Chapter IV: Book II: I. From Jane to Her Mother (1)

Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart Are not half known till they depart! Although I long'd, for many a year, To love with love that casts out fear, My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me, And heaven seem'd less far off than he; And in my fancy I would trace A lady with an angel's face, That made devotion simply debt, Till sick with envy and regret, And wicked grief that God should e'er Make women, and not make them fair. That me might love me more because Another in his memory was, And that my indigence might be To him what Baby's was to me, The chief of charms, who could have thought? But God's wise way is to give nought Till we with asking it are tired; And when, indeed, the change desired Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise, It comes by Providence, not Grace; And mostly our thanks for granted pray'rs Are groans at unexpected cares, First Baby went to heaven, you know, And, five weeks after, Grace went, too, Then he became more talkative, And, stooping to my heart, would give Signs of his love, which pleased me more Than all the proofs he gave before; And, in that time of our great grief, We talk'd religion for relief; For, though we very seldom name Religion, we now think the same! Oh, what a bar is thus removed To loving and to being loved! For no agreement really is In anything when none's in this. Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press'd His wife against his hearty breast, The interior difference seem'd to tear My own, until I could not bear The trouble. 'Twas a dreadful strife, And show'd, indeed, that faith is life. He never felt this. If he did, I'm sure it could not have been hid; For wives, I need not say to you, Can feel just what their husbands do, Without a word or look; but then It is not so, you know, with men. From that time many a Scripture text Help'd me, which had, before, perplex'd. Oh, what a wond'rous word seem'd this He is my head, as Christ is his! None ever could have dared to see In marriage such a dignity For man, and for his wife, still less, Such happy, happy lowliness, Had God himself not made it plain! This revelation lays the rein-- If I may speak so--on the neck Of a wife's love, takes thence the check Of conscience, and forbids to doubt Its measure is to be without All measure, and a fond excess Is here her rule of godliness. I took him not for love but fright; He did but ask a dreadful right. In this was love, that he loved me The first, who was mere poverty. All that I know of love he taught; And love is all I know of aught. My merit is so small by his, That my demerit is my bliss. My life is hid with him in Christ, Never therefrom to be enticed; And in his strength have I such rest As when the baby on my breast Finds what it knows not how to seek, And, very happy, very weak, Lies, only knowing all is well, Pillow'd on kindness palpable.

II. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL.

Dear Saint, I'm still at High-Hurst Park. The house is fill'd with folks of mark. Honoria suits a good estate Much better than I hoped. How fate Loads her with happiness and pride! And such a loving lord, beside! But between us, Sweet, everything Has limits, and to build a wing To this old house, when Courtholm stands Empty upon his Berkshire lands, And all that Honor might be near Papa, was buying love too dear. With twenty others, there are two Guests here, whose names will startle you: Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Graham! I thought he stay'd away for shame. He and his wife were ask'd, you know, And would not come, four years ago. You recollect Miss Smythe found out Who she had been, and all about Her people at the Powder-mill; And how the fine Aunt tried to instil _Haut ton_, and how, at last poor Jane Had got so shy and _gauche_ that, when The Dockyard gentry came to sup, She always had to be lock'd up; And some one wrote to us and said Her mother was a kitchen-maid. Dear Mary, you'll be charm'd to know It _must_ be all a fib. But, oh, She _is_ the oddest little Pet On which my eyes were ever set! She's so _outree_ and natural That, when she first arrived, we all Wonder'd, as when a robin comes In through the window to eat crumbs At breakfast with us. She has sense, Humility, and confidence; And, save in dressing just a thought Gayer in colours than she ought, (To-day she looks a cross between Gipsy and Fairy, red and green,) She always happens to do well. And yet one never quite can tell What she _might_ do or utter next. Lord Clitheroe is much perplex'd. Her husband, every now and then, Looks nervous; all the other men Are charm'd. Yet she has neither grace, Nor one good feature in her face. Her eyes, indeed, flame in her head, Like very altar-fires to Fred, Whose steps she follows everywhere Like a tame duck, to the despair Of Colonel Holmes, who does his part To break her funny little heart. Honor's enchanted. 'Tis her view That people, if they're good and true, And treated well, and let alone, Will kindly take to what's their own, And always be original, Like children. Honor's just like all The rest of us! But, thinking so, 'Tis well she miss'd Lord Clitheroe, Who hates originality, Though he puts up with it in me. Poor Mrs. Graham has never been To the Opera! You should have seen The innocent way she told the Earl She thought Plays sinful when a girl, And now she never had a chance! Frederick's complacent smile and glance Towards her, show'd me, past a doubt, Honoria had been quite cut out. 'Tis very strange; for Mrs. Graham, Though Frederick's fancy none can blame, Seems the last woman you'd have thought _Her_ lover would have ever sought. She never reads, I find, nor goes Anywhere; so that I suppose She got at all she ever knew By growing up, as kittens do. Talking of kittens, by-the-bye, You have more influence than I With dear Honoria. Get her, Dear, To be a little more severe With those sweet Children. They've the run Of all the place. When school was done, Maud burst in, while the Earl was there, With 'Oh, Mama, do be a bear!' Do you know, Dear, this odd wife of Fred Adores his old Love in his stead! She _is_ so nice, yet, I should say, Not quite the thing for every day. Wonders are wearying! Felix goes Next Sunday with her to the Close, And you will judge. Honoria asks All Wiltshire Belles here; Felix basks Like Puss in fire-shine, when the room Is thus aflame with female bloom. But then she smiles when most would pout; And so his lawless loves go out With the last brocade. 'Tis not the same, I fear, with Mrs. Frederick Graham. Honoria should not have her here,-- And this you might just hint, my Dear,-- For Felix says he never saw Such proof of what he holds for law, That 'beauty is love which can be seen.' Whatever he by this may mean, Were it not dreadful if he fell In love with her on principle!

III. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM

Mother, I told you how, at first, I fear'd this visit to the Hurst. Fred must, I felt, be so distress'd By aught in me unlike the rest Who come here. But I find the place Delightful; there's such ease, and grace, And kindness, and all seem to be On such a high equality. They have not got to think, you know, How far to make the money go. But Frederick says it's less the expense Of money, than of sound good-sense, Quickness to care what others feel And thoughts with nothing to conceal; Which I'll teach Johnny. Mrs. Vaughan Was waiting for us on the Lawn, And kiss'd and call'd me 'Cousin.' Fred Neglected his old friends, she said. He laugh'd, and colour'd up at this. She was, you know, a flame of his; But I'm not jealous! Luncheon done, I left him, who had just begun To talk about the Russian War With an old Lady, Lady Carr,-- A Countess, but I'm more afraid, A great deal, of the Lady's Maid,-- And went with Mrs. Vaughan to see The pictures, which appear'd to be Of sorts of horses, clowns, and cows Call'd Wouvermans and Cuyps and Dows. And then she took me up, to show Her bedroom, where, long years ago, A Queen slept. 'Tis all tapestries Of Cupids, Gods, and Goddesses, And black, carved oak. A curtain'd door Leads thence into her soft Boudoir, Where even her husband may but come By favour. He, too, has his room, Kept sacred to his solitude. Did I not think the plan was good? She ask'd me; but I said how small Our house was, and that, after all, Though Frederick would not say his prayers At night till I was safe upstairs, I thought it wrong to be so shy Of being good when I was by. 'Oh, you should humour him!' she said, With her sweet voice and smile; and led The way to where the children ate Their dinner, and Miss Williams sate. She's only Nursery-Governess, Yet they consider her no less Than Lord or Lady Carr, or me. Just think how happy she must be! The Ball-Room, with its painted sky Where heavy angels seem to fly, Is a dull place; its size and gloom Make them prefer, for drawing-room, The Library, all done up new And comfortable, with a view Of Salisbury Spire between the boughs. When she had shown me through the house, (I wish I could have let her know That she herself was half the show; She _is_ so handsome, and so kind!) She fetch'd the children, who had dined; And, taking one in either hand, Show'd me how all the grounds were plann'd. The lovely garden gently slopes To where a curious bridge of ropes Crosses the Avon to the Park. We rested by the stream, to mark The brown backs of the hovering trout. Frank tickled one, and took it out From under a stone. We saw his owls, And awkward Cochin-China fowls, And shaggy pony in the croft; And then he dragg'd us to a loft, Where pigeons, as he push'd the door, Fann'd clear a breadth of dusty floor, And set us coughing. I confess I trembled for my nice silk dress. I cannot think how Mrs. Vaughan Ventured with that which she had on,-- A mere white wrapper, with a few Plain trimmings of a quiet blue, But, oh, so pretty! Then the bell For dinner rang. I look'd quite well ('Quite charming,' were the words Fred said,) With the new gown that I've had made I _am_ so proud of Frederick. He's so high-bred and lordly-like With Mrs. Vaughan! He's not quite so At home with me; but that, you know, I can't expect, or wish. 'Twould hurt, And seem to mock at my desert. Not but that I'm a duteous wife To Fred; but, in another life, Where all are fair that have been true, I hope I shall be graceful too, Like Mrs. Vaughan. And, now, good-bye! That happy thought has made me cry, And feel half sorry that my cough, In this fine air, is leaving off.

IV. FROM FREDERICK TO MRS. GRAHAM.

Honoria, trebly fair and mild With added loves of lord and child, Is else unalter'd. Years, which wrong The rest, touch not her beauty, young Within youth which rather seems her clime, Than aught that's relative to time. How beyond hope was heard the prayer I offer'd in my love's despair! Could any, whilst there's any woe, Be wholly blest, then she were so. She is, and is aware of it, Her husband's endless benefit; But, though their daily ways reveal The depth of private joy they feel, 'Tis not their bearing each to each That does abroad their secret preach, But such a lovely good-intent To all within their government And friendship as, 'tis well discern'd, Each of the other must have learn'd; For no mere dues of neighbourhood Ever begot so blest a mood. And fair, indeed, should be the few God dowers with nothing else to do, And liberal of their light, and free To show themselves, that all may see! For alms let poor men poorly give The meat whereby men's bodies live; But they of wealth are stewards wise Whose graces are their charities. The sunny charm about this home Makes all to shine who thither come. My own dear Jane has caught its grace, And, honour'd, honours too the place. Across the lawn I lately walk'd Alone, and watch'd where mov'd and talk'd, Gentle and goddess-like of air, Honoria and some Stranger fair. I chose a path unblest by these; When one of the two Goddesses, With my Wife's voice, but softer, said, 'Will you not walk with us, dear Fred?' She moves, indeed, the modest peer Of all the proudest ladies here. Unawed she talks with men who stand Among the leaders of the land, And women beautiful and wise, With England's greatness in their eyes. To high, traditional good-sense, And knowledge ripe without pretence, And human truth exactly hit By quiet and conclusive wit, Listens my little, homely Jane, Mistakes the points and laughs amain; And, after, stands and combs her hair, And calls me much the wittiest there! With reckless loyalty, dear Wife, She lays herself about my life! The joy I might have had of yore I have not; for 'tis now no more, With me, the lyric time of youth, And sweet sensation of the truth. Yet, past my hope or purpose bless'd, In my chance choice let be confess'd The tenderer Providence that rules The fates of children and of fools! I kiss'd the kind, warm neck that slept, And from her side this morning stepp'd, To bathe my brain from drowsy night In the sharp air and golden light. The dew, like frost, was on the pane. The year begins, though fair, to wane. There is a fragrance in its breath Which is not of the flowers, but death; And green above the ground appear The lilies of another year. I wander'd forth, and took my path Among the bloomless aftermath; And heard the steadfast robin sing As if his own warm heart were Spring. And watch'd him feed where, on the yew, Hung honey'd drops of crimson dew; And then return'd, by walls of peach, And pear-trees bending to my reach, And rose-beds with the roses gone, To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. Vaughan Was there, none with her. I confess I love her than of yore no less! But she alone was loved of old; Now love is twain, nay, manifold; For, somehow, he whose daily life Adjusts itself to one true wife, Grows to a nuptial, near degree With all that's fair and womanly. Therefore, as more than friends, we met, Without constraint, without regret; The wedded yoke that each had donn'd Seeming a sanction, not a bond.

V. FROM MRS. GRAHAM.

Your love lacks joy, your letter says. Yes; love requires the focal space Of recollection or of hope, E'er it can measure its own scope. Too soon, too soon comes Death to show We love more deeply than we know! The rain, that fell upon the height Too gently to be call'd delight, Within the dark vale reappears As a wild cataract of tears; And love in life should strive to see Sometimes what love in death would be! Easier to love, we so should find. It is than to be just and kind. She's gone: shut close the coffin-lid: What distance for another did That death has done for her! The good Once gazed upon with heedless mood, Now fills with tears the famish'd eye, And turns all else to vanity. 'Tis sad to see, with death between, The good we have pass'd and have not seen! How strange appear the words of all! The looks of those that live appal. They are the ghosts, and check the breath: There's no reality but death, And hunger for some signal given That we shall have our own in heaven. But this the God of love lets be A horrible uncertainty. How great her smallest virtue seems, How small her greatest fault! Ill dreams Were those that foil'd with loftier grace The homely kindness of her face. 'Twas here she sat and work'd, and there She comb'd and kiss'd the children's hair; Or, with one baby at her breast, Another taught, or hush'd to rest. Praise does the heart no more refuse To the chief loveliness of use. Her humblest good is hence most high In the heavens of fond memory; And Love says Amen to the word, A prudent wife is from the Lord. Her worst gown's kept, ('tis now the best, As that in which she oftenest dress'd,) For memory's sake more precious grown Than she herself was for her own. Poor child! Foolish it seem'd to fly To sobs instead of dignity, When she was hurt. Now, none than all, Heart-rending and angelical That ignorance of what to do, Bewilder'd still by wrong from you: For what man ever yet had grace Ne'er to abuse his power and place? No magic of her voice or smile Suddenly raised a fairy isle, But fondness for her underwent An unregarded increment, Like that which lifts, through centuries, The coral-reef within the seas, Till, lo! the land where was the wave. Alas! 'tis everywhere her grave.

VI. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM.

Dear Mother, I can surely tell, Now, that I never shall get well Besides the warning in my mind, All suddenly are grown so kind. Fred stopp'd the Doctor, yesterday, Downstairs, and, when he went away, Came smiling back, and sat with me, Pale, and conversing cheerfully About the Spring, and how my cough, In finer weather, would leave off. I saw it all, and told him plain I felt no hope of Spring again. Then he, after a word of jest, Burst into tears upon my breast, And own'd, when he could speak, he knew There was a little danger, too. This made me very weak and ill, And while, last night, I lay quite still, And, as he fancied, in the deep, Exhausted rest of my short sleep, I heard, or dream'd I heard him pray: 'Oh, Father, take her not away! Let not life's dear assurance lapse Into death's agonised "Perhaps," A hope without Thy promise, where Less than assurance is despair! Give me some sign, if go she must, That death's not worse than dust to dust, Not heaven, on whose oblivious shore Joy I may have, but her no more! The bitterest cross, it seems to me, Of all is infidelity; And so, if I may choose, I'll miss The kind of heaven which comes to this. If doom'd, indeed, this fever ceased, To die out wholly, like a beast, Forgetting all life's ill success In dark and peaceful nothingness, I could but say, Thy will be done; For, dying thus, I were but one Of seed innumerable which ne'er In all the worlds shall bloom or bear. I've put life past to so poor use Well may'st Thou life to come refuse; And justice, which the spirit contents, Shall still in me all vain laments; Nay, pleased, I will, while yet I live, Think Thou my forfeit joy may'st give To some fresh life, else unelect, And heaven not feel my poor defect! Only let not Thy method be To make that life, and call it me; Still less to sever mine in twain, And tell each half to live again, And count itself the whole! To die, Is it love's disintegrity? Answer me, "No," and I, with grace, Will life's brief desolation face, My ways, as native to the clime, Adjusting to the wintry time, Ev'n with a patient cheer thereof--' He started up, hearing me cough. Oh, Mother, now my last doubt's gone! He likes me _more_ than Mrs. Vaughan; And death, which takes me from his side, Shows me, in very deed, his bride!

VII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK.

I leave this, Dear, for you to read, For strength and hope, when I am dead. When Grace died, I was so perplex'd, I could not find one helpful text; And when, a little while before, I saw her sobbing on the floor, Because I told her that in heaven She would be as the angels even, And would not want her doll, 'tis true A horrible fear within me grew, That, since the preciousness of love Went thus for nothing, mine might prove To be no more, and heaven's bliss Some dreadful good which is not this. But being about to die makes clear Many dark things. I have no fear, Now that my love, my grief, my joy Is but a passion for a toy. I cannot speak at all, I find, The shining something in my mind That shows so much that, if I took My thoughts all down, 'twould make a book. God's Word, which lately seem'd above The simpleness of human love, To my death-sharpen'd hearing tells Of little or of nothing else; And many things I hoped were true, When first they came, like songs, from you, Now rise with witness past the reach Of doubt, and I to you can teach, As if with felt authority And as things seen, what you taught me. Yet how? I have no words but those Which every one already knows: As, 'No man hath at any time Seen God, but 'tis the love of Him Made perfect, and He dwells in us, If we each other love.' Or thus, 'My goodness misseth in extent Of Thee, Lord! In the excellent I know Thee; and the Saints on Earth Make all my love and holy mirth.' And further, 'Inasmuch as ye Did it to one of these, to Me Ye did it, though ye nothing thought Nor knew of Me, in that ye wrought.' What shall I dread? Will God undo Our bond, which is all others too? And when I meet you will you say To my reclaiming looks, 'Away! A dearer love my bosom warms With higher rights and holier charms. The children, whom thou here may'st see, Neighbours that mingle thee and me, And gaily on impartial lyres Renounce the foolish filial fires They felt, with "Praise to God on high, Goodwill to all else equally;" The trials, duties, service, tears; The many fond, confiding years Of nearness sweet with thee apart; The joy of body, mind, and heart; The love that grew a reckless growth, Unmindful that the marriage-oath To love in an eternal style Meant--only for a little while: Sever'd are now those bonds earth-wrought; All love, not new, stands here for nought!' Why, it seems almost wicked, Dear, Even to utter such a fear! Are we not 'heirs,' as man and wife, 'Together of eternal life?' Was Paradise e'er meant to fade, To make which marriage first was made? Neither beneath him nor above Could man in Eden find his Love; Yet with him in the garden walk'd His God, and with Him mildly talk'd! Shall the humble preference offend In Heaven, which God did there commend? Are 'Honourable and undefiled' The names of aught from heaven exiled? And are we not forbid to grieve As without hope? Does God deceive, And call that hope which is despair, Namely, the heaven we should not share! Image and glory of the man, As he of God, is woman. Can This holy, sweet proportion die Into a dull equality? Are we not one flesh, yea, so far More than the babe and mother are, That sons are bid mothers to leave And to their wives alone to cleave, 'For _they_ two are one flesh!' But 'tis In the flesh we rise. Our union is, You know 'tis said, 'great mystery.' Great mockery, it appears to me; Poor image of the spousal bond Of Christ and Church, if loosed beyond This life!--'Gainst which, and much more yet, There's not a single word to set. The speech to the scoffing Sadducee Is not in point to you and me; For how could Christ have taught such clods That Caesar's things are also God's? The sort of Wife the Law could make Might well be 'hated' for Love's sake, And left, like money, land, or house; For out of Christ is no true spouse. I used to think it strange of Him To make love's after-life so dim, Or only clear by inference: But God trusts much to common sense, And only tells us what, without His Word, we could not have found out On fleshly tables of the heart He penn'd truth's feeling counterpart In hopes that come to all: so, Dear, Trust these, and be of happy cheer, Nor think that he who has loved well Is of all men most miserable. There's much more yet I want to say, But cannot now. You know my way Of feeling strong from Twelve till Two After my wine. I'll write to you Daily some words, which you shall have To break the silence of the grave.

VIII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK.

You think, perhaps, 'Ah, could she know How much I loved her!' Dear, I do! And you may say, 'Of this new awe Of heart which makes her fancies law, These watchful duties of despair, She does not dream, she cannot care!' Frederick, you see how false that is, Or how could I have written this? And, should it ever cross your mind That, now and then, you were unkind. You never, never, were at all! Remember that! It's natural For one like Mr. Vaughan to come, From a morning's useful pastime, home, And greet, with such a courteous zest His handsome wife, still newly dress'd, As if the Bird of Paradise Should daily change her plumage thrice. He's always well, she's always gay. Of course! But he who toils all day, And comes home hungry, tired, or cold, And feels 'twould do him good to scold His wife a little, let him trust Her love, and say the things he must, Till sooth'd in mind by meat and rest. If, after that, she's well caress'd, And told how good she is, to bear His humour, fortune makes it fair. Women like men to be like men; That is, at least, just now and then. Thus, I have nothing to forgive, But those first years, (how could I live!) When, though I really did behave So stupidly, you never gave One unkind word or look at all: As if I was some animal You pitied! Now in later life, You used me like a proper Wife. You feel, Dear, in your present mood, Your Jane, since she was kind and good, A child of God, a living soul, Was not so different, on the whole, From Her who had a little more Of God's best gifts: but, oh, be sure, My dear, dear Love, to take no blame Because you could not feel the same Towards me, living, as when dead. A hungry man must needs think bread So sweet! and, only at their rise And setting, blessings, to thine eyes, Like the sun's course, grow visible. If you are sad, remember well, Against delusions of despair, That memory sees things as they were, And not as they were misenjoy'd, And would be still, if aught destroy'd The glory of their hopelessness: So that, in truth, you had me less In days when necessary zeal For my perfection made you feel My faults the most, than now your love Forgets but where it can approve. You gain by loss, if that seem'd small Possess'd, which, being gone, turns all Surviving good to vanity. Oh, Fred, this makes it sweet to die! Say to yourself: ''Tis comfort yet I made her that which I regret; And parting might have come to pass In a worse season; as it was, Love an eternal temper took, Dipp'd, glowing, in Death's icy brook!' Or say, 'On her poor feeble head This might have fallen: 'tis mine instead! And so great evil sets me free Henceforward from calamity. And, in her little children, too, How much for her I yet can do!' And grieve not for these orphans even; For central to the love of Heaven Is each child as each star to space. This truth my dying love has grace To trust with a so sure content, I fear I seem indifferent. You must not think a child's small heart Cold, because it and grief soon part. Fanny will keep them all away, Lest you should hear them laugh and play. Before the funeral's over. Then I hope you'll be yourself again, And glad, with all your soul, to find How God thus to the sharpest wind Suits the shorn lambs. Instruct them, Dear, For my sake, in His love and fear. And show now, till their journey's done, Not to be weary they must run. Strive not to dissipate your grief By any lightness. True relief Of sorrow is by sorrow brought. And yet for sorrow's sake, you ought To grieve with measure. Do not spend So good a power to no good end! Would you, indeed, have memory stay In the heart, lock up and put away Relies and likenesses and all Musings, which waste what they recall. True comfort, and the only thing To soothe without diminishing A prized regret, is to match here, By a strict life, God's love severe. Yet, after all, by nature's course, Feeling must lose its edge and force. Again you'll reach the desert tracts Where only sin or duty acts. But, if love always lit our path, Where were the trial of our faith? Oh, should the mournful honeymoon Of death be over strangely soon, And life-long resolutions, made In grievous haste, as quickly fade, Seeming the truth of grief to mock, Think, Dearest, 'tis not by the clock That sorrow goes! A month of tears Is more than many, many years Of common time. Shun, if you can, However, any passionate plan. Grieve with the heart; let not the head Grieve on, when grief of heart is dead: For all the powers of life defy A superstitions constancy. The only bond I hold you to Is that which nothing can undo. A man is not a young man twice; And if, of his young years, he lies A faithful score in one wife's breast, She need not mind who has the rest. In this do what you will, dear Love, And feel quite sure that I approve. And, should it chance as it may be, Give her my wedding-ring from me; And never dream that you can err T'wards me by being good to her; Nor let remorseful thoughts destroy In you the kindly flowering joy And pleasure of the natural life. But don't forget your fond, dead Wife. And, Frederick, should you ever be Tempted to think your love of me All fancy, since it drew its breath So much more sweetly after death, Remember that I never did A single thing you once forbid; All poor folks liked me; and, at the end, Your Cousin call'd me 'Dearest Friend!' And, new, 'twill calm your grief to know,-- You, who once loved Honoria so,-- There's kindness, that's look'd kindly on, Between her Emily and John. Thus, in your children, you will wed! And John seems _so_ much comforted, (Like Isaac when _his_ mother died And fair Rebekah was his bride), By his new hope, for losing me! So _all_ is happiness, you see. And that reminds me how, last night, I dreamt of heaven, with great delight. A strange, kind Lady watch'd my face, Kiss'd me, and cried, 'His hope found grace!' She bade me then, in the crystal floor, Look at myself, myself no more; And bright within the mirror shone Honoria's smile, and yet my own! 'And, when you talk, I hear,' she sigh'd, 'How much he loved her! Many a bride In heaven such countersemblance wears Through what Love deem'd rejected prayers.' She would have spoken still; but, lo, One of a glorious troop, aglow From some great work, towards her came, And she so laugh'd, 'twas such a flame, Aaron's twelve jewels seem'd to mix With the lights of the Seven Candlesticks.

IX. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MRS. GRAHAM.

My dearest Aunt, the Wedding-day, But for Jane's loss, and you away, Was all a Bride from heaven could beg Skies bluer than the sparrow's egg. And clearer than the cuckoo's call; And such a sun! the flowers all With double ardour seem'd to blow! The very daisies were a show, Expanded with uncommon pride, Like little pictures of the Bride. Your Great-Niece and your Grandson were Perfection of a pretty pair. How well Honoria's girls turn out, Although they never go about! Dear me, what trouble and expense It took to teach mine confidence! _Hers_ greet mankind as I've heard say That wild things do, where beasts of prey Were never known, nor any men Have met their fearless eyes till then. Their grave, inquiring trust to find All creatures of their simple kind Quite disconcerts bold coxcombry, And makes less perfect candour shy. Ah, Mrs. Graham! people may scoff, But how your home-kept girls go off! How Hymen hastens to unband The waist that ne'er felt waltzer's hand! At last I see my Sister's right, And I've told Maud this very night, (But, oh, my daughters have such wills!) To knit, and only dance quadrilles. You say Fred never writes to you Frankly, as once he used to do, About himself; and you complain He shared with none his grief for Jane. It all comes of the foolish fright Men feel at the word, hypocrite. Although, when first in love, sometimes They rave in letters, talk, and rhymes, When once they find, as find they must, How hard 'tis to be hourly just To those they love, they are dumb for shame, Where we, you see, talk on the same. Honoria, to whose heart alone He seems to open all his own At times, has tears in her kind eyes, After their private colloquies. He's her most favour'd guest, and moves My spleen by his impartial loves. His pleasure has some inner spring Depending not on anything. Petting our Polly, none e'er smiled More fondly on his favourite child; Yet, playing with his own, it is Somehow as if it were not his. He means to go again to sea, Now that the wedding's over. He Will leave to Emily and John The little ones to practise on; And Major-domo, Mrs. Rouse, A dear old soul from Wilton House, Will scold the housemaids and the cook, Till Emily has learn'd to look A little braver than a lamb Surprised by dogs without its dam! Do, dear Aunt, use your influence, And try to teach some plain good sense To Mary. 'Tis not yet too late To make her change her chosen state Of single silliness. In truth, I fancy that, with fading youth, Her will now wavers. Yesterday, Though, till the Bride was gone away, Joy shone from Mary's loving heart, I found her afterwards apart, Hysterically sobbing. I Knew much too well to ask her why. This marrying of Nieces daunts The bravest souls of maiden Aunts. Though Sisters' children often blend Sweetly the bonds of child and friend, They are but reeds to rest upon. When Emily comes back with John, Her right to go downstairs before Aunt Mary will but be the more Observed if kindly waived, and how Shall these be as they were, when now Niece has her John, and Aunt the sense Of her superior innocence? Somehow, all loves, however fond, Prove lieges of the nuptial bond; And she who dares at this to scoff, Finds all the rest in time drop off; While marriage, like a mushroom-ring, Spreads its sure circle every Spring. She twice refused George Vane, you know; Yet, when be died three years ago In the Indian war, she put on gray, And wears no colours to this day. And she it is who charges _me_, Dear Aunt, with 'inconsistency!'

X. FROM FREDERICK TO HONORIA.

Cousin, my thoughts no longer try To cast the fashion of the sky. Imagination can extend Scarcely in part to comprehend The sweetness of our common food Ambrosial, which ingratitude And impious inadvertence waste, Studious to eat but not to taste. And who can tell what's yet in store There, but that earthly things have more Of all that makes their inmost bliss, And life's an image still of this, But haply such a glorious one As is the rainbow of the sun? Sweet are your words, but, after all Their mere reversal may befall The partners of His glories who Daily is crucified anew: Splendid privations, martyrdoms To which no weak remission comes Perpetual passion for the good Of them that feel no gratitude, Far circlings, as of planets' fires, Round never-to-be-reach'd desires, Whatever rapturously sighs That life is love, love sacrifice. All I am sure of heaven is this: Howe'er the mode, I shall not miss One true delight which I have known. Not on the changeful earth alone Shall loyalty remain unmoved T'wards everything I ever loved. So Heaven's voice calls, like Rachel's voice To Jacob in the field, 'Rejoice!' Serve on some seven more sordid years, Too short for weariness or tears; Serve on; then, oh, Beloved, well-tried, Take me for ever as thy Bride!'

XI. FROM MARY CHURCHILL TO THE DEAN.

Charles does me honour, but 'twere vain To reconsider now again, And so to doubt the clear-shown truth I sought for, and received, when youth, Being fair, and woo'd by one whose love Was lovely, fail'd my mind to move. God bids them by their own will go, Who ask again the things they know! I grieve for my infirmity, And ignorance of how to be Faithful, at once to the heavenly life, And the fond duties of a wife. Narrow am I and want the art To love two things with all my heart. Occupied singly in His search, Who, in the Mysteries of the Church, Returns, and calls them Clouds of Heaven, I tread a road, straight, hard, and even; But fear to wander all confused, By two-fold fealty abused. Either should I the one forget, Or scantly pay the other's debt. You bid me, Father, count the cost. I have; and all that must be lost I feel as only woman can. To make the heart's wealth of some man, And through the untender world to move, Wrapt safe in his superior love, How sweet! How sweet the household round Of duties, and their narrow bound, So plain, that to transgress were hard, Yet full of manifest reward! The charities not marr'd, like mine, With chance of thwarting laws divine; The world's regards and just delight In one that's clearly, kindly right, How sweet! Dear Father, I endure, Not without sharp regret, be sure, To give up such glad certainty, For what, perhaps, may never be. For nothing of my state I know, But that t'ward heaven I seem to go, As one who fondly landward hies Along a deck that seaward flies. With every year, meantime, some grace Of earthly happiness gives place To humbling ills, the very charms Of youth being counted, henceforth, harms: To blush already seems absurd; Nor know I whether I should herd With girls or wives, or sadlier balk Maids' merriment or matrons' talk. But strait's the gate of life! O'er late, Besides, 'twere now to change my fate: For flowers and fruit of love to form, It must he Spring as well as warm. The world's delight my soul dejects. Revenging all my disrespects Of old, with incapacity To chime with even its harmless glee, Which sounds, from fields beyond my range, Like fairies' music, thin and strange. With something like remorse, I grant The world has beauty which I want; And if, instead of judging it, I at its Council chance to sit, Or at its gay and order'd Feast, My place seems lower than the least The conscience of the life to be Smiles me with inefficiency, And makes me all unfit to bless With comfortable earthliness The rest-desiring brain of man. Finally, them, I fix my plan To dwell with Him that dwells apart In the highest heaven and lowliest heart; Nor will I, to my utter loss, Look to pluck roses from the Cross. As for the good of human love, 'Twere countercheck almost enough To think that one must die before The other; and perhaps 'tis more In love's last interest to do Nought the least contrary thereto, Than to be blest, and be unjust, Or suffer injustice; as they must, Without a miracle, whose pact Compels to mutual life and act, Whether love shines, or darkness sleeps Cold on the spirit's changeful deeps. Enough if, to my earthly share, Fall gleams that keep me from despair. Happy the things we here discern; More happy those for which we yearn; But measurelessly happy above All else are those we guess not of!

XII. FROM FELIX TO HONORIA.

Dearest, my Love and Wife, 'tis long Ago I closed the unfinish'd song Which never could be finish'd; nor Will ever Poet utter more Of Love than I did, watching well To lure to speech the unspeakable! '_Why_, _having won her_, _do I woo_?' That final strain to the last height flew Of written joy, which wants the smile And voice that are, indeed, the while They last, the very things you speak, Honoria, who mak'st music weak With ways that say, 'Shall I not be As kind to all as Heaven to me?' And yet, ah, twenty-fold my Bride! Rising, this twentieth festal-tide, You still soft sleeping, on this day Of days, some words I long to say, Some words superfluously sweet Of fresh assurance, thus to greet Your waking eyes, which never grow Weary of telling what I know So well, yet only well enough To wish for further news thereof. Here, in this early autumn dawn, By windows opening on the lawn. Where sunshine seems asleep, though bright, And shadows yet are sharp with night, And, further on, the wealthy wheat Bends in a golden drowse, how sweet To sit and cast my careless looks Around my walls of well-read books, Wherein is all that stands redeem'd From time's huge wreck, all men have dream'd Of truth, and all by poets known Of feeling, and in weak sort shown, And, turning to my heart again, To find I have what makes them vain, The thanksgiving mind, which wisdom sums, And you, whereby it freshly comes As on that morning, (can there be Twenty-two years 'twixt it and me?) When, thrill'd with hopeful love, I rose And came in haste to Sarum Close, Past many a homestead slumbering white In lonely and pathetic light, Merely to fancy which drawn blind Of thirteen had my Love behind, And in her sacred neighbourhood To feel that sweet scorn of all good But her, which let the wise forfend When wisdom learns to comprehend! Dearest, as each returning May I see the season new and gay With new joy and astonishment, And Nature's infinite ostent Of lovely flowers in wood and mead. That weet not whether any heed, So see I, daily wondering, you, And worship with a passion new The Heaven that visibly allows Its grace to go about my house, The partial Heaven, that, though I err And mortal am, gave all to her Who gave herself to me. Yet I Boldly thank Heaven, (and so defy The beggarly soul'd humbleness Which fears God's bounty to confess,) That I was fashion'd with a mind Seeming for this great gift design'd, So naturally it moved above All sordid contraries of love, Strengthen'd in youth with discipline Of light, to follow the divine Vision, (which ever to the dark Is such a plague as was the ark In Ashdod, Gath, and Ekron,) still Discerning with the docile will Which comes of full persuaded thought, That intimacy in love is nought Without pure reverence, whereas this, In tearfullest banishment, is bliss. And so, dearest Honoria, I Have never learn'd the weary sigh Of those that to their love-feasts went, Fed, and forgot the Sacrament; And not a trifle now occurs But sweet initiation stirs Of new-discover'd joy, and lends To feeling change that never ends; And duties which the many irk, Are made all wages and no work. How sing of such things save to her, Love's self, so love's interpreter? How the supreme rewards confess Which crown the austere voluptuousness Of heart, that earns, in midst of wealth, The appetite of want and health, Relinquishes the pomp of life And beauty to the pleasant Wife At home, and does all joy despise As out of place but in her eyes? How praise the years and gravity That make each favour seem to be A lovelier weakness for her lord? And, ah, how find the tender word To tell aright of love that glows The fairer for the fading rose? Of frailty which can weight the arm To lean with thrice its girlish charm? Of grace which, like this autumn day, Is not the sad one of decay, Yet one whose pale brow pondereth The far-off majesty of death? How tell the crowd, whom a passion rends, That love grows mild as it ascends? That joy's most high and distant mood Is lost, not found in dancing blood; Albeit kind acts and smiling eyes, And all those fond realities Which are love's words, in us mean more Delight than twenty years before? How, Dearest, finish without wrong To the speechless heart, the unfinish'd song, Its high, eventful passages Consisting, say, of things like these:-- One morning, contrary to law, Which, for the most, we held in awe, Commanding either not to intrude On the other's place of solitude Or solitary mind, for fear Of coming there when God was near, And finding so what should be known To Him who is merciful alone, And views the working ferment base Of waking flesh and sleeping grace, Not as we view, our kindness check'd By likeness of our own defect, I, venturing to her room, because (Mark the excuse!) my Birthday 'twas, Saw, here across a careless chair, A ball-dress flung, as light as air, And, here, beside a silken couch, Pillows which did the pressure vouch Of pious knees, (sweet piety Of goodness made and charity, If gay looks told the heart's glad sense, Much rather than of penitence,) And, on the couch, an open book, And written list--I did not look, Yet just in her clear writing caught:-- 'Habitual faults of life and thought Which most I need deliverance from.' I turn'd aside, and saw her come Adown the filbert-shaded way, Beautified with her usual gay Hypocrisy of perfectness, Which made her heart, and mine no less, So happy! And she cried to me, 'You lose by breaking rules, you see! Your Birthday treat is now half-gone Of seeing my new ball-dress on.' And, meeting so my lovely Wife, A passing pang, to think that life Was mortal, when I saw her laugh, Shaped in my mind this epitaph: 'Faults had she, child of Adam's stem. But only Heaven knew of them.' Or thus: For many a dreadful day, In sea-side lodgings sick she lay, Noteless of love, nor seem'd to hear The sea, on one side, thundering near, Nor, on the other, the loud Ball Held nightly in the public hall; Nor vex'd they my short slumbers, though I woke up if she breathed too low. Thus, for three months, with terrors rife, The pending of her precious life I watched o'er; and the danger, at last, The kind Physician said, was past. Howbeit, for seven harsh weeks the East Breathed witheringly, and Spring's growth ceased, And so she only did not die; Until the bright and blighting sky Changed into cloud, and the sick flowers Remember'd their perfumes, and showers Of warm, small rain refreshing flew Before the South, and the Park grew, In three nights, thick with green. Then she Revived, no less than flower and tree, In the mild air, and, the fourth day, Looked supernaturally gay With large, thanksgiving eyes, that shone, The while I tied her bonnet on, So that I led her to the glass, And bade her see how fair she was, And how love visibly could shine. Profuse of hers, desiring mine, And mindful I had loved her most When beauty seem'd a vanish'd boast, She laugh'd. I press'd her then to me, Nothing but soft humility; Nor e'er enhanced she with such charms Her acquiescence in my arms. And, by her sweet love-weakness made Courageous, powerful, and glad. In a clear illustration high Of heavenly affection, I Perceived that utter love is all The same as to be rational, And that the mind and heart of love, Which think they cannot do enough, Are truly the everlasting doors Wherethrough, all unpetition'd, pours The eternal pleasance. Wherefore we Had innermost tranquillity, And breathed one life with such a sense Of friendship and of confidence, That, recollecting the sure word: 'If two of you are in accord On earth, as touching any boon Which ye shall ask, it shall be done In heaven,' we ask'd that heaven's bliss Might ne'er be any less than this; And, for that hour, we seem'd to have The secret of the joy we gave. How sing of such things, save to her, Love's self, so love's interpreter? How read from such a homely page In the ear of this unhomely age? 'Tis now as when the Prophet cried: 'The nation hast Thou multiplied, But Thou hast not increased the joy!' And yet, ere wrath or rot destroy Of England's state the ruin fair, Oh, might I so its charm declare, That, in new Lands, in far-off years, Delighted he should cry that hears: 'Great is the Land that somewhat best Works, to the wonder of the rest! We, in our day, have better done This thing or that than any one; And who but, still admiring, sees How excellent for images Was Greece, for laws how wise was Rome; But read this Poet, and say if home And private love did e'er so smile As in that ancient English isle!'

XIII. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO EMILY GRAHAM.