 | Denzil place |  |
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II.
“------ A youth to whom was given
So much of earth, so much of heaven,
And such impetuous blood.”
Wordsworth.
So much of earth, so much of heaven,
And such impetuous blood.”
Wordsworth.
If Geoffrey Denzil never had return'd
To Denzil Place, if from the distant shores
Where he had wander'd now for many years
His English heart had never long'd for home,
Then, maybe, this, the simple history
Of some few years in some few English lives
Had ne'er been written, or had worse repaid
Even than now, the pains to trace or read.
When homeward bound, no thoughts of coming change,
Of brighter days, or sadder, vex'd his mind
Indifferent to Fate. With careless eyes
He saw the white cliffs of his native land,
26
This misty sole surviving mother seem'd
After the smiling violet-scented lands
Where he had linger'd, that he wonder'd why
He had so yearn'd to see those shores again.
He mused of home, and here a flash of pain
And sad remembrance clouded o'er his brow,
As he bethought him that no happy face
Would beam to welcome him. Anon his thoughts
Return'd in sadness to those bygone years
When, with the mother who had been to him
So much in youth, he had so lov'd the spot
He now approach'd thus carelessly. As yet
He had no thought of long abiding there,
But he was wearied of perpetual change
And exile, and he long'd to look again
On the once lov'd and still familiar scenes
Of his past boyhood; thus upon the day
Which look'd so bright to Constance in the woods,
But which was dim and misty near the coast,
Geoffrey returned to lonely Denzil Place.
He had determin'd that, as never more
There was a chance of his remaining there
27
There would be light and life within its walls,
And the slow, certain fingers of decay
Might be awhile arrested, so for this
He came to England.
But the days went by
And still he linger'd on, and Denzil Place
Remain'd unlet, nor did he lease the land
As he had purpos'd ere he left the south.
The days went by, the months, and then a year,
And but that now and then he went to town,
The lonely owner of those mortgaged lands
Stay'd on at Denzil. Once the Denzil race
Had been amongst the wealthiest of squires;
But thro' misfortune or thro' ignorance,
Or else thro' siding with the losing side
Whenever there was anything to lose,
Or else by being intellectually
Too far ahead the age in which they liv'd,
Or else by clinging to some yesterday
In Politics, Religion, or Reform,
And crawling thus too stubbornly behind,—
Be it enough to say they had been poor
28
Or earlier still, attainders, forfeits, dice,
Had left the present Denzil with a third
Of what had been his ancestors' estate;
And thus he had not wealth enough to tend
With the magnificence it merited
His rambling red-brick mansion;—and again,
As his extensive sylvan slopes and shades
Yielded him nothing save the Beautiful,
They but encumber'd him, and were it not
For the old memories that haunted them,
He long ago had sold them, to become
Once more a rich and independent man.
It was but seemly on returning home
That he should pay a visit to Sir John,
His former guardian, and his neighbour now;
They talk'd together over future plans,
And much was said about the good to come
Of letting Denzil; but Sir John opined
The good would never quite outweigh the ill—
Geoffrey should do as other people did—
Marry an heiress—live at Denzil Place—
Keep open house—be prudent in some ways,
That without doubt, but dwell at his own home—
Rear children there, and when at last he died,
Be borne by his own grateful labourers
To his own vault, in his own church, and there
Be buried.
That he should pay a visit to Sir John,
His former guardian, and his neighbour now;
They talk'd together over future plans,
And much was said about the good to come
Of letting Denzil; but Sir John opined
The good would never quite outweigh the ill—
Geoffrey should do as other people did—
Marry an heiress—live at Denzil Place—
Keep open house—be prudent in some ways,
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Rear children there, and when at last he died,
Be borne by his own grateful labourers
To his own vault, in his own church, and there
Be buried.
Here a softly open'd door,
A gentle rustling of a summer-dress,
And Constance look'd once more upon the man
She peep'd at fawn-like thro' the laurel leaves
At Denzil; Geoffrey thought he ne'er had seen
In all his wanderings, a face so fair,
So soul-inspired—scarce seeming of the earth,
Because as yet enfolded, as the bud
Of some uncertain flow'r, which, cactus-like,
Might bear a flaunting bloom, passionate-hued,
Dyed with the dye of kisses and of blood,
Or else, with those frail blossoms of the spring,
Destin'd, it might be, but to bloom a day
And die the next,—thus she appear'd to him—
So out of place amongst so much that seem'd
So dreary, dull, prosaic, worm-eaten—
Surprised out of his usual sadden'd calm,
He learnt this was the wife Sir John had wed;
Three years ago he read it in the Times,
For, tearing once, to light the cigarette
Of an Italian princess, at Sienna,
A scrap of paper, as it met the flame
He, watching absently, read on the slip
The name of what was once his parish church,
Then read Sir John's, and guessing he was wed
Tried to read on, but the devouring flame
Had burnt up what had once been “Constance Leigh.”
He little cared, and turning with a smile
He forthwith lit the fragrant cigarette
Of the Italian princess. Now, a pang
Shot thro' him as he thought how he had burnt
The name of one so good and beautiful
As he believ'd that Constance was; at once
He knew she was the woman that she seem'd,
He guess'd the honesty of those sweet eyes,
The wild, fair face, so wise and yet so young,—
So wise, because not knowing Wisdom's use
Or Folly's; ignorant alike of harm
(Call'd by so harsh a name), yet wrapp'd in dreams
Of an improbable future. Unconfess'd,
E'en to himself, a hunger in her eyes
Said to his wak'ning heart a thousand things.
Sir John explain'd the subject they discuss'd—
“Denzil,” he said, “is right well known to her,
“She and my son have rambled thro' your woods
“Many a time; he talks of letting it—
“What think you, Constance?”
A gentle rustling of a summer-dress,
And Constance look'd once more upon the man
She peep'd at fawn-like thro' the laurel leaves
At Denzil; Geoffrey thought he ne'er had seen
In all his wanderings, a face so fair,
So soul-inspired—scarce seeming of the earth,
Because as yet enfolded, as the bud
Of some uncertain flow'r, which, cactus-like,
Might bear a flaunting bloom, passionate-hued,
Dyed with the dye of kisses and of blood,
Or else, with those frail blossoms of the spring,
Destin'd, it might be, but to bloom a day
And die the next,—thus she appear'd to him—
So out of place amongst so much that seem'd
So dreary, dull, prosaic, worm-eaten—
Surprised out of his usual sadden'd calm,
He learnt this was the wife Sir John had wed;
Three years ago he read it in the Times,
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Of an Italian princess, at Sienna,
A scrap of paper, as it met the flame
He, watching absently, read on the slip
The name of what was once his parish church,
Then read Sir John's, and guessing he was wed
Tried to read on, but the devouring flame
Had burnt up what had once been “Constance Leigh.”
He little cared, and turning with a smile
He forthwith lit the fragrant cigarette
Of the Italian princess. Now, a pang
Shot thro' him as he thought how he had burnt
The name of one so good and beautiful
As he believ'd that Constance was; at once
He knew she was the woman that she seem'd,
He guess'd the honesty of those sweet eyes,
The wild, fair face, so wise and yet so young,—
So wise, because not knowing Wisdom's use
Or Folly's; ignorant alike of harm
(Call'd by so harsh a name), yet wrapp'd in dreams
Of an improbable future. Unconfess'd,
E'en to himself, a hunger in her eyes
Said to his wak'ning heart a thousand things.
Sir John explain'd the subject they discuss'd—
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“She and my son have rambled thro' your woods
“Many a time; he talks of letting it—
“What think you, Constance?”
“I am a poor man,”
Geoffrey explain'd with mock humility,
“And beggars may not always have their choice.”
“Ah, Mr. Denzil, you seem rich to us,”
Said Constance, “when we wander in your park
“And see so much to envy and admire!
“Were Denzil mine, I could not let it go
“Into the hands of strangers; but of course
“You will know best. The poor are all so glad
“You have come home; we often speak of you—
“The poor and I together.”
Geoffrey explain'd with mock humility,
“And beggars may not always have their choice.”
“Ah, Mr. Denzil, you seem rich to us,”
Said Constance, “when we wander in your park
“And see so much to envy and admire!
“Were Denzil mine, I could not let it go
“Into the hands of strangers; but of course
“You will know best. The poor are all so glad
“You have come home; we often speak of you—
“The poor and I together.”
Such a charm
Lurk'd in the murmur'd music of her voice
That Denzil did not pause to meditate
Upon the wisdom of her simple words,
But from that hour the weighty subject dropp'd
And Geoffrey Denzil stay'd at Denzil Place.
Then there began for Constance a new life—
Lurk'd in the murmur'd music of her voice
That Denzil did not pause to meditate
Upon the wisdom of her simple words,
But from that hour the weighty subject dropp'd
And Geoffrey Denzil stay'd at Denzil Place.
The dang'rous life of close companionship
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To be a comrade; hitherto her days
Fled in contented converse with a child,
Or else in list'ning, kindly tolerant
To childish sayings from a dull old man,—
Those days seem'd good, she miss'd no promised joy,
But now how empty had they seem'd to her
Without this first-found sharer of her thoughts!
Their very arguments (they differ'd much
Upon religion), roused her from her dream,
And made of her a champion of the cross,
The zealous advocate of Highest Heav'n,
Her whole soul rose in arms to subjugate,
As with an angel's slashing two-edg'd sword,
The paganism of her new-found friend.
He held, indeed, unorthodox beliefs
And unbeliefs, (nay, mostly unbeliefs,
For these to him were easiest to hold,)
He felt so much was wrong here on the earth—
One giant fraud—a mutual “take in”—
An all-pervading system of deceit—
“Deluding one another”—this he saw,
And being by nature honest, loyal, true,
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That smirk'd and prosper'd wheresoe'er he turn'd;
Yet how to set things right he did not know,
How to resuscitate to greener growth
The wither'd branches of a rotting tree—
To lop them off, he thought, were surely best,
So he had laid the axe unsparingly
To many an offshoot of the Tree of Faith,
But lacked the knowledge how to vitalize
The wholesome after-growth of tree and fruit
That he would raise instead. Without a creed,
His childhood's innocent beliefs pull'd down,
Stubborn, and seeming careless, (for in Care
He told himself he never should believe,
Nothing was worth a care!) Pensive at times,
Yet often kindling with a keener wit
Than we dull islanders are wont to show,
Inheriting a wild, impulsive heart,
Yet deeming he had drill'd himself to feel
No warmer than an iceberg; with a face
Which said more of the secrets of his soul
Than he had wish'd maybe, could he have seen
The tell-tale flash of light that sometimes beam'd
From out his eager eyes;—this was the man
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And, well-a-day! 'twas just about the time
When she was wearied with Sir John's complaints
Against the railways and Democracy,
And when the extracts from the Tory press
Ceased to amuse her! When this stranger came
His cold indifference to all these things
Became a bond of union, and in time
They smiled at them together. Then Sir John
Treated young Geoffrey Denzil like a boy,
Bore with his strange beliefs and unbeliefs,
And patronized and gave him good advice;
And Constance, being married to Sir John,
Seem'd bound to be a sort of mentor too,
And took with him a sweet maternal way,
Tho' he was ten years older than herself,
And deem'd himself e'en older still, in heart.
But, like so many men who roam the world
In quest of happiness—in quest of love,
His heart was almost virgin as a maid's,
Untouch'd as yet by any searching fires,
And knowing it untouch'd, he hence assumed
That Love existed only in the minds
Of madmen and of poets;—he had ne'er,
E'en in the wild meridian of his youth,
Mistaken Pleasure for her kinsman Love,—
He wish'd it had been possible to join
Their hands together, but as never yet
His lips had tasted their united joys,
He felt assured they ever walk'd apart,
And Love had always turn'd another way
When he met Pleasure. To a mind like his,
A fact observ'd some half a dozen times
Became a deep conviction, and henceforth
No contradiction seem'd admissible
Unto a nature sway'd by common sense,—
So Love did not exist, (at least for him,)
And Pleasure seem'd a ghastly haggard shape
When sad Experience had untied her mask,
But still, if Love were not an empty name
How sweet to love! . . . .
In quest of happiness—in quest of love,
His heart was almost virgin as a maid's,
Untouch'd as yet by any searching fires,
And knowing it untouch'd, he hence assumed
That Love existed only in the minds
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E'en in the wild meridian of his youth,
Mistaken Pleasure for her kinsman Love,—
He wish'd it had been possible to join
Their hands together, but as never yet
His lips had tasted their united joys,
He felt assured they ever walk'd apart,
And Love had always turn'd another way
When he met Pleasure. To a mind like his,
A fact observ'd some half a dozen times
Became a deep conviction, and henceforth
No contradiction seem'd admissible
Unto a nature sway'd by common sense,—
So Love did not exist, (at least for him,)
And Pleasure seem'd a ghastly haggard shape
When sad Experience had untied her mask,
But still, if Love were not an empty name
How sweet to love! . . . .
The golden summer days
Seem'd to be fleeter than they were of old,
It seem'd to Constance never until now
Had she e'er laugh'd, or sung, or felt amus'd,
E'en Nature look'd more fair and beautiful
As she and Denzil and the happy child
Pass'd over sun-lit lawn or grassy glade.
But Constance, with her strict ideas of life,
Had ne'er been satisfied to let the days
Pass only in enjoyment; duties, work,
She had, and so had Mr. Denzil too,
Upon whose fair estate so many poor
And needy peasants look'd to him as God
Who deals all mercies. He was kind and good,
And he would always listen to her words,
And take her gently hazarded advice—
Here was a humble means of doing good,
And she was pledged to many a Denzil clown
To do her best.
“You may not be too poor,”
Seem'd to be fleeter than they were of old,
It seem'd to Constance never until now
Had she e'er laugh'd, or sung, or felt amus'd,
E'en Nature look'd more fair and beautiful
As she and Denzil and the happy child
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But Constance, with her strict ideas of life,
Had ne'er been satisfied to let the days
Pass only in enjoyment; duties, work,
She had, and so had Mr. Denzil too,
Upon whose fair estate so many poor
And needy peasants look'd to him as God
Who deals all mercies. He was kind and good,
And he would always listen to her words,
And take her gently hazarded advice—
Here was a humble means of doing good,
And she was pledged to many a Denzil clown
To do her best.
She said one day, “to do such little things
“As they require. Your bailiff rais'd the rent
“Of that thatch'd cottage near the Farleigh lodge,
“The very day old Sands was paralyzed—
“His son enlisted on the self-same day
“To be a soldier—he had been his help
“Like a right hand; and then his daughter died
“In child-bed (Do they ever come alone
“Misfortunes?). So, you see this poor old man
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“Carry his daughter's child—his roof is gone,
“Or more than half, and lets in all the rain—
“(He was a first-rate thatcher once, himself,
“But now his arm . . .). You said you meant to hunt
“This Winter—you are rich enough for that,
“Would it not make you happier to think
“You had one horse the less, and feel the while
“Your tenants had more comfortable homes?”
Denzil smiled at the keen philanthropy
Of this devoted Lady Bountiful;
But in about a week she saw old Sands
Rent-free and roof'd, and very nearly well.
Sir John and Geoffrey often would dispute
On foreign politics, and oft for hours
She listen'd to discussions on the Pope—
His government—“too lib'ral,” said Sir John,
“And afterwards see what became of it!
“A lesson it will be to other States,
“And Kings, and Principalities, and Pow'rs!
“They were a people vain, hot-headed, weak—
“And Pius rashly gave their heads the rein.
“Perhaps he saw the folly of his ways
“When from his windows in the Vatican
“Surrounded by the signs of anarchy,
“He heard the ravings of the demagogues,
“And all the ‘Viva Verdis’ of the mob
“Under their bloody flags of liberty!”
“But think,” said Denzil, “how the masses groan!—
“And how those men who live themselves at ease
“Mourn for the suff'rings of their fellow-men!
“And then to know that even were they well
“Govern'd and cared for, educated, fed,
“It would be only by some accident,
“To lend a tyrant popularity—
“To serve a purpose—whilst the only cure
“For all their ills—the spirit of Reform
“Is further off than Rome is now from here!
“I often think of it for days—at times
“It realy is enough to turn one grey,
“To think that human beings, with sight, smell,
“Taste, hearing, sense, and long experience,
“Are ignorant and helpless as the brutes
“That graze in yonder meadows!”
Of this devoted Lady Bountiful;
But in about a week she saw old Sands
Rent-free and roof'd, and very nearly well.
Sir John and Geoffrey often would dispute
On foreign politics, and oft for hours
She listen'd to discussions on the Pope—
His government—“too lib'ral,” said Sir John,
“And afterwards see what became of it!
“A lesson it will be to other States,
“And Kings, and Principalities, and Pow'rs!
“They were a people vain, hot-headed, weak—
“And Pius rashly gave their heads the rein.
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“When from his windows in the Vatican
“Surrounded by the signs of anarchy,
“He heard the ravings of the demagogues,
“And all the ‘Viva Verdis’ of the mob
“Under their bloody flags of liberty!”
“But think,” said Denzil, “how the masses groan!—
“And how those men who live themselves at ease
“Mourn for the suff'rings of their fellow-men!
“And then to know that even were they well
“Govern'd and cared for, educated, fed,
“It would be only by some accident,
“To lend a tyrant popularity—
“To serve a purpose—whilst the only cure
“For all their ills—the spirit of Reform
“Is further off than Rome is now from here!
“I often think of it for days—at times
“It realy is enough to turn one grey,
“To think that human beings, with sight, smell,
“Taste, hearing, sense, and long experience,
“Are ignorant and helpless as the brutes
“That graze in yonder meadows!”
Then Sir John
“See, Constance, now, how soon we all were doom'd.
“Once Geoffrey Denzil ruled us over here!
“The poignard and stiletto! sword and fire!
“And he may tremble, too, for Denzil Place;
“Those long black-bearded gentlemen, his friends,
“May use him as Mazzini fain would use
“‘Il Rè galantuomo,’ when he's serv'd
“His purpose like a puppet. As for him
“(Victor Emmanuel), I dread indeed
“For him and for the mischievous Cavour
“The guillotine,—the fate of Louis Seize.
“Ah, those who love the cap of Liberty
“Have never seen it worn! My father once—”
(And here an anecdote.) “But,” Denzil said:
“When men arise, long smarting under ills,
“They do not always act with self-control
“And dignity; they only feel their wrongs,
“And have not leisure for those tender tears
“The fortunate at home can shed at ease
“Over the ills of others! When a man
“Like Ciceravacchio, in 'Forty-eight . . . . . .”
“And who,” ask'd Constance, in a timid voice,
“Was Ciceravacchio, of whom you speak?”
“A patriot,” said Denzil, eagerly—
“And one who had the courage to declare
“The sentiments he felt—a humble man,
“Rising through zeal and courage—firm, self-made,
“Mazzini-ite, a friend of Liberty,
“And not asham'd to own himself her friend.”
But after Geoffrey left, Sir John explain'd:
“Ciceravacchio was Mazzini's tool—
“He once sold forage in the streets of Rome—
“A weak, vain, cruel, disaffected man,
“Leagued with assassins.”
“See, Constance, now, how soon we all were doom'd.
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“The poignard and stiletto! sword and fire!
“And he may tremble, too, for Denzil Place;
“Those long black-bearded gentlemen, his friends,
“May use him as Mazzini fain would use
“‘Il Rè galantuomo,’ when he's serv'd
“His purpose like a puppet. As for him
“(Victor Emmanuel), I dread indeed
“For him and for the mischievous Cavour
“The guillotine,—the fate of Louis Seize.
“Ah, those who love the cap of Liberty
“Have never seen it worn! My father once—”
(And here an anecdote.) “But,” Denzil said:
“When men arise, long smarting under ills,
“They do not always act with self-control
“And dignity; they only feel their wrongs,
“And have not leisure for those tender tears
“The fortunate at home can shed at ease
“Over the ills of others! When a man
“Like Ciceravacchio, in 'Forty-eight . . . . . .”
“And who,” ask'd Constance, in a timid voice,
“Was Ciceravacchio, of whom you speak?”
“A patriot,” said Denzil, eagerly—
“And one who had the courage to declare
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“Rising through zeal and courage—firm, self-made,
“Mazzini-ite, a friend of Liberty,
“And not asham'd to own himself her friend.”
But after Geoffrey left, Sir John explain'd:
“Ciceravacchio was Mazzini's tool—
“He once sold forage in the streets of Rome—
“A weak, vain, cruel, disaffected man,
“Leagued with assassins.”
Constance sadly thought,
“Alas, tho' so well-meaning and so brave,
“How wrong he seems in almost everything!”
And tried henceforth to influence for good,
In politics as well as piety,
Her erring friend—she ventured thus at last,—
“My husband says that those who think like you
“Would ‘slice all England into sandwiches’—
“A little piece for each, of field and copse—
“Destroying all our beautiful old parks—
“And that if one grew richer than the rest,
“(As some will always grow thro' industry
“And honest perseverance), then the men
“Dwelling upon the neighb'ring strips of land
“Would rise and take his goods and burn his house.
“He says, if your opinions gain the day,
“He will be of the very first to go
“To stake or scaffold for his principles—
“And that in twenty minutes from the time
“When round about us here the banners wave
“Of your ideal republic, you will meet
“A brutal mob, elated with success,
“Bearing my head, maybe, upon a pike!
“(How horrible!) He says the Pope is good
“And Ferdinand the Second excellent—
“A ‘model sovereign’—most merciful,
“Sparing the very subjects who would rise
“And sacrifice him for their selfish ends—
“Why, when his faithful soldiers fired on them,
“He call'd to them with pity ‘do not fire!
“‘Make prisoners;’ he said ‘but do not shoot,
“‘Spare my deluded subjects!’ And he says
“That those three gentlemen who came to church
“Were one and all red-hot Republicans!
“(Ah, do be careful!)—members of a club
“Which governs by stilettos and by knives.
“He says they did not go to church to pray,
“But that they only went to make their notes,
“And see if our religion would be good
“Should they succeed in driving out their own,
“But then he also says (and so I think,)
“That no religion will exist for long
“When wicked men like these are once in pow'r.”
“I do not think so either,” Denzil said,
“If by that sacred name you designate
“A superstitious creed of terrorism,—
“But we must hope religion will improve
“Along with knowledge and intelligence.
“Those three black-bearded men were friends of mine;
“Italians, it is true, and years ago
“I was some time the guest of one of them.
“Talking, last Saturday, around the fire,
“Of England's customs, government, reforms,—
“We pass'd to England's women; I was vain,
“And boasted of my lovely country-women,
“And long'd to show how beautiful some were;—
“And so I fear Sir John was partly right,
“And that they did not go to church to pray,—
“I fear they only went to look at you—
“If to do this will earn for them the names
“Of Red-Republicans or Carbonari,
“I fear they all were reddest of the red.”
“But,” Constance said, (ignoring with a blush
This first decided compliment,) “Sir John
“Has also told me neither of the three
“Dare show their faces on Italian soil.”
“Sir John is right,” said Denzil, with a sigh,
“Thanks to the godless narrow-mindedness
“Of the oppressors of courageous hearts.
“Sir John's ideas,” he added, with a sneer,
“Are all so broad—so cosmopolitan—
“Tell him he ought to be elected Pope,
“And govern Rome.” He did not know the cause,
But somehow he felt angry with Sir John—
Exasperated with his common-sense
And stolid absence of enthusiasm;
And so he ventured on this little sneer
At the opinions of his kind old friend.
Constance oft marvell'd much that one who held
In such high reverence all greatest good,
Honor, and truth, and wisdom, yet should drift,
Anchorless, Christless, on life's stormy sea.
It griev'd her much, and oft she pray'd to find
Some spell to lure him to her gentler creed.
She could have floor'd his sophistries with texts;
With any one but him she could have said:
“Look in ‘Corinthians’ (two,) and chapter ten,
“Verse five, and drop this groundless argument!”
Or, “turn to ‘Kings’ (one,) chapter nine, verse six,
“And prithee ever after hold thy peace!”
But starting from some heathen starting-point
Unknown to her, it was as tho' he said:
“No ‘Kings’ and no ‘Corinthians’ for me!”
The very honesty with which he own'd
His infidelity, disarm'd and shock'd
His faithful friend—so well he unbeliev'd,
She thought he surely would believe as well,
As ardently, as earnestly, if once
She could but draw him to the saving fold.
“Or, all is false,” he said, “or all is true,
“Alas, tho' so well-meaning and so brave,
“How wrong he seems in almost everything!”
And tried henceforth to influence for good,
In politics as well as piety,
Her erring friend—she ventured thus at last,—
“My husband says that those who think like you
“Would ‘slice all England into sandwiches’—
“A little piece for each, of field and copse—
“Destroying all our beautiful old parks—
“And that if one grew richer than the rest,
“(As some will always grow thro' industry
“And honest perseverance), then the men
“Dwelling upon the neighb'ring strips of land
“Would rise and take his goods and burn his house.
41
“He will be of the very first to go
“To stake or scaffold for his principles—
“And that in twenty minutes from the time
“When round about us here the banners wave
“Of your ideal republic, you will meet
“A brutal mob, elated with success,
“Bearing my head, maybe, upon a pike!
“(How horrible!) He says the Pope is good
“And Ferdinand the Second excellent—
“A ‘model sovereign’—most merciful,
“Sparing the very subjects who would rise
“And sacrifice him for their selfish ends—
“Why, when his faithful soldiers fired on them,
“He call'd to them with pity ‘do not fire!
“‘Make prisoners;’ he said ‘but do not shoot,
“‘Spare my deluded subjects!’ And he says
“That those three gentlemen who came to church
“Were one and all red-hot Republicans!
“(Ah, do be careful!)—members of a club
“Which governs by stilettos and by knives.
“He says they did not go to church to pray,
“But that they only went to make their notes,
“And see if our religion would be good
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“But then he also says (and so I think,)
“That no religion will exist for long
“When wicked men like these are once in pow'r.”
“I do not think so either,” Denzil said,
“If by that sacred name you designate
“A superstitious creed of terrorism,—
“But we must hope religion will improve
“Along with knowledge and intelligence.
“Those three black-bearded men were friends of mine;
“Italians, it is true, and years ago
“I was some time the guest of one of them.
“Talking, last Saturday, around the fire,
“Of England's customs, government, reforms,—
“We pass'd to England's women; I was vain,
“And boasted of my lovely country-women,
“And long'd to show how beautiful some were;—
“And so I fear Sir John was partly right,
“And that they did not go to church to pray,—
“I fear they only went to look at you—
“If to do this will earn for them the names
“Of Red-Republicans or Carbonari,
“I fear they all were reddest of the red.”
“But,” Constance said, (ignoring with a blush
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“Has also told me neither of the three
“Dare show their faces on Italian soil.”
“Sir John is right,” said Denzil, with a sigh,
“Thanks to the godless narrow-mindedness
“Of the oppressors of courageous hearts.
“Sir John's ideas,” he added, with a sneer,
“Are all so broad—so cosmopolitan—
“Tell him he ought to be elected Pope,
“And govern Rome.” He did not know the cause,
But somehow he felt angry with Sir John—
Exasperated with his common-sense
And stolid absence of enthusiasm;
And so he ventured on this little sneer
At the opinions of his kind old friend.
Constance oft marvell'd much that one who held
In such high reverence all greatest good,
Honor, and truth, and wisdom, yet should drift,
Anchorless, Christless, on life's stormy sea.
It griev'd her much, and oft she pray'd to find
Some spell to lure him to her gentler creed.
She could have floor'd his sophistries with texts;
With any one but him she could have said:
“Look in ‘Corinthians’ (two,) and chapter ten,
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Or, “turn to ‘Kings’ (one,) chapter nine, verse six,
“And prithee ever after hold thy peace!”
But starting from some heathen starting-point
Unknown to her, it was as tho' he said:
“No ‘Kings’ and no ‘Corinthians’ for me!”
The very honesty with which he own'd
His infidelity, disarm'd and shock'd
His faithful friend—so well he unbeliev'd,
She thought he surely would believe as well,
As ardently, as earnestly, if once
She could but draw him to the saving fold.
“If true, then let us live and die for it;
“If false, then let us cast away this creed,
“However good, it cannot be the best,
“If based upon a long accepted lie.
“But, if our faith is not the work of priests—
“If the great God, indeed, could stoop so low—
“If such a paltry plan to save us all,
“Or such a cruel trap to get us damned,
“Could please the high great God, then can he be
“The God to whom I clasp'd my infant hands?—
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“For whom the saints and martyrs dared to die?
“Oh, give me back my youth's fidelity,
“But give me also back my childhood's God!
“Kind and forgiving Father! from the clouds,
“How did'st Thou seem to heave the pitying sigh
“At my cut finger! When my bullfinch died,
“I thought of how He counted all my hairs
“And all about the sparrows! Now, alas!
“The caring for the individual—
“The sparing one mean unit 'special pain
“Seems so averse to the great principle
“Of abstract commonweal, methinks, that Heav'n
“Could scarcely work a pamper'd emmet good
“In this great ant-hill, without working ill
“To many more; just, but Republican,
“His wrath must crush out Pestilence and Sin,
“What matter if the swing of His strong arm
“Strike down some good and whole amongst the rest?”
Then Constance answer'd, “Oh, it cannot be!
“I feel assured the Bible is the truth!
“It is the only comfort of the poor.
“Think how the very poor and ignorant
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“Then, what you say of Christianity,
“I pray that you may see things as they are—
“I understand it all—I grasp it all;
“But even were its teachings too obscure,
“You know that we are told we cannot know.
“‘All things with God are possible,’ and then,
“Think what a beautiful and tender creed!—
“Think of the little babe in manger laid—
“The three wise men, all looking for the star—
“(I work'd them once in color'd Berlin wool;
“They all wore turbans—dress'd in Eastern dress—
“And in the distance was the hostelrie.)
“Ah, can you doubt? (Her eyes were filled with tears,)
“And then the Virgin, with her lovely face—
“Oh, think upon the glory round that head!
“How many painters lov'd to dwell on it!—
“Much greater men than you—wiser than you—
“Yet they believed it all. Think, too, of those—
“The martyrs—all the early Christian saints
“Thrown to wild beasts; then, Cranmer, it is true
“He died in what I call the civil war
“Of Christianity—but still he died—
“Died at the stake, and let his wrong right hand
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“Think of his faith!—ah, how it must have hurt!”
She added, shuddering, and held her hand
Against the light, and stroked it tenderly,
Seeing before her only in her zeal
Archbishop Cranmer's burnt apostate hand.
Thus with her gentle female arguments
She strove to quench the heathen in his heart.
He listen'd for the sake of her sweet voice,
Which murmur'd on and on so childishly,
(So thought he) yet his heart went out to meet
The signs of her soft foolish innocence.
He felt the while as might some cruel hawk,
Beneath the shadow of whose outspread wings
A little bird is chirping her sweet song.
For surely did he deem her child-like mind
Would bend and yield to his, and those soft notes
Become the echo of his stubborn thought;—
Feeling she was his prey, for what he would,
He linger'd still in pity, teaching her,
(He fondly deem'd) and stifling the desires
That would have risen in his lawless heart
Had his poor little pupil seemed more wise.
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In the long ev'nings, by the winter fire,
To listen to the sound theology
Of one, the other's sad materialism,
No guardian angel would have shed a tear,
And e'en a crouching Mephistopheles
Had scarcely dared to rub his hands in glee.
Yet in those fire-lit ev'nings, all unknown
To each as yet, the germ of bitter fruit
Was sown. By both more sadly ev'ry night
The soft “good night” was utter'd, when the foes
After their wordy tournament, clasp'd hands.
It seemed that Friendship, banish'd for awhile,
Rush'd with too sudden haste to her old place,
For as these votaries of hostile creeds
Parted reluctantly, (unguess'd by one,)
The Christian lov'd the Heathen, and the sinner
Felt all his heart's blood warm towards the saint.
| Denzil place | |