The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Old Milestone.—Angling.—Royden Stream.—The Sylvan Feast. —Age of Intellect.—Afternoon.—Isaac Walton.—A Bitter Night.— The Farmer.—The Pet Lamb.—Our Old Garden.—Painting.—The Altar.—Priscilla.—Tea-Drinking.—Curiosities.—The Cuckoo Clock. —William Gilpin.—The Visit.—The Vicarage.—The Study.

Old friend! old stone! old way-mark! art thou gone?
I could have better spared a better thing
Than sight of thy familiar shapeless form,
Defaced and weather-stained. But thus it is
Where'er I turn me, wheresoe'er I look,
Change, change, change, change, is everywhere at work
In all mine ancient haunts. Grammercie, though!
Reform—improvement, is the proper word.
We live, God wot! in an improving age,
And our old world, if it last long enough,
Will reach perfection. Lo! conceptions vast
Germ not alone in patriot statesman's mind
Or great philanthropist's. Our public men—
Ours in this rural district nook o' the world,
“Armed with a little brief authority,”
Wield it like Jove's own thunder, and affect
The Olympic nod. Would they had nodded off
Their sapient heads, ere, in an evil hour,
Beautiful elms! your spreading branches fell,
Because, forsooth, across the King's highway,
Conspiring with the freeborn, “chartered” air,
Your verdant branches treasonably waved,
And swung perchance the pendant dewdrops off

On roof of royal mail, or in the eyes
Of sleepy coachman, wakened so full well
For safety of his snoring “four insides,”
Unconscious innocents!—or on his pate—
His awful pate—even his, mine ancient foe,
Your ruthless enemy—the man of power,
Of measurement, and Acts of Parliament,
The great road dragon—man of flinty heart—
Belike ye showered the liquid crystal down,
Irreverend boughs! and so your fate was sealed.
But, veteran oak! what rank offence was thine?
In memory of man thou hadst not flung
One flickering shadow 'thwart the royal road,
Nor intercepted sunbeam from the head
Of noontide traveller. Only left of thee
The huge old trunk, still verdant in decay
With ivy garlands, and a tender growth—
Like second childhood—of thine own young shoots;
And there, like giant guardian of the pass,
Thou stoodst, majestic ruin! thy huge roots,
Whose every fretted niche and mossy cave
Harboured a primrose, grappling the steep bank,
A wayside rampart. Lo! they've rent away
The living bulwark now—a ghastly breach,
A crumbling hollow left to mark its site
And the proud march of utilitarian zeal.

And the old thorns are gone—the thorns I loved,
For that in childhood I could reach and pluck
Their first sweet blossoms. They were low, like me;
Young, lowly bushes—I a little child;
And we grew up together. They are gone:
And the great elder by the mossy pales—
How sweet the blackbird sang in that old tree!

Sweeter, methinks, than now, from statelier shades—
They've felled that too, the goodly, harmless thing!
That with its fragrant clusters overhung
Our garden hedge, and furnished its rich store
Of juicy berries for the Christmas wine,
Spicy and hot, and its round hollow stems,
The pith extracted, for quaint arrow-heads,
Such as my father in our archery games
Taught me to fashion. That they've ta'en away,
And so some relic daily disappears,
Something I've loved and prized; and now the last—
Almost the last—the poor old milestone falls,
And in its place this smooth, white, perked-up thing,
With its great staring figures.

Well, well, well!
All's doubtless as it should be. Were my will
The rule of action, strange results, I doubt,
Would shock the rational community.
No farmer round should clip one straggling hedge,
No road-surveyor change one rugged stone,
Howe'er illegible its lettered face,
Nor pare, nor trim, nor chop one craggy bank,
Nor lop one wayside tree, although its boughs
Arched all the royal road. I'd have the road
One bowery arch—what matter if so low
No mail might pass beneath? For aught I care
The post might come on foot, or not at all,
At least with tidings of the troublous world.
In short—in short, it's quite as well, perhaps,
I can but rail—not rule. Splenetic words
Will not tack on again dissevered boughs,
Nor set up the old stone; so let me breathe
The fulness of a vexed spirit out
In impotent murmurs.

Gentles, could you guess
What thoughts, what feelings, what remembrances
Are in my mind associated with sight
Of that cold senseless stone, that shapeless thing
Which there lies postrate, ye would smile perhaps,
But not methinks in scornful wonderment
At the strange utterings of my wayward mood.
Here, to this very spot, the guardian hand
Still clasping mine, with tottering steps I came,
A good half mile from home—my first long walk—
The first remembered. Here, the goal attained,
They set me up on the old stone to rest,
And called me woman!—Baby now no more,
Who walked so stoutly; filled my lap with flowers,
And pulled within my reach the woodbine down,
That I might pluck, with mine own eager hand,
A wreath for Dido's neck. She sat beside,
The grave old creature, with her large brown eyes
Intently, as in delegated watch,
Fixed on her master's child. Soon came the days,
When his companion—his, his only one,
My father's—I became. Proud, happy child!
Untiring now in many a lengthened walk,
Yet resting oft, his arm encircling me,
On the old milestone in our homeward way.

My father loved the patient angler's art;
And many a summer day, from early morn
To latest evening, by some streamlet's side
We two have tarried. Strange companionship!
A sad and silent man—a joyous child.
Yet were those days, as I recall them now,
Supremely happy. Silent though he was,
My father's eyes were often on his child,

Tenderly eloquent, and his few words
Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone
Repulsed me, if I broke upon his thoughts
With childish question. But I learnt at last,
Learnt intuitively, to hold my peace
When the dark hour was on him, and deep sighs
Spoke the perturbed spirit: only then
I crept a little closer to his side,
And stole my hand in his, or on his arm
Laid my cheek softly, till the simple wile
Won on his sad abstraction, and he turned
With a faint smile, and sighed, and shook his head,
Stooping toward me: so I reached at last
Mine arm about his neck, and clasped it close,
Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss.
That was a lovely brook, by whose green marge
We two, the patient angler and his child,
Loitered away so many summer days!
A shallow sparkling stream, it hurried, now
Leaping and glancing among large round stones,
With everlasting friction chafing still
Their polished smoothness, on a gravelly bed
Then softly slipped away with rippling sound,
Or all inaudible where the green moss
Sloped down to meet the clear reflected wave
That lipped its emerald bank with seeming show
Of gentle dalliance; in a dark, deep pool
Collected now, the peaceful waters slept,
Embayed by rugged headlands, hollow roots
Of huge old pollard willows. Anchored there,
Rode safe from every gale a sylvan fleet
Of milk-white water-lilies, every bark
Worthy as those on his own sacred flood

To waft the Indian Cupid. Then the stream
Brawling again o'er pebbly shallows ran,
On, on to where a rustic, rough-hewn bridge,
All bright with mosses and green ivy wreaths,
Spanned the small channel with its single arch;
And underneath the bank on either side
Shelved down into the water, darkly green
With unsunned verdure, or whereon the sun
Looked only when his rays at eventide
Obliquely glanced between the blackened piers
With arrowy beams of orient emerald light
Touching the river and its velvet marge.
'Twas there, beneath the archway, just within
Its rough misshapen piles, I found a cave,
A little secret cell—one large flat stone
Its ample floor, imbedded deep in moss,
And a rich tuft of dark blue violet;
And fretted o'er with curious groining dark,
Like vault of Gothic chapel, was the roof
Of that small cunning cave—“The Naiad's Grot”
I named it learnedly, for I had read
About Egeria, and was deeply versed
In heathenish stories of the guardian tribes
In groves, and single trees, and sylvan streams
Abiding co-existent. So methought
The little Naiad of our brook might haunt
That cool retreat, and to her guardian care
My wont was ever, at the bridge arrived,
To trust our basket, with its simple store
Of home-made, wholesome cates, by one at home
Provided for our banquet-hour at noon.
A joyful hour! anticipated keen,
With zest of youthful appetite I trow,

Full oft expelling unsubstantial thoughts
Of Grots and Naiads, sublimated fare.
The busy, bustling joy, with housewife airs—
Directress, handmaid, lady of the feast—
To spread that “table in the wilderness”!
The spot selected with deliberate care,
Fastidious from variety of choice,
Where all was beautiful: some pleasant nook
Among the fringing alders, or beneath
A single spreading oak, or higher up
Within the thicket, a more secret bower,
A little clearing, carpeted all o'er
With creeping strawberry, and greenest moss
Thick veined with ivy. There unfolded smooth
The snowy napkin, carefully secured
At every corner with a pebbly weight,
Was spread prelusive—fairly garnished soon
With the contents, most interesting then,
Of the well-plenished basket: simple viands,
And sweet brown bread, and biscuits for dessert,
And rich, ripe cherries; and two slender flasks,
Of cyder one, and one of sweet new milk,
Mine own allotted beverage, tempered down
To wholesome thinness by admixture pure
From the near streamlet. Two small silver cups
Set out our grand buffet—and all was done.
But there I stood immovable, entranced,
Absorbed in admiration, shifting oft
My ground contemplative to reperuse
In every point of view the perfect whole
Of that arrangement, mine own handiwork.
Then glancing skyward, if my dazzled eyes
Shrank from the sunbeams, vertically bright,
Away, away, toward the river's brink

I ran to summon from his silent sport
My father to the banquet, tutored well,
As I approached his station, to restrain
All noisy outbreak of exuberant glee,
Lest from their quiet haunts the finny prey
Should dart far off to deeper solitudes.
The gentle summons met observance prompt,
Kindly considerate of the famished child:
And all in order left; the mimic fly
Examined and renewed, if need required,
Or changed for other sort, as time of day,
Or clear or clouded sky, or various signs
Of atmosphere or water, so advised
The experienced angler; the long line afloat,
The rod securely fixed, then into mine
The willing hand was yielded, and I led
With joyous exultation that dear guest
To our green banquet-room. Not Leicester's self,
When to the hall of princely Kenilworth
He led Elizabeth, exulted more
With inward gratulation at the show
Of his own proud magnificence, than I,
When full in view of mine arrangèd feast,
I held awhile my pleased companion back,
Exacting wonder, admiration, praise,
With pointing finger, and triumphant “There!”
Our meal concluded—or, as Homer says,
“Soon as the rage of hunger was appeased”—
And by the way, our temperate sylvan feast
Deserved poetic illustration more
Than those vast hecatombs of filthy swine,
Where Trojans, Greeks, and half-immortals gorged,

Sharpening their wits for council. Process strange!
But most effectual, doubtless, as we see
Clearly illustrated in this our day,
In this our favoured isle, where all affairs
(Glory to Britain's intellectual age!)
Begin and end with feasting. Statesmen meet
To eat and legislate; to eat and hang

There exists, or did exist, in one of the Channel Islands, a singular convivial custom connected with the execution of criminals. The members of Court meet to celebrate the occasion with a dinner, and a few non-professional friends are invited “to come and eat a dead man.”

Judges assemble; chapters congregate
To eat and order spiritual affairs;
Philhellenists to eat and free the Greeks;
Committees of Reform, Relief, Conversion,
Eat with amazing unction: and so on,
Throughout all offices, sects, parties, grades,
Down to the Parish worthies, who assemble

It may be almost superfluous to mention that this line, and, indeed, the whole paragraph, was written previous to the passing of the Municipal Reform Bill.

In conclave snug to eat, and starve the poor.

Our banquet over—nor omitted then
Grateful acknowledgment for good received
From Him whose open hand all living things
“Filleth with plenteousness”—my dear companion
Sought once again the river's flowery marge,
To me committing—as the spreading out—
The gathering up all fragments of the feast,
“That nothing might be lost.” Instruction wise,
By simple illustration well enforced;
Nor strained to Pharisaic meaning hard,
Forbidding to communicate the good
Abundantly bestowed. So liberal dole
I scattered round for the small feathered things
Who from their leafy lodges all about
Had watched the strange intruders and their ways,
And eyed the feast with curious wistfulness,
Half longing to partake. Some bold, brave bird,
He of the crimson breast, approaching near

And near and nearer, till his little beak
Made prize of tempting crumb, and off he flew
Triumphant, to return—permitted thief—
More daringly familiar.

Neatly packed
Napkin and cups, with the diminished store
Of our well-lightened basket; largess left
For our shy woodland hosts; some special treat
In forkèd branch or hollow trunk for him,
The prettiest, merriest, with his frolic leaps
And jet-black sparkling eyes, and mimic wrath
Clacking loud menace—yet before me lay
The long bright summer evening. Was it long,
Tediously long, in prospect? Nay, good sooth!
The hours in Eden never swifter flew
With Eve yet innocent, than fled with me
Their course by thy fair stream, sweet Royden Vale!

The stream, the mead, herb, insect, flower, and leaf,
Sunbeam and shadow, all, as I have said,
Were books to me, companionable things;
But lack of other volume, Man's device,
Was none, when, turning from the outspread scroll
Of beauteous Nature, sweet repose I sought
In varied pleasure. In a certain pouch,
Ample and deep, the Fisher's coat within,
Lurked an old clumsy russet-covered book,
That with permitted hand extracted thence—
(I see the smile to the young smiling thief
Vouching impunity)—for many an hour
Furnished enjoyment, flavoured not the less
For oft renewed experience intimate.
Just where the river with a graceful curve
Darkened and deepened in the leafy gloom

Of a huge pollard oak, a snug retreat
I found me at the foot of that old tree,
Within the grotto-work of its vast roots,
From whose fantastic arches, high upheaved,
Sprang plumy clusters of the jewelled fern,
And adder's-tongue, and ivy wreaths hung down
Festooning elegant, soft greenest moss
Flooring the fairy cave, the tempered light,
As through an emerald roof, stole gently in,
Caressingly, and played in freckling gleams
On the dark surface of the little pool,
Where as it seemed the lingering stream delayed
As loath its brawling course to recommence
In glaring sunshine. Ah! could we delay
Time's current, as it bears us through some reach
Where the rough stream sinks waveless, peace-embayed!

The river at my feet, its mossy bank
Clipped by that caverned oak, my pleasant seat,
Still as an image in its carved shrine
I nestled in my sylvan niche, like hare
Upgathered in her form, upon my keees
The open book, o'er which I stooped intent,
Half-hidden, the large hat flung careless off,
In a gold gleaming shower of auburn curls.
Ah, gentle Isaac! by what glamourie
Chained ye the eyes of restless childhood down
To pages penned for other readers far,
Mature and manly? What concern of mine
Thy learnèd lessons to the docile twain,
Thy some time pupils? What concern of mine
Thy quaint directions how to dress a chub?
Or bait the barbèd hook with hapless frog,
“Lovingly handled”? What concern of mine

Thy merry meetings at that rural hostel
With the fair hostess—lavender in the window,
And “twenty ballads stuck about the wall”?
Yet sure I longed to share of that same chub,
And took no thought how that unlucky frog
Relished such loving treatment; and full fain
Would have made one at that same merry board,
And drank in with insatiate ear thy words,
Rich in the truest wisdom, for throughout,
(Hallowing whate'er of homely, quaint, and coarse
Might shock fastidious taste, less pure than nice),
The love of God, and Man, and holy Nature
Breathed like the fragrance of a precious gum
From consecrated censer. Then those scraps
From the olden poets—“the divine Du Bartas,”
And “holy Master Herbert,” and Kit Marlowe,
Whose ballad by the modest Milkmaid sung
Combined methought sweet strain of sweetest bird,
And pleasant melody of trickling rill,
And hum of bees, and every natural tone
Most musical. And then what dear delight
Beneath the sheltering honeysuckle hedge
To share thy leafy covert, while “the shower

“But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, towards yonder high honeysuckle hedge; there we'll sit and sing, whilst this shower falls so gently upon the teeming earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant meadows. Look, under the broad beech-tree I sat down, when I was last this way a-fishing, and the birds in an adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to that primrose hill.”—ISAAC WALTON.

Fell gently down upon the teeming earth,
From the green meadows all with flowers bedecked
Wakening delicious odours; while the birds'
Friendly contention, from a grove hard by,
Held with an echo, whose dead voice did live—
So seeming—in a hollow tree high up
Crowning the primrose knoll.” Ah, gentle Isaac!
How could I choose but love thy precious book,
Then in that blessed springtime of my life
When life was joy, this fair earth paradise,
And thine a master-key, in its green glades

Opening innumerous paths! I love thee still
With an exceeding love, old battered book!
And from thy time-discoloured leaves outsteal
Methinks sweet breathings of that merry May
So long o'erpast. My Winter is at hand—
Summer departed, Autumn on the wane—
But as I read, and dream, and smile, and sigh,
Old feelings stir within me, old delights
Kindle afresh, and all the past comes back
With such a rush, as to its long-dried bed
The waters of a stream for many a year
Pent from its natural course.

Oh! nothing dies—
Nothing is lost or wholly perisheth
That God hath callèd good, and given to Man,
Worth his immortal keeping. Let them go,
Let them pass from me like a troubled dream,
The things of this world; bitter apples all,
Like those by the Dead Sea, that mock the eye
With outward fairness, ashes at the core.
Let this frail body perish day by day,
And to the dust go down, and be resolved
Thereunto—earth to earth: but I shall live
In spiritual identity unchanged,
And take with me where happy spirits dwell
(Through Christ, the door, I hope admittance there)
All thoughts, desires, affections, memories
Sealed with the heavenly stamp, and set apart—
Made worthy—for duration infinite.

“This is a bitter night for the young lambs,”
My father said, and shivering drew his chair
Close in to the warm hearth. “The biting air,
When I looked out but now, was thick with snow

Fast driven in furious gusts—and hark! that's hail
Clattering against the window.”

To the storm
Listening a moment, with a pitying thought
For houseless wanderers, to our dear fireside
We turned with grateful hearts, and sweetest sense
Of comfort and security, that each
Reflected in the other's face, read plain
As in a page of some familiar book
Long learned by heart.

“Cary! what makes you sigh
And look so sad i' th' sudden?” asked my mother,
As, letting fall my pencil, I rose up,
And, stealing to my father's side, drew close
The little stool, my own peculiar seat,
And, leaning on his knee, looked earnest up,
With that long deep-drawn breath, that ends so oft
Childhood's reflective pause.

“I'm thinking, mother,
Of what my father said about the lambs—
What will become of them this bitter night,
Poor little pretty creatures? We looked at them
A long, long while, on our way home to-day,
While with their mothers they were folded up
By the old shepherd. Some could hardly stand,
So very weak they were, so very young!
Don't you remember, father! you said then
A cold hard night would kill them.”

“Did I, child?
Well, this is cold enough. But then the shepherd
Will take good heed to them—and—Little girl!
Have you not heard, and read, and learnt, how God
‘Tempers the wind to the shorn lamb’? So these,
Helpless and tender as they are, His eye
Still watcheth, and His guardian care protects.”

“Oh! but I wish”—unuttered was the wish;
For the door opened, and a burly form,
Much like a walking bear, the hairy cap,
And shaggy wrapping coat, all white with snow,
Announced by baying house-dogs, and shown in
With little form by Joe, within the room
Advanced a step or two, in country fashion,
Scraping obeisance. Up sprung old Di,
With hostile growling, from her master's feet;
But sniffing round the stranger, in a moment
Dropping her tail, she came contented back
To her warm station.

“What's the matter, Farmer,
That you're abroad so late this blusterous night?”
My father, with a friendly greeting, asked;
“My little lassie, here, was just bewailing
For your young lambs—but they're all snug, I guess.”

“Ay, ay, sir! thank ye kindly, snug enough;
And many thanks to Miss, God bless her heart!”
He added, with a loving look at me,
Who had stolen round by this to my old friend,
Admiring much his bruin-like aspect.
A knowing twinkle with that loving look
Was mingled; and his bluff good-natured face
Brightened with kindliness, as he went on:—
“I'll lay my life on't, Miss will never guess
What I've got here, all cuddled up so warm
Under my old greatcoat. And yet, Lord love her!
The thing's for her, whatever it may be!”

Then there was wonder and impatient joy,
And jumping round and round, and

“Oh, dear Farmer!
Is it alive?—what is it?—let me look—
Only one peep.”—And eagerly I pulled
At the wet shaggy coat.

“Just let me feel!”
Then with feigned caution he admitted slow
One little curious hand.

“How soft—how warm!—
It's a young kitten!”

“Kitten!—sure I'd scorn
To bring such vermin.”

“Well, a rabbit, then—
Or—no—I'm sure now it's a guinea-pig—
Isn't it, Farmer?”

“Guinea pigs don't bleat—
Hearken!”

“Oh mercy!—it's a little lamb!”

“My Missis said 'twas just the thing for Miss,
When Amos brought it in an hour agone
From the dead ewe. The poor dumb brute had three,
This only living; well enough for strength,
Considering: and Miss will mud it up,
I know, as clever as a little queen,
If I may leave it for her.”

If!—that if
Checked in a moment my ecstatic fit,
And a quick glance imploringly I turned
To the parental faces. Smiles were there,
But not consenting ones—and heads were shaken,
And sage remonstrance was preparing plain,
And lips were opened; but I stopt them quick

With smothering kisses, and—the lamb was mine.
And thanks to Lydia, maiden most expert
In things pertaining to the dairy's charge,
And country matters—ever mine ally,
Ready and faithful—the small creature throve
As though the mother's milk and her strong love—
Nature's unerring course—had nurtured it;
And from a tender fondling, soon became
My mate and playfellow. Such friends we were—
Willy and I! Inseparable friends,
In door and out—up-stairs and down—where'er
My step was heard, the little pattering hoofs
Close following, or before me, sounded too.
Only at lesson time awhile disjoined
The fond companionship. Good reason why—
The pupil never much renowned at best
For patient application; little chance
Was there of any, when that gamesome thing
Made scoff of learning, and its teachers grave;
Upsetting inkstands—nibbling copy-books—
And still provoking to irreverent mirth
With some new merry mischief.

Time went on—
More wondrous had he stopt—and winsome Willy,
The pet lamb still, drew near to ram's estate—
Then 'gan affairs to alter. Budding horns,
Fondled at first, grew formidable things,
And pretty freedoms to audacious onslaughts.
Old Di was sent off howling—from the lines
Linen hooked down and tattered—maids laid sprawling—
And visitors attacked, and butchers' boys,
And bakers, with their trays and baskets, butted,
And forced to fly and hallo for th eir lives.

Our mutual love still perfect, I alone
'Scaped molestation, threatening life or limb;
Only for summer wear more cool and airy
The muslin frocks were made, by sundry slits
From top to bottom, and large eyelet holes;
But that was all in sport—no harm intended—
And I the last to take offence at things
Concerning only those who had to mend
Or to replace my wardrobe. But all hearts
Were not so placable, and day by day
Dark looks and angry murmurs darker grew,
And waxed more wrathful.

“'Twas not to be borne:
The beast was dangerous: some serious mischief
Would come of it at last; it must be seen to.”
O Willy! Willy! how I quaked for fear
At those vague threatenings, with ingenious art
Concealing or excusing as I could
Thine oft delinquencies. But all in vain;
The fatal day, long dreaded, came at last.
It was the time of blossoms, and my father,
Who in “trim gardens” much delight did take,
Was scanning with a gardener's prideful eye
His neat espaliers; every well-trained branch
Thick set with bloom—deep blushing like the morn,
Or fainter tinged, or snow-white, of each sort
Indicative, and its abundant fruit. Fair show!
Rich promise! Many a season cold, unkind,
Had nipped the gardener's hope since such was seen—
“If frost returns not, and no cruel blight
Comes near us”—with exultant hope broke forth
My father's meditation—when, alas!
Destruction was at hand, and in mid speech

He stopt astounded. Frost nor blight most dire
So direful as the sight of visible mischief
Personified in Willy's form, at work
Ten paces off, where thick as snowflakes fell
A shower of milk-white blossoms. Glorious sport!
Another butting charge, and down they come,
Whitening the walk and border.

“Help! help! help!
Ho, Ephraim! Ephraim!” At the call appear
More than the summoned—rushes out amain
The gaping household, mistress, maids, and man,
And I, half guilty, much confounded cause
Remote, of all the evil, helpless then
To stay its progress.

“Here he is—here! here!
Stop him—he's off again!”

“Where? where?” “There, there!”
Down comes the flowery rain—that shake will do
For the old golden rennet—fair pearmain!
Thy turn comes next—and next—

“Destruction! death!
There goes the gansels bergamy—will no one
Stop the cursed brute?”

How beautiful he looked!—
Even in my shame and terror so I thought—
When at safe distance he stood still and gazed
At his pursuers with provoking air
Of innocent wonder, dangling from his mouth
A bunch of apple blossoms, now and then
Mumbled in wantonness.

“Confound him! there!
He's at the golden pippin. Where's the gun?
Joe! run and fetch it—or—hold, hold—a rope!
We'll noose the rascal!”

Oh, my heart! my heart!
How died ye at the sound of guns and ropes!
But capture was not death; and he was caught—
Caught and led up to judgment. Willy! Willy!
That ever to such strait and to such woe
Thine evil courses should have brought us both!
For the decree went forth that parted us,
Thou to return to thy first owner's flock,
And I, bereaved, to mourn my merry mate.
Ah, doleful day! when for the last, last time
We two went forth together, thou, poor fool!
In thine unconscious gladness by my side
Trotting contentedly, though every step
Took thee to exile nearer, and my tears
Fell fast as summer raindrops. How I clung,
When to the farm we came, with sobbing clasp
About thy snowy neck, refusing comfort,
Although they told me, to assuage my grief,
A many flattering tales of good designed,
Peculiar good to thee. Thou wert to range
For life respected, master of the flock,
To crop the sweetest herbage, and be housed,
When winter came, in warm luxurious crib.
“But shall I see him sometimes?”

“Ay, ay, sure,
Often and often, when the flock comes back
From the far pastures.”

Back it came—alas!
I saw not Willy—saw him never more;
But half deluded still by glozing words,
I thought not, witless! of the butcher's cart,
Nor transmutation fell, by murderous sleight,
Of sheep to mutton. To thy manes peace,
Offending favourite, wheresoe'er thy grave!

Dear garden! once again, with lingering look,
Reverted, half remorseful, let me dwell
Upon thee as thou wert in that old time
Of happy days departed. Thou art changed,
And I have changed thee. Was it wisely done?
Wisely and well, they say who look thereon
With unimpassioned eye, cool, clear, undimmed
By moisture such as memory gathers oft
In mine, while gazing on the things that are,
Not with the hallowed past, the loved, the lost,
Associated as those I now retrace
With tender sadness. The old shrubbery walk,
Straight as an arrow, was less graceful far
Than this fair winding among flowers and turf,
Till with an artful curve it sweeps from sight
To reappear again, just seen and lost
Among the hawthorns in the little dell.
Less lovely the old walk; but there I ran
Holding my mother's hand, a happy child;
There were her steps imprinted, and my father's,
And those of many a loved one, now laid low
In his last resting-place. No flowers, methinks,
That now I cultivate are half so sweet,
So bright, so beautiful, as those that bloomed
In the old formal borders. These clove pinks
Yield not such fragrance as the true old sort
That spiced our pot-pourri, my mother's pride,
With such peculiar richness; and this rose,
With its fine foreign name, is scentless, pale,
Compared with the old cabbage—those that blushed
In the thick hedge of spiky lavender,
Such lavender as is not nowadays;
And gillyflowers are not as they were then,
Sure to “come double;” and the night breeze now

Sighs not so loaded with delicious scents
Of lily and sevinger. Oh, my heart!
Is all indeed so altered?—or art thou
The changeling, sore aweary now at times
Of all beneath the sun?

Such weariness
Knows not that blessed spring-time of the heart
When “treasures dwell in flowers.” How glad was I,
How joyously exultant, when I found
Such virtues in my flowery treasury
As hitherto methought discoverer's eye
Had passed unheeded! Here at once I found,
Unbought, unsued for, the desired command—
How longingly desired!—of various dyes,
Wherewith to tint the semblance incomplete
In its hard pencil outline, of those forms
Of floral loveliness, whose juices now
Supplied me with a palette of all hues,
Bright as the rainbow. Brushes lacked I none
For my rude process, the soft flower or leaf
Serving for such; its moisture nice expressed
By a small cunning hand, where'er required
The imitative shadow to perfect
With glowing colour. Heavens! how plain I see,
Even at this moment, the first grand result
Of that occult invention. There it lies,
Living as life itself (I thought no less),
A sprig of purple stock, that dullest eye
Must have detected, and fault-finding critic
Have owned at least a likeness. Mother's love
Thought it perfection, when with stealing step
And flushing face and conscious, I drew near,
And laid it on her lap without a word,
Then hung upon her shoulder, shrinking back

With a child's bashfulness, all hope and fear,
Shunning and courting notice.

But I kept
Profoundly secret certain floral rites
Observed with piously romantic zeal
Through half a summer. Heaven forgave full sure
The unconscious profanation; and the sin,
If sin there was, be on thy head, old friend,
Pathetic Gesner! for thy touching song,
That most poetic prose, recording sad
The earliest annals of the human race,
And death's first triumph, filled me, heart and brain,
With stirring fancies, in my very dreams
Exciting strange desires to realise
What to the inward vision was revealed,
Haunting it like a passion. For I saw,
Plain as in substance, that first human home
In the first earthly garden;—saw the flowers
Set round her leafy bower by banished Eve,
And watered with her tears, as they recalled
Faintly the forfeit Eden; the small rills
She taught to wander 'mongst their blooming tribes,
Completing, not the semblance, but the shade.
But beautiful, most beautiful, methought
The altar of green turf, whereon were laid
Offerings as yet unstained with blood—choice fruits,
And fairest flowers fresh culled.

“And God must still”—
So with myself I argued—“surely love
Such pure, sweet offerings. There can be no harm
In laying them, as Eve was wont, each day
On such an altar. What if I could make
Something resembling that!” To work I went,

With the strong purpose which is strength and power;
And in a certain unfrequented nook
Of our long rambling garden, fenced about
By thorns and bushes, thick with summer leaves,
And threaded by a little watercourse—
No substitute contemptible, methought,
For Eve's meandering rills—uprose full soon
A mound of mossy turf, that when complete
I called an altar; and with simple faith,
Ay, and with feelings of adoring love
Hallowing the childish error, laid thereon
Daily my floral tribute; yet from prayer,
Wherewith I longed to consecrate the act,
Refraining with an undefinèd fear,
Instinctive of offence: and there was doubt
Of perfect blamelessness, unconscious doubt,
In the suspicious, unrelaxing care
With which I kept my secret. All's not well,
When hearts, that should be open as the day,
Shrink from inspection. So by slow degrees
I grew uneasy and afraid, and longed
To cast off the strange burden; and at last,
Ceasing my visits to “the sacred grove,”
I soon forgot, absorbed in fresh pursuits,
The long-neglected altar—till one day,
When coming winter, with his herald blasts,
Had thinned the covert's leafiness, I saw
Old Ephraim in his clearing progress pause,
And strike his spade against a mossy heap,
Washed low by autumn's rains, and littered round
Among the thick-strewn leaves with spars and shells,
And broken pottery, and shrivelled things
That had been garlands.

“This is Missy's work,”
Quoth the old man, and shook his head, and smiled;
“Lord bless her! how the child has toiled and moiled
To scrape up all this rubbish. Here's enough
To load a jackass!”

Desecrated shrine!
Such was thy fate, demolished as he spoke;
And of my Idyl the concluding page.

Mud—Provincial.

“The Thane of Fife,” said some one, “hath a wife;”
And so had Ephraim—a precise old dame,
Looking like ancient waxwork; her small face,
Of lemon-coloured hue—framed closely round
With most elaborate quilling—puckered up
To such prim fixedness, the button mouth
Scarcely relaxed into a button-hole
When with a smile distended; and the eyes,
Two small black beads, but twinkled, never moved.
And mincing was her speech, and picked withal,
Dainty and delicate, as was her frame,
Like an old fairy's. She had spent her youth,
And prime, and middle age—two-thirds of life—
In service of a maiden gentlewoman
Of the old buckram sort, wellnigh extinct,
Prudent, and formal, and fantastical,
Much given to nervous tremors and hysterics,
Flutterings and qualms, and godly books, and tales
Of true love crossed, and dreams, and pious courtship.
Of that soft sisterhood was Mistress Martha,
On one-legged bullfinches and wheezing lapdogs
Who lavish sympathies long run to waste,
“Since that unhappy day”—'twas her own phrase,
Mysterious, unexplained—oft hinted at
In memory's melting mood to faithful Prissey,

With sighs deep fetched, and watery upturned eyes
Glancing unutterable things, where hung,
Enshrined in shagreen case, a miniature,
Set round with garnets, in a true-love knot
Wreathed at the top, the portraiture within
Of a slim, pink-and-white young gentleman
In bag and solitaire, and point cravat,
With a peach-blossomed coat—“Ah, Prissey! Prissey!
Good girl! remember”—so the lady still
Addressed her handmaiden, when forty years
And five, full told, her girlhood had matured—
“Men are deceivers all—put no faith in them;
But live and die a chaste and peaceful maid.”
With decent grief Priscilla to the grave
Followed her monitress, and that day month
To Ephraim (who had waited for his wife
With patriarchal patience), nothing loath,
Plighted her virgin troth.

Came with the bride
Into her husband's long-prepared home,
In carved oak chest, and trunks with gilded nails,
Curiously flourished, store of household stuff,
And goodly raiment—of the latter, much
Unfitting wear for decent humble folk
Knowing their station, as full well did they,
Keeping thereto with sense of self-respect,
Insuring that of others. But Priscilla,
A favoured handmaiden, and privileged,
Accustomed long to copy, half unconscious,
Her lady's speech, and habits, and attire—
(I well remember now her puffed-out kerchief,
Closed with a garnet pin, her black fringed mits,
And narrow velvet collar)—thought no wrong
On Sundays, and on suitable occasions,

To come forth, awful to the cottage children,
In rustling pomp of some grave coloured lustring,
Sprigged muslin apron, short black satin cloak,
A thought embrowned with age, but handsome still,
Edged round with rabbit skin, and on her head,
By long black pins secured to cap and cushion,
A bonnet—Mistress Martha's second best—
A velvet skimming-dish, flounced round with lace
Darned to a double pattern. Then her shoes!
Black velveteen, high-heeled, with silver buckles:
So in her glory did Priscilla shine
On holidays and high days. Then her wits,
In housewifery expedients rich, were taxed
To cut, convert, turn, twist, transmogrify
Incongruous elements to useful ends.
Triumph of female skill!—as by enchantment,
Even at the waving of the magic shears,
Sacks, petticoats, and negligees became
Waistcoats and breeches. Shade of Mistress Martha!
Saw ye the desecration? So on Sundays,
Donning brocaded vest, and nether garment
Quilted like wise King Jamie's, warm and rich,
His good drab broadcloth coat, with basket buttons,
Heired from his grandsire, making all complete
Of Ephraim's outward man, forth sallied he,
Doing discredit none to her whose eye
Glanced sidelong approbation, as they took
Leisurely, arm in arm, the churchward way.
No scholarship had Ephraim. A plain man,
Plain spoken, chary of his words, was he,
But full of reverence for Priscilla's claims
To knowledge, learning, and superior breeding.
Deep read was she in varied lore profound,—
Divinity, Romance, and Pharmacy,

And—so the neighbours whispered—in deep things
Passing the Parson's wisdom. Store of books,
The richest portion of the bridal dower,
Were ranged in goodly order on two shelves,
The third and topmost with choice porcelain piled,
Surmounting an old walnut-tree bureau;
The Holy Bible, cased in green shaloon,
And Book of Common Prayer, a fine black type,
Were laid conspicuous on the central spot,
As first in honour; flanked on either side
By ‘Taylor's Golden Grove,’ ‘The Pilgrim's Progress,’
And ‘Fox's Book of Martyrs.’ How I loved
To ransack those old tawny, well-thumbed leaves,
Supping my fill of horrors! Sermons too,
Discourses hydra-headed, had their place,
And ‘Hervey's Meditations 'mongst the Tombs,’
With courtly Grandison and ‘Pamela,’
All full of cuts—supreme delight to me!
And the true history—sweetly scented name!—
Of Jemmy and fair Jenny Jessamy.

Then came a ragged row of Magazines,
And songs, and hymn-books; ‘Kettlewell on Death,’
And ‘Glass's Cookery.’ Treatises abstruse
On moles and warts, and virtues of all herbs,
And ailments manifold that flesh is heir to.
What wonder if respect akin to awe
For her who owned and studied those grave tomes
Impressed the simple neighbours? For myself—
Unblushingly I do confess it now—
Not without tremor, half delight, half fear,
I entered, clinging to the Nursemaid's hand,
Through the clipt laurel porch, that small neat room,
So nicely sanded round the clean-swept hearth,

Where sat expectant—(Mistress Jane, I trow,
Had her appointments for occult discourse
And cup of fragrant Hyson)—the wise woman,
With her strange primmed-up smile, the round claw table
Set out before her with its precious freight
(In Sheffield tea-tray) of old real china,
The sugar-basin a scooped cocoa-nut
Curiously carved all o'er and ebon-stained,
On three small toddling silver feet, rimmed round
With the same precious metal; silver tongs
Stuck for effect among the sparkling knobs,
With two thin tea-spoons of the treasured six;
There on its trivet the bright kettle sang,
Its cheek all ruddy with rich firelight glow;
And piping hot the buttered oven-cake
Smoked on the fender ledge, all ready quartered.
Inviting preparations not alone
To black-eyed Jane: the treat had charms for me
More irresistible;—that buttered cake!—
Forbidden dainty—tea with cream and sugar!
True, but just finished was my nursery meal—
Dry bread and milk and water. “What of that?
The precious lamb had walked a weary way,
And sure must need refreshment. One small piece
Of nice hot buttered cake would do her good,
And tea, a saucerful, to wash it down.”
So urged the Dame: Jane shook her head and smiled—
Conscience made faint resistance—the rich steam
Rose fragrant to my nostrils, and—I fell.

My treat despatched, the Maid and Matron turned
To whispered consultation, leaving me,

Right glad, to seek amusement as I would.
No lack of that, though I had stayed for hours.—
There was the cat and kitten—always one,
A creature of immortal kittenhood,
For whom, suspended by a worsted thread
To knob of dresser drawer, a bobbing cork
Dangled, perpetual plaything; there aloft
Among the crockery stood a small stuffed pug,
Natural as life, tight curled-up tail and all,
And eyes that glared a snarl; and there i' the sun
A venerable one-eyed cockatoo
With gouty legs, snored dozing in his cage—
A sacred trust! by dying lips consigned,
With his life income, to Priscilla's care.
Then there were prints and pictures hung all round—
Prints of the Parables, and one rare piece,
A landscape—castles, clouds, trees, men, and sheep,
All featherwork! Priscilla when she died
Bequeathed it to me. Poor old harmless soul!
That ever half-afraid I should have shrunk,
Scarce knowing why, from one who loved me kindly:
But then she looked so strangely, and they said
Such strange things of her.

Well! and then—and then—
There was the “Book of Martyrs,” and “The Pilgrim,”
And fifty other rarities and treasures;
But chief—surpassing all—a cuckoo clock!
That crowning wonder! miracle of art!
How have I stood entranced uncounted minutes,
With held-in breath, and eyes intently fixed
On that small magic door, that when complete
The expiring hour—the irreversible—
Flew open with a startling suddenness
Which, though expected, sent the rushing blood

In mantling flushes o'er my upturned face;
And as the bird—that more than mortal fowl!—
With perfect mimicry of natural tone,
Note after note exact time's message told,
How my heart's pulse kept time with the charmed voice!
And when it ceased made simultaneous pause
As the small door clapt to, and all was still.

Long did I meditate—yea, often dream
By day and night, at school-time and at play,—
Alas! at holiest seasons, even at church
The vision haunted me,—of that rare thing,
And his surpassing happiness to whom
Fate should assign its fellow. Thereupon
Sprang up crude notions, vague incipient schemes
Of future independence: not like those
Fermenting in the youthful brain of her
Maternally, on fashionable system,
Trained up betimes i' the way that she should go
To the one great end—a good establishment.
Yet similar in some sort were our views
Toward contingent power. “When I'm a woman
I'll have,” quoth I,—so far the will and when
Tallied exactly, but our difference lay
Touching the end to be achieved. With me,
Not settlements, and pin-money, and spouse
Appendant, but in unencumbered right
Of womanhood—a house and cuckoo clock!
Hark! as I hang reflective o'er my task,
The pen fresh nibbed and full, held idly yet;
What sound comes clicking through the half-closed door,
Distinct, monotonous?—'Tis even so;
Years past, the pledge, self-plighted, was redeemed;

There hangs with its companionable voice
The cuckoo clock in this mine house.—Ay, mine;
But left unto me desolate. Such end
Crowns oft Ambition's most successful aim—
Success than disappointment more defeating;—
Passionate longing grasps the ripened fruit
And finds it marred, a canker at the core:
What shall I dare desire of earthly good
The seeming greatest; what in prayer implore
Or deprecate, of that my secret soul
In fondness and in weakness covets most
Or deepest dreads, but with the crowning clause,
The sanctifying—“Lord! Thy will be done?”
Farther a-field we journeyed, Jane and I,
When summer days set in, with their long, light
Delicious evenings. Then, most happy child!
Most favoured!—I was sent a frequent guest,
Secure of welcome, to the loveliest home
Of all the country, o'er whose quiet walls
Brooded the twin-doves, Holiness and Peace:
There with thine aged partner didst thou dwell,
Pastor and master! servant of thy Lord,
Faithful as he, the labours of whose love
Recorded by thy pen, embalm for aye
The name of Gilpin heired by thee—right heir
Of the saint's mantle. Holy Bernard's life,
Its apostolic graces unimpaired,
Renewed in William's, virtuous parish priest!

Let me live o'er again, in fond detail,
One of those happy visits. Leave obtained,
Methought the clock stood still. Four hours past noon,
And not yet started on our three mile walk!

And six the vicarage tea hour primitive,
And I should lose that precious hour, most prized,
When in the old man's study, at his feet,
Or nestling close beside him, I might sit
With eye, ear, soul intent on his mild voice,
And face benign, and words so simply wise
Framed for his childish hearer. “Let us go!”
And like a fawn I bounded on before,
When lagging Jane came forth, and off we went.
Sultry the hour, and hot the dusty way,
Though here and there by leafy screen o'erarched—
And the long broiling hill! and that last mile
When the small frame waxed weary! the glib tongue
Slackening its motion with the languid limbs.
But joy was in my heart, howe'er suppressed
Its outward show exuberant; and, at length,
Lo! the last turning—lo! the well-known door,
Festooned about with garlands picturesque,
Of trailing evergreens. Who's weary now?
Sounding the bell with that impatient pull
That quickens Mistress Molly's answering steps
To most unusual promptness. Turns the lock—
The door uncloses—Molly's smiling face
Welcomes unasked. One eager, forward spring,
And farewell to the glaring world without;
The glaring, bustling, noisy, parched-up world!
And hail repose and verdure, turf and flowers,
Perfume of lilies, through the leafy gloom
White gleaming; and the full, rich, mellow note
Of song-thrush, hidden in the tall thick bay
Beside the study window!

The old house,
Through flickering shadows of high-arching boughs,
Caught gleams of sunlight on its time-stained walls,

And frieze of mantling vine; and lower down,
Trained among jasmines to the southern bow,
Moss roses, bursting into richest bloom,
Blushed by the open window. There she sate,
The venerable lady, her white hair
White as the snowy coif, upon her book
Or needlework intent; and near at hand
The maiden sister friend—a lifelong guest—
At her coarse sempstresship—another Dorcas,
Unwearying in the work of charity.

Oh! kindest greeting! as the door unclosed
That welcomed the half-bold half-bashful guest,
And brought me bounding on at a half word
To meet the proffered kiss. Oh, kindest care!
Considerate of my long, hot, dusty walk,
Of hat and tippet that divested me,
And clinging gloves; and from the glowing cheek
And hot brow, parted back the clustering curls,
Applying grateful coolness of clear lymph,
Distilled from fragrant elder—sovereign wash
For sunburnt skin and freckled! Kindest care,
That followed up those offices of love
By cautionary charge to sit and rest
“Quite still till tea time.” Kindest care, I trow,
But little relished. Restless was my rest,
And wistful eyes, still wandering to the door,
Revealed “the secret of my discontent,”
And told where I would be. The lady smiled,
And shook her head, and said,—

“Well! go your ways
And ask admittance at that certain door
You know so well.” All weariness was gone—
Blithe as a bird, thus freed, away I flew.

And in three seconds at the well-known door
Tapped gently; and a gentle voice within
Asking “Who's there?” “It's me,” I answered low,
Grammatically clear. “Let me come in,”
The gentle voice rejoined; and in I stole,
Bashfully silent, as the good man's smile,
And hand extended, drew me to his chair;
And there all eye and ear, I stood full long,
Still tongueless, as it seemed; love-tempering awe
Chaining my words up. But so kindly his,
His aspect so benign, his winning art
So graciously conforming; in short time
Awe was absorbed in love, and then unchained
By perfect confidence, the little tongue
Questioned and answered with as careless ease
As might be, from irreverent boldness free.
True love may cast out fear, but not respect,
That fears the very shadow of offence.

How holy was the calm of that small room!
How tenderly the evening light stole in,
As 'twere in reverence of its sanctity!
Here and there touching with a golden gleam
Book-shelf or picture-frame, or brightening up
The nosegay set with daily care—love's own—
Upon the study table. Dallying there
Among the books and papers, and with beam
Of softest radiance, starring like a glory
The old man's high bald head and noble brow,
There still I found him, busy with his pen—
Oh pen of varied power! found faithful ever,
Faithful and fearless in the one great cause—
Or some grave tome, or lighter work of taste—

His no ascetic, harsh, soul-narrowing creed—
Or that unrivalled pencil, with few strokes,
And sober tinting slight, that wrought effects
Most magical—the poetry of art!
Lovely simplicity!—true wisdom's grace—
That, condescending to a simple child,
Spread out before me hoards of graphic treasures;
Smiling encouragement as I expressed
Delight or censure—for in full good faith
I played the critic—and vouchsafing mild
To explain or vindicate; in seeming sport
Instructing ever; and on graver themes
Winning my heart to listen, as he taught
Things that pertain to life.

Oh precious seed!
Sown early; soon, too soon—the sower's hand,
The immediate mortal instrument withdrawn—
Tares of this evil world sprang thickly up
Choking your promise. But the soil beneath—
Nor rock nor shifting sand—retained ye still,
God's mercy willing it, until His hand,
Chastening as fathers chasten, cleared at last
The encumbered surface, and the grain sprang up.—
But hath it flourished?—hath it yet borne fruit
Acceptable? Oh Father! leave it not
For lack of moisture yet to fall away!