him for guidance, and for 
 comfort in her grief. 
 
172 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Women cling to any spirit that is confident and bold, 
 Taking doubt to be a sin, the sign of an untrustful 
 
 mind j 
 And I was sure of nought ; I saw the shadows round 
 
 me fold, 
 
 And felt that life was very dark, and I was very 
 blind. 
 
 I was not fit to guide her, for myself I could not 
 
 guide 
 Through the valley of the shadow; only groping 
 
 as I went, 
 Step by step, and never certain of the shepherd at 
 
 my side, 
 
 And my soul was often troubled, and my heart 
 was often faint. 
 
 But he was sure of all things in earth and hell and 
 
 heaven, 
 Sure that we were devil's children all, and heirs 
 
 of wrath to come, 
 .Sure that on the bitter cross a sum of ransom had 
 
 been given, 
 
 To purchase men from Satan, or at least to 
 purchase some. 
 
EVANGELIST. 
 
 173 
 
 And this so certain dogmatism she took for faith divine, 
 Infallible, intrenched within a wall of texts and 
 
 creeds, 
 And believed in him entirely, while she turned from 
 
 words of mine, 
 
 As from henbane, hemlock, nightshade, or other 
 deadly weeds. 
 
 That night he went on, ceaseless, in his hortatory tone 
 Half-saying and half-singing, and I could not 
 
 choose but hear 
 Broken snatches of his doctrine, like the melancholy 
 
 moan 
 
 Of the wind that in the crannies sounds so dis- 
 mal to the ear. 
 
 LUKE'S DISCOURSE. 
 
 It is not our sins that send us there : 
 
 There are sinners as bad in the heavenly choir, 
 And souls as sweet as the summer air 
 
 Up to their lips in the lake of fire : 
 Stained with vices, as black as night, 
 
 Some shall be found on the narrow way; 
 For seen by the Lord from His holy height 
 
 All your virtues are black as they. 
 
174 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 It is our unbelief slams the door, 
 
 And rams in the bolt too, right in our face; 
 But so much the more are our sins, the more 
 
 Glory there is to abounding grace. 
 What, if one wronged you, meaning it not? 
 
 What, if one hurt you just by a word ? 
 No great credit to wipe that blot, 
 
 Or to forget what you need not have heard. 
 But if I hate you, make you a liar, 
 
 Slay your dearest, and mock at his name, 
 O the mercy that rises higher, 
 
 The higher the sinner's guilt and blame ! 
 
 Only believe in the Lamb they slew, 
 
 And in the blood that from Him did flow; 
 Only believe that He died for you, 
 
 And it shall wash you as white as the snow. 
 O but the Blood is the life of Faith ! 
 
 Even one drop would a world redeem. 
 Blood on the lintels, and ancient Death 
 
 Passed by the door like a hideous dream; 
 Blood on his raiment made the Priest 
 
 Holy to stand where the Lord was seen; 
 Blood on the altars wrath appeased; 
 
 Blood on the sinner, and he is clean. 
 
EVANGELIST. 175 
 
 Science and learning are but snares, 
 
 Reason and knowledge they are traps; 
 Better lie down with wolves and bears 
 
 Than with critical principles, books, and maps. 
 Once I starved in the Hebrides, 
 
 Nearly a month, on whelks and clams, 
 And fish-like birds from the grey salt seas, 
 
 While I tried to think they were beeves and 
 
 lambs : 
 So is the soul that feeds on stuff 
 
 Reason gives it instead of bread; 
 So is the man who is swollen with fluff 
 
 Science is fain to put into his head. 
 These cannot take one sin away, 
 
 Bring no peace to the troubled heart; 
 As well down on your knees and pray 
 
 To the graven image of heathen art. 
 
 Children make-believe anything, whiles 
 
 They have all plenty to eat and drink, 
 Make a grand feast out of slates and tiles, 
 
 And water is wine if you only wink. 
 O how nicely they carve a stone ! 
 
 O how pretty they drink the toast ! 
 This is the shortbread, that the scone, 
 
 There are the platters of boiled and roast ! 
 
176 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 But let the thirst and hunger come, 
 And give them for bread their slates and 
 
 stones, 
 And poor little hearts ! all their prattle is 
 
 dumb, 
 And make-believe ends in tears and moans. 
 
 So is the soul that plays with shams, 
 
 So till there comes an hour of need ; 
 So shall it starve on whelks and clams 
 
 Of rational thought and virtuous deed. 
 But let him see the guilt and gloom, 
 
 But let him smell the burning lake, 
 And hear, as it were, the billows boom 
 
 Where is no shore on which to break. 
 Only the Blood then that atones, 
 
 Only the blood can give him rest : 
 Hence with your make-believe slates and stones, 
 
 He must have truth, for truth is best. 
 
 Hell and the devil (I thought the words 
 Came from his lips with a kind of smack, 
 
 And round and rich, as the singing birds 
 
 Dwell on a choice note, and call it back) , 
 
 Hell and the devil will have their due ; 
 O you may rush at a ditch or hedge, 
 
EVANGELIST. 177 
 
 And scramble through with a scratch or two, 
 And a tattered skirt to the other ledge; 
 
 But there's no bottom to yonder pit, 
 There is no other side to hell, 
 
 There is no make-believe in it, 
 
 And there for ever the faithless dwell. 
 
 A terrible picture ! ay, and whiles 
 
 I have almost thought that it could not be, 
 As I looked on the bay with its sunny smiles 
 
 Glinting over the laughing sea. 
 There the fishermen trim their boats, 
 
 The wives at the door are baiting lines. 
 Mirth of the children blithely floats 
 
 Up from the beach, as they touch the spines 
 Of round sea-urchin under the dulse, 
 
 Or hunt the crab in the shady pool, 
 And the small waves beat like a tranquil pulse, 
 
 And the seal comes out of the cavern cool, 
 Bobbing his head above the sea, 
 
 There where the white gulls dive and swim, 
 And the swift ships pass, like clouds that be 
 
 Hung on the grey horizon dim. 
 Then I have thought, till my heart grew faint 
 
 And my head swam with the vision dire: 
 M 
 
178 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 " O beautiful Earth, is it really meant 
 
 Thou shalt be wrapped in the flaming fire? 
 These happy homes where I oft have sat, 
 
 These hands I have held in friendly grip, 
 Those curly children I love to pat, 
 
 Or to press their cheeks with a prayerful lip, 
 Can they be fated one of them even 
 
 Yet in the outer dark to lie, 
 Far away hid from the glory of Heaven, 
 
 And gnawed by the worm that cannot die? 
 
 the anguish that thought has sent 
 Thrilling all through my heart and brain ! 
 
 And Word and warning and argument 
 The Spirit has pleaded with me in vain. 
 
 1 thought it was righteous to rebel, 
 
 I thought that it was for God I spoke, 
 When I wrestled against the pains of hell, 
 
 Like Jacob, until the morning broke. 
 But who am I to reject his word 
 
 That tells of the deathless worm and fire? 
 And where were the mercy of the Lord, 
 
 If it plucked not brands from the burning pyre ? 
 
 Here I broke in, You should have heard your heart, 
 
 for it was true; 
 I think it was the voice of God for pity pleading then, 
 
EVANGELIST. 179 
 
 And you have crushed your pity with a text that 
 
 deadened you, 
 
 And texts are meant for quickening all the nobler 
 thoughts of men. 
 
 He took no notice of my speech ; I wot not if he 
 
 heard, 
 Because there rose a gust of wind, shrill-whistling 
 
 from the sea; 
 But by and by there came a lull, and with the 
 
 lull a word 
 
 I was not meant to hear, though it was shrewdly 
 meant for me. 
 
 Truly you tell me his faith is gone, 
 
 Truly I see only doubting in him : 
 He has buried the Christ, and sealed the stone, 
 
 And watches all night, 'mid the shadows dim, 
 That none may quicken his soul again, 
 
 That none may quicken his hope anew; 
 And I have noted the sorrow and pain 
 
 Of the great love that was wasting you, 
 Lady, as slowly the cloud came down, 
 
 Slowly and coldly the mist was creeping 
 
l8o LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Over a soul that is dear as your own; 
 
 And angels were watching with you and 
 weeping. 
 
 Yea, I have grieved for him, and I have prayed 
 
 Through the long night, as I watched afar, 
 Sign of the poor part in life that he played, 
 
 The lamp from his window that gleamed like 
 
 a star; 
 There he is toiling, I said, for a bubble. 
 
 Which when he touches it, shall be no more, 
 Reaping the harvest of sorrow and trouble, 
 
 Here I will pray till his labour is o'er : 
 Long as his lamp burns for folly of fame, 
 
 So long shall mine, that his soul I may win; 
 Shall he, unwearying, toil for a name, 
 
 And I grow weary to save him from sin? 
 Thus have I stormed at the gates of heaven, 
 
 All the more that he laughed at me, 
 Just that his soul might to me be given, 
 
 All the more we could never agree. 
 I see that he mocks me, and flouts me, and 
 jibes 
 
 At all the things that I honour most, 
 And seeks the lore of the clerks and scribes 
 
 More than the word of the Holy Ghost. 
 
EVANGELIST. X 8i 
 
 He would put me into a book, I know, 
 
 That wits might crackle their jests so droll, 
 And laugh at the preaching smith whose blow 
 
 Could smite the iron, and miss the soul. 
 Yet I have loved him, O so well ! 
 
 Yet I have prayed for him, O how long! 
 But he would risk all the terrors of hell 
 
 For the point of a jest, or the rhyme of a 
 
 song. 
 O he is just like a schoolboy that cares 
 
 Only to hear his whip go crack 
 In the dim streets, and the silent squares, 
 
 While the echo comes ringing back ; 
 High in the heaven he would sit and brood, 
 
 With a flickering smile on his dubious lip ; 
 And down in hell would find some good 
 
 In trying how loud he could crack his whip. 
 
 You are wroth with me now, for the truth that I 
 
 speak ; 
 You would have me to smile and beck and 
 
 cringe, 
 And not let the gate of darkness creak, 
 
 But smoothly work on its well-oiled hinge, 
 And silently close on an erring soul, 
 
 With just a snap when the deed is done; 
 
8 2 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 And then I must whimper and condole, 
 
 With a lying hope that the goal was won, 
 Although he never had run the race, 
 
 Never so much as made the start : 
 But I cannot be sweet before your face, 
 
 And false to you in my inmost heart. 
 Tell me not of his love of truth, 
 
 Kindly spirit, and thoughtful care, 
 Or the pure love of his noble youth 
 
 Tell me of faith, if faith be there. 
 Water the coals, and they will burn, 
 
 Sun-dry the faggot, and it will flame; 
 So virtue or vice will serve your turn, 
 
 And make you ready for wrath and shame. 
 Faith alone is the master-key 
 
 To the strait gate and the narrow road ; 
 All others but skeleton picklocks be, 
 
 And you never shall pick the locks of God. 
 
 But hush ! His thunders are in the heaven, 
 Rumbling low through the clouded sky, 
 
 Like the roll of wheels that are swiftly driven 
 With flames from the whirling tires that fly. 
 
 Who knows? They are maybe sent for him 
 To clothe his spirit with awe and fear : 
 

 EVANGELIST. 183 
 
 Close we the windows and sing a hymn, 
 And pray, for the Lord is plainly here. 
 
 Well to improve the solemn hour, 
 Well to smite while the bar is hot; 
 
 Surely the Lord is great in power, 
 Woe to him that believeth not. 
 
 He had been speaking low to her, and wist not 
 
 I could hear; 
 And though I heard, I heeded not, my thoughts 
 
 were so intent 
 Watching the signs of coming storm that darkled 
 
 far and near, 
 
 And all his words fell off from me, like arrows 
 blunt and spent. 
 
 From every part of heaven the clouds crept, slow, 
 
 across the sky, 
 Black clouds, with lurid edges, and rifts of leaden 
 
 gray, 
 And earth lay still and breathless as they mustered 
 
 there on high, 
 
 Nor lark nor throstle noting the dimly dying 
 day. 
 
1 84 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Now, all was wrapt in darkness, without twinkling 
 
 of a star, 
 And the big thunder-rain came down in sullen 
 
 warning drops; 
 Beneath the silent trees the silent kine were grouped, 
 
 and far 
 
 The sea moaned, and a shiver passed along the 
 tall tree-tops. 
 
 And then it burst in fury rain and hailstones 
 
 mixed with fire, 
 And sudden gusts of wind that howled across 
 
 the stony moor, 
 With awful lulls, and shattering peals that nearer 
 
 grew and higher; 
 
 And one great ball of hissing fire fell almost at 
 the door. 
 
 A wild, black night of tempest, such as men remem- 
 ber long 
 
 In the dull undated life of a sleepy country town, 
 When forests fell before the wind, streams swept 
 
 off bridges strong, 
 
 And church-towers, lightning-shivered, reeled, and 
 then came crashing down. 
 
EVANGELIST. 185 
 
 Awe-stricken, yet entranced, I watched, with tremulous 
 
 joy, each phase 
 And movement as it registered itself upon the 
 
 mind, 
 While the strained sense, exulting in the wonder 
 
 and amaze, 
 
 Jarred at a common sound amid the thunder 
 and the wind. 
 
 Thus when I heard his husky voice 'mid nature's 
 
 grandest tones 
 Of so transcendant harmony, for harmony was 
 
 there 
 In all the roll of thunder, and the shrieks and 
 
 wailing moans, 
 
 It smote me like an insult that suggestion of a 
 prayer. 
 
 I did not speak at first; I did but grip his bony 
 
 wrist 
 
 And whisper to be silent, and led him to his seat, 
 Imperious, in a wrath whose stern resolve was only 
 
 hissed 
 
 Into his ear; and he was cowed, and sat in 
 silence meet. 
 
i86 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Silent only for a little ; by-and-by there came a 
 
 lull, 
 And. coughing, he spake something about the 
 
 wrath of heaven; 
 
 Then I said, When God was preaching other ser- 
 mons sounded dull, 
 
 And I wanted no "improvement" of the lesson 
 He had given. 
 
 I said that, for myself, I did not wish to be improved, 
 And doubted if he could at all improve the work 
 
 of God ; 
 
 But if he thought the wrath of heaven against him- 
 self was moved, 
 
 He might pray there like a worm on whom his- 
 Deity had trod. 
 
 I added that the tempest was a mercy clear 
 
 to me, 
 The very thing I needed for the volume that I 
 
 wrote ; 
 It came in time precisely, and my book was sure 
 
 to be 
 
 A great success, with such a glorious picture in 
 the plot. 
 
EVANGELIST. jg/ 
 
 I had just come to a point where I required a 
 
 thunder-storm, 
 And heaven was kind to send it in the very 
 
 nick of time; 
 And I was very grateful not to be a trampled 
 
 worm, 
 
 But a favourite of the gods who gave me matter 
 for my rhyme, 
 
 If the Father cares for sparrows, He may surely 
 
 care for books, 
 And send a troubled author storm or sunshine 
 
 which he needs; 
 If winds were sent to farmers for the winnowing 
 
 of their stocks, 
 
 Surely poets might get weather for recording of 
 His deeds. 
 
 And why should men be grateful for a fine potato 
 
 crop, 
 Or sunshine for the oats, or rain to make the 
 
 turnips grow, 
 And thankless for the wholesome books that fruitful 
 
 authors drop, 
 
 Or a publisher's good season up in Paternoster 
 Row. 
 
1 88 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 And God was good to me, I said, in gathering his 
 
 cloud, 
 I saw a special providence in letting loose the 
 
 wind; 
 That He cared to feed the hungry every pious heart 
 
 allowed, 
 
 But He must doubly care to feed the hunger 
 of the mind. 
 
 The more he stared and gasped at me, the more 
 
 I pushed him hard, 
 Saying, Surely the book-harvest was heaven's 
 
 peculiar care ; 
 The Church might be God's vineyard, but the 
 
 verses of the bard 
 
 Were the ripe fruits of his orchard, and the flowers 
 that made it fair; 
 
 And novels were the poppies, red and sunny in 
 
 the field, 
 And histories were wholesome oats, and essays 
 
 were the rich 
 Clover-fields that fed His kine, and made the butter 
 
 that they yield, 
 
 While sermons were the small-weeds growing in 
 the hedge or ditch; 
 
EVANGELIST. ^9 
 
 And tracts were for his horses, like the vetches and 
 
 the tares 
 To be munched up by the bushel, being savourless 
 
 and dry; 
 But songs were his ripe apples ; and his apricots and 
 
 pears 
 
 Were ballads and the lyric strains of love, that 
 never die. 
 
 I wot not why I chattered so amid the sullen 
 
 lull, 
 While the tempest took its breath, and gathered 
 
 for another burst; 
 It was his face that tempted me, it looked so blank 
 
 and dull; 
 
 And partly I revenged me for his talk with Hilda, 
 first. 
 
 Because he was a preacher, she had let him say to 
 
 her 
 What no one else had dared to say without her 
 
 proud rebuke; 
 
 But any thing that called itself a Christian minister 
 She heard as she would hearken to the Volume 
 of the Book. 
 
1 90 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Low in my heart I laughed then to see him stare 
 
 and gasp 
 At that imagined book for which the thunder had 
 
 been sent, 
 And at his puzzled horror as I buzzed like stinging 
 
 wasp, 
 
 Too swift for his slow movements, in my wanton 
 merriment. 
 
 No book then was I writing that needed storm or 
 
 calm, 
 Nor could I copy Nature in that hard and soulless 
 
 way, 
 Barely cataloguing facts, although I heard, as 'twere 
 
 a Psalm 
 
 Of awe-inspiring joy, the grand orchestral thunder 
 play. 
 
 And truth may lie in laughter too, and wisdom in 
 
 a jest, 
 And wit may lend its sparkle to the reverential 
 
 thought ; 
 And solemn fools shall talk to you their wisest and 
 
 their best, 
 
 And leave you very weary with the nothing you 
 have got. 
 
EVANGELIST. 1 9 ! 
 
 At length he rose in anger, would not stay beneath 
 
 a roof 
 
 That might be smote with judgment for the blas- 
 phemies I said : 
 Would I jest at the Eternal, while His thunders rolled 
 
 aloof, 
 
 And His awful sword was flashing in the lightning 
 overhead ? 
 
 The world was blind and faithless, and full of vain 
 
 conceit 
 Of wisdom which was foolishness, and would not 
 
 know the Lord; 
 And I might write brisk words that, one day, I would 
 
 . fain delete 
 
 When He came in his glory , whom the Universe 
 adored. 
 
 I did not bid him stay, although the storm burst 
 
 forth anew, 
 And snapt a grand old pine as if it had been but 
 
 a reed; 
 There were five behind our cottage, and I loved 
 
 them, and I knew 
 
 Their features and their voices, for they spoke to 
 me, indeed. 
 
I9 2 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 They were like living things to me, with thoughts 
 
 and memories 
 And passions of the women in the untamed Druid 
 
 times ; 
 I heard them sing their skalds at night unto the 
 
 raving seas, 
 
 And moan their rugged lyke-wakes in the ancient 
 Runic rhymes. 
 
 I called them Druid sisters, for I wist that they 
 
 had seen 
 The black priests in the forest, and the altars, and 
 
 the smoke; 
 And in the evening still they talked to me of what 
 
 had been, 
 
 Ere the Roman smote the savage, or the Christian 
 morning broke. 
 
 Now, startled by the sudden crash, I did not think 
 
 of him, 
 But of the tall grey sister who was growing bald 
 
 atop, 
 And grey with clinging lichen that had feathered 
 
 every limb, 
 
 And in my mind I saw her bow her lofty head, 
 and drop, 
 
EVANGELIST. 
 
 193 
 
 While o'er their fallen sister all the others scream 
 
 and moan 
 In unrestrained anguish; so I did not bid him 
 
 stay; 
 The night was wild and fearful, and the road was 
 
 dark and lone, 
 
 But he had the wild-beast instinct to surely find 
 his way. 
 
 And so I let him go, and then I thought that I 
 
 did right; 
 Could any soul have sat there to be drenched 
 
 with commonplace, 
 Slushed with dull ditch-water preachments, when the 
 
 awe of that great night 
 
 Had strung the mind to highest pitch, and touched 
 the heart with grace? 
 
 My Being was at white heat, and he would have 
 
 plunged it so, 
 Hissing, into his cold water; and I did rebel at 
 
 that; 
 And there are times when silence, if the preacher 
 
 did but know, 
 
 Shall preach to better purpose than a sermon 
 stale and flat. 
 
 N 
 
I94 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Thus he went forth in wrath, and I had no regretful 
 
 thought 
 Hearing him bang the door, and stride into the 
 
 stormy night; 
 
 I sat in silence, ordering all the pictures I had got, 
 Or glancing now at Hilda through the glim- 
 mering candle light. 
 
 By-and-by, the storm abated, and the moon came 
 
 forth, at length, 
 In a clear breadth of heaven, with all the countless 
 
 host of stars, 
 And nature did assert the calm tranquillity of 
 
 strength, 
 
 And bridled with the Pleiades the wrath of angry 
 Mars. 
 
 I looked out from my window to Orion and his 
 
 belt; 
 She looked out from her window to the lone star 
 
 near the Pole; 
 And not a word we spake as yet, but in my heart 
 
 I felt 
 
 A shadow creeping coldly, like eclipse, across my 
 soul. 
 
EVANGELIST. ! 95 
 
 There she sat, pale and anxious, with a wistful 
 
 frightened look 
 That seemed to shrink from me, although she 
 
 neither spoke nor stirred; 
 There I sat, dull and listless, with my eyes upon 
 
 a book 
 
 Whereof, although I read and read, I knew not 
 e'er a word. 
 
 Very silent were we both; but how I yearned for 
 
 her I loved ! 
 As gazing through the candle-light, I saw her 
 
 quivering lip, 
 And how the great tears gathered, and how the 
 
 loose ring moved, 
 
 Unconscious, from the knuckle to the slender 
 finger-tip. 
 
 I thought I had done right; but I was not so sure 
 
 next day; 
 Morning thoughts are sweet and tender and I 
 
 whispered my regret; 
 I had been vexed and angry; and I might have 
 
 bid him stay ; 
 
 Yet I hinted that his head would be the cooler for 
 the wet. 
 
196 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 Ah me ! ah me ! that thoughtless itch for saying 
 
 clever things ! 
 Ah me ! ah me ! that little sense of what a word 
 
 may do ! 
 Ah me ! the woeful echo from the weary past that 
 
 rings 
 
 Words that are very old now, but the grief is 
 always new ! 
 
 That day was full of rumours sad, of boats swamped 
 
 out at sea, 
 Guns booming in the offing, and wrecks strewn 
 
 along the shore, 
 
 And the fierce-rushing river had flooded all the lea, 
 And left but stones and gravel where the clover 
 grew before. 
 
 Weary and sad, at evening I hasted home, with 
 
 all 
 My budget of ill news, to find yet worse awaiting 
 
 there, 
 For Hilda, with a face that did my very heart 
 
 appal, 
 
 Sat, white and chill, beside the fire, with fixed 
 and stony stare. 
 
EVANGELIST. 
 
 197 
 
 A fixed and stony stare at me ! I think she knew 
 
 me not, 
 But shivered when I spoke, and seemed to shrink 
 
 from me in dread; 
 And but for that long shudder my unwelcome 
 
 presence brought, 
 
 I hardly could have known if she were living then 
 or dead. 
 
 O misery ! to think the only sign of life should be 
 A chill and shrinking quiver at the tender words 
 
 I spake ! 
 What was it? what had done it? who will tell the 
 
 truth to me? 
 
 And now I thought my head would reel, and 
 now my heart would break. 
 
 But bit by bit, I gathered that she had gone out at 
 
 noon 
 To walk across the moor, and see the shepherd's 
 
 sickly wife, 
 And nurse her sickly babe a while, and sing a 
 
 quiet tune 
 
 To still its ceaseless wailing, for it had faint hold 
 of life. 
 
198 LUKE SPROTT, 
 
 And what she saw, or what she heard, or what had 
 
 touched her wits, 
 Our handmaid wist not, only she came home so 
 
 ghastly pale, 
 And spoke not any word to her, but fell in swooning 
 
 fits, 
 
 And then sat with a stony look, or wailed a 
 piteous wail. 
 
 Just then I heard a trampling and a shuffling at 
 
 the door, 
 And men came in thereafter with heavy, clumsy 
 
 tread, 
 And laid a wet, lank burden there beside me on 
 
 the floor, 
 
 And every face that looked at me was ghastly 
 as the dead. 
 
 They had been going home, and turned to look 
 
 at the old pine 
 Thunder-blasted in the tempest, when they saw 
 
 him lying there; 
 Poor Luke ! he was a godly man, and eloquent 
 
 divine, 
 
 And also shod the horses well, and acted just 
 and fair ! 
 
EVANGELIST. 
 
 199 
 
 So clumsily they told the tale, low-speaking, sad at 
 
 heart, 
 Losing a faithful friend in days of weary grief and 
 
 care; 
 And now the truth flashed on me as I looked, and 
 
 saw a part 
 
 Of his hard features through the fell of moist 
 and matted hair. 
 
 Scarce had he left my door, or but a score of paces 
 
 gone, 
 That evening, when a sudden fate had laid him 
 
 with the tree, 
 And Hilda, coming home, had seen the dead man 
 
 lying lone 
 
 Among the pools of water, with reproach of her 
 and me. 
 
 And that had driven her from her wits, and now 
 
 she sat and stared, 
 
 And shivered when I spake to her, and was dis- 
 traught and wild; 
 And as I held her hand, and prayed, I vowed, 
 
 too, that I shared 
 
 Her sorrow and her faith and hope, and would 
 be as a child. 
 
200 LUKE SFROTT, 
 
 Yea, I would be a child of God, if she would only 
 
 look, 
 I would believe whatever she said, if she would 
 
 only speak, 
 I would not care for fame or power, for glory or 
 
 for book, 
 
 If she would only kiss me with the kiss that I 
 did seek. 
 
 A weary, woeful night it was, unbroken night to 
 
 her, 
 Through all the dismal hours, and O the anguish 
 
 unto me ! 
 But with the morning light, the day began to faintly 
 
 stir 
 
 With dim gleams of returning thought as glimmerings 
 on the sea. 
 
 But from that day we were estranged : she spoke no 
 
 word of blame, 
 Or only blamed herself, but she was silent and 
 
 apart ; 
 We never spake about him, and we never named 
 
 his name, 
 
 But yet his shadow coldly lay between me and 
 her heart. 
 
EVANGELIST. 201 
 
 It was as if my fate had been to drive her God 
 
 away, 
 To part her from all emblems and helps of things 
 
 Divine ; 
 And she must walk without me now along the narrow 
 
 way, 
 
 And she must make atonement for the guilt that 
 had been mine. 
 
BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 the Church, with her compacted 
 Creeds- 
 Clear thought that grew from faith and holy 
 
 deeds, 
 
 Like dew distilled beneath the calm clear sky 
 By her whose life may droop, but cannot die 
 Only the Church, with Sacrament and Priest, 
 And sacred Liturgy, and saintly Feast, 
 And great traditions, can our hope restore, 
 Or save this land that bleeds at every pore. 
 She, like .a loving mother watching late 
 Through the dark night, may still avert its fate, 
 Tending each symptom, nursing with fond care 
 The sinking life, while any life is there, 
 And drawing down by prayer the needed grace, 
 Till day-break smite upon the weary face. 
 
204 REV ' ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 For woe is me ! this land of saints, once trod 
 By hallowed feet of martyr-sons of God, 
 Who from their cradle in the Hebrides, 
 Swaddled in mists, and rocked by stormy seas, 
 Drove out the heathen, threw their altars down, 
 And bore the cross until they gained the crown, 
 And plying agencies of peace and right, 
 Filled it with light, and made it love the light, 
 And Heaven, because it was so brave and true, 
 Gave it great trials, and high tasks to do, 
 That it might win great glory now it lies, 
 Torn by schismatic sects, whose rival cries 
 Screech, as the dismal owl, when light is gone, 
 Calls to the bittern in great Babylon. 
 It was the Church that in the age of Faith 
 And Miracle, when Prayer was its life-breath, 
 Moulded our civil life, and taught the arts, 
 Framed the just law, and filled the busy marts, 
 Drained the waste marshes, felled the forests vast, 
 Ploughed the long furrow, trimmed the bending mast, 
 Piled the tall minster towers, and reared the school 
 And stately college with its cloistered rule, 
 Quickening man's thought, and polishing his wit, 
 And garnering wisdom in the books she writ; 
 Yet meekly still her toilsome path she trod, 
 And gave the glory of it all to God. 
 
PRIEST. 
 
 205 
 
 But now we drive her from her tasks so dear; 
 Unblest the school, unblest the fruitful year, 
 Schismatic pride would first unchristianize 
 The life it vainly hopes to civilize, 
 Would cut the roots from which it grew so grand. 
 Part Church and State, and make an Atheist land. 
 
 And what the fruit of all that fierce dissent 
 
 Scorning God's holy Church and Sacrament? 
 
 We call ourselves a Christian nation still, 
 
 Boast how our Sabbaths all the Churches fill, 
 
 How in the furrow lies the plough at rest, 
 
 And the beached boat heeds not the sea's request, 
 
 And how all Labour pauses at the call 
 
 To worship Him whose grace is all in all. 
 
 But do we cease from sin ? or only stay 
 
 The wholesome work, yet not to praise or pray, 
 
 But to compound for wrong, and to abuse 
 
 God's patience, yawning in the weary pews? 
 
 Think of the drunkard's home, the mother's brat, 
 
 Memorial of the shame she grumbles at, 
 
 The artful trick adulterating food, 
 
 The balance false, the measure rarely good, 
 
 The cooked accounts that puzzle even the wise, 
 
 And swindle large by arithmetic lies, 
 
 The pasty cloth that stands nor sun nor rain, 
 
206 REV. ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 The gritty bread, more sand than wholesome 
 
 grain, 
 
 The edgeless tools, the ships that will not sail, 
 Insured to sink, and swamped without a gale. 
 Lo ! we have liberty, but scanty law, 
 And mocking unbelief for reverent awe, 
 Loud boasts of power that snorting steam has 
 
 given, 
 
 And lauds of science for the praise of heaven. 
 Woe's me ! you shall not pace the village street 
 At evening for the brawling crowds you meet, 
 Or brazen women, leering as you pass 
 The steaming dram-shop with its glare of gas. 
 No voice of prayer is heard, no wailing psalm 
 Sobs, penitential, through the star-lit calm; 
 God's Word is cheap, and therefore little prized, 
 The World his worship gets, and sin goes undis- 
 guised. 
 
 Wherefore, I say, the Church herself must gird 
 To her high task, by ancient ardour stirred. 
 Too long her Priests have lowered her claim to be 
 The Light of Life by which the world shall see; 
 Too long in faint, apologetic strain 
 The Church has spoken, fitly so in vain; 
 Too long her beauteous Service has been left 
 
PRIEST. 207 
 
 To slovenly haste and carelessness, bereft 
 
 Of all its antique grace, and rich device 
 
 Of sacerdotal robes for sacrifice, 
 
 Its fragrant incense, and its altar-lights, 
 
 Its ministry of comely Acolytes, 
 
 Its hallowed ritual fittingly intoned, 
 
 And its great Mystery lifted high, and throned, 
 
 In sacred symbol, for the Faith of all 
 
 Who bow the knee to Christ, and on Him call. 
 
 'Tis meet that she who speaks in name of God, 
 
 And smites man's sin with words, as with a rod, 
 
 And bids the penitent in peace depart, 
 
 And calms the troubled, heals the bleeding heart, 
 
 Should have her glorious robes, and solemn 
 
 speech, 
 
 Symbols of power to pardon and to teach 
 With all divine authority, and tell 
 Vexed heart and mind, Be still, for all is well. 
 
 O for the days of Faith ! when patient thought 
 Brooded on things of God, and questioned not ! 
 When consecrated lives atoned for sin 
 By service that the grace of life might win ! 
 They fed the poor, they watched the bed of pain, 
 Nursed the plague-stricken, soothed the fevered 
 brain, 
 
208 REV. ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 Chaunted by day and night the holy Hours, 
 And gave to humblest tasks the highest powers ; 
 For lowly worship swelled to bliss complete, 
 When kings and nobles washed the pilgrims' 
 feet. 
 
 So would we labour that the Church may be 
 
 Glorious again; and that the world may see 
 
 Embodied life divine, Incarnate Truth, 
 
 Rising anew in its immortal youth, 
 
 Doing the work of God that heals and saves, 
 
 Blessing our cradles and our lowly graves. 
 
 Not ours, indeed, to strip from life the fit 
 
 Shadow of God, that grandly lies on it ; 
 
 Not ours the garish, earthly light that leaves 
 
 No dread obscurities, no o'erhanging eaves 
 
 For souls to nestle in, and haply wing 
 
 From shade to sunshine forth, and sweetly 
 
 sing. 
 
 Still high in awful Heaven our Faith would see 
 Mysterious Godhead, One and Trinity; 
 Incarnate Mystery too in mercy sent, 
 And offered still in mystic Sacrament. 
 So let the Church be true, in word and deed, 
 To her high Mission and her holy Creed, 
 
PRIEST. 209 
 
 Her glorious traditions, and her claim 
 
 To speak to man in God's eternal name, 
 
 With Psalm and Prayer, and Cross and lifted 
 
 Host, 
 And Praise shall be to Father, Son, and Holy 
 
 Ghost 
 
 So preached the Preacher to MS once ; an Oxford 
 
 scholar, young, 
 With bare, thin face and sallow, bare and shallow 
 
 too his mind; 
 
 A narrow spirit, with a pulpit rhetoric high-strung 
 Something flat and commonplace, but very telling 
 of its kind. 
 
 Rounded periods, rarely natural fit movements of 
 
 the hand 
 
 Tones liquid, but monotonous ejaculations oft 
 To emphasise a commonplace a manner gravely 
 
 bland 
 
 In private, but with women very winning, gracious, 
 soft; 
 
 o 
 
210 R^V- ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 These had won the hearts of many, gathered crowds 
 
 into his pews, 
 Though he had little light to give, and none at 
 
 all to me; 
 And weekly in the Kirk the pulpit thundered at his 
 
 views, 
 
 And at all who to the Woman or the Beast 
 might bow the knee. 
 
 A pretty Church-revival now sprang up, with dainty 
 
 hymns 
 Artistically sung, and prayers with high intoning 
 
 read, 
 
 And holly-wreaths at Christmas about the cherubims 
 That smiled with puffy cheeks beside the tablets 
 of the dead. 
 
 There were candles on the altar, there was incense 
 
 in the air, 
 A Reredos, and a crucifix that towered up like a 
 
 mast; 
 And with forty minutes' singing, and forty minutes 7 
 
 prayer, 
 
 And twenty minutes' preaching, we were coming 
 right at last. 
 
PRIEST. 211 
 
 Then he needed a new organ, and we had a grand 
 
 bazaar, 
 And raffles winning money as you might at 
 
 whist or pool; 
 And a lady-volunteer who carried on a petty 
 
 war 
 
 With a choir of surpliced children badly trained 
 at Sunday school. 
 
 'Twas no.tr the simple worship of our homely Pres- 
 byters, 
 Nor yet the stately worship of the custom 
 
 Catholic, 
 
 But a modern imitation, smacking of the milliner's 
 Bran-new devotions fashioned on the model of 
 antique. 
 
 To me it felt all hollow; but yet the youth had 
 
 zeal, 
 Played pastor very diligent, had he had aught 
 
 to say, 
 Spent days among the sick, and by the fevered bed 
 
 would kneel, 
 
 And patter o'er his little book, and hurry on 
 his way. 
 
212 REV- ELPHINSTONZ BELL, 
 
 Hilda took to him amazingly, went to his daily 
 
 prayers, 
 And school and district work, and now was rarely 
 
 found at home; 
 Quoted his tinsel pretty words, was full of church 
 
 affairs, 
 
 And when I jested at him was as crisp to me 
 as foam. 
 
 Day by day the church she haunted, quite forsook 
 
 her parish kirk, 
 Took to wearing dingy dresses, russet-brown or 
 
 iron-grey, 
 Fasted often, made her life a weary penitential 
 
 work, 
 
 With all its natural brightness now put carefully 
 away. 
 
 Scarce an hour but had its service of reading or of 
 
 prayer, 
 Scarce a day but was a saint's day, and her saints 
 
 were very grim; 
 They frowned at every pleasure, and they smiled at 
 
 every care, 
 
 And still she spoke to me of God, and giving 
 all for Him. 
 
, PRIEST. 213 
 
 Keenly I felt that, all the more the priestling was 
 
 obeyed, 
 The lonelier life was growing, and we drifted more 
 
 apart ; 
 We had not any words, but something on her 
 
 spirit preyed, 
 
 And ever-widening waters seemed to sunder heart 
 from heart. 
 
 He led her on a way divine which was not 
 
 human too, 
 And that, I wist, was not the way that Christ 
 
 had walked of old; 
 And common, homely duty now a daily burden 
 
 grew, 
 
 And common life was trifling, and all earthly love 
 was cold. 
 
 What was it? People told me he was verging 
 
 toward Rome; 
 
 But Roman or Genevan, mattered little unto me; 
 God had His little children out at nurse in many 
 
 a home, 
 
 Who laid their Bible on His lap, or Cross upon 
 His knee. 
 
214 RE V - ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 That could never work this mischief; all the churches 
 
 had their popes ; 
 And I cared not for Pope Calvin more than Pius ; 
 
 as for beads 
 
 And crucifix and censers and chasubles and copes, 
 If she had a fancy for them, they were prettier 
 things than creeds. 
 
 What was it, then, that chilled her into frosty 
 
 silence now, 
 As days went dimly by, without the wintriest 
 
 gleam of mirth 
 To brighten up her wistful look, or clear the clouded 
 
 brow? 
 
 And wherefore did she sigh like one a-weary of 
 the earth? 
 
 For all the house grew silent, and her laugh was 
 
 never heard, 
 That wont to ring so cheery, and she sang but 
 
 doleful hymns 
 About the pilgrim's travail, and the comfort of His 
 
 Word, 
 
 And the home that is eternal, and the shining 
 seraphims. 
 
PRIEST. 
 
 215 
 
 I comprehend now better what it was that preyed 
 
 on her 
 As she brooded in her loneliness, and yearned for 
 
 higher love ; 
 For her heart went upward, dreaming of that little 
 
 visiter 
 
 Whom God had taken from her arms into the 
 heaven above. 
 
 She thought we were not worthy to rear the child 
 
 of God, 
 Our home-air was too worldly for so pure a soul 
 
 to breathe, 
 And while she meekly bowed beneath the chastening 
 
 of the rod, 
 
 About the rod of sorrow she would twine a holy 
 wreath. 
 
 Ever her heart was longing for the life that is 
 
 not here, 
 And love that death can never touch with 
 
 withering of its bloom, 
 And for the tender blossom that she laid with awe 
 
 and fear, 
 
 Yet with absolute assurance, in its little grassy 
 tomb. 
 
216 REV. ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 Upward her daily musings soared in wonder, hope, 
 
 and awe, 
 The heavenward meditations of a heart that found 
 
 no rest, 
 Save in thought-reflected vision of the glory where 
 
 she saw 
 
 The children with the Father folded in among 
 the blest 
 
 All this I learnt long after, when I read the secret 
 
 Book 
 Of her solitary musing, blurred with many a tearful 
 
 stain ; 
 I had thought her cold unto me when I saw her 
 
 absent look, 
 
 But her soul was longing for the lost that cometh 
 not again. 
 
 I also found the priest upon her tender scruples 
 
 played, 
 Eager to make a saint now of the mediaeval 
 
 kind, 
 Inventing fresh atonements, as the restless heart 
 
 betrayed 
 
 Their failure in the cravings of the still remorseful 
 mind. 
 
PRIEST. 217 
 
 She was daily in his thoughts, and she was ever 
 
 in his prayers ; 
 He watched her sickly thought with pride, and 
 
 nursed the deep disease. 
 O the honour to his work, the rich reward of all 
 
 his cares, 
 
 To have the training of a saint in evil days like 
 these ! 
 
 But this I knew not at the time; and as I cast 
 
 about 
 
 For any likely reason this new sorrow to ex- 
 plain, 
 And could not find it in my work, nor in my 
 
 deepening doubt, 
 
 There sprang up in my brooding heart a thought 
 of bitter pain. 
 
 For calling up the former days which happily had 
 
 flown, 
 I paused at Winnie Urquhart, with her talent and 
 
 conceit ; 
 Hilda was jealous at the time, I saw it in her 
 
 frown, 
 
 And heard it in the tapping on the carpet of 
 her feet. 
 
2 1 8 RE V. ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 Was this the shadow in our life? and could her 
 
 love expire 
 In fumes of jealous anger, and in self-tormenting 
 
 thought ? 
 
 Had she so little faith in me, and in the altar- 
 fire 
 
 Which I had tended like a charge that from the 
 heavens I got? 
 
 My heart had never wandered for a moment from 
 
 its place; 
 My faith had been unshaken and unshadowed for 
 
 an hour; 
 But now a chill crept o'er my soul, a gloom came 
 
 on my face, 
 
 And my distrusted love became a deep distrustful 
 power. 
 
 And thus the strangeness grew a silent gulf between 
 
 us twain, 
 A wan, still water, drifting us yet more and more 
 
 apart : 
 
 A life of wrested meanings, and of keen mis- 
 taken pain, 
 
 While each, with wistful longing, wondered at the 
 other's heart. 
 
PRIEST. 219 
 
 Yet once I tried to draw her close again, for love 
 
 is strong, 
 And O my love yearned for her love, and O my 
 
 heart was sore ! 
 But cold love will not warm again ; and now my 
 
 nights were long, 
 
 Like a stretch of barren sand upon the day's 
 unhappy shore. 
 
 But one bright summer evening all the sadder for 
 
 its brightness 
 I sat in the green arbour looking to the sleepy 
 
 town; 
 Slumbrous-sweet syringa-blossoms hung about me 
 
 in their whiteness, 
 
 And the summer in its glory bore the burden 
 of its crown. 
 
 Sat the coney on its haunches 'mong the grey sand 
 
 near its hole, 
 Crouched the hare in the long furrow where the 
 
 tender est barley grew, 
 And I bade the living creatures loving welcome in 
 
 my soul, 
 
 For life was not so lonely with them frisking in 
 my view. 
 
220 REV. ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 A yellow bee was drumming at the fox-glove where 
 
 it shewed 
 A spire of purple-spotted bells upon the sunny 
 
 brae, 
 And my heart went back a-dreaming far along the 
 
 changeful road, 
 
 Till thought passed into tears, and all the scene 
 grew dim and grey. 
 
 sad our withered hopes amid the flush of leaf 
 
 and flower; 
 Sad the winter of the spirit with the summer's 
 
 wealth around; 
 And the weird feeling came again upon me in that 
 
 hour, 
 That life was but a shadow flitting dimly on the 
 
 ground. 
 
 Shadowy joys, and shadowy sorrows ! shadows all 
 
 I felt and saw ! 
 
 The old sense of unreality came back on me 
 again 
 
 1 had dreamt, and I was waking, and the morning 
 
 air was raw, 
 
 Or perhaps I only dreamt that I was waking up 
 to pain. 
 
PRIEST. 221 
 
 There was a fate upon me, and it drove me on 
 
 and on, 
 And I must "dree my weird," alas, whatever it 
 
 might be; 
 Yet was I but a shadow among shadows sitting 
 
 lone, 
 
 And waiting for the doom that moaned around 
 me like the sea. 
 
 Then Hilda came up softly, and softly sat her 
 
 down; 
 I knew that she was very pale, and very often 
 
 sighed, 
 Although I looked away from her unto the sleepy 
 
 town 
 
 Expecting that sure fate which from afar I had 
 descried. 
 
 'Twas all as if I knew before the thing that was 
 
 to be; 
 'Twould not have startled me to hear that I must 
 
 die that night ! 
 
 Yet it was as if a shadow of no moment unto me, 
 A fate and yet a dream and very strange, yet 
 very right. 
 
222 RE V- ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 In silence and constraint we sat, a short while, side 
 
 by side, 
 While leaf by leaf she plucked the flower in 
 
 pieces at her waist 
 With thin and trembling hand ; and with mechanic 
 
 foot I tried 
 
 Making scores upon the gravel, to be speedily 
 effaced. 
 
 " I would do right," she said, " and yet I know not 
 
 what to think, 
 For things are not the same now as they used 
 
 to be before ; 
 And from the cross appointed us we may not dare 
 
 to shrink, 
 
 Nor close the ear to Him who standeth knocking 
 at the door." 
 
 I knew this was her woman's way of drawing near 
 
 to me, 
 A hint that, like a bud, a little sunshine would 
 
 unfold, 
 
 A feeling out for any touch of answering sympathy, 
 That all the burdened secret of her trouble 
 might be told. 
 
PRIEST. 223 
 
 And O I should have let my heart flow freely out 
 
 to hers, 
 I should have met her longing, and mingled it 
 
 with mine, 
 I should have wooed her o'er again, pleading with 
 
 all that stirs 
 
 The woman and the human, till she felt it was 
 divine. 
 
 But I was never ready yet, was always wise too 
 
 late ; 
 Right words come swiftly to my pen, but slowly 
 
 to my lips ; 
 And there was that Greek-feeling of the coming on 
 
 of Fate, 
 
 Which dulled me with its shadow like the gloom 
 of an eclipse. 
 
 And under all there lay the petulant, brooding sense 
 
 of wrong, 
 As I thought her jealous love distrusted mine, that 
 
 trusted all, 
 And had been true to her as is the music to the 
 
 song 
 
 That subtlely links its movement unto every rise 
 and fall. 
 
224 REV ' ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 Then, something seemed to break in me. I thought 
 
 I heard it snap, 
 Like string of lute or viol, and I did not seem 
 
 to care; 
 There was no more to win or lose ; my life had 
 
 lost its sap, 
 
 And shook but leafless branches creaking in the 
 wintry air. 
 
 I scarce know what I answered, but it had no 
 
 touch of grace ; 
 'Twas something about making crosses where no 
 
 cross was meant ; 
 The anguish and the deadness drove me into 
 
 commonplace, 
 
 And the commonplace fell on her like a heart- 
 less argument. 
 
 And still I see the great blue eyes, strange-gleam- 
 ing like a ghost, 
 From out of her pale face, as she made answer 
 
 with a moan ; 
 " At least, I shall not have to pay the price I 
 
 dreaded most; 
 
 God's love will break no human heart, unless it 
 break my own." 
 
PRIEST. 225 
 
 She had brought to me her burden, and she brought 
 
 it all in vain ; 
 O cursed conceit of being right which kills all 
 
 noble feeling ! 
 A little word of kindness would have saved a load 
 
 of pain, 
 
 A little word of love had wrought a miracle of 
 healing. 
 
 She meant to tell me all her grief, and all her 
 
 young heart's care, 
 And all the fond atonements she was minded 
 
 then to try ; 
 She meant to seek my counsel for the purpose 
 
 that she bare, 
 
 On a scrupulous, troubled conscience that was 
 sorely vexed thereby. 
 
 And I, I had not heard her; but with blankest 
 
 commonplace 
 Had turned away from eager eyes that pleaded 
 
 as for life, 
 Had spoken in tones of iron, with an unmoved iron 
 
 face, 
 
 And every word a cruel stab as with a cruel 
 knife. 
 
 p 
 
226 REV. ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 Now both again were silent; then she sighed, and 
 
 went away, 
 And by and by I rose, and passed down to the 
 
 moaning sea, 
 Until the moon arose, and spread long tresses on 
 
 the bay, 
 
 And silent stars, with sad rebuke, seemed look- 
 ing down on me. 
 
 Next day, I watched her going, calm, about her 
 
 household work, 
 Putting everything in order, sorting all with bated 
 
 breath, 
 Desk and drawer, and banded letter; and her face 
 
 was like a mask, 
 
 While she put all in its place, as one prepares 
 for coming death. 
 
 I could not but remember how, when that hope 
 
 made us glad, 
 Which ended in a little grave in the dim land 
 
 of peace, 
 She, hoping not for motherhood, had tidied all she 
 
 had, 
 
 And writ out full directions for the time of her 
 release. 
 
PRIEST. 227 
 
 They say, the strange new life that throbs beneath 
 
 a mother's heart 
 Feels often liker death ; I cannot tell ; but when 
 
 I came 
 
 By chance, then, on the sorted drawers, and under- 
 stood, in part, 
 
 Their meaning, O the anguish, and the fear, and 
 sense of blame ! 
 
 And now again she hung above her boxes all the 
 
 day, 
 
 And went about the house, too, with a look pre- 
 meditate, 
 Silent, counting all the linens, putting things in 
 
 drawers away, 
 
 And by the less disorder making home more 
 desolate. 
 
 Books were gathered from the tables, and shelved 
 
 in order due, 
 Things that crowded on the mantelpiece were laid 
 
 aside in drawers, 
 Familiar, old disorder now took shape as neat and 
 
 new, 
 
 And there was bundling of receipts, and labelling 
 of jars. 
 
228 REV- ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 She wrote out for our maid some thoughtful counsel 
 
 for the days 
 When I should be alone, and where to find 
 
 what I might need, 
 And what my special likings were, and what my 
 
 common ways, 
 
 And ended with a prayer that heaven might bless 
 her in her deed. 
 
 I knew not this till after ; and I could not then 
 
 divine 
 The meaning of the order, and the look of rooms 
 
 to let, 
 The packed and sorted linens, neatly marked with 
 
 numbers fine, 
 
 And careful noting of accounts, and clearing of 
 her debts. 
 
 Only the days went by, as haunted by a coming 
 
 Fate, 
 That well I knew was closing on me, like the 
 
 darkling night, 
 Till reaching home one evening, I found no loving 
 
 mate 
 
 Fluttering round our little nest amid the waning 
 of the light. 
 
PRIEST. 229 
 
 Instead, there was a letter on the mantelpiece, that 
 
 leant 
 Against the marble clock a blotted letter, sealed 
 
 with black; 
 I did not need to read it then, to find out what 
 
 it meant, 
 
 As I saw the tremulous letters faintly scrawled 
 upon the back. 
 
 And yet it stunned me for a while; I held it in 
 
 my hand, 
 Staring at the superscription, though I wist not 
 
 what I saw ; 
 I know I locked the door too; -for my sorrow 
 
 could not stand 
 
 The gaze of the scared housemaid, half in pity, 
 half in awe. 
 
 Alone ! my soul would be alone ! it was a lonely 
 
 lot 
 That henceforth must be mine; but now I 
 
 wanted solitude; 
 Like wounded deer that leaves the herd for some 
 
 secluded spot 
 
 To die in, so I shut me in, and felt that it was 
 good. 
 
230 REV. ELPH1NSTONE BELL, 
 
 I broke the seal, and read I knew not what, but 
 
 all the night 
 I paced in silent anguish up and down the silent 
 
 room, 
 Now longing that the darkness might never see the 
 
 light, 
 
 Now praying for the light to scare the .horror of 
 the gloom. 
 
 I have it still, that letter it is brown and tattered 
 
 now, 
 Often read, although its every word is burnt 
 
 into my brain ; 
 And well where every falling tear had blotted it I 
 
 know, 
 
 And every blot is in my heart a scar and aching 
 pain. 
 
 THE LETTER. 
 
 Husband and Dearest, be not wroth with me, 
 Because I leave you for a little while. 
 Only a little one day to return, 
 A better wife, and make a brighter home, 
 For therefore do I go, with breaking heart ; 
 And secretly, for it would break your heart 
 
PRIEST. 231 
 
 To let me go; and yet I needs must go, 
 That worse may not befall, and we, the more 
 We rub together, be but more estranged. 
 
 Often I thought to tell you all the thought 
 That brooded in me. But you did not care 
 To speak of what might grow into debate ; 
 And I was fearful, knowing you have much 
 Upon your mind, and that it is not well 
 To fret the current of your larger thought 
 With small obstruction. What I mean is this; 
 Indeed, I did not mean to hide from you 
 My purpose, or to purpose anything 
 Unworthy; for wherever I may be, 
 My wifely heart goes with me, and the troth 
 I vowed to you ; and that you know right well. 
 
 But things are no more as they were with us ; 
 Somehow the light has gone out from our life, 
 And we, together living, live apart 
 In joyless solitude. I blame you not, 
 Except that your too tender cherishing 
 Fostered my self-love, making much of me, 
 Petting myself, and pitying myself 
 Too much already. Mine alone the blame 
 Of that dim separateness. For I was not 
 
232 REV. ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 The wife you needed, though I tried to be, 
 And never woman's love was more than mine. 
 I have not shared the burden of your thoughts, 
 I have not understood you, nor forgot 
 Myself in your high purpose ; my small lamp 
 That feebly glimmered, failed, of course, to light 
 The too large chambers of your life. Perhaps, 
 I never should have been a wedded wife; 
 Perhaps it had been better had I died 
 When God took baby from us. I have been 
 Foolish and fretful, selfish, useless ; only 
 I loved so absolute that is my excuse. 
 
 Had I but loved my God as well ! But there, 
 
 The more I strove that you should cleave to Him, 
 
 The more I seemed to lose my hold of Him, 
 
 And drifted as you drifted, helping not 
 
 Your soul, and hurting mine own faith, as day 
 
 Slipt after day, with ever dimmer sense 
 
 Of things unseen, in me, and harder thoughts 
 
 In you, until I felt my darkening way 
 
 Was darkening yours, and dropping into death 
 
 As we more alien grew in all our thoughts, 
 
 In feeling more estranged, in ways more sundered, 
 
 And God appeared the further from us both. 
 
 That is the bitter end of all my striving 
 
PRIEST. 233 
 
 Harm to my own soul, cruel hurt to thine ! 
 And yet I meant so well; only I tried 
 A work beyond my power; except the Lord, 
 Do build the house, the builder builds in vain. 
 
 Bear with me ; I am full of self-reproach, 
 
 As well I may be, and I must atone 
 
 For that so fruitless past, ere peace will come. 
 
 I have shunned sorrow, comforting myself 
 
 Till I have lost all comfort in myself; 
 
 And now I must seek sorrow for a while, 
 
 And wear the crown of thorns, and bear the cross, 
 
 And find a new life in them. Do not try 
 
 To hinder that on which my heart is set, 
 
 Which will redeem my life from shallowness, 
 
 And make its homely service, by and by, 
 
 Truer and purer; both to thee more helpful, 
 
 And happier to myself, forgetting self. 
 
 A little while and then I shall come back, 
 
 Wiser by lessons gathered where the shades 
 
 Of the Eternal fold around man's life, 
 
 Saying, Be still, and know that I am God. 
 
 A little while and but a little while, 
 
 Not long enough for either to forget, 
 
 Yet long enough for you to look beyond, 
 
 And find the fountain of a surer peace 
 
234 REV - ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 Than ever I could give. A little while, 
 And we shall wed again, and make a home, 
 Where Christ will dwell with us, as we recall 
 This break as our true marriage. 
 
 Farewell, now; 
 
 'Tis hard to write, and could not have been spoken ; 
 And yet it must be : farewell, my beloved. 
 I have gone over all the house, and left 
 Some tears in every room, and take with me 
 Its picture in my heart. I think that all 
 Is left in order; if there's aught forgotten, 
 Forgive me, for my heart was very heavy. 
 
 I know you'll not forget to plant fresh flowers 
 Around the little grave. 'Tis nothing; yet, 
 When I return, I would not like to see 
 Another picture than I bear with me. 
 
 You cannot doubt the love I bear to you. 
 You cannot doubt the grief that weeps for you, 
 You cannot doubt the purpose that for you 
 Would school my heart by earnest discipline ; 
 You cannot doubt me, even in leaving you 
 A little while, and but a little while, 
 For surely God will spare me unto you. 
 
PRIEST. 
 
 235 
 
 As I read that blotted letter, with its love so fond 
 
 and true, 
 Again in the dim morning, I was stung with 
 
 new regret; 
 Why had I mooned away the night, when there 
 
 was that to do 
 
 Which still might heal our sorrow, and restore 
 my darling yet? 
 
 O misery ! O misery ! to have been rich indeed, 
 And to have wasted all that wealth of love by 
 
 cold distrust ! 
 And what were I without her, but a shivering, 
 
 withered reed 
 
 With the glad water at its roots all gone to 
 summer dust? 
 
 I did not wish a wiser wife I only wanted 
 
 her. 
 How could she think I cared for bookish women 
 
 or their praise ? 
 
 If she only saw my heart now, if she only felt the stir 
 Of pain and shame and self-contempt I had for 
 all my ways ! 
 
236 REV. ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 I hurried to our priestling; I was sure he had 
 
 to do 
 
 With this fresh sorrow of my life ; and I mis- 
 judged him not; 
 He was fain to make atonement where atonement 
 
 was not due, 
 
 And manufactured crosses when Providence for- 
 got. 
 
 I found him high and haughty in a saintly kind of 
 
 way, 
 But he allowed that she had joined a pious 
 
 sisterhood 
 Who from a distant harbour would be sailing on 
 
 that day, 
 
 To nurse the wounded in the war, and do the 
 dying good. 
 
 I waited not for more ; 'twas idle to dispute with 
 
 him : 
 He had the true ascetic heart that knows no tie, 
 
 or care 
 Of wife or child or kindred, and was fain to sing 
 
 a hymn 
 
 For " those in peril on the sea " when I was fain 
 to swear. 
 
PRIEST. 
 
 237 
 
 that journey to the seaport! O the thoughts 
 
 that surged on me ! 
 O the reasons I would urge ! the triumph I must 
 
 surely win ! 
 But the anchor had been weighed, the ship was 
 
 dropping out to sea, 
 
 And I only looked on crowded decks, and heard 
 confused din. 
 
 1 saw the ship sway o'er the bar, I saw the 
 
 hurrying crowd, 
 
 And the sailors sang light-hearted, and the lands- 
 men gave a shout; 
 But song and shout were in my ear lamentings low 
 
 or loud, 
 
 And whether all were truth or dream, I could not 
 well make out. 
 
 I rushed along the granite mole that stretched far 
 
 out to sea, 
 Where angry waves were howling loud, like hungry 
 
 beasts of prey ; 
 O cruel waves whose crashing drowned the cry 
 
 that came from me ! 
 
 O mocking waves that heeded not, but bore my 
 love away. 
 
238 R&V- ELPHINSTONE BELL, 
 
 The rain came down in plashes, gusty, sputtering 
 
 in my face, 
 And little, gushing runlets flowed down by me 
 
 to the sea ; 
 I felt their chill, but recked not, and shivering for 
 
 a space 
 
 Sat on the dripping stones, and leant my face 
 upon my knee. 
 
 What followed then I cannot tell, I cannot tell how 
 
 long- 
 Sounds that made my blood to tingle, laughter 
 
 mingled with long sighs; 
 And now I was athirst, and now was choking in a 
 
 throng, 
 
 And ever one pale visage looked on me with 
 yearning eyes. 
 
 O God forgive us, Hilda; and God be good to 
 
 thee! 
 O my cold, distrustful silence, it was not the 
 
 better part ! 
 And O what would I give to bring my love back 
 
 from the sea 
 
 Whose billows, ever breaking on me, break my 
 very heart. 
 
PRIEST. 
 
 239 
 
 Where art thou? where, my darling? the noise of 
 
 war is stilled, 
 The wounded sun them at the doors, or cripple 
 
 through the street; 
 I ask them of my darling, and they tell me who 
 
 were killed, 
 
 Of the soldiers in the trenches, or the sailors in 
 the fleet. 
 
 They tell me of the sisters, but they never speak 
 
 of her ; 
 There was a sister Bridget, whom they never 
 
 name without 
 Rubbing a sleeve across the eye, and talking of the 
 
 stir, 
 
 When they broke out of the trenches to assail 
 the great Redoubt. 
 
 I wait and ask, and wait in vain; she passed away 
 
 from me; 
 The last glimpse that I had was when the ship 
 
 swayed o'er the bar; 
 And all the hope of love went down into the 
 
 stormy sea, 
 
 And never tidings came from it, or from the 
 storm of war. 
 
A MIGHTY city of tented streets, 
 
 And never a house of brick or stone, 
 And the pulse of the city throbs and beats 
 
 As if in a fever burning on; 
 Nothing but tents in all the plain, 
 Nothing but bronzed and bearded men, 
 With clashing sabre and jingling spur, 
 Plume of feather, or crest of fur. 
 
 Here are banners, and there are flags; 
 
 All of their bravery now is stained ; 
 As the wind flutters their tattered rags, 
 
 Lo ! where the powder and blood are grained 
 And the heavy air has a foetid breath : 
 Is it of blood ? or is it of death ? 
 How the wild dogs and the birds are fat, 
 Gorged, where they lazily perch or squat ! 
 Q 
 
242 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Now, at a tent-door steeds are champing, 
 
 Now they are galloping forth with speed; 
 Down the long streets there are companies tramping, 
 
 Grimly silent, on some fell deed; 
 Some in the wine-shop are drinking hard, 
 Some are gaming with dice and card; 
 Many a jolly stave trowls from those, 
 But these are coming to oaths and blows. 
 
 Hark ! to the call of the bugle horn, 
 
 Or the quick rattle of mustering drum ! 
 Swift to the summons, at even or morn, 
 
 Bronzed and bearded, the gallants come. 
 Balls from the rifle-pits ping about, 
 Great guns boom from the big Redoubt, 
 And the angry hiss of the burning shell 
 Screams through the fire and smoke of hell. 
 
 Far on the outskirts stands a tent, 
 
 And over the tent a great red Cross; 
 Balls lie round, but their force was spent 
 
 Long ere they rolled o'er the silent moss; 
 A cross is over the silent gate, 
 A cross on the arm of them that wait, 
 Emblem of pity and healing and peace, 
 Bidding the wrath of war here to cease. 
 
EPILOGUE. 243 
 
 One comes out of it, grave and sad; 
 
 Just a whisper, and then returns; 
 What are the tidings now? good or bad? 
 
 Still she lives, but the fever burns. 
 Then again silence reigns all about, 
 And the twilight pales, and a star comes out, 
 But yet the air seems to pulse and to throb, 
 Now and again, with a stifled sob. 
 
 Sudden, the sob is turned to a wail; 
 
 What is it? where is it? Hush! the door 
 Opens again now, and all hearts fail; 
 
 He too is weeping, for all is o'er. 
 It is not night, and it is not day; 
 Calm in the twilight she passed away, 
 Just as the star, where the cloud was riven, 
 Pointed her way through the opening heaven. 
 
 Near the tent-door was a sickly group, 
 
 And O the tears ran down their cheeks like rain ; 
 
 One said, "There is not a man in our troop 
 But would have died just to save her a pain : 
 
 I would have died for her ; so would a score of us ; 
 
 Broken and maimed, she was worth many more of us ; 
 
 God help the poor fellows, now she is gone : 
 
 She was like my mother when last I was down." 
 
244 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 When it was told at the drinking bar, 
 
 The flagon untasted was dashed on the board; 
 
 Hushed was the chorus of glory and war 
 Others were trusted, but she was adored. 
 
 No one shuffled the cards again, 
 
 Rattled the dice now, or called a main. 
 
 "Who's for the trenches? we must have it out; 
 
 Now is the time, lads, to try the Redoubt." 
 
 Belted with hell-fire, and shrouded with smoke, 
 Girdled with rifle-balls as with a wall, 
 
 Yet with a yell from the trenches they broke, 
 Plunging through rifle-balls, hell-fire, and all. 
 
 'Twas not for glory they stormed the Redoubt; 
 
 Twas that the grief of their wild hearts must out. 
 
 That was her monument; and they cried 
 
 "God and saint Bridget!" as each man died. 
 
T DO but paint a picture, just to show 
 
 How cracks the old crust of Faith beneath our feet, 
 Partly by light from heaven and fervent heat, 
 
 Partly by fierce upheaval from below. 
 
 Here fissures deep are gashed ; there but a rent 
 Scores the shrunk surface thirsting for fresh showers 
 To water its dry herbs and drooping flowers ; 
 
 But everywhere is great bewilderment. 
 
 God's ploughshare trenches well, nor will He wait, 
 And see His fallow lying all unbroke, 
 Because another's heifer takes the yoke, 
 
 Nor is His furrow always clean and straight, 
 
246 i: ENVOI. 
 
 But still He maketh ready for His sowing, 
 And scatters with the sweep of unseen hand 
 Fresh seed of life upon the fresh -turned land, 
 
 And gathers cloud and sunshine for its growing. 
 
 O weep ye for the Home whose tottering wall 
 The trembling heart with unfeigned anguish saw, 
 And with untempered mortar daubed its flaw, 
 
 Faith lacking Faith that God is over all. 
 
 Weep, yet rejoice ! for her unselfish deeds, 
 Mightier than words, have bidden doubt away, 
 And led him into light of better day, 
 
 And Love, which is the soul of all the Creeds. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 GLASGOW: 
 {printed at the etttibfrsiig $ve&8 
 
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Catalogue of Boofc0 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 JAMES MACLEHOSE & SONS, 
 
 JJttbU0Ittr0 t0 the SJniteaitj) ot (ilasgoto. 
 
 GLASGOW: 61 ST. VINCENT STREET. 
 
 1884. 
 
PUBLISHED BY 
 
 JAMES MACLEHOSE AND SONS, GLASGOW, 
 to the nib.ersitB. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON AND NEW YORK. 
 
 London, .... Hamilton, Adams and Co, 
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 Edinburgh, . . Douglas and Foulis. 
 
 AUGUST, MDCCCLXXXIV. 
 

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 Messrs. MACLEHOSE'S 
 
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 NICHOL THE DEATH OF THEMISTOCLES, and other Poems. 
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 "Dignified, careful, conscientious work throughout." Saturday Review. 
 
 " A hymn more solemnly beautiful than ' Donna Vera ' was never chanted 
 to Pallas herself by the most inspired of her ancient votaries." Glasgoiv 
 Herald. 
 
 " Professor Nichol is a master of the English epic metre." Scotsman. 
 
 OLRIG GRANGE. See SMITH. 
 
 PORTER, S. T. CHRISTIAN PROPHECY. Post 8vo. js. 6d. 
 
 PULSFORD -SERMONS PREACHED IN TRINITY CnuRCH r 
 GLASGOW. By the REV. WILLIAM PULSFORD, D.D. 
 Crown 8vo. Cloth, Red Edges. Cheap Edition. 43. 6d. 
 
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 Robertson fascinated his Brighton hearers." Daily Review. 
 
 " He is a preacher, because he has been first a thinker." Spectator. 
 
 RANKINE SONGS AND FABLES. By W. J. MACQUORN 
 RANKINE, late Professor of Engineering in the University 
 of Glasgow. With Portrait, and with Ten Illustrations by 
 J. B. Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 
 
 ROSS SCOTTISH HISTORY AND LITERATURE TO THE PERIOD 
 OF THE REFORMATION. By the late JOHN Ross, LL.D., 
 Edinburgh. Edited, with a Memoir, by JAMES BROWN, D.D., 
 author of "The Life of a Scottish Probationer." 8vo. 145. 
 
 "Dr. Ross was deeply versed in old Scottish literature; his patriotic 
 enthusiasm is intense, but duly controlled in expression by a sufficient sense 
 of humour. His book is not a dry compendium of facts, but a vivid account 
 of the national life of Scotland, viewed now from the political, and now from 
 the literary point of view." limes. 
 
 " A work of quite exceptional literary and historical value. Its peculiar 
 character, as well as its special value, lies in its skilful combination of the 
 early history of Scotland, with an adequate and thoroughly well-informed 
 description of the development of the national thought in the national 
 literature. " Scotsman. 
 
 1 ' There is no trace in this volume of mental weariness or perfunctory 
 cram. It is nothing short of masterly. The style is full, nervous, perspi- 
 cuous, vitalized by an enthusiasm always kept on the safe side by humour 
 and good sense. In the warmth of his patriotic and moral enthusiasm, in 
 his thorough mastery of details, as well as in the glowing energy of his 
 style, he reminds us of Mr. Green." Academy. 
 
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 ROSS, W. T. POEMS. New Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 
 ROSS, W. T. WAIFS. Essays and Sketches. Ex. fcap. 8vo. 55. 
 
 SCHLOMKA. A GERMAN GRAMMAR. By CLEMENS 
 SCHLOMKA, M.A., Ph.D. {Immediately. 
 
 thz JUthor of 
 
 SMITH KILDROSTAN : a Dramatic Poem. By the Author of 
 " Olrig Grange." Ex. fcap. 8vo. 75. 6d. [This Day. 
 
 " 'Kildrostan' has all the interest and excitement of a novel, combined 
 with the charm of dignified verse, and enhanced by the stimulus of manly 
 thought. . . . The poem is one of unquestionable power. Scattered 
 all through the five acts there are gems of thought which are enhanced in 
 literary value by their brilliant setting. Dr. Smith's power of passionate 
 utterance reaches its highest point in the scene, in the third act, in which 
 Tremain's intense declarations of love are received by Doris with scoffs and 
 jeers. It is like the play of lightning on an iceberg, brilliant but harmless. 
 Scotsman. 
 
 " Since the death of Scott hardly any man has so nearly approached the 
 Wizard of the North in the art of telling a story in graphic and musical 
 verse. . . . On Doris Cattanach Mr. Smith has extended his full 
 strength, and not even the worldly-wise mother in ' Olrig Grange ' nor 
 Hilda Dalguise, nor even Winifred Urquhart is so powerfully drawn. On 
 Tremain, the aesthetic poet, equal care has been bestowed. The aesthetic 
 school has never been so fully explained or exposed. The prophet of 
 culture is not encountered by parody or by satire, but by what we may term 
 psychological anatomy, and the effect is irresistible." Echo. 
 
 " 'Kildrostan' is one of the very finest dramatic poems of the day."- 
 Fifeshire Journal. 
 
 SMITH OLRIG GRANGE : a Poem n Six Books. By 
 WALTER C. SMITH. Third Edition. Ex. fcap. 8vo. 6s. 6d. 
 
 " This remarkable poem will at once give its anonymous author a high 
 place among contemporary English poets. Examiner. 
 
 "The most sickening phase of our civilization has scarcely been exposed 
 with a surer and quieter point, even by Thackeray himself, than in this 
 advice of a fashionable and religious mother to her daughter." Pall Mall. 
 
 "The story is told in powerful and suggestive verse." Spectator. 
 
 "The pious self-pity of the worldly mother, and the despair of the 
 worldly daughter are really brilliantly put. The story is worked out with 
 quite uncommon power." Academy. 
 
MESSRS. MACLEHOSE AND SONS. 17 
 
 SMITH HILDA ; AMONG THE BROKEN GODS : a Poem. 
 By the Author of " Olrig Grange." Third Edition. Extra 
 fcap. 8vo. 73. 6d. 
 
 "That it is characterized by vigorous thinking, delicate fancy, and happy 
 terms of expression, is admitted on all hands." Times. 
 
 "A poem of remarkable power." British Quarterly Review. 
 
 " It is to ' Hilda,' however, that we must turn for the most tragic concep- 
 tion of actual life that has hitherto been fashioned into verse. No modern 
 poet, it may safely be said, has plunged so deeply into the innermost heart 
 of living men and women, and none has used such remarkable materials for 
 his drama." Scottish Review. 
 
 SMITH NORTH COUNTRY FOLK. Poems by Author of 
 "Olrig Grange." Ex. fcap. 8vo. 75. 6d. 
 
 "These poems are really dramatic, genuinely pathetic, and will bear 
 reading over and over again." Westminster Review. 
 
 "The follies and pettiness of suburban life provoke Dr. Smith's scorn. 
 The race for wealth, the desire for position, and other kindred themes, are 
 treated in a straightforward, outspoken fashion." Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 " ' Wee Curly Pow ' is full of exquisite pathos and tenderness, and ' Dick 
 Dalgleish ' is rich in genuine humour. We recommend all who are fond of 
 genuine poetry to get Dr. Smith's poems at once. The book is full of 
 music." Sheffield Independent. 
 
 " For rich variety alike in substance and form, for scathing exposure of 
 all that is mean and base, and for the effective presentation of the loftiest 
 ideals, for mingled humour and pathos, we do not know a volume in the 
 whole range of Scottish verse that can be said to surpass ' North Country 
 Folk'." Christian Leader. 
 
 SMITH BORLAND HALL : a Poem. By the Author of " Olrig 
 Grange." [Third Edition in preparation. 
 
 SMITH RABAN ; OR, LIFE SPLINTERS : a Poem. By the 
 Author of" Olrig Grange." {Second Edition in preparation. 
 
 SM^TH BISHOP'S WALK; and Other Poems. Extra fcap. 
 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 SPREULL WRITINGS OF JOHN SPREULL (commonly called 
 Bass John) 1646-1722. Edited by J. W. BURNS, of Kilma- 
 hew. Extra fcap. 41.0. With Facsimiles and Portrait. 123. 6d. 
 
 STANLEY, Dean THE BURNING BUSH. A Sermon. 8vo. is. 
 
1 8 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 STEWART THE PLAN OF ST. LUKE'S GOSPEL. By WILLIAM 
 STEWART, M.A., D.D., Professor of Biblical Criticism in 
 the University of Glasgow. 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
 STODDART VILLAGE LIFE: A Poem. By JAMES H. STOD- 
 DART, Editor of the Glasgow Herald. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 6d. 
 
 " A remarkable volume of poetry, which will be read by all who have 
 any keen interest in the progress of English literature." Standard. 
 
 STORY CREED AND CONDUCT : Sermons preached in Ros- 
 neath Church. By ROBERT HERBERT STORY, D.D.. 
 Minister of the Parish. Crown 8vo. Cheap Edition. 35. 6d. 
 
 " In all respects this volume is worthy to be placed alongside of those of 
 Caird and Guthrie, Tulloch and Service." Glasgow Herald. 
 
 " These are excellent sermons. They are sensible, manly, scholarly, and 
 religious. " Edinburgh Con rani. 
 
 " Characterized throughout by profound earnestness and spirituality, and 
 written in a style at once graceful, clear, and nervous." Scotsman. 
 
 "We heartily commend the book to our readers." Dundee Advertiser. 
 
 VEITCH THE HISTORY AND POETRY OF THE SCOTTISH 
 BORDER, THEIR MAIN FEATURES AND RELATIONS. By 
 JOHN VEITCH, LL.D., Professor of Logic and Rhetoric in 
 the University of Glasgow. Crown 8vo. los. 6d. 
 
 " This is a genuine book. We heartily recommend it." Contemporary 
 Review. 
 
 " We feel as if we were hearing the stories, or listening to the snatches of 
 song among the breezes of the mountains or the moorland, under the 
 sun-broken mists of the wild glens, or the wooded banks of the Yarrow or 
 the Tweed." Times, 
 
 " The fullest, most thorough, and most deeply critical work on Border 
 history and poetry that we have." British Quarterly Review. 
 
 VEITCH HILLSIDE RHYMES. Extra fcap. 8vo. 55. 
 
 VEITCH THE TWEED, AND OTHER POEMS. Extra fcap. 8vo. 
 6s. 6d. 
 
 VEITCH LUCRETIUS AND THE ATOMIC THEORY. Crown 
 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
MESSRS. MACLEHOSE AND SONS. 
 
 WADDELL OSSIAN AND THE CLYDE ; or, Ossian Historical 
 and Authentic. By P. HATELY WADDELL, LL.D. 410. 
 i2s. 6d. 
 
 WATSON KANT AND HIS ENGLISH CRITICS, a Comparison 
 of Critical and Empirical Philosophy. By JOHN WATSON, 
 M.A., LL.D., Professor of Moral Philosophy in Queen's 
 LTniversity, Kingston, Canada. 8vo. 125. 6d. 
 
 "Decidedly the best exposition of Kant which we have seen in Eng- 
 lish. We cannot too strongly commend it." Saturday Review. 
 
 " C'est 1'oeuvre d'un penseur et d'un maltre. . . . Nous avons lu le livre 
 de M. Watson avec un vif interet et une grande sympathie." Revue Phil- 
 osophique. 
 
 "This book is written with clearness and precision, and the author is 
 thoroughly impregnated with the doctrine which he expounds, and makes 
 it as plain as it can be made without becoming other than it is." Professor 
 T. H. GREEN, in the Academy. 
 
 " All students of Kant will recognize his thorough mastery of the system 
 he expounds." Scotsman. 
 
 New Books and New Editions 
 In Preparation. 
 
 PROFESSOR CAIRD THE PHILOSOPHY OF KANT. By 
 EDWARD CAIRD, M.A., LL.D., late Fellow and Tutor of 
 Merton College, Oxford ; Professor of Moral Philosophy in 
 the University of Glasgow. Demy 8vo. 
 
 MONS. GORECKI& FRENCH GRAMMAR. By A. L. 
 GORECK.I, Lecturer in the Church of Scotland Training 
 College, Glasgow. 
 
20 MESSRS. MACLEHOSES PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 New Books in Preparation. Continued. 
 
 PROFESSOR GRA NT CATALOGUE OF 6415 STARS for the 
 Epoch 1870, deduced from Observations made at the 
 Glasgow University Observatory. By ROBERT GRANT, 
 M.A., F.R.S., F.R.A.S., Director of the Observatory, and 
 Professor of Astronomy in the University of. Glasgow. 
 Demy 4to, 800 pp. 
 
 JANET HAMILTON POEMS, ESSAYS, AND SKETCHES. 
 Crown 8vo. [New Edition immediately. 
 
 PROFESSOR JEBBTtt ANABASIS OF XENOPHON. Books 
 III. and IV., with the Modern Greek Version of Constantine 
 Bardalachos, and with an Introduction by R. C. JEBB, M.A. 
 Professor of Greek in the University of Glasgow. 
 
 [New Edition in preparation. 
 
 PROFESSOR JEBB A NEW SELECTION OF GREEK EX- 
 TRACTS. By R. C. JEBB, M.A., Professor of Greek in the 
 University of Glasgow. 
 
 PROFESSOR NICHOL ESSAYS ON ENGLISH LITERATURE. 
 By JOHN NICHOL, M.A. Balliol, Oxon, LL.D., Professor 
 of English Language and Literature in the University of 
 Glasgow. 
 
 gg the JVittltor of "Ivig (grange. " 
 
 BORLAND HALL : a Poem. By WALTER C. SMITH, M.A., 
 Author of " Olrig Grange." \_7^hird Edition in preparation. 
 
 RABAN : a Poem. By the Author of " Olrig Grange." 
 
 [Second Edition in preparation. 
 
 MR. ROSS THE FINE ARTS AND OTHER ESSAYS. 
 
 DR. SCHLOMKAA GERMAN GRAMMAR. By CLEMENS 
 
 SCHLOMKA, M.A., Ph.D., German Master in the Glasgow 
 
 High School. 
 
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