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 ESSAYS AND LYRICS. 
 
Sc(.^o^A.c£^ Soon^^^ /-eyz^a^^'^ 
 
ESSAYS AND LYRICS, 
 
 SAMUEL SMILES JERDAN. 
 
 EDITED BY HIS BROTHER, 
 
 CHARLES JERDAN, M.A., LL.B. 
 
 " He saw through life and death, through good and ill 
 He saw through his own soul. 
 The marvel of the everlasting will, 
 An open scroll, 
 
 Before him lay." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 (Ktrtnburg}}: 
 
 ANDREW ELLIOT, 17 PRINCES STREET. 
 1878. 
 
 [All Rights Reserved.] 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 EDINnUKGH : 
 
 I'KINTED BY LORIMEK AND Gil. LIES, 
 
 31 ST. ANDKEVV SQUARE. 
 

 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 This Volume has been prepared in compliance with 
 the request of many friends of the late Samuel 
 Smiles Jerdan, who desire to possess his Poems in 
 a collected form. 
 
 It would have been printed merely for private 
 circulation, but for the fact that he had so many 
 friends in various parts of the country who may 
 wish to obtain copies, and who are unknown to his 
 representatives. 
 
 Dennyloanhead, 1st July^ 187S. 
 
 517 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Birth and Parentage, . ' . 
 
 xiii 
 
 Boyhood, ..... 
 
 XV 
 
 Youth, 
 
 xvi 
 
 Early Manhood, . . . . ' 
 
 XX 
 
 Last Illness, .... 
 
 xxiv 
 
 Personal Appearance and Character, 
 
 xxix 
 
 Literary Remains, 
 
 xxxii 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 
 
 <Shake«|rear£'0 geben ^Qt0, 
 
 First.— The Infant, .... 
 
 I 
 
 Second.— The School-boy, 
 
 lO 
 
 Third.— The Lover, .... 
 
 19 
 
 Fourth.— The Soldier, . 
 
 28 
 
 Fifth.— The Justice, • • 
 
 . 38 
 
 Sixth.— The Pantaloon, .... 
 
 48 
 
 Seventh and Last.—** Sans Everything," 
 
 59 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LYRICS, 
 ilebotjonal Jpiec^e. 
 
 A Prayer, ...... 
 
 ** Peace, be Still," .... 
 
 ** He tumeth the Shadow of Death into the Morning," 
 New- Year Hymn, 1873, .... 
 
 New- Year Hymn, 1874, • • . . 
 
 New- Year Hymn, 1875, .... 
 
 New- Year Hymn, 1876, .... 
 
 71 
 
 72 
 
 74 
 75 
 
 n 
 79 
 81 
 
 $ife JEu^ings. 
 
 Bread, 
 
 Calm and Storm, 
 
 
 
 
 
 83 
 86 
 
 A Street Scene, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 88 
 
 *• Silence is Golden," 
 
 
 
 
 
 90 
 
 Jedburgh Abbey, . 
 
 By and By ! 
 
 1869, 
 
 The Mermaids, 
 
 
 
 
 
 92 
 
 94 
 96 
 98 
 
 The Jewel, 
 
 Alone, 
 
 Two Harvests, . 
 
 
 
 
 
 lOI 
 
 103 
 105 
 
 France in 1870, . 
 The Old Year 1870, 
 The Song of the Reds, 
 The Owl, 
 
 
 
 
 
 107 
 109 
 III 
 "4 
 
 The Young Samaritan, 
 
 
 
 
 
 116 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Undertone, . . . . . . Ii8 
 
 Sir Walter Scott : A Centenar}' Ode, 
 
 
 
 1 20 
 
 " What might have been," 
 
 
 
 124 
 
 The Meeting, 
 
 
 
 
 126 
 
 The Night-Lamp, 
 
 
 
 
 128 
 
 Holiday, . 
 
 
 
 
 130 
 
 Inchkeith, 
 
 
 
 
 132 
 
 Back to the Hamlet, 
 
 
 
 
 135 
 
 Telegraph Wires, 
 
 
 
 
 136 
 
 Flowers Immortal, 
 
 
 
 
 139 
 
 In the Porch, 
 
 
 
 
 141 
 
 A National Characteristic, 
 
 
 
 
 143 
 
 The Silent Monitor, 
 
 
 
 
 145 
 
 The Caged Lark, 
 
 
 
 
 147 
 
 The Wedding Dress, 
 
 
 
 
 149 
 
 The Pantomime Child, . 
 
 
 
 
 152 
 
 New-Year's Eve, 
 
 
 
 
 155 
 
 <Sxjng0 Qi the '^iittixawQ. 
 
 Thoughts of Home, 
 
 
 
 157 
 
 Hearts and Hands, 
 
 
 
 160 
 
 Lily, .... 
 
 
 
 162 
 
 Forsaken, 
 
 
 
 164 
 
 Lucille, .... 
 
 
 
 165 
 
 In Matris Memoriam, 
 
 
 
 167 
 
 Absent Friends, . 
 
 
 
 169 
 
 Wae'sMe! 
 
 
 
 171 
 
 The Maid of Norway : A Ballad, 
 
 
 
 173 
 
 Good Night ! . . . 
 
 
 
 176 
 
 Her Way 0' her Ain, 
 
 
 
 177 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Old Piano, ..... 
 
 179 
 
 Good-Bye, ..... 
 
 181 
 
 Steer Straight for Me ! . 
 
 183 
 
 At Somewhere Hall, .... 
 
 185 
 
 Loved and Lost, ..... 
 
 187 
 
 Our Twin Boys, . . . 
 
 189 
 
 I Love my Love, .... 
 
 191 
 
 Unbaptised : A Northamptonshire Idyll, 
 
 193 
 
 A Fragment from Goethe's Life, . 
 
 195 
 
 iumorottfii 3P0em£i. 
 
 " Speiring the Guidwull," 
 
 199 
 
 Lucifer Lowe, ..... 
 
 203 
 
 Sandy Hew at Sea, .... 
 
 205 
 
 Windygowl, ..... 
 
 208 
 
 The Misogamist, ..... 
 
 211 
 
 The Auld Kirk Bell of Dalkeith, 
 
 213 
 
 The Galloway Wife, .... 
 
 .215 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 " Nature denied him much, 
 But gave him at his birth what most he valued : 
 
 A passionate love 
 
 For poetry, the language of the gods, 
 
 For all things here, or grand or beautiful, — 
 
 A setting sun, a lake among the mountains, 
 
 The light of an ingenuous countenance, 
 
 And, what transcends them all, a noble action." 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 BIRTH AND PARENTAGE. 
 
 AMUEL SMILES JERDAN was born at Had- 
 dington, on the 17th of November, 1846. He 
 was the second of the three sons of David Jerdan 
 and Elisabeth Smiles, and was named for his maternal 
 grandfather, Samuel Smiles, who had been a merchant 
 in that town. His father, at the time of his birth, was 
 a bookseller in Dunkeld. His mother was the eldest 
 sister of Samuel Smiles, LL.D., author of Self Help ^ 
 Lives of the Engineers, and other popular works. 
 
 His mothers mother, in whose house he first saw 
 
xiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 the light, was a woman of remarkable intelligence, 
 shrewdness, and force of character, — in fact, a typical 
 Scotchwoman of the last generation. In 1832 she had 
 been suddenly bereaved of her husband, and was left 
 with a family of eleven, the youngest child being only 
 three weeks old. Yet she courageously met and sur- 
 mounted the difficulties of her situation. Leaving her 
 eldest daughter Elisabeth — who was then only seven- 
 teen years of age, but who inherited much of her own 
 ability — to take charge of the children and servants, 
 Mrs. Smiles devoted all her energies to the prosecution 
 of the business on which the support of the family 
 depended. She became known throughout Haddington 
 and the district, not only as a diligent and successful 
 merchant, but as a sagacious and strong-minded woman, 
 who had made up her mind on all the prominent ques- 
 tions of the day, whether political or ecclesiastical, and' 
 was ready on every proper occasion to express and 
 defend her opinions. Mrs. Smiles died in 1874, aged 
 eighty-five years, having lived to rejoice in the literary 
 distinction attained by one of her sons, and the general 
 well-being of her family. Dr. Samuel Smiles, in Thrifty 
 which was published after his mother's death, refers in 
 a sentence or two to her long and brave life-struggle ; 
 and those who read his words, bearing in mind the 
 severe sobriety of statement which is characteristic of 
 
BOYHOOD. 
 
 all that he writes, will accept this tribute to his mother's 
 memory as at once delicate and touching.* 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 The parents of Samuel Smiles Jerdan removed 
 from Dunkeld to Dalkeith in November, 1847, when 
 their second son was a year old ; and Dalkeith hence- 
 forth became their settled home. Here the child, who 
 had been very weakly as an infant, quickly developed 
 into a stirring and frolicsome boy. He obtained the 
 first part of his education at a girls' school, where, how- 
 ever, his naturally restless disposition showed itself in 
 innocent boyish pranks to such an extent that it 
 very soon became necessary to place him under the 
 care of a master. He spent his school years, accord- 
 ingly, first at the Dalkeith Academy, and afterwards at 
 the Dalkeith Grammar School. While at school, he 
 evinced more relish for the society of his playmates 
 than for patient study ; although his quick perception 
 and naturally bright intellect enabled him, with far less 
 than the usual amount of application, to make a credit- 
 able appearance in his classes. Samuel received the 
 ordinary elements of a good English education, and 
 was instructed also to some slight extent in the rudi- 
 * Thrift, by Samuel Smiles, chap, v., pp. 67-8. 
 
xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 ments of Latin and Greek; but his temperament proved 
 too impulsive to allow him to apply himself sufficiently 
 to the study of these languages. He often expressed 
 his regret in after years, when he had come to know 
 the value of classical learning, that he did not make a 
 better use of his early opportunities. 
 
 This was all the direct public tuition that he received. 
 He did not enjoy the advantage of " finishing his 
 education" at any first-class academy in the city, 
 much less of attending classes in the University. It 
 will be evident, therefore, to readers of his literary re- 
 mains, that he must have received by far the larger 
 part of his training after leaving school ; and, indeed, 
 that he was in an eminent degree self-educated. The 
 most sujccessful of all curriculums of education is 
 always that to which a man subjects himself; and the 
 brief career of Samuel Smiles Jerdan is fitted to re- 
 mind us that there are strong educational forces in the 
 world besides those that breathe in academic groves, 
 or that are locked up in the classics of ancient Greece 
 and Rome. 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 After leaving school, which he did in his fourteenth 
 year, Samuel was apprenticed to a firm of wholesale and 
 retail merchants in Dalkeith, and continued in their em- 
 
YOUTH. xvii 
 
 ployment until the autumn of 1866. Here he acquired 
 considerable commercial knowledge, as well as received 
 a careful training in business habits. It was during 
 these precious years of his " teens," too, that the 
 higher faculties of his mind began to awake, and that 
 he showed the first signs of those literary sensibilities 
 and aspirations which were destined to colour to such 
 an extent his brief manhood. The boy became his 
 own schoolmaster. He studied with loving sympathy 
 the book of nature, as it lay open before him on every 
 side, in the classic scenery around " Dalkeith, which 
 all the virtues love." He read daily the book of human 
 character, and became a keen and accurate observer of 
 manners. He began to be charmed with the spell of 
 poetry, growing familiar especially with Longfellow and 
 Tennyson, and poring over the dramas of Shakespeare, 
 till he had made the acquaintance of all the great 
 characters, and could repeat all the noblest passages, 
 in these immortal plays. And he devoured in a de- 
 sultory way a large quantity of miscellaneous literature, 
 which, however, did not glide over his mind like rain- 
 drops over marble, but found receptive soil there, and 
 fell into it as seed. 
 
 During one or two of these years he was connected 
 with a young men's literary society in Dalkeith. 
 
 Although with characteristic waggery he used in after 
 
 h 
 
xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 days to recall the humorous side of this experience, 
 and was not slow to mimic certain ludicrous incidents 
 which occurred at meetings when he was present, it 
 cannot be doubted that his membership in this little 
 association supplied him so far with an element of 
 healthful intellectual training. He took an active 
 part in the debates and essays which formed the usual 
 programme of the meetings of the society. In the 
 course of his reading he had come to be fascinated 
 with the sad story of Chatterton, — 
 
 " The marvellous boy, 
 The sleepless soul that perished in his pride ; " 
 
 and, accordingly, one of the essays which he con- 
 tributed treated of the Rowley Poems, and the won- 
 drous child-genius of their unhappy author. At the 
 close of one of the winter sessions of the associa- 
 tion, it was arranged that during the summer recess 
 members might engage in a poetical competition on 
 a prescribed subject. The theme chosen was " The 
 Norman Conquest." Samuel Jerdan was one of 
 four who offered themselves as competitors, the other 
 lads being all several years older than himself. After 
 reading up the history of the period, and also Lord 
 Lytton's romance Harold, he produced a poem, which, 
 although the judges ranked it second in the order of 
 
YOUTH. xix 
 
 merit, they acknowledged to contain much unripe 
 poetic power, and to be full of promise of future 
 excellence, should its author continue to dally with 
 the muse. His first tale or narrative sketch was 
 called forth in similar circumstances. Its title was 
 " Desperately Wicked ; " and a friend who was a 
 fellow-member with him in this juvenile society says 
 of it, that it still dwells in his memory as '' a smart 
 clever thing." 
 
 All this while, too, Samuel was living within the 
 sweep of another influence which he felt to be a 
 perennial inspiration to his mind. The Christian 
 congregation in which he had been brought up, and 
 of which about this period he became a member, 
 was presided over at that time by the Rev. Fergus 
 Ferguson, now of Crosshill, Glasgow. He frequently 
 acknowledged, in the warmest terms, the high privilege 
 he enjoyed in listening every week to the powerful 
 sermons which brought him into contact with an 
 intellect of such incisiveness and brilliancy, and a 
 Christian character so earnest and pure and noble. 
 Not a little that fell from Mr. Ferguson's lips entered 
 into the fibre of his own thought and being, and 
 reappeared by and by in crystallised form in the 
 effusions of his pen. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 EARLY MANHOOD. 
 
 On leaving his first situation, Samuel entered into 
 an engagement as a commercial traveller for a business 
 house in Leith, and gave this migratory life a suffi- 
 ciently long trial to find it somewhat uncongenial to 
 his disposition and temperament. In 1869 he entered 
 the Excise department of the Civil Service, and was 
 located for a longer or shorter period successively 
 at Edinburgh, Fettercairn, Brechin, and Kirkliston. 
 Having a considerable amount of time at his com- 
 mand, he devoted much of his leisure to general 
 reading, and subjected himself to a course of study 
 in mathematics and philosophy, having read and 
 digested while at Fettercairn Sir William Hamilton's 
 Metaphysics, and Victor Cousin's History of Modem 
 Philosophy. 
 
 It was in April, 1869, that Bread, the first of his 
 lyrics written for the Scotsman newspaper, appeared 
 in the columns of that journal. The hearty apprecia- 
 tion with which it was received seems suddenly to 
 have awaked within him the consciousness of his 
 latent talent, and unlocked the fountain of his poetic 
 inspiration. He began now to seek in earnest for 
 " the Castalian spring." Although he was at no time 
 a mere mechanical versifier, yet now when any cir- 
 
EARL Y MANHOOD. xxi 
 
 cumstance occurred to stir within him the true poetic 
 impulse, he applied himself with enthusiastic diligence 
 to the cultivation of his muse. So Bread was speedily 
 followed in the course of the same season by Calm 
 and Storm, By and By, Lily, Forsaken, and other 
 pieces. Most of these, as well as many of his subse- 
 quent poems, were copied into other newspapers, both 
 Scottish and English. One or two were contributed 
 originally to the U?iited Presbyterian Magazine, others 
 to the People's Friend, and others to the Dublin 
 University Magazine. Several of his lyrics — as, for 
 example. Forsaken, The Mermaids, and / Love my 
 Love — were set to music shortly after they appeared, 
 and published in London with considerable success. 
 
 In 1872 he was transferred, in accordance with his 
 own request, to the head office of the Inland Revenue, 
 in Waterloo Place, Edinburgh. His desk was in the 
 Stamp department, and he found his new duties there 
 more congenial to his refined and educated tastes 
 than those which he had discharged in connection 
 with the out-door service. His position brought him 
 into daily contact with many intelligent gentlemen 
 connected with the legal profession, and the growing 
 appreciation of his poetical talents made gradual way 
 for him into the society of literary men. He made 
 
 the acquaintance, among others, of Mr. Alexander 
 
 c 
 
xxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Russel, editor of the Scotsman^ in which newspaper 
 the best of his lyrics continued to appear as they 
 dropped from his pen between the years 1869 and 
 1876 ; and he received congratulations upon his 
 literary successes, accompanied with prophecies of 
 greater distinction in the future, from more than one 
 Scottish poet. 
 
 Mr. Jerdan began now also to contribute prose 
 papers to various periodicals, in the form of essays, 
 literary criticisms, short tales, and sketches of char- 
 acter. Most of his reviews and critiques appeared 
 latterly in the columns of the Edinburgh Courant. 
 His essays and miscellaneous papers were principally 
 written for the People^ s Friend. Shakespeare^ s Seven 
 Ages appeared in successive numbers of that periodical 
 towards the close of 1874. Among his later contri- 
 butions was an appreciative essay on " Shakespeare's 
 Songs " — a paper brimful of inteUigent enthusiasm for 
 those wondrous lyrics, in which he expatiates on their 
 enchanting grace, their bewitching melody, and their 
 endless variety — as including not only the joyous, 
 sprightly songs of Ariel and Puck, but the dirge in 
 '■'- Cymbeline," and the weird, grating chant of the 
 witches in " Macbeth." In two trenchant articles on 
 " Social Distinctions," he deals out a succession of 
 strong but kindly blows against the hoUowness of 
 
EARL V MANHOOD. xxiii 
 
 fashionable life, the meanness of snobbery, and the 
 
 absurdity of the petty differences which determine 
 
 the cliques and coteries of modern society. 
 
 One of his last contributions to the Peoples Friend 
 
 was a genial paper on Dr. James Brown's admirable 
 
 " Life of Thomas Davidson, Poet and Preacher." He 
 
 had read and studied this book until he almost came 
 
 to regard the author of Ariadne and The Auld Ash 
 
 Tree as a personal friend. Although Davidson and he 
 
 never met, it is certain that an intense sympathy would 
 
 have sprung up between them, had they been mutually 
 
 acquainted. They were both poets. They had similar 
 
 literary instincts and aspirations. They were both 
 
 passionately susceptible of the beauties of nature. 
 
 Both were earnest and reverent students of human 
 
 character. It could be said of either that he was " a 
 
 fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy," — to 
 
 whom the humorous side of things was seldom long in 
 
 presenting itself And yet in both there was the same 
 
 deep underflow of thoughtful melancholy, which keeps 
 
 every earnest soul ever musing upon the grave 
 
 mysteries of life, and 
 
 " Hearing oftentimes 
 The still sad music of humanity. " 
 
 One great charm of Thomas Davidson's memoir con- 
 sists in the copious extracts from his letters with which 
 
xxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 the volume is everywhere enriched. The subject of 
 this sketch was of too impulsive and volatile a 
 temperament to occupy much time in private corre- 
 spondence, and he did not pass through such a 
 protracted course of lingering ill-health as that from 
 which Davidson suffered ; yet there were passages in 
 many of his letters to his most familiar friends which 
 for joyous frolic and delicious humour were not 
 unworthy of being placed side by side with Davidson's. 
 
 LAST ILLNESS. 
 
 Mr. Jerdan had enjoyed robust health ever since 
 his third year until the close of 1876. About that 
 time, however, his strength began from some unknown 
 cause to decline, and presently it became apparent 
 that a dark arrest had been put upon his eager and 
 active spirit. In the spring of 1877 the first symptoms 
 appeared of the insidious disease that was to cut him 
 off nearly a year afterwards. For several months the 
 highest medical skill was baffled in endeavouring to 
 determine the nature of his ailment. But it was 
 already too painfully evident to his friends that there 
 was no longer the old light on his face, or the familiar 
 buoyancy of spirit which had always belonged to him. 
 
 At length, in the end of July, it was discovered that 
 
LAST ILLNESS. xxv 
 
 he was suffering from one of the forms of the terrible 
 malady known as Bright's disease. The symptoms 
 were intermittent indeed, and this was the reason why 
 a diagnosis of his case had not been accomplished 
 earlier ; yet there was little reasonable prospect that 
 the remainder of his life would be anything better than 
 that of an incurable invalid, — marked out for an early 
 death. So long as there was even a slender hope of 
 recovery left to him, he clung to it with all the tenacity 
 of his intense nature ; but, as soon as he became con- 
 vinced that Providence had willed it otherwise, he 
 resigned himself to his lot, and began to " set his house 
 in order." He remarked to a friend one day, after 
 reaching this conviction, that he felt now as if some one 
 had tapped him on the shoulder, and told him that he 
 was wanted elsewhere. From the beginning of winter 
 he was constantly confined to bed. His sufferings 
 were continuous rather than acutely severe, and he 
 bore up against them with much manly fortitude, 
 maintaining a cheerful spirit throughout his long 
 weary illness, and often lighting up his sick-room with 
 gleams of the old strongly-flavoured wit and gentle 
 humour. Until near the end he found it difficult, in 
 the presence of those visitors in whose society he 
 delighted, to reduce his spirits to a degree of tran- 
 quillity befitting his physical weakness ; for he often 
 
xxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 wore himself out in entertaining them with his easy 
 flow of intellectual conversation, intermingled with 
 sallies of merriment, and sent them away wondering if 
 he could be so very seriously ill after all. 
 
 His long illness, distressing though it was both to 
 himself and the family circle, proved a great blessing 
 to him. He had for a considerable time been 
 thoughtful and earnest in relation to the most 
 important of all matters, as the general tone of his 
 lyrics abundantly reveals ; but the growth of his piety 
 during the last months of his life was unmistakable. 
 He remarked sometimes that although he was not ac- 
 customed to speak much as to his spiritual experience, 
 this was not because he did not think much and deeply 
 on spiritual things. During the earlier stages of his 
 illness he was occasionally troubled with doubts and 
 difficulties as to various practical questions connected 
 with theology ; but before the end drew near the sky 
 of his faith became clear of every cloud, and he was 
 able to rest with a simple, peaceful trust upon the 
 righteousness and love of the Redeemer of men. His 
 own experience during the last weeks of his life was 
 most accurately reflected by anticipation in his own 
 lines written years before : — 
 
 ** The eyes grow dim. O Lord of Light ! 
 
 To Thee are stretched hands pale and thin : 
 
LAST ILLNESS. xxvii 
 
 The shadows, deepening with the night, 
 Still gather in. 
 
 ** Darker — more dark ; a night there is 
 
 On which the morning ne'er shall break ; 
 But we have hope — our plea is this : 
 * For Jesus' sake ! '" 
 
 During the last three or four weeks his frame was* 
 sadly wasted ; and more than once he was not expected 
 to survive longer than a few hours. But the light 
 flickered up again and again before it was finally extin- 
 guished. At last, on the morning of Tuesday, the 
 26th of February, he passed gently away. 
 
 He enjoyed during his long illness the loving com- 
 panionship of one whose presence more than that of any 
 other could minister solace and comfort to his spirit. 
 Her devotion all through the various stages of his dark 
 experience was very beautiful. She was never long 
 absent from his sick-chamber until the last scene was 
 over, when 
 
 " That remorseless iron hour 
 Made cypress of her orange-flower." 
 
 His own lyric. The Night-Lamp^ though it was written 
 four years before his death, and when he was in the 
 full flush of manly vigour, seems almost prophetic of 
 the loving and tender ministry which was to prove 
 such a blessing to him during his last iflness. 
 
xxviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 He was buried in one of the old graveyards of 
 Dalkeith beside his mother, who had gone before him 
 in 187 1, and whose removal had drawn from him a 
 touching little poem In Memoriam. The only intima- 
 tion of his funeral was a general one, given in the news- 
 papers ; yet there was a large spontaneous attendance, 
 many private and literary friends having travelled a long 
 distance to be present. His coffin was strewn with 
 wreaths of white flowers — a silent, subdued expression 
 of " the blessed hope " which made his end so calm 
 and peaceful. " He asked life of Thee, and Thou 
 gavest it him, even length of days for ever and ever." 
 
 The Edinburgh newspapers, when his death became 
 known, expressed in graceful language their warm 
 appreciation of his talents, and their regret that such 
 a bright and promising career had been so prema- 
 turely brought to a close. Nor did he lack the 
 tribute of poetic sorrow; several monodies to his 
 memory — some of them of great merit — having 
 appeared in various periodicals. 
 
 "He knew 
 Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme j " — 
 
 so his friends felt that, when he passed away, they 
 must sing for him, and accord him "the meed of 
 some melodious tear." We cannot deny ourselves the 
 
PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND CHARACTER, xxix 
 
 pleasure of quoting one of the sweetest of these funeral 
 poems — that of his friend, Mr. L. J. Nicolson : — 
 
 "IN MEMORIAM : 
 
 "Samuel Smiles Jerdan. 
 
 " We met, and walked a little space, and now 
 I see thee lying in thy lowly rest, — 
 Pale silent lips, closed eyes, and darkened brow : 
 And I am dumb, for surely God knows best. 
 
 "The flowers are coming forth to welcome spring, 
 The singing time of birds is now at hand : 
 A tender memory to us they bring, 
 
 For thou art gone into the Silent Land. 
 
 " And we shall miss thy voice along the way ; 
 So much less music on our ears will fall ; 
 The great world rushes on from day to day : 
 One singing heart is silent — that is all. 
 
 " The song is hushed that was so well begun, 
 To add a name to unfulfilled renown ; 
 And now we come with tears, when day is done, 
 To leave on thy dead brow the poet's crown. " 
 
 PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 In Stature Samuel Smiles Jerdan was tall, although, 
 during the last years of his life a slight stoop made 
 him appear somewhat less so than he really was. 
 His personal appearance and bearing were prepos- 
 
XXX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 sessing. He inherited the Hkeness of his mother. 
 His complexion was fair and ruddy, his features 
 good, and the expression of his countenance pleasing. 
 The photograph prefixed to this volume was executed 
 about four years previous to his death, when he was 
 twenty-seven years of age, and is an excellent likeness. 
 
 It would be difficult for the writer of this sketch 
 to speak at length about his character. But the less 
 need be said here, seeing that its prominent features 
 are exhibited to a large degree in the simple enumera- 
 tion of his literary remains. Those who read between 
 the lines of this volume may not only discern for 
 themselves the thoughts of his heart, but contrive 
 also in some measure to limn the expression of his 
 mind. He was not accustomed to speak much of 
 his deepest sympathies; but they come out abund- 
 antly in his poems. 
 
 His intellect was acute and nimble rather than 
 strong, and brilliant rather than profound. He was 
 fond of an occasional brisk intellectual discussion, 
 and was not slow to detect any flaw in the reasoning 
 of his opponent. He excelled in repartee. He had 
 great facility as a mimic. His power of sarcasm 
 was somewhat formidable ; but, although a little 
 warm-tempered when unduly interfered with, he did 
 not allow himself to indulge in any raillery severe 
 
PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND CHARACTER, xxxi 
 
 enough to cause injury to another's feelings. He 
 was naturally of a restless and impulsive disposition ; 
 but the impulses to which he yielded came from a 
 warm heart and a generous mind. 
 
 Shy and reserved in manner towards strangers, he 
 was uniformly sunny and buoyant in the presence 
 of intimate friends. Although always chary of speech 
 in large companies, he seldom failed to brighten up 
 each little circle of familiar acquaintances with his 
 irrepressible wit, and his constant flow of kindly 
 humour. His keen sense of the ludicrous, together 
 with his literary accomplishments, and the sprightli- 
 ness and versatility of his nature, gave a charm to 
 his companionship. 
 
 These qualities were united with a quick sense of 
 honour — a supreme contempt for all shams and 
 shabbinesses — an admiration of every action display- 
 ing genuine principle or common-sense, and a kindly, 
 loving interest in humanity at large. He had little 
 patience, indeed, with any person who appeared to 
 be "wise in his own conceit." A friend has truly 
 remarked that one striking feature of his character 
 was "the sang froid with which he cut through the 
 little pomp and dignified airs of some men." Yet 
 no one appreciated more than he all that is attractive 
 and beautiful in human nature. His love for his 
 
xxxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 own kindred and friends was deep and subtle. He 
 had an intense sympathy with the struggles and 
 sufferings of the poor; and this chord of his nature 
 vibrates again and again in his lyrics. 
 
 He rejoiced in all things that are lovely and of 
 good report, and delighted to read and study only 
 what is pure. He had no sympathy with what is 
 called "the fleshly school" of poetry. In his own 
 writings he " uttered nothing base " — 
 
 "Not one immoral, one corrupted thought, 
 One line which, dying, he could wish to blot." 
 
 LITERARY REMAINS. 
 
 As already remarked, Mr. Jerdan's prose writings 
 took the ephemeral form of popular magazine articles 
 and newspaper reviews. His literary judgments as 
 a reviewer were acute and catholic, and they were 
 usually expressed in language at once terse and 
 graceful. The Scotsinan newspaper, in noticing his 
 decease, remarked that his prose contributions "justi- 
 fied the belief of his friends that, if his life had been 
 prolonged, he would have attained a not undis- 
 tinguished place in English literature." He did not, 
 however, take all the pains which he might have 
 done to perfect his prose style ; and this is to be 
 
LITERARY REMAINS. xxxiii 
 
 traced partly to his impatient temperament, which 
 would not allow his mind to linger very long over 
 any matter, and partly to the humble estimation in 
 which he always held his own literary abiHties. 
 While his periods, therefore, are always expressive, 
 and often elegant, they are occasionally wanting in 
 sustained energy and rhetorical fulness. Still, despite 
 this defect, his prose always attracted from its tender- 
 ness of humour, added to those elements of colloquial 
 grace and ease which marked it to be the natural 
 outflow of an accomplished and versatile mind. 
 
 The series of papers on Shakespearis Seven Ages is 
 included in this volume, as being, upon the whole, the 
 best available selection from his essays. Should these 
 papers appear somewhat slight in form, and repetitious 
 in statement, the reader will kindly notice that such 
 qualities are due to the circumstance that the series 
 was given to the public anonymously in successive 
 numbers of a weekly popular serial. It is believed 
 that their presence in this volume, so far from impair- 
 ing its unity, may even be advantageous as a not 
 unsuitable introduction to the poems which follow. 
 For Mr. Jerdan's friends discerned running through 
 the Seven Ages not a little of that delicacy of thought, 
 fertility of imagination, and felicity of language, which 
 characterise his lyrics. This group of essays reflects 
 
xxxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 the author's poetic instincts, and is itself, in fact, at 
 least in some degree, a prose poem. 
 
 Mr. Jerdan's essays and critiques were valuable 
 chiefly because of their promise ; but in his poetry, 
 now for the first time collected, there was not only still 
 larger promise, but also a measure of solid and endur- 
 ing performance. His muse was essentially lyrical. 
 His poems are almost entirely subjective : they express 
 his own individual thoughts and emotions, and view 
 the outer world chiefly as reflected in the experience 
 of his own life. Only twice did he attempt the popular 
 ballad, or minor epic, though not without success, in 
 his Maid of Norway, and in The Galloway Wife. 
 And his only dramatic experiment is his Frag7iient from 
 Goethe. It accorded with his nature, too, that his 
 poems are all brief, and that he did not assiduously 
 gird himself, as others with his gift might have done, 
 to any more serious and prolonged endeavour. 
 
 His lyrics embrace a great variety of theme. The 
 editor has ventured to classify them roughly into four 
 groups. Of the " Devotional Pieces," — all of which 
 show the depth and fulness of his religious feeling, — 
 four are new-year hymns, written by request, for use in 
 a Sabbath school, of which his younger brother was 
 superintendent. The themes of the second group, 
 entitled " Life Musings," were almost all self-suggested ; 
 
LITERARY REMAINS. xxxv 
 
 and this group contains some of his finest productions. 
 The third group, — " Songs of the Affections," — finds 
 its centre in the balmy, bracing associations of family 
 life, and in the sweet despotism of the gentle passion: 
 And in the fourth group, — the " Humorous Poems," 
 with which the volume concludes, — a fresh, rich vein of 
 poetic faculty begins to be opened up, but only so far 
 as to induce regret that he was not spared to work it 
 more fully. 
 
 Some of his poems contain descriptive passages, as 
 The Owlj The Meeting, Inchkeith, Telegraph Wires, 
 Windy gowl. One at least — The Song of the Reds — 
 throbs in its every line and syllable with a pulse of 
 fire. His muse, however, very rarely indulged in 
 vehement passion. Usually his verses give the impres- 
 sion of a heart looking with pensive eye upon the 
 sorrowful side of life, and his prevailing strain is that 
 of melancholy tenderness. There is true pathos in 
 such pieces as Alone, Back to the Hamlet, Steer Straight 
 for Me, Unbaptised. Some little incident which came 
 under his own observation, or which struck him in the 
 course of his reading, and which another mind might 
 not have observed at all, he would revolve awhile in 
 his fertile fancy, and presently issue enshrined in a 
 clear-cut, suggestive, " solemn -thoughted idyll." 
 
 And his poems claim attention for their execution 
 
xxxvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 no less than for their conception. Although of unequal 
 merit in this respect, they combine to show decided 
 skill in the treatment of incident, and considerable 
 taste and cunning in versification. He constantly 
 varies his metre, and yet each measure seems always 
 quite pliable to every emotion which he desires to 
 express. His verse is generally clear as a running 
 brook, and as full of liquid melody. He has not left 
 many weak lines, or lines where the words seem 
 yoked together awkwardly and uncomfortably. His 
 rhymes are almost always true. And, taking it all 
 in all, it has been admitted that his lyrics wed 
 thought and expression with sweet becomingness, 
 and that his touch is one of bright finish and delicate 
 beauty. 
 
 In these remarks the writer has not been merely 
 giving expression to his own judgments. He has been 
 trying to gather up the opinions of that select circle 
 who were best acquainted with his brother's literary 
 merits, and of those genial critics connected with the 
 press who have written appreciatingly of the place 
 which Samuel Smiles Jerdan had begun to occupy 
 in the guild of literature. It was conceded by all who 
 knew his writings, even in the forms in which they 
 originally appeared, that he had been a free-born 
 citizen in the commonwealth of letters. And the 
 
LITERARY REMAINS. xxxvii 
 
 purpose of this sketch and volume has simply been to 
 lay a modest immortelle upon his grave. 
 
 Thomas Davidson and he were both thirty-one years 
 of age when they died ; and a short sentence which he 
 wrote about Davidson may now be applied to him- 
 self: — "Whom the gods love die young; and he, like 
 many other poets, lived only long enough to enable us 
 to ask, '■ If this was his youth, what would his man- 
 hood have been?'" 
 
 C. J. 
 
ESSAYS. 
 
ESSAYS. 
 
 Sfjaftespeare*s Seben ^ges. 
 
 First. — The Infant. 
 
 ' ' All the world's a stage, 
 And all the men and women merely players : 
 They have their exits and their entrances ; 
 And one man in his time plays many parts. 
 His acts being seven ages. At first the Infant, 
 Mewling and puking in the nurse's amis." 
 
 tHE tvi^o best books in the world, it has been 
 said, are the Bible and Shakespeare. Hundreds 
 and thousands of other books have been written 
 about these. Who could number the dissertations^ 
 essays, criticisms, commentaries, lectures, sermonsj 
 refutations, acceptations, which have been written 
 about the Bible? In more senses than one it might 
 be called " The Book of Books." Shakespeare's text 
 has also undergone an amount of analytical and 
 
2 ESS A YS. 
 
 critical examination second only to that of Holy 
 Writ ; while whole libraries have been written about 
 the life, religion, and philosophy of the poet. Cer- 
 tainly fewer lectures or sermons have been taken from 
 Shakespeare than from the Bible, and it is right that 
 this should be the case ; but in the present instance 
 we mean to found our remarks upon a single clause 
 from the poet's works. We are not going to be 
 exegetical; we will not make vague guesses about 
 his life, of which so little is really known; but we 
 propose to take a short text from the works of the 
 great dramatist, and see what can be drawn from it. 
 Although we take a text, we do not intend to preach 
 a sermon; we shall perhaps moralise and philo- 
 sophise a little, as the humour suits us, and we shall 
 be grave or gay as the occasion requires — but we 
 hope we shall be oftener gay than grave. 
 
 Before raising the curtain upon the first Act of the 
 play, let us pause for a moment and think of the 
 strange theatre in which we are. If all the world's 
 a stage, where is the auditorium ? Before whom is the 
 life-drama played? The wide ' universe must be our 
 theatre. There are spirits around us " both when we 
 wake and when we sleep." They heard the morning 
 stars sing the prelude at creation, and they will 
 witness the great denouement, " The one far-off divine 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SEVEN AGES. 3 
 
 event to which the whole creation moves." We as 
 actors cannot well be impartial spectators of what is 
 going on around us. We have each our little part 
 to play, and the whole history of time would be 
 incomplete without the quota contributed by the 
 most insignificant of us. Each individual life may, 
 as it were, be a complete thing in itself; but it is 
 also a contribution, and a necessary one, to the full 
 history of humanity. A nation has quite as distinct 
 a life as an individual — it is born, grows old, and 
 dies ; and as a nation is only a number of individuals, 
 so the world is only the aggregate of nations, and has 
 its history, which is now being wrought out. 
 
 Surely the highest study to which man could direct 
 his attention is this Philosophy of History, or, as 
 Herbert Spencer has termed it, this Science of Socio- 
 logy. There is a great play, drama, tragedy, or 
 whatever it might be called, gradually unfolding 
 itself with the years and centuries; and had we but 
 eyes to see, could we read the signs of the times, we 
 might become wiser than prophet or seer. But it is 
 not with the history of the world we have to do, so 
 much as with the history of a life. Shakespeare's 
 Seven Ages are the development of the individual. 
 Truly each man in his time plays many parts. Ah, 
 how inexpressibly sad and tragic have not many lives 
 
4 ESS A YS. 
 
 been, and what a sermon might be preached simply 
 from the text, " There lived a man ! " 
 
 We said, however, that although we had taken a 
 text, we were not going to preach a sermon. We 
 rather fear the gentle reader will think we are 
 breaking our promise by writing in this serious vein. 
 Perhaps some of our. lady readers — matrons and 
 maids — from the title of the paper expected a few 
 hints in regard to the management and training of 
 little ones. 
 
 "What about the baby?" — is the question we 
 imagine being put to us ; and certainly it is quite 
 pertinent, and we must produce him at once, instead 
 of wondering what is to be the ultimate destiny of 
 the whole creation. Perhaps the reader has heard 
 of the German philosopher who never saw a camel, 
 but evolved one out of his own consciousness. Well, 
 we cannot say we have never seen a baby, but as it is 
 necessary now that we present one, we doubt we 
 must follow the example of the philosopher. Our 
 text demands it ; so — ting-a-ling — up goes the curtain 
 — there it is — bless it ! — 
 
 ** Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. " 
 
 Did we say it ? Pardon us, kind ladies ; we should 
 have said him. We have offended in this way before, 
 
SHAKESPEARE S SE VEN A GES. 5 
 
 and been rebuked, our fault being the result of 
 ignorance and inexperience, boy and girl babies look- 
 ing so much alike to our eyes, that we did not wish to 
 commit ourselves as to which was which. In this 
 case, however, we know that // is a boy. So we must 
 correct ourselves and say, " There he is — bless him I 
 — red, very red — blushing for all the follies he is about 
 to commit" (as Bulwer Lytton has said). Let us have 
 a look at him, with his scarcely perceptible nose ! He 
 is creased and crumpled as an undeveloped poppy- 
 head, and about the same colour as a full-blown one. 
 Watch him waving about his little doubled-up fist, as 
 if he were trying to comprehend space, and meant to 
 fight boldly in the life-battle. Listen to the feeble 
 cry ! — that voice will become a stentorian bass by-and- 
 by, and the little tiny arms will be strong as iron bands. 
 This is a man bom into the world ; — and how much 
 is expressed in that statement ! Another immortal 
 soul brought into being — something infinitely greater 
 than the great round world itself ! Another creation 
 in Time ! Has this soul waited on the tedious shores 
 of Lethe until now? What is its mission here — its 
 destiny — the object to be served by its life? It comes 
 from darkness, passes for a moment through the sun- 
 light of this world, and then again fades from human 
 sight. 
 
6 ESS A YS. 
 
 Many a mother, while looking at her child, has 
 mused in this way; and, straining eyes far into the 
 future, has wondered, "What will this little one 
 become ? " The possibilities that are in him nobody 
 can tell, and time itself alone will show what use he 
 will make of these possibilities. This babe may 
 perhaps, after all, be one of the world's great ones. 
 Alexander would look wonderfully like this child at 
 his age, and doubtless when Homer was young his 
 song would be no sweeter. 
 
 We must not anticipate, however, or build any 
 castles in the air; our infant is an infant pure and 
 simple, and his part of the play is just to be as com- 
 plete a child as possible. He must be weak and 
 tender: the tenderest babe, it has been said, often 
 becomes the strongest mari. 
 
 Is it not strange that man, who is the greatest of all 
 creatures, should also be the weakest of all creatures 
 when young ? A baby requires far more gentle and 
 tender nursing, and that for a much longer time, than 
 the young of other animals. This is surely an indica- 
 tion of the faith the Creator has in the tender loving 
 delicacy of woman, and of her ability to help the help- 
 less and nurse the weak. A most cursory glance at 
 the young of other creatures will establish the fact of 
 the extraordinary helplessness of man. A chicken can 
 
SHAKESPEARE S SEVEN AGES. 7 
 
 pick for itself, although the shell from which it emerged 
 be yet sticking to its back. 
 
 Rousseau, in his Emilius^ says that the chief art in 
 an infant's education is to lose time. Mothers are apt 
 to wonder at the rapid progress their children make, 
 and talk about it; in our estimation the cause for 
 surprise rather is the exceedingly slow advances made 
 in physical strength and mental power by children. 
 
 Mansie Wauch was astonished, at Benjie's birth, 
 when he discovered that he saw^ and was not bom 
 blind, like a puppy. Although children are bom with 
 sight, however, everybody knows that it is a long 
 time before they can distinguish objects ; at first 
 they see everything in general, and nothing in par- 
 ticular. The same thing may be said of any of the 
 other senses. The nurse's lullaby, at first, is sung to 
 an ear that hears it not; for a long time the child 
 cannot distinguish sounds. A baby's little hands are 
 so feeble that he cannot even arrange his fingers at 
 first to grasp anything. Think of the time which 
 elapses before a child can walk or talk. At birth the 
 mind is as feeble as the body — it is a tabula rasa^ as it 
 were ; and knowledge comes by experience, and after 
 the power to know has, by exercise, been acquired. 
 The brain is in a sort of jelly state in the infant, and it 
 requires to become firm before it is of much use for 
 
8 ESS A YS. 
 
 thinking. A young lamb or foal will know its mother 
 by sight in two days ; it is a very long time before a 
 young child can tell its mother from anybody else. 
 Lord Dundreary says he laboured under the hallucina- 
 tion for six months that a glass bottle with an india- 
 rubber stopper was his mamma. , . . 
 The baby proper only performs the offices which 
 Shakespeare has attributed to him in our text ; he 
 crows and kicks, throws about his little limbs, twists 
 and writhes, — gathering strength in every muscle for 
 the battle which is to come. He knows nothing of 
 himself, or of you. He sees men as trees walking ; 
 but by-and-by the film will pass from his eyes. The 
 five gateways of knowledge, the senses, will soon fill the 
 little head with the experiences of us all ; he must just 
 bide his time. Nobody knows when the first gHmmer- 
 ings of self-consciousness take place. Tennyson has 
 beautifully expressed it— 
 
 " The baby new to earth and sky. 
 
 What time his gentle hand is prest 
 Against the circle of his breast, 
 Has never thought that ' this is I. ' 
 
 " But as he grows he gathers much, 
 
 And learns the use of ' I ' and ' me,' 
 And finds * I am not what I see, 
 And other than the things I touch. ' 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 9 
 
 "So rounds he to a separate mind, 
 
 From whence clear memory may begin, 
 As through the frame that binds him in 
 His isolation grows defined." 
 
 And when his isolation grows upon him the season 
 of infancy is past. The baby is bom newly into 
 the world — to him everything is new. He has eyes 
 and hands, " organs, dimensions, senses, affections, 
 passions." He is an heir of the common lot, and 
 will be a sharer in the joys and sorrows of our 
 common humanity. 
 
 It will not do, however, to keep the curtain up too 
 long upon our babe. We have shown him as he is, 
 and, like all parents, we think him a wonderful wean. 
 He is weak and feeble, but he will kick himself into 
 strength. As we let the act-drop fall upon the first 
 Act we will wish " more power to him," and when the 
 curtain again rises it will be on a child of a larger 
 growth. 
 
10 ESSA YS. 
 
 Second. — The School-boy. 
 
 " And then the whining School-boy, with his satchel 
 And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
 Unwillingly to school. " 
 
 Gbi 
 
 fN our last paper we discussed the first of the Seven 
 Ages — " The Infant, mewling and puking in the 
 nurse's arms." We introduced a little red baby to 
 our readers; we handled the subject gently, dandled 
 it as it were, and as was fit. We examined the 
 youngster physically, and moralised about him in all 
 his tripartite nature. We showed that he was in a 
 very undeveloped state; but we remarked that, in 
 the ordinary course of tirne, he would emerge from 
 that dim chrysalis condition, and grow strong in 
 body and in mind. 
 
 When he entered the world our baby was, to use 
 an apt expression often applied to infants, "a little 
 stranger ;" nobody had ever seen him before, and he 
 had never seen anybody before. The whole material 
 world required to be introduced to him, while even 
 with his own senses, through which that introduction 
 alone could be performed, he had the very slightest 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 1 1 
 
 acquaintance. We said, quoting Rousseau, that all the 
 infant had to do was to lose time. He niust wait days, 
 weeks, months, years. Simply give him food for the 
 body, and let the mind take care of itself, and time 
 will work wonders. He will look, mark, and inwardly 
 digests 
 
 Our baby has done all this ; and as he is intended 
 to be a fair average specimen of the race, we may just 
 indicate in a sentence a little of the progress he has 
 made. He was a stranger at first, and made ugly faces 
 at his best friends ; a little time cured that ; he drowned 
 a hundred sorrows at the maternal breast, and looked 
 up one day, seeing and knowing to a certain extent. 
 Some months passed ; the little one could creep about 
 on the floor, and laugh, and kick, and captivate all 
 hearts by his winning ways. One day his mother sets 
 him down alone, holding by his little chair ; she goes 
 three steps back, stoops down, and says, "Come, 
 steady, my boy ! " One or two tottering steps, and he 
 falls into the outstretched arms, and is fondled and 
 kissed, and tossed in the air, and gloried over ; for a 
 mother's heart is the same since the world began. 
 
 This is perhaps the most interesting period in the 
 growth of a young child. Then there is the first 
 attempt at producing an articulate sound. Speech has 
 small beginnings, like every other gift. The first faint 
 
12 ESSAYS. 
 
 smile that plays upon the features of a babe is an 
 indication of the infinite superiority of the child to the 
 young of any other creature. Man is the only animal 
 that laughs. But if the first smile shows the superiority 
 of the child, the first word, distinctly pronounced and 
 understood, is a crowning indication. Well, Time has 
 taught our infant to walk and talk. 
 
 We promised in our last paper that in our next we 
 would consider a child of larger growth. We must 
 suppose that years have come and gone — the seventh 
 part of a life has passed away. The child has learned 
 much — we cannot pause to consider how much ; but 
 we shall raise the curtain on the second Act of our 
 play, and show him on his way to learn more ; and 
 in doing so we quote our text : — 
 
 " Then the whining School-boy, with his satchel 
 And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
 Unwillingly to school." 
 
 It is observable in this piece from Shakespeare — 
 " The Seven Ages " — how very apt, appropriate, and 
 terse are the few words given as the description of each 
 Age. No other words could be found which would be 
 as true or applicable. It is a kind of telegraphic writ- 
 ing — condensed, pithy, boiled down. We have the 
 whole history of a life in a few lines, and each line is 
 so suggestive that a book might be written about it. 
 
SHAKESPEARE S SEVEN AGES. i3 
 
 Each line is only a hint, a touch, an outline, the reader 
 himself being allowed to fill in the details. We have 
 this description of the School-boy as an instance. 
 
 We can imagine we see him on the road to school, 
 and there has been much preparation to get him there. 
 His mother, or nurse, has dressed him and scrubbed 
 him — polished his face with soap and towel until his 
 cheeks glisten like ripe tomatoes. We remember we 
 had a nurse who polished up our face in the same way. 
 She was a strong woman, and used a rough towel, and 
 rubbed up and down our face as if it were a flat surface, 
 where there was no nose. Well, the boy has been 
 dressed, and breakfasted (on porridge, we hope), and, 
 with satchel on his back, his mother gently pushes him 
 out, and oif he must go, however unwillingly, to school. 
 
 And he does go unwillingly — why ? It is a glorious 
 summer morning ; the lark sings sweetly in the sky ; 
 the little bum by the roadside chatters and ripples over 
 its stones, gUttering in the sun, 
 
 " With here a blossom sailing, 
 And here and there a lusty trout, 
 
 And here and there a grayling ;" 
 
 a rabbit darts about in the field there ; butterflies dance 
 in the sun ; all is bright, and fair, and free. But the boy 
 must not linger too long by the way to enjoy it ; yonder 
 is the village school, where he must remain cribbed. 
 
14 ESSAYS. 
 
 cabined, and confined ; and, should he be too late in 
 arriving there, the pedagogue will "whip the offending 
 Adam out of him." Goldsmith describes the teacher 
 well, and we hope to be pardoned for quoting his 
 graphic lines :— 
 
 " Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
 With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
 There in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
 The village master taught his little school. 
 A man severe he was, and stem to view ; 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
 Well had the boding tremblers leam'd to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
 The village all declared how much he knew — 
 'Twas certain he could write and cypher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
 In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, — 
 For, e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and thund'ring sound 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around — 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
 That one small head could carry all he knew." 
 
 This, then, is the schoolmaster who is to teach our 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 1 5 
 
 boy the three R's. We can sympathise with the slow 
 pace at which he moVes along, being aware how little 
 the youngster knows of the necessity of school attend- 
 ance. But it is a necessity ; he must learn to read of 
 heroes, and by-and-by he will emulate their actions even 
 at " the cannon's mouth ;" he must learn to write, that 
 by-and-by he may pen a sonnet " to his mistress* eye- 
 brow." A portion of the immense knowledge stored 
 in the head of his instructor will be imparted to him, 
 and by-and-by he will recall a little of it in his " wise 
 saws and modem instances." 
 
 Shakespeare says — " All the world's a stage," and it 
 might with equal truth be remarked that all the world's 
 a school. Man is learning all his life. We have shown 
 what the infant learns : he is detained at home until he 
 has learned enough to fit him for school ; he is detained 
 at school until he has learned enough to fit him for the 
 teaching of the world. The little village school is itself 
 a miniature world. The teacher is its autocrat — he 
 makes its laws, and punishes and rewards as these laws 
 are kept or broken. There the boy mingles with his 
 fellows ; he competes with them, he finds his level 
 among them, out-distances some — is perhaps out- 
 distanced by others. At school he has exactly the 
 same struggle and fight, and the same difficulties to 
 struggle and fight with, as he will have in the larger 
 
i6 £SSA VS. 
 
 world outside. There is no royal road to learning; 
 and in the little school, as in the big world, brains tell. 
 We must, however, qualify this remark by saying that, 
 although brains do much, the power of steady applica- 
 tion may perhaps do more. Remember the fable of 
 " The Tortoise and the Hare." 
 
 So much, then, for the difficulties and earnestness of 
 school-life. Let us now speak of its enjoyments. The 
 quotation, "Man never is, but always to be blest," 
 might, we think, be altered, and contain quite as much 
 truth if it were put thus — Man never is, but always has 
 been blest. Do we not all look back to" our school-time 
 with delightful and pleasant recollections ? These were 
 the halcyon days. Who can describe them without 
 emotion? Boyhood is the fresh spring-time of life. 
 The world was bright and beautiful to us all; we 
 required no exciting pleasures or sensational stimulants 
 to give life a zest — it was a deep joy simply to live ; 
 with glowing cheek, and bounding pulse, and buoyant 
 heart, we were in sympathy with Nature, and were 
 happier than kings. The recollection of school-days 
 is. a theme which makes the old man eloquent, and 
 which recalls sweet and tender reminiscences to us all. 
 How pleasant it is, while sitting, as we are now, in the 
 close and dusty city, to dream for a moment of the 
 days of our boyhood ! In imagination we smell the 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 1 7 
 
 hawthorn; we see the village green; there is the 
 schoolhouse at the corner, with its diamond-paned 
 windows ; the door is open, and we hear the hum 
 and babel of childish voices, and the voice of 
 "The Maister," in the old familiar tones, loud 
 over all. 
 
 Alas ! this is only a dream. Where are the children 
 now — " the old familiar faces ? " Scattered to all points 
 of the compass — some are dead. We can only trace 
 a few. One, who "grasped the skirts of happy chance," 
 is in a high position in the State ; another, who seemed 
 cleverer than he, 
 
 *' Still ploughs with pain his native lea, 
 And reaps the labour of his hands, 
 Or in the furrow musing stands : 
 * Does my old friend remember me ? '" 
 
 And what of " The Maister ?" We can scarcely think 
 of him now without a smile. We remember the fear- 
 ful awe of him in which we stood. With his long- 
 tailed coat, peering specs, and twirling tawse, he was a 
 terror to evil-doers. Joseph Teenan has described 
 him well : — 
 
 ** His plump roon' cheeks as red's the rose, 
 His twinklin' een an' redder nose, 
 Showed that he suppit mair than brose — 
 The Maister ! 
 C 
 
i8 ESSA YS. 
 
 " He opened aye the schule wi' prayer ; 
 An' psalms an' questions gied us mair 
 Than what we thocht was proper, there — 
 TheMaister! 
 
 " It's forty years noo since that day. 
 An' Time, wha's besom's aye at play, 
 'Mang other things has soopt away — 
 
 TheMaister!" 
 
 We must not, however, unduly extend our paper, 
 however pleasant it is to indulge in the outpouring of 
 personal reminiscences. We must suppose now that 
 we have considered the School-boy, and we must give 
 the stage attendant the hint to let the act-drop fall for 
 the second time. It will rise by-and-by on an exceed- 
 ingly interesting phase of character. 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SEVEN AGES. 19 
 
 Third. — The Lover. 
 
 " And then the Lover, 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
 Made to his mistress' eyebrow." 
 
 UR hero has grown under our hands from 
 Infant to School-boy ; we left him in our 
 last paper under the care of the dominie. We 
 must represent him now as having passed that stage. 
 He has left the narrow walls where " The Maister " 
 imparted to him what little knowledge he could, to 
 enter a larger school, where, under the severer teach- 
 ing of experience, he must learn many hard lessons. 
 We must raise the curtain on him while he is under- 
 going a very fiery trial. We have now — 
 
 "The Lover, 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
 Made to his mistress' eyebrow. " 
 
 How woe-begone the poor fellow looks ! And 
 remember this is no sham; our hero is thoroughly 
 in earnest; only he is not quite sane at present- 
 he is madly in love. He heaves a world of sighs 
 — he is thinking of Her, the irresistible She, an 
 
20 ESS A YS. 
 
 angel — an archangel — a divinity. He would kiss 
 the ground she treads upon — he would be the glove 
 upon her hand, or the girdle round her waist. He 
 would, as Goethe says, puff away sun, moon, and 
 stars for her sake. He would do anything, however 
 ridiculous, to win her favour. He is enraptured, 
 captivated, enslaved, — body and mind. "All his 
 days are trances, and all his nights are dreams." 
 But we must remember that the explanation of it is 
 that he is possessed; the little, laughing, dimpled 
 god Cupid has got hold of him, and is using him 
 as a bellows — he has blown him up with love until 
 he is nearly mad. By-and-by the sighing and ridi- 
 culous bluster will expend itself; the furnace will 
 have roared itself out ; and the fine gold of pure, 
 quiet, undemonstrative, but true and earnest love 
 will be left behind. 
 
 Love is a fact. It appears to us a very strange 
 thing that love between man and woman should be 
 classed among those subjects which are not to be 
 spoken about. It is tabooed in society. Old people 
 never talk about it; it looks as if they scarcely 
 believed in it, or were ashamed of the fervour of 
 youth. Young people chaff each other about it, 
 but cannot speak of it seriously " before folk." Yet 
 both old and young know about this love — they 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 2 1 
 
 quite understand that when good and true, it is one 
 of the sweetest experiences, best influences, and 
 purest joys of life. We have heard of mammas who 
 never speak of the gentle passion ; but in the most 
 proper of ways they can sometimes afford, quite 
 unintentionally, an opportunity for a quiet tete-a-tete 
 when an " eligible " appears. And, ah ! what 
 declarations have been made by the young people 
 on these occasions ! What was said was only 
 intended for one listener. We are not going to 
 make any revelations of our own experience in this 
 matter ; — somebody might object, you know ; but, from 
 what we have seen, we have come to the conclusion 
 that the kind of underhand way in which love-making 
 is so often conducted is a mistake. The thing might 
 appear more openly, and yet all things be done 
 decently and in order. 
 
 Love is not often written about in essays, or 
 lectured about from the platform. The subject is 
 entirely left to the noveUst ; and that is undoubtedly 
 one reason why young people — ^young ladies, in 
 particular — devour so much of the mawkish, senti- 
 mental trash which is daily being discharged from 
 the press. We cannot blame the girls. What is a 
 woman's life without love? People read of that 
 which interests them; and, if love is one great 
 
22 ESSAYS. 
 
 subject of interest, and it is only treated of by 
 the novelist, novels will continue to be largely 
 read. 
 
 But what, after all, is this love, which is so great 
 an element in our life, and bulks so largely in our 
 thoughts ? Can we give an explanation of it ? Can 
 it be defined, tabulated, brought to book, as it 
 were? Well, we are not metaphysical or philo- 
 sophical enough to attempt that. All that we can 
 say is — and we are not at all ashamed to own it — 
 we know. We would give a woman's reason for the 
 existence of love — it is so, because it is so ; arid 
 should anybody doubt that — 
 
 ** A warmth within the breast would melt 
 The freezing reason's colder part, 
 And, like a man in wrath, the heart 
 Would rise and answer, ' I have felt !' " 
 
 We should think many of our readers will require 
 little explanation of the matter, and those who know 
 nothing of it may probably find out before long. 
 My dear reader, whose heart is quite untrammelled, 
 you will, perhaps, turn a corner some day, or enter 
 a room, and there, before your nose, is the other 
 half of you. You may not recognise that fact at 
 the first glance — although some people do — but it 
 will dawn upon you by-and-by. You ^vill draw closer 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 23 
 
 and closer. A look, a whisper, a laugh, a gentle 
 pressure of the hand, and there you are. You will 
 doubtless go mad for a time ; but the lunacy will 
 pass off. And let us trust that, when you awake in 
 your right mind, you will have acquired a love which 
 will wear well in this matter-of-fact world — a love 
 which will not come out in the washing, but last as 
 well as that of the wife of " John Anderson my Jo," 
 who loved her old husband's frosty pow as much 
 as she had loved her young one's raven locks. 
 
 We need not attempt to give any advice about 
 the choosing of people possessing certain qualities. 
 Advice is often the cheapest and most useless com- 
 modity. One word only. Equality is a good thing 
 — something like equality in age, education, and 
 social position. There is sometimes a great deal 
 too much importance attached to good looks. 
 Remember Henry V.'s remarks : — " Take a fellow 
 of plain and uncoined constancy. What ! a speaker 
 is but a prater; a rh)ane is but a ballad. A good 
 leg will fall ', a straight back will stoop ; a black 
 beard will turn white ; a curled pate will grow bald 
 a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow 
 but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon 
 or, rather, the sun, and not the moon ; for it shines 
 bright and never changes, but keeps its course truly." 
 
24 ESS A YS. 
 
 Love, like blows, is a thing which it is better to 
 give than to receive. Rochefoucauld (Maxim 78) 
 says : — " The pleasure of love is in loving. We are 
 happier in the passion we feel than in that we excite." 
 Or, as Shelley has very beautifully expressed the 
 same sentiment — 
 
 "All love is sweet, 
 Given or returned. Common as light is love, 
 And its familiar voice wearies not ever. 
 They who inspire it most are fortimate, 
 But those who feel it most are happier still." 
 
 Samuel Smiles says : — " It is by means of this divine 
 passion that the world is kept ever fresh and young. 
 It is the perpetual melody of humanity. It sheds 
 an effulgence upon youth, and throws a halo round 
 age. It glorifies the present by the light it casts 
 backward, and it lightens the future by the beams 
 it casts forward. Love tends to emancipate the soul 
 from the slavery of self. It inspires gentleness, 
 sympathy, mutual faith, and confidence." The poet 
 Browning says that "all love renders wise in a 
 degree." What appears to us to be one of the 
 finest influences of the gentle passion is, that it takes 
 a man out of himself; the admiration with which 
 you are inspired for another makes you so far self- 
 forgetful; as some one has said — we forget who — 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 25 
 
 " Love is the triumph of the unselfish over the selfish 
 part of our nature :" — 
 
 ' ' Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords 
 with might — 
 Smote the chord of Self, that, trembhng, pass'd in music 
 out of sight." 
 
 We might quote many beautiful and true sayings 
 and verses about love ; but that would not be of 
 much use : — 
 
 " I waste my heart in signs j let be. My bride, 
 My wife, my life. Oh ! we will walk this world, 
 Yoked in all exercise of noble end. 
 And so thro' those dark gates across the wild 
 That no man knows. Indeed I love thee ; come, 
 Yield thyself up ; my hopes and thine are one ; 
 Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; 
 Lay thy sweet hands in mine, and trust to me." 
 
 These very beautiful and sweet lines from Tennyson's 
 "Princess" refer to the more quiet and subdued 
 love of married life. Shakespeare's terse and pithy 
 lines represent the violent and ridiculous side of 
 the outbreak of love in the very young lover. 
 
 There is a kind of love termed calf-love. If we 
 were writing a book, we might devote a chapter to the 
 consideration of that very curious phenomenon ; but, 
 as our space here will not permit, we must pass it over. 
 
 We have referred to the love of young folk who 
 
26 ESSAYS. 
 
 are not married, but certainly going to be, some fine 
 day; we have also mentioned the more solid and 
 quiet love of married life. But we must remember 
 that love is not confined to these classes. What 
 about our kind old maids and jolly bachelors? We 
 confess to a liking for old maiden ladies, and old 
 bachelors are generally good company. We will 
 pardon them for their unhappy condition if they can 
 produce a good excuse. And what is the excuse 
 which they often could make, but do not like to 
 mention? — a disappointment in love. So then, old 
 maids, who have perhaps too often the same cause 
 to assign, and old bachelors, know as much about 
 love as ourselves. Ah ! who knows ? Very likely 
 the sourest and most old-maidish of maiden aunts has 
 some soft spot in her withered heart, and many tender 
 memories in her brain. She may have a packet 
 of old faded letters in her tidy escritoire there, over 
 which, when nobody sees, she may shed a regretful 
 tear. And that old port-wine-faced bachelor, with 
 his bald head and silver snuff-box, may have some 
 wonderful romance hidden under his capacious waist- 
 coat. He was once twenty-two. We know one 
 who has a very beautiful little auburn curl folded 
 up as tenderly as if it were gold-leaf, and locked 
 carefully away. 
 
SHAKESPEARE S SEVEN AGES. 27 
 
 Punch said — "To those who are about to marry 
 — don't." Would it not be as wise a thing to say — 
 To those who are about to flirt — don't? Love is 
 not a laughing matter, it is a serious affair; and to 
 make love "in fun" is a very dangerous sport. 
 Many a fair life has been shipwrecked by that. 
 Unrequited love has often been " the worm i' the 
 bud "— 
 
 " The little pitted speck in garnered fruit 
 That, rotting inward, slowly moulders all. " 
 
 We will not say anything more about this, but trust 
 that our readers have both more heart and sense 
 than indulge in anything like a flirtation, which is 
 serious, and might make mischief. 
 
 We must let the curtain down now upon our Lover, 
 and extinguish his sighs. We cannot give him any 
 help in the way of hints how to make love, neither 
 can we assist our readers at all in the matter, how- 
 ever much of a friend we may be to them. 
 
 " Friendship is constant in all other things 
 Save in the office and affairs of love : 
 Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues : 
 Let every eye negotiate for itself, 
 And trust no agent. " 
 
28 JSSSAYS. 
 
 Fourth. — The Soldier. 
 
 "Then, a Soldier 
 Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard ; 
 Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 Even in the cannon's mouth." 
 
 "E prophesied for the Infant, of whom we wrote 
 in our first paper, that time would work the 
 wonders for him which it has done for all of us. 
 Our baby grew into the School-boy, and from the school- 
 boy became the Lover. We have now to consider 
 him at a more advanced stage. What strides he has 
 made ! The weak arms of the babe have become 
 the bands of a man — " the thews that throw the 
 world." The child lay passive in the nurse's arms — 
 he was fragile, delicate, and tender ; now he is erect 
 and strong, with a front like Jove, and with eyes 
 towards heaven ; he is the image of a god. 
 
 The child " spake as a child, understood as a child, 
 thought as a child ; " but now he has put away all 
 childish things — he has become a man. "What a 
 piece of work is a man ! How noble in reason ! how 
 
SHAKESPEARE S SEVEN AGES. 29 
 
 infinite in faculty ! in form and moving, how express 
 and admirable ! in action, how like an angel ! in 
 apprehension, how like a god !" There is no grander 
 title than this — He is a man. A true, strong, earnest, 
 sincere man is the crowning glory of creation. Knights 
 and lords are but the breath of kings — ^kings them- 
 selves are only the creatures of circumstance. ** An 
 honest man's the noblest work of God." The Scrip- 
 tures tell us to " honour all men," and we ought to 
 respect the common humanity which even the poorest 
 and vilest share with us ; but we honour men doubly 
 who are men indeed, and the more manly a man is 
 he will stand the higher in our estimation. A noble- 
 man, in the correct sense, is a man who is noble, — who 
 is true, upright, honourable, and strong. " The glory 
 of a young man is his strength." He must be strong 
 in intellect to know — strong in will and muscle to 
 perform. 
 
 As men admire the gentle, tender, affectionate 
 nature of women, so women admire the strong and 
 powerful character of men. It is man's duty to 
 grapple ; it is woman's to embrace. 
 
 Our hero, in whom we are very much interested, 
 and we hope our readers also, has grown out of the 
 dilettante, sickly, sentimental state in which we left 
 him in our last paper. He was sighing like a furnace 
 
30 ESS A YS. 
 
 — he was madly in love, writing sonnets to show that the 
 most perfectly beautiful thing in all the world was his 
 sweetheart's eyebrow. With shoe untied, and hair 
 unkempt, in a general state of neglige, his eyes in a 
 wild frenzy rolling, he was well laughed at, although 
 we secretly sympathised with him too. But now the 
 scene is changed. " Young Harry has his beaver on, 
 his cuisses on his thighs, gallantly anned." Hurrah 
 for the transformation ! We prefer the clink of spurs 
 to the jingle of rhyme, and the tramp of armed men 
 to the cadence of measured verses. Our Lover has 
 given up sighing ; he will make no more woeful ballads. 
 As the lion wooes his bride, so will he ; and he has 
 a better chance of success by the change of tactics. 
 Desdemona was true to her sex when she loved 
 Othello for the dangers he had passed. A Hercules 
 or a Samson is more likely to win ladies' favours than 
 the delicate, elegant, " spoony " kind of man. The 
 curled darlings of the salon, who can rhyme themselves 
 into ladies' good graces, and " have cunmng in pro- 
 testation," cannot rival the strong, brave, true-hearted 
 Soldier, who, like the one we are now considering, is — 
 
 " Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard ; 
 Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
 Seeking the bubble reputation , 
 Even in the cannon's mouth." 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SEVEN AGES. 31 
 
 We all love the Soldier — why ? Because he is the man 
 par excellence. He is honourable, open, true, and brave. 
 He is simply just as Shakespeare has painted him. 
 
 There is a romance about the profession of arms 
 that charms all of us, and fascinates women in 
 particular. There was a time when all men were 
 soldiers, and every woman a soldier's wife or daughter. 
 In those days the hearth had to be protected by the 
 sword, and it was necessary that *' a strong man armed 
 should keep the house." The only way to a v/oman's 
 heart at that time was by the exhibition of deeds of 
 prowess. The knight at the tournament threw down 
 his gauntlet, declaring his lady to be the fairest of the 
 fair ; and he stood to his averment, and attempted to 
 prove it by killing, if possible, everybody who dared 
 to deny it. 
 
 Now-a-days, of course, matters are different, and it is 
 better that they should be. All men are not soldiers ; 
 but we civilians should remember that it is to the 
 Soldier we are indebted for the liberties we enjoy. 
 This is a very matter-of-fact age ; all men except the 
 Soldier seem engaged in a fierce race for wealth : — 
 
 *' For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 
 The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
 But glory is the sodger's prize, 
 The sodger's wealth is honour." 
 
32 - ESS A YS. 
 
 Surely our country, with all its grand history, will never 
 learn to despise its soldiery, or to hold as a small 
 matter the glory and honour which is the soldier's only 
 reward. Here is a letter from Florence Nightingale 
 on the subject, in which she cites some instances of 
 noble hardihood. We shall take the liberty of quoting 
 from it : — 
 
 " England, from her grand mercantile and commercial suc- 
 cesses, has been called sordid ; God knows she is not. The 
 simple courage, the enduring patience, the good sense, the 
 strength to suffer in silence — what nation shows more of this in 
 war than is shown by her commonest soldier ? I have seen men 
 dying of dysentery, but, scorning to report themselves sick lest 
 they should thereby throw more labour on their comrades, go 
 down to the trenches and make the trenches their death-bed. 
 There is nothing in history to compare with it. ... Say 
 what men will, there is something more truly Christian in the 
 man who gives his time, his strength, his life, if need be, for 
 something not himself — whether he call it his Queen, his country, 
 or his colours — than in all the asceticism, the fasts, the humilia- 
 tions, and confessions which have ever been made ; and this 
 spirit of giving one's life, without calling it a sacrifice, is found 
 nowhere as truly as in England." 
 
 Old John Falstaff said of honour, " Can honour set 
 a leg ? no ; or an arm ? no ; or take away the grief of 
 a wound? no;" — and therefore he would have none 
 of it. Let us be thankful that everybody is not of 
 Falstaff's opinion. We know what honour is, and give 
 it willingly to the noble and the brave. We saw in 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 33 
 
 the newspapers the other day that a distinguished 
 and wealthy lord, in presenting a medal to a private 
 of the Forty-Second Highlanders — our own brave 
 Black Watch — for his courage at the taking of Coo- 
 massie, said he would willingly give all he possessed 
 to stand in the shoes of the poor recipient. 
 
 We must not, however, weary our readers with a 
 dissertation upon honour, but return to the considera- 
 tion of our Soldier. Shakespeare says he is "jealous 
 in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel." We are not 
 to understand by this that he is very quarrelsome, 
 and has pleasure in angry dispute. No, no ! He 
 is neither a rowdy nor a bully. Being honest and 
 honourable, he is quick in repudiating any charge 
 against his good name ; and, being a soldier, he cannot 
 talk himself out of a difficulty; — he does not know 
 how to apologise, and blows come readier to him 
 than words. 
 
 We approve of, and admire, the Christian principle 
 of patience and long-suffering ; but at the same time 
 we can sympathise with the man who will not pocket 
 a deliberate insult. Perhaps this sympathy is an 
 indication of the strength of the old Adam in us ; but 
 we do not believe it. We cannot be expected to sub- 
 mit quietly to every injustice, and, like "Uriah Heep," 
 to smile and be very 'umble in all circumstances. 
 
34 ESS A YS. 
 
 Our Soldier is brave ; " he seeks the bubble repu- 
 tation even in the cannon's mouth." We will not 
 attempt to describe him in action, or regale our readers 
 with the horrors of some desperate and bloody encoun- 
 ter. We might imagine him leading some forlorn 
 hope, amid the yell of onset, the boom of cannon, 
 the clash of steel, the shrieks of the dying ; we could 
 think of him rushing up the scaling ladder, bespattered 
 with blood, and in the very teeth of death planting 
 his colours on some conquered battlement ; we might 
 suppose him one of the gallant Six Hundred who 
 charged at Balaclava — 
 
 " Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon in front of them, 
 
 Volleyed and thundered. 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well. 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell, 
 Rode the Six Hundred. 
 
 " Flashed all their sabres bare, 
 Flashed as they turned in air, 
 Sabring the gunners there, 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wondered : 
 Plunged in the battery smoke. 
 Right through the line they broke, 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 35 
 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reeled from the sabre-stroke, 
 
 Shattered and sundered. 
 Then they rode back, but not — 
 
 Not the Six Hundred." 
 
 We might make the last line of this verse a subject 
 for remark — " Not the Six Hundred." Thousands have 
 sought the bubble reputation at the cannon's mouth, 
 and only found death, their reward being an unknown 
 grave in a distant land. The pride, pomp, and cir- 
 cumstance of war may be pleasant things to dwell 
 upon, but these are only tinsel trappings ; take the gilt 
 off, and there is something very hideous below. We 
 could quote most harrowing descriptions of the battle- 
 field, both during and after the battle; and the most 
 graphic of these give but a very faint idea of the scene. 
 Let those who wish to read such, turn up Dr. Russell's 
 letters from the Crimea, when he was there as corre- 
 spondent for the Times. Yet, after all, we need not go 
 so far back. The newspapers published during the 
 late Franco-Prussian war contain quite enough, and 
 the newspapers which will be published during the 
 next war that may take place will tell the same tale. 
 The reporter's office is a strange one now-a-days. He 
 sits very quietly in the gallery allotted to him in the 
 House of Commons, taking down the speeches which 
 are gradually leading up to a war. He marks the 
 
36 ESS A YS. 
 
 smooth sinuosities, the sublimely vague terminology, 
 the endless coilings of sleek diplomacy ; and when the 
 word-fight is over, when other combatants step upon 
 the platform — the warriors, whose battle is with con- 
 fused noise and garments rolled in blood — the reporter 
 becomes " war correspondent." He goes to the field 
 of action, and takes notes, and prints them. He steps 
 about among the dead and dying, and telegraphs the 
 latest news. 
 
 My dear young reader, whose head is full of the 
 romance of war, just read some of these accounts, and 
 you will get a dim notion of the reality of it And 
 you, young ladies, who have scarlet fever, and *' doat 
 on the military'," perhaps it would do you good also 
 to get some true idea of the real evils of war. 
 
 We may all very fervently pray for the time when 
 war shall be no more, and the shedding of blood cease ; 
 — the milder, yet more truly heroic, time when all that 
 high courage, that noble daring, that unimpeachable 
 honour, that strong arm, that contempt of death, that 
 admirable love of country which characterise the true 
 soldier, shall be no longer wasted on such brutal and 
 bloody purposes, but consecrated to do battle with 
 moral and spiritual evil within and without — in self, 
 society, and the state. We can all be soldiers in this 
 warfare, and surely there can be no better, no nobler 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE YEN A GES. 37 
 
 outlet for the energies of rational and immortal 
 beings. 
 
 So much, then, for our Soldier. Wlien the curtain 
 of our theatre rose, the orchestra played "See the 
 Conquering Hero comes." We must now sound the 
 trumpet, beat the drums, screw up the fiddles, play 
 " God save the Queen," and let the act-drop fall. 
 
38 £SSA VS. 
 
 Fifth. — The Justice. 
 
 " And then the Justice, 
 In fair round belly with good capon lined ; 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
 Full of wise saws and modem instances ; 
 And so he plays his part." 
 
 tHE Baby, the School-boy, the Lover, the Soldier 
 — these are the four Ages which we have 
 already considered. Round goes the world; 
 the whirligig of time revolves a little longer ; a few 
 years slip away, and the Soldier is a soldier no 
 more ; he is the same man, but a different character. 
 The lapse of time has this effect upon us all. 
 Physiologists tell us that our bodies even are under- 
 going perpetual change, and that the whole man is 
 renewed from top to toe in a certain number of 
 years ; so that, in fact, that nose of yours is not the 
 same nose that you had seven years ago, and your 
 head is thoroughly changed both inside and out. 
 
 Is it not a proof of the duality of our existence 
 that we use the word " my " when we say my head, 
 my heart, my arm, &c. ? What is the me to which 
 all these things belong? These members are all 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SEVEN AGES. 39 
 
 changing, yet the me remains the same. Philo- 
 sophers have puzzled themselves and others about 
 what they call the me, and the not me — the ego, and 
 the non ego; and yet they know no more about it 
 than the simplest reader of this paper. We do not 
 require a knowledge of metaphysics to know our- 
 selves from anybody else ; the stupidest person will 
 not lose himself in a crowd, or forget his own 
 identity. Time makes great changes upon us all, 
 and yet with all these changes we are, to use a 
 common expression, " the same, but different." We 
 have different ideas in the same mind, and we have 
 always the same spirit inhabiting a body which is 
 marked by time. 
 
 The difference in a man's personal appearance at 
 the various stages of life is very great. Very quietly 
 and silently the years mark us, and we go about 
 bearing on our faces proofs of our age more reliable, 
 perhaps, than any extract from a register. Could 
 the boy of ten years of age see a carte of himself 
 when he shall have grown to manhood's estate, he 
 certainly would not know himself; and could the 
 lover of sixteen, with incipient moustache and the 
 rosy bloom of youth upon his cheek, get a glimpse 
 of himself as he will look at sixty, he would mourn 
 for the metamorphosis. 
 
40 ESS A YS. 
 
 In our last paper we had — 
 
 "The Soldier, 
 Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard." 
 
 A change has now come over the spirit of his dream. 
 He has trimmed his beard, and given up the strange 
 oaths. The bubble reputation which he sought so 
 strenuously, " even in the cannon's mouth," is not 
 quite so great a thing now in his estimation as it 
 was then. He would rather be considered wise 
 than brave ; and as for any scaling-ladder feats, and 
 leading forlorn hopes — that was well enough for the 
 impetuous Soldier. There is a difference in the 
 physique now, which forbids any such violent exertions. 
 The Soldier has become an eminently respectable 
 middle-aged gentleman. Carlyle may laugh at a man's 
 respectability being gauged by the fact that he keeps 
 a gig, but we come to the conclusion that this man is 
 respectable from the fact of his holding so important 
 an office. We may have a look at him, and as he sits 
 in public we may enter when we choose ; we shall wipe 
 our feet at the door, appear hat in hand, and be very 
 circumspect. There he is on the bench — 
 
 "The Justice, 
 
 In fair round belly with good capon lined ; 
 
 "With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
 
 Full of wise saws and modern instances ; 
 
 And so he plays his part. " 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 4 1 
 
 One day, not very long ago, in a country town, we 
 walked into a Sheriff-Court to take notes for a minute. 
 The Court was held in a little dirty room. The 
 Sheriff-Substitute of a certain county was on the 
 bench; a paltry small debt case was being heard. 
 A pursuer, a defender, two or three witnesses, a 
 sheriff-officer, and ourselves were all who were 
 present. Here is what took place during the few 
 minutes of our stay : — 
 
 " Silence in the Court," growled the hungry-looking 
 sheriff-officer. 
 
 The defender, a woman, seemed to be continuing 
 a harangue begun before our entrance. Addressing 
 the respectable Sheriff-Substitute, she said, " My lord, 
 yes, my lord, as I said before, says I, says she to 
 me, it was a week past on Wednesday, I mind it 
 was an awfu' wat day, and Betsy M 'Neil's coo " 
 
 " My good woman," repHed the Justice, dangling 
 his eye-glass — and a fine, jolly, red-faced man he 
 was — "you are irrelevant." 
 
 The severe look which accompanied the remark, 
 coupled with the woman's ignorance of the meaning 
 of the word irrelevant, fairly frightened her. She 
 seemed reassured, however, when, with a kindly 
 smile, "my lord" (who was no lord at all) urged 
 her to be brief. 
 
42 ESS A YS. 
 
 "Leave Betsy M'Neil's coo alone, woman," said 
 he. "Stick to the point, be short, be brief; brevity, 
 you know, is the soul of wit." 
 
 " Ah ha ! " we said {mfo ourselves, you know, for 
 we were afraid of the sheriff-officer), — "here is the 
 Justice with his wise saws ; we will take the liberty 
 of quizzing him a little, and will describe him as 
 he sits there." His face is both long and broad, if 
 that is not a contradiction in terms. His black 
 beard is cut square, like a boxwood-hedge. His 
 eyes, overhung by bushy iron-grey eyebrows, look 
 exceedingly fierce and stern ; but the " eye severe " 
 does not overawe one too much, as it is evident 
 the look is put on, and the rest of the countenance 
 will not bear it out. These round full cheeks of his 
 have not certainly a " vinegar aspect," and his nose, 
 which he is colouring as carefully as a smoker does 
 a meerschaum, declares him at once to be no 
 unfrequent participator at the social board. He 
 looks quite like a justice of the old school; knee- 
 breeches and buckled shoes would complete the thing. 
 He has the round stomach, the old-fashioned waist- 
 coat, the dangling seals, and the double-barrelled 
 eye-glasses. He looks pleased with himself, some- 
 what in the way a fine cropper-pigeon does. But it 
 will not do for him to show too much of the siiaviter 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SEVEN AGES. 43 
 
 in modo. He must be a terror to evil-doers, and 
 therefore he looks severe ; he must be considered 
 wise, and therefore he airs his '* saws and modem 
 instances;" and so he plays his part. 
 
 This is a very different character from the rash, 
 strong-headed, impetuous Soldier whom we saw in 
 our last paper. Shakespeare did not say of him., 
 *' and so he plays his part;" neither was the remark 
 made about the sighing Lover, the lazy School-boy, 
 or the crying Infant. Why, then, is it thrown in after 
 the description of the Justice ? The reason, we think, 
 is this — that although each of the other characters 
 acted a part, yet the Justice is the only one conscious 
 that he is so acting. The Lover was ridiculously 
 sincere, the Soldier was fearfully in earnest, but the 
 Justice is more cool than either of these. He has 
 taken the bearing of things, and has a due regard 
 for what are called "the proprieties." The natural 
 man has grown into the conventional citizen. We 
 do not mean to bring a charge of insincerity against 
 the worthy Justice ; all that we mean to say is, that 
 he is a stringent observer of the laws of society. 
 Like every one of us, he must reverence the code 
 of which some mythical person named Mrs. Grundy 
 is the Solon. He must support the dignity of his office 
 by looking severe ; he must be witty and wise^, so he 
 
44 ESSAYS. 
 
 quotes proverbs. His beard even is of formal cut. It 
 
 is not proper for him to use any more strange oaths, 
 
 so he has given these up, except on very special 
 
 occasions. Now that he is a Justice, he must, to 
 
 use a good homely expression, " behave himself before 
 
 folk"— 
 
 '* And so he plays his part ; " 
 
 while, perhaps, as a man he finds this part-playing 
 a little irksome to him. 
 
 Might the same remark which is made about this 
 Justice not be made about almost everybody who 
 has reached the same time of life ? The Infant does 
 nothing for the sake of effect, and it has not the 
 slightest respect for decorum; what it wants to do, 
 that it does, without regard to what people may 
 think. When a child is tired of you, it soon lets 
 you know it ; it cannot smile, and look happy, and 
 be delighted to see you, and yet at the same time 
 wish you far enough away. The School-boy cannot 
 dissemble his love or hate. The Lover cares not how 
 ridiculous he may appear in the eyes of others so 
 long as "he pleases his love." It is not every 
 Soldier who cares so much for appearance as to 
 arrange his uniform, as the Roman did his toga, 
 before he falls. But the man who has passed 
 through these stages, to what is he not the slave? 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 45 
 
 He is the bondsman of habit, fashion, prejudice, 
 
 propriety. He cannot be a law unto himself, and 
 
 do what is right in his own eyes ; but he must make 
 
 the opinion of a great number of other people the 
 
 law of his life. It is not only necessary to do at 
 
 Rome as Rome does, but we must do everywhere 
 
 what everybody does. We do not wish to be cynical 
 
 or severe, or to write a woeful book of lamentations 
 
 about the degeneracy of the times. We will not cry, 
 
 as Hamlet did — 
 
 ** The time is out of joint ; O cursed spite ! 
 That ever I was bom to set it right. " 
 
 But surely we might be allowed to hint that this 
 extreme submission to the laws of custom is a griev- 
 ance, and it would be a good thing if some strong- 
 minded leader in society would break up and abolish 
 many of its conventional rules and distinctions. Like 
 the poor, silly, old, affected, painted woman in " Dom- 
 bey and Son," we wish most earnestly that people would 
 be more natural. We should not think so much about 
 " what will people say, what will people think, how will 
 this look." We should do what we think right, whatever 
 may be the opinion of others. It would not be wrong 
 to break through any of these restrictions of society 
 if we thought proper ; but it is somewhat difficult to 
 do it. Every circle and section, set and clique, has 
 
46 ESS A YS. 
 
 its own laws, which must be obeyed at the risk of 
 expulsion from the coterie. A popular writer says : — 
 " Some men are immured within a bastile of fashion, 
 others of custom, others of opinion ; and few there 
 are who have the courage to think outside their sect, 
 to act outside their party, and to step into the free 
 air of individual thought and action. We dress and 
 eat and follow fashion, though it may be at the risk 
 of debt, ruin, and misery ; living, not so much accord- 
 ing to our means, as according to the superstitious 
 observance of our class. Though we may speak con- 
 temptuously of Indians who flatten their heads, and 
 of the Chinese who cramp their toes, we have only to 
 look at the deformities of fashion among ourselves to 
 see that the reign of Mrs. Grundy is universal." 
 
 In future we mean to pay as Httle heed as possible 
 to that old lady potentate. It is surely the best plan 
 to make our own conscience the guide of action. 
 As Sir Harry Wotton has beautifully written : — 
 
 " How happy is he bom and taught, 
 That serveth not another's vnW ; 
 "Whose armour is his honest thought, 
 And simple truth his utmost skill ! 
 
 " Whose passions not his masters are, 
 
 Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
 Untied unto the world by care 
 Of public fame or private breath. 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SEVEN AGES, 47 
 
 * ♦ * * 
 
 " This man is freed from servile bands 
 Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands, 
 He having nothing, yet hath all. " 
 
 We think we hear some reader say that this tirade 
 about custom and fashion is all very good, but what 
 has it to do with "The Justice?" Should any 
 theologian think that this our lay sermon is not 
 textual, we beg to differ from him ; — it is all in the 
 words, "and so he plays his part." It must not be 
 thought for a moment that the good, jolly Justice is 
 a man of shams. By no means ! Honesty is written 
 on his face, sociality depicted on his nose ; but still 
 the Justice as a justice does pretend a little, and 
 would fain throw dust in our eyes. 
 
 It is time now, however, that we bow ourselves 
 out of Court. The sheriff-officer has his eye upon 
 us. The Sheriff is going home to dinner, and so 
 are we; and, depend upon it, the Justice will do 
 justice to his victuals. 
 
48 ESS A YS. 
 
 Sixth. — The Pantaloon. 
 
 ** The sixth age shifts 
 Into the lean and slippered Pantaloon, 
 With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
 His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide 
 For his shrunk shank ; and his big, manly voice, 
 Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
 And whistles in his sound. " 
 
 tHE curtain is up again, and with a whoop and 
 halloo a strange quartette rushes upon- the 
 stage — the columbine, harlequin, clown, and 
 pantaloon. 
 
 It is the last of the four with whom we have to do. 
 Look at him, poor old boy. He needs a stick to walk 
 with, spectacles to see with, and slippers for his gouty 
 toes. He has a strange cough, too ; but withal there 
 is a good deal of " go " in him yet — he is no melan- 
 choly Jaques, and is as fond of fun as ever. This is 
 the pantaloon of the pantomime, who is only a very 
 broad caricature of the Pantaloon of real life. (We 
 accept the word, since it is Shakespeare's.) 
 
 In our last paper we had the Justice under our 
 hands. He was jolly, happy, and in good condition ; 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 49 
 
 but time has changed him since then. As Shakespeare 
 very expressively says, he has " shifted " into a more 
 advanced stage. The change has come very gradually. 
 Medical men tell us that there is a certain time of life 
 when the old man quite changes his constitution, and 
 becomes thin and pale instead of stout and hearty. 
 At fifty many men present the appearance our Justice 
 did j but at seventy the description of Shakespeare's 
 Pantaloon is usually more correct. 
 
 The proverb " Laugh and grow fat" is so well known 
 that we are apt to think that lean people are bound 
 to be melancholy and sour; and yet we all know 
 that this is not the case. Our subject, for instance — 
 " the Pantaloon " — we will call him old man in future 
 — is not crusty and disagreeable ; he is as happy as 
 most people. We will refuse to beHeve that old men, 
 as a class, are more melancholy than any other; 
 because from our own experience we know they are 
 not so. We -are acquainted with old men who are the 
 best of company ; and yet there are exceptions to this, 
 as to every other rule. Perhaps it was an exception 
 whom Shakespeare had in his eye, for it must be 
 admitted that the account given of the appearance of 
 the old man is far from being very cheerful : — 
 
 *' With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; 
 His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide 
 
 E 
 
50 ESS A YS. 
 
 For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice 
 Turning again towards childish treble, pipes 
 And whistles in its sound." 
 
 We know there are old men who are querulous and 
 cross, and have no happiness in life ; their power ol 
 enjoyment is for ever gone. The lives of such men 
 will not stand much examination. Thackeray describes 
 well the miserable existence of an old rake. He has 
 played out his part, and is only alive to repent and 
 mourn. We pity such a character. Like King Lear, 
 he is a poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man, and 
 he has only himself to blame. He may say with the 
 poet — 
 
 ** My days are in the yellow leaf, 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone ! " 
 
 The French have a word desillusionn'e^ disillusioned. 
 This word accurately applies to such a man. He 
 thinks all happiness an illusion. Hain Friswell, the 
 author of the " Gentle Life," has beautifully written on 
 this subject, and has thus described the jaded sen- 
 sualist : — " He has been behind the scenes, and has 
 seen the bare walls of the theatre, without the light 
 and the paint, and has watched the ugly actors and 
 gaunt actresses by daylight. The taste of life is 
 very bitter in the mouth of such a man; his joys are 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 5 j 
 
 Dead Sea apples — dust and ashes in the mouths of 
 those who bite them. No flowers spring up about his 
 path; he is very melancholy and suspicious, very hard 
 and incredulous ; he has faith neither in the honesty of 
 man nor in the purity of woman. He is desillusionne 
 — by far too wise to be taken in with painted toys. 
 Every one acts with self-interest ! his doctor, his friend, 
 or his valet, will be sorry for his death, merely from the 
 amount of money-interest that they have in his life. 
 Bare and grim unto tears, even if he had any, is the 
 life of such a man. With him sadder than Lethe or 
 the Styx, the river of time runs between stony banks, 
 and, often a calm suicide, it bears him to the Morgue. 
 Happier by far is he who, with whitened hair and 
 wrinkled brow, sits crowned with the flowers of illusion ; 
 and who, with the ear of age, still remains a charmed 
 listener to the songs which pleased his youth, trusting 
 ' his heart and what the world calls illusions.' " 
 
 We say, however, that this style of old man is not a 
 fair type of the class. It would be a miserable thing 
 indeed if that were the case. It would not be worth 
 while living this life, if the only outcome of it all was 
 that the Vanitas Vanitatum of the preacher was the 
 only truth. 
 
 Old age may in many cases be happier than youth. 
 All the wild fervour of youth has passed away; all 
 
52 ESS A YS. 
 
 strong endeavour and feverish ambition has died out. 
 The old man is calm, and still, and quiet. He 
 has done what he can. He has many pleasant 
 memories; doubtless he has had many disappoint- 
 ments ; he has known joy and sorrow. " His mind 
 to him a kingdom is." 
 
 Life is for the most part but the mirror of our own 
 individual selves. Our mind gives to all situations, 
 to all fortunes, high or low, their real characters. To 
 the good the world is good ; to the bad it is bad. If 
 our views of life be elevated — if we regard it as a 
 sphere of useful effort, of high living and high thinking, 
 of working for others' good as well as our own — then 
 we may look forward to a serene old age, which will 
 be joyful, hopeful, and blessed. 
 
 Pardon us, kind reader, for this little sermonette : 
 that the subject has a serious side you will readily 
 perceive. We hope that when you and ourselves come 
 to the time of life at which Shakespeare indicates the 
 Pantaloon to have arrived, we shall be happier than he 
 supposes him to be. If we are lean, may it be only 
 the effect of time ; if we are slippered, let us hope kind 
 hands sewed for us the slippers we shall shuffle about 
 in ; if our voice become a childish treble, may we have 
 sympathetic and loving friends to listen to its tone ; 
 and if our hose be well saved, let us suppose it is 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 53 
 
 from our preference for the old rather than from an 
 inability to acquire the new. 
 
 What we wish to lay before our readers is this fact, 
 that, whatever Shakespeare may suppose, old age is 
 often a very happy time ; and that, whether ours shall 
 turn out to be happy or not, very much depends upon 
 our conduct now. We ourselves have one intimate 
 friend, about eighty years of age, whose jokes are richer 
 and his laughter more hearty than those of many men 
 three score years his junior. When rheumatism twinges 
 through his shnmk shanks he positively laughs, and 
 cries, with a comical face, " Ha, ha, ha, there it is 
 again ! He, he ! isn't that curious ? " He can tell 
 fine old stories in his tremulous voice, about "the 
 days o' auld langsyne." Like all old men, his mind 
 dwells constantly in the past. Young people look 
 forward — the world is before them. Old people 
 delight in retrospect — the world is all behind. About 
 one's future nobody knows much — it is the undis- 
 covered country. 
 
 We said that the old man was still and quiet ; his 
 period of action and active adventure was over. That 
 is not always the case. We see many men as active at 
 eighty as they were at eighteen. Just look around for 
 proof. Take our own Houses of Parliament, for 
 instance ; the greatest, most active, and most useful 
 
54 ' ESS A YS. 
 
 men in both have got up to, or passed, the allotted three 
 score years and ten. Look at our leading judges in 
 the Court of Session in Edinburgh, or the professors in 
 our Universities. You will find, perhaps, that a majority 
 of the greatest men in literature, art, and science 
 are old men. These men are strong giants — not 
 shrivelled pantaloons. In history we find many 
 instances of great energy exhibited at a great age. 
 Wellington planned and superintended the erection 
 of fortifications at eighty. Bacon, Humboldt, and 
 Brewster were fine old students ; and the work which 
 they performed at an advanced age could certainly not 
 have been so well performed when they were in all the 
 vigour of youth. It has been said that experience 
 teaches fools ; but they showed what it teaches wise 
 men. Although Shakespeare makes the typical old 
 man in " The Seven Ages " a somewhat melancholy- 
 looking character, he has few old men in his plays really 
 like the Pantaloon. Old men are often the happiest 
 and most amusing, according to Shakespeare's own 
 showing. Take, for instance, Old Montague, Capulet, 
 Friar Lawrence, Falstaff, &c. Young Hamlet was 
 melancholy-mad — old Polonius is full of fine humour 
 and wise maxims. 
 
 " Old and ugly " are words which are very often 
 coupled together. We do not see why they should be 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 5 5 
 
 SO. An old tree may be the most beautiful in the 
 forest ; an old cathedral the finest edifice in the city ; 
 an old bridge the most beautiful feature in a landscape. 
 And the old men, the white-bearded patriarchs, have 
 their own beauty. "The hoary head is a crown of 
 glory." 
 
 " Old and wise " — these are the words that should 
 go together. We should show age the reverence which 
 is its due. When we ourselves see a very old man 
 leaning upon the top of his staff, we sometimes feel 
 inclined to take off our hat to him. Surely he quite 
 as much deserves this courteous and outward token 
 of respect as that pert little boarding-school miss 
 tripping past there with her nose in the air ; and she 
 claims this as her due. We mean no offence to 
 the young ladies by this remark, and hope we have 
 not given any. 
 
 This is an age, it appears to us, in which there is 
 very little manifestation of reverence or respect for 
 anything under the sun. Our most sacred institutions 
 are criticised with a freedom which would have 
 astonished the last generation. The desire and plea- 
 sure of the ancient Athenians consisted in hearing and 
 telling something new. Our own time seems possessed 
 with the same spirit, and with this addition, that there 
 is something more than talking — the speech is deve- 
 
56 ESS A YS. 
 
 loped into action. All our affairs, both ecclesiastical 
 and political, are in a state of transition and change, — 
 of what the philosophers call becoming. Yet, after all, 
 we might do much worse in some cases than stick 
 to the old. As Goldsmith says, " I love everything 
 that's old — old friends, old times, old manners, old 
 books, old wine." 
 
 Had we not declared to ourselves that in writing 
 these papers we would never attempt to give any advice 
 — that is always a thankless and useless proceeding — we 
 might here have exhorted young men to "give honour 
 to whom honour is due," and reminded them that old 
 age is honourable. It has been remarked that young 
 men think old men fools, and that old men know 
 young men to be so. This is rather a disagreeable and 
 ill-natured remark, but it contains undoubtedly a little 
 truth. Old men are occasionally apt to be prosy and 
 egotistical — to tell the same story over and over again • 
 they continually dwell on old times — the good old 
 days of sixty years ago. It should not require much 
 patience to bear with these little things. 
 
 The idea of growing old seems to be one which 
 many people put as far away from their minds as 
 possible ; and yet if we sit down and seriously consider 
 the matter, the prospect is not so very unpleasant as 
 we imagine. It only requires to be looked in the face, 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES, 57 
 
 and, like many other bugbears, the unpleasantness of 
 the idea will vanish. Charles Lamb writes delightfully 
 of his own experience, when as an old man he had to 
 retire from his office. He says that during a busy and 
 active life the time is not our own. It was only after 
 he was superannuated that he felt he could do what 
 he Hked ; and the days and hours were longer then and 
 more precious to him than during his busy manhood. 
 His experience is probably the experience of many. 
 Look around, and you will see very many happy old 
 men. Few of them perhaps would care to live over 
 their lives again, beginning at childhood and having 
 exactly the same experiences twice. They are con- 
 tented as they are, and we need not be at all afraid of 
 that which pleases them. William Cullen Bryant very 
 quietly contemplates the time when he will be an old 
 man, in the verses which we quote ; why should each 
 of us not be able to cherish similar feelings ? 
 
 " Lament who will, in fruitless tears, 
 
 The speed with which our moments fly, 
 I sigh not over vanished years. 
 But watch the years that hasten by. 
 
 ' ' Look how they come ! a mingled crowd 
 Of bright and dark, but rapid days ; 
 Beneath them, like a summer cloud, 
 The wide world changes as I gaze. 
 
58 ESS A YS. 
 
 '* Time, time will seam and blanch my brow : 
 Well, I will sit with aged men. 
 And my good glass will tell me how 
 A grisly beard becomes me then. 
 
 " And should no foul dishonour lie 
 Upon my head when I am gray, 
 Love yet shall watch my fading eye, 
 And smooth ttic path of my decay. 
 
 " Then, haste thee, Time — 'tis kindness all 
 That speeds thy winged feet so fast ; 
 Thy pleasures stay not till they fall. 
 And all thy pains are quickly past. 
 
 *' Thou fliest, and bear'st away our woes, 
 And as thy shadowy train depart, 
 The memory of sorrow grows 
 A lighter burden on the heart." 
 
 My dear Reader, whether we will or not, we must 
 grow old. There is no shirking the matter. If we 
 remain here, that is a certainty ; but yet we need not 
 be alarmed about it. Let us see that we avoid doing 
 anything now which will fill us with unhappy reflec- 
 tions then. We will trust in Providence, and hope we 
 may be spared to enjoy — 
 
 " An old age serene and bright, 
 And lovely as a Lapland night." 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SEVEN AGES. 59 
 
 Seventh and Last. — "Sans Everything." 
 
 "Last scene of all, 
 That ends this strange, eventful history. 
 Is second childishness and mere oblivion ; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans — everything." 
 
 tHIS is the last scene of all. What has led up 
 to it ? We wrote first of the Infant, who was 
 quite helpless in the nurse's arms. He had a 
 mind and senses, but he was too inexperienced to use 
 them. It might be said of him, as is written about 
 the gods of the heathen, that he had eyes but could 
 not see, ears but could not hear, hands but could not 
 handle, and an understanding that could not under- 
 stand. The performance of the first Act was only 
 " The Infant, mewling and puking in the nurse's arms." 
 
 Round went the clock, and the curtain rose for the 
 second time. The babe had grown into the boy; 
 he had looked about him, and had begun to know 
 and understand, so he had to present himself at the 
 more advanced stage of 
 
 ' ' The School -boy, with his satchel and shining morning face. " 
 We saw him loitering by the bum-side, chasing 
 
6o ESS A YS. 
 
 butterflies and watching the dappled trout ; he was 
 going very unwillingly to school, but it was necessary 
 that he should go. So we left him under the care of 
 the dominie until he developed into 
 
 " The Lover, sighing like a furnace." 
 
 We laughed at him now, and sympathised with him 
 too, in some measure. We knew he would sigh himself 
 into a quieter and happier condition ; and we hoped 
 that, when he did awake, and was in his right mind, 
 he would find himself possessed of a good, true, 
 happy, sober love which would endure " until death." 
 Leaving him to accomplish that all-important matter, 
 we let the act-drop fall; and when it rose on Act IV., 
 it was to the sound of martial music and rolling drums. 
 There rushed upon the stage 
 " The Soldier, jealous in honour — sudden and quick in quarrel." 
 
 He was the man — noble, honest, true, and brave. 
 He won his spurs, and, in theatrical parlance, 
 "brought down the house." Hearty, ringing cheers 
 reverberated through the theatre ; and the warrior 
 retired, to appear again in a remarkably different 
 character. With all respectful curiosity we watched 
 his appearance and performance in the fifth Act, when 
 
 "The Justice, in fair round belly with good capon lined," 
 sat upon the bench, looked severe, pretended to be 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 6 1 
 
 wise, and, as Shakespeare said, " so played his part." 
 The jolly Justice then shifted into the character we 
 considered in our last paper — 
 
 *'The lean and slippered Pantaloon," 
 
 — the superannuated old man. This brings us to the 
 
 '' Last scene of all, 
 That ends this strange, eventful history : 
 'Tis second childishness and mere oblivion ; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans — everything." 
 
 Truly the history has been strange and eventful, 
 and yet it is a very common one — it is simply " the 
 common lot." We drew upon our own experience 
 in some of the Ages; and in those which we have 
 not yet reached we only required to look around, 
 to see at once the very characters whom Shakespeare 
 so accurately described three hundred years ago. 
 
 We have arrived now at somethitig very like the point 
 at which we started. We began with childhood, and we 
 end with it again. When the babe was bom, the clock 
 began to tick for him : since then the hands have been 
 turning round and round, and round and round ; and 
 now they are slowly and surely moving up to the point 
 at which they shall mark time for the old man no 
 longer. He has seen and heard; he has lived his life ; 
 he is full of years ; he has gone the whole round of his 
 existence. And what is it all ? Life has been com- 
 
62 ESS A YS. 
 
 pared to a dream, a vision, a vapour, the grass of the 
 field, the weaver's shuttle. " We spend our years as 
 a tale that is told " — that is perhaps the best image. 
 A monument may last for ages; a book or written 
 history can be grasped. A tale is only breath ; the 
 words are fugitive and passing; incident succeeds 
 incident by insensible transitions — some are grave, 
 some gay ; and then, when the tale is told, there is 
 nothing left behind ; the echoes of the tones of the 
 teller soon pass away, and are forgotten. 
 
 We will not allow ourselves, however, to enter into 
 any vain and melancholy regrets about the shortness 
 of life. That is a subject which has elicited a world 
 of groans since time began. However much we may 
 bewail the shortness of life, our own efforts cannot 
 prolong it. We shall never be able to make the moon 
 stand still, as Joshua did at Ajalon; or cause the 
 sun's shadow to fall back, as it did on the dial of 
 Ahaz, in answer to the prayers of the prophet. Our 
 duty is to make a good use of the time we have, and 
 not to sit down moping and mourning over the short- 
 ness of the period which we can call our own. 
 
 In these pages we have been considering a Hfe in 
 which there was a great deal of happiness. We do 
 not recollect whether we were very happy as an Infant 
 or not We all look back with delight to our School- 
 
SHAKESPEARE S SE VEN A GES. 63 
 
 boy days. Who can express the sweet happiness the 
 Lover enjoys ? The Justice was a jolly character, who 
 enjoyed a good dinner. The Pantaloon, or more 
 properly the old man, had his own pleasures, as we 
 showed in our last paper ; and certainly this very aged 
 man, who has reached the stage of second childhood, 
 has much to be thankful for. Of course there have 
 been trials and afflictions to endure. Life all sun- 
 shine without shade, all happiness without sorrow, 
 all pleasure without pain, were not life at all — at 
 least not human life. Take the lot of the happiest, 
 it is a tangled yam — it is made up of sorrows and 
 joys, and the joys are the sweeter because of the 
 sorrows; bereavements and blessings, one following 
 another, make us sad and blessed by turns. But life 
 is not a dull, sad, melancholy thing : there is a deal 
 of true happiness in the lot of almost every one. It 
 is more natural, perhaps, to remember the afflictions, 
 and dwell upon the sorrows of life, when one has 
 reached a certain age, than to revert to past pleasures 
 and enjoyments; but that is a tendency which should 
 be checked. Robertson, of Brighton, in speaking of 
 the mingled good and evil in life, and the pre- 
 ponderance of the good over the evil, has beautifully 
 said : — " See two men meeting together on the 
 street, — mere acquaintances. They will not be five 
 
64 ESS A YS. 
 
 minutes together before a smile will overspread their 
 countenances, or a merry laugh ring off at the lowest 
 amusement This has God done. God created the 
 smile and the laugh, as well as the sigh and the tear. 
 The aspect of this life is stern, very stern. It is a 
 very superficial account of it, which slurs over its 
 grave mystery, and refuses to hear its low, deep, 
 undertone of anguish. But there is enough, from 
 hour to hour, of bright sunny happiness, to remind 
 us that its Creator's name is Love." 
 
 We said that the old man whose faculties have all 
 gone done — who has reached second childhood, and 
 who can neither see, hear, nor taste well — has much 
 to be thankfi.ll for. Perhaps the reader may think this 
 a bold assertion, and one difficult to establish. It is 
 not so. Shakespeare says of him he is " sans every- 
 thing" — sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste. But this 
 superannuated old man is not without everything — ^he 
 is not without happiness or comfort — he is not without 
 pride, either, for old men are proud of their years, 
 and they have a right to be so. 
 
 It is a more easy thing for the old man to resign 
 himself to the dissolution which is before him than 
 for the strong man who may be laid on a bed of sick- 
 ness in the prime of life. The latter has been stopped, 
 as it were, in the middle of his career, and has to leave 
 
SHAKESPEARE S SEVEN AGES. 65 
 
 much unaccomplished \ while the former— the wearied 
 sage — has fought out the life-battle, has sounded all 
 the depths and shoals of existence, and, surrounded 
 by kind and loving friends, he simply bides his time. 
 Nothing excites or disturbs him now ; the heat of the 
 conflict is over, and he leaves younger men to pull the 
 oar, or put their shoulders to the wheel. 
 
 We have read a play which well exemplifies the state 
 of quiet content into which the old man sinks. There 
 was a scene in it to this effect : — Some dreadful and 
 very afflicting news (about what we forget) was brought 
 to a little cottage j a father, mother, and daughter were 
 all thrown into a great state of weeping and distress ; 
 while the old grandfather in the chimney-comer was 
 not concerned at all, — he only troubled himself about 
 his handkerchief and his gruel. 
 
 Extreme age comes upon a man very gently j it is 
 like the quiet gloamiri of a summer eve. The shadows 
 creep very gradually in. The days of an old man are 
 very long to him, just as a day to a young child seems 
 a much longer time than it does to a grown man. It 
 may seem a hard thing to say, but perhaps after all 
 the old man has reason to be thankful even that his 
 senses are gradually failing. If he was as well able to 
 enjoy all this beautiful world in his old age as he was 
 in his youth, he would feel it a harder thing to tear 
 
66 ESS A YS. 
 
 himself away from it. Yet what can we say of those 
 comforts which old age may enjoy unknown to us? 
 When the gateways of sense are being so slowly closed, 
 may not the inner spirit have communications of which 
 we know nothing ? 
 
 ** Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." 
 
 This is only a matter of conjecture with us ; but we 
 have seen old men whose happy faces looked as if 
 they had some comfort of which they could not 
 speak. 
 
 " The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er ; 
 So calm are we when passions are no more. 
 For then we know how vain it was to boast 
 Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost ; 
 Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
 Conceal that emptiness which age descries. 
 
 '* The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 
 Lets in new light through chinks that time has made : 
 Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, 
 As they draw near to their eternal home. 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
 That stand upon the threshold of the new." 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S SE VEN A GES. 67 
 
 Dear Reader, we have now come to the end of our 
 task. We have endeavoured to bring a lesson or two 
 out of this beautiful passage from Shakespeare — " The 
 Seven Ages ; " and whether we have been successful 
 or not it is for you to judge. We will not, however, 
 say anything about ourselves. We have our own 
 part to play on the world's stage, and so have you. 
 The part we had to perform in laying before you the 
 Seven Acts of the life which we have just described, 
 was a very simple one. We were only scene-shifter — 
 we pulled the act-drop up and down ; so it does 
 not become us to write an epilogue. We must 
 keep out of sight in "the wings;" and now, when 
 the performance is over, our only duty is to put out the 
 lights. We saw good old Dean Ramsay the last time 
 he acted as chairman at a public meeting in Edinburgh ; 
 and perhaps we might be allowed to say to you what 
 he said to that great gathering in the Music Hall— 
 
 " Guid nicht, an' joy be wi' ye a'." 
 
LYRICS. 
 
LYRICS. 
 
 ©ebotional pieces. 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 ^AYHe, 
 
 Who, through the thunder 
 
 And the noise 
 Of howling wolfish winds 
 
 At midnight hour, 
 
 Hears, from the wave-washed deck, 
 The sailor boy's 
 
 Poor feeble cry for help 
 
 When tempests lower. 
 Protect thy little bark 
 
 On Life's dark sea, 
 And through the hurricane 
 
 Thy Helmsman be : 
 
 Till, safe within 
 
 The haven of the blest, 
 Thy storm-tossed soul shall find 
 Eternal rest ! 
 
72 LYRICS. 
 
 "PEACE, BE STILL." 
 
 " And He said unto the sea, Peace, be still." 
 
 The sky is wild and dark, 
 
 The waves are high ; 
 Tossed is the broken bark, 
 
 And the disciples think that death is nigh. 
 Yet need they fear none ill — 
 Jesus is there ! 
 He, answering their prayer, 
 Says—" Peace, be still." 
 
 What though the sea should rave, 
 
 And wind should wail ! 
 His is the power to save \ 
 
 Fear not the billows in the angry gale : 
 Obedient to His will. 
 Wind, wave, and sky 
 Hear the commanding cry 
 Of—" Peace, be still." 
 
DEVOTIONAL PIECES. 73 
 
 I^ife is a troubled sea ; 
 And, tempest-tossed, 
 Our souls oft fearfully 
 
 Cry out in weak despair—" Lord, we are lost." 
 But from God's holy hill. 
 Through darkness wild, 
 The cry, so meek and mild, 
 Comes—" Peace, be still." 
 
 O words so full of power 
 From gentlest Voice ! 
 Though clouds of doubt should lower, 
 
 We will dispel the gloom, and bid rejoice ; 
 Our doubting hearts shall fill 
 With joy and love, 
 Hearing the Voice above 
 Say— "Peace, be still!" 
 
 1870. 
 
74 LYRICS. 
 
 " HE TURNETH THE SHADOW OF DEATH 
 INTO THE MORNING." 
 
 Without, the world is bright and fair, 
 
 The sunlight gleams upon it all ; 
 Within that darkened chamber there 
 Strange shadows fall. 
 
 The eyes grow dim. O Tord of Light ! 
 
 To Thee are stretched hands pale and thin ; 
 The shadows, deepening with the night, 
 Still gather in. 
 
 Darker — more dark ; a night there is, 
 
 On which the morning ne'er shall break ; 
 But we have hope — our plea is this : 
 " For Jesus' sake." 
 
 1874. 
 
DEVOTIONAL PIECES. 75 
 
 NEW-YEAR HYMN. 
 
 \This and the three follffiving Hymns were written for 
 Sabbath-school children.^ 
 
 O Lord of Light ! Eternal King ! 
 
 Who Ancient art of Days, 
 To Thee our songs we humbly sing : 
 
 Oh ! hear our feeble praise. 
 
 With hope and love, with joy and fear, 
 
 We wait Thy heavenly will ; 
 As in the past, in this New Year, 
 
 Be Thou our Father still. 
 
 And o'er Life's dark and troubled tide, 
 Through all its blinding foam. 
 
 Of our frail bark be Thou the Guide, 
 And steer us safely home. 
 
 Some faces loved have passed away : 
 
 Still we are gathered here. 
 On this Thy holy Sabbath day 
 
 To greet the glad New Year ; — 
 
76 LYRICS. 
 
 To praise Thy name, Most Holy One ! 
 
 Thou art our trust alone : 
 May we, when all the years are done, 
 
 Be gathered round Thy throne. 
 
 Accept, O Lord ! our humble song ; 
 
 Hear us. Thou Prince of Peace ! 
 To Thee for aye shall praise belong 
 
 When death and time shall cease. 
 
 1873. 
 
DEVOTIONAL PIECES. 77 
 
 NEW-YEAR HYMN. 
 
 O Lord of Life ! Eternal King ! 
 
 Who Ancient art of Days, 
 In this New Year to Thee we sing, 
 
 Oh ! hear our humble praise. 
 
 With voices soft, in accents low. 
 
 We stand about Thy feet ; 
 And praise Thy name, while some we know 
 
 Have joined the mercy-seat. 
 
 Another Year ! Time's ceaseless tide 
 
 Bears many a feeble bark ; 
 Sweet Jesus ! be the children's Guide 
 
 And Helmsman in the dark. 
 
 We cannot see, we do not know, 
 
 We cling about Thy form ; 
 For without Thee we cannot go 
 
 Out in the whirling storm. 
 
78 L YRICS. 
 
 Year in, year out — in woe, in weal, 
 
 Be with us on the way ; 
 Give us Thy hand, that we may feel 
 
 Thou art our Guide and Stay. 
 
 Then years may roll, and time may fly. 
 Our hope is firm and strong ; 
 
 Until, far up, beyond the sky, 
 We sing a richer song. 
 
 1874- . . 
 
DEVOTIONAL PIECES. 79 
 
 NEW-YEAR HYMN. 
 
 Once again, O Heavenly Father ! 
 
 To Thy presence near, 
 We, Thy happy children, gather 
 Round Thy footstool here, 
 Still before Thee 
 To adore Thee 
 In the glad New Year. 
 
 Hear our childish voices blending 
 
 As we sing Thy praise ; 
 May our hymn, to heaven ascending, 
 Blend with angels' lays ! 
 Voices raise we 
 Still to praise Thee 
 Through the years and days. 
 
 Unknown future lies before us ; 
 
 Is the distance dim ? 
 Jesus still is watching o'er us ; 
 We will trust in Him. 
 Sing one song, then. 
 Maidens, young men. 
 Child, and cherubim ! 
 
8o L YRICS. 
 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 
 Let our praises ring, 
 
 Father, Son, and Spirit Holy, 
 
 We with angels sing. 
 
 Hallelujah ! 
 
 Hallelujah ! 
 
 To our Lord and King ! 
 
 1875. 
 
DEVOTIONAL PIECES. 
 
 NEW-YEAR HYMN. 
 
 " Glory BE to GOD on High !"— 
 Hear the rich angelic song 
 
 Wafted to us from the sky ! 
 We the echoes will prolong. 
 
 To the King a thousand years 
 
 Are but as a single day ; 
 Praise and bless the God who hears 
 
 Even the child that kneels to pray. 
 
 Thus with hope we gather here 
 On the holy Sabbath days ; 
 
 And again in this New Year 
 Sing we to our Father's praise. 
 
 Jesus ! we would look to Thee ; 
 
 All the gifts we have are Thine : 
 " Let the children come to Me," — - 
 
 Once was said in Palestine. 
 
82 LYRICS, 
 
 So, together singing here, 
 Upon Thee our hope is cast ; 
 
 Guide us in the coming year ; 
 
 Thou didst lead us through the last 
 
 Thou hast given us health and friends, 
 Youth and happiness and love ; 
 ' And Thy goodness never ends, 
 Showering blessings from above. 
 
 Shall not we take up the song, 
 And our voices reach the sky ? 
 
 Singing praises loud and long, — 
 " Glory be to GOD on High ! " 
 
 1876. 
 
3Ltfe JHustnss. 
 
 BREAD. 
 
 to toil and moil, 
 Early and late, 
 Poor Humanity, 
 This is thy fate ! 
 Go to the town, with its noise and din, 
 Look at the faces pinched and thin ; 
 Hear the tramp of hurrying feet. 
 As men jostle and push on the crowded street. 
 Ever, for ever, they strive and strain, 
 Wearing and tearing nerve and brain, 
 Selfishly each one trying to gain, — 
 What ? Not money, or honour, or fame, 
 But a little fuel to feed the flame 
 Of the fire of life, which must be fed ; 
 And the strife is the struggle for daily Bread. 
 
84 LYRICS. 
 
 Buy or sell 
 Whatever you may ; 
 
 Hammer or spin 
 Night and day. 
 Since man first fought with the sulky soil, 
 Harder and harder has grown his toil, 
 Till now, with the very struggle and strife 
 In trying to live, men wear out life. 
 See the mother attending the factory wheels, 
 Trying to stifle the love she feels, 
 While over her heart there gently steals 
 A' thought of the child in her lonely cot : 
 Is it crying for food, which she has not got ? 
 Bread ! Bread ! that is the cry : 
 Well, work very hard, and you may not die ! 
 
 Sweat of the brow, 
 
 Sweat of the brain — 
 These are the wages 
 Of sin, the pain 
 Which fell on man when he fell from God, 
 And was banished from Eden's bless'd abode. 
 Trying to grasp intangible breath, 
 And drive away the fear of death, 
 Man labours for that which perisheth. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS, 85 
 
 Generations of men, they come and they go, 
 
 Like the restless tide, with its ebb and flow j 
 
 One passes for ever out of the strife, 
 
 One rises behind to fight for life ; 
 
 And the wail of the world, as it whirls through 
 
 space. 
 Ever pierces the " high and the lofty place." 
 
 1869. 
 
86 LYRICS. 
 
 CALM AND STORM. 
 
 Buoyed on the tide, 
 
 We gently glide 
 Over the glassy sea ; 
 And the wavelets, rippling, break on the side 
 Of the ship right merrily. 
 
 Sailing away, 
 
 We follow the day, 
 Though we know that his work is done ; 
 Behind us rises the twilight gray, 
 But our goal is the setting sun. 
 
 Smooth is the sea 
 
 As sea could be, 
 Cloudless the evening sky ; 
 And the sunbeam flickering up on the mast 
 Flirts with the pennon high. 
 
 All is so fair, 
 
 We may banish care 
 As we gallantly sail to the west ; 
 When the sunlight passes before us there, ^ 
 The sea will rock us to rest. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS, 87 
 
 II. 
 
 Dark as the grave, 
 
 Each hollow wave 
 Rises up in the night ; 
 And the night-wind, taking the sea in its arms, 
 Shaketh the ship in its might. 
 
 At midnight hour 
 
 Dark tempests lower, 
 And the storm hath broken our sail ; 
 But the tattered rag is a fitting flag 
 Of the spirit that raised the gale. 
 
 Waters flushing, 
 Crashing, rushing. 
 Thunder their strength on the deck ; 
 And the poor ship, staggering under the weight, 
 Drifl;eth, a broken wreck. 
 
 Driven and tossed. 
 For ever lost, 
 And no one there who could save. 
 Oh ! who can tell of the horror that fell 
 On that ship that sunk in the wave ! 
 
 1869. 
 
88 LYRICS, 
 
 A STREET SCENE. 
 
 There, in the blinding sleet, 
 In a night so cold and wild, 
 
 Standing alone in the street, 
 Smgeth a little child. 
 
 His feet are red and bare. 
 And the passers to and fro 
 
 Pity him standing there, 
 Ankle-deep in the snow. 
 
 Young, but shrunk like the old, 
 Wet in the snow and rain, 
 
 Singing his grief in the cold. 
 He sobbeth away his pain. 
 
 And his face is young and fair, 
 Standing out in the storm ; 
 
 For under the gas-light's glare 
 We see his shivering form. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 89 
 
 Of " Home, sweet Home " he sings, 
 
 If such a place there be ; 
 To his eye a tear it brings, 
 
 For never a home has he. 
 
 No place to lay his head, 
 
 Fatherless must he roam. 
 Wishing that he were dead, 
 
 And passed through the darkness — Home I 
 
 [869. 
 
90 LYRICS. 
 
 "SILENCE IS GOLDEN." 
 
 Far from the city with its ceaseless strife, 
 Here, where all things are still, 
 Within the shadow of the hill, 
 
 I thought of all the clamour of our life : 
 
 Of all the talking of poor foolish man, 
 
 The babbling of the crowd, 
 
 Which ever rises loud, 
 Jarring God's music since the world began. 
 
 I thought of life, with all its care and cark ; 
 
 Of man who ever cries, 
 
 As ceaselessly he tries 
 To grasp the truth while groping in the dark. 
 
 O man ! let thy poor mutterings pass away. 
 Let all thy j anglings cease. 
 And strive for lasting peace, 
 
 And hear what golden silence has to say. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 91 
 
 Heed not the teaching of a thousand fools, 
 Who know not wrong from right, 
 Who think the darkness light ; 
 
 Truth is not in the cavil of the schools. 
 
 For God's own everlasting hills which stand, 
 
 In all their giant might, 
 
 So silent in the night, 
 Teach more than all the talkers in the land. 
 
 The silent stars call on us to rejoice ; 
 
 Christ brooded on the hills. 
 
 Of life and all its ills, — 
 Hear, ye who may, the echo of His voice ! 
 
 [869. 
 
92 LYRICS. 
 
 JEDBURGH ABBEY. 
 
 O GRAY old Ruin ! let me stand and gaze, 
 
 In the fair twilight of this closing day, 
 Through all the mist of time, the hallowed haze, 
 
 Which shrouds in gloom the ages passed away. 
 
 Wisdom is old, the outcome of the years, 
 And these old stones have seen the ages die, — 
 
 Have seen men pass, with all their hopes and fears, 
 Fade out, like stars before the morning sky. 
 
 Where are the men who shaped these goodly stones ? 
 Where are the monks who filled the house with 
 prayer ? 
 Through ruined aisle the night-wind, wailing, moans, 
 Sobbing through broken arch — where are they? — 
 where ? 
 
 Passed out of sight, " black-hooded and black stoled," 
 They went as they had come, their work was done ; 
 
 For Men and Time the Abbey bell had tolled. 
 Their day had closed, a brighter age begun. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 93 
 
 But Still their temple stands, like tombstone gray, 
 The silent resting-place of many years ; 
 
 And o'er the churchyard of this later day, 
 The sloping shadow hides the mourner's tears. 
 
 And when we pass, the Abbey shall remain, 
 For ever standing in its hallowed place, 
 
 Bearing the scourging of the wind and rain. 
 The marks of time upon its aged face. 
 
 O Wind ! when passing on thy wandering way, 
 Sigh through the ancient nave in twilight dim ; 
 
 And through the aisles, so very old and gray, 
 Pass like the echo of a monkish hymn. 
 
 O wasting Time ! send not thy blighting blast ; 
 
 Thy hand must gently touch this sacred spot : 
 For 'tis thine own, a memory of the past, 
 
 A lasting monument of ancient thought. 
 
 O gentle Night ! as thy dark curtain falls, 
 Blessing, I leave the place I love so well : 
 
 May this old ruined tower, these broken walls, 
 In ages yet to come, their story tell ! 
 
 1869. 
 
94 L YRICS. 
 
 BY AND BY! 
 
 By and by ! 
 By and by ! 
 With a heigh-ho and a long-drawn sigh, 
 The child is thinking of By and by ! 
 Sitting and gazing into the fire, 
 He watches the flickering flame leap higher, 
 And he sees the falling spark expire ; 
 And he longs, and he thinks, and he heaves his sigh, 
 And he dreams of the golden By and by ! 
 
 By and by ! 
 By and by ! 
 The road is steep, but the aim is high, 
 And the man is working for By and by ! 
 Struggling and fighting night and day, 
 Selling God's time as best he may. 
 He grasps at the world as it passes away ; 
 And he fights, and he strives, but he breathes no sigh 
 He gathers the treasure for By and by ! 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 95 
 
 By and by ! 
 By and by ! 
 Weary and worn, with a helpless cry, 
 The old man waits on the By and by ! 
 His eye is dim, and the sun is cold, 
 And the man is withered, and pale, and old ; 
 His By and by 's under the churchyard mould : 
 And he waits, and he longs, for his time is nigh, 
 And the weary shall rest in the By and by ! 
 
 1869. 
 
96 L YRICS. 
 
 1869. 
 
 Here in my chair before the fire, 
 Within the shadows of the room, 
 Here sit I watching in the gloom. 
 To see a year expire. 
 And as I sit and think. 
 
 The wind comes sobbing through the window- 
 chink. 
 And from beneath the door, 
 With voice which seems to cry, 
 " What though the year should die, 
 As other years have died before ? " 
 
 There, standing on the mantel-shelf, 
 The timepiece in its marble case. 
 With solemn voice and sober face, 
 Is ticking to itself 
 
 Each tick, like long-drawn sigh. 
 Seems ever saying that the year must die ; 
 And it is only right, 
 
 That, with the passing day, 
 The year should slip away. 
 Like a prowling thief in the night. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 97 
 
 O good old Year ! with many fears, 
 Here must I sit and watch at last 
 Thy old face vanish in the past, 
 And join the bygone years. 
 \ hear the midnight bell 
 Is slowly ringing out thy funeral knell ; 
 I hear the wind's weird sigh 
 Sob through the leafless trees ; 
 Without, the wintry breeze 
 Wails feebly like a baby's cry. 
 
L YRICS. 
 
 THE MERMAIDS. 
 
 Under the sea ! 
 Under the sea ! 
 What glory is hidden 
 Under the sea ! 
 'Neath the restless tide, 
 
 'Neath the surface foam, 
 The mermaids hide 
 
 In their coral home ; 
 And the green light gleams 
 Through the gentle wave ; 
 And it glimmers 
 And shimmers 
 Down into the cave, 
 On the beautiful things 
 Where the seaweed clings ;- 
 On the pearls and coral 
 
 And silver shells, 
 As they shine in the home 
 Where the mermaid dwells. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 99 
 
 Under the sea ! 
 Under the sea ! 
 What beauty is hidden 
 
 Under the sea ! 
 Pown out of our sight, 
 In the light so dim, 
 All day and night 
 
 Do the mermaids swim ; 
 And the moonlight shines 
 On their golden hair ; 
 And it shivers 
 And quivers 
 As it shows how fair 
 
 Are the arms which wave 
 In their hidden cave ; 
 And a joy comes ringing 
 
 Up, merrily, free. 
 From the home of the mermaid 
 Down under the sea ! 
 
 Under the sea ! 
 Under the sea ! 
 How strange that any 
 
 Could doubt there be 
 Such a lovely place 
 
 Down under the sea ! — 
 
L YRICS. 
 
 A home of grace, 
 
 And of joy and glee. 
 But still it is there, 
 And the mermaids fair 
 In their playing 
 Are saying — 
 " Why, we do not care, 
 For man only dies 
 If ever he tries 
 To sport in our home 
 So fair and so free ; 
 In the home of the mermaids, 
 Down under the sea ! " 
 
 1870. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS, loi 
 
 THE JEWEL. 
 
 Upon a bosom fair 
 A jewel gleamed; 
 And as it rose and fell, 
 With the soft swell 
 Of Love, 
 It seemed 
 Like some fair dew-drop on a rose. 
 Which, with its crown 
 
 Of beauty, 
 Bendeth down. 
 When the wind blows. 
 
 " O Jewel ! rich and rare. 
 Why gleamest thou 
 So coldly on the throng 
 Where mirth and song 
 Hold now 
 High carnival ? Thy place of rest 
 Should warm thy beams ; 
 
 Fairer 
 Should be thy gleams 
 From such a breast." 
 
L YRICS. 
 
 "The youth and bloom shall fade, 
 The laughter die, 
 The joy shall pass away, 
 With sadness day 
 Shall come ; 
 And I 
 Shall gleam when all the joy is dead. 
 What are the years 
 
 To me ? 
 Laughter or tears 
 My gleams I shed." 
 
 [870. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 103 
 
 A I. O N E. 
 
 Alone I wandered by the surging sea, 
 And unto me 
 In darkness drear the rising tide made moan : 
 Each wave seemed wailing to the silent stars, 
 Each billow broke upon the sandy bars, 
 And cried with grief and groan — 
 Cried unto me 
 In sympathy — 
 " Thou art alone ! " 
 
 Alone, upon the city's crowded street, 
 Where hurrying feet 
 Tread all day long, O man, thou art alone ! 
 What is the whirHng of the wheels to thee ? — 
 A melancholy moan, which seems to be 
 Crying in wearied tone. 
 
 Through all this crowd 
 Which clamours loud, 
 "Thou art alone!" 
 
I04 L YRICS. 
 
 Alone, even 'neath the gas-light in the rooms, 
 Where sweet perfumes 
 Waft on the air, when youth, and joy, and love, 
 And mirth, and music, mingle soul with soul ; 
 When hand is clasped in hand, and o'er the 
 bowl 
 Friendship is pledged, a stone 
 Is at the heart : — 
 This poisoned dart. 
 Thou art alone ! 
 
 Alone, when tossing on the bed of pain, 
 Love tries in vain 
 To ease thy couch, to smooth thy pillow down ; 
 With falling tears friends gently press thy hand, 
 For thee alone has come the dread command. 
 Through portals wide the throne 
 Gleams on thy sight : 
 In death's dark night — 
 Art thou alone ? 
 
 1870. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 105 
 
 TWO HARVESTS. 
 
 \Written during the Franco- German War.] 
 
 There is a music in the air, 
 
 Soft and sweet — 
 It comes from vale and hill, 
 Dwells everywhere, 
 
 Rising like incense meet, 
 As if our land was still 
 An Eden fresh and fair. 
 The sunlight shines upon the sheaves, 
 
 The sickle glitters in the ripened wheat, 
 The swallows twitter in the eaves, 
 
 Flowers nestle at our feet ; 
 The fields are white unto the harvest now, 
 And sloping up the mountain's brow 
 Waveth the golden grain ; 
 Then, gather in. 
 Till com and wine abound, 
 Till harvest comes again. 
 Till joy the year hath crowned. 
 
io6 L YRICS. 
 
 II. 
 
 A cry comes from over the sea, 
 
 Weird and wild, 
 Borne o'er the surging wave — 
 What can it be ? 
 
 It is the harvest, child — 
 The harvest of the grave ; 
 The harvest reaped by thee, 
 O Death ! The air is full of moans, 
 
 The trampled com with blood of men is wet, 
 The quivering sky is pierced with shrieks and 
 groans. 
 And angry foes have met, 
 And ranks of men are mowed like ripened wheat, 
 And fall to lie beneath the feet 
 Of those who reap. The wail, 
 
 Of bride or wife 
 Comes, like the harvest song. 
 Rising o'er all the strife — 
 " How long ? O Lord ! how long ?" 
 
 1870. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 107 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 \Written after the German Victories in 1870.'] 
 
 Laughter-loving, joyous France 
 Tripped it lightly in the dance, 
 Mirth and madness in her glance. 
 
 North and South, and East and West, 
 Came for pleasure or for rest — 
 Many a worn and weary guest. 
 
 And she laughed their cares away : 
 Mirth and music, night and day, 
 Taught the saddest to be gay. 
 
 Brought her handmaid. Art, to place 
 A new glory and a grace 
 Round the beauty of her face. 
 
 But the joy of France is past ; 
 Tears for laughter come at last — 
 All her sky is overcast. 
 
io8 Z YRICS. 
 
 Mirth and music, they are o'er ; 
 All the joy she showed before 
 Vanished now for evermore. 
 
 For the face that once was fair 
 Now is wrinkled o'er with care — 
 Ashy-white with mild despair. 
 
 And her hair, dishevelled, torn, 
 On the wanton breeze is borne. 
 Broken-hearted and forlorn. 
 
 She who danced the livelong day. 
 She who sang the hours away. 
 Humbly kneeling, tries to pray : — 
 
 " Lord, Thou knowest right from wrong. 
 Suffer not, nor tarry long : 
 Is the battle to the Strong?" 
 
 1870. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 109 
 
 THE OLD YEAR 
 
 1870. 
 
 Out of the struggle of life, 
 
 With its troubles, and sorrows, and joys, 
 Slipping away from the strife. 
 
 Deafened with clamour and noise, 
 Moveth the Year, 
 With trembling and fear, 
 Bearing his burden of care ; 
 And the wild waves rave. 
 As he moves to his grave : 
 His load it is heavy to bear. 
 
 Plodding along on his way. 
 
 He murmurs not, neither will speak ; 
 He is weary, and old, and gray. 
 The wild winds buffet his cheek. 
 Knowing the road, 
 He beareth his load. 
 And over his head in the skies 
 The elements crowd, 
 And they weave him a shroud 
 To cover him up when he dies. 
 
no LYRICS. 
 
 Bearing his burden of woe, 
 
 He will vanish away in the night ; 
 Cover him up in the snow, 
 Huddle him out of our sight : 
 Hear ye his dole, 
 'Tis the battle's roll ! 
 With the Year may the bloodshed cease ; 
 Let the New one come ; 
 He shall silence the drum ; 
 For he bears the sweet olive of Peace. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE REDS. 
 
 [Written at the time of the Comt}tune in Paris, May, 1871.1 
 
 We are free ! 
 We are free ! 
 We are free as the wind, as the fetterless wind, 
 The wild mad wind, which doth howl 
 
 Like a ghoul ; 
 Which can blow as it lists, and is strong ; 
 Which can fell at a stroke 
 The gnarled old oak 
 That the forest hath cherished long. 
 
 We are free 
 As the sea ; 
 As the moon-struck sea, as the pitiless sea, 
 When its rolling breakers roar 
 
 On the shore ; 
 Which can break what it likes in its joy ; 
 For the mightiest ship 
 Is but a chip 
 To be crushed like a baby's toy. 
 
112 LYRICS. 
 
 We are free ! 
 Float the flag- 
 Republican red — kick the crown in the mud. 
 Here's a cap for the head, 
 
 Bloody red. 
 The white banner of Peace be it stained 
 'Neath the filth of the street, 
 Under trampling of feet, 
 For with bloodshed is liberty gained. 
 
 We were free 
 Once before ! — 
 When the good guillotine poured its blood on the street. 
 When Reason was crowned by the crowd, 
 
 Shouting loud. 
 Vanished law both of God and of man : 
 And the people were free 
 Who bowed the knee 
 To a deified courtesan. 
 
 They were free ; 
 So are we. 
 As the wind and the sea ! Who can fetter our reign ? 
 Float the flag which is red 
 Overhead, 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 
 
 13 
 
 For our might is the sword and the flame ; 
 We have leave now to shoot, 
 This is freedom to boot, 
 And we'll do it in Liberty's name ! 
 
 187] 
 
114 LYRICS. 
 
 THE OWL. 
 
 Tee whit, tee whoo 1 
 Cries the owl from the belfiy tower ; 
 'Tis midnight, and the hour 
 
 Comes throbbing from the bell ; 
 The watchful owl, whose words are strange and few, 
 Replies — Tee whit, tee who-o-o ! 
 
 The fair moon gleams 
 Upon the graves, and throws its light 
 Upon the headstones white. 
 
 Which cluster round the church ; 
 And on the tower, where climbs the ivy green, 
 It throws a silver sheen. 
 
 The sombre yew 
 Rustles and shivers in the breeze 
 Which sigheth through the trees, 
 
 And like a spirit moves ; 
 The hamlet sleeps : sadly the stillness through 
 Comes this — Tee whit, tee who-o-o ! 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 
 
 Tee whit, tee whoo ! 
 The owl which on the belfry sits, 
 Where now the black bat flits, 
 
 Will cry, when those who sleep 
 In village hushed, are laid beneath the yew. 
 This cry— Tee whit, tee who-o-o ! 
 
 [871. 
 
ii6 LYRICS. 
 
 THE YOUNG SAMARITAN. 
 
 {An incident of the neglected Children's free dinners in 
 Edinburgh^ 
 
 Cauld's the wind that blaws sae wearie 
 
 Through the closes o' the toon, 
 An' it soughs an' sabs sae eerie, 
 
 As the blast comes blatterin' doon ; 
 Rain an' sleet are baith unitin' 
 
 At the comers wi' a swirl; 
 An' the cauld's sae keenly bitin' 
 
 That our fingers fairly dirl. 
 
 See that wee bit shilpit callant, 
 
 Wi' the laddie on his back ! 
 Where's he gaun ? He's geyan wullant, 
 
 Dirt and duds he doesna lack. 
 He is carryin' the wee ane, 
 
 For he canna gang his lane ; 
 Gaun to get his dinner gied him. 
 
 For at hame he wad get nane. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 117 
 
 Has he faither ? Has he mother ? 
 
 If he has, what can they be ? 
 Is the wee ane, then, his brother ? 
 
 Faith, he kens na wha is he : 
 But he carries him fu' gently, 
 
 An' he sees him get his share. 
 " There's a laddie, noo ! tak tent ye ! " 
 
 An' his hame — a common stair ! 
 
 1871. 
 
1 8 LYRICS. 
 
 UNDERTONE. 
 
 Through the old cathedral swelling 
 
 Music floats \ 
 Through the ancient nave are welling 
 
 Organ notes ; 
 Through the aisle, so old and dim, 
 Comes the holy evening hymn ; 
 And the voices of the choir, 
 
 As they rise 
 To the groined roof, expire. 
 Song like that of Paradise, 
 Surely truest praise is this : 
 
 Gloria in excelsis / 
 
 Music dieth, but its soul, 
 
 Undertone, 
 Floats immortal to its goal, 
 
 Heaven's throne. 
 Through the still and silent night, 
 To the realms of joy and light. 
 As our heart-throb beats the time. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 119 
 
 Wells our praise ; 
 And our spirits' song doth chime 
 
 With the angels' holy lays, 
 As they chant in realms of bliss, 
 Where the home of music is. 
 
 1871. 
 
L YRICS. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT: 
 A Centenary Ode. 
 
 Here will we rest us in this hazel wood, 
 Within the shadow of the leafy trees ; 
 To muse awhile alone in thoughtful mood, 
 
 Lulled by the murmur of the summer breeze. 
 The shallow streamlet rippling at our feet 
 
 Maketh sweet music, babbling soft and low, 
 The fluttering leaves reply in accents meet, 
 While song-birds' throbbing notes in thrilling trebles 
 flow. 
 
 Far from the city, with its toil and strife, 
 
 And noise of trampling feet, and dust, and din ; 
 
 Its streets and crescents, with their pride of life, 
 Its lanes and alleys, with their vice and sin ; 
 
 Here, far from these, we view the purple hills, — 
 Old Scotland's hills, by Scotsmen ne'er forgot : 
 
 One look of these with pride the patriot fills ; — 
 He thinks of Wallace, Bruce, of Bums, and Walter Scott. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 121 
 
 And is it, then, a hundred years since he, 
 
 The latest, gentlest minstrel of the North, 
 Did clap his little hands in childish glee 
 
 At a great thunderstorm, when, belching forth. 
 The livid lightning wrapped the hills in flame ? 
 
 Crowing and kicking in his Scottish plaid, 
 Lay " Wattie Scott," till those who left him came, 
 And found, all safe and sound, the babe where he'd 
 been laid. 
 
 There was a wizard once, both weird and old. 
 Whose magic charms could split the hills in three ; 
 
 Of whom in bated breath strange tales were told : 
 Another Wizard rose, more great than he ! 
 
 We speak of him with love ; his powerful wand 
 Touched hill, lake, river, glen, and barren scaur ; 
 
 It blazed a glory on our native land 
 Which spread its fame and his to countries near and far. 
 
 O Scott ! with thy enchanting wand, — the pen. 
 Well couldst thou conjure spirits strange and rare ; 
 
 The ruined castle clangs with armbd men ; 
 In broken bower we find the lady fair ; 
 
 In lonely glen resounds the staghound's bay ; 
 In ancient hall still harps the minstrel old ; 
 
 Or through some ruined nave of abbey gray. 
 We hear the monks' sad chant of " Dies tree'' rolled ! 
 
122 L YRICS. 
 
 But not to scenes like these he led alone, — 
 Times past and present were alike portrayed ; 
 
 He shows us " fickle Bess " upon her throne, 
 And then in colours true a beggar maid : 
 
 He knew our little life with all its fears, 
 Its laughter, sadness, joy, its good and ill ; 
 
 His page inspired anon draws silent tears, 
 Or with true mirth and joy does saddest bosom fill. 
 
 We've followed where he led to strangest scenes. 
 
 Some grave, some sad, some tender, many gay : 
 We've been at Muschafs Cairn with Jeanie Deans, 
 Or caught with Cuddie Headrigg " scaldin' broo !" 
 We've seen sweet Amy Robsart's fatal fall ; 
 
 Or heard Brown knocking at Rough Dandie's door; 
 " Doon, Mustard, doon," — we hear the farmer call : 
 Then comes mad Noma's chant when northern tempests 
 roar. 
 
 Auld Edie Ochiltree, we know him well, 
 So rich in wit, in gear however poor ; 
 
 Adown our cheek the silent tear-drop fell 
 
 For yon sweet, ill-starred " Bride of Lammermoor." 
 
 The Dominie croaks loud " pro-di-gi-ous ! '^ 
 Then comes a lullaby, sweet, soft, and low ; 
 
 We hear old Bailie Jarvie's frightened fuss ; 
 Romance immortal lives preserved in "Ivanhoe." 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 123 
 
 Those household names Scott's mighty power may 
 prove, 
 And men unborn shall cherish still his name ; 
 As long as time shall last, or woman love, 
 Succeeding ages shall increase his fame. 
 The book lives long although the author dies, — 
 
 Lives to be loved by peoples yet to be ; 
 Though Walter Scott in Dryburgh Abbey lies, 
 His name is still kept fresh by " Old Mortality." 
 
 O gray old Scotland ! rocky, barren, wild, 
 
 For thee has warrior borne the battle's' brunt ; 
 
 For thee, " meet nurse," has sung poetic child : 
 Long mayest thou proudly rear thy craggy front ! 
 
 Long may thy hardy sons, both near and far. 
 Still love the land which ne'er can be forgot ; 
 
 More rich than pampas wild is barren scaur, 
 For Scotland, old and gray, is still the land of Scott ! 
 
 1871. 
 
124 L YRICS. 
 
 " WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN." 
 
 I READ me a poem not long ago, 
 
 'Twas in June, when the woods were green ;- 
 A poem dejected, and sad, and low, 
 
 By one who, in sorrow keen, 
 Sobbed out through his verses' rhythmical flow, 
 
 And sighed for " what might have been." 
 
 He sang of the past in a wearied tone, 
 And his song my sympathies led : 
 
 I thought of the past, and made my moan 
 For a joy which had vanished and fled ; 
 
 'Neath the leaves of the forest I stood alone, 
 And longed for a love which was dead. 
 
 But the sun burst out in his pride of noon, 
 And the birds sang sweet on the spray ; 
 
 And my heart rose up in its strength, and soon 
 I thought of a happier day. 
 
 " Let the love-sick maiden beneath the moon 
 Sigh for love which has passed away." 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 125 
 
 '• What might have been ! " — 'Tis another song 
 
 The poet must sing to me ; 
 The past is past ; its memories throng 
 
 In our hearts, but still we are free ; 
 And the singer should sing full rich and strong 
 
 Of the happiness yet to be. 
 
 " What might have been " — is a vain regret ; 
 
 " What may be," — a purpose high : 
 Though sorrow and tears in our life have met, 
 
 Oh ! why should we listlessly sigh ? 
 The future may hold some happiness yet ; 
 
 It is better to do than to die. 
 
 Ye singers who hold life's music sweet, 
 Oh ! why need ye cling to its tears ? 
 
 Sing us songs of joy, and our hearts will beat 
 With hope, while we banish our fears. 
 
 Sing loud and full, in a language meet, 
 Of the joy of the golden years. 
 
 187] 
 
126 L YRICS. 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 \An incident not noticed in " Leaves from the yournal of our 
 Life in the Highlands."^ 
 
 Far from the town with its noise and stir, 
 
 Where all is still 
 On the Highland moors, but the plover's whirr 
 And the bleating of sheep on the hill ; 
 
 Slowly along by the mountain-side, very slow, 
 
 On the lonely road, 
 Moves a humble cart ; and, behind it, stooping low, 
 Cometh the man who mourns for its load. 
 
 He, and his sons, and some friends who can feel ; 
 
 This is it all ;— 
 Only his wife in a cofiin of deal, 
 
 Laid upon straw, and no funeral pall 
 
LIFE MUSINGS, 127 
 
 II. 
 
 Away from the Castle gates, joyous they whirl 
 
 Through uplands green ; 
 By the turn of the hill where the dust-clouds swirl, — 
 Light-hearted and happy, the Prince and the 
 Queen ! 
 
 " Stop ! What is this that is coming near ? 
 
 Draw to a side : " — 
 " It is only a poor woman's humble bier, 
 
 And a poor man trying his grief to hide." 
 
 Slowly they passed, and there the Prince upstood, 
 
 Head bent, and bare ; 
 The peasant's grief the royal rank subdued : 
 
 God of one blood hath made His children share ! 
 
 1873. 
 
128 L YRICS. 
 
 THE NIGHT-LAMP. 
 
 Burning dimly every night 
 
 In a chamber-window high, 
 In a window next the sky, 
 FHckers aye a feeble light, 
 
 Gleams and shimmers when the roar 
 And the whirl of traffic's o'er ; 
 When the cold deserted street 
 
 Only echoes to the tramp 
 Of the watchman on his beat. 
 
 When the night is dark and chill, 
 And the slanting scourging rain 
 Beats and blatters on the pane, 
 There the light is burning still. 
 
 When the moon is shining bright 
 Every hour of every night, 
 Much more constant than the moon, 
 
 Or the multitude of stars, 
 Bums the lamp there late and soon. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. . 129 
 
 Do you wonder what's the Hght 
 
 In that chamber-window high — 
 Glimmering up against the sky. 
 Burning dimly every night ? 
 
 'Tis a woman watching only 
 By a sick-bed, sad and lonely, 
 Watching patiently and well — 
 
 Oh how gently, and how sweetly ! 
 Oh how fondly ! none can tell. 
 
 1874. 
 
I30 L YRICS. 
 
 HOLIDAY. 
 
 Wearily every day 
 
 Grinding away, 
 Plodding and planning for ever and aye ; 
 Scheming by night and working by day, 
 In the noisy town with its smoke and din, 
 Trying to gather the treasure in. 
 Our faces grow haggard, and pinched, and thin : 
 Then Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for our holiday ! 
 To mountain and moor we are off and away, 
 That the languid limbs and the wearied brain 
 In the breath of the heather new vigour may gain. 
 
 Joyously, happily. 
 
 Climbing the hill. 
 We move no more like the horse in the mill. 
 Tramping the heath, and leaping the rill. 
 Breathing the mountain air, fragrant and sweet. 
 Crossing the bog and fen, treading the peat, 
 Frighting the plover that whirrs from our feet ; 
 Then Hurrah ! Hurrah ! we will climb if we can 
 The brows of the giant Ben Cruachan ; 
 With our sparkling eyes, and our faces brown, 
 We are far enough now from the noisy town. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 131 
 
 Happily, merrily, 
 
 Carelessly free, 
 Now at the farmer's board laughing with glee, 
 Laughing and chaffing, most happy are we ; 
 Then in the little kirk over the moor, 
 Quietly, seriously, looking demure. 
 Wondering at worship so simple and pure. 
 List to the bell in the morning air 
 Sweetly tinkling its call to prayer ! 
 See how the cloud-shadows float on the hill : 
 The breeze seems to whisper the woods to be still. 
 
 Back again willingly. 
 
 Holidays o'er. 
 To the town, where for ever, with echo and roar, 
 Flows the tide of Life on its stony shore. 
 Pushing and jostling and scrambling, still 
 Amongst men we must work, and we'll work with a will 
 All the better for breathing the air of the hill. 
 When we rest we can dream of the glorious Ben, ' 
 Of lake and of mountain, of moorland and glen. 
 Of our laughter light, and the farmer's cheer, 
 And the tinkling bell, which the worshippers hear. 
 
 [874. 
 
132 L YRICS. 
 
 INCHKEITH. 
 
 Behind me there the old town rears 
 Its jagged front to clouded skies, 
 
 And nestling sweet, 
 
 By Arthur's Seat, 
 Gray Holyrood in shadow lies ; 
 
 While over there, 
 
 On street and square, 
 On monument and tower and spire, 
 
 The red sun beams. 
 
 In setting gleams, 
 And all the Forth's aglow with fire. 
 
 The river glints in gold and green, 
 
 And emerald islands gem the wave ; 
 . When fails the light. 
 And silent night 
 Shall throw o'er all its mantle grave. 
 Then o'er the sea 
 Eight faithfully 
 The lighthouse sheds its helpful ray; 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 133 
 
 On heaving tides 
 Its glimmer glides, 
 To cheer the sailor on his way. 
 
 Though now the glittering waters lave, 
 And laugh and ripple round the rock, 
 
 Maybe ere night. 
 
 In giant might, 
 The storm will come with thunder shock ; 
 
 The angry wave 
 
 Will leap and rave : 
 But darkness can't this light eclipse — 
 
 It still must shine, 
 
 A lamp divine, 
 A beacon-fire for drifting ships. 
 
 Year in, year out, it still revolves. 
 
 We watch it come and disappear ; 
 
 Like those who sail, 
 
 We gladly hail 
 The light by which the helmsmen steer. 
 
 It ceaseless turns, 
 
 Still steady bums, 
 Alternating the dark and light ; 
 
 The glorious stream 
 
 Shall ever gleam, 
 And circle through the wildest night. 
 
134 L YRICS. 
 
 Ah ! many an eager eye has gazed 
 
 From rocking deck when night was still, 
 
 If through the dark 
 
 Would gleam the spark 
 Which now I'm watching from the hill. 
 
 Long may the light 
 
 Shine clear and bright, 
 A joy it is by shore or sea : 
 
 The sailor's bride 
 
 Looks o'er the tide ; 
 The landsman greets it from the lea. 
 
 [875. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 135 
 
 BACK TO THE HAMLET. 
 
 With his mother's blessing, 
 
 And his sister's caressing, 
 He went away from the hamlet still, 
 Into the city for good or for ill. 
 
 Ah ! what a pity ! 
 
 The surging city 
 Drew him into its eddying stream ! 
 He struggled, and fought, and dreamed his dream. 
 
 And this is the ending : 
 
 Slowly wending 
 (This is the ending now of it all) 
 Back again to the hamlet small — 
 
 Into the churchyard: 
 
 Here not a sound is heard 
 But the lark's sweet song in the summer sky, 
 And the grass is green, and the graves are high. 
 
 1875- 
 
136 LYRICS. 
 
 TELEGRAPH WIRES. 
 
 Over the land for miles, 
 
 By hamlet, village, and town, 
 By the glebe where the landscape smiles, 
 
 By flowery meadow and down. 
 Skirting the edge of the lake, 
 List to the music I make ; 
 For the zephyr still sings 
 Through my tremulous strings 
 As my wonderful journey I take. 
 
 Over the hedgerows white, 
 
 Under the hawthorn's spray, 
 I glitter and flash in the light 
 
 Which glints through the trees on my way. 
 Beeches and elms and limes. 
 Where the ivy plant clingeth and climbs ; 
 And down at my feet. 
 Nestling tender and sweet. 
 The wild flowers blossom by times. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 137 
 
 Along by the road so still, 
 
 Over the mountain's ridge, 
 Reaching from valley to hill, 
 
 Booming up there on the bridge, 
 In the night at the cross-roads lone, 
 In the wind do I groan and moan ; 
 By the old churchyard 
 Is the sound still heard 
 Of the telegraph's monotone. 
 
 Up by the railway track. 
 
 Still long drawn-out and fine, 
 Where the echoes are thundering back. 
 As the engine comes down the line, 
 I hum, — an vEolian lyre ; 
 But the monster, with heart of fire 
 And iron bones. 
 Ne'er heedeth the tones 
 Of the miles and miles of wire. 
 
 Under the depths of the deep, 
 
 Hidden from sun and sky. 
 There where the sleepers sleep 
 
 Till the Day which is drawing nigh ; 
 
138 L YRICS. 
 
 Under the storm and swell, 
 Tangled with sea-weed and shell, 
 
 By the riven decks 
 
 Of the sunken wrecks. 
 And treasures no tongue can tell. 
 
 North, South, and West, and East, 
 
 Then over the roofs of the town — 
 Here has the journey ceased. 
 
 Where the lines come lowering down. 
 'Neath the ocean, or over the land. 
 Who has them all at command ? 
 Flashing the fire 
 O'er the miles of wire. 
 Is a girl with the tiniest hand. 
 
 1876. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 139 
 
 FLOWERS IMMORTAL. 
 
 Poets oft in song or lyric 
 
 Sing that flowers are transient things ; 
 " See them fade ! " — says dull empiric, 
 Echoing what the poet sings. 
 
 Kingdoms, empires — waxing, waning; 
 Flowers with us are still remaining. 
 Stronger than the works of kings. 
 
 Streaming from its eastern portal, 
 When the sun first lit the skies, 
 Frailest flowers, with love immortal. 
 Heavenward turned their longing eyes, 
 Where, within the long-lost Aiden, 
 Mother Eve, like any maiden, 
 Roses plucked in Paradise. 
 
 And to-day, in endless reaches. 
 
 Where the streamlet murmurs low, 
 Underneath the shady beeches, 
 
 Still the wild flowers bloom and blow — 
 Daisies, bluebells, daffodillies ; 
 And the lesson of the lilies 
 Is the same as long ago. 
 
I40 L YRICS. 
 
 And for us, when time has ended, 
 
 In the dark and silent tomb, 
 Violets and daisies, blended. 
 Over us may sweetly bloom. 
 History repeats its story : 
 Primroses will have their glory, 
 Mignonette its rich perfume. 
 
 [876. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 141 
 
 IN THE PORCH. 
 
 What does she on the street ? 
 Rain-drops they patter and beat, 
 Rain and the pitiless sleet 
 
 Cruelly pelt her \ 
 Slips she now into the porch, 
 Into the porch of the church, 
 Where she is stamping her feet, 
 
 Seeking for shelter. 
 
 Only a girl very fair, 
 
 Laughing now, what does she care ? 
 
 Hearing the voice of the prayer, 
 
 Casting from off her 
 The glittering drops of the rain, 
 Thinks she the prayer is in vain ? 
 Backward now shaking her hair. 
 
 Is she a scoffer ? 
 
 Voices of children now raise 
 Heavenward sweetly their praise ; 
 Listening — how changed is her gaze ! 
 Looking and longing : 
 
142 L YRICS. 
 
 Now are the flashing eyes dim ; 
 Thoughts have been stirred by the hymn^ 
 Thoughts of her innocent days, 
 Memories thronging. 
 
 Still is the street dark and wet, 
 
 The sleet and the wind they have met ; 
 
 In the porch, with her features hard set, 
 
 Will she not stay ? 
 Once could she sing with the band 
 Of the fair and the far " Happy Land ; " 
 Her heart it is echoing yet, — 
 
 " Far away ! " 
 
 1876. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 143 
 
 A NATIONAL CHARACTERISTIC. 
 
 '* It is part of the old Scottish severe unsparing character — 
 cold to calmness outside — tender to agony, burning to fierceness 
 within." — Brown's *' Horce Subsecivce." 
 
 You say we Scotch are stolid, cold — 
 
 An unimpressionable race ; 
 Before you came you had been told, 
 
 If they feel aught, you cannot trace 
 Their joy or grief, for young or old 
 
 Will show no sign upon the face. 
 
 You think our hearts are hard as steel, 
 
 Because to all we do not show 
 The joy and sorrow that we feel 
 
 In laughter loud, or moaning woe. 
 Against your statement I appeal : 
 
 'Tis only that you do not know. 
 
 " I love you well," — an artist said, 
 Last season as the autumn fell. 
 
 To one who, hidden in her plaid, 
 
 Thrilled as he vowed he loved her well. 
 
 " Can you return my love, sweet maid ? " — 
 The Scottish lassie would not tell. 
 
144 L YRICS. 
 
 There in that cottage up the hill, 
 With gentle smile and pallid brow, 
 
 The girl is dying, thinking still, — 
 
 Ah ! no one knows he broke his vow ! 
 
 Her heart was his for good or ill. 
 And it is breaking for him now. 
 
 Perhaps if you' will wait a week, 
 Her father there will lay her low : 
 
 No tear will fall upon his cheek, 
 No hint of grief, no sign of woe. 
 
 Sorrow is sacred \ he will speak 
 No more of her who lies below. 
 
 The shallow streamlet makes the noise ; 
 
 How silent flows the river deep ! 
 The tear-dimmed eye, the broken voice. 
 
 Tell others what we fain would keep. 
 We cannot talk about our joys ; 
 
 Our hearts will break before we weep. 
 
 1876. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 145 
 
 THE SILENT MONITOR. 
 
 {Over the gate of the Cemetery of Brechin is carved the face of a 
 woman f with a finger laid upon the lips, and no motto 
 affixed.l 
 
 What meaneth this face 
 So still and so lone, 
 Which looks down from its place 
 With womanly grace, 
 
 And, though silent, still seemeth to moan ? 
 One finger's tip 
 Is placed on its lip : 
 Come, read me this riddle in stone. 
 
 We will stand and wait 
 
 To know the command 
 Which, early and late. 
 This face o'er the gate 
 
 Gives to all with its stony hand : — 
 *' Drop ye the tear, 
 But speak not here. 
 For within is the Silent Land ! " 
 
 L 
 
146 L YRICS. 
 
 'Tis the Cemetery old 
 
 Where the cypress waves : 
 Hither brought to the mould 
 Have been faces as cold 
 
 As the face which so patiently braves 
 The wind and rain, 
 Which sayeth again, — 
 " Keep silence !" — "Tread softly on graves !" 
 
 1876. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 147 
 
 THE CAGED LARK. 
 
 Lovely is the morning, 
 
 And the river looks like glass ; 
 Diamonds of dew-drops 
 
 Glint and glitter on the grass ; 
 While the golden sunlight beams 
 
 On the fields so firesh and fair ; 
 And it glances on the streams, 
 And it flashes, and it gleams 
 Everywhere. 
 
 And above the ploughman 
 As he plods with heavy feet, 
 
 The lark in heaven cloudless 
 Sings its matins clear and sweet. 
 
 'Tis so happy to be free ; 
 All the sky is its estate ; 
 
 Springing upward from the lea, 
 
 Singing where you cannot see. 
 At heaven's gate. 
 
148 L YRICS. 
 
 And here, below a window, 
 From a cage with iron bars. 
 
 Comes a gush of melody ; 
 Oh ! how its sweetness jars 
 
 On our ear ! It is not meet 
 
 That the silence should be broke 
 
 With a song so clear and sweet 
 
 In the dry and dusty street, 
 Among the smoke. 
 
 1877. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 149 
 
 THE WEDDING DRESS. 
 
 An hour or two we had been wed, 
 
 I'm sure it was not any more, 
 When flowers were showered upon your head, 
 As through the hall with me you fled. 
 
 And crossed the threshold of the door. 
 
 And glad we were to get away 
 
 From all the talking and the noise. 
 
 The babble and the laughter gay, 
 
 The happy bustle of the day 
 
 When first we tasted nuptial joys. 
 
 Back in the carriage neither spoke. 
 
 So pleased we were to leave the press, 
 
 Till, with my arms about your cloak, 
 
 I was the first who silence broke. 
 
 With — " Darling, where's your marriage 
 dress?" 
 
ISO LYRICS. 
 
 And you leant back with feigned surprise — 
 
 " White dresses are for maiden life ; " 
 With folded palms, most wondrous wise, 
 You said, with love-light in your eyes, — 
 " And not for lawful wedded wife." 
 
 'Twas left behind you at " The Grange ; " - 
 
 Of maidenhood you had enough : 
 And surely 'twas not very strange 
 That with the life the dress should change. 
 And wives should wear a homelier stuff. 
 
 But while I take this for my theme. 
 
 You must not think that you are meant 
 From maid to matron ! — well, I deem 
 The change of life is too extreme. 
 In banishment of sentiment. 
 
 The maiden, erewhile fancy free. 
 
 Is fond of blossoms in her hair : 
 She loves the stars, the moon, the sea, 
 The wild flowers blooming on the lea ; 
 To her the world is bright and fair. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 151 
 
 Full well to please she knows the art, 
 
 At ball, and rout, and game, and play ; 
 
 She loves the songs that thrill the heart, 
 
 Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Mozart : 
 Thus passes maidenhood away. 
 
 Life's tune is played on other strings ; 
 
 How great the change who can express ? 
 The matron very seldom sings, 
 Her heart is full of other things ; — 
 
 She has put off her wedding dress. 
 
 Ah ! household cares fill up the year ! 
 
 You know a music sweeter yet 
 Than any sound to mother's ear ; 
 How fast you run whene'er you hear 
 
 Our baby in the bassinet. 
 
 1877. 
 
152 LYRICS, 
 
 THE PANTOMIME CHILD. 
 
 I KNOW your heart with pity beats, 
 
 You know that cold and hunger kill ; 
 
 The misery that one sometimes meets 
 
 Even in the fashionable streets 
 Is fit enough to make one ill. 
 
 Perhaps you've often heard it said 
 One half the world cannot show 
 
 How the other half doth get its bread ; 
 
 Or where it lives, or how it's fed, 
 
 They neither know, nor care to know. 
 
 You, Lady, would not set your foot 
 One step adown the dirty lane : 
 
 With gathered dress and dainty boot, 
 
 Your rich attire would never suit ; 
 
 And then the sights would give you pain. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 153 
 
 I know your heart is tender, good; 
 
 I know you'll pity while I tell 
 My story : yet I think you would 
 Perhaps consider I was rude 
 
 If that same lane I pictured well. 
 
 Of thieves and worse than thieves the haunt, 
 
 The dirty, drunken, wretched, cruel ; 
 Here must they sin, or suffer want, 
 For honesty brings hunger gaunt, — 
 A strange reversal of the rule. 
 
 Poor, shivering, hungry, starved with cold, 
 
 I saw a little girlie there. 
 With eyes of blue, and hair like gold ; 
 Her age was six, she frankly told, 
 
 Her little feet were red and bare. 
 
 Perhaps you'll scarcely think it true. 
 But I could not forget the face : 
 I know that you have seen her too. 
 You kindly praised her eyes of blue ; — 
 'Twas in a very different place. 
 
154 L YRICS. 
 
 Do you remember yesternight, 
 
 When laughing at the Pantomime, 
 'Mid noise of music, blaze of light, 
 When all around was warm and bright, 
 
 And children marched in measured time ? 
 
 And you went home to light and heat, 
 And love and happiness, the while 
 The blue-eyed girl upon the street, 
 With slush and snow about her feet, 
 
 At midnight sought her quarters vile. 
 
 1877. 
 
LIFE MUSINGS. 15S 
 
 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 Night is the time for rest and sleep, 
 When silence and darkness, calm and deep, 
 
 Brood over valley and hill \ 
 When the tremulous stars their vigils keep, 
 When the city is hushed and still : 
 
 To-night we must watch and wait ; 
 Without there's a noise of hurrying feet. 
 And a whirl of wheels on the stony street. 
 
 Though the night is dark and late. 
 
 It is not now as it was of old ; 
 
 " Work while it is day " — we were told, 
 
 " No man can work in the night : " 
 In the struggle for knowledge, or pleasure, or gold, 
 The day is too short for the fight ; — 
 List to the factory's din. 
 The student is burning the midnight oil. 
 Nor day, nor night, is there end to our toil, 
 As the gear we gather in. 
 
 All through the night to their music sweet. 
 The revellers dance with regular beat, 
 
 'Mid laughter, and love, and flowers ; 
 
156 LYRICS. 
 
 They turn and twirl with their flying feet, 
 As they merrily chase the hours. 
 
 Up there in a chamber dim, 
 A woman is soothing a loved one's pains : 
 While the gambler yonder pockets his gains ; 
 
 The wine-cup is filled to the brim. 
 
 But why does the maiden so sweet and fair 
 Stop in the dance, with finger in air ? 
 
 The student turn from his book ? 
 
 And the sick-nurse rise from her watching chair 
 
 With an eager and anxious look ? 
 
 The workman stops : Does the gambler fear? 
 While he who holdeth the brimming cup, 
 Pauses half-way as he lifts it up, 
 
 The stroke of the clock to hear. 
 
 Clashing aloft from turret and tower, 
 Tinkled with music, thundered with power, 
 'Tis thus that the Year must expire : 
 The bells are proclaiming the midnight hour 
 From belfry, and steeple, and spire ; 
 While we listen with hope and fear. 
 Is it for this that they silently wait? — 
 The round of the clock is the wheel of fate ; 
 
 'Tis the Death and Birth of a Year. 
 1877. 
 
Sonss of tfje Affections. 
 
 THOUGHTS OF HOME. 
 
 fWAS walking home in the evening ; 
 And quickly I hurried on, 
 Through the streets of a foreign city, 
 A stranger, and alone. 
 
 My thoughts to the past went backward ; 
 
 And sadly I thought of the day 
 When I left the home of my childhood, 
 
 In the old world — far away. 
 
 I thought of my weeping mother, 
 As she kissed me at the door ; 
 
 I remember the blessing my father gave 
 When parting on the shore. 
 
158 LYRICS. 
 
 And while thus I plodded, dreaming 
 Of home that winter night, 
 
 Right on the side-walk streaming, 
 Gleamed a brilliant ray of light. 
 
 I thought some kindly angel 
 
 Had let this cheering ray 
 Slip through some chink of Heaven 
 
 To light me on my way. 
 
 I looked through a blindless window, 
 
 And there I saw the light. 
 Which lifted away the sorrow, 
 
 And cheered my heart that night 
 
 A lamp shone bright on a table, 
 
 Amid happy faces around. 
 And the faces were fair and lovely, 
 
 Where no trace of sorrow was found. 
 
 There sat a father and mother, 
 And listened while there sung 
 
 And played, one of their daughters. 
 Who looked so happy and young. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 159 
 
 And I also stood and listened 
 
 To the music of her song, 
 And a prayer went up from the darkness — 
 
 " God keep them happy long !" 
 
 But the blind was drawn, and passing, 
 
 I went again on my way ; 
 And the light, I thought, was an angePs light. 
 
 Which spoke of a happier day. 
 
 [869. 
 
i6o LYRICS. 
 
 HEARTS AND HANDS. 
 
 The sky is clear and cloudless, 
 
 And the earth is very fair, 
 And our hearts are filled with gladness, 
 
 There is music in the air ; 
 For the marriage-bells are ringing, 
 
 Hearts and hands ! 
 In the gray old turret swinging. 
 Their iron tongues are singing — 
 Hearts and haftds ! 
 Hearts and hands I 
 And the bride, with flowers and, blushes, 
 
 Trembling, at the altar stands — 
 Trembling at the joy which rushes 
 At the clasping of the hands. 
 Hearts and hands ! 
 And the ring, the glistening token. 
 
 Seals the joy the bells have spoken — 
 Binds together youth and beauty, 
 Hearts and hands ! 
 
SOJVGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. i6i 
 
 Making love the strongest duty. 
 Life may run in golden sands, 
 But you never 
 Can dissever 
 Those so bound with loving bands — 
 Bound together 
 Now for ever, 
 Hearts and hands ! 
 Loving hearts and youthful hands. 
 
 1869. 
 
1^2 LYRICS. 
 
 LILY. 
 
 Lily, with the laughing eyes, 
 
 Babbles nonsense all the day ; 
 Runs, and trips, and laughs, and cries, 
 
 Making all the noise she may. 
 But when falls the twilight gray, 
 
 When the daylight leaves the skies. 
 Then her laughter dies away, 
 
 All her merriment and glee, 
 All her mirth-provoking ways ; — 
 
 Kneeling at her mother's knee, 
 Lily prays. 
 
 In her gown as white as snow, 
 Whispering prayer in language meet. 
 
 With her fair head bending low. 
 Kneeling at her mother's feet. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, 163 
 
 Lisps she words in accent sweet ; 
 
 Angels hovering to and fro 
 Bear them to the mercy-seat, — 
 
 Bear them to the golden throne ; 
 Seraphs hush their heavenly lays, 
 
 Listening to the childish tone ; — 
 Lily prays. 
 
 1869. 
 
i64 L YRICS. 
 
 FORSAKEN. 
 
 When will the wind cease sighing, 
 
 Sobbing and crying ? 
 The leaves on the trees 
 
 Are blown about 
 
 With the breeze, 
 And the light of my life 
 
 Has gone out. 
 Oh ! when will he come, my dearie ? 
 The wind blows wild and dreary, 
 And I am weary, weary. 
 
 When will my heart cease longing ? 
 
 Memories thronging 
 Come out from the past. 
 
 I am alone, 
 
 And the blast 
 Of the north, with its cry 
 
 And its moan. 
 Says — "When will he come, my dearie?" 
 The wind is cold and dreary. 
 And I am weary, weary. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, 165 
 
 LUCILLE. 
 
 Lucille was fair, 
 
 Lucille was sad, 
 As she stood on her balconie j 
 Lucille she sighed, and she almost cried, 
 For her lover she watched to see. 
 
 And her eyes grew dim 
 
 As she sighed for him — 
 " Oh ! when will he come to me ? " 
 
 Mentone was brave, 
 And Mentone was gay. 
 As he sailed o'er the moon-lit wave ; 
 His oars they dip, and with jewels drip. 
 Where the glittering waters lave 3 
 And his voice it rings. 
 For joy he sings : 
 - His lady he sails to save. 
 
i66 LYRICS. 
 
 Lucille she gazed, 
 
 And her head she raised, 
 And she said, — " He has come to me ! " 
 And she fain would go, as she whispers low— 
 " Mentone, I am waiting on thee !" 
 
 So they sailed away, 
 
 In the moonlight gray. 
 From the lady's balconie. 
 
 1870. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 167 
 
 IN MATRIS MEMORIAM. 
 \Pbiit 2jrd Jatmary^ ^^7^^ 
 
 Oft have we seen within some cottage small 
 Black-bordered card, or sheet, in humble frame ; 
 
 Some " In Memoriam" hung upon the wall, 
 " In memory of'' — what now is but a name 1 
 
 I, who have tried before some truths to weave 
 In humble verse — in very simplest song, 
 
 Now sing of one whose loss we sadly grieve — 
 Whose memory dear our hearts will cherish long. 
 
 O dear departed Mother ! 'tis thy death 
 That fills our hearts with grief too deep for tears ; 
 
 We mourn thee now ; and, till our latest breath, 
 Sweet thoughts of thee will fill the future years. 
 
 Up in my heart come memories of the past. 
 
 In which thy cherished form most sadly blends ; 
 
 Thou who hast gone from out our life at last. 
 The dearest, kindest, best of earthly friends ! 
 
1 68 LYRICS. 
 
 I need not try to write her virtues here, 
 So dear she was, — so loving, kind, and tme ; 
 
 Let friends who knew her drop the tribute tear, — 
 A wife's and mother's love we 07ily knew. 
 
 Around we see dear traces of her hand ; 
 • These tender touches tell the love she bore : 
 But she has gone into the Silent Land, 
 And we must mourn her here for evermore. 
 
 Though still to us no silent land is this : 
 
 For God IS God ; there is a Heaven on high ; 
 
 And she is there, in that far land of bliss. 
 Beyond the sun, above the azure sky. 
 
 No sickness, pain, no darkness, tears, nor care. 
 But joyous song doth blend with cherub's tone ; 
 
 Thou whom the angels praise, hear now our prayer 
 Help us to find our lost one at Thy throne ! 
 
 1871. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 169 
 
 ABSENT FRIENDS. 
 
 Hast thou wandered in the woodland 
 
 In the falling of the year, 
 When the leaves came fluttering downward, 
 
 Dead and yellow, dry and sere ? 
 Hast thou missed the friends who left thee, 
 
 Weary-hearted and alone ? 
 Hast thou missed the form beside thee, 
 
 And the arm within thy own ? 
 
 Hast thou sat around the table 
 
 When the festive board was crowned, 
 When our hearts were filled with loving. 
 
 As the laughter circled round ? 
 Hast thou heard through all the talking, 
 
 Hast thou heard through all the noise. 
 Some sweet voice upon thee calling — 
 
 One who shared not in thy joys ? 
 
[70 LYRICS. 
 
 Hast thou mused within the shadow 
 
 When the lamp was burning low ? 
 Hast thou seen some &Q2iXface flicker 
 
 In the firelight's ruddy glow ? 
 Hath a loving and a longing 
 
 (For a love with longing blends) 
 Ever filled thy weary spirit 
 
 In the absence of thy firiends ? 
 
 1871. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. I'ji 
 
 WAE'S ME! 
 
 I lo'ed him weel, 
 I lo'ed him weel ; 
 His form was fair ; 
 His curly hair 
 Was black's the slae, 
 Noo mine is gray ; 
 But still maun I, 
 Wi' sab an' sigh, 
 Wi' grief an' woe, 
 Think o' a joe, 
 Sae fair to see — 
 Wae's me ! wae's me 
 
 I lo'ed him weel, 
 I lo'ed him weel. 
 His heart was leal, 
 He askit me 
 If I wad be 
 Guidwife to him : 
 
172 LYRICS. 
 
 My een were dim, 
 My heart was foii, 
 I promised true ; 
 I wasna loth 
 To plight my troth ; 
 There's nane could be 
 Sae true as he — 
 Wae's .me ! wae's me ! 
 
 I lo'ed him weel, 
 I lo'ed him weel, 
 Puir Wully Steele ! 
 Our names were cried, 
 Our hearts were tied, 
 We'd fain be ane ; 
 But Him abune 
 Had grief decreed, — 
 My laddie dee'd 
 Before the day 
 Could join the twae. 
 A bride, ye see, 
 I still maun be — 
 Wae's me ! wae's me ! 
 
 •1871. 
 
SOATGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 173 
 
 THE MAID OF NORWAY: 
 
 A Ballad. 
 
 \Queen Margaret, ^Uhe Maid of Norway,^'' was daughter of the 
 King of Norway, and grand-daughter of Alexander ITT. of 
 Scotland. She died izgo A.T).} 
 
 The King is dead in Auld Scotland, 
 
 And never a son has he ; 
 For they are dead, and he is dead, 
 
 Dool comes fu' pitifullie. 
 
 The knights they lookit at the crown 
 
 And wondered whase 'twad be ; 
 Sir Michael * said, — " There is Margaret 
 
 In Norroway over the sea." 
 
 " Woe to the land whose ruler's a child," — 
 
 The lang-faced priest doth say ; 
 " But she maun hae her ain, she maun sit on the 
 throne. 
 
 Betide us it weel or wae." 
 
 * Sir Michael Scott, of Balwearie. 
 
174 LYRICS. 
 
 So they got them a ship, and they sailed away, 
 
 Away to a distant land, 
 To fetch them a Queen they had not seen 
 
 To rule in Auld Scotland. 
 
 The gude knights hied them to Norroway 
 For the maiden sae fair to see ; 
 
 And they bore her gently into the gude ship, 
 And treated her tenderlie. 
 
 Sir Michael, the wizard weird and auld, 
 
 Wi' beard like drifted snaw, 
 He watched the night when the moon was bright, 
 
 To see where the wind did blaw. 
 
 Sir Michael he looked at the stars, 
 
 And then he made his grane ; 
 For the King was dead, and his sons were dead, 
 
 And this maiden was left alane. 
 
 This maiden fair he loved sae weel, 
 
 As he watched her sport and play 
 At the good ship's side, as they crossed the tide 
 
 From the land of Norroway. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 175 
 
 But a cauld wind blew from the north ; 
 
 Black grew baith sky and sea ; 
 And the little maid, sweet Margaret, 
 
 She laid her down to dee. 
 
 As flower that's nippit in the bud 
 
 When the north comes cauld and wild, 
 
 The wind blew ere the good knights knew, 
 And killed the bonnie child. 
 
 They stood ilk yin around her bed. 
 
 And watched the bairnie fair ; 
 Wi' tender grace they kissed her face. 
 
 And stroked her gowden hair. 
 
 Sir Michael, he streakit her out, 
 
 As still and pale she lay j 
 The King, and his sons, and the maid were dead, 
 
 And his heart was fou o' wae. 
 
 [871. 
 
176 LYRICS. 
 
 GOOD NIGHT 1 
 
 The darkness now is falling, 
 
 The parlour gas is lit ; 
 And nursie's on me calling 
 
 To go to bed : 'Tis fit. 
 And Mamma dear will kiss me, 
 
 Her little cherub bright ; 
 Though dear Papa should miss me, 
 
 I still must say, Good night ! 
 
 Good night. Mamma, Good night ! 
 
 The birds have ceased their winging, 
 
 The sun now hides his head ; 
 When birdies are not singing, 
 
 'Tis time for me to bed. 
 I'll hide me snug and cosie 
 
 Till comes the morning Hght ; 
 Till gleams the sunlight rosy, 
 
 I'll bid you both, Good night ! 
 Papa, Mamma, Good night ! 
 
 [871. 
 
SOATGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 177 
 
 HER WAY O' HER AIN. 
 
 Is't why dae I loe ye ? my dearie ! 
 
 Is't hoo dae I loe sae weel ? 
 Oh ! I'm half vexed I ever cam' near ye ; 
 
 Ye dinna ken right hoo I feel. 
 What gars ye sic questions be speirin' ? 
 
 Tae answer I'm no very fain ; 
 Come near and I'll tell in yer hearin' — 
 
 I like that bit way o' yer ain — 
 
 That laughin' wee way o' yer ain. 
 
 Ye ken that the rose o' the simmer 
 Is red when it blooms on the tree ; 
 
 I ken that your cheek gars't look dimmer 
 Than ever I thought it to be. 
 
 But it's no that ye're bonnie, my lassie, 
 Tho' a fairer I ken there is nane ; 
 
 I loe ye where nane can surpass ye, 
 For that darlin' wee -way o' yer ain — 
 That canty bit way o' yer ain. 
 
[78 LYRICS. 
 
 Yon lily sae snaw-white an' slender 
 Is bonny an' gracefu' an' tall ; 
 
 But you are more lovely an' tender, 
 An' fairer an' sweeter than all. 
 
 The glint o' yer blue e'e is bonny, 
 
 E'en that my heart's love couldna' gain ; 
 
 But o' lasses wha ever saw ony 
 That had sic a way o' their ain — 
 Sic a canny sweet way o' their ain ? 
 
 Noo, Leezie ! my coorin' wee dooie, 
 Here, listen ! let naebody ken, 
 
 Sae weel, my dear lass, do I loe ye, 
 I've ta'en a bit but an' a ben. 
 
 Will ye share my wee biggin', my Leezie ? 
 I'm tired noo wi' livin' my lane ; 
 
 I ken ye'll say " Ay," just to please me, 
 Ye've got sic a way o' yer ain — 
 Sic a charmin' wee way o' yer ain. 
 
 ibji. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 179 
 
 THE OLD PIANO. 
 
 Up-stairs in a room which is never used, 
 
 The old piano stands ; 
 Its case is good, but the strings are loosed, 
 
 And the music which loving hands 
 Could draw from its keys, so yellow and old, 
 
 Has vanished for ever and fled ; — 
 A music whose sweetness can never be told 
 
 Has passed with the years which are dead. 
 
 Still a vision of jewelled hands I see 
 
 Flit over its ivory notes, — 
 Sweet snow-white hands which were dear to me : 
 
 And a liquid melody floats 
 Through the darkened room where I stand alone 
 
 The echoes for ever remain 
 Of the songs she sang in such a tone. 
 
 And the music is still in my brain. 
 
i8o L YRICS. 
 
 Ah ! many a year has passed away ; 
 
 Still the old piano stands 
 In a room which is veiled from the light of day 
 
 No longer her gentle hands 
 Touch these sweet strings ; but a richer chord 
 
 She strikes on her harp, I deem, 
 In a sweet voice praising her blessed Lord, 
 
 In the midst of the cherubim. 
 
 187] 
 
SOJVGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. i8i 
 
 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 Along the lane, beneath the trees, 
 
 They wandered in the dawning gray ; 
 Poor meek-eyed Jessie, weeping, sees 
 
 Her love a little on his way. 
 Down to the turn where grows the thorn. 
 
 She pauses there, with sob and sigh ; 
 Her gentle breast with grief is torn, 
 
 As there she bids her love Good-bye. 
 
 Weeks grow to months, and months to years ; 
 
 The town is full of maids and men ; 
 And Jessie whispers through her tears, 
 
 When wandering down the lonely glen, — 
 " Some other love has stolen from me 
 
 My dearest love, and I will die ! — 
 Farewell ! farewell ! Ah ! can it be 
 
 Yon parting was our last Good-bye ? " 
 
i82 LYRICS. 
 
 Weeks grow to months, and months to years ; 
 
 Full oft has bloomed the hawthorn tree ; 
 Confirmed she thought were all her fears, 
 
 Her love she never more would see. 
 One eve, as gentle gloaming fell, 
 
 She met him with a happy cry ; 
 As up the lane he came to tell, — 
 
 " Yon parting was our last Good-bye ! " 
 
 i873- 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 183 
 
 STEER STRAIGHT FOR ME 1 
 
 Skipping and tripping, 
 
 With laughter light, 
 The boys went scampering down to the shore : 
 Merrily, happily, plying the oar, 
 
 They sail away, for the sun is bright. 
 
 In capital time 
 
 They gently dip 
 Their oars in a glittering sea of gold, 
 And they make for the isle with the castle old, 
 There to waken the echoes with laughing lip. 
 
 Suddenly ceased they 
 
 Their childish joys. 
 When a mist came rolling up out of the west 
 (For children are children, you know, at the best). 
 And I set out to bring over my boys. 
 
 The night it grew dark, 
 
 And I could not see. 
 And I missed my way in the blinding rain. 
 Till a childish cry came over the main, — 
 
 " O Father ! my Father ! steer straight for me 1 " 
 
1 84 LYRICS. 
 
 'Twas Jamie that cried, sir, 
 
 From over the sea : 
 The poor little fellow is dead many years, 
 But cheerfully still rings the voice in my ears ; 
 And it sounds more sweet than it used to be 
 
 In the silent night 
 
 So soft and low, — 
 " Steer straight for me ! " Is there mist from the west ? — 
 Comes the voice from the Heaven where he is at rest, 
 When around me are clouds, and the hurricanes blow. 
 
 [874. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 185 
 
 AT SOMEWHERE HALL. 
 
 There, beneath ivy and rose, 
 
 Over a door that I love. 
 Seen when the wind gently blows. 
 
 Stirring the roses above, 
 A curious thing has been hid 
 
 By credulous people of old — 
 A horse-shoe the ivy amid. 
 
 Put there for luck, I am told. 
 
 Wonderful things it has seen, 
 
 Hidden up there 'neath the rose ; 
 How many passers have been 
 
 Under it nobody knows. 
 Some foot the threshold has passed, 
 
 To cross it again never more : 
 Some have been carried at last 
 
 Awkwardly out at the door. 
 
i86 L YRICS. 
 
 Partings and welcomings, too, 
 
 Now and then laughter and tears ; 
 Under the rusty horse-shoe, 
 
 Much has been seen in the years. 
 Lovers ! ah, well — one I know. 
 
 She won't the secret unfold ; 
 Just here where the roses blow. 
 
 Have been partings that cannot be told. 
 
 In luck there is no one believes : 
 
 Would it be wicked to say 
 To the thing under the leaves, — 
 
 " Keep every evil away ? 
 Guard, as you have done before, 
 
 A maiden exceedingly fair ; 
 Keep ever out at the door 
 
 Disaster and sorrow and care ! " 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 187 
 
 LOVED AND LOST. 
 
 O LOVED AND LOST ! O lovcd and lost ! 
 
 That words were weak I never knew, 
 Till when thy path my footsteps crossed 
 
 I tried to tell my love to you. 
 
 O breaking heart ! O throbbing brow ! 
 
 That words are few it may be well, 
 For surely no one knew till now 
 
 A love — a loss — no one can tell : 
 
 A love which in my bosom burned. 
 And grateful filled my heart and soul ! 
 
 Blindly to thee my being turned, 
 As turns the needle to the pole. 
 
 O good and true ! no fault was thine 
 That for my love you did not care ; 
 
 If blame there be 'tis only mine : 
 'Twas God that made thee good and fair. 
 
i88 L YRICS, 
 
 My love was earnest, true, and deep, 
 And lasted long before I told ; 
 
 But when the secret would not keep, 
 I whispered soft the story old. 
 
 O happy time ! O golden years ! 
 
 dream ! what pain thy wakening cost 
 An answer came through blinding tears — 
 
 1 found that I had loved and lost ! 
 
 1874. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 189 
 
 OUR TWIN BOYS. 
 
 {These ivere the Author'' s nephezvs. They died srd October, 
 1874, aged six days. ] 
 
 Joy and sorrow, grief and gladness 
 
 Mingle in this life of ours ; 
 Now our hearts are filled with sadness ; — 
 
 Oh ! the weary, weary hours ! 
 We have sorrows more than joys, 
 For we mourn our infant boys, 
 And our eyes are dim with tears. 
 
 And our hearts are sad and lonely, 
 
 That they visited us only, — 
 Did not stay throughout the years. 
 
 Smooth the fingers gently, sweetly. 
 Wrap the little limbs in white ; 
 
 Kiss the eyelids down completely ; 
 Bid the babes a last " Good night ! " 
 
 Though our eyes are dim with tears, 
 
 Rises hope above our fears. 
 
I90 Z YRICS. 
 
 And our hearts should joyous be 
 That our babies they will never 
 Know of sorrow now or ever : 
 
 They are happier than we. 
 
 Far away we gaze intently ; 
 
 They are now where nothing harms, 
 Folded carefully and gently 
 
 In the Everlasting Arms. 
 Let our hearts, then, beat with love 
 For our infant sons above ; 
 We nor murmur nor complain. 
 
 Said the Christ of Galilee — 
 
 " Let the children come to Me." 
 Has He asked from us in vain ? 
 
 1874. 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 191 
 
 I LOVE MY LOVE. 
 
 " I LOVE my love !" — the theme is old, 
 
 A thousand times it has been sung ; 
 The story has been often told 
 
 By youth and maid since time was young. 
 'Tis ever old — 'tis ever new, 
 
 Yet care not I how old it be, 
 For every day doth prove it true — 
 
 " I love my love, and he loves me ! " 
 
 Eight Httle words, in one sweet row, 
 
 Contain much more, you must agree, 
 Than many volumes that you know : — 
 
 " I love my love, and he loves me." 
 Of history, fable, tale, and song 
 
 The burden this doth still remain ; 
 Of letter, legend, story long, 
 
 " I love my love " — is the refrain. 
 
192 L YRICS. 
 
 I say it when the night is still ; 
 
 To my own heart I whisper low, 
 When silence broods on vale and hill, 
 
 These dear old words of long ago. 
 " I love my love — I love my love " — 
 
 What music sweet as this can be ? 
 A truth all other truths above — 
 
 " I love my love ; he loveth me !" 
 
 1875. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 193 
 
 UNBAPTISED: 
 
 A NORTHAMPTONSHIRE IDYLL. 
 
 The woman did wait on the haughty priest ; 
 
 With a broken voice — " O sir ! " she said, 
 
 " I only want to bury my dead." 
 He did not speak till the sobbing ceased ; 
 The weeping and wailing he did not heed ; 
 Callous and cold, with his pitiless creed. 
 What does he care for the eyes tear-wet ? 
 No pity has he : — 
 " Oh, it cannot be. 
 But in unblest ground when the sun is set." 
 
 The night-owl hoots in the old church-tower — 
 Hear ye the wail of the wintry breeze 
 Through the naked arms of the creaking trees ? 
 The night is as dark as at midnight hour ; 
 The sexton is busy with mattock and spade — 
 Ere the hour is struck must the grave be made. 
 The watch-dog howls to the starless sky : 
 
 Cast the spade in the mould. 
 
 Now the hour is tolled. 
 And the earth will be shovelled in by and by. 
 
194 LYRICS. 
 
 Five maidens they carry a coffin there — 
 
 Slowly they move o'er the village green, 
 And flickering lanterns glimmer between. 
 
 The mourners are bearing their burden with care ; 
 
 Heart-broken they pass through the churchyard gate ; 
 
 At unhallowed grave doth the sexton wait : 
 
 Hurriedly will he his work complete. 
 " Hell Comer " is this— , 
 What business is his ? 
 
 The vicar has told him the place is most meet. 
 
 The coffin just lowered contains but a child, 
 Pure as the snow, or its winding sheet 
 From the thorny ways of the world its feet 
 Have been taken away, and One more mild 
 Than the heartless priest has never despised 
 The cast-out infant — the unbaptised : 
 " Suffer the children to come unto Me!'' 
 Does the priest not know 
 That, long ago. 
 It was said that of such must the Kingdom be ? 
 
 [876. 
 
SOJVGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 195 
 
 A FRAGMENT FROM GOETHE'S LIFE. 
 
 Dramatis Personce — Goethe, Amelia, Lucinda. 
 
 Scene — The Parlour of a House in Strasbourg. Enter 
 Goethe. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 Amelia, my love ! my dearest ! 
 Are you ill ? 
 
 Amelia. 
 
 Hush, Goethe ! gently ! No, I am not ill, 
 Neither am I your dearest, nor your love ; 
 But one who would be both — Lucinda — 
 She is ill. You take my hand ! be seated here. 
 For I have much to say j you must be still, 
 And listen only while I speak. 
 
 Goethe. 
 What of Lucinda — is she very ill ? 
 
196 LYRICS. 
 
 Amelia. 
 
 You were to listen only while / spoke ; 
 Speak not at all, unless you speak so low 
 No ears but mine may hear. Lucinda sleeps ; 
 Her bedroom is above. 
 
 Goethe. 
 I will not speak at all ; 'tis sweet enough 
 To listen to your voice — even when you chide ; 
 And when you whisper low, as now you do. 
 Sweet music thrills me — beating on my brain. 
 
 Amelia. 
 'Tis of Lucinda that I fain would speak ; 
 Yes, she is ill, dear Goethe — ^very ill. 
 You read to us of that sweet English maid 
 Who sickened for her love, and never told : 
 My sister has her plaint — you know it well ; 
 I think she'll surely die, she loves you so ! 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 I never gave her cause. 
 
 Amelia. 
 You made no love to her, yet cause enough 
 She had to love you well. What woman can 
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 197 
 
 Resist your charms, dear Goethe ? Had not I 
 Loved well my love — my sweetheart far away, 
 Before you crossed the threshold of our door, 
 I might have been as she, and even now 
 Fearing, I tremble for my plighted troth. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 Be mine, then ! mine ! my darling, come with me ! 
 How often have I said, I love you well ! 
 Far better than 
 
 Amelia. 
 
 Oh ! hush ! hush ! — there, be still ! it cannot be ! 
 I love my love — to him I will be true j 
 And to be true, and for Lucinda's sake, 
 This day, for ever, must we say — farewell ! 
 Ay, even now, dear Goethe, you must go. 
 How hard it is for me^ I cannot tell ; 
 And she — my sister — surely she will die 
 Heart-broken. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 What ! in tears, Amelia ? Well, I will go. 
 Perhaps 'tis better that I should. 
 
198 LYRICS. 
 
 Amelia. 
 
 Yes, yes ; it must be so ! I lead you out. 
 O Goethe, Goethe ! — fare-thee-well — farewell 1 
 For ever^ Goethe ! I do love my love, 
 
 But yet for once 
 
 \Embracing hwi. 
 
 {Luanda rushes in, in dishabille.) 
 
 LUCINDA. 
 
 Not only you ! not only you ! 
 
 Yes, I am mad ! I also will for once 
 
 Take Goethe in my arms. 
 
 [Embracing him. 
 
 Farewell — farewell ! Thy head between my hands. 
 Dear Goethe, with my cheek thus close to thine. 
 My dark hair laid against thy golden curls, 
 My arm about thy neck — for once, just once — 
 One kiss ! — the first and last — farewell ! farewell ! 
 Goethe, I bless thee ! — but my curse on her 
 Who first shall touch these sweet lips after me — 
 Woe, woe, unutterable! — darkness and despair / 
 Sister, stand back ! Goethe, begone ! — begone ! 
 
 1874. 
 
I^umorous Ipoems. 
 
 SPEIRING THE GUIDWULL." 
 
 ^HE moon was shinin' bricht an' fair, 
 The wind blew cauld across the muir, 
 As Robbie Bell, spried-up an' clean, 
 Wi' weel-spun hose an' buckled shoon, 
 In shepherd's plaid, an' bannet blue, 
 Gaed yont tae see " his cushie doo," 
 A weel-faur'd lass, a sonsie queen — 
 Faith ! he was prood o' bonny Jean. 
 
 At kirk or market sly was she, 
 Took unco care that nane wad see 
 The look she meant for Rab himsel' ; 
 In troth, the neebours couldna tell 
 Whether she liked the lad or no — 
 The mair she'd like, the less she'd show ; 
 But weel kent Rab, an' him alane, 
 That a' her heart was a' his ain. 
 
2cx> LYRICS. 
 
 Doon by the wimplin' bumie's side, 
 Where droopin' birks an' willows hide 
 Fond lovers frae a' pryin' een, 
 Rab aft had courted bonny Jean — 
 Had sweetly preed her cherry mou', 
 Had ca'd her een sweet, saft, an' blue, 
 Had fum'led wi' her gowden hair, 
 An' praised her charms in Doric rare. 
 
 But tho' Rab courted geyan slee. 
 Fair Jeanie's mither fine could see 
 Hoo lay the land, an' unco weel 
 Was pleased that sic a wiselike chiel 
 Should efter Jean. Did she no ken 
 That Rab had ta'en a but an' ben ? — 
 Full prood the wifie was tae learn 
 O' guid doon-sittin' for her bairn. 
 
 Wi' anxious heart, across the hill 
 Rab gaed a-speirin' the guidwull. 
 When Jeanie heard his whustle clear, 
 She slippit out ; she wadna hear 
 The story he had come to tell. 
 Auld Tammas likit Robbie Bell, 
 An' weel she wot he's sure to tak' 
 The offer Robbie comes to mak'. 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS. 5 
 
 The tale's sune tailed : Auld Tarn agrees, 
 An' Jeanie's mither, laughin', sees 
 Rab lookin' for his darlin' lass. 
 But, bide a wee, he still maun pass 
 Another trial : — " The but an' ben, 
 A canty biggin' doon the glen, 
 Is fine," says Tarn ; — " but has he poo'r 
 O' utterance when comes the 'oor ? " 
 
 The " big ha' Bible " firae its place, 
 Tam hands tae Rab, looks in his face. 
 An' layin't on the laddie's knees, 
 Says, — " Rab, yill taH the exerceese.'" 
 Wi' reverent look, the bannet blue 
 Is doffed ; he reads the chapter through : 
 In trembling voice he tries to pray ; — 
 Ootside fair Jeanie's listenin' tae. 
 
 Noo a' is dune, an' by the han' 
 
 Tam grippin' Rab, says, — " Ye're the man ;' 
 
 An' Jeanie's mither gangs tae see 
 
 " Whar can that glaikit lassie be ; " 
 
 But Jeanie, wi' her heart at mou', 
 
 Comes in tae see her laddie noo ; 
 
 An' Rab gangs whusdin' ower the hill, 
 
 Weel satisfied he's "speired their wull." 
 
LYRICS. 
 
 O Scotland dear ! I love thee well : 
 
 Dear to my heart is hill and dell, 
 
 Dear, rocky glen, and ferny scaur, 
 
 Dear, mountain peak ; but dearer far 
 
 These annals of a bygone time, 
 
 Howe'er uncouthly shaped in rhyme. 
 
 'Tis well the poet sweetly sings — 
 
 " From scenes like these our grandeur springs." 
 
 1870. 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS. 203 
 
 LUCIFER LOWE. 
 
 [/« reference to the Tax upon Lucifer Matches proposed 
 in the Budget, April, 1871.] 
 
 Mr. Lucifer Lowe has proposed 
 
 A tax the other night ; 
 When the Budget is fully disclosed, 
 
 The tax it won't be light. 
 
 Financial Bob, you may know — 
 
 A matchless Bob is he — 
 Finds the funds are rather low ; 
 
 Now this should never be. 
 
 " A curious smile he smole, 
 A knowing wink he wunk ;" 
 
 More money's of course his goal, 
 And he has plenty spunk. 
 
 " O Lucifer I how art thou fallen ! " 
 'Tis thus it once was phrased ; 
 
 But now will the boys be calling — 
 The lucifers all are raised. 
 
204 LYRICS. 
 
 On the Sun there once was a tax 
 (Our window-frames, you know) : 
 
 To the lights which strike on the box 
 Is descending rather low. 
 
 Vesuvians, tapers, fusees ! 
 
 Well, this is a ha'penny catch ; 
 And I'm sure the country sees 
 
 The Chancellor hasn't a match. 
 
 Take care, Mr. Lucifer Lowe, 
 In case you extinguished be ! 
 
 Such taxes, they won't do now. 
 In the light of this century. 
 
 1871. 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS. 205 
 
 SANDY HEW AT SEA. 
 
 [ AFTER HOOD. ] 
 
 Ah ! Sandy won't forget the day 
 
 Remembered well by me ; 
 Not much he'd seen ; — one winter morn 
 
 He started off to sea. 
 
 The wind it blew a furious blast — 
 
 A hurricane in fine ; 
 And Sandy swore a dreadful oath — 
 
 To blackball was not his line. 
 
 A wink of sleep he never got, 
 
 When tossing on his bunk ; 
 His eyes with terror stared full wide, 
 
 His head was on a trunk 
 
 He tossed and turned, and turned and tossed, 
 
 Nor heard the sailors shout ; 
 Then still he lay : strange malady ! — 
 
 His inside wanted out 
 
2o6 LYRICS. 
 
 The sea it poured upon the deck, 
 
 The wind more fiercely blew ; 
 The sky was black, but Sandy was — 
 
 Ah ! quite another hue. 
 
 His neighbour thought they would be wrecked 
 
 " I i-^ a ship ! " — cried he ; 
 Alack ! alack ! it was not so ; 
 
 They only shipped a sea I 
 
 But Sandy's philosophical 
 
 Indifference was fine ; 
 He faintly wished he might be cured 
 
 By being thrown in brine. 
 
 The ship which Lloyd had entered "^," 
 
 Was broken with the sea; 
 And many wondered how it was 
 
 That such a thing could be. 
 
 The water rushed into the hold. 
 
 Each man he seized a pail ; 
 One Sandy shook, and called on him 
 
 To come and stand to bale. 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS. 207 
 
 It was in vain ; he heeded not ; 
 
 One glance around he gave : 
 His eyes were very watery^ 
 
 His face was very grave. 
 
 Then Sandy he a lesson learned ; 
 
 For many times he swore 
 He'd see the world : but now he vowed 
 
 He'd never sea it more. 
 
 1871. 
 
2o8 L YRICS. 
 
 WINDYGOWL. 
 
 Wi' weary steps I lost my gait ; 
 
 The nicht was dark as dark could be, 
 As up the glen I wandered late, 
 An' stumbled ower the grassy lea ; 
 Nae siller mune 
 Cam', late or sune, 
 To guide the weary feet o' me. 
 
 Till through the mirk there gleamed a spark ; 
 
 A gentle, feeble, flickerin' lowe 
 Cam' glintin' doonward through the dark, 
 Frae cottage window up the knowe — 
 A welcome sicht, 
 On sic a nicht, 
 To weary wanderer i' the howe. 
 
 The hearty laird o' Windygowl 
 Was sittin' porin' ower his book ; 
 
 His watchfu' collie gied a growl, 
 
 He opes the door wi' cautious look — 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS. 209 
 
 " Ye've lost yer gate ? 
 Ye're unco late ; 
 Come in, man, to the ingle nook." 
 
 A broad bricht fire o' scented peat 
 
 Threw lengthened shadows at oor back, 
 The collie curled up at oor feet, 
 The dishes gHttered in the rack. 
 As cheek by jowl, 
 At Windygowl, 
 The laird an' me fell on the crack. 
 
 Said I, — '' Guidman, what for d'ye ca' 
 Yer place by sic a name sae queer ? 
 I've been in mony a hut an' ha' 
 Less beild than this, baith far an' near." 
 " Jist bide a wee," — 
 Quoth he to me, 
 "Jist bide a wee; ye're sure to hear." 
 
 A sough cam' roun' the auld hoose en', 
 
 A weary, dreary sab an' sigh ; 
 It garr'd me grue, I didna ken ; 
 'Twas like as if a ghost were by, 
 Or bairnie wheengin', 
 Greetin', peengin' — 
 An eerie, eldrich, waesome cry. 
 
L YRICS. 
 
 A' roond the house, out-ower the byre, 
 A ticht wind whistled clear an' free ; 
 Aneth the door it fanned the fire, 
 The collie watched wi' bHnkin' e'e ; 
 It sabbed an' swirled, 
 Grew laigh, then skirled : 
 The laird aye keep't his e'e on me. 
 
 It rantit, tantit,tore, an' swore, 
 
 An' scrieched an' scrauched, a fearsome howl ; 
 It dashed an' slammed, cuist wide the door, 
 Gaed up the lum wi' awfu' growl. 
 The laird he chaffed, 
 An' hotched an' laughed : — 
 " It's no ill-named, is't, — Windygowl ? " 
 
 'Tis mony a year noo sin' the day 
 
 Aft up the glen I liked to ca' ; 
 The roof's been lang since blawn away 
 An' Windygowl's but broken wa' ; 
 The guid auld laird 's 
 In the kirkyaird. 
 An' winter winds still wail an' blaw. 
 
 1875. 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 THE MISOGAMIST. 
 
 " I HATE the women ; 'tis no cant, — 
 
 A vain, conceited, frivolous crew ; 
 They're only fit to dress and flaunt 
 
 In feathers, ribbons, red and blue, — 
 In frill and flounce, with lace and veil ; 
 
 They love the pretty, not the true ; 
 They're facile, fickle, feeble, frail — 
 
 Why need I further swell the list ? 
 Their fooHshness is nothing new :" — 
 
 Remarked this strange Misogamist. 
 
 " They chatter, clatter, never cease 
 
 To gossip -scandal at their tea ; 
 They whisper mischief, break the peace. 
 
 And kiss, and hate, and disagree. 
 With sob and sigh, or smile and tear. 
 
 The hoUowness of which you see;" 
 Then summing up with bitter sneer, — 
 
 "Their life 's a trifle j they insist 
 On chronicling the smallest beer :" — 
 
 So said this wild Misogamist. 
 
212 L YRICS. 
 
 I did not like his spiteful talk ; 
 
 I did not see him for a year : 
 One winter night, in homeward walk, 
 
 I heard a voice, — " Cling closer, dear." 
 Although 'twas long since last we met, 
 
 I knew the tones ; 'twas very queer ; 
 A husband now without regret : 
 
 Two ruddy lips as ere were kissed, 
 Remarked full low,—" I thank you, pet," 
 
 To this same mad.Misogamist. 
 
 [875. 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS. 21 
 
 THE AULD KIRK BELL OF 
 DALKEITH. 
 
 YE wha in the city dwells, 
 
 1 envy ye yer walth o' bells : 
 Frae steeple, turret, belfry, toor, 
 They tinkle music every 'oor. 
 
 A hundred hammers rise an' fa', 
 A hundred bells, baith big an sma'. 
 
 Deep-toned an' low, 
 Their music mingle, yin an' a' 
 
 Wi' measure slow. 
 
 Or ye wha in some lowland glen, 
 Far frae the noisy haunts o' men, 
 When sunlight glints upon the corn, 
 Hear, on the silent Sabbath morn. 
 The bell which beats the call to prayer 
 Come ringing in the morning air, 
 
 Sae clear an' sweet, 
 As to God's house the folk repair 
 
 Wi' sober feet. 
 
214 L YRICS, 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the soonds o' bells 
 That rise an' fa' wi' sobs an' swells ; 
 That ring, an' peal, an' beat, an' chime. 
 An' strike the music oot wi' time. 
 But waesome is the soond o' oors. 
 It dunts an' dunners, clanks an' cloors — 
 
 An awfu' din ; 
 It bangs an' smashes oot the 'oors, 
 
 Baith late an' sune. 
 
 Oft hae we heard it said an' sung — 
 
 The memory o' bells which rung 
 
 In childhood's days are dear to them 
 
 In foreign lands wha mak' their hame ; 
 
 But nae sic recollections dear 
 
 Will fash the bairnies noo wha here- 
 
 Aboot do. dwell : 
 A melancholy clankin' drear 
 
 Mak's oor kirk bell. 
 
 \.%^(>. 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS. 215 
 
 THE GALLOWAY WIFE. 
 
 \^An old Ballad giving an account of the origin of an old family^ 
 the Sprots of Urr.] 
 
 Ye'll a' hae heard tell o' the Galloway wife, 
 
 A wonderfu' woman was she ; 
 An' hoo she endit the bloody strife 
 
 'Tween the King an' the Sothems three. 
 
 At first they were fechtin' three to yin, 
 
 An' syne there was only twa, 
 An' syne there was only yin to yin, 
 
 But she didna ken wha was wha. 
 
 At last she heard the Sothern's aith, 
 
 An' then she grippit his hair, 
 An' poo'd them doon and stoppit them baith, 
 
 An' the King stood laughin' there. 
 
 *' An' wha are ye, my canty wife ? " — 
 
 The guid King Robert speired, 
 " That daured to meddle in this strife : 
 
 Guidsakes ! ye wasna feared. 
 
2i6 LYRICS. 
 
 " An' whar's yer hoose ? is't far awa ? 
 
 (Rise, Selby, there's my hand) 
 I haena tasted meat the day, 
 
 An' this my ain Scotland." 
 
 " My hoose is here, across the burn, 
 
 Richt welcome will ye be ; 
 But weel I wot this English knight 
 
 Will get nae meat frae me." 
 
 They sat them doon by her fireside, 
 She poored the scaldin' broo. 
 
 An' a' her spoons she weel did hide. 
 But the yin the King should hae. 
 
 " An' noo, guidwife, till I be dune 
 
 I'll gar ye earn yer fee. 
 An' a' the land ye can rin roond 
 
 I'll gie in gift to thee." 
 
 She rowed her sleeves, her hair she bund, 
 
 She kilted to the knee, 
 Adoon the brae, afore the wind. 
 
 She flew to earn her fee. 
 
HUMOROUS POEMS. 217 
 
 Adoon the brae, an' through the glen, 
 
 She jumpit ower the burn ; 
 A wily fox had stown her hen, — 
 
 Her head she wadna turn. 
 
 The miller's asleep on his sheilin' knowe. 
 
 The mill itsel' was on fire ; 
 " Aweel," — says she,—" jist let it lowe," 
 
 As she jumpit ower bush an' brier. 
 
 Four horses are lowse by the bumie's side, 
 
 Wi' saddles an' bridles fine, 
 For a helmet o' gold she wadna bide : 
 
 " I will get them a' when I'm dune. 
 
 " I weel I wot I've run fii' fast. 
 But the King will be dune," — said she, 
 
 An' back she flew to her hoose at last. 
 An' keekit in to see. 
 
 The King an' Sir Selby sat side-by-side. 
 The brose it was nearly dune. 
 
 An' there wi' the yin that she didna hide 
 It was time aboot wi' the spoon. 
 
 Q 
 
2i8 LYRICS. 
 
 An' this is the tale o' the Galloway wife, 
 An' a wonderfu' wife was she ; 
 
 An' a' the land that she did rin roond 
 The King as a gift did gie. 
 
 . 1877. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 2 87074 
 
 I-ORIMEU AND GILUES, PRINTERS, 31 ST. ANDREW SQUARE, EDINBURGH. 
 
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