 | The Queen of the fairies |  |
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THE QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES.
I.
“A little cottage girl,
She was eight years old she said,
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster'd round her head.”
Wordsworth.
She was eight years old she said,
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster'd round her head.”
Wordsworth.
“For now, being always with her, the first love
I had—the father's, brother's love, was changed,
I think, in somewise—”
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
I had—the father's, brother's love, was changed,
I think, in somewise—”
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Poor little Nelly in her spotted frock
Used to sit sobbing in our village school,
Biting her short fore-finger, whilst her slate,
All blotted with her tears, hung round her neck
And seem'd a halter. From the narrow form
Her mottled baby legs hung sadly down;
One little foot, as tho' in agony,
Press'd tightly o'er the other, or both strove
With downward-pointed toes to reach the ground.
Low at the neck, her lilac pinafore
Was drawn down sideways thro' perplexity,
Wherefrom her little round right shoulder peep'd,
Hunch'd ear-wards from the burden of her slate.
Used to sit sobbing in our village school,
Biting her short fore-finger, whilst her slate,
All blotted with her tears, hung round her neck
And seem'd a halter. From the narrow form
Her mottled baby legs hung sadly down;
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Press'd tightly o'er the other, or both strove
With downward-pointed toes to reach the ground.
Low at the neck, her lilac pinafore
Was drawn down sideways thro' perplexity,
Wherefrom her little round right shoulder peep'd,
Hunch'd ear-wards from the burden of her slate.
'Twas not that little Nelly's curly head
Held duller brains than children's of her age,
Yet two and two would seem to make it ache.
It may have been that we, her teachers, tried
The two and two too soon; but thus she sat,
Careworn and sad tho' only eight years old,
Some years ago upon that very form
In this our village school.
Held duller brains than children's of her age,
Yet two and two would seem to make it ache.
It may have been that we, her teachers, tried
The two and two too soon; but thus she sat,
Careworn and sad tho' only eight years old,
Some years ago upon that very form
In this our village school.
Our clergyman
Was then a good, kind, venerable man
Of nigh three-score and ten, which Holy Writ
Hath said to be the age when we of earth
Strain at our tether, which wears ragged and thin
And therefore seems to stretch, but in the main
Gains poor advantage, losing strength in length.
I was his curate;—I had seen the world,
And haunted crowds, and fled in solitudes
The din of cities. Pleasure is not good,
And leads to greater evils;—this I knew,
But ere I knew, or had I never known,
I had loved Pleasure;—as it was, I strove
To love the Right;—'tis often very hard!
Was then a good, kind, venerable man
Of nigh three-score and ten, which Holy Writ
Hath said to be the age when we of earth
Strain at our tether, which wears ragged and thin
And therefore seems to stretch, but in the main
Gains poor advantage, losing strength in length.
I was his curate;—I had seen the world,
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The din of cities. Pleasure is not good,
And leads to greater evils;—this I knew,
But ere I knew, or had I never known,
I had loved Pleasure;—as it was, I strove
To love the Right;—'tis often very hard!
What matter if it was my poverty,
Or the long purse of some one of my kin,
Led me to make my home amongst the poor,
I doubly poor, from having once seem'd rich?
Here in this village, where the clergyman
Was three-score years and ten, I waited on
(I sometimes thought I waited for his death).
Or the long purse of some one of my kin,
Led me to make my home amongst the poor,
I doubly poor, from having once seem'd rich?
Here in this village, where the clergyman
Was three-score years and ten, I waited on
(I sometimes thought I waited for his death).
Then little Nelly, like a stragg'ling lamb
Long erring from the fold, was brought to school
By me, the shepherd's dog. I long had watch'd,
Outside her cottage door, this lovely child
Of lawless parents; often driven there
Rated by a resentful stepmother,
Biting her bread-and-butter into shapes
Of men and animals, or sharing it
With Wolf, her father's savage mongrel cur.
(Her father, poacher, drunkard, “ne'er do weel,”
Yet having such a careless, handsome face,
Such girth of chest, and such a merry eye,
That somehow we forgave him for his faults
And said “good-morrow” in a friendly way.)
Long erring from the fold, was brought to school
By me, the shepherd's dog. I long had watch'd,
Outside her cottage door, this lovely child
Of lawless parents; often driven there
Rated by a resentful stepmother,
Biting her bread-and-butter into shapes
Of men and animals, or sharing it
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(Her father, poacher, drunkard, “ne'er do weel,”
Yet having such a careless, handsome face,
Such girth of chest, and such a merry eye,
That somehow we forgave him for his faults
And said “good-morrow” in a friendly way.)
The mother of my pretty little Nell
Forgave him too, and some ten years ago
Had married him, then died in giving birth
To this one daughter. She was said to be
“A better sort of person,” born and bred
Some three good rungs above her husband's head
Upon the social ladder, and from her
It may have been that little Nelly got
Her gentle manner and her gentle look.
Then, being still a man the lasses liked,
Her father married, not a day too soon,
His second wife, a slattern and a shrew,
Who bore to him a shaggy-headed brood
Of squalid babies; twins and twins again
Year after year, and then a single child—
And thus the star of this poor family
Slowly declined, but surely.
Forgave him too, and some ten years ago
Had married him, then died in giving birth
To this one daughter. She was said to be
“A better sort of person,” born and bred
Some three good rungs above her husband's head
Upon the social ladder, and from her
It may have been that little Nelly got
Her gentle manner and her gentle look.
Then, being still a man the lasses liked,
Her father married, not a day too soon,
His second wife, a slattern and a shrew,
Who bore to him a shaggy-headed brood
Of squalid babies; twins and twins again
Year after year, and then a single child—
And thus the star of this poor family
Slowly declined, but surely.
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Now it chanced
One day there came up to the cottage door,
Bearing upon her back a sickly child,
A sunburnt, black-brow'd gipsy of the lanes,
And begg'd for bread, for seeing, as she said,
So many little ones, she deem'd their mother
Would never let her beg for bread in vain
For her one dying child. But Nelly's stepmother
Call'd her an ugly name, and used harsh words,
Saying the more there were around the board,
The more to feed; and in her shrewish voice
Bade her begone and starve—or, if she dared,
Thieve, as it was her wont; then call'd to Wolf
To set him at her.
One day there came up to the cottage door,
Bearing upon her back a sickly child,
A sunburnt, black-brow'd gipsy of the lanes,
And begg'd for bread, for seeing, as she said,
So many little ones, she deem'd their mother
Would never let her beg for bread in vain
For her one dying child. But Nelly's stepmother
Call'd her an ugly name, and used harsh words,
Saying the more there were around the board,
The more to feed; and in her shrewish voice
Bade her begone and starve—or, if she dared,
Thieve, as it was her wont; then call'd to Wolf
To set him at her.
Nell was standing there,
Leaning against the lintel of the door
Like some fair lily, reaching nigh the thatch,
Almost as tall as the brown hollyhock
That flower'd beside her. In her lifted hand
She held her frugal meal—'twas only bread,
But only bread the beggar-woman asked.
So, running to the weird brown woman, she held
It out towards her; with her other hand
Upon the collar of the mongrel dog
To hold him back.
Leaning against the lintel of the door
Like some fair lily, reaching nigh the thatch,
Almost as tall as the brown hollyhock
That flower'd beside her. In her lifted hand
She held her frugal meal—'twas only bread,
But only bread the beggar-woman asked.
So, running to the weird brown woman, she held
It out towards her; with her other hand
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To hold him back.
Then, raising up to heav'n
A gaunt brown finger with a silver ring,
The dark Bohemian mother utter'd a curse,
Looking towards the shaggy-headed brood
That sprawl'd beside the scraper in the sun.
But, turning round to Nelly, “These shall know
Both poverty and want,” she said, “and shame
The mother that has given birth to them
Can she know shame, whilst you, my pretty maid
(You have a lucky face!) shall dress in silks,
And live and love, and one day die a queen.”
A gaunt brown finger with a silver ring,
The dark Bohemian mother utter'd a curse,
Looking towards the shaggy-headed brood
That sprawl'd beside the scraper in the sun.
But, turning round to Nelly, “These shall know
Both poverty and want,” she said, “and shame
The mother that has given birth to them
Can she know shame, whilst you, my pretty maid
(You have a lucky face!) shall dress in silks,
And live and love, and one day die a queen.”
So the weird woman ended; with a bound
(Let loose from Nelly's unresisting hand,
Turn'd into stone by wonder) sprang the dog
To fasten on the gipsy of the lanes
Those sharp white fangs to which he ow'd his name.
But was she human, or some wand'ring witch
Born after date, or fairy godmother,
I know not; but, as swung the garden gate,
They say she vanish'd, and the mongrel cur
Bit at the air he fancied was a rag.
I since have thought that in some subtle way
This prophecy did truly come to pass
(She must have been a witch!) First let me tell
How Nelly came to be a lady, dress'd
In silks and satins; I was at the root
Of all the evil, and I blame myself
Both night and day; altho' on meeting me,
“That God may bless you, sir, for this,” she said,
“I pray each night!” and could I but rejoice
To think that up to heav'n from such sweet lips
Floated my name?
(Let loose from Nelly's unresisting hand,
Turn'd into stone by wonder) sprang the dog
To fasten on the gipsy of the lanes
Those sharp white fangs to which he ow'd his name.
But was she human, or some wand'ring witch
Born after date, or fairy godmother,
I know not; but, as swung the garden gate,
They say she vanish'd, and the mongrel cur
Bit at the air he fancied was a rag.
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This prophecy did truly come to pass
(She must have been a witch!) First let me tell
How Nelly came to be a lady, dress'd
In silks and satins; I was at the root
Of all the evil, and I blame myself
Both night and day; altho' on meeting me,
“That God may bless you, sir, for this,” she said,
“I pray each night!” and could I but rejoice
To think that up to heav'n from such sweet lips
Floated my name?
Our worthy clergyman
Went now and then in state, with all forewarn'd,
To mark the children's progress at their tasks—
Inspect their copy-books, and thro' his glass
Look wisely at their slates, and then a hymn
Was sung, and with some pompous words of praise
To some, or else to others of rebuke
(Most keenly felt, and held to cast a slur
Upon the after-life) he used to pass
Out thro' the rows of singing school-children,
Whose fresh young voices he could hear at home
During his mid-day meal—the Rectory
Being so near at hand, tho' screen'd by trees.
He was a parson of the port-wine school—
Kind-hearted, but good pay and little work
Had always been his motto. With him dwelt
The ladies of his family—his wife,
A handsome, sleepy woman, over-fed,
But kindly, and his daughters Anne and Fanny.
Anne was a meek, good, serviceable girl,
Willing and fearing God, and full of faith,
Not caring for the “plaiting of the hair”
Or fine apparel. (She is now my wife.)
But spruce Miss Fanny, with her wicked eyes,
And hour-glass form, dress'd in the newest fashion,
The butterfly of nearly twenty springs,
Had all that gay inconstancy of mood
Which goes with cherry cheeks and yellow hair.
Never was maid in less congenial sphere
Than Fanny at the Rectory: like me,
She had not her vocation with the poor.
Squalor and poverty, disease and death,
Were hateful to her; whilst the halt, the lame,
The blind—in fine, all the unfortunate,
She class'd with wasps and fleas and noisome things
Sent to torment mankind, the use of which
The sceptic questions. This I said one day,
And straightway she became offended with me
And pouted fiercely, taking it to mean
That I, the Curate, would have none of her,
Wanting a wife less worldly; for 'twas then
That foolish gossips link'd our names together,
And tho' poor Fanny could not give a heart
From breast as empty as the upper globe
Of that same hour-glass she resembled so,
Still, being vain, she loved the admiration
Of even the earth-worm underneath her heel,
And took amiss that I should, as she thought,
Say openly, “I will have none of you,”
For no prey was too mean for Fanny's net,
No mark too humble for the random darts
She shot at hazard o'er the country-side.
Went now and then in state, with all forewarn'd,
To mark the children's progress at their tasks—
Inspect their copy-books, and thro' his glass
Look wisely at their slates, and then a hymn
Was sung, and with some pompous words of praise
To some, or else to others of rebuke
(Most keenly felt, and held to cast a slur
Upon the after-life) he used to pass
Out thro' the rows of singing school-children,
Whose fresh young voices he could hear at home
During his mid-day meal—the Rectory
Being so near at hand, tho' screen'd by trees.
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Kind-hearted, but good pay and little work
Had always been his motto. With him dwelt
The ladies of his family—his wife,
A handsome, sleepy woman, over-fed,
But kindly, and his daughters Anne and Fanny.
Anne was a meek, good, serviceable girl,
Willing and fearing God, and full of faith,
Not caring for the “plaiting of the hair”
Or fine apparel. (She is now my wife.)
But spruce Miss Fanny, with her wicked eyes,
And hour-glass form, dress'd in the newest fashion,
The butterfly of nearly twenty springs,
Had all that gay inconstancy of mood
Which goes with cherry cheeks and yellow hair.
Never was maid in less congenial sphere
Than Fanny at the Rectory: like me,
She had not her vocation with the poor.
Squalor and poverty, disease and death,
Were hateful to her; whilst the halt, the lame,
The blind—in fine, all the unfortunate,
She class'd with wasps and fleas and noisome things
Sent to torment mankind, the use of which
The sceptic questions. This I said one day,
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And pouted fiercely, taking it to mean
That I, the Curate, would have none of her,
Wanting a wife less worldly; for 'twas then
That foolish gossips link'd our names together,
And tho' poor Fanny could not give a heart
From breast as empty as the upper globe
Of that same hour-glass she resembled so,
Still, being vain, she loved the admiration
Of even the earth-worm underneath her heel,
And took amiss that I should, as she thought,
Say openly, “I will have none of you,”
For no prey was too mean for Fanny's net,
No mark too humble for the random darts
She shot at hazard o'er the country-side.
(Mark you, I have not named a single name
In this poor simple tale, and of my wife
Have only said that she was christen'd “Anne”—
A common name, and homely, like herself—
So I can say my say from out my heart,
Nor write as tho' my arm were in a sling.)
In this poor simple tale, and of my wife
Have only said that she was christen'd “Anne”—
A common name, and homely, like herself—
So I can say my say from out my heart,
Nor write as tho' my arm were in a sling.)
I like to think that in these early days
Poor little Nelly loved me; as a child
Loves one who strives to mitigate its task
Or slur its punishment. Perchance in her
I guess'd a spirit kindred to my own—
A lover of the lovely things of earth,
Which I too loved, and so a sympathy
Sprang up between this little child and me
In these her baby days. So quick her wit
To seize and fathom some things that we taught,
A word, a movement of the hand sufficed
To make her know and love the firmament,
With all its constellations and lone stars,
And then the world she had not known was round
Till yesterday—how quickly did her sense
Travel across the map from Pole to Pole!
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Loves one who strives to mitigate its task
Or slur its punishment. Perchance in her
I guess'd a spirit kindred to my own—
A lover of the lovely things of earth,
Which I too loved, and so a sympathy
Sprang up between this little child and me
In these her baby days. So quick her wit
To seize and fathom some things that we taught,
A word, a movement of the hand sufficed
To make her know and love the firmament,
With all its constellations and lone stars,
And then the world she had not known was round
Till yesterday—how quickly did her sense
Travel across the map from Pole to Pole!
One day our Rector coming to the school
Absent, and in an after-dinner mood,
Took Nelly unawares, out of her turn,
Attracted doubtless by her lovely face,
And bearing in his mind some late complaints
About her slowness at arithmetic.
So, calling to her with sonorous voice,
He took her slate, first smoothing down her hair—
Being a man who, tho' in most things dense,
Could read the lines of beauty. Blushing red,
Poor Nelly gave her uncongenial task
Into his hands, with such a piteous look
I guess'd she fear'd rebuke, or even worse—
When lo! sketch'd cleverly in master-strokes,
The Rector's portrait, with his portly form,
His rough white hair and spectacles on nose,
Stood boldly out beneath a blund'ring row
Of smudgy figures. Then in abject fear
The culprit burst into a flood of tears.
The school-mistress, who scarce could read herself
(Since then the times are changed), here rush'd at her,
And thinking to propitiate the powers
By giving thus the reins to righteous wrath,
Shook her and cuff'd her soundly more than once.
But here our good old Rector interposed,
Held up his hand to stay her, and the while
Murmur'd half to himself, “'Tis very like!
'Tis very like!”
Absent, and in an after-dinner mood,
Took Nelly unawares, out of her turn,
Attracted doubtless by her lovely face,
And bearing in his mind some late complaints
About her slowness at arithmetic.
So, calling to her with sonorous voice,
He took her slate, first smoothing down her hair—
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Could read the lines of beauty. Blushing red,
Poor Nelly gave her uncongenial task
Into his hands, with such a piteous look
I guess'd she fear'd rebuke, or even worse—
When lo! sketch'd cleverly in master-strokes,
The Rector's portrait, with his portly form,
His rough white hair and spectacles on nose,
Stood boldly out beneath a blund'ring row
Of smudgy figures. Then in abject fear
The culprit burst into a flood of tears.
The school-mistress, who scarce could read herself
(Since then the times are changed), here rush'd at her,
And thinking to propitiate the powers
By giving thus the reins to righteous wrath,
Shook her and cuff'd her soundly more than once.
But here our good old Rector interposed,
Held up his hand to stay her, and the while
Murmur'd half to himself, “'Tis very like!
'Tis very like!”
“This child has wondrous power,”
Said I, advancing, “thus to seize at will
The semblance of the countenance that strikes
Her youthful fancy; such and such a one
Were but unlike because they did not speak—
She draws with strange facility;” and here
I held the slate to Fanny and to Anne;
Both were delighted. Fanny quickly said,
“This little girl shall learn to draw with me!”—
A happy thought, since might she not in time
Gain such perfection in the limner's art
As might enable her to earn her bread
Less hardly than in labour coarse and vile
Amongst her rude relations? She possess'd
Such love of art and beauty, and, alas!
Small aptitude, her jealous mentors said,
For useful knowledge. All the “work-a-day”
And harsh necessities of peasant life
Had well-nigh kill'd, I deem'd, a child so frail,
So fashion'd, as I thought, for better things.
So these few careless scratches on a slate
Changed little Nelly's future; mighty things
Oft come of small beginnings, yet t'was strange,
Those few white lines upon a dirty slate!
Said I, advancing, “thus to seize at will
The semblance of the countenance that strikes
Her youthful fancy; such and such a one
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She draws with strange facility;” and here
I held the slate to Fanny and to Anne;
Both were delighted. Fanny quickly said,
“This little girl shall learn to draw with me!”—
A happy thought, since might she not in time
Gain such perfection in the limner's art
As might enable her to earn her bread
Less hardly than in labour coarse and vile
Amongst her rude relations? She possess'd
Such love of art and beauty, and, alas!
Small aptitude, her jealous mentors said,
For useful knowledge. All the “work-a-day”
And harsh necessities of peasant life
Had well-nigh kill'd, I deem'd, a child so frail,
So fashion'd, as I thought, for better things.
So these few careless scratches on a slate
Changed little Nelly's future; mighty things
Oft come of small beginnings, yet t'was strange,
Those few white lines upon a dirty slate!
At first she seem'd no better than a toy
To Fanny, list'ning only whilst she learnt
Her music or her painting; next she join'd
In these her studies, equall'd, then surpass'd
Her fellow-pupil, tho' so young a child.
Next, as her cottage stood some miles away,
'Twas purposed she should stay for good and all
There at the Rectory, and make believe
To sew and wait on Fanny, and for this
Receive some small reward. So thus it fell
That Nelly stay'd with them, and grew each year
More lovely, and less like a peasant child,
And Fanny, who took sudden loves and hates,
Like a spoilt beauty, who is chiefly spoilt
By her own self-indulgence, made of her
Companion, sister, daughter, and white slave—
Nelly could play and sing, and draw, and sew
White linen into holes, as women will,
And it was Nelly this, and Nelly that—
All spoiling her and making much of her.
She used to read the Rector's wife to sleep,
And copy out the sermons that he droned
On Sundays, so that we might deem them his;
Then fetch'd and carried for Fanny, who, I fear,
Confided to her all about her loves
(Which Anne was far too wise to listen to),
And lent her tales of folly and romance.
Then as she grew to budding womanhood,
She slid out of her common cotton gowns
Into those planned by Fanny, who would try
Experiments on one who look'd alike
Lovely in all; or she would make her wear
The dresses she had wish'd to cast aside,
Deeming them ugly, but on seeing them
On Nelly's graceful form, would take them back
And wear them out herself. Thus made and marr'd,
Spoilt and improved, did Nelly seem to grow
A perfect lady, even more refined
Than pert Miss Fanny, with a softer voice
And gentler ways, and wearing on her brow
A pale, predestin'd look that touch'd the heart.
To Fanny, list'ning only whilst she learnt
Her music or her painting; next she join'd
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Her fellow-pupil, tho' so young a child.
Next, as her cottage stood some miles away,
'Twas purposed she should stay for good and all
There at the Rectory, and make believe
To sew and wait on Fanny, and for this
Receive some small reward. So thus it fell
That Nelly stay'd with them, and grew each year
More lovely, and less like a peasant child,
And Fanny, who took sudden loves and hates,
Like a spoilt beauty, who is chiefly spoilt
By her own self-indulgence, made of her
Companion, sister, daughter, and white slave—
Nelly could play and sing, and draw, and sew
White linen into holes, as women will,
And it was Nelly this, and Nelly that—
All spoiling her and making much of her.
She used to read the Rector's wife to sleep,
And copy out the sermons that he droned
On Sundays, so that we might deem them his;
Then fetch'd and carried for Fanny, who, I fear,
Confided to her all about her loves
(Which Anne was far too wise to listen to),
And lent her tales of folly and romance.
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She slid out of her common cotton gowns
Into those planned by Fanny, who would try
Experiments on one who look'd alike
Lovely in all; or she would make her wear
The dresses she had wish'd to cast aside,
Deeming them ugly, but on seeing them
On Nelly's graceful form, would take them back
And wear them out herself. Thus made and marr'd,
Spoilt and improved, did Nelly seem to grow
A perfect lady, even more refined
Than pert Miss Fanny, with a softer voice
And gentler ways, and wearing on her brow
A pale, predestin'd look that touch'd the heart.
Nelly saw little of her parents now
(Her stepmother and father), when she went
Taking her earnings and a lap of toys
For Polly, Kate, and Rachel, and the twins;
And those, the younger twins, and all the boys
(Eleven in all), they only jeer'd at her,
Urged by their jealous mother; all the twins
Thrust out their tongues, whilst Kate and Polly vied
In mockery, till finally in tears
She left the cottage. “Where is father?” she ask'd.
“He's out,” they said, “a-trapping Parson's hares,
And when he's took and shaved, and lodged in jail,
Thou'lt hold thy head less high, thou saucy minx!”
(Her stepmother and father), when she went
Taking her earnings and a lap of toys
For Polly, Kate, and Rachel, and the twins;
And those, the younger twins, and all the boys
(Eleven in all), they only jeer'd at her,
Urged by their jealous mother; all the twins
Thrust out their tongues, whilst Kate and Polly vied
In mockery, till finally in tears
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“He's out,” they said, “a-trapping Parson's hares,
And when he's took and shaved, and lodged in jail,
Thou'lt hold thy head less high, thou saucy minx!”
Nelly thinks 'twas the germs of sickness made
Them taunt her thus, for next we heard a fever
Had struck them one and all—Polly and Kate
And Rachel and the twins (the elder twins
Escaped by miracle, and all the boys);
But Polly died, and Rachel only rallied
After the parish people sent her shell,
Which did for Jessie (of the younger twins).
Then Nelly's father caught it, but his strength
And iron courage made him conquer it;
Tho' afterwards he never was the man
He once had been. Nelly had long'd to go
And nurse and tend them, but Miss Fanny shriek'd,
Saying it would be base ingratitude
To bring the fever to the Rectory,
Which needs must happen if she went to them;
Whilst I, who in the course of parish work
Went thither often, was not suffer'd now
To cross the threshold. Nelly sent by me
Kind messages and money, and despite
Miss Fanny's protestations, would have gone,
But hardly had she time to think of it
Before the scourge had pass'd away again.
Them taunt her thus, for next we heard a fever
Had struck them one and all—Polly and Kate
And Rachel and the twins (the elder twins
Escaped by miracle, and all the boys);
But Polly died, and Rachel only rallied
After the parish people sent her shell,
Which did for Jessie (of the younger twins).
Then Nelly's father caught it, but his strength
And iron courage made him conquer it;
Tho' afterwards he never was the man
He once had been. Nelly had long'd to go
And nurse and tend them, but Miss Fanny shriek'd,
Saying it would be base ingratitude
To bring the fever to the Rectory,
Which needs must happen if she went to them;
Whilst I, who in the course of parish work
Went thither often, was not suffer'd now
To cross the threshold. Nelly sent by me
16
Miss Fanny's protestations, would have gone,
But hardly had she time to think of it
Before the scourge had pass'd away again.
The Rector spoke to Nell to comfort her,
Patted her head and chid her for her grief,
Saying that in this fever he could see
A hidden blessing; but that she should know
The Lord mov'd in a most mysterious way,
Not making manifest to all His servants
His secret purpose; but he saw it now
Plain as the day. The cottage was too small,
Her father's family was far too large
(Eleven in all), and so the Lord had will'd
Polly and Jessie should be laid asleep
In Christ, and hence the fever: he could see
And grasp it all!
Patted her head and chid her for her grief,
Saying that in this fever he could see
A hidden blessing; but that she should know
The Lord mov'd in a most mysterious way,
Not making manifest to all His servants
His secret purpose; but he saw it now
Plain as the day. The cottage was too small,
Her father's family was far too large
(Eleven in all), and so the Lord had will'd
Polly and Jessie should be laid asleep
In Christ, and hence the fever: he could see
And grasp it all!
After a quarantine
Seeming to me to be unduly long,
I went once more to see the Rector's girls,
And with them Nelly, in her mourning dress,
Wearing an angel's face. Fanny and I
Were friends again, forgetful of the past;
For on the far horizon of her life
Appear'd a star of hope. The years had fled,
And Nelly now was nearly seventeen,
And bright Miss Fanny was Miss Fanny still,
When flash'd this luminary on her path.
And never shipwreck'd mariner who watch'd
On desert isle forsaken, hail'd a sail
With greater joy, or with a heart that beat
Much more tumultuously than Fanny's heart,
As, calling all her graces to allure
Like island bonfires, and with ev'ry flag
Floating mast-high, delightedly she hail'd
This lover who had come at last to woo.
Seeming to me to be unduly long,
I went once more to see the Rector's girls,
And with them Nelly, in her mourning dress,
Wearing an angel's face. Fanny and I
Were friends again, forgetful of the past;
17
Appear'd a star of hope. The years had fled,
And Nelly now was nearly seventeen,
And bright Miss Fanny was Miss Fanny still,
When flash'd this luminary on her path.
And never shipwreck'd mariner who watch'd
On desert isle forsaken, hail'd a sail
With greater joy, or with a heart that beat
Much more tumultuously than Fanny's heart,
As, calling all her graces to allure
Like island bonfires, and with ev'ry flag
Floating mast-high, delightedly she hail'd
This lover who had come at last to woo.
I would that I had never seen his face
Or heard his name, and that his regiment
Had fix'd on any spot upon the earth
So that it had not been our nearest town
A short ride hence. “To give the devil his due,”
He was a handsome captain of dragoons,
Steel-eyed, and standing nearly six feet two;
And what was more, he was the second son
Of a great county lord, which women like,
And so I fear they seldom said him nay—
And this I saw was written on his brow.
Or heard his name, and that his regiment
Had fix'd on any spot upon the earth
So that it had not been our nearest town
A short ride hence. “To give the devil his due,”
He was a handsome captain of dragoons,
Steel-eyed, and standing nearly six feet two;
And what was more, he was the second son
Of a great county lord, which women like,
18
And this I saw was written on his brow.
I often talk'd to Nelly whilst he sat
Ogling Miss Fanny in the summer-house,
Stooping from time to time his length of limb
To pick her ball of worsted from the ground.
Sometimes he glistened in the panoply
Of war; his charger all caparisoned
Would clatter up the little avenue,
Making the windows ring, and fill with caps
Of fluttering maid-servants. I could not help
Contrasting my meek advent with what seem'd
A bright triumphal entry, and I said
Slily to Nelly, “When I come to tea
No one looks out, and thrice I ring the bell,
Yet no one comes; whilst now each servant strives
To cast the other's efforts in the shade.”
She sigh'd, look'd down, and innocently said,
“You see he is so handsome,” and then blushed;
And from that day I felt I hated him.
Ogling Miss Fanny in the summer-house,
Stooping from time to time his length of limb
To pick her ball of worsted from the ground.
Sometimes he glistened in the panoply
Of war; his charger all caparisoned
Would clatter up the little avenue,
Making the windows ring, and fill with caps
Of fluttering maid-servants. I could not help
Contrasting my meek advent with what seem'd
A bright triumphal entry, and I said
Slily to Nelly, “When I come to tea
No one looks out, and thrice I ring the bell,
Yet no one comes; whilst now each servant strives
To cast the other's efforts in the shade.”
She sigh'd, look'd down, and innocently said,
“You see he is so handsome,” and then blushed;
And from that day I felt I hated him.
So weeks went by, and spring was here again—
The time of pairing birds—and Fanny still
Was still Miss Fanny, and the tall dragoon
Still at the Rectory. I tired of him,
And long'd, I knew not why, to say some word
Provocative to combat; for no cause
My sight was wearied of his length of limb,
His eyes that look'd at women with a look
That seem'd to mean possession, and his face
“So very handsome,” as poor Nelly said.
And hence I grew morose and quarrelsome,
And let fall bitter sarcasms in my talk,
Whereat he fix'd me with his steely glance,
And feeling that I could not trust myself
To meet him save in so distorted mood,
I fled his presence, and I forthwith plunged
Into my parish work, or sought the woods,
And there would sit and con old classic lore,
Or try to solve from pious Christian page
Life's strange enigmas.
The time of pairing birds—and Fanny still
19
Still at the Rectory. I tired of him,
And long'd, I knew not why, to say some word
Provocative to combat; for no cause
My sight was wearied of his length of limb,
His eyes that look'd at women with a look
That seem'd to mean possession, and his face
“So very handsome,” as poor Nelly said.
And hence I grew morose and quarrelsome,
And let fall bitter sarcasms in my talk,
Whereat he fix'd me with his steely glance,
And feeling that I could not trust myself
To meet him save in so distorted mood,
I fled his presence, and I forthwith plunged
Into my parish work, or sought the woods,
And there would sit and con old classic lore,
Or try to solve from pious Christian page
Life's strange enigmas.
Thus it chanced one day,
I linger'd 'neath the fan-like chestnut leaves,
And where the tremulous laburnum shower'd
Its wealth of unappreciated gold
Low at my feet; like to the amorous god
Who pleaded erst to prison'd Danaë,
Raining his golden kisses on her breast,
So did the yellow kisses of the flower
Light on my heart and make it warm with spring.
O god of bygone ages! well I know
Thine altars all deserted, and the fires
That warm'd them and thine heart incontinent
Died out, and yet, O sire of Perseus!
As on my breast these faint warm yellow flakes
Descended, in this prosy modern time,
Some knowledge of the pastime of thy lips
Breath'd to my soul the kisses of the flower;
Then to my heart dreams of immortal love,
Of sweet ambrosial kisses from sweet lips,
Seem'd wafted on the fragrant air of spring,
Bidding me hope, and make my evening dream
Of love, and of the multifarious forms
That lovers oft have taken to assure
Their heart's desire. I counted o'er and o'er
The loves of bygone ages, and from each
Cull'd some example or some augury
For my poor love—my love as yet unguess'd!
I linger'd 'neath the fan-like chestnut leaves,
And where the tremulous laburnum shower'd
Its wealth of unappreciated gold
Low at my feet; like to the amorous god
Who pleaded erst to prison'd Danaë,
20
So did the yellow kisses of the flower
Light on my heart and make it warm with spring.
O god of bygone ages! well I know
Thine altars all deserted, and the fires
That warm'd them and thine heart incontinent
Died out, and yet, O sire of Perseus!
As on my breast these faint warm yellow flakes
Descended, in this prosy modern time,
Some knowledge of the pastime of thy lips
Breath'd to my soul the kisses of the flower;
Then to my heart dreams of immortal love,
Of sweet ambrosial kisses from sweet lips,
Seem'd wafted on the fragrant air of spring,
Bidding me hope, and make my evening dream
Of love, and of the multifarious forms
That lovers oft have taken to assure
Their heart's desire. I counted o'er and o'er
The loves of bygone ages, and from each
Cull'd some example or some augury
For my poor love—my love as yet unguess'd!
I knew not why into these waking dreams
Slid little Nelly's image “spic and span,”
Dress'd in Miss Fanny's faded left-off gowns,
Which look'd so much the better for their wear—
And then I found myself, I knew not why,
Regretting Nelly's humble parentage,
And then excusing it—and then (O shame!
We men are too ignoble!) catching at straws
Of vague, imagin'ry gentility—
Why Nelly's father had that noble look
Which none disputed,—such a classic line
Of brow and beard; of stories got afloat
Of Nelly's mother, how she wrote and read
English and French and German, and had been
“A better sort of person,” none denied.
These nibbling worms of caste, I fancied I
Of all men most despised, seem'd rising now
Like dragons, one by one to be impaled
By me, a poor inglorious Saint George
In rusty cassock! Thus the daylight dimm'd
Into a deep'ning twilight. That one star
That always rises o'er the fir-tree belt
Was there betimes. (I look at it each night;
It seems to me a little watching eye
That knows my past and brings it back to me.)
I was awaken'd from my reverie
By the dull thudding of a horse's hoofs
Treading on meadow grass. I look'd and saw,
Divided from me by a hawthorn hedge
Snow'd o'er with bloom, the Captain and a form
I took for Fanny's. Angrily I thought
“This man seems doom'd to haunt me ev'rywhere!”
And rose to go. He held his bridle-rein
Loosely about his arm, and came on foot,
Leading his horse along the grassy lane
That cut the copse in two. They came towards me,
I being too far off to hear their words,
Yet feeling all the guilt of eaves-dropping,
Since opposite my only exit thence
They stopp'd, as seemingly to say farewell.
Slid little Nelly's image “spic and span,”
21
Which look'd so much the better for their wear—
And then I found myself, I knew not why,
Regretting Nelly's humble parentage,
And then excusing it—and then (O shame!
We men are too ignoble!) catching at straws
Of vague, imagin'ry gentility—
Why Nelly's father had that noble look
Which none disputed,—such a classic line
Of brow and beard; of stories got afloat
Of Nelly's mother, how she wrote and read
English and French and German, and had been
“A better sort of person,” none denied.
These nibbling worms of caste, I fancied I
Of all men most despised, seem'd rising now
Like dragons, one by one to be impaled
By me, a poor inglorious Saint George
In rusty cassock! Thus the daylight dimm'd
Into a deep'ning twilight. That one star
That always rises o'er the fir-tree belt
Was there betimes. (I look at it each night;
It seems to me a little watching eye
That knows my past and brings it back to me.)
22
By the dull thudding of a horse's hoofs
Treading on meadow grass. I look'd and saw,
Divided from me by a hawthorn hedge
Snow'd o'er with bloom, the Captain and a form
I took for Fanny's. Angrily I thought
“This man seems doom'd to haunt me ev'rywhere!”
And rose to go. He held his bridle-rein
Loosely about his arm, and came on foot,
Leading his horse along the grassy lane
That cut the copse in two. They came towards me,
I being too far off to hear their words,
Yet feeling all the guilt of eaves-dropping,
Since opposite my only exit thence
They stopp'd, as seemingly to say farewell.
It was a leafy hollow in the lane
Leading up to the darkness of the wood—
I could not see the head that on his breast
Was leaning lovingly, the hawthorn hedge
Rising just high enough to make a screen
Up to the captain's shoulder, but I knew
Her head was there, seeing his tender glance
Down-droop'd to what he often bent to kiss.
Then I felt angry, tho' I scarce knew why,
That he should make so free with women's lips—
I thought, “It is the myth of Danaë
Over again; the glitter of the gold
Is what o'ercomes them, even when, as now,
'Tis only on his coat!” then bitterly
I turn'd to go, first having seen afar
The flitting of a speeding female form
Athwart the boughs, clad in a flutt'ring dress
Of white, and hast'ning with a quicker step
Than Fanny's usual lazy measured walk.
Leading up to the darkness of the wood—
I could not see the head that on his breast
Was leaning lovingly, the hawthorn hedge
Rising just high enough to make a screen
Up to the captain's shoulder, but I knew
Her head was there, seeing his tender glance
Down-droop'd to what he often bent to kiss.
23
That he should make so free with women's lips—
I thought, “It is the myth of Danaë
Over again; the glitter of the gold
Is what o'ercomes them, even when, as now,
'Tis only on his coat!” then bitterly
I turn'd to go, first having seen afar
The flitting of a speeding female form
Athwart the boughs, clad in a flutt'ring dress
Of white, and hast'ning with a quicker step
Than Fanny's usual lazy measured walk.
I met her as I near'd the Rectory,
Seemingly coming from another way,
And said to her with a malicious smile,
“Those who keep trysts should never dress in white.”
She open'd her blue eyes as wondering,
And as I still was standing bant'ring her,
Nelly pass'd thro' the garden, dress'd in white,
Bound round the waist with black, and half her face
Hid in a bunch of newly gather'd flow'rs.
Seemingly coming from another way,
And said to her with a malicious smile,
“Those who keep trysts should never dress in white.”
She open'd her blue eyes as wondering,
And as I still was standing bant'ring her,
Nelly pass'd thro' the garden, dress'd in white,
Bound round the waist with black, and half her face
Hid in a bunch of newly gather'd flow'rs.
24
II.
“Dansez, chantez, villageois, la nuit tombe.
Sabine un jour
A tout donné, sa beauté de colombe
Et son amour,
Pour l'anneau d'or du Comte de Saldagne,
Pour un bijou....”
Victor Hugo (Le Fou de Tolède).
Sabine un jour
A tout donné, sa beauté de colombe
Et son amour,
Pour l'anneau d'or du Comte de Saldagne,
Pour un bijou....”
Victor Hugo (Le Fou de Tolède).
Next morning Joseph, my one serving man,
Brought me a letter which I laid aside,
Ne'er guessing what was in it; then he stood
As loth to leave me, looking big with news,
And seeming vex'd that I had put aside
The letter he had brought me. “Speak,” said I,
“And tell me, is there anything amiss?”
Brought me a letter which I laid aside,
Ne'er guessing what was in it; then he stood
As loth to leave me, looking big with news,
And seeming vex'd that I had put aside
The letter he had brought me. “Speak,” said I,
“And tell me, is there anything amiss?”
Then, twisting round his hat, he blurted out,
“There's pretty doings at the Rectory!
Parson's girl, Nell, that was brought up so fine,
Has gone off in the night to Gretna Green
With poor Miss Fanny's captain!”
“There's pretty doings at the Rectory!
Parson's girl, Nell, that was brought up so fine,
25
With poor Miss Fanny's captain!”
Had I heard
His words aright, or did I rave or dream?
I stagger'd to my desk, whereon was lain
The letter, partly that my twitching hands
Might clutch at something; ah! it was from her!
His words aright, or did I rave or dream?
I stagger'd to my desk, whereon was lain
The letter, partly that my twitching hands
Might clutch at something; ah! it was from her!
A long, long letter! Was it cruel or kind
To let me know that she had thought of me
Whilst waiting for her lover? Was it kind
Or cruel, thus to dwell upon her love
Knowing (she must have known—all women know!)
My secret, turn'd to gall and wormwood now?
She “loved him all along,” the letter said,—
It was a woman's letter—to explain;
Beginning from the time when first she saw
This man whom I had “hated all along”
As she had lov'd him. And this love of him
Seeming her one excuse, she dwelt on it
To make me feel it. When he came at first
She deem'd it was for Fanny. Never bliss
So great as hers, or such a sweet surprise
As when she learnt the truth—not long ago.
She pray'd that she might tell it to Miss Fanny,
Fearing she might have fix'd her heart on him;
But he had bound her o'er to secrecy,
Saying (and here he might have spoken truth)
That Fanny had not got a heart to fix,
And that her vanity had ne'er allow'd
That he should come so often to the house
Save as her own admirer, tho' he swore
He had not breathed to her one word of love.
To let me know that she had thought of me
Whilst waiting for her lover? Was it kind
Or cruel, thus to dwell upon her love
Knowing (she must have known—all women know!)
My secret, turn'd to gall and wormwood now?
She “loved him all along,” the letter said,—
It was a woman's letter—to explain;
Beginning from the time when first she saw
This man whom I had “hated all along”
As she had lov'd him. And this love of him
Seeming her one excuse, she dwelt on it
To make me feel it. When he came at first
She deem'd it was for Fanny. Never bliss
So great as hers, or such a sweet surprise
As when she learnt the truth—not long ago.
26
Fearing she might have fix'd her heart on him;
But he had bound her o'er to secrecy,
Saying (and here he might have spoken truth)
That Fanny had not got a heart to fix,
And that her vanity had ne'er allow'd
That he should come so often to the house
Save as her own admirer, tho' he swore
He had not breathed to her one word of love.
Thus Nelly dared not speak, but begg'd the time
Of this enforced deception might be short.
She also ask'd to tell me of her love;
But this he too forbade her. So the days
Pass'd on, and now she soon should be his wife—
The happiest of women,—might she hope
I would forgive her? Was it such a crime
To love so loyally one's only love,
That one would follow him to do his will
Out into life, and in the dead of night
Thus leave the roof that long had seem'd a home?
Nay, women had done bolder things than this;
She long'd to do far more—to die for him.
But then, alas! it is not often given
To die for those we love!...So ran her words.
Alas, poor child! and only seventeen,
And all my doing! Had she stay'd at home
And lived in squalor and in poverty
In the old cottage with the rotting thatch,
I wonder would this gallant gentleman
Have sought her out, and at the midnight hour
Borne her away upon his saddle-bow?
“If you” (the letter said towards the end)
“Think me ungrateful, it would break my heart
If I were not too happy. Think me still
Your little Nelly.”
Of this enforced deception might be short.
She also ask'd to tell me of her love;
But this he too forbade her. So the days
Pass'd on, and now she soon should be his wife—
The happiest of women,—might she hope
I would forgive her? Was it such a crime
To love so loyally one's only love,
That one would follow him to do his will
Out into life, and in the dead of night
Thus leave the roof that long had seem'd a home?
Nay, women had done bolder things than this;
She long'd to do far more—to die for him.
But then, alas! it is not often given
27
Alas, poor child! and only seventeen,
And all my doing! Had she stay'd at home
And lived in squalor and in poverty
In the old cottage with the rotting thatch,
I wonder would this gallant gentleman
Have sought her out, and at the midnight hour
Borne her away upon his saddle-bow?
“If you” (the letter said towards the end)
“Think me ungrateful, it would break my heart
If I were not too happy. Think me still
Your little Nelly.”
Having written this,
I think she must have heard her lover's signal,
For there were one or two unfinished lines,
As though she would have written something more
Had not time press'd; and then at one o'clock
(As near as could be), softly and by stealth
She fled into the fragrant summer night,
Leaving the roof that now had sheltered her
For more than seven years.
I think she must have heard her lover's signal,
For there were one or two unfinished lines,
As though she would have written something more
Had not time press'd; and then at one o'clock
(As near as could be), softly and by stealth
She fled into the fragrant summer night,
Leaving the roof that now had sheltered her
For more than seven years.
I scarce had read
These lines that changed my life, when down the walk
I saw Miss Fanny and the Rector's wife
Coming to tell me of the night's mischance.
They did me good, since calming Fanny forced
Me into calm myself. She storm'd and raved
And wept and laugh'd most wildly, whilst the words
“Hypocrite!” “Viper!” “Base adventuress!”
“Snake in the grass!” and many even worse
Went flying from her lips. Her mother sat
Placid, but sad, tho' now and then she sigh'd
And spoke of “disappointment,” and her fears
That Nelly and her father, and his wife
And all the children, were “a wicked lot;”
Adding to Fanny, that one could not make,
As hath been often said, a silken purse
Out of a sow's ear. Thus they sat and said
Their sev'ral says; then Fanny feeling faint,
After her vehemence, I press'd on her
A glass of wine, and handed her her hat,
Which in her rage she flung upon the floor.
Joseph, my serving-man, who fetch'd the wine,
Here said that he had “thought it all the time,”
But that he would have “bitten out his tongue”
Rather than speak of it to any one;
And then they left me to the saddest thoughts
That ever man awaken'd to a truth
May battle with in silence and alone.
These lines that changed my life, when down the walk
I saw Miss Fanny and the Rector's wife
28
They did me good, since calming Fanny forced
Me into calm myself. She storm'd and raved
And wept and laugh'd most wildly, whilst the words
“Hypocrite!” “Viper!” “Base adventuress!”
“Snake in the grass!” and many even worse
Went flying from her lips. Her mother sat
Placid, but sad, tho' now and then she sigh'd
And spoke of “disappointment,” and her fears
That Nelly and her father, and his wife
And all the children, were “a wicked lot;”
Adding to Fanny, that one could not make,
As hath been often said, a silken purse
Out of a sow's ear. Thus they sat and said
Their sev'ral says; then Fanny feeling faint,
After her vehemence, I press'd on her
A glass of wine, and handed her her hat,
Which in her rage she flung upon the floor.
Joseph, my serving-man, who fetch'd the wine,
Here said that he had “thought it all the time,”
But that he would have “bitten out his tongue”
Rather than speak of it to any one;
And then they left me to the saddest thoughts
29
May battle with in silence and alone.
Fanny took for a fortnight to her bed
After her frenzy in my little room,
Then left it, leaving in it all her grief,
As it would seem, she look'd so bright again.
Maybe she felt consoled at having heard
The wife of her deceiver's elder brother
Had borne a son, so had she married him
She ne'er could hope to queen it at “the Keep”—
And thus she came to talk quite pleasantly
Of what had been a sorrow, only now
I had nor time nor nerve to listen to her,
Neck-deep in books and in my village poor
(Thus did I strive to kill the thoughts that came
Surging upon me in my idle hours).
But one day going to the Rectory
To civilise myself, she said to me
Quite cheerfully, she had not deem'd he loved
Poor little Nelly, till on seeing me
Conversing with her, he had ground his teeth,
And, speaking of me shortly afterwards,
Had said, “That cursèd curate,” and from this
She said, she since had thought that at his heart
He felt “the green-eyed monster jealousy.”
After her frenzy in my little room,
Then left it, leaving in it all her grief,
As it would seem, she look'd so bright again.
Maybe she felt consoled at having heard
The wife of her deceiver's elder brother
Had borne a son, so had she married him
She ne'er could hope to queen it at “the Keep”—
And thus she came to talk quite pleasantly
Of what had been a sorrow, only now
I had nor time nor nerve to listen to her,
Neck-deep in books and in my village poor
(Thus did I strive to kill the thoughts that came
Surging upon me in my idle hours).
But one day going to the Rectory
To civilise myself, she said to me
Quite cheerfully, she had not deem'd he loved
Poor little Nelly, till on seeing me
Conversing with her, he had ground his teeth,
And, speaking of me shortly afterwards,
Had said, “That cursèd curate,” and from this
30
He felt “the green-eyed monster jealousy.”
Fanny was spiteful underneath her smiles
As cat's claws under velvet; as for me,
“Be spiteful as you will, my pretty maid,”
I thought, too sad for anger, whilst to him
I long'd to say, “Oh, call me, if you will,
‘That cursèd curate’; mock and jeer at me,
But spare our village queen, our pretty Nell!”
As cat's claws under velvet; as for me,
“Be spiteful as you will, my pretty maid,”
I thought, too sad for anger, whilst to him
I long'd to say, “Oh, call me, if you will,
‘That cursèd curate’; mock and jeer at me,
But spare our village queen, our pretty Nell!”
It was as tho' the fault of Nelly brought
Ill luck at once to all the “wicked lot,”
For some days afterwards her father stole
Some pheasants' eggs, and being seen and caught,
He closed upon the keeper, threw him down
With an old wrestling trick that was his pride,
And broke his arm. But for this violence
I think he had been treated leniently,
For knowing he could no more keep from game
Than can a fish from water, knowing too
His growing family and slender means,
Our squires would not begrudge him now and then
A passing hare or rabbit: as it was,
'Twas a bad case, they said—one to be made
Into a stern example; so he pass'd
A year of labour in the county gaol.
When he came out he seem'd a broken man,
Hanging his head, and feeling his disgrace—
Oddly enough, since nearly all his life
This was the fate he had not fear'd to risk
With bold indiff'rence. Some said Nelly's flight
Had touch'd him more than he had cared to own,
And then the drink after his prison fare
Made double havoc with his wasted frame,
And lastly I was told “he'd had a stroke,”
And going to him, found him shrunk and pale
And rambling in his talk. Beside the fire
He sat all day, nor cared to see the sun
Or breathe the outer air; the doctor said,
Shaking his head, “He will not poach again,”
But thought that he might linger on for years.
Ill luck at once to all the “wicked lot,”
For some days afterwards her father stole
Some pheasants' eggs, and being seen and caught,
He closed upon the keeper, threw him down
With an old wrestling trick that was his pride,
And broke his arm. But for this violence
I think he had been treated leniently,
For knowing he could no more keep from game
Than can a fish from water, knowing too
His growing family and slender means,
Our squires would not begrudge him now and then
A passing hare or rabbit: as it was,
31
Into a stern example; so he pass'd
A year of labour in the county gaol.
When he came out he seem'd a broken man,
Hanging his head, and feeling his disgrace—
Oddly enough, since nearly all his life
This was the fate he had not fear'd to risk
With bold indiff'rence. Some said Nelly's flight
Had touch'd him more than he had cared to own,
And then the drink after his prison fare
Made double havoc with his wasted frame,
And lastly I was told “he'd had a stroke,”
And going to him, found him shrunk and pale
And rambling in his talk. Beside the fire
He sat all day, nor cared to see the sun
Or breathe the outer air; the doctor said,
Shaking his head, “He will not poach again,”
But thought that he might linger on for years.
Thus did the sunshine seem to fade away
Out of our village, or it may have been
That so it seem'd to me. The Rector, too,
I think, miss'd little Nell about the house,
And felt her loss more than his women-folk—
Having a lighter step and softer hand
To do his bidding than the other girls.
Out of our village, or it may have been
That so it seem'd to me. The Rector, too,
I think, miss'd little Nell about the house,
And felt her loss more than his women-folk—
32
To do his bidding than the other girls.
And so the years dragg'd on, to those who work'd
Seeming less long, but not less wearisome,
And sad to me as sight of coffin'd face,
Wearing that darken'd look which says the soul
Has glided to the light of better days.
Seeming less long, but not less wearisome,
And sad to me as sight of coffin'd face,
Wearing that darken'd look which says the soul
Has glided to the light of better days.
33
III.
“O bitterness of things too sweet!
O broken singing of the dove!
Love's wings are over-fleet,
And like the panther's feet
The feet of Love.”
Swinburne.
O broken singing of the dove!
Love's wings are over-fleet,
And like the panther's feet
The feet of Love.”
Swinburne.
“If it be true, O Lord! that whom thou lov'st
Thou chastenest, then hast Thou lovèd me,
And I have lived to thank Thee for it, Lord!
Thou chastenest, then hast Thou lovèd me,
And I have lived to thank Thee for it, Lord!
“Nelly was here to-day: she is a beggar,
And carries in her arms a little child,
Like that same gipsy who, ten years ago,
Said foolishly that she should die a queen.”
And carries in her arms a little child,
Like that same gipsy who, ten years ago,
Said foolishly that she should die a queen.”
These were the words I wrote long years ago
When Nelly came a beggar to my door;
'Twas late in an autumn evening, and the wind
Whisper'd sad mem'ries to me as I mused
Under the cedar-tree amongst my books.
I suddenly look'd up, thinking some leaf
Seem'd rustling to me almost humanly,
And there she stood before me, close at hand,
I think I see her now—my pretty Nell!
When Nelly came a beggar to my door;
'Twas late in an autumn evening, and the wind
34
Under the cedar-tree amongst my books.
I suddenly look'd up, thinking some leaf
Seem'd rustling to me almost humanly,
And there she stood before me, close at hand,
I think I see her now—my pretty Nell!
Then all the hungry craving of my heart
Seem'd to take shape and voice, and cry aloud,
And seeing her thus brought so low by shame
And poverty, who once had been so pure
And beautiful, and held her head so high—
Not scorning her for this, or asking whether
'Twere best to scorn her, holding forth my arms—
I took her by her wan, white lady's hand
And led her o'er the threshold of my door.
Seem'd to take shape and voice, and cry aloud,
And seeing her thus brought so low by shame
And poverty, who once had been so pure
And beautiful, and held her head so high—
Not scorning her for this, or asking whether
'Twere best to scorn her, holding forth my arms—
I took her by her wan, white lady's hand
And led her o'er the threshold of my door.
There I grew weak as woman at sight of her
So changed, yet almost glad, she seem'd more near,
Coming to me for shelter. (May God forgive me!)
I know not if grief makes more beautiful
All women, having met with few who grieved,
But never did the whiteness of a face
Thrill thro' me as did hers, all wan with sorrow
And dim with unshed tears: so holding her hand,
“Stay with me, Nelly,” I said, “and be my wife—
I care for none but you. Bury your past,
And let us live together all our lives
Far, far away from here!”
So changed, yet almost glad, she seem'd more near,
Coming to me for shelter. (May God forgive me!)
I know not if grief makes more beautiful
All women, having met with few who grieved,
But never did the whiteness of a face
Thrill thro' me as did hers, all wan with sorrow
35
“Stay with me, Nelly,” I said, “and be my wife—
I care for none but you. Bury your past,
And let us live together all our lives
Far, far away from here!”
And then the Church,
My own advancement, and the world's rebuke
Seem'd lesser things than little dancing gnats
That buzz towards an open window-pane
And vanish out of sight: but drawing back,
“I'm married,” she said, and put aside my hands.
My own advancement, and the world's rebuke
Seem'd lesser things than little dancing gnats
That buzz towards an open window-pane
And vanish out of sight: but drawing back,
“I'm married,” she said, and put aside my hands.
And so I do believe she deemed she was.
As firmly as yon pointed modern spire
Was grafted on to this old Norman church
By some restorer and loosed Bedlamite,
As firmly did poor Nelly think herself
Grafted upon that ancient Norman tree,
So rotten at the core!
As firmly as yon pointed modern spire
Was grafted on to this old Norman church
By some restorer and loosed Bedlamite,
As firmly did poor Nelly think herself
Grafted upon that ancient Norman tree,
So rotten at the core!
Nelly had walk'd,
Bearing the burden of her ailing child,
Along the weary length of turnpike road
Between our village and the nearest town,
Where she had come from London.
Bearing the burden of her ailing child,
Along the weary length of turnpike road
Between our village and the nearest town,
Where she had come from London.
36
When she near'd
The whitewash'd cottage with the rotting thatch
(Her former home), a thousand memories
Crowded upon her. Would they all be well
And glad to see her? Were the girls at home,
And had the boys found work? But first of all,
How was her father? With a trembling step
She hasten'd up the little garden walk,
And, not to take them too much unawares,
Tapp'd at the door—her old accustom'd knock
When home-returning at the evening hour
After the slipping of the inner bolt.
Her stepmother, not alter'd from the shrew
And slattern she had been, unlatch'd the door,
Then, seeing who it was, she closed it, half,
Standing herself outside, and eyeing her
From head to foot, and, pointing to the child,
With scorn reviled her, hurling at her words
Of shame and execration. Nelly stood
And listened to her curses silently,
Bowing her head until the storm was o'er,
And never “snatching at the falling knife”
Till she had said her say, then pleadingly
She ask'd for bread and shelter for the night.
But her harsh stepmother bade her begone,
And calling Wolf she would have set him at her
As at the gipsy, but the poor old dog
Knew her again, and crawling up to her
Whined at her feet. She peep'd inside the door,
And saw her two half-sisters, women grown,
Black-brow'd and comely; Kate, the elder one,
Sat crouching with a baby at her breast.
Then, looking towards the settle by the fire,
She saw her father in his Sunday smock,
Shrunk down into man of smaller size,
And staring at her blankly, underneath
The patch-work frill upon the chimney-piece
Work'd by her hands. She stretch'd her arms to him
And call'd out, “Father!” but he seem'd so deaf,
And look'd so strange, she drew away afraid,
And cov'ring with her hands her tearful eyes,
She turn'd, and passing the brown hollyhock
And shabby bee-hives, push'd the wicket-gate
And stagger'd to the road. The poor old dog,
Just too late, parted from her by the gate,
Stood straining over, crying out to her,
And saying to her, almost plain as words,
“Come back and stay with me, your true old friend!”
Nelly knew then that broken-heartedness
Is not an idle word, for at her heart
She felt a sharp, keen pain (some years ago
Our doctor told me that her heart was “wrong,”
Which made her face look always lily pale).
She walk'd along the road as in a dream,
First, going up towards the garden-gate,
She took old Wolf's rough head between her hands,
And kiss'd his ugly face and said good-bye,
Whilst from her own the warm tears fell on his,
(Too happy dog!) and so she came to me,
Walking as in her sleep, or in a dream.
The whitewash'd cottage with the rotting thatch
(Her former home), a thousand memories
Crowded upon her. Would they all be well
And glad to see her? Were the girls at home,
And had the boys found work? But first of all,
How was her father? With a trembling step
She hasten'd up the little garden walk,
And, not to take them too much unawares,
Tapp'd at the door—her old accustom'd knock
When home-returning at the evening hour
After the slipping of the inner bolt.
Her stepmother, not alter'd from the shrew
And slattern she had been, unlatch'd the door,
Then, seeing who it was, she closed it, half,
Standing herself outside, and eyeing her
From head to foot, and, pointing to the child,
With scorn reviled her, hurling at her words
Of shame and execration. Nelly stood
And listened to her curses silently,
Bowing her head until the storm was o'er,
And never “snatching at the falling knife”
Till she had said her say, then pleadingly
She ask'd for bread and shelter for the night.
37
And calling Wolf she would have set him at her
As at the gipsy, but the poor old dog
Knew her again, and crawling up to her
Whined at her feet. She peep'd inside the door,
And saw her two half-sisters, women grown,
Black-brow'd and comely; Kate, the elder one,
Sat crouching with a baby at her breast.
Then, looking towards the settle by the fire,
She saw her father in his Sunday smock,
Shrunk down into man of smaller size,
And staring at her blankly, underneath
The patch-work frill upon the chimney-piece
Work'd by her hands. She stretch'd her arms to him
And call'd out, “Father!” but he seem'd so deaf,
And look'd so strange, she drew away afraid,
And cov'ring with her hands her tearful eyes,
She turn'd, and passing the brown hollyhock
And shabby bee-hives, push'd the wicket-gate
And stagger'd to the road. The poor old dog,
Just too late, parted from her by the gate,
Stood straining over, crying out to her,
And saying to her, almost plain as words,
“Come back and stay with me, your true old friend!”
38
Is not an idle word, for at her heart
She felt a sharp, keen pain (some years ago
Our doctor told me that her heart was “wrong,”
Which made her face look always lily pale).
She walk'd along the road as in a dream,
First, going up towards the garden-gate,
She took old Wolf's rough head between her hands,
And kiss'd his ugly face and said good-bye,
Whilst from her own the warm tears fell on his,
(Too happy dog!) and so she came to me,
Walking as in her sleep, or in a dream.
What seem'd the hardest thing of all to bear
Was that my Nelly, taught and form'd by me
Into so sweet a thing to gaze upon,
Should love this man I hated, love him still
Despite great injury and heart-burning,
And then, (tho' she would never think it so,)
A sheer desertion. Wait a little while,
And then her marriage story shall be told.
Was it a marriage? True, she wore a ring
(In which she would be buried when she died,
She used to say, and I should bury her—
Oh, sorry consolation! but life is made
Of parti-colour like a harlequin),
And round her neck she wore a chain of gold.
(Starving, she clung to this as pilgrims cling
To tooth of saint or fragment of the cross,
In this I was to bury her as well);
And on to this a little golden heart
(It was his heart, he said who gave it her),
Cleft into three divisions—in the first
The portrait of my Nelly when a girl,
(Touch'd up by her with subtle little strokes
Spoiling the likeness, but which made, she thought,
The whole more beautiful), and in the midst
An empty space, left for that callow head
That used to nestle now so near her breast
I dared not see it, wishing not to see
The likeness to its father. In the last
There was the hated semblance of a face
I had not loathed the more had it been foul
As it was comely.
Was that my Nelly, taught and form'd by me
Into so sweet a thing to gaze upon,
Should love this man I hated, love him still
Despite great injury and heart-burning,
And then, (tho' she would never think it so,)
A sheer desertion. Wait a little while,
And then her marriage story shall be told.
Was it a marriage? True, she wore a ring
(In which she would be buried when she died,
She used to say, and I should bury her—
39
Of parti-colour like a harlequin),
And round her neck she wore a chain of gold.
(Starving, she clung to this as pilgrims cling
To tooth of saint or fragment of the cross,
In this I was to bury her as well);
And on to this a little golden heart
(It was his heart, he said who gave it her),
Cleft into three divisions—in the first
The portrait of my Nelly when a girl,
(Touch'd up by her with subtle little strokes
Spoiling the likeness, but which made, she thought,
The whole more beautiful), and in the midst
An empty space, left for that callow head
That used to nestle now so near her breast
I dared not see it, wishing not to see
The likeness to its father. In the last
There was the hated semblance of a face
I had not loathed the more had it been foul
As it was comely.
But was this a marriage?
Did these, the sentimental gauds he gave
To deck his victim, prove that he was aught
Save the seducer of her innocence?
And, having left what 'twas his will to take
And then his will to leave, would he return?
I dare not guess—but know what wise men say
When she whose lover cannot raise the plea,
Of jealous doubt or sting of jarring word,
Is left deserted! Strange if, after all
Those tears which cannot touch a glutted heart,
He sighs again for scent of gather'd flowers,
Or fruit that fell ungather'd in his hand!
Did these, the sentimental gauds he gave
To deck his victim, prove that he was aught
Save the seducer of her innocence?
40
And then his will to leave, would he return?
I dare not guess—but know what wise men say
When she whose lover cannot raise the plea,
Of jealous doubt or sting of jarring word,
Is left deserted! Strange if, after all
Those tears which cannot touch a glutted heart,
He sighs again for scent of gather'd flowers,
Or fruit that fell ungather'd in his hand!
Her dream was over, but in vain I said,
“O Nelly! do not nurse an empty shadow—
Look at the truth, stand face to face with it
And conquer it, and cast the past away—
It is not worth your keeping, let it go!
Why should we cling to carrion and dead fruit?
Your past is gone as surely as his sail
Has faded o'er the utmost edge of sea—
And what was he you lov'd? What made you love?
Was it for worth, for service of long years,
For watching o'er your tender babyhood?
For worshipping the ground whereon you trod
Being grown to woman? Say, was it for this?
Nay! it was for the glitter of a name!
A foppish face, perchance a uniform!
What was he? Answer me?” But here my theme
O'ercame my reason, and against my lips
I felt poor Nelly's hand, who murmur'd “hush!”
And read a strange defiance in her eyes.
“You will drive me from this place,” she said at last,
“What with your hate of him and love of me;
I am his wife—unworthy of the name,
But still his wife. He will come back again,
Then all will be as clear to you as day.
For me, I trust him still.”
“O Nelly! do not nurse an empty shadow—
Look at the truth, stand face to face with it
And conquer it, and cast the past away—
It is not worth your keeping, let it go!
Why should we cling to carrion and dead fruit?
Your past is gone as surely as his sail
Has faded o'er the utmost edge of sea—
And what was he you lov'd? What made you love?
Was it for worth, for service of long years,
For watching o'er your tender babyhood?
For worshipping the ground whereon you trod
Being grown to woman? Say, was it for this?
Nay! it was for the glitter of a name!
41
What was he? Answer me?” But here my theme
O'ercame my reason, and against my lips
I felt poor Nelly's hand, who murmur'd “hush!”
And read a strange defiance in her eyes.
“You will drive me from this place,” she said at last,
“What with your hate of him and love of me;
I am his wife—unworthy of the name,
But still his wife. He will come back again,
Then all will be as clear to you as day.
For me, I trust him still.”
With this, one day,
We parted in the shady orchard-walk
Where I had met her. Yes, I drove her hence—
No doubt of it. Thus did I always seem
The Nemesis to hurry on my love
To meet her doom! O Lord! to fix on me
To work Thy will of trying her in the fire
Seem'd once most hard to bear; tho' now I say,
Bowing my head, ‘O Lord! Thy will be done.’
We parted in the shady orchard-walk
Where I had met her. Yes, I drove her hence—
No doubt of it. Thus did I always seem
The Nemesis to hurry on my love
To meet her doom! O Lord! to fix on me
To work Thy will of trying her in the fire
Seem'd once most hard to bear; tho' now I say,
Bowing my head, ‘O Lord! Thy will be done.’
They brought a letter from her late next day,
A few sad hurried lines—“Good-bye,” she said;
“Thank you—God bless you!” (these are women's words,
Meaning so little, or else ev'rything!)
And then she added almost word for word
That she had said at parting yesterday:
“What with your hate of him and love of me,
You drive me hence.”
A few sad hurried lines—“Good-bye,” she said;
42
Meaning so little, or else ev'rything!)
And then she added almost word for word
That she had said at parting yesterday:
“What with your hate of him and love of me,
You drive me hence.”
Thus was she driv'n away
Into that noisy, restless, varied world,
London, the city of the Janus mask;
The bright, the gay, the beautiful, the blest—
Which side the mask is painted with a smile;
The fetid, fever'd, leprous, and unclean—
Upon this side we hardly dare to look,—
The side whereon the corners of the mouth
Are painted drooping downwards.
Into that noisy, restless, varied world,
London, the city of the Janus mask;
The bright, the gay, the beautiful, the blest—
Which side the mask is painted with a smile;
The fetid, fever'd, leprous, and unclean—
Upon this side we hardly dare to look,—
The side whereon the corners of the mouth
Are painted drooping downwards.
So 'twas I
Drove Nelly to that fest'ring centre of sin,
“What with my hate of him and love of her.”
Well, I did hate him truly! What avails
False cant, and honey'd accents, and an eye
Down-droop'd and meek, whilst the impatient hand
Is toying with the blade that thirsts for blood?
I hated him; I found I still could hate;
My buried, morbid, blank ascetic life
Had not so far unsex'd me, that the thought
Of him who thus had robb'd me of my love
And flaunted her poor heart upon his sleeve,
And ta'en his will of her and thrown her by,
(Leaving his brand upon her as his own
He did not care to keep,) should stay my hate!
Ah yes, I hated him! Then, as for love,
Thank God I loved her too! Whatever sting
Of bitter pain such love made new to me,
It humanised me, driving out myself.
Indeed, I deem'd these passions, in a man
Not six-and-thirty, shamed his manhood less
Than that chill'd pulseless apathy of blood
Which says, “I do not love—I do not hate,”
And almost seems to say, “I do not live!”
But then I fear I was a sinner still—
Choosing the Church less as a means of grace
Than for a worldly end, and at this time
The “old man” strong within me.
Drove Nelly to that fest'ring centre of sin,
“What with my hate of him and love of her.”
Well, I did hate him truly! What avails
False cant, and honey'd accents, and an eye
Down-droop'd and meek, whilst the impatient hand
Is toying with the blade that thirsts for blood?
I hated him; I found I still could hate;
43
Had not so far unsex'd me, that the thought
Of him who thus had robb'd me of my love
And flaunted her poor heart upon his sleeve,
And ta'en his will of her and thrown her by,
(Leaving his brand upon her as his own
He did not care to keep,) should stay my hate!
Ah yes, I hated him! Then, as for love,
Thank God I loved her too! Whatever sting
Of bitter pain such love made new to me,
It humanised me, driving out myself.
Indeed, I deem'd these passions, in a man
Not six-and-thirty, shamed his manhood less
Than that chill'd pulseless apathy of blood
Which says, “I do not love—I do not hate,”
And almost seems to say, “I do not live!”
But then I fear I was a sinner still—
Choosing the Church less as a means of grace
Than for a worldly end, and at this time
The “old man” strong within me.
I had found
A quiet home, I thought, for her I lov'd,
With an old widow'd dame who liv'd alone,
Save for a little grandchild, and who found
Her summer evenings lonesome when the boy
Was laid asleep. And tho' for but three nights
The women sat together at their work,
Doing their sewing by the feeble light
Of one poor candle, yet the elder one
Already lov'd my poor deserted Nell,
And miss'd her when her three-days' stay was o'er.
“I had heard ill of her,” the old dame said.
“But then these here are a begrudging lot—
Begrudging her her comfortable keep
At Parson's. I 'most think that had she been
One of my own dead children (they were all
‘Declinable,’ and died at just her age),
I could not miss her more!”
A quiet home, I thought, for her I lov'd,
With an old widow'd dame who liv'd alone,
Save for a little grandchild, and who found
44
Was laid asleep. And tho' for but three nights
The women sat together at their work,
Doing their sewing by the feeble light
Of one poor candle, yet the elder one
Already lov'd my poor deserted Nell,
And miss'd her when her three-days' stay was o'er.
“I had heard ill of her,” the old dame said.
“But then these here are a begrudging lot—
Begrudging her her comfortable keep
At Parson's. I 'most think that had she been
One of my own dead children (they were all
‘Declinable,’ and died at just her age),
I could not miss her more!”
Alas! and I—
How have I missed her all these weary years!—
Ah, she is gone! and so entirely gone!
Bear with me if I paint her as she seem'd
To one who knew her in the ardent prime
Of an impassion'd manhood, fed with hope
That flicker'd ere it died, as if to show
How bright it would have beam'd, had Heaven will'd
That it had lit him to the end of all,
And shone like sacred taper o'er his bier!
Ah, I am foolish! When I write as now
Of these, the years of unrequited love,
Despite my silv'ring hair, once more I deem
My little Nell is saying now, as then,
“It cannot be! you must not! when you know
That I am married!”
How have I missed her all these weary years!—
Ah, she is gone! and so entirely gone!
Bear with me if I paint her as she seem'd
To one who knew her in the ardent prime
Of an impassion'd manhood, fed with hope
That flicker'd ere it died, as if to show
How bright it would have beam'd, had Heaven will'd
That it had lit him to the end of all,
And shone like sacred taper o'er his bier!
45
Of these, the years of unrequited love,
Despite my silv'ring hair, once more I deem
My little Nell is saying now, as then,
“It cannot be! you must not! when you know
That I am married!”
She, so kind at heart,
Said this when other women would have said
(Perchance I know not, never having lov'd,
May Heaven help me! any one save her)—
When other women would perchance have said,
“You are not to my liking;” or, maybe,
“You are too pale of cheek and sad of brow;”
Or else, “You are too nameless and too poor.”
When other women would have spoken thus,
Nelly said only in a solemn tone,
These hated words, “I'm married!” which to me
Seem'd more offence than any other slight
Her gentle lips could utter.
Said this when other women would have said
(Perchance I know not, never having lov'd,
May Heaven help me! any one save her)—
When other women would perchance have said,
“You are not to my liking;” or, maybe,
“You are too pale of cheek and sad of brow;”
Or else, “You are too nameless and too poor.”
When other women would have spoken thus,
Nelly said only in a solemn tone,
These hated words, “I'm married!” which to me
Seem'd more offence than any other slight
Her gentle lips could utter.
Was she wed
By Border blacksmith, or by sly hedge-priest
Hired for the purpose? I shall never know—
But Nelly always thought a lawful tie
Had bound her to her lover until death—
She would not speak of it, and hurried o'er
The story of her early married days;
They were “too happy,” she said, “to speak about.
That was a sacred time, too good to last.”
From what she said I know they dwelt together,
He making for his love a little home,
Hidden away. He was not always there,
But nearly always: only long enough
He stay'd away to let his parents guess
No shadow of the truth, since had they known
How he had wedded, all the Norman blood
Had curdled into hatred in the veins
Of his illustrious father, and a mother
Most fondly lov'd had known a broken heart,
Whilst he himself must needs go penniless.
Also, his father wish'd that he should wed
An heiress he had pointed out to her
Once when they were together, and she pass'd
Lolling in cushion'd carriage: Nelly thought
Her beautiful, but knew no jealous pang,
Being so full of trust. He therefore pray'd
That she, to prove her love, would but submit
To this concealment whilst his father liv'd,
Who was well strick'n in years—once he was dead,
He could deal with his brother easily,
And make all known. So, Nelly, being young,
Liv'd in the glamour of her growing love,
Which still wax'd greater, whilst his slowly waned
After the first two years. Another pass'd,
And Nelly still would never think him chang'd.
She long'd and watch'd and pray'd for his return,
When he was absent; but she felt so blest,
Bearing his name, and being his own wife,
She liv'd on this when she was left alone,
And made a sunshine of it for the days.
By Border blacksmith, or by sly hedge-priest
Hired for the purpose? I shall never know—
But Nelly always thought a lawful tie
Had bound her to her lover until death—
46
The story of her early married days;
They were “too happy,” she said, “to speak about.
That was a sacred time, too good to last.”
From what she said I know they dwelt together,
He making for his love a little home,
Hidden away. He was not always there,
But nearly always: only long enough
He stay'd away to let his parents guess
No shadow of the truth, since had they known
How he had wedded, all the Norman blood
Had curdled into hatred in the veins
Of his illustrious father, and a mother
Most fondly lov'd had known a broken heart,
Whilst he himself must needs go penniless.
Also, his father wish'd that he should wed
An heiress he had pointed out to her
Once when they were together, and she pass'd
Lolling in cushion'd carriage: Nelly thought
Her beautiful, but knew no jealous pang,
Being so full of trust. He therefore pray'd
That she, to prove her love, would but submit
To this concealment whilst his father liv'd,
Who was well strick'n in years—once he was dead,
47
And make all known. So, Nelly, being young,
Liv'd in the glamour of her growing love,
Which still wax'd greater, whilst his slowly waned
After the first two years. Another pass'd,
And Nelly still would never think him chang'd.
She long'd and watch'd and pray'd for his return,
When he was absent; but she felt so blest,
Bearing his name, and being his own wife,
She liv'd on this when she was left alone,
And made a sunshine of it for the days.
Which is the “old, old story?” Is it love,
Or lack of love, or love that's giv'n in vain?
These three old stories are so very old,
I know not which would wear the whitest locks,
Were they transform'd by magic into shapes
Of tott'ring greybeards! Lean on crutch and staff,
Ye three old men who are so very old!
Ye pantaloons who act on ev'ry stage!
But lean most heavily, thou poor old man,
Whose name is “Love-that-has-been-giv'n-in-vain!”
(A name which smacks of Puritanic times,
Did only “love” imply the love of Heav'n,
And calls to mind some stalwart soldier-saint,
Buff-coated and cuirass'd, of sober mien,
When Cromwell's untann'd leather stamp'd the sham
And tarnish'd tinsel from a rotten age
Of incense, imposts, frippery, and paint!—)
Or lack of love, or love that's giv'n in vain?
These three old stories are so very old,
I know not which would wear the whitest locks,
Were they transform'd by magic into shapes
Of tott'ring greybeards! Lean on crutch and staff,
Ye three old men who are so very old!
Ye pantaloons who act on ev'ry stage!
But lean most heavily, thou poor old man,
Whose name is “Love-that-has-been-giv'n-in-vain!”
(A name which smacks of Puritanic times,
Did only “love” imply the love of Heav'n,
48
Buff-coated and cuirass'd, of sober mien,
When Cromwell's untann'd leather stamp'd the sham
And tarnish'd tinsel from a rotten age
Of incense, imposts, frippery, and paint!—)
Nay, why repeat them? in a simple tale
Of village life—prosaic, dull, obscure—
The love of one who, born 'neath rotting thatch,
Lov'd one who wore a gaudy uniform
And pranced on charger. Then her lack of love
For one who read on Sunday at a desk,
And christen'd, married, buried, all the week
(He being paid for this), a humble man,
Yet, worm-like, as he wriggled on the path
Trod on by those who often trod on him
(Being above him), so he once (but once!)
Had sigh'd to think his love so lowly born,
The love to whom he gave his love in vain!
Ah, flies and insects! whilst the “high great gods”
Spread out your wings and pin you to a cork,
Deem you they count the feathers of your crest,
Or the imperial purple of your spots,
Or that the breath of ev'ry pigmy throe
Disturbs one small iota in the plan
Of this great universal harmony?
Where what to us seems discord now, is naught
Save the vibration, indistinctly heard,
Of an unknown but perfect melody
Wafted from some far shore. And thus it is
That, writing now in life's autumnal shade,
And standing, as it were, upon a height,
I see those forms and feelings which of yore
Expanded 'neath the warmth of summer-sun,
Seeming far distant, dwindled to the size
Of dwarfs and marionettes,—all, all so small,
They scarce are worth the paper and the ink
With which I write of them.
Of village life—prosaic, dull, obscure—
The love of one who, born 'neath rotting thatch,
Lov'd one who wore a gaudy uniform
And pranced on charger. Then her lack of love
For one who read on Sunday at a desk,
And christen'd, married, buried, all the week
(He being paid for this), a humble man,
Yet, worm-like, as he wriggled on the path
Trod on by those who often trod on him
(Being above him), so he once (but once!)
Had sigh'd to think his love so lowly born,
The love to whom he gave his love in vain!
Ah, flies and insects! whilst the “high great gods”
Spread out your wings and pin you to a cork,
Deem you they count the feathers of your crest,
Or the imperial purple of your spots,
Or that the breath of ev'ry pigmy throe
49
Of this great universal harmony?
Where what to us seems discord now, is naught
Save the vibration, indistinctly heard,
Of an unknown but perfect melody
Wafted from some far shore. And thus it is
That, writing now in life's autumnal shade,
And standing, as it were, upon a height,
I see those forms and feelings which of yore
Expanded 'neath the warmth of summer-sun,
Seeming far distant, dwindled to the size
Of dwarfs and marionettes,—all, all so small,
They scarce are worth the paper and the ink
With which I write of them.
So Nell was left
By him she lov'd, after three happy years,
“Too good to last.” He sent her first a letter,
Which, reading thro' and thro' and o'er and o'er,
Seem'd meaningless as when she read it once—
For, fearing suddenly to break the truth
To one who lov'd him so, he fenced with it
(From what I gather'd), beat about the bush,
And temporised; so that to her it held
No sadder news than this (ah, sad enough!),
That, as his regiment was bound abroad,
He needs must leave her soon, perhaps for long.
And then he said he had been rash to woo,
And rasher still to wed ere he was fix'd
In life and means; and that he sometimes fear'd
Their marriage might not count for much in law,
Being perform'd according to the rites
Of Scotland, and they being English both—
But even were it so (he added here),
Perhaps 'twere better! It would leave her free
To wed a worthier!..
By him she lov'd, after three happy years,
“Too good to last.” He sent her first a letter,
Which, reading thro' and thro' and o'er and o'er,
Seem'd meaningless as when she read it once—
For, fearing suddenly to break the truth
To one who lov'd him so, he fenced with it
(From what I gather'd), beat about the bush,
And temporised; so that to her it held
No sadder news than this (ah, sad enough!),
50
He needs must leave her soon, perhaps for long.
And then he said he had been rash to woo,
And rasher still to wed ere he was fix'd
In life and means; and that he sometimes fear'd
Their marriage might not count for much in law,
Being perform'd according to the rites
Of Scotland, and they being English both—
But even were it so (he added here),
Perhaps 'twere better! It would leave her free
To wed a worthier!..
(This made her heart
Throb with a sudden bound, for then she knew
She soon should be a mother, and till then
She had not felt the shadow of a doubt
About her marriage; but she calmed herself,
Thinking perchance his grief at leaving her
Had fill'd his mind with apprehensive fears,
Which on the eve of this sad separation
Made him see all his future draped in black.)
It ended with a blessing, and the hope
That she would think of one who tho' afar
Would bear her image ever in his thoughts,
And often dream about those happy days,
Alas! so quickly over....This from her
I gather'd was the purport of his words—
And then he must have left her “then and there,”
First having told a lawyer how he stood
Involv'd with one who deem'd herself his wife,
Soon to become the mother of his child.
Throb with a sudden bound, for then she knew
She soon should be a mother, and till then
She had not felt the shadow of a doubt
About her marriage; but she calmed herself,
Thinking perchance his grief at leaving her
Had fill'd his mind with apprehensive fears,
Which on the eve of this sad separation
Made him see all his future draped in black.)
It ended with a blessing, and the hope
That she would think of one who tho' afar
Would bear her image ever in his thoughts,
And often dream about those happy days,
51
I gather'd was the purport of his words—
And then he must have left her “then and there,”
First having told a lawyer how he stood
Involv'd with one who deem'd herself his wife,
Soon to become the mother of his child.
Sometimes I think had Jessie been a boy
(So was poor Nelly's little daughter named,
Call'd after Jessie of the younger twins),
Her lover might have been her husband still—
(Since, tho' his elder brother had an heir,
It was a puny, ill-condition'd child,
And he himself was then in failing health,
Hence Nelly's son had not been left, maybe,
To such a doubtful fate as Jessie's was.)
Nelly was all alone in this, her trial,
He having sailed before he said good-bye—
“For if you break with her,” those wise men said
(Adepts at breaking promises and hearts,
Whom he, it seems, consulted), “it were best
You should not see her.”
(So was poor Nelly's little daughter named,
Call'd after Jessie of the younger twins),
Her lover might have been her husband still—
(Since, tho' his elder brother had an heir,
It was a puny, ill-condition'd child,
And he himself was then in failing health,
Hence Nelly's son had not been left, maybe,
To such a doubtful fate as Jessie's was.)
Nelly was all alone in this, her trial,
He having sailed before he said good-bye—
“For if you break with her,” those wise men said
(Adepts at breaking promises and hearts,
Whom he, it seems, consulted), “it were best
You should not see her.”
Yet I would be just,
So I will say 'twas from no fault of his
That Nelly came to poverty and want,
For he had sent the lawyer, in whose hands
He left a goodly sum, to treat with her.
He chose, to do his bidding, one who strove
To be a man of pleasure like himself,—
A man whom nothing scandall'd, and who knew
(Or so he said) the ways of womankind.
This man had call'd her by her maiden name,
Taking with her the manner men assume
With women who have sunk themselves too low
To claim respect; he told her of the sum
Appointed for her use and for the child,
Then said the captain's fortunes were involved,
And hence this matter, he had hoped, would be
Treated of privately. She said to me,
Something in this man's manner wounded her,
And seem'd to say, “Take nothing at his hands.”
For 'twas as if these offers were his own,
And she henceforth his debtor; he so well
Aped a sham air of generosity
That all her soul revolted, and the fear
Of poverty and hunger for poor bread
Of ev'ry day, seems not so terrible
To one whose heart is breaking, so she said,
“If he is poor, I am more used than he
To poverty. This gold that is to spare
Should go to him. I am his lawful wife.
He will come back to me—I trust him still.
If I am not his wife, as you believe,
Then would I rather starve than touch his gold.
Take back the money!” Then he took it back,
First having chuck'd her underneath the chin
With sudden movement of his large white hand.
He next had mind to kiss her, but her eyes
Look'd strangely menacing.
So I will say 'twas from no fault of his
52
For he had sent the lawyer, in whose hands
He left a goodly sum, to treat with her.
He chose, to do his bidding, one who strove
To be a man of pleasure like himself,—
A man whom nothing scandall'd, and who knew
(Or so he said) the ways of womankind.
This man had call'd her by her maiden name,
Taking with her the manner men assume
With women who have sunk themselves too low
To claim respect; he told her of the sum
Appointed for her use and for the child,
Then said the captain's fortunes were involved,
And hence this matter, he had hoped, would be
Treated of privately. She said to me,
Something in this man's manner wounded her,
And seem'd to say, “Take nothing at his hands.”
For 'twas as if these offers were his own,
And she henceforth his debtor; he so well
Aped a sham air of generosity
That all her soul revolted, and the fear
Of poverty and hunger for poor bread
Of ev'ry day, seems not so terrible
To one whose heart is breaking, so she said,
53
To poverty. This gold that is to spare
Should go to him. I am his lawful wife.
He will come back to me—I trust him still.
If I am not his wife, as you believe,
Then would I rather starve than touch his gold.
Take back the money!” Then he took it back,
First having chuck'd her underneath the chin
With sudden movement of his large white hand.
He next had mind to kiss her, but her eyes
Look'd strangely menacing.
“Good-bye,” he said.
“It ill becomes you to be proud, my dear;
Such pride must have its fall. Then come to me,
And claim what is your due.” But Nelly said,
“Never! If I am ever driv'n to beg,
I'll beg of others!” Then the lawyer turn'd
And left her to her thoughts.
“It ill becomes you to be proud, my dear;
Such pride must have its fall. Then come to me,
And claim what is your due.” But Nelly said,
“Never! If I am ever driv'n to beg,
I'll beg of others!” Then the lawyer turn'd
And left her to her thoughts.
That noble trust
She had in one who merited it not
Here came to solace her; the name of debts
And money-troubles, made her think, maybe,
Her husband had been forced thus suddenly
To fly from England, leaving there this man
Executor and friend, too ignorant
Of his assuming nature; then she thought
His father might have begg'd of him to wed
That wealthy heiress. Press'd on ev'ry side,
He might at last have fled to other climes,
His pretext that his regiment ere long
Took foreign service. So he may have fled,
But not from her, his wife—ah, not from her!
She had in one who merited it not
Here came to solace her; the name of debts
And money-troubles, made her think, maybe,
Her husband had been forced thus suddenly
To fly from England, leaving there this man
54
Of his assuming nature; then she thought
His father might have begg'd of him to wed
That wealthy heiress. Press'd on ev'ry side,
He might at last have fled to other climes,
His pretext that his regiment ere long
Took foreign service. So he may have fled,
But not from her, his wife—ah, not from her!
Thus ended Nelly's transient dream of love
And sweet home-life. Her little household gods
Dispersed and sold to meet the needful debts
Of ev'ry day—her home, her home no more,
She found herself a nameless sojourner
Amongst the buzzing of the city hive,
Yet still alone. Then came upon her soul
The memory of waving summer grass
In cool, sweet meadows near a glancing stream,
And hawthorn hedges tangled o'er with 'bine
And white convolvulus, soft wingèd seed
And coral berries. Midst the hazy heat
Of arid August in the city streets,
She long'd, beside her open attic square
Of narrow casement 'neath the baking tiles,
Once more to breathe the blessèd country air.
Anon a doctor, and a kindly man,
One who was tending on her ailing child,
Gave her the wherewithal to seek at last
Her native village, likewise promising,
Should she return again, to do his best
To find her some employment, and with him
She left the knowledge of her whereabouts—
Who wrote and told the lawyer, for she thought
Her lover might return and seek for her;
And, therefore, trusting still, she left this clue,
Then sought her country home—from which, alas!
That love I had of her, in ev'ry word
And act made manifest, had driv'n her now!
And sweet home-life. Her little household gods
Dispersed and sold to meet the needful debts
Of ev'ry day—her home, her home no more,
She found herself a nameless sojourner
Amongst the buzzing of the city hive,
Yet still alone. Then came upon her soul
The memory of waving summer grass
In cool, sweet meadows near a glancing stream,
And hawthorn hedges tangled o'er with 'bine
And white convolvulus, soft wingèd seed
And coral berries. Midst the hazy heat
Of arid August in the city streets,
She long'd, beside her open attic square
Of narrow casement 'neath the baking tiles,
55
Anon a doctor, and a kindly man,
One who was tending on her ailing child,
Gave her the wherewithal to seek at last
Her native village, likewise promising,
Should she return again, to do his best
To find her some employment, and with him
She left the knowledge of her whereabouts—
Who wrote and told the lawyer, for she thought
Her lover might return and seek for her;
And, therefore, trusting still, she left this clue,
Then sought her country home—from which, alas!
That love I had of her, in ev'ry word
And act made manifest, had driv'n her now!
After she left me all my heart seem'd dead,
Myself a dead man walking on the earth
Through some strange whim of Destiny;—a shade,
A blot of sadness on the pleasant fields
And mocking sunlight. It was thus I liv'd
A morbid year of almost solitude;
For, thinking Fanny help'd to Nelly's fall,
And ignorant that Anne thought well of me,
I fled the Rectory as haunted ground,
And wrapp'd myself in books and parish work.
Then, at the end of this most dreary year,
Seeming the length of ten, a letter came
From Nelly, with the story of her life
During the time that was so long to me.
Myself a dead man walking on the earth
Through some strange whim of Destiny;—a shade,
A blot of sadness on the pleasant fields
And mocking sunlight. It was thus I liv'd
A morbid year of almost solitude;
For, thinking Fanny help'd to Nelly's fall,
And ignorant that Anne thought well of me,
I fled the Rectory as haunted ground,
56
Then, at the end of this most dreary year,
Seeming the length of ten, a letter came
From Nelly, with the story of her life
During the time that was so long to me.
It had been short to her amidst the noise
Of toil and revelry, with crash of wheels,
Seeming to grind our better thoughts to dust.
Had hers, my Nelly's, been dispersed in air,
First being pounded into dust by wheels?
Ah, what possess'd her? what would be her fate?
I trembled as I read her written words
With consternation. “What is Nelly now?”
I thought in anguish, as I read these lines
Her hand had traced—she still so beautiful,
And still so young? What is the simple flower
Of this poor village—she who seem'd to me
A sweet unfolding bud of lily-bloom,
Shunning the burning kisses of the sun
In hidden water-springs or under shade?
A painted butterfly with wings outspread,
Flaunting each spot of beauty in the eyes
Of all beholders! I could wish them blind
For looking at her. Ah, too hapless change!
Dire metamorphose! As I saw thee first,
Sweet Nelly, so I love to think of thee,
Not as this strange, new-spangled fire-fly thing,
But in thy common little cotton frock,
My pretty Nelly, who wert never mine!
Shedding thine infant tears upon thy slate,
In this our village school!
Of toil and revelry, with crash of wheels,
Seeming to grind our better thoughts to dust.
Had hers, my Nelly's, been dispersed in air,
First being pounded into dust by wheels?
Ah, what possess'd her? what would be her fate?
I trembled as I read her written words
With consternation. “What is Nelly now?”
I thought in anguish, as I read these lines
Her hand had traced—she still so beautiful,
And still so young? What is the simple flower
Of this poor village—she who seem'd to me
A sweet unfolding bud of lily-bloom,
Shunning the burning kisses of the sun
In hidden water-springs or under shade?
A painted butterfly with wings outspread,
Flaunting each spot of beauty in the eyes
Of all beholders! I could wish them blind
57
Dire metamorphose! As I saw thee first,
Sweet Nelly, so I love to think of thee,
Not as this strange, new-spangled fire-fly thing,
But in thy common little cotton frock,
My pretty Nelly, who wert never mine!
Shedding thine infant tears upon thy slate,
In this our village school!
Be still, my heart!
(An old man's now, and past the nine-days' rage
Of love's fierce fever.) As I saw thee then,
Oh, pure and beautiful! I think of thee,
Whole-hearted and a child, all ignorant
Of learning, loving, and of being loved,
Thy cherub face by cloud of dusky hair
O'er-shadow'd dreamily, and on thy brow
The seal of no man sealing thee to him.
(An old man's now, and past the nine-days' rage
Of love's fierce fever.) As I saw thee then,
Oh, pure and beautiful! I think of thee,
Whole-hearted and a child, all ignorant
Of learning, loving, and of being loved,
Thy cherub face by cloud of dusky hair
O'er-shadow'd dreamily, and on thy brow
The seal of no man sealing thee to him.
58
IV.
“A mere dancing-girl, who shows herself
Nightly, half-naked, on the stage, for money.”
Longfellow (Spanish Student.)
Nightly, half-naked, on the stage, for money.”
Longfellow (Spanish Student.)
“I know my face is bright, she said,—
Such brightness dying suns diffuse:
I bear upon my forehead shed
The sign of what I lose,
The ending of my day, she said.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Such brightness dying suns diffuse:
I bear upon my forehead shed
The sign of what I lose,
The ending of my day, she said.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Nelly was now a dancer on the stage.
No actress she, unused to formal phrase
Or studied blandishment; nor could she seize
The stormy temper of the tragic muse,
Or shine in comedy, altho' her grace
Had made it easy for her to assume
A part it scarce had matter'd if she marr'd,
Being so very fair. A dancing girl
In gauze and spangles, midst a motley crowd
Of contradictions, such as now delight
The hearts of those who haunt the modern stage,
Sometimes from out a nightmare, part burlesque,
Part sentimental, moral or absurd,
With here a ribald jest, and there a shade
Of somewhat almost like a poet's dream
(Marr'd by his waking into vulgar life
An hour too soon), my hapless Nelly beam'd
A ray of purer light; her gaudy dress
Seem'd but on her those light prismatic hues
Clothing the lambent sunbeam—none the less
Pure and of heaven-born; yet as I was
A clergyman, a man to lead the herd
To order and decorum, and on earth
Hoping to be a follower of Christ,
I dared not think of Nelly in these robes
Of Tyrian purple—almost did she seem
The “Scarlet Lady,” or that beauteous form
Sent to torment the chaste St. Anthony—
I shudder'd, overcome with fear and dread
And inward loathing for this outward show
Of beauty, which should hide as hides the pearl
In green sea-depths, or as the crested bird
Of paradise, in virgin forest shades.
Yet, could I see her thus!
No actress she, unused to formal phrase
Or studied blandishment; nor could she seize
The stormy temper of the tragic muse,
Or shine in comedy, altho' her grace
Had made it easy for her to assume
A part it scarce had matter'd if she marr'd,
Being so very fair. A dancing girl
In gauze and spangles, midst a motley crowd
Of contradictions, such as now delight
59
Sometimes from out a nightmare, part burlesque,
Part sentimental, moral or absurd,
With here a ribald jest, and there a shade
Of somewhat almost like a poet's dream
(Marr'd by his waking into vulgar life
An hour too soon), my hapless Nelly beam'd
A ray of purer light; her gaudy dress
Seem'd but on her those light prismatic hues
Clothing the lambent sunbeam—none the less
Pure and of heaven-born; yet as I was
A clergyman, a man to lead the herd
To order and decorum, and on earth
Hoping to be a follower of Christ,
I dared not think of Nelly in these robes
Of Tyrian purple—almost did she seem
The “Scarlet Lady,” or that beauteous form
Sent to torment the chaste St. Anthony—
I shudder'd, overcome with fear and dread
And inward loathing for this outward show
Of beauty, which should hide as hides the pearl
In green sea-depths, or as the crested bird
Of paradise, in virgin forest shades.
Yet, could I see her thus!
60
Ah, well a day.
I was a young man still, tho' in my heart
The “old man” yet reigned strong and obstinate!
The old man in my heart, and in my blood
The young man hale and strong and masterful,
These waged against my soul's eternal weal
A constant warfare, whilst the victor's wreath
Seem'd bound alternately around the brows
Of good and evil angel. They are o'er,
Those moral combats! And the after-dream
Of all these strivings of my vanish'd youth
Will soon be over too, since here am I,
Seeming the broken plaything of the years,
A foolish old man in an easy-chair,
Babbling of battles, and from time to time
Baring the cicatrice of ancient scars,
Which often ache at changes of the moon!
I should have thought that doctor, who had said
He would be friend and counsellor to her,
Might have advised her better; but it seem'd
He was a worldling—a philosopher
Who, tho' possess'd of wisdom, was for women
A man of small ambitions. He assumed
That idleness, join'd to a pretty face,
In London, work'd for women who were weak
And pitiful to others (grateful, too,
For others' kindness, also suffering
From wrongs themselves), far more unhappiness
And chance of evil end than even work
At variance with preconceiv'd ideas
Of seemliness: and thus he counselled her,
As I have said, unwisely (or to me
So seeming), running such a chance of shame,
All for a poor five shillings ev'ry night.
I was a young man still, tho' in my heart
The “old man” yet reigned strong and obstinate!
The old man in my heart, and in my blood
The young man hale and strong and masterful,
These waged against my soul's eternal weal
A constant warfare, whilst the victor's wreath
Seem'd bound alternately around the brows
Of good and evil angel. They are o'er,
Those moral combats! And the after-dream
Of all these strivings of my vanish'd youth
Will soon be over too, since here am I,
Seeming the broken plaything of the years,
A foolish old man in an easy-chair,
Babbling of battles, and from time to time
Baring the cicatrice of ancient scars,
Which often ache at changes of the moon!
I should have thought that doctor, who had said
He would be friend and counsellor to her,
Might have advised her better; but it seem'd
He was a worldling—a philosopher
Who, tho' possess'd of wisdom, was for women
A man of small ambitions. He assumed
That idleness, join'd to a pretty face,
61
And pitiful to others (grateful, too,
For others' kindness, also suffering
From wrongs themselves), far more unhappiness
And chance of evil end than even work
At variance with preconceiv'd ideas
Of seemliness: and thus he counselled her,
As I have said, unwisely (or to me
So seeming), running such a chance of shame,
All for a poor five shillings ev'ry night.
She had, indeed, faced boldly the grim shapes
Of Poverty and Hunger, meeting them
And fighting them upon her needle's point,
Working her little thimble into holes;
Nor had she spared her pencil and her pen,
But then her child was ill, and then this life,
Pent up indoors, had made her feel herself
Listless and languid.
Of Poverty and Hunger, meeting them
And fighting them upon her needle's point,
Working her little thimble into holes;
Nor had she spared her pencil and her pen,
But then her child was ill, and then this life,
Pent up indoors, had made her feel herself
Listless and languid.
Ah! it may be sweet
To sit and sew beside a window frame
Clung round with honeysuckle, whilst above
Some captive songster sings from wicker cage
Of love and hope, and on a freer wing
The spirit flies to “him that is awa'”
Over the faint blue outline of the hills!
(Thus have I sometimes seen a cottage maid
Sewing at eventide, and envied her.)
But Nelly could not know the sweet content
Begot of happy love and honest toil,
And as her thimble click'd against the steel
It seem'd to drive home to her bleeding heart
Its bitter secret, and to hiss the words,
“He has forsaken you—his love is gone!”
To sit and sew beside a window frame
Clung round with honeysuckle, whilst above
Some captive songster sings from wicker cage
Of love and hope, and on a freer wing
62
Over the faint blue outline of the hills!
(Thus have I sometimes seen a cottage maid
Sewing at eventide, and envied her.)
But Nelly could not know the sweet content
Begot of happy love and honest toil,
And as her thimble click'd against the steel
It seem'd to drive home to her bleeding heart
Its bitter secret, and to hiss the words,
“He has forsaken you—his love is gone!”
And then it was this doctor, as I said,
A man of small ambitions, found for her
This other work. Thus she could breathe by day
The outer air, and ply her needle less,
And yet earn more than double, since at night
She sought the place I dreaded; but he said,
(This philosophic doctor,) pressing her,
“It is not true, as some would have you think,
That all who wear a spangled petticoat,
Or none at all, are worthless ev'ry way.
But even should they be, 'tis best for you
To be the one white sheep amongst the black,
Than seeking once again your village home.
Seem there the one black sheep amongst the white.”
And then, he added, this new-found employ
“Might lead to something better.”
A man of small ambitions, found for her
This other work. Thus she could breathe by day
The outer air, and ply her needle less,
And yet earn more than double, since at night
She sought the place I dreaded; but he said,
(This philosophic doctor,) pressing her,
“It is not true, as some would have you think,
That all who wear a spangled petticoat,
Or none at all, are worthless ev'ry way.
But even should they be, 'tis best for you
To be the one white sheep amongst the black,
Than seeking once again your village home.
63
And then, he added, this new-found employ
“Might lead to something better.”
These last words
Fill'd me with jealous terror, for I knew
That women who were young and beautiful
And indigent, would often ask to stand—
Unable or to sing or dance or act,
Mere “walkers on” upon the London stage—
Disguised as flowers, or butterflies, or fish,
Or flutt'ring fairies, in some mad burlesque
Or Christmas pantomime, and oftentimes,
Beginning like my Nelly, or with naught,
Or with a poor five shillings as reward,
A week would find them fav'rite of some duke
Or noble lord, living in luxury,
Flaunting in velvets, bright with diamond rings,
Yet having lost what gold can never buy—
Could this be what that meddling doctor meant
By “something better?” and my blood ran cold.
Fill'd me with jealous terror, for I knew
That women who were young and beautiful
And indigent, would often ask to stand—
Unable or to sing or dance or act,
Mere “walkers on” upon the London stage—
Disguised as flowers, or butterflies, or fish,
Or flutt'ring fairies, in some mad burlesque
Or Christmas pantomime, and oftentimes,
Beginning like my Nelly, or with naught,
Or with a poor five shillings as reward,
A week would find them fav'rite of some duke
Or noble lord, living in luxury,
Flaunting in velvets, bright with diamond rings,
Yet having lost what gold can never buy—
Could this be what that meddling doctor meant
By “something better?” and my blood ran cold.
To her this “something better” seem'd to be
That she was now the chief of those who play'd
At being actors. In a pantomime
She was to be the first, a queen of fays,
To hover, crown'd with stars hung high in air;
“Thence I shall look,” she said, “upon a sea
Of unknown faces—none will see me wear
My mimic crown of those who lov'd me once,
Nor will those strangers guess how sad at heart
Is that poor widow'd queen! A harlequin
Will make us laugh, whilst all his children lie
Sick unto death, and he to give them bread
Forces a smile and labours to be gay,—
I feel for him!....Yet with my pretty dress,
My wand, my crown of stars, my snowy wings,
I cannot but feel some small triumphing—
If he could see me!....for I knew last night
That I was fair;—too late! my life is o'er,
And with it care for pleasing living man—
Yet I could please, maybe, had I the mind....
Ah, London is a place where pretty girls
Who do not love, and yet can raise in men
What men call love, fare badly! Fare you well!
Think you I am ashamed of what I do?
Not I, who know I might do so much worse!
God bless you, kindest friend—again good-bye!”
This was the letter Nelly wrote to me.
If I should tell you that I saw her thus,
Amidst the garish glimmer of the gas—
I, preaching unto others, meek, austere,
A clergyman, a hater of the world,
Fleeing temptation more than pestilence?
I will not say, but tell you what I learnt,
Told by a friend of mine who once was there
And look'd at her, whereof the memory
Comes striding up at night by all the stairs
Whene'er he wakes and burns the midnight oil.
That she was now the chief of those who play'd
At being actors. In a pantomime
64
To hover, crown'd with stars hung high in air;
“Thence I shall look,” she said, “upon a sea
Of unknown faces—none will see me wear
My mimic crown of those who lov'd me once,
Nor will those strangers guess how sad at heart
Is that poor widow'd queen! A harlequin
Will make us laugh, whilst all his children lie
Sick unto death, and he to give them bread
Forces a smile and labours to be gay,—
I feel for him!....Yet with my pretty dress,
My wand, my crown of stars, my snowy wings,
I cannot but feel some small triumphing—
If he could see me!....for I knew last night
That I was fair;—too late! my life is o'er,
And with it care for pleasing living man—
Yet I could please, maybe, had I the mind....
Ah, London is a place where pretty girls
Who do not love, and yet can raise in men
What men call love, fare badly! Fare you well!
Think you I am ashamed of what I do?
Not I, who know I might do so much worse!
God bless you, kindest friend—again good-bye!”
This was the letter Nelly wrote to me.
65
Amidst the garish glimmer of the gas—
I, preaching unto others, meek, austere,
A clergyman, a hater of the world,
Fleeing temptation more than pestilence?
I will not say, but tell you what I learnt,
Told by a friend of mine who once was there
And look'd at her, whereof the memory
Comes striding up at night by all the stairs
Whene'er he wakes and burns the midnight oil.
It was a wild, tempestuous winter's night,
The wind in gusts blew thro' the painted scenes,
Each gust an ice-blast, whilst the flaring lights
Seem'd straining as to lap with cloven tongues
The shifting canvas. As it sway'd aside
I saw—he saw (this man of whom I speak,)
The little shiv'ring fairies wrapp'd in cloaks,
Waiting their turn, all huddled in a group,
Like deer beneath an oak-tree in a storm.
They represented and embodied each
The spirits of the flowers whose names they bore,
Whereof the semblance, woven in their hair
Told which was Rosebud, Harebell, Hyacinth,
Or Jessamine; but Dewdrop was not there,
The Queen of them, who hover'd over all,
To whom they owed their being;—where was she,
Sweet Dewdrop crown'd with stars, who rain'd at even
Her kisses o'er the faint and fading flowers?
The wind in gusts blew thro' the painted scenes,
Each gust an ice-blast, whilst the flaring lights
Seem'd straining as to lap with cloven tongues
The shifting canvas. As it sway'd aside
I saw—he saw (this man of whom I speak,)
The little shiv'ring fairies wrapp'd in cloaks,
Waiting their turn, all huddled in a group,
Like deer beneath an oak-tree in a storm.
They represented and embodied each
The spirits of the flowers whose names they bore,
Whereof the semblance, woven in their hair
Told which was Rosebud, Harebell, Hyacinth,
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The Queen of them, who hover'd over all,
To whom they owed their being;—where was she,
Sweet Dewdrop crown'd with stars, who rain'd at even
Her kisses o'er the faint and fading flowers?
The play was call'd “The Undiscover'd Land;”
It was a metaphor—the land was Truth,
Where Vice was thwarted, and where Virtue gain'd
The battles fought between contending hosts
Of genii and fairies. Then ensued
Broad farce, at variance with what went before,
Which had in it the germs of better things;
And next there was a transformation scene,
With nymphs and flower-sprites; but still this man
Saw not the face he sought, whereat his heart
Felt void and aching, dreading some mischance,
Or that some hot accursèd breath of hell
Might have absorbed his Dewdrop. O'er him came
The fear of having travell'd far for naught,
Whilst foil'd endeavour made his blood grow chill,
And looking at the strangers' faces near,
They seem'd to him the faces of his foes
Smiling in mock'ry, and he loath'd them all.
Ah, had poor Nelly stayed away that night,
Had she but broken faith or miss'd her turn,
Or play'd the truant, only for that night!
Yet shall I e'er forget her as she first
Dawn'd on my vision? Near a dappled lake
Were nymphs and fairies, singing as they twined
In mazy dance. (Remember that I came
Raw from these pine-clad hills, the northern air
Fresh in my nostrils, and the smell of peat;
Then think of what an “unreal mockery”
Seem'd this, to all unreal, but most to me
A dream, a mirage, a true fairyland—
And she the Queen of it!)
It was a metaphor—the land was Truth,
Where Vice was thwarted, and where Virtue gain'd
The battles fought between contending hosts
Of genii and fairies. Then ensued
Broad farce, at variance with what went before,
Which had in it the germs of better things;
And next there was a transformation scene,
With nymphs and flower-sprites; but still this man
Saw not the face he sought, whereat his heart
Felt void and aching, dreading some mischance,
Or that some hot accursèd breath of hell
Might have absorbed his Dewdrop. O'er him came
The fear of having travell'd far for naught,
Whilst foil'd endeavour made his blood grow chill,
And looking at the strangers' faces near,
They seem'd to him the faces of his foes
Smiling in mock'ry, and he loath'd them all.
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Had she but broken faith or miss'd her turn,
Or play'd the truant, only for that night!
Yet shall I e'er forget her as she first
Dawn'd on my vision? Near a dappled lake
Were nymphs and fairies, singing as they twined
In mazy dance. (Remember that I came
Raw from these pine-clad hills, the northern air
Fresh in my nostrils, and the smell of peat;
Then think of what an “unreal mockery”
Seem'd this, to all unreal, but most to me
A dream, a mirage, a true fairyland—
And she the Queen of it!)
Ah, now she comes!...
She comes, the Fairy Queen! and ev'ry eye
Uplifted to her, seeming on the wing
Above the dappled waters of the lake;
Yes, there she hover'd—ah, most beautiful!...
Let me too join my hands and shout applause.
All shout as they behold her, wings outspread,
All shout applause—ay, what an endless din!
Doubtless the evil genii, enraged
At being driven from the truthful land,
Are howling dismally behind the scenes.
Yet, ah! just heaven! are those mimic cries
Or shrieks of agony?...and yon red glare?
And these, the frighted fairies white and scared?
Was this what was intended in the play?
Is this the sight I came so far to see?
And Nelly fasten'd in her flimsy dress,
With outspread wings above the dappled lake,
Seeming an angel carved in marble, still
And breathless as a statue in the midst,
With half the stage on fire!
She comes, the Fairy Queen! and ev'ry eye
Uplifted to her, seeming on the wing
Above the dappled waters of the lake;
Yes, there she hover'd—ah, most beautiful!...
Let me too join my hands and shout applause.
All shout as they behold her, wings outspread,
All shout applause—ay, what an endless din!
Doubtless the evil genii, enraged
At being driven from the truthful land,
Are howling dismally behind the scenes.
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Or shrieks of agony?...and yon red glare?
And these, the frighted fairies white and scared?
Was this what was intended in the play?
Is this the sight I came so far to see?
And Nelly fasten'd in her flimsy dress,
With outspread wings above the dappled lake,
Seeming an angel carved in marble, still
And breathless as a statue in the midst,
With half the stage on fire!
My blood runs cold
At thought of it....I dare not think of it,
Or what I did, or of how small avail...
O God! it was too terrible!...
At thought of it....I dare not think of it,
Or what I did, or of how small avail...
O God! it was too terrible!...
In vain
I drive this memory away from me;
It is too strong, and well-nigh masters me
When I confront it! If I could but know
She did not suffer!...
I drive this memory away from me;
It is too strong, and well-nigh masters me
When I confront it! If I could but know
She did not suffer!...
As I rose to leap
Amongst the smoke, upon the burning stage,
I saw a tall man, pale, upon whose arm
There hung a fainting woman. In the space
Of that one awful moment, met his eyes
And mine—the man I hated most on earth,
He too was there, by some grim accident,
With his affianced bride, to see her die
Whom once he call'd his wife.
Amongst the smoke, upon the burning stage,
69
There hung a fainting woman. In the space
Of that one awful moment, met his eyes
And mine—the man I hated most on earth,
He too was there, by some grim accident,
With his affianced bride, to see her die
Whom once he call'd his wife.
Yes, she was dead—
Thank God, unscathed by flame. (Our doctor knew
Some years ago, you mind, her heart was wrong:
It had but ceased to beat—yes, that was all;
She had not suffer'd.)...
Thank God, unscathed by flame. (Our doctor knew
Some years ago, you mind, her heart was wrong:
It had but ceased to beat—yes, that was all;
She had not suffer'd.)...
I have wonder'd since
If she, like me, encounter'd suddenly
Those steel-grey eyes, whilst gazing, as she deem'd
On strangers' faces? and if sight of one
Whom still she lov'd, despite of all her wrongs,
Gazing upon her acting in this place
Amidst the glare and glitter of the gas,
When he perchance had deem'd she mourn'd his loss
In solitude and tears—I've wondered since
If this, and all the glamour of the scene,
Join'd to a moment's short-lived triumphing,
Were not enough to stay that gentle heart,
Even without that ghastly shriek of “Fire!”
Which seems to echo still thro' all these years?
If she, like me, encounter'd suddenly
Those steel-grey eyes, whilst gazing, as she deem'd
On strangers' faces? and if sight of one
Whom still she lov'd, despite of all her wrongs,
Gazing upon her acting in this place
Amidst the glare and glitter of the gas,
When he perchance had deem'd she mourn'd his loss
In solitude and tears—I've wondered since
If this, and all the glamour of the scene,
Join'd to a moment's short-lived triumphing,
Were not enough to stay that gentle heart,
70
Which seems to echo still thro' all these years?
I wonder, too, if he who saw her there
Felt surging back to his remorseful heart
Some memory of what was once his love?
Or if dead love is really dead indeed,
A soul-less thing that may not live again,
Even should pity wake? I cannot tell,
Who know so little of all human loves,
Save that poor love I buried years ago,
Who yet said never to me—no, not once—
“I love you,” or “I could have loved you well,
Had I not loved another.” It has been
Ever with me the shadow on the stream,
So near, so far, the semblance of a love,
The next good thing, but not the best of all.
Felt surging back to his remorseful heart
Some memory of what was once his love?
Or if dead love is really dead indeed,
A soul-less thing that may not live again,
Even should pity wake? I cannot tell,
Who know so little of all human loves,
Save that poor love I buried years ago,
Who yet said never to me—no, not once—
“I love you,” or “I could have loved you well,
Had I not loved another.” It has been
Ever with me the shadow on the stream,
So near, so far, the semblance of a love,
The next good thing, but not the best of all.
This is how little Jessie's mother died—
Jessie, the second Nelly of my heart;
But then that heart is such an alter'd thing!
As like to that which warm'd my vanish'd youth,
As this dry myrtle-stick within mine hand
Is like the budding branches of its sire,
Maybe just now in blossom, far away
'Neath some Italian lattice, open wide
To let the warm spring in!
Jessie, the second Nelly of my heart;
But then that heart is such an alter'd thing!
As like to that which warm'd my vanish'd youth,
As this dry myrtle-stick within mine hand
Is like the budding branches of its sire,
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'Neath some Italian lattice, open wide
To let the warm spring in!
Those who felt mov'd
To charity and pity, 'kin to love,
Towards the helpless orphan of poor Nell
Devised subscriptions, headed by the names
Of many noble persons in the land.
I do not know who sent that thousand pounds—
One who was nameless; but I sometimes think
It was her father, frightened at the thought
That one of his high blood, if not his name,
Might come to want. This have I set aside
To go with all the little I may save
Towards her marriage-portion (if one day
She chance to marry), for she lives with me:
I am her father, who has none beside
To own her, neither have my wife and I
Child of our own, and so our hearts are warm
Towards this orphan. He who might have heard
Her lisping words, and felt her little hands
Clasp him towards her, now has children too—
He married that rich heiress: wealth brings wealth;
Ere long his father and his brother died,
And next that sickly boy, till then the heir,
So now the father of my Jessie reigns
In splendour at the Keep.
To charity and pity, 'kin to love,
Towards the helpless orphan of poor Nell
Devised subscriptions, headed by the names
Of many noble persons in the land.
I do not know who sent that thousand pounds—
One who was nameless; but I sometimes think
It was her father, frightened at the thought
That one of his high blood, if not his name,
Might come to want. This have I set aside
To go with all the little I may save
Towards her marriage-portion (if one day
She chance to marry), for she lives with me:
I am her father, who has none beside
To own her, neither have my wife and I
Child of our own, and so our hearts are warm
Towards this orphan. He who might have heard
Her lisping words, and felt her little hands
Clasp him towards her, now has children too—
He married that rich heiress: wealth brings wealth;
Ere long his father and his brother died,
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So now the father of my Jessie reigns
In splendour at the Keep.
I often walk
At ev'ning with her, leaning on her arm,
Towards those distant hills—for there the air
Seems fresher than below here—and from there
I look down at our village in the vale,
And the fair landscape mapp'd out to my view.
Yonder I see a ling'ring speck of white—
The ruin'd cottage with the rotten thatch,
The birthplace of her mother; whilst beyond,
Above its princely woods of oak and beech,
Flutters the pennon from her father's towers,
To say my lord is there. 'Tis then I think,
O Life! thou art made up of motley stuff!
How is the homespun pieced into the pile
Of silken-velvet, and the fustian smock
Patch'd from the ermine mantle of an earl!
Perchance both last the longer....Yet as well
(It would have seem'd to me ere yet I knew)
Might the imperial eagle of the height
Swoop down upon some village pigeon-cot,
And choose therefrom a sober-colour'd mate,
As he, the scion of that ancient house,
Mix with the child of humble peasant sires!
At ev'ning with her, leaning on her arm,
Towards those distant hills—for there the air
Seems fresher than below here—and from there
I look down at our village in the vale,
And the fair landscape mapp'd out to my view.
Yonder I see a ling'ring speck of white—
The ruin'd cottage with the rotten thatch,
The birthplace of her mother; whilst beyond,
Above its princely woods of oak and beech,
Flutters the pennon from her father's towers,
To say my lord is there. 'Tis then I think,
O Life! thou art made up of motley stuff!
How is the homespun pieced into the pile
Of silken-velvet, and the fustian smock
Patch'd from the ermine mantle of an earl!
Perchance both last the longer....Yet as well
(It would have seem'd to me ere yet I knew)
Might the imperial eagle of the height
Swoop down upon some village pigeon-cot,
And choose therefrom a sober-colour'd mate,
73
Mix with the child of humble peasant sires!
Yet it may be the blending of these two
(The dove and eagle) makes of Jessie here
A bird of such rare plumage. It is said
That “eagles do not often bring forth doves,”
And so perchance the bosom of the dove
(E'en should she choose so uncongenial mate)
Warms not an eaglet of so hook'd a bill
As he that was its sire—who rent his prey,
The terror of the fold.....Nay, who shall say?
For these are myst'ries, and I hold so small
Each grade of birth, they seem but little rings
Upon an earth-worm's body, wherewithal,
E'en if propell'd more smoothly for awhile
Along his short and oft-ignoble road,
They do but lead him whither all things tend,
Towards the noisome charnel, where anon
He ends with ashes who began in mud!
(The dove and eagle) makes of Jessie here
A bird of such rare plumage. It is said
That “eagles do not often bring forth doves,”
And so perchance the bosom of the dove
(E'en should she choose so uncongenial mate)
Warms not an eaglet of so hook'd a bill
As he that was its sire—who rent his prey,
The terror of the fold.....Nay, who shall say?
For these are myst'ries, and I hold so small
Each grade of birth, they seem but little rings
Upon an earth-worm's body, wherewithal,
E'en if propell'd more smoothly for awhile
Along his short and oft-ignoble road,
They do but lead him whither all things tend,
Towards the noisome charnel, where anon
He ends with ashes who began in mud!
I am the Rector now; that kind old man
Died when he seem'd the halest, and his wife,
That handsome, sleepy woman, whom we deem'd
But little better than a vegetable,
Took so his death to heart that she too died,
And sleeps beside him as she slept in life.
Died when he seem'd the halest, and his wife,
74
But little better than a vegetable,
Took so his death to heart that she too died,
And sleeps beside him as she slept in life.
The Rector's open house and old port wine
Had left his daughters poor—nay, very poor—
Nay, almost penniless. I stepping in,
And saying, as it were, “You two must pack!”
Ousting them of their hospitable home,
Felt like some harsh usurper: it was then
That I, bent on the welfare of the child,
Poor little Jessie, lately come to me,
And thinking 'twould not do to let her grow
Untended (like that tall brown hollyhock
Which still stands on, tho' Nelly's home is now
In ruins, blooming amidst thistles, weeds,
And wild disorder), cast mine eyes on Anne,
Till then a seeming cipher. (Have I wrong'd,
Maybe, this worthy woman, best of wives,
In not with louder, more emphatic voice
Sounding her praises? Ah, then I am base!
Most worthy woman!...)
Had left his daughters poor—nay, very poor—
Nay, almost penniless. I stepping in,
And saying, as it were, “You two must pack!”
Ousting them of their hospitable home,
Felt like some harsh usurper: it was then
That I, bent on the welfare of the child,
Poor little Jessie, lately come to me,
And thinking 'twould not do to let her grow
Untended (like that tall brown hollyhock
Which still stands on, tho' Nelly's home is now
In ruins, blooming amidst thistles, weeds,
And wild disorder), cast mine eyes on Anne,
Till then a seeming cipher. (Have I wrong'd,
Maybe, this worthy woman, best of wives,
In not with louder, more emphatic voice
Sounding her praises? Ah, then I am base!
Most worthy woman!...)
So I thought of her,
And what a Godsend she would be to me
And to the child; keeping my frugal board
Within due limits, visiting the poor,
Taking them soup and jelly, and old rags
And bits of flannel; so I said to her
One Sunday morning, as we walked from church
Beneath the same umbrella (for it rain'd),
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And to the child; keeping my frugal board
Within due limits, visiting the poor,
Taking them soup and jelly, and old rags
And bits of flannel; so I said to her
One Sunday morning, as we walked from church
Beneath the same umbrella (for it rain'd),
“Anne, we have always been old friends and true.
I am not young, my dear, nor can I give
A young man's heart, unscathed, who honestly
May say, ‘You are my first and only love,’
This I will own to you I cannot say—
It would be wanting truth; but we are friends,
Old friends, dear Anne. Of you I know, indeed,
Your heart is pure as virgin spring water,
Lying undelv'd in desert lands untrod,
Which ne'er has mirror'd in it face of man:
For this my soul esteems you. Will you come
And be my wife? I, watching your calm days,
Have seen how you have loved no living man;
So that I ask no giving up for me
Of golden visions, only your esteem
And kind good-will. There is an orphan child
Dwelling beneath my roof: she is not mine,
As Fanny says the idle gossips think—
She is the child of Nelly, whom you knew—
The girl you once adopted—let that pass;
Her father was that captain of dragoons
Who used to flirt with Fanny, and is now
The great lord at the Castle over there.
So handsome still, that he is yet the chief
And centre figure of our flower-shows
And cricket-matches here—but let that go—
He is her father. Were she truly born
In lawful wedlock, it had been unfair
To keep her from her noble heritage;
But he had left her mother, having pass'd
First thro' some marriage form unorthodox,
A vague, elastic linking, loop'd or loos'd
At will. It was his will to loosen it,
And almost ere poor Nelly's corpse was cold,
Torn down amidst a shrieking audience
From where she hover'd in a pantomime,
The Queen of Fairies (you remember how
A gipsy thoughtlessly once said of her
That she would die a queen?—you know all this),
He married a rich heiress, who is now
His wife, the mother of those sturdy boys
Who scamper'd o'er my turnips yesterday.
Will you be second mother to her, then?
I swear to you I have kept nothing back,
And told you naught save truth.”
I am not young, my dear, nor can I give
A young man's heart, unscathed, who honestly
May say, ‘You are my first and only love,’
This I will own to you I cannot say—
It would be wanting truth; but we are friends,
Old friends, dear Anne. Of you I know, indeed,
Your heart is pure as virgin spring water,
Lying undelv'd in desert lands untrod,
Which ne'er has mirror'd in it face of man:
For this my soul esteems you. Will you come
And be my wife? I, watching your calm days,
Have seen how you have loved no living man;
So that I ask no giving up for me
Of golden visions, only your esteem
And kind good-will. There is an orphan child
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As Fanny says the idle gossips think—
She is the child of Nelly, whom you knew—
The girl you once adopted—let that pass;
Her father was that captain of dragoons
Who used to flirt with Fanny, and is now
The great lord at the Castle over there.
So handsome still, that he is yet the chief
And centre figure of our flower-shows
And cricket-matches here—but let that go—
He is her father. Were she truly born
In lawful wedlock, it had been unfair
To keep her from her noble heritage;
But he had left her mother, having pass'd
First thro' some marriage form unorthodox,
A vague, elastic linking, loop'd or loos'd
At will. It was his will to loosen it,
And almost ere poor Nelly's corpse was cold,
Torn down amidst a shrieking audience
From where she hover'd in a pantomime,
The Queen of Fairies (you remember how
A gipsy thoughtlessly once said of her
That she would die a queen?—you know all this),
He married a rich heiress, who is now
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Who scamper'd o'er my turnips yesterday.
Will you be second mother to her, then?
I swear to you I have kept nothing back,
And told you naught save truth.”
She answered, “Yes,”
And we were married. But now, mark how strange,
How wondrous are the ways of womankind!
I had not credited it, had not Anne,
Whose very soul is truth, confess'd it to me—
(Deem me not vain!)—she had long look'd at me
With eyes of love! Yes, she, so staid and prim
And self-possess'd, had loved me years ago,
And far from shrinking at the thought of Jessie,
Had married me with hump upon my back!
'Twas wonderful! and I, who had not cast
My thoughts on her as often as I ween
I thought of that old, noseless Lady Abbess
Lying in stony slumber in our aisle,
Whom passing every single Sabbath thrice
And thrice again, and often in the week,
Had, maybe, haunted me from time to time!
And we were married. But now, mark how strange,
How wondrous are the ways of womankind!
I had not credited it, had not Anne,
Whose very soul is truth, confess'd it to me—
(Deem me not vain!)—she had long look'd at me
With eyes of love! Yes, she, so staid and prim
And self-possess'd, had loved me years ago,
And far from shrinking at the thought of Jessie,
Had married me with hump upon my back!
'Twas wonderful! and I, who had not cast
My thoughts on her as often as I ween
I thought of that old, noseless Lady Abbess
Lying in stony slumber in our aisle,
Whom passing every single Sabbath thrice
And thrice again, and often in the week,
Had, maybe, haunted me from time to time!
That must have been my one poor day of triumph
(Perchance we all have one day in our lives);
Yet I had never guess'd a sadden'd man,
Rejected in his youth by one he loved,
Had found in middle-age, his hair all grey,
Two women in one day alike inclined
To share his humble and prosaic lot.
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Yet I had never guess'd a sadden'd man,
Rejected in his youth by one he loved,
Had found in middle-age, his hair all grey,
Two women in one day alike inclined
To share his humble and prosaic lot.
When I saw Fanny that same afternoon,
Ere Anne had told her of our morning's talk,
I found her pale and sad. She wept, and said
(Looking quite pretty in her mourning gown—
Ah, when will women know the charm of black?)
“Poor little Fanny must go out to teach,
To be a governess. Poor little me!
Who would have thought it? Ah, poor dear papa!
Poor dear mamma! could you but see me now!
Your little Fan!” and here she wept anew.
I took her hand in mine, and then it was
(Life is so full of all astonishment)
That I perceiv'd that had I said to her,
“Oh, let me keep this hand for evermore!”
She had not answer'd “No.” But I assumed
A brother's manner, whilst with brother's voice,
“There is no need that you should go away.”
I said to her:—“I wed your sister Anne;
You shall live here as always. If you needs
Must teach to any one your pretty arts
Of singing, music, painting, and the like,
Then teach my little Jessie—let her be
Your little pupil, as her mother once.”
Ere Anne had told her of our morning's talk,
I found her pale and sad. She wept, and said
(Looking quite pretty in her mourning gown—
Ah, when will women know the charm of black?)
“Poor little Fanny must go out to teach,
To be a governess. Poor little me!
Who would have thought it? Ah, poor dear papa!
Poor dear mamma! could you but see me now!
Your little Fan!” and here she wept anew.
I took her hand in mine, and then it was
(Life is so full of all astonishment)
That I perceiv'd that had I said to her,
“Oh, let me keep this hand for evermore!”
She had not answer'd “No.” But I assumed
A brother's manner, whilst with brother's voice,
“There is no need that you should go away.”
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You shall live here as always. If you needs
Must teach to any one your pretty arts
Of singing, music, painting, and the like,
Then teach my little Jessie—let her be
Your little pupil, as her mother once.”
So Fanny lived with us, but not for long
Dared I entrust my Jessie to her care,
Since Fanny was capricious as a cat,
Showing her claws at unexpected times,
And for no reason; thus, as I have said,
We dared not trust her with so dear a charge,
And home seems smoother since she left our roof
Some years ago; for no sufficient cause,
A show of temper and a fancied slight.
Alas, poor Fanny! She is sadly sour'd
At knowing that she is Miss Fanny still;
But yet she hopes, maybe not quite in vain.
Dared I entrust my Jessie to her care,
Since Fanny was capricious as a cat,
Showing her claws at unexpected times,
And for no reason; thus, as I have said,
We dared not trust her with so dear a charge,
And home seems smoother since she left our roof
Some years ago; for no sufficient cause,
A show of temper and a fancied slight.
Alas, poor Fanny! She is sadly sour'd
At knowing that she is Miss Fanny still;
But yet she hopes, maybe not quite in vain.
I have a curate, he is fair and slight,
And lady-handed, with a tenor voice,
Most limp and inoffensive in his ways.
He has not hair enough upon his chin
To make one honest eyebrow, and altho'
He is o'er young for Fanny, yet methinks
She has him in her toils; a born coquette,
She will not spare his meek, defenceless years,
But vanquish him, or, if he scorns her suit,
Will pass to others, and if scorn'd by all,
Will ne'er despair, and when she dies, at least
Will die in harness.
And lady-handed, with a tenor voice,
Most limp and inoffensive in his ways.
He has not hair enough upon his chin
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He is o'er young for Fanny, yet methinks
She has him in her toils; a born coquette,
She will not spare his meek, defenceless years,
But vanquish him, or, if he scorns her suit,
Will pass to others, and if scorn'd by all,
Will ne'er despair, and when she dies, at least
Will die in harness.
As for Jessie here,
I have no hope save that she stay with us
To make our sunshine. Still, as o'er her head
Have fall'n the blossoms of some eighteen springs,
I fear ere long my bird may plume her wing,
And leave the shelter of our quiet home.
I have no vain ambitions, and my mind
Would shrink from pointing unto such an one
Or such another, lest (as chanceth oft)
Love should outwit me. There is our young squire
(God bless him!) with his pointers and his gun,
His hand is on our wicket, and a smile
Is on his handsome face. Yet should he come
(This man whom she may marry) from the East
Or from the West, from such a castled keep,
As that wherefrom her father's banner waves,
Or from as poor a cottage as where flow'rs
The old brown hollyhock amongst its weeds,
I care not, so he be an honest man,
And love her well, and spare her grief of heart.
I have no hope save that she stay with us
To make our sunshine. Still, as o'er her head
Have fall'n the blossoms of some eighteen springs,
I fear ere long my bird may plume her wing,
And leave the shelter of our quiet home.
I have no vain ambitions, and my mind
Would shrink from pointing unto such an one
Or such another, lest (as chanceth oft)
Love should outwit me. There is our young squire
(God bless him!) with his pointers and his gun,
His hand is on our wicket, and a smile
Is on his handsome face. Yet should he come
(This man whom she may marry) from the East
Or from the West, from such a castled keep,
As that wherefrom her father's banner waves,
81
The old brown hollyhock amongst its weeds,
I care not, so he be an honest man,
And love her well, and spare her grief of heart.
“There is one great thing in this little world,
And that is Wisdom.”
And that is Wisdom.”
Once I saw engraved
Some hieroglyphics on an emerald,
Which meant this when translated. At the first
I found the space too cramp'd for so deep truth
(Writ in the circlet of as small a stone
As this upon my finger—it was hers),
And thought it told in stinted words;—it seem'd
As “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin;”
Yet as that awful message at the feast,
Written “over against the candlestick,”
Held more of sense than we had deem'd by sound,
So did these graven characters expand
Into this pole-star of the universe.
Yes, Wisdom is the greatest good to grasp,
After our hope in heaven, and our love
(If love prove kind and pitiful, and ne'er
Intreat us spitefully). Let Pleasure go;
Why should she linger longer than the flowers
That wreath'd her fickle brows? The trees are bare,
This is the winter—let her go her way—
For till Death dies how dare we always smile?
Yet whilst Love lives we may not always weep,
So Wisdom is the only perfect mean
Whereat to tarry, ere our life-blood chills,
Or heats to fever-fury.....
Some hieroglyphics on an emerald,
Which meant this when translated. At the first
I found the space too cramp'd for so deep truth
(Writ in the circlet of as small a stone
As this upon my finger—it was hers),
And thought it told in stinted words;—it seem'd
As “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin;”
Yet as that awful message at the feast,
Written “over against the candlestick,”
Held more of sense than we had deem'd by sound,
So did these graven characters expand
Into this pole-star of the universe.
Yes, Wisdom is the greatest good to grasp,
After our hope in heaven, and our love
(If love prove kind and pitiful, and ne'er
Intreat us spitefully). Let Pleasure go;
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That wreath'd her fickle brows? The trees are bare,
This is the winter—let her go her way—
For till Death dies how dare we always smile?
Yet whilst Love lives we may not always weep,
So Wisdom is the only perfect mean
Whereat to tarry, ere our life-blood chills,
Or heats to fever-fury.....
It is late;
Yonder I see a ling'ring speck of white,
The home of Jessie's mother (in my heart
She has a home which is in ruins too,
Yet it is hers for ever!) and afar
The pennon floating from her father's towers;
Whilst here a light which bids me hasten home
Shines from the windows of the Rectory.
Yonder I see a ling'ring speck of white,
The home of Jessie's mother (in my heart
She has a home which is in ruins too,
Yet it is hers for ever!) and afar
The pennon floating from her father's towers;
Whilst here a light which bids me hasten home
Shines from the windows of the Rectory.
115
ON WORKING A COUNTERPANE.
I work'd some lilies once, and said,“Oh, waste of needle and of thread!
Oh, waste of lilies white as milk!
Oh, waste of eyesight, time, and silk!
How short a while your hues will shed
A transient lustre o'er this bed
Empty of love! Yes, pale, I ween,
Will wax these leaves my fingers traced
With so much patience! I have seen
By time and moth and dust effaced
Old feudal hangings, broiderèd
Doubtless by ladies fair, who graced
Banquet and bower—yes, my time I waste
In such fool's labour!”...Then each lily's head
Seem'd to uprise in anger, as they said
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Of which, of silk or beauty, doth the sheen
Endure the longest? Ah, the hands that traced
Those faded colours, and the feet that paced
Those corridors all arras-curtainèd,
Are they but just a little faded too?
Of them doth there remain one tatter'd shred?
Spurn not thy work; the little thou mayst do
Is thy best, most immortal part. Between
The cradle and the tomb, thy path is spread
With things far more enduring than thy tread,
Whereof the echo dies; and pink and red
And lilies white, with broider'd stems of green,
May be, poor fsempstress! when thou wilt have been,
And blossom on long after thou art dead!”
117
A LAMENT.
Oh, betwixt the earth and heaven,
I remember
How there hung a silent mist,
On the day when first we kiss'd,
In November.
I remember
How there hung a silent mist,
On the day when first we kiss'd,
In November.
In the happy after spring-tide,
All too early,
We cull'd from off the bosom
Of the earth the snow-drop's blossom
White and pearly.
All too early,
We cull'd from off the bosom
Of the earth the snow-drop's blossom
White and pearly.
Was that pall-like mist an omen
(Oft I wonder,)
Of that pall which fell to cover
All my hopes, and loved and lover
Swept asunder?
(Oft I wonder,)
Of that pall which fell to cover
All my hopes, and loved and lover
Swept asunder?
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And was that blighted snowdrop
I remember
A sad emblem of the blossom
Earth had folded to her bosom
In December?
I remember
A sad emblem of the blossom
Earth had folded to her bosom
In December?
119
TO A GARDEN.
Oh, happy Eden! where I roam'd of yore
In that sweet ignorance I long for now,
Not childish innocence of fruited bough,
For I had bit my apple to the core:
In that sweet ignorance I long for now,
Not childish innocence of fruited bough,
For I had bit my apple to the core:
But when the golden fruit seem'd doubly sweet
(Unlike the tempter of a bygone day),
A serpent came, and bade me fling away
What once he bade those first poor lovers eat.
(Unlike the tempter of a bygone day),
A serpent came, and bade me fling away
What once he bade those first poor lovers eat.
Oh, had I never bent that magic bough
And tasted all the sweetness that it bore,
My heart had been as careless as before,
And all these bitter tears unfalling now!
And tasted all the sweetness that it bore,
My heart had been as careless as before,
And all these bitter tears unfalling now!
120
Oh, curse the cruel hand that pointed where
My golden apple had its bitter flaw,
And curse the cruel eye that smiled and saw
My best illusions melting into air!
My golden apple had its bitter flaw,
And curse the cruel eye that smiled and saw
My best illusions melting into air!
But garden—garden where I used to rove,
I bless thy orange groves and sunny sky,
I bless thy feath'ry palm-trees tow'ring high,
That overshadow'd what seem'd then my love!
I bless thy orange groves and sunny sky,
I bless thy feath'ry palm-trees tow'ring high,
That overshadow'd what seem'd then my love!
121
THE POET.
The poet mused at midnight near his lamp,Trimm'd for long hours of vigil; whilst his hand,
Nervous and mobile, glowing like his cheek
(Or wan as that same cheek whene'er bereft
Of blood begot of rash enthusiasm),
Grasp'd betwixt quiv'ring forefinger and thumb
His grey goose quill, all eager for the fray.
Beside him stood a brimming beaker, fill'd
High with the sparkling wine of Rüdesheim
(The wine which Goethe loved, who crown'd the grape
With after-immortality of song).
His chamber wore that look which poets love
And children shrink from; for each nestling shade
Seem'd phantom-form or spirit tangible;—
Soft sighs breathed thro' the silence,—mirror'd back
From glass and polish'd panel, started forms
122
SONNET.
Are these dead roses what the glowOf vanish'd summers promis'd me?
When, budding on their virgin tree
As pure as after-winter's snow
These wither'd blossoms 'gan to blow
As harbingers of sweets to be?
For, looking closely, I could see
The bursting flecks of whiteness, so...
Streaking the fulness of the green,
Seeming a bright foreshadowing
As gleams of sunlight smile between
The thunder-showers of the spring.
Behold my promise! it has been
Fulfilled in this poor shrivell'd thing!
123
UNDER THE OAKS.
Wait for me here a little; it is late,Yet would I linger here amongst the oaks
And talk to them awhile, for they are friends
That over-shadow'd something which is gone
From these, the days that seem'd so far away
When, like a sunburnt gipsy of the woods,
I mused in childhood underneath their boughs.
Give me them back again, ye hoary oaks,
The lavish fancies of bare-footed youth,
When wild and drunk with Nature at her fount
I dream'd a golden future! Trees and flow'rs
And rush-bound river heard my ardent vows,
And sigh'd an acquiescence to those dreams
So wholly gone!...I search the world in vain
To find that hopeful spirit which of old
Haunted these sylvan shades! On Alpine peaks,
Pink with the rosy light of setting suns,
| The Queen of the fairies | |