Chapter I: HAD been to the theatre, swallowed a play,

Seen bright Marie Wilton, and cried with the best
O’er the poor parting lovers; then laugh’d and was gay
At the plump roly-poly, the puns, and the rest.

[Acte ye fyrste.]

So into the streets, warmly muffled, I came,
And turn’d my steps homeward, three miles in the fog;
When, threading a court (I can’t tell you its name),
I tripp’d against something I thought was a dog,

For it moan’d. I stoop’d down, half-expecting a bite;
But the thing never moved; then I look’d, and behold,
A baby, wrapt up in brown paper and night,
Half-dying with hunger, half-frozen with cold.

I return’d to the Foundling, and ringing the bell,
Gave Baby in charge; then, retracing my way,
I mused upon this which had happen’d, and fell
From my comedy-mood to a tragedy-play.

[Acte ye second.]

I had seen the first act—now the second began.
Night lifted her curtain; and, here in the street,
A minute City Arab, the least of his clan,
Patter’d past on the pavement,—no shoes to his feet;

Black, shivering, starving; not daring to beg,
Not able to work, not unwilling to steal,
If a chance came his way; he was fleet of his leg;
He would risk a policeman to pilfer a meal.

Sure enough the chance came; ’twas a truckful of bread;
No Gorgon to watch it—no dragon to slay;
Like a juvenile Jason, he plunder’d and fled;
Like a Jason, he found a Medea to pay—

In the shape of a lout, twice the size of himself,
The sole witness, by hunger made ruthless and keen;
He demolish’d the pilferer, pilfer’d the pelf,
Disappear’d with his booty—and down came the scene.

[Acte ye thyrde.]

Act the third was a garret;—I thought I had clomb
Up a hundred of stairs, to a hole in the roof,
Where a lad of eighteen had made shift of a home,—
With a wife, if you please—and a baby for proof.

He was thief by profession—a cadger—a sot—
Sticking close to his calling; and so, as we say,
An habitual rogue;—had he chosen his lot,
It may be he had pitch’d on an honester way.

As it was, he was light of his fingers—adept
At shop-lifting and burglary—nimble and cute;
Never fear’d a policeman (unless when he slept),
And was held by his pals in the highest repute.

[Acte ye fovrthe.]

Act the fourth is the hulks, where our hero appears
In the proper stage garments of yellow and red;
With a chain to his leg this last dozen of years,
And a warder to see that he works for his bread.

[Morall Reflecciouns.]

Once again—’tis his lot; you won’t hear him complain;
He was born to it, kick’d to it—Fortune is blind;
And if some have the pleasure, some _must_ have the pain;
So it’s each for himself—and the devil behind.

[ Acte ye last and Ingenious rhyme.]

The last act of our drama—well, what shall it be?
The august British Public, defraying the cost?—
Or . . . P-a-r-l-i-a-m-e-n-t?
Or the angels, lamenting the soul that is lost?

BARK.

BOW-WOW!

I’m my master’s dog; whose dog are you? I live in a kennel, which somebody was good enough to make for me; and I sleep on straw, which grew that I might sleep on it. I have my meals brought to me punctually; and, therefore, I conclude that meals are a noble institution and that punctuality is a virtue. When I act as a good dog ought to act, I get a bone, and my master pats me on the back. Therefore I always do what is expected of me; and that I call morality. Dogs which have no kennels flounder about in the gutter. Having a kennel, I eschew the gutter;—and that I call respectability. It is in the nature of dogs to lick their masters’ feet. The best dogs do it, so I follow their example;—and that I call religion. If I do what is not expected of me, I get the stick. I do not like the stick, so I behave myself;—and that I call conventionality. There is a chain round my neck, lest I should run away. I cannot break the chain, so I play with it;—and that I call the proper subjection of the individual. But I am free to pull at my chain till my neck is sore;—and that I call liberty . . . For the rest, I bark.

There are three kinds of spiritual beings: men, dogs, and cats. Men are supreme, and made both dogs and cats. Dogs were created for happiness, and cats for misery. We are the good race, and they are the evil. It is the duty of a dog to kill a cat. Then hate cats, and hang them up by the tails in the back garden. If I am a bad dog, I shall be turned into a cat, and hung up by my tail. Cats are fed on black beetles; but men are very happy, and eat bones all day long. I eat a bone when I can get one; which makes me think that I shall some day be turned into a man. When I am, I shall hang up cats by the tails.

Of created beings dogs are the only ones who have souls. There is a heaven for dogs, but for no one else. There are no cats in heaven; and for that matter, very few dogs; but I hope to be one of them; for there the dogs have meaty bones, and bark all day long, making sweet music. This is the Dogs’ creed. All who believe it will go to Bone-land; and all who do not, will be hung up with the cats in the back garden.

Bow-wow!

SMOKE. THE IRONWORKERS.

UNDER the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Our work is wrought;
Fashion’d strong with every sturdy stroke
That does wild music from the roofs provoke
In echoes brought.
A rare bold sport
Rather than labour stern, or blunting task;
A toil to ask
Not blench from. Merrily round the fire
We work our will,
Producing still
Some new form daily to our hearts’ desire.

Delicate iron bands
That, as with fairy hands,
Heavenward aspire
To carry roofs, sun pierced and ever gleaming,
Wherein the varied race
Of fruit or flowers finds place,
While the weak Northern rays through mist are streaming.

Or lofty gate
Of palace or of temple set apart;
The hallowed gaols of art,
Where low estate
Is never welcome; ever warmly bidden
To enter and abide. Far better hidden
Life’s earnest prime behind the factory gate.
Always the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Is overhead,
Like floating incense looming through the sky,
It tells the prayer of work goes on hard by
Where zeal new energies of life evokes;
While iron red
From earthy bed
Blackens to use beneath the smith’s firm strokes.

Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Our lot is laid.
Our ever-flaming altar spreads on high
This great scroll as a witness in the sky
Of effort made.
Here, rare workmanship, we, day by day,
Strive to display,
Not heeding if our work make weal or woe.
We do our best,
Ye will the rest,
To meet whose wants me make our furnace glow.

Pleasant are our rough hands
That work the world’s demands
And never tire,
Bringing to shape forms past the quaintest dreaming.
Hot, and with grimy arms
We weave the Earth’s new charms,
Only a hymn of praise our toil esteeming.

Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Our work is wrought;
Not a cloud, the summer air to choke,
But banner of our craft, the floating smoke
Ensigns our labour, with bright meanings fraught.

WHEREFORE HORRIBLE SPRING? _From Béranger_.

WHEN winter was here, from my window on high
I saw her sweet face up at hers where she sat.
We never had met, but ’twas plain she and I
From falling in love were not hinder’d by that.
Between the bare boughs of these lindens how oft
Kind kisses we blew I’ve no patience to sing,
For there are the leaves now all quiv’ring aloft—
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?

Yes, there are the leaves, and no more I behold
My kind little neighbour put forth her dear head
To scatter the bread-crumbs, when, tamed by the cold,
The robins, her pensioners, wait to be fed.
The minute her casement she open would throw,
The Loves with our errands were all on the wing.
What is there for beauty to equal the snow?
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?

And ’twere not for you I should still with the dawn
Behold her new-risen in simplest array;
So, radiant and lovely, great painters have drawn
Aurora enclosing the curtains of day.
At eve, in the heavens though stars might be bright,
I watched for her taper my planet to bring;
How lonely I felt when she put out her light;
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?

Ever dear to my heart must the winter remain;
How glad I should be if I only could hear
The sharp little tinkling of sleet on the pane,
Than whispering of zephyrs more dulcet and dear.
Your fruits and your flowers are odious and vile,
Your long sunny days only sadness can bring;
More sunny by far was the light of her smile.
Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?

VOICES.

THROUGH hoary centuries, through History’s page,
Like tongues of fire unquench’d, undimm’d by age,
Whisper the voices, living, clear and true,
The crust of Time and changes piercing through;
Sometimes like trumpets’ martial tones they ring—
Anon, scarce heard, in trembling accents sing,
Yet there is life in what they tell and say,
A life nor years nor days can sweep away:
From out the Past, from out the silent grave,
From the lone deep where beats the ceaseless wave,
They yearn, they rise, they plead with deathless tone:
From hill, from field, from cot, from kingly throne
They bring their witness;—if we list or learn,
The days shall tell of each one in his turn:—
Oh, who shall say a voice, however weak,
Its message doth not bear—its lesson speak!

THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOW. THREE VOICES.

_The Child speaks_.

TWEET, tweet, tweet!
The birds cry out of the sky.
Tweet, tweet, tweet,
Mother I want to fly.
Up, and up, and up,
Above the poplars tall,
Mother, if I had wings,
I would fly and never fall!

_The Mother speaks_.

Sweet, sweet, sweet!
So the swallows are here again,
Flying over the village street,
And out to the open plain.
Sweet, sweet, sweet!
As they cried three springs ago,
When Will led me through the fields
Down to the church below.
Three years have come and gone,
Through warm summer and winter cold
I have carried his dinner afield,
And led the cattle to fold.
Three years have come and gone,
And my child is just two years old,
And the swallows are crying again Sweet, sweet,
And my tale is told.

_The Grandmother speaks_.

Fleet, fleet, fleet,
Are those the swallows I hear?
The sound was sudden and sweet,
And this is the spring of the year.
To my dim eyes they seem
But a sudden light as they pass;
But I know how they skim o’er the stream,
And over the churchyard grass.
Their wings are a sudden light,
Thy tunes will not be long,
For my spirit is nearer its flight
Than that of the young and the strong;
Fleet, fleet, fleet, my days are waning fast,
I hear them cry, for out of the sky,
“There are wings for the soul at last.”

SWALLOWS.

A NEW season is begun. Parliament met to-day. London is getting full, and the price of coals has fallen. The celandine (swallow-flower) is beginning to cover the hedgerow banks of the Isle of Wight with yellow stars, and the swallows themselves will soon be with us again.

I may mention as another agreeable sign of spring the return of “Pen and Pencil,” not to the old nest, but under shelter of the old hospitality.

The Rhodians used to salute the return of the swallows with a traditional popular song, the _Chelidonisma_; perhaps some lady present may gratify us with a chant of the like purport. My own aim this evening is merely to give some brief natural history notes on the British swallows, drawn partly from books and partly from my own observation.

There are about sixty species of the family of Hirundinidæ, but only four kinds (counting the swift as one) are habitual visitors of the British Islands—the chimney swallow, the house martin, the bank martin (_Hirundo rustica_, _urbica_, and _riparia_), and fourthly the swift (_Cypselus_).

The chimney swallow (_rustica_) has a brownish-red throat, back of blue-black lustre, under part of body reddish-white, and a long forked tail. It is a bold bird, and trusting to its superior speed, dashes at a hawk whenever it sees one. It always builds near men, and makes its cup-shaped nest inside chimneys and old wells, in barns, gateways, sheds, and arches of bridges. There are four or five spotted eggs, and it brings out two broods each year. The chimney swallow has a sweet little song of its own, and is one of the earliest birds heard of a summer morning, beginning soon after two o’clock. It is said to grow very tame in confinement, but I never saw and should not like to see one in a cage. These are the most abundant of our swallows, and the same birds return year after year, while their little time endures, to the same localities, and often very likely to the same nests.

The house martin (_urbica_), or window swallow or martlet, is smaller and less agile than its cousin just described, and has a far shorter tail. Its feet and toes are downy. It comes later than the chimney swallow, builds amidst towns, on the _outside_ of houses, under eaves and in window niches, and chooses a northern aspect to avoid the direct rays of the sun, which would crack its mud nest. Martlets sometimes build on the face of cliffs, as may be seen at the Giant’s Causeway. It has four or five _white_ eggs, and brings out two broods. As a vocalist it can only get as far as a chirp, or at most a small twitter. Its body is white below, and purple on the back and wings. The house martin does not, like the chimney swallow, sweep the ground and water in its flight.

The bank swallow (_riparian_) or sand martin, which is so sociable with its own kind but not with man, digs horizontal and serpentine holes in banks, sloping upwards to avoid rain, where it lays in a careless nest four or six white eggs. It has sometimes, but perhaps not always, two broods. These are the smallest and wildest of our swallows; nearly mute, or with only a tiny chirp; and, when they can, frequent large spaces of water. They often fly waveringly with a quick fluttering of wings, somewhat like butterflies, and anon sail circling like other swallows. They use their old caves for some years, but may often be seen digging new ones. They are probably driven out sometimes by the fleas which, as I have often seen, abound in their habitations. Birds, indeed, free and airy as their life seems, suffer much from vermin, and the poor baby swallows are terribly preyed upon. The sand martin is mouse-coloured on the back and brownish-white below. It is the earliest to arrive in England, and may be expected now in three weeks or so. Next we may look for the chimney swallow with his long tail—then for the house martin, and latest of all comes the swift (_Cypselus_), which some naturalists say is no true swallow, having several anatomical peculiarities, the most noticeable being that all four toes go forward. No other bird, I think (save the Gibraltar swift), has a similar foot. The swift can cling well to the face of a wall, but cannot perch in the usual bird fashion, and gets on very badly on the ground, finding it difficult to rise on the wing. Once in the air, with its long wings in motion, it is truly master of the situation. It is one of the speediest, if not the speediest, and can keep on the wing for sixteen hours, which is longer than any other bird. The swifts are most active in sultry thundery weather. They fly in rain, but dislike wind. They are the latest day-birds in summer, and their one very shrill note may be heard up to nearly nine o’clock. Sometimes they get excited and dart about screaming, perhaps quarrelling, but usually the swallows, all of them, agree well among themselves, though they also keep a proper distance. The swifts build high in holes of walls and rocks. The Tower of London is one of their London palaces. The nest is bulky and has two white eggs. There is but one brood in the season, and the swift leaves town for Africa in August, going earliest, although he was the latest to come.

Swallows for several weeks after their arrival in England play about before beginning their nests—

“Like children coursing every room
Of some new house.”

They wait for fit weather to go away, and may then be seen sitting in rows as though meditating on their journey, perhaps dimly sorry to part—

“With a birdish trouble, half-perplexed.”

Utterly mysterious and inscrutable to us are the feelings of our lower fellow-creatures on this earth, and how the bird of passage, “lone-wandering but not lost,” finds its distant goal, is beyond man’s wit to explain.

After this I fear tedious sketch of our four winged friends, I will only add another word or two as to the name swallow, a rather odd word, entirely different from the Greek _χελῖδών_, and the Latin _hirundo_ (which, unlike as it may appear, philologists tell us is formed from the Greek name). The Italians call the bird _rondine_ (evidently from the Latin), and the French _hirondelle_. We get our word from the Anglo-Saxon, _swalewe_, and the modern German is _schwalbe_. What does this mean? I must own with regret that it seems to me most likely that the name is given on account of the voracity of this bird, which is engaged in swallowing gnats, beetles, bees, may-flies, dragon-flies, and all kinds of flies from break of day till sunset. The Anglo-Saxon verb to swallow is _swelgan_. Fain would I take the word _swelgel_, air, sky; but the Spanish name for our bird seems conclusive for the baser derivation. The Spaniards call it golondrina (evidently from _gola_, throat); and it may be added, make a cruel kind of amusement out of the gulosity of the swallows, by angling for them with fishing-flies from the walls of the Alhambra, round which the birds dart in myriads on a summer’s day—descendants of those that played round the heads of the Moorish kings, who perhaps were kinder to their visitors.

THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS.

“OUT in the meadows the young grass springs,
Shivering with sap,” said the larks, “and we
Shoot into air with our strong young wings,
Spirally up over level and lea;
Come, O Swallows, and fly with us
Now that horizons are luminous!
Evening and morning the world of light,
Spreading and kindling, is infinite!”

Far away, by the sea in the south,
The hills of olive and slopes of fern
Whiten and glow in the sun’s long drouth,
Under the heavens that beam and burn;
And all the swallows were gathered there
Flitting about in the fragrant air,
And heard no sound from the larks, but flew
Flashing under the blinding blue.

Out of the depth of their soft rich throats
Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said:
“Musical thought in the mild air floats,
Spring is coming, and winter is dead!
Come, O Swallows, and stir the air,
For the buds are all bursting unaware,
And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long
To hear the sound of your low sweet song.”

Over the roofs of the white Algiers,
Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar,
Flitted the swallows, and not one hears
The call of the thrushes from far, from far;
Sighed the thrushes; then, all at once,
Broke out singing the old sweet tones,
Singing the bridal of sap and shoot,
The tree’s slow life between root and fruit.

But just when the dingles of April flowers
Shine with the earliest daffodils,
When, before sunrise, the cold, clear hours
Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils,—
Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried,
Perched on a spray by a rivulet-side,
“Swallows, O Swallows, come back again
To swoop and herald the April rain!”

And something awoke in the slumbering heart
Of the alien birds in their African air,
And they paused, and alighted, and twittered apart,
And met in the broad white dreamy square,
And the sad slave woman, who lifted up
From the fountain her broad-lipped earthen cup,
Said to herself with a weary sigh,
“To-morrow the swallows will northward fly!”

AULD LANG SYNE; OR, THE LAW IN 1874.

IN 1868 it was determined by Lord Cairns, then Lord Chancellor, that a revised edition of the statutes of the realm should be published containing only such statutes as were actually in force.

In looking over the first volume, which contains statutes passed between 1235 and 1685, one is struck by the number of stringent Acts of Parliament forming part of our present law, which nevertheless are habitually neglected.

Now that the destroying hands of the Gladstonian iconoclasts are stayed there can be no more useful task than to look around us and see how many of these relics of the embodied wisdom of our ancestors still remain to us, rusted indeed but ready for our use.

In enumerating a few of these enactments I have two objects in view. First, I would remind those whose province it is to administer law and justice to the subjects of Queen Victoria of powers with which they are armed; and, secondly, I would offer timely warning to those against whom these powers, when again exercised, which the present healthy state of public feeling assures us they will be, must inevitably be directed.

To begin then. Can there be a more appalling spectacle than the “Monstrous Regiment of Women?” Well, we have our weapons of defence ready in 3 Henry VIII. c. 11., 34 and 35 Henry VIII. c. 8, and 5 Elizabeth c. 4. s. 17. What a sound and vigorous ring is there in the first of these statutes with the pains and penalties it enacts against ignorant persons practising physic or surgery, “such,” it goes on to say, “as common artificers, smythes, wevers and women.” And how discreetly liberal is the second of these statutes, which indicates a legitimate field for women’s activity, and allows them, in common with all other unqualified persons, to cure outward sores, such as “a pyn and the web in the eye, uncoomes of hands, scaldings, burnings, sore mouths, saucelin, morfew” and the like, by herbs, ointments, baths, poultices, and plasters. But most practical, perhaps, of all these three statutes is the statute of Elizabeth, which, making no exception, sweeps within its enactments all women under the age of forty who have failed to fulfil the great end of their being, matrimony.

“And bee it further enacted that twoo justices of the peace the maior
or other head officer of any citie burghe or towne corporate and twoo
aldermen, or twoo other discrete burgesses of the same citie burghe
or towne corporate yf ther be no aldermen, shall and may by vertue
hereof appoint any suche woman as is of thage of twelfe yeres and
under thage of fourtye yeres and unmarried and foorthe of service, as
they shall thinck meete to serve, to be reteyned or serve by the yere
or by the weeke or daye, for such wages and in such reasonable sorte
and maner as they shall thinck meete: And yf any such woman shall
refuse so to serve, then yt shalbe lawfull for the said justices of
peace maior or head officers to comit suche woman to warde untill she
shalbe bounden to serve as aforesaid.”

The effect of enforcing this law would be salutary indeed. Under the existing state of things men are frequently employed upon duties so disagreeable and ill-paid that Providence can only have intended them for women. Why then do we not take advantage of the power, nay, the duty of sending women to their proper sphere and mission which is entrusted to our magistrates and discreet burgesses? As the wages will be fixed by these authorities, the burden to the rate-payers need not be great. And we should thus silence the demand which, I am told, women are beginning to make not only for work (as if their male relations were not always ready and willing to find them plenty), but even for remunerative work.

But I pass from our women to our agricultural labourers. We have lately heard much debate on the conduct of commanding officers who, when labourers at harvest-time were holding out for wages, allowed their soldiers to help in getting in the harvest. But such aid would never have been required had not the fifteenth section of the same statute of Elizabeth been unaccountably overlooked.

“Provided always that in the time of hey or corne harvest, the
justices of peace and every of them, and also the cunstable or other
head officer of every towneshipe, upon request and for thavoyding of
the los of any corne grayne or heye, shall and may cause all suche
artificers and persons as be meete to labour, by the discretions of
the said justices or cunstables or other head officers or by any of
them, to serve by the daye for the mowing reaping shearing getting or
inning of corne grayne and heye, according to the skill and qualite
of the person; and that none of the said persons shall refuse so to
doo, upon payne to suffer imprisonement in the stockes by the space
of twoo dayes and one night.”

Nor need our farmers at any other times in the year fear a deficiency of labour if they will but invoke the aid of the fifth section of the same statute, whereby every person between the ages of twelve and sixty not being employed in any of a few callings mentioned in the Act, nor being a gentleman born, nor being a student or scholar in any of the universities or in any school, nor having real estate worth forty shillings a year or goods and chattels worth £10, nor being the heir-apparent of any one with real estate worth £10 a year or goods and chattels worth £40, is declared compellable to be retained to serve in husbandry by the year with any person that keepeth husbandry.

Again we have Acts of 1275 and 1378 (3 Edward I., and 2 Richard II.), as our defences against those who are described as “devisors of false news and of horrible and false lies of prelates dukes earls barons” and, comprehensively, “other nobles and great men of the realm,” and also of various officials enumerated, with a like comprehensive “and of other great officers of the realm.” The Act of Richard II. reiterates and confirms that of Edward I., and under these Acts “all persons so hardy as to devise speak or tell any false news, lies, or such other false things” about great people, incur the penalty of imprisonment “until they have brought him into Court who was the first author of the tale.” What a check would the carrying out of these provisions put upon the impertinences of Own Correspondents, social reformers, gossips, novelists, caricaturists, and moralists! It will be a happy day for England when the many thoughtless or malignant persons who now permit themselves to retail stories inconvenient to members of the aristocracy or to the dignitaries of the country, suffer the punishment of their infraction of the law. To take but one instance of the great need there exists for the protection of our upper classes—an instance, as it chances, which enables me to show that I would not wish the private character of even a political enemy to be traduced—I may remind you that if the statutes of _Scandalum Magnatum_ were enforced there would not now be at large persons ascribing to the late Prime Minister himself the authorship of the Greenwich stanza on the Straits of Malacca.

There are many other statutes on which I might enlarge. I might remind coroners of duties which they have forgotten, and the clergy of rights which they are allowing to lapse, but time will not permit me.

It is true that when I read my Statute Book I meet with some provisions of which I do not comprehend the necessity. As a Protestant I do not see why I should be imprisoned for three years and fined besides, if I carry off a nun from a convent with her consent; and as a botanist I do not see why, since January, 1660, I have been prohibited from setting or planting so much as a single tobacco plant in my garden. Still, all are parts of one stupendous whole, parts of the sacred fabric built by our forefathers in “Auld Lang Syne.” Touch one stone and the British Constitution may crumble. And as a humble member of the Great Constitutional Party I desire to raise my protest against the canker of decay being left to eat insidiously into our ancient and revered legislative code, by our suffering any Acts of Parliament which appear on our Statute Book as parts of the living Law of the Land to drop into disuse, as if, contrary to the doctrine of the highest legal authorities, an Act of Parliament unrepealed _could_ become obsolete.

AULD LANG SYNE, WHERE HOME WAS.

’TWAS yesterday; ’twas long ago:
And for this flaunting grimy street,
And for this crowding to and fro,
And thud and roar of wheels and feet,
Were elm-trees and the linnet’s trill,
The little gurgles of the rill,
And breath of meadow flowers that blow
Ere roses make the summer sweet.

’Twas long ago; ’twas yesterday.
Our peach would just be new with leaves,
The swallow pair that used to lay
Their glimmering eggs beneath our eaves
Would flutter busy with their brood,
And, haply, in our hazel-wood,
Small village urchins hide at play,
And girls sit binding bluebell sheaves.

Was the house here, or there, or there?
No landmark tells. All changed; all lost;
As when the waves that fret and tear
The fore-shores of some level coast
Roll smoothly where the sea-pinks grew.
All changed, and all grown old anew;
And I pass over, unaware,
The memories I am seeking most.

But where these huddled house-rows spread,
And where this thickened air hangs murk
And the dim sun peers round and red
On stir and haste and cares and work,
For me were baby’s daisy-chains,
For me the meetings in the lanes,
The shy good-morrows softly said
That paid my morning’s lying lurk.

Oh lingering days of long ago,
Not until now you passed away.
Years wane between and we unknow;
Our youth is always yesterday.
But, like a traveller home who craves
For friends and finds forgotten graves,
I seek you where you dwelled, and, lo,
Even farewells not left to say!

RIVER. AN AUTUMN IDYL.

“Sweet Thames! ran softly, till I end my song.”

SPENSER, _Prothalamion_.

LAURENCE. FRANK. JACK.

LAURENCE.

HERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses,
Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore.
Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses;—
Here let us sit. We landed here before.

FRANK.

Jack’s undecided. Say, _formose puer_,
Bent in a dream above the “water wan;”
Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer,
There by the pollards, where you see the swan?

JACK.

Hist! That’s a pike. Look,—note against the river,
Gaunt as a wolf,—the sly old privateer,
Enter a gudgeon. Snap,—a gulp, a shiver;—
Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here.

FRANK. (_In the grass_.)

Jove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper
Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun,
Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper
Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun.

LAURENCE.

Sing to us then. Damoetas in a choker
Much out of tune, will edify the rooks.

FRANK.

Sing you again. So musical a croaker
Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks.

JACK.

Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is
Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas! am old.
Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis;—
Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told.

FRANK.

Listen, O Thames. His budding beard is riper
Say, by a week. Well, Laurence, shall we sing?

LAURENCE.

Yes, if you will. But, ere I play the piper,
Let him declare the prize he has to bring.

JACK.

Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo to him accounted
First in the song—a Pipe I will impart;
This, my Belovèd, marvellously mounted,
Amber and foam—a miracle of art.

LAURENCE.

Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers,
Grant me a soft alliterative song.

FRANK.

Me, too, O Muse. And when the umpire slumbers,
Sting him with gnats a summer evening long.

LAURENCE.

Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders,
Not where the brook traditionally purls,
No; in the Row, supreme among the riders,
Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls.

FRANK.

Not in the waste of column and of coping,
Not in the sham and stucco of a square;
No; on a June-lawn to the water sloping
Stands she I honour, beautifully fair.

LAURENCE.

Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited
Back from the brows, imperially curled;
Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid
Holding the roof that covers in a world.

FRANK.

Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging
Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn;
Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing,—
Blythe as a bird, new risen from the corn.

LAURENCE.

Best is the song with music interwoven;
Mine’s a musician, musical at heart,
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven—
Sways to the right coquetting of Mozart.

FRANK.

Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad,
Queen at a picnic, leader of the glees;
Not too divine to toss you up a salad,
Great in “Sir Roger” danced among the trees.

LAURENCE.

Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches,
Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm,
Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches,
Light as a snowflake, settles on your arm.

FRANK.

Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,—
Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat,
Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting,
Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet.

LAURENCE.

All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her
Round with so delicate divinity, that men
Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger
Bend to the Goddess, manifest again.

FRANK.

None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her,
Cynics to boot, I know the children run
Seeing her come, for naught that I discover
Save that she brings the summer and the sun.

LAURENCE.

Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly,
Crown’d with a sweet, continual control,
Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely
E’en to her own nobility of soul.

FRANK.

Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure,
Fearless in praising; faltering in blame,
Simply devoted to other people’s pleasure.
Jack’s sister Florence. Now you know her name.

LAURENCE.

“Jack’s sister Florence!” Never, Francis, never!
Jack, do you hear? Why, it was She I meant.
She like the country! Ah! she’s far too clever.

FRANK.

There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent.

LAURENCE.

You’ll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare.
Sorry to differ. Jack, the word’s with you.

FRANK.

How is it, umpire? Though the motto’s threadbare,
“_Cœlum non animum_,” is, I take it, true.

JACK.

“_Souvent femme varie_,” as a rule, is truer.
Flatter’d, I’m sure—but both of you romance.
Happy to further suit of either wooer,
Merely observing—you haven’t got a chance.

LAURENCE.

Yes. But the Pipe—

FRANK.

The Pipe is what we care for.

JACK.

Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain.
Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore—
Peace to you both.—The pipe I shall retain.

RIVER.

THREE rivers fell to strife, about their own renown,
Producing rival claims to wear the rivers’ crown.
Proud Amazon was one, and yellow Tiber next,
And third, an English Thames—all three most fierce and vex’d.

Said Amazon: “The length of my majestic stream
Makes me amazed that you, two tiny rills, should deem
You can be e’en compared with me—enormous _me_!
Of rivers I’m the king!—Let that acknowledged be!”

“Absurd!” cried Tiber. “_Size_—and all that sort of thing
Are never reckon’d points in fixing on a king.
But Rome was _mine_! And _mine_ her conquests, laws, and fame,
In fact, her total past is coupled with _my_ name!”

“Be silent!” said the Thames; “I’m greater than you both!
Not hist’ry and not miles can match with present growth.
I’m proud to say _I_ own a trading wealthy place,
By Anglo-Saxons built—that fearless, active race!”

The contest grew more sharp, they roll’d their waves in storm;
Thermometers, if there, had shown the waters warm.
Thames wreck’d some twenty ships, and Amazon still more,
While Tiber caused dire dread to Romans as of yore.

At length the mighty sea, lamenting such a fray,
By these wise words prevailed their envious wrath to stay.
“Dear streams! you once were one—to me you all return.
Oh! cease then—being one—with jealousies to burn!”

FOOTPATH BETWEEN THE PATHWAY AND RIVER.

“FOLLOW that pathway till you come to some arches, and turn under them, and you will find the Blind School,” was the answer given whenever we stopped in our bewildered pilgrimage to inquire: but no arches were visible, save one disreputable old bridge, under which no self-respecting school seemed likely to find shelter; so we went on hopelessly, asking the way from waggoners and countrymen, who all seemed interested in the question, but were unable to give us any guidance. A pitiless hailstorm rattled on our umbrellas and splashed the mud upon our boots: while the path, it was evident, was leading us on towards the river, not the school; so at last in despair we turned, and flying before the storm sought refuge under the despised railway bridge, where a group of children were playing dry and comfortable, while we were wet and muddy. Once again we inquired for the Blind School, and were told to go on. The path led under a succession of iron girders which apparently stand for arches in those regions, and we tramped on discontentedly, feeling we had been deceived, and that we too might have been dry and safe like the children, if only our misinformants had called a spade a spade, and a row of iron girders something else than arches. But the path took a turn, and we saw cottages and green fields, and we reached a house which had two doors, on one of which we read, “Mr. Wallis,” and on the other nothing: so we chanced the second door, knocked, and were soon among a group of children, all neat, healthy, and cheerful—but blind. In this blind school there were but two people who could see, and these were not the only teachers, for here the blind helped the blind, as the rich helped the poor.

For this school began with a blind man. Five years ago, near the banks of the Severn, a cart containing vitriol was overturned; and of four people who were there, only two were left alive, and one of these was blind. Childless and blind, this man had to begin life again—to learn to live in darkness, and in darkness to work for others. For as soon as he had learned to grope his way, he learned to read in the books provided for the blind, and went from village to village to find other blind persons, and teach them how to read also. Then a noble-hearted woman came forward to help him, and founded the school; where blind children are trained to work as well as read, and blind men and women come every day to be taught trades. These latter come daily to the school, groping their way along the path that had been so tedious to our impatience; and learn to work, and also to read, helped sometimes by the teachers, sometimes by the blind man: who also still goes as before, from village to village, teaching and comforting those in the same straits as himself.

We were guided through a back way, intricate and uneven, where our blind guide warned us carefully of every step—though he said the children ran about everywhere and never fell—till we went through the school and entered his little house alongside, and found ourselves in a bright little parlour upstairs, full of books, and tastefully furnished, with a woman’s taste; for the woman who survived the accident which left her childless and crippled, had still the sight of one eye. There was an harmonium in the room, and one of the children came to play it. He was called Abraham; but this old name belonged to an intelligent, bright-faced English lad of twelve, well dressed and handsome but for his sad dim eyes. He is the son of a well-to-do farmer, and in education and intelligence far removed from some of his companions. He handled the harmonium with his small, delicate fingers as only a real musician can, and while the music lasted I nearly forgot all the sadness of the scene, and the hopeless life of the musician and the other children, who, one by one, guided by the sound, crept up the narrow stairs and came noiselessly into the room, and stood listening spell-bound till he finished. “And now, Lizzie, play,” said some one, and a girl came to the harmonium. She knew far less of music than Abraham, and had as yet little execution, but the sweet, true feeling which she gave to the old hymn tunes stirred the heart and brought tears to my eyes. “And would you like to hear us sing the hymn we sang when she was buried?” they asked. For their benefactress and friend, the woman whose untiring energy had begun and carried on this work among them, rousing sympathy for them among her townspeople, and begging for them when her own means were insufficient, died a few weeks ago, and the children of the school had seen her laid in the churchyard. The harmonium was hushed, Lizzie only struck the keynote, and they all sang, as they had all sung at the grave in the cold February morning when they saw her lowered into the cold earth,

“I know there is a land where all is bright,”

and they turned their poor sightless eyes to the light, as if that were to them the symbol of the heaven they longed to reach. It was too sad. The singing ceased, and we all tried to speak of something else. “How did you get that Indian picture?” I asked, looking round, and as the words left my lips, I reproached myself for speaking to one who could not see it, of a thing that could have no present interest to him. But I had made no mistake, as it chanced. “Ay, my brother brought it me,” he answered. “I know what you mean.” “It is painted on ivory, is it not?” “Oh no! this is a picture; my sister wears the one on ivory for a brooch, though it is rather large for that, maybe; but my brother brought them. He was at Agra during the mutiny, and he brought a ball in his shoulder, too, back—that’s what he brought; but I’d forgotten the picture till you mentioned it. But will you hear the children read now? Read the history of England, Abraham.” And Abraham read, opening the book at hazard, and reading clearly and distinctly the death of Cœur de Lion, his forgiveness of his enemy, and his burial in Fontevrault in token of his deep repentance. The children all listened with pleasure till one little one, the pet of the flock, whimpered because “Bessie” did not read; so Bessie, whose fingers were busy with her knitting, was compelled to read, although coming after Abraham it was rather a trying ordeal. Still the pet had to be satisfied, and then every one went on with their straw work, for the funds of the home are dependent on charity or the sale of work, as friends visiting Worcester will do wisely to remember. Straw mats, baskets, and balls were the work of the little ones, and they took the keenest interest in the question whether I preferred blue and white mats, or purple and white. I bought both, and shook hands all round, and in a few minutes was retreading my way towards the broad rolling Severn. Never did I feel how intense the joy of sight was as I did when I stood by its silver stream, and thought of those I had just left in the little house near the railway bridge.

THE FOOTPATH.

OUT at the doorway with shrill delight
Ringing, clear of alloy,
After a butterfly flashing so white
As it wheels and floats in the soft sunlight,
He darts, O adventurous joy!

Away! the fields are waving, the wheat
Stands proudly over the path,
The path winds onward, winning his feet
Through avenues arched and shady and sweet,—
Sweet vista that childhood hath.

But stay: the butterfly has upflown
High in the stainless blue;
Under the shadowing wheat alone,
He stands and wonders, still as a stone,
For all the world is new.

He sees each beautiful stem, blue-green,
Standing alone in its grace,
Great pendulous poppies aflame between,
And little convolvulus climbing to screen
That dim forest world from his face.

He sees overhead as they dance to its tune
The ears flash white in the wind,
But that musical laugh before mid-noon
Ripples far and faint in the heat, and soon
Leaves silence only behind.

And the silence falls on his fresh young soul,
Like the far sound of the sea,
Infinite, solemn; its strange control
Possesses him quite; quick fancies roll
Through his brain; half fearfully

He looks; and the long path seems to strain
His tremulous lips apart;
Some sudden trouble his eyes sustain;
For so the folded blossom of pain
Has broke in his childish heart.

What is it?—some swift intuitive glance,
Half-shapen only in thought,
Of stranger worlds, of wide mischance?
Some intimate sense of severance
Or loss?—I know not what.

He turns and leaps; for his mother’s arms
Out of the doorway lean;
She folds him safely from all alarms,
And rallies his courage with rhythmical charms,—
Yet knows not what he has seen.

FOOTPATH.

ONWARD, where through dewy grass
Slowly wading footsteps pass;
Where the daisy’s peaceful eye
Gazes trustful to the sky;
Where the river rippling by
Makes scarce heeded harmony
With the deep bell’s distant chime,
And the wandering waifs of rhyme,
Flung at random from the mind,
While the thought still lags behind,
Held in check by idle musing
Born of chance, not wilful choosing.
Now, more clear on either side,
See the meadows green divide;
Clearer lies the path before us;
Varied sounds are floating o’er us;
All the stirring noise of life,
All the ceaseless daily strife;
The larger world breaks strongly in
Where footpaths end and roads begin.

THE FOOTPATH.

I.

REMEMBER how, the winter through,
While all the ways were choked with mire,
Half-maddened at the rain, we two
Have nestled closer to the fire,
And talk’d of all that should be done
When April brought us back the sun,
What gardens white with butterflies,
What soft green nooks of budded heather,
What moorlands open to the skies,
We two would scour together!

II.

And now the month comes round again!
Cool interchange of genial hours,
Soft gleams of sunlight, streams of rain,
Have starred the meadow-lands with flowers,
And in the orchards on the hills
The grass is gold with daffodils,
And we have wander’d, hand in hand,
Where sea below and sky above
Seem narrowing to a strip of land
The pathway that we love!

III.

Our path looks out on the wide sea,
And knows not of the land; we sit
For hours in silent reverie,
To watch the sea, and pulse with it;
Its deep monotonous refrain
Brings melancholy, almost pain:
We scarcely wish to speak or move,
But just to feel each other there,
And sense of presence is like love,
And silence more than prayer.

IV.

Sharp round the steep hill’s utmost line
It winds, and, just below, the grass
Sinks with tumultuous incline
To where the rock-pools shine like glass;
The tufts of thrift can drink their fill
Of sea-wind on this rugged hill,
And all the herbage, toss’d and blown,
Is stain’d with salt and crush’d with wind,
Save where behind some boulder-stone
A harbour flowers may find.

V.

The bright sea sparkles, sunbeam-kiss’d,
And o’er its face such breezes float
As lightly turn to amethyst
The pearl-grey of a ring-dove’s throat;
Thus stirr’d and ruffled, shines anew
The radiant plain of changing hue,
So gentle, that the eye divines
No reason why the foam should fall
So loudly, in such serried lines,
Against the dark rock-wall.

VI.

The wind is low now; even here,
Where all the breezes congregate,
The softest warbler need not fear
To linger with its downy mate;
And here where you have long’d to be
So many weeks and months with me,
Sit silently, or softly speak
Or sing some air of pensive mood,
Not loud enough to mar or break
This delicate solitude.

VII.

Are we not happy? Sun-lit air,
Soft colour, floods of dewy light,
A flowery perfume everywhere
Pour out their wealth for our delight;
Through dreary hours of snow and sleet
The hope of these wing’d winter’s feet;
We have them now! The very breath
Of Nature seems an altar-fire
That wakes the bright world’s heart from death
To satiate our desire!

VIII.

Sing to me, therefore, sing or speak!
Wake my dull heart to happiness;
Perchance my pulses are too weak
To stir with all this sweet excess!
Perhaps the sudden spring has come
Too soon, and found my spirit dumb!
Howe’er it be, my heart is cold,
No echo stirs within my brain,
To me, too suddenly grown old,
This beauty speaks in vain!

IX.

Why are you silent? Lo! to-day
It is not as it once hath been;
I cannot sit the old sweet way,
Absorbed, contented, and serene;
I cannot feel my heart rejoice,
I crave the comfort of your voice!
Speak, speak! remind me of the past!
Let my spent embers at your fire
Revive and kindle, till at last
Delight surpass desire!

X.

Yea! are you silent, only press
My hand, and turn your face away;
You wince, too, from the fierce caress
That April flings on us to-day?
O human heart, too weak to bear
The whole fulfilment of a prayer!
This sudden summer strikes us dumb;
The wild hope, realized, but scares!
The substances of dreams become
A burden unawares.

XI.

How can we sit here and not thrill
With but the pleasure of past time?
This footpath winding round the hill
Should stir us like remember’d rhyme
Nay! for the dull and sluggish brain
Is spurred to action all in vain,
And when the spirit cannot rise
Through natural feeling into light,
No perfumed air, no splendid skies,
Can lend it wings for flight.

XII.

Come, then, and leave the sovereign sea
To sparkle in the laughing air;
Another day its face will be
No less refulgent, no less fair,
And we by custom be made strong
To bear what we desired so long;
To-day the slackening nerves demand
A milder light, a sadder air,
Some corner of forgotten land,
Still winter-like and bare.

XIII.

Come! leave our pathway for to-day,
And turning inland, seek the woods,
Where last year’s sombre leaves decay
In brown sonorous solitudes;
The murmurous voice of those dark trees
Will teach us more than sun or seas,
And in that twilight we may find
Some golden flower of strange perfume,
A blossom hidden from the wind,
A flame within the tomb.

THE FOOTPATH.

YOU gave your hand to me, as through
The low scrub-growth that spanned
The Danes’ old tower, we caught anew
The sharp salt-burdened breeze that blew
Across the reach of sand.

Too proud! the grace you scorned to do,
Where scarce your foot could stand;—
’Twas but from sheer fatigue, I knew,
You gave your hand!

How well that scene comes back to view!
Your cheeks’ faint roses fanned,—
The gorge,—the twinkling seaward blue,
The black boats on the strand;
I gave you all my heart, and you—
You gave your hand.

A TURN OF THE TIDE.

ONLY a turn of the tide!
I was sitting here, by myself alone
On this rock, now hardly three hours agone,
With my book on my knees, and my eyes on the sea,
And my thoughts still further adrift, when he
So suddenly stood by my side.

The sun shone white on the sails,
The waves were dimpling and sparkling in light;
And I, my visions were almost as bright.
But a mist is now creeping along the shore,
And I shiver with cold—it is nothing more;
If it were—what now avails?

Only one turn of the tide!
He told me his love was so deep and strong,
That in saying him nay, I did him wrong,
That I had not the right his life to break,
And before I half knew the words I spake
I had promised to be his bride.

I can see his footprints yet;
Though the stealthy waves have almost effaced
From the sand’s dry bed the track they traced,
But I feel as if years had gone over my head,
As if I had died, and been raised from the dead,
Since those sands were glistening wet.

Only a turn of the tide!
Is it always so when our dreams come true?
Is the present so grey, and the future so blue?
Is the rainbow we chased nought but drizzling mist?
And the hope we hugged to our hearts and kiss’d,
Delusion, and nought beside?

I had liked him truly for years,
I know he is greater and nobler than I,
With a larger brain and a clearer eye;
That my life is of small account, if it give
Him comfort; but shall I, so long as I live,
Feel these half-unreasoning fears?

Ah me! one turn of the tide!
This morning I was a careless child,
So gay, so petted, so thoughtless and wild;
I’m content with my fate, but one more year
Of freedom would have been very dear.
Was it I, or the wind that sigh’d?

I thought so—here comes the rain,
The mist grows dense, and the clouds gather fast,
And the tide has covered the sands at last;
I must hasten, and think of regrets no more,
But—could all things be as they were before,
I would not promise again.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

FAR up the shingle crept the cruel wave,
With seeming coy reluctance to his feet,
Which—faint with toiling in the noonday heat—
He let his foe with flattering murmur lave,
Nor sought to flee the cool and pleasant grave
Its soft arms laid about him, nor to cheat
The patient billow of its victim meet,
For he had lost all power himself to save.
When, while he waited, thinking death was slow,
Eyesight and hearing dim with tired despair,
The whisper of the sea grew faint and low,
And, waked by stirring of the evening air,
He rose, and saw the waves in sunset glow,
Gleaming far off in beauty new and rare.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

I.

THE harbour lights are dim with smoke
Which hangs about the under sky,
And wraps the simple fisher-folk
In lurid mist as they go by.
Along the shore the wind blows free,
Keen twilight kisses the wan sea
Far out; steer thither, watch with me
The tender stars come out on high.

II.

The sky is deepening overhead:
The sail flaps loose: the wind has died:
The water laps the boat like lead:
Faint ripples plash against the side,
And shimmer with unearthly light,
The harbour lamps are out of sight;
We drift into a starless night
Together on the ebbing tide.

III.

How still—how strange—the tide is slack,
We eddy round—we drift no more.
What swell is this which sweeps us back
To where the gathering breakers roar?
About the pale unlighted land?
Can any tell if we shall stand
Safe in the morning hand in hand
Upon the steep and rock-bound shore?

COMPROMISE.

“COME, promise, dear,” I whispered low,
“That you will take my name.”
I never said I’d give it, but
They swore ’twas all the same.

They brought an action to extort
Four thousand pounds from me—
The Judge said “compromise,” and so
I had to give her three.

By my hard fate, unwary youth,
Take warning, and be wise:
Once with “_come promise_” you begin,
The end is _compromise_.

FAREWELL.

FAR through the vista of receding years
I dimly catch a glimpse through falling tears,
Of faces bending o’er some pictured glory
Or—brightly list’ning to some magic story,
Told by a gifted wielder of the Pen
Whose power and pathos touch’d the hearts of men.
But when the pathos ’gan to sadden all,
A comic writer would our smiles recall:
And by his clever travesty and fable
Excite a merry laughter round the table.
Then some philosopher with voice sonorous
Would read an essay—not too long, to bore us.
The papers read, around the board we press’d,
To scan the pictures of each artist-guest.
Then to discussion of a slight repast
Of fish and rolls, and velvet cream we’d haste,
Ere Pens and Pencils all would speed away,
To meet again some happy future day.
That day, alas! has pass’d, the night has come,
And witty Pens and Pencils all are dumb.

FOOTNOTES

{43} Although Mazzini was not a member of Pen and Pencil, he wrote this letter at the request of the President.