/^BERKELEY j LIBRARY 1 UNIVERSITY OF \CALIFORNIA SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE BY F. B. DOVETON AUTHOR OF "SNATCHES OF SONG Hontton SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET 1886 {All rights reserved'} LOAN STACK LONDON : PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED, ST. JOHN'S SQUARE. TO ROBERT BROWNING, ESQ. To thee, great singer of our later days, Whose song is strong as sweet, I dare to bring this slender wreath of lays, And leave it at your feet. 536 PREFACE. NEARLY all the pieces, Prose and Poetical, contained in this volume have already appeared in divers periodicals, and the source is acknowledged at foot in those cases where (having been paid) I have been kindly allowed to reprint. Among the papers contributed to may be mentioned : The Illustrated London News, the Graphic, the World, Public Opinion, Life, the Girls' Own Paper, Society, Home Chimes, Truth, Fishing Gazette, Travel and Talk, Judy, Fun, the Pictorial World, Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, Orange Blossoms, the Dramatic Review, &c., &c. The longer poems at the beginning here appear intact for the first time, with the exception of " Glimpses of Immortality," and " A Last Farewell." CONTENTS. PROSE : PAGE On the South Downs in November . . i Dartmoor in June 5 Trouting on the Devonshire Avon . . 14 An Autumn Angling Tour . .24 That Blessed Baby . -3 A Strange Errand . -34 The History of a Half-Sovereign (an Autobio- graphy) . 47 A Reminiscence . . . . . 5 1 A Sad Strange Story ... 56 Fore-warned is Fore-armed . . 60 In Dreamland . . . . . .69 Magazine Poetry (" Dark Blue ") . . . 73 Social Sketches : 1. The Purgatory of Pleasure! . . .78 2. Tittle Tattle 81 3. Flirtation 84 4. Round Men in Square Holes . . .87 5. The Irony of Fate 90 POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE AND SENTIMENTAL : Glimpses of Immortality . . . -95 The Voices of Nature 109 viii CONTENTS. POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE AND SENTIMENTAL (continued) : PAGE In the Olden Time 127 The Rustic Beauty . . . . .165 Within and Without 189 The Last Farewell . . . . 199 Dreams Past and Present . . . .204 The First Discord 207 A Weird Dream 209 Near Fingle Bridge on the Teign . . .211 The Coaching Season . . . . .212 A Song (for Music) . . . . .212 "After" 213 A Rifleman's Song . . . . .214 Alexander II. (In Memoriam) . . .214 Trance. . . . . . . .215 Trouting by Night . . . . 218 The Four Seasons of Life . . . .219 The Lily 220 Castle Building 221 Autumn . . . . . . .221 By the Sea in November . . . .222 Thomas Hood 224 Now and After 225 Nothing . . . . . . .226 Dean Stanley (In Memoriam) . . .227 The Angler's Soliloquy (at the Seaside) . .227 Alfred Jingle (a Sketch) . . . .228 " And Beauty draws us with a Single Hair " . 229 Song (for Music) . . . . . .231 CONTENTS. ix POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE AND SENTIMENTAL (continued) : PAGE Cremation (a Plea for) . . . .232 President Garfield (In Memoriam) . . 233 The Ancient Cotter ... .234 The Close of the Treating Season . -235 Trout Angler's Song . . . 236 Cypress and Orange Blossom . .238 The Maiden and the Mistletoe . . .239 Ghosts . . , . . . . . 240 July .241 The Angler's Dream . . .242 Memories of the Dead 244 Al Fresco A Summer Memory . . . 245 Archibald Campbell Tait (In Memoriam) . 246 At the Concert in .the Dome. . . 247 At Brighton in January ... . 248 On the Bridge .... .249 After the Battle 250 To the Lady Bicyclists at the Devonshire Park ,251 At Beachy Head . . . . . .252 Baby's Social Duties 254 A Welcome to May . . . . . 255 The Soul's Voyage . . . .256 A Spring Idyll .258 The World without Women .... 259 The Sick Toiler in the Garret . . .261 Shall we meet them again ? . . . .262 Woodland Memories . . . . .264 A Shortest Day Scene . . . . .264 xii CONTENTS. POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE AND SENTIMENTAL (continued) : PAGE Da Flores Liberis 1 .. . .344 Hypnotism . 344 Jumbo (In Memoriam) .... 345 In the Shrubbery ...... 346 Which is it ? 348 In the Row (in the Season) .... 349 On my Scotch Terrier " Pepper " . . -35* Anti- Jingo Song 353 A Welcome 354 The Gordon Memorial . . . -355 Don't Tell (for Music) 356 Ad pallidam Mortem 356 Torquay . 358 My Courting Days are done .... 360 The Close of the Season (a Sonnet) . .361 A Devon Idyll ...... 362 The Lady Madeline . . . . -363 A Sequel to Poe's " Raven " . . . . 364 The Ghosts of Christmas Past . . .367 A June Morning 368 Gwendolen . . ... . . 370 "Only" 370 To Cawsand Beacon . . . . .371 The Close of the London Season . . .372 My Resolution . . . . . 373 Ode to March ...... 374 The Approach of Spring (to a Lady) . . 376 Falling Leaves 377 CONTENTS. xiii POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE AND SENTIMENTAL (continued) : PAGE Flowers of Joy and Sorrow . . . . 378 God bless him 379 An Earthly Paradise 380 The Royal Academy 381 Lidford Cascade 381 In the Autumn Time 382 To Madeline 383 On the Approach of All Fools' Day . . 385 Ode to April .... . 386 A May Day at Yentnor .... 388 A Spring Song 389 The Abbe Liszt (In Memoriam) . . .391 HUMOROUS POEMS, AND PARODIES : New Version of a Nursery Rhyme . . 392 My Tailor! 393 With Apologies to Tom Moore . . -395 A Wife's Vagaries ..... 396 Recipe for a 3-Volume Novel . . 397 To the coming Comet ..... 398 From the Registrar-General (the Census) . 399 Wanted ! A Sinecure ! 400 A Visit to Mr. Page, the Butcher . . . 402 Zoedone 402 To my Wife (after " The Princess ") . . 404 Christmas Bills ! 405 Christmas Versicles (by a Lunatic) . . 406 The Song of the Flirt 407 xiv CONTENTS. HUMOROUS POEMS, AND PARODIES (continued) : : PAGE Young Oxford's Pranks (after Hood) . . 408 Brighton ....... 410 King Theebaw (after a Bab Ballad) . .413 The Lawn Tennis Match (after Hohenlinden) 414 Othello a rhymed Version . . . .415 St. Swithin the very wet Season of '82 . 417 Bewitching Brighton . . . . .418 The Gastronomic Epoch . . . .419 The Spots of Grease 420 "No. 50". . . . . " . . . 422 March Musings 423 Canine Sagacity ...... 424 Revolutionizing Time . . . . * 425 In the Floral Hall at Devonshire Park . .426 Nursery Rhyme (New Version) . . . 427 The Serpent of the Sea .... 428 Lawn Tennis . . . . . -429 A Fisherman's Fancies (in December) . . 430 Why is it? 432 The Divided Skirt 434 A Doleful Lay 435 Emancipation . . . . . . 436 Some Day (a New Version) . . >. -437 The Demon Dyspepsia .... 438 Our Modern Children 439 Eheu ! Fugaces, Postume ! Postume ! . . 440 'Tis the Grub that makes the Butter fly ! .441 The Precocious Pet 443 CONTENTS. xv HUMOROUS POEMS, AND PARODIES (continue^) : PAGE A December Dirge 444 The State of the Thames (after Coleridge) . 445 The Burial of the Season . . . -447 A Christmas Canticle 44$ The " Silly Season " . . . . -449 Femina Victrix ...... 450 The Unfitness of the Meat . . . -453 A Bookish Ballad (after Hood) . . .454 Applied to Home Rule . . . .456 The Bishop and the Ballet . . . .456 The General Nuisance . . . .458 November . . . . . . .461 Mandates for Mary (after Moore's Anacreontic " Wreaths for the Ministers ") . . .462 Taking the Cake 464 My Schooldays . . . . . .465 The Old Year and the New . , . .467 A Seasonable Song ..... 468 A Drinking Song (slightly altered) . . 470 Our Visitors . . . . . . .471 " My Whiteley \" 473 Ye Primrose Dames of England . . . 474 The Grand Young Man (after Moore) . . 476 The Midnight Mission (a Legend of the West Countree !)...... 476 Nothing to Talk about 481 Lawn Tennis Tournament at Eastbourne, '85 483 A Voice in the Matter . . . . .485 xvi CONTENTS. HUMOROUS POEMS, AND PARODIES (continued} : PAGE Dinner is a Stage .... .486 A Lawn Tennis Ode 4 8 7 After being sent for ! . . . . .488 Children at the Pantomime (after Southey) . 490 When the Boys come Home ! . . .491 My first Grand Jury 493 The Late Parliament, 1886 (In Memoriam) . 497 The Common Squeal ! A Song for the Sleepless 498 The Cutting of the Knot (after Byron) . . 499 Joe Chamberlain ! From W. E. G. (after Burns) 500 ERRATA. Page 2, line 7 from top, omit the comma after Dove's foot. ,, 104, Stanza VI., line 2, insert comma after west. ,, 104, Stanza VIII., line I, for when read where. 129, line 8 from top, for I a little reck read for I little reck. ,, 143, line 9 from top, omit comma aftei' driven. , , 193, line 7 from bottom, the letter t omitted from mystery. ,, 239, line 3 from io^> y for lifts read rifts. ,, 282, line 14 from top, insert \ after nine. 350, line 9 from bottom, for Sister Sweet read sister sweet (capitals wrong here). ,, 371, line 7 from top, for increasing read unceasing. 477, line 9 from top,/0r god read got. xvi CONTENTS. HUMOROUS POEMS, AND PARODIES (continued) : PAGE Dinner is a Stage . . . . . .486 A Lawn Tennis Ode . . . . .487 After being sent for ! 488 Children at the Pantomime (after Southey) . 490 When the Boys come Home ! . . .491 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. PROSE. ON THE SOUTH DOWNS IN NOVEMBER. THE afternoon is warm and calm, and the mellow sunlight softens every feature in the landscape. The rounded outlines of the chalk Downs are clearly denned against the blue sky, whilst the deep hollows are lying half in sun, half in shadow. It is still early in the after- noon, but in another hour those hollows will be entirely shadowed, and one charm in the scene destroyed. At the base of the Downs are fields of golden stubble, and in the corner are ricks of pale yellow, where chaffinches, greenfinches, and sparrows are busy insect-hunting amid the straw. Ever and anon the common bunting (a solitary bird) wings his somewhat heavy flight across the fields. As I gradually ascend the slope I notice tiny black specks with some white ones among them against the rich red of a distant fallow field. They are rooks and common gulls on the look-out for their daily " Diet of Worms." Between these birds there is a sort of armed B 2 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. neutrality; each endures the other on sufferance, as it were, but there is no open war. In my slow ascent I come across a few late plants, including the hawkweed ox-tongue, the bastard toad flax (a tiny thing, and very local), a small variety of the dandelion, wild thyme, round-headed rampion, autumnal gentian, clustered bell flower, wild mignonette, dove's foot, crane's bill, &c. Under the hedge just below me grow the basil thyme, greater knapweed, black-headed ditto, and red briony, all these preferring a sheltered situation. An indefinable sadness hovers everywhere a sense of sure though slow decay. This golden sunshine flecking those distant woods and glorifying even that humble shed in the stubble field is plainly " A gilded halo hovering round decay," like the strange smile playing across the wan, worn features, soon to be stiffened for ever in the cold grasp of death. As I gain the crest of the Downs I turn to gaze on the scene around me. The rich colouring everywhere holds the eye. The beeches in those far woods are fiery red and orange later on, they will be clad in russet ; the maples are scarlet and gold, like the glowing hues of sunset, whilst those horse chestnuts are resplendent in a livery of green and yellow. Autumn is certainly the landscape painter, par excellence, after all. His tints are blended with the most exquisite skill ; the hues of no two trees of the same species are precisely alike. And again, what diversity between trees of a different genus ! It is this diversity in the PROSE. 3 tints that lends the autumnal landscape its greatest charm. . The green and gold array of those elms bor- dering the field is unlike the garb of the chestnuts, being brighter and clearer. The shade of each hue is different. On the roof of the old shed is a lichen of an orange tint, which contrasts beautifully with the soft blue of the sky and the pale yellow of the neighbouring ricks. I traverse the breezy table-land where linnets and gold- finches are twittering amid the furze, and sweep round towards the coast, crushing the local dwarf thistle ( Cnicus acaulis}, a pure chalk plant, at nearly every step ; I watch the light thistle-down as it is carried here and there by the soft autumnal gale. These winged seeds are, indeed, powerful agents of reproduction ; hence the abundance of the common thistle everywhere. Red- capped " spinks," as the goldfinches are called, are very fond of them, and when at work among the plants scatter the pappi in all directions like a cloud of feathery spray. A skylark is raining music from on high, but his song is apparently lost on the weatherbeaten old shepherd with his pastoral crook, whom I encounter on his way to join his flocks yonder on those distant slopes, where they look like white specks upon the hill-side. As I near the edge of the lofty cliffs, the sea breeze salutes my face with a delightful freshness ; the salty odour is very strong to-day. Far away on the western horizon beyond Newhaven, is a low, dark bank of cloud, with the declining sun gilding its upper edge, and casting a streak of dazzling glory on the tranquil sea. This is the only golden bar on the waste of waters. Between B 2 4 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. me and it, is a fair sheet of molten silver, the reflection of the fleecy clouds above, but behind me and . to the eastward, the ocean is of a bluish-grey. Snowy spots are dancing on its gently heaving bosom, kittiwakes and common gulls rocking themselves on the cradle of the deep. Larger white objects are dotted about here and there fishing-boats and skiffs and beyond them I see the steamer from Newhaven to Dieppe swiftly crossing the watery way, and leaving a long, dark trail behind her. As I look over the cliffs a peregrine falcon sails out of her eyrie and mounts rapidly upwards on untiring wing. These birds breed in the steep chalk cliffs, where their nests are often inaccessible. Large flocks of starlings and daws also dart out, wheeling about a little way, and then returning to their vantage-ground. It is a grand, bold scene, and the air is a splendid tonic for over- wrought nerves a fine sweep of tranquil ocean, with the lofty white cliffs stretching far away in the blue distance, their reach broken ever and anon by a bay or small inlet. No signs of life save the gulls, starlings, and myself, except indeed it be a tiny animated speck, here and there, on the chalk beach far, far below. I regret- fully turn homewards as the silver shimmer rapidly darkens, and the golden bar melts gradually away. As I descend towards Eastbourne, I notice a lonely hedge on my left, fired in places with scarlet hips and red briony berries. I gather a chaplet of these en route as a memento of my ramble, and reach the town about " the purple shut of day." Life. PROSE. DARTMOOR IN JUNE. IT is a broiling day in leafy June. Once more the Dutchman has deposited me and my impedimenta on the platform of the Newton Abbot Station, amid a group of stalwart porters, all of whom know me well men with bronzed, kindly faces, and speaking the rich dialect of the " West Countree," my bonny native land ! Year after year I come here to the scenes of my younger days, and year after year I find friend Perrott, the veteran Dartmoor guide, waiting my arrival at Moreton with a somewhat primitive trap and a pair of sinewy ponies. Time has dealt gently with the grand old fellow, though his locks are frosted now, and he is not as upright as he was in " the days of Auld Lang Syne." Still, he carries his seventy summers well, can walk twenty miles at a pinch, and relishes a joke as keenly as ever. As he stands before me to-day, with his horny palm locked in mine and kindly interest beaming in his honest eyes, I sadly think of the time when he will no longer meet the train here, but be taking his last long rest in the quiet village churchyard on the edge of the bare wild moorland, stern and grey. Trying to banish these sad thoughts, and with the glorious panorama of wood and water that I had just traversed on the branch line from Newton still floating before my mind's eye, I take my seat beside my old friend, and we are soon rattling through sleepy old Moreton, now abloom with bright flowers in their prime. 6 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Anon, on our right we catch a glimpse of the steep heights ofWhyddon Park, heights crowned with chestnut and oak, that slope precipitously towards the silvery Teign, now hidden from our view; we pass through a broken, picturesque country, with woodlands here and there, and masses of grey Dartmoor granite lying in the rough inclosures a somewhat rude landscape perhaps, and boggy in sundry places, but one I love full well, and ever hail with moistened eyes. Ha ! there is the blue moorland once more, and dear old Chagford nestling peacefully under stern old Middledown Hill, that seems to guard the village like some grim giant of yore. In the furze on the hill I shall find the lovely lesser dodder, with its skeins like red coral, set at intervals with clusters of tiny white flowers. In the marsh below I shall hap on the elegant bog-bean (Menyanthes trifoliata}, with its ternate leaves, and pretty white florets tinged with pink ; and not only these, but the marsh will yield the curious Drosera (both species) Anagallis tenella, &c. Presently Perrott breaks in upon my musings botanical with a cheery " Pretty nigh there, sir, now ; and we ought to kill a pretty dish of trout in the Bovey to-morrow if the day be anything like a decent one." " There beant water enough in the main stream, I'm thinking," adds the veteran. " But I do dearly love a day on the Bovey with you, sir ; the zanery there be so home like, to my notion, and you do fish that strame uncommon well, to be sure ! " PROSE. 7 I modestly disown the compliment ; but the old fellow shakes his head incredulously as we rattle through the rough streets of" Chaggiford," and pull up sharply at that ancient hostelry, " The Three Crowns," all solid granite, with its old porch, and mullioned windows overlooking the churchyard and the fair Teign valley, with a sweep of grand wooded hills in the blue distance. Here I am at home, coming as I do, year after year, and find familiar faces " that look brighter when I come." The handmaid, a bright Devon lassie, is an old friend, and she and the hostess bustle cheerily about to make things snug for me. My baggage is soon tumbled out, and I am once more in that cool, quaint parlour Charles Kingsley used during his stay here. As I look round at the deep windows, with their spacious sill, the patriarchal armchair, and the roomy sofa, it seems only yesterday that I packed up my fishing gear here with a sigh, and yet it was a long year ago ! I feel deep repose of spirit, such as bonny Devon never fails to bring me, as I turn my traps out in picturesque confusion, making the parlour a facsimile of what it was twelve months since ; and after greeting the worthy postmaster and his comely spouse close by, and securing my letters, I take my wonted turn in the village before dinner no light busi- ness in "these parts," where everybody is as hungry as a hunter! How familiar everything and everybody seems ! The old grey tower, the clock, the tiny rillet under the churchyard walls, the reading-room, the market-house, the very dogs all seem objects I parted from yesterday. That tiny tinkler, the rill, will once 8 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. more be my lullaby to-night, and land me, I trust, in the region of dreams, as of yore. Of course, I meet the popular village doctor, an old friend and a rare sportsman, and together we saunter to friend Perrott's domicile, in the centre of the place. The " master " is out ; but the " missis," a grand old dame, and a beauty in her time, gives me a hearty handshake, as does the only " maiden " at home, Ellen, who can tie flies with the best. One or two of the guide's sons come in, the eldest of whom is " a bad 'un to beat " with the fly-rod. In the cosy room where we stand has Perrott himself tied flies for forty years or so, and the walls are adorned with drawings of sundry monster trout, lured by the aforesaid son from the weir pool, with tell it not in Gath the artificial minnow ! Perrott has a small library of his own here, too, books given him by their authors (I notice a volume of my o\vn doggrel among them) ; the old fellow is " no scholard," perhaps, but reads certain "potry " with relish, and is a wonderfully accurate observer of Nature, being well up in ferns and wild flowers. " The ladies I drive be allays asking me their names," he says ; " so I larns them whenever I can, not to appear foolish like." On the parlour walls, too, is the Perrott " coat-of-arms," grandly emblazoned, for he comes of ancient lineage, Here, then, the medico and myself overhaul the fly- sheets, and discuss angling prospects generally, till the clock, striking six, warns me that I shall be expected to do my duty with knife and fork in half an hour's time. So I return to mine inn, and presently am making fearful havoc with the lamb-chops and gooseberry-tart. Even PROSE. 9 Annie, who is somewhat exacting in this respect, appears satisfied this evening with my prowess at table, and beams approvingly on the remnants of the chops. And then the cream. Here you get the genuine " clotted cream," with its golden rind, as you always get it in this dreamy Devon of ours, but nowhere else. None of your sickly provincial parodies of clotted cream ; they wouldn't pass muster here in the true home of this delicious dainty, which is a drug in Devon, and eaten ad lib. at every meal. Later on, I am blowing a " cloud " and sipping my whisky toddy, when Perrott is announced to form plans for the morrow. The old man sits on the extreme edge of his chair, out of politeness presumably, and joins me in a pipe and glass. He opines that the Bovey will be in good trim on the morrow, and if the day is a decent one reckons, on a couple of dozen each. " I allus thinks," he says, whilst moistening his lips with "Old Irish," " that them Bovey feesh be rare good 'uns, and fine 'ating they be, too. I mind the time," he adds, " when you could fill your basket pretty nigh any day in that purty brook ; but there be a sight more fishermen now, and in consequence fewer feesh." I condole with my friend on this unwarrantable incursion of Zebedees, and push him the tobacco-jar, from which he loads another pipe. He is a terrible smoker, and relishes my " May Blossom " amazingly after the native tobacco, for which he has a sovereign contempt. We part about ten o'clock, as the moorland air always makes the new arrival sleepy, and I am soon in the " arms o' Porpus," in a bed like that of Mr. Roker's, " an out-and-outer to io SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. sleep in." On the morrow morn betimes I am again beside my veteran guide, threading the rough and steep lanes in a rather rickety trap, with a veritable shrimp for a Jehu, whose Devonshire accent is of the strongest. As we bowl along I notice Teesdalia nudicaulis amid the interstices of the granite walls, and the lovely little Corydalis daviculata^ with its tangled stems and yellowish- white flowers, peeps out on us from the hedges here and there. It is too early for the exquisite Campanula hederacea, with its tiny azure bells ; but a month later it will festoon many a granite wall, under which some clear rillet runs by the roadside. Up hill and down hill, now skirting some steep fir plantation, and now passing fields abloom with waving coloured grasses, campions, and blue hyacinths ; now rattling through quiet hamlets, with solid granite farmhouses, and now crossing crystal- brooks that lose themselves among brambles and rose bushes, we, at length, halt at North Bovey, a quiet, quaint village, whose tall grey tower is a landmark for miles around. We put up at a cosy little inn, adjust our fly-rods, and make for the trouty stream in the valley below. On the way I notice Ranunculus parvtflorus an uncommon plant rather in the hedge, and stop to pop a bit into my collecting-box, Perrott looking on with a judicial eye as he examines the new "find" carefully. We find the brook in rare trim the water slightly coloured, and the trout rising in that quiet way which shows they mean business ; the day is also a favourable one cloudy, with a S.W. wind, and there is not too much fly on. I walk down stream a mile or so, PROSE. ii turning round at all the likely bends and stickles to fish them up. To-day there is a splendid ripple on, and I pull out one fish after another, all as bright as virgin gold, till their weight begins to tell. I use a blue grizzle for the stretcher, and a red palmer, ribbed with gold twist, for "Bob," both standard flies for the bonny Bovey. If Master Trout turns up his nose at these now, either he is off his feed or gorged with the Fern Webb or Bracken Clock, that tiny-winged beetle which is so deadly in June. But its use smacks strongly of poaching in my eyes, and I stick to my colours, red and blue. The first half-mile or so is over a common ablaze with gorse, after which the river gradually becomes more wooded as it approaches the gorge under Lustleigh Cleave. It is, without doubt, a queer stream to tackle ; you must have the knack of throwing back-handers under the bushes into little holes the size of a slop-basin if you would pick out the show fish. The tyro will not do much here, and will probably leave something like a guinea's worth of tackle behind him. Each bend of the brooklet seems lovelier than the last, and as I ramble on, I think of the lines " The dreary moor towards the west Steep fields upon the other side Down stream the vision I love best 'The Cleave,' in all its barren pride, And in the foreground, mead and wold, Starred with rich pink, and blue, and gold." That conveys as accurate an idea of the scenery we are traversing to-day as it is possible to give in words, I 12 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. think. Anon, Perrott comes up to me, and, in reply to my query as to his sport, wags his head sententiously, and mutters something about it "being no bit of good at all." However, I find he has caught more than I have after all. This innocent distortion of the truth as regards his "catch" is a pardonable weakness of the veteran's, for he loves nothing better than to get a harmless rise out of you. We eat our sandwiches and produce our "pocket pistols," after which we smoke placidly in leafy nooks, and recall our past exploits on the lovely stream. Grey evening steals on apace, and we regain the inn with a few more than the prophesied four dozen fish between us. Then the drive through the gloaming, with the lonely Tors growing fainter in the far distance. Then some of Perrott's quaint stories, as he quietly sucks at his black briar-root pipe in calm enjoyment. Presently a sheep-dog leaps over a gate and menaces our stately equipage. The old man opines that the said dog wants " catechizing " (meaning chas- tizing, I presume). At last "mine hostelrie "is reached, and what a flavour the lamb-chops have after a day by the riverside ! Again, in dreams that night, do I catch my trout over again, with a phantom fly-rod in a shadowy stream, with old Perrott as the central figure. Another day we follow the North Teign, nearly as far up as its source above " Teign Head," through the wildest scenery imaginable. Dreary moorlands stretch away here as far as the eye can reach ; grim, gaunt Tors, with their rugged grandeur, softened by the mellow summer sunlight, stand like giant sentinels over that lonely land. PROSE. 13 About half a mile below Teign Head the river races down over immense slabs of granite, and there are some most tempting pools, where you may pick out veritable beauties. We basket about three dozen apiece here, and, better still, we find the beautiful Lancashire asphodel, the marsh St. John's wort, Scirpus setacens^ that lovely miniature rush, the bog pimpernel, and other interesting plants. The stone curlew wheels, with its wild wail, overhead, and we see a pair of ring-ousels, who breed here. The merlin is occasionally seen on Dartmoor ; but the marsh harrier is a rara avis indeed, and the kite has totally disappeared. The great bustard was once seen on the banks of Cherry Brook, near Princetown, about twenty years ago, by a relative of the writer, who, at first, took it for a turkey. Perrott and I devote several days to botany, and pass some pleasant hours plunging about bogs, or investi- gating the treasures of wild remote lanes and heathery commons. The famous guide is an enthusiast in this line, and his sunburnt face glowed with pleasure on gathering one day an armful of the pretty snakeweed (a local plant) near Manaton. Among our " finds " were Potentilla argentea and Cherophyllum Anthriscus (near Trusham), Myrrhis odorata, Verbascum blattaria, CEnanthe Pimpinelloides (near Trusham), Thlaspiarvense, &c. Very rarely, in these excursions, we came upon fair ladies in summer guise (often the nearest rector's daughters probably), in some retired, picturesque spot, 14 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. where one least expected them. Feminine faces never look so charming as when glimpsed only through a leafy screen in the heart of the country their beauty is heightened by the lovely surroundings. Another day we fished in the romantic gorge towards Fingle, where the trout are larger (averaging about five to the pound), and the scenery simply exquisite. Then we had a day for antiquities, when Perrott waxed eloquent over hut-circles, cromlechs, British camps, stone avenues, &c., for he is a bit of an antiquarian as well as a naturalist. Three happy weeks in this " Lotus-land " three weeks of golden sunshine, green nooks, and rippling waters and then a warm parting with my worthy friend a sad good-bye for awhile to the bonny " West Countree," and the iron steed is swiftly whirling me towards Eastbourne and home. TROUTING ON THE DEVONSHIRE AVON. THIS once-famed river rises high upon dreary Dart- moor, amid the rushy haunts of snipe and plover, and dances merrily through that barren waste, flowing under the romantic Shipley Bridge, two or three miles above Brent, and thence larking through Avonwick, Loddiswell, and Aveton Gifford, where it enters the estuary to fall into the sea at Avonmouth. None of your staid, solemn streams, with rushy margins and unwrinkled face, is this bonny Avon of ours, but a dashing, dare-devil, cheery sort of a PROSE. 15 river that bounds over the crags of Devonian slate with surprising velocity, and, like a prattling child, its babble is only hushed when its voice is lulled to rest by the dreamy lullaby of its stately mother, the sounding sea. It was in the " good old times " one of the most pro- ductive of trout streams, was this Avon, and your basket was oftener full than not of the speckled beauties, after a day's fly fishing. Nowadays it is so terribly poached by idle vagabonds that it is by no means an easy matter to get a decent dish of fish, except when the water is clearing after a flood, when heavy trout are occasionally taken. A vast number of salmon are also taken out of this stream annually by the said poaching gentry, the few water-bailiffs employed being utterly unable to cope with the gangs of robbers who have spoilt one of the best rivers in England ! Certain veteran trout-fishers wink at all this, being convinced that S. Salar gobbles up his speckled brother whenever he can ; but expediency is one thing and legality another, and I firmly express my conviction that the fact of salmon preying upon trout (even were it fully proved) should be no justification in the eyes of true trout-fishers for the wholesale destroyers of the said salmon, even allowing that their proceedings favoured the increase of trout. In our unlucky Avon there is little doubt that the trout as well as the salmon are speared and netted. So the poachers have not even that very lame leg to stand upon. Were I in the Com- mission of the Peace, which, luckily for the scoundrels, I am not, I should certainly deal very severely with them. 1 6 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. The salmon licence for the Avon is only a guinea, and by clubbing together, these men, with the good wages they earn, could easily provide one in every half-dozen of their number with a licence and tackle, and thus they would keep the law and have their salmon as well, whereas they now do openly what I dare not do with impunity. Nothing, I repeat, can justify this wholesale infraction of the law, and it is to be deeply regretted that this poaching should have made so much headway that it now seems impossible to put it down. The reader will pardon this digression, but it is surely not entirely irrele- vant to the subject in hand, and I fancy all true sports- men will share my views. Let the reader now come with me on some May morning, with a westerly wind and a cloudy sky, to bonny Avon -side, on trouting cares intent. My trusty fly rod is soon put together, and the tapering collar at- tached, with an Avon or Maxwell blue for stretcher, and a red palmer (always safe here) for a dropper. A second drop may be added, and nothing beats a grizzly palmer ribbed with gold twist. We will begin in this deep pool, just under the romantic village of Diptford, whose picturesque rectory and church are perched on the heights above. A likely-looking pool is this, with a good fall at the upper end, whence comes down a rush of claret-coloured water, which swirls away into a long, still reach below. Many a handsome fish have I pulled out here, and this particular morning increases my faith in it, for at the very first cast across and up the pool there is a sudden tightening of the line, a golden gleam through PROSE. 17 the claret water, and the next moment a handsome quarter-pounder is a candidate for the rushy repose of my basket. Two more are landed before the resources of the pool are exhausted, and then we stroll slowly down stream (leaving the still reach, which is not promising), with the west wind fanning our brows, and rich sylvan music delighting our eager ears. The graceful larches which fringe the stream a little way below have already donned their feathery foliage of the freshest green, the oak and ash are rapidly bursting into leaf in the Rectory woods, whilst the beautiful sycamore and sober alder are also in their gala dress this pleasant May morning. After crossing a couple of meadows, veritable cloths of gold, we reach a longer one, through which the river rushes rapidly between narrow, rocky boundaries, and here we basket a trout or two more, all as golden as the buttercups under our feet. The March brown is out and hovering lightly over the water, but the trout do not seem to be feeding greedily upon them, seemingly preferring the black gnats and the iron-blue duns which are frisking merrily in all directions. So I stick to my colours, red and blue, and leave the March browns reposing in my fly-book. At the end of the last field we cross a wooden hand-bridge, erroneously called a clam by the villagers, and, turning sharply to the right, we enter a miller's yard ; for here is a picturesque old mill, whose leat is taken out of the Avon a quarter of a mile above a weather-beaten, romantic old mill, whose clatter (as George Eliot puts it in "The Mill on the Floss") c 1 8 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. has become part of the pervading silence, and is hardly heard by the ears upon which it falls so often. The hoary old miller, whose father and grandfather lived here before him, hobbles out of his rose-wreathed cottage as we pass, and wishes us "good sport," but opines " that it is rather too cloudy to do much ! " With one glance at Semper vivum Tectorum glowing on the roof, and another at the tiny garden already gay with flowers, we briskly trudge on through the yard, and emerge on a lovely glen, with the merry river racing swiftly below. Rocky steeps crowned with gorse, and dwarf oaks rapidly bursting into leaf, rise on our left, whilst equally steep woodlands face us across the stream. The glen itself is literally paved with the blue hyacinths, interspersed here and there with a few late daffodils, for a fortnight ago these latter flowers made a golden carpet for this secluded valley. Nature, like a lovely coquette, soon wearying of her golden robe, flings an azure one instead over her fair shoulders. A water-ousel or dipper occupies the summit of an old grey boulder opposite us, his ruddy breast glancing in the sunlight, and his saucy tail flirting incessantly as he watches us curiously. But at the first whisk of our collar and flies he darts off up the stream, following its windings till he is lost to view. Steady ! A good trout was lost there through carelessness on our part. We felt the vibration through the line, as we were watching the bird, but with one dash the speckled beauty was off ! Being now more on our mettle, we fish down this rapid reach with keen eyes PROSE. 19 enough (the water is heavy enough for down and across fishing to-day), and for our guerdon basket a brace of plump quarter-pounders before we reach the pool at the end of the glen. This is an old battlefield of ours, where we have won many watery victories, and lost a few, and at the second throw to-day our red palmer is fast in a half-pounder, which at last gleams through the meshes of our net. This makes four brace so far, all plump, golden fellows, averaging about 4 oz. each. The half-pounder is a very Goliath among them, and sensibly increases the weight at my back. Crossing a sloping meadow, at whose further end is a knoll, abloom with red campions and blue hyacinths, we enter a little wood, that slopes down abruptly to the river's edge. As we make our way along the narrow path close to the stream, a couple of common snakes glide through the undergrowth just in front of us. The middle willow-wren and chiff-chaff serenade us from the woods above, and the sweet cuckoo's note floats towards us on the breeze. Blue-bells galore, and the white garlic beautify the narrow footway, whilst the elegant weasel-snout in its bright orange livery, is seen a little further on in the woods. In July it is hard work to push through the dense foliage that overhangs this bye-path, with fly-rod in hand, but now we can get along fairly well. Through an opening in the trees a short way on we try a cast, and with some little difficulty land a six-ounce trout, which took the blue upright close under the bank on c 2 20 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. the further side. We never fish without a short land- ing-net. Be it here observed the hoop is reversible n d when not in use hangs over the left shoulder, the handle being too short to interfere with throwing the fly. Many a red-spotted beauty has this net saved to us, especially when fishing the moor streams from rocks in mid-water. Our trusty friend is over our shoulder as we trudge along the romantic path, which soon ends, as does the wood, at a rough stone wall. Climbing over this obstacle, we find ourselves in an open meadow. In this field we have gathered the honey plantain a rare plant with us, with a pale purple spike. To-day we recognized the sweet cuckoo flower, the knautia, the modest self-heal (Prunella vulgaris), the white campion, the early orchis, cum multis aliis. By the river gleams the fiery marsh marigold, with its heart-shaped leaves, and in a month or two the lovely purple loosestrife will stand like a stately sentinel on bonny Avon's banks. The river here is densely wooded alder, sycamore, blackthorn, and ash being the prevailing trees. On the opposite side is an embankment, the remains of a projected railway from Brent to Kingsbridge, and immense slatestones are piled up on the river's brink. One can only get the fly in occasionally, but there are some rare stickles here, where the water swirls away rapidly under the overhanging alders, and some likely pools with a considerable fall above them. By scrambling through the brambles and blackthorns, I get near enough the stream to whip it downwards PROSE. 21 no easy task and away float my red and blue flies into that rapid current under the massive-foliaged alders. I lose sight of the flies, but a heavy splash and a sharp tug tell their own tale, and the next minute the trusty lancewood bends amain to its work. Another half- pounder is fast to the victorious red palmer, and after some dodging amongst the rushes and marigolds, he is swept into my net a splendid trout, all crimson and gold. It is now two o'clock, so I perch myself on a convenient crag, and discuss my biscuits and sandwiches, not forgetting to drink the health of bonny Avon and its merry inmates in a flask of Rhenish wine, for hock is my favourite fishing beverage. Then comes the postprandial pipe, a clay, or perhaps a staunch briar-root, and as the smoke-wreaths ascend amid the alders, I indulge in a brief reverie. The greenery overhead with glimpses of blue sky through the tracery of the boughs, the ripple of the restless river, the song of birds, and the scent of blossoms, all combine to form my paradise, and I smoke on, in a delicious dream. Shadowy visions of bright feminine faces whose melting eyes would never more meet mine on earth mingle strangely with old piscatorial reminiscences of tussles with burly trout in lovely scenes of wood and water, with the lonely cushat cooing success to me from his leafy home. These memories merge again into sadder and stranger ones, till the splash of a water vole under my feet brings me back to complete consciousness. There are two or three more fields before we reach Beckham Bridge, about a mile and a quarter below 22 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Diptford, but one can only throw here and there for some distance, as the stream is so wooded. As I trudge through the fields, lofty slopes of arable, gorse, and meadow-land crown the view on my left, whilst below Beckham Bridge steep woods descend to the Avon's banks, ever and anon opening into exquisite glades garnished with flowers innumerable. The fishing is fairly good, though difficult in places on account of the wood, from Beckham Bridge down to Gara Bridge (about one mile and a half down), and here the fishing gets better still, and the trout larger, till Topsham Bridge (about a mile and a half below) is reached, but I have never fished so far down as this last, so can only speak from hearsay. Heavy salmon are, I believe, often taken with the fly at Loddiswell (about six miles below Diptford) early in the season. To return to our ramble, I do very little till I reach a largish pool (where the water swirls strongly to the left) just above Beckham Bridge, but here another brace of quarter-pounders fall victims to the charms of the blue upright, whilst I lose another much larger fish, which on the principle of " Oiruie ignotum pro magnifico" I modestly estimate at at least three-quarters of a pound. One glimpse only do I get of his golden belly, as he dashes at the palmer, and then I am 'left lamenting ! The day is made for fly-fishing, with a light, westerly wind and a cloudy sky, and in the stickle below the bridge I hook the hero of the day. The palmer is again the deadly lure, and he fights fiercely, bending the rod nearly double ; but I give and take discreetly, till at length PROSE. 23 " He gleams the fight fair foughten Through the meshes of my net ! " A pounder at last, and a doughty fish for our Avon, where the trout at this part scarcely average four ounces. What a picture he makes, swathed with rushes in my weather- beaten creel, which is decidedly becoming a burden to bear ! But it is a labour of love to bear this burden, so, leaving the river where the aforesaid embankment crosses it, I walk along a stony lane that follows the bend of the stream for about a quarter of a mile. The wood prevents fishing here, so I stroll along leisurely, now meeting a comely rustic lass, with whom I exchange greetings, and now a group of ruddy-cheeked children, intent on gathering blue-bells and marigolds, of which they have a brave show. Coming anon to a small farm, I leave the lane, and passing through the yard leap over a stone wall into a large meadow. Here I join the river again, and here, too, is a famous pool, where I mean to wind up. However, I do nothing in it to-day beyond taking a little fellow under three ounces, which I return to his nursery. It is getting late, and the fish are not feeding nearly so well, so I reluctantly pack up my impedimenta, and wind the cast round my hat. I have been fortunate to-day, only losing two flies since I began fishing, and my bag has been a good one, just a baker's dozen, comprising one-pounder, two half-pounders, and ten plump fellows averaging a quarter of a pound apiece. The farmer is milking a cow as I turn to leave. He is of a serious turn of mind, though affable enough, and as he proffers me a can of warm, sweet milk he anxiously 24 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. inquires as to the present condition of Ireland, opining that " the riots there are all the fault of them praisteses." I give him my views on the subject on returning him the can and a brace of trout, and after exchanging a cordial good-night, stroll homewards through the deepen- ing twilight with a heart I hope at peace with all man- kind, and full of thankfulness to the Creator for this happy day by bonny Avon-side. Bell's Life. AN AUTUMN ANGLING TOUR. LET me turn over a few leaves of my note-book, hoping my reminiscences may interest my readers. Where to go for a bridal tour is a problem that has often sorely exercised the happy and newly- fledged benedict, whose purse does not happen to be a particularly ample one. This was a problem that presented itself to the present writer for solution one September, and after a little deliberation, we deter- mined to go to Axminster, the windings of whose beautiful river Axe caught my piscatorial eye from the windows of the carriages on the London and South- western Railway. At the close of a lovely day early in September, we found ourselves at the hospitable doors of the " George," the most comfortable hostelry in the ancient town, There was a buxom old Devonshire lady in charge here, whose special mission in this earth of ours, seemed to be making out long bills, in the perusal of which you PROSE. 25 were so long in getting to the bottom, that you grew tired at last, and swallowed the grand total with as much grace as you could command. We were well cared for at the " George," revelling in the inevitable Devonshire cream, prawns, &c., but we soon shifted our quarters to furnished lodgings hard by, within two minutes' walk of the railway station. For reasons best known to ourselves, the fishing was postponed from day to day, and instead of our dropping the trout a line, the only lines we knew were those dropped at our door by the postman. At length, with a fearful effort, one lovely afternoon, I plunged wildly into a huge pair of fishing- boots, and after tying what I thought a suitable cast, trundled down to the river with my wife in a dogcart. A couple of miles' spin along a good road brought us to a bridge, where we began operations. The Axe at this part is not particularly beautiful, the scenery being much finer higher up ; but still there is always a charm about a river that winds in and out amid fertile pastures, backed by wooded hills. Here a stickle, and such a lovely one ; and there a lovely reach of likely water, known among anglers as Dub. Here a little waterfall, at the bottom of which you might reckon on a trout, and there a run which would bring an angler's heart into his mouth ! However, though I did all I knew, and whipped the unoffending stream in my most artistic manner, I could not lure a trout to the surface, and was about giving up in despair, when lo ! a sudden splash, and a plump quarter-pounder was suddenly whisked over my wife's head, who, having never seen a trout 26 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. caught before, might be pardoned for giving a little start of surprise. However, the fish was soon basketed, and as no more would come, we put up the rod and spun back to the ancient town in the darkening twilight, rather disappointed with my first evening on the Axe. Fate, however, was kinder subsequently, and we had several pleasant days on the lovely river. Taking the 11.48 up train from Axminster, we would get out at Chard Junction, about three miles distant, and striking the river close to the station, fish down nearly as far as Axe Bridge, about two miles from Axminster. The distance from the Chard Junction Station to Axminster by the river its path being so winding is, I should say, at least a mile and a half greater than the route by the line. These were indeed halcyon days, sauntering lazily on by the placid stream in the lovely autumn weather, choosing some delicious little nook close to the stream to discuss our wine and sandwiches in, and rapidly con a volume of poetry or a newspaper ! We knew these nooks by heart at last, always choosing the same one, and from our retreat we could hear the plash of the trout as they sucked in the unfortunate flies. The river was in perfect order, but the trout were very shy, never coming a second time ; they were, however, fine plump fellows, averaging about 5 oz. or 6 oz. and game to the last, though the odds were 10 to i against my land- ing them on account of the weeds, which abound in this river. Every time a trout was hooked he bolted up- stream, head foremost into a bank of weeds, when all was over immediately ! I lost many fish from this cause PROSE. 27 at first, but I was up to their dodges at last, and let them run down-stream instead, when they cut clean through the weeds and were generally basketed in the end. The river is a charming trout-stream, deep still reaches, where you must throw gingerly indeed, alternating with tempting stickle, at the tails of which you were sure of a rise at any rate. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the windings of the Axe in this locality, every fresh turn dis- closing some new charm in the landscape, which is of a pastoral character, and rich in historic associations ; the stream is tolerably open, but you often hitch your flies in the opposite bushes, or in some sunken pile. I had one or two severe struggles to recover my lost tackle, in one instance having to partially disrobe and ford the river, to the intense astonishment of the cows. I cannot say that my bags on the Axe were heavy, but I brought some pretty fish to bank. My best day was four brace, including one f lb., and two very nearly Jib. each, taken with a small yellow dun and the red palmer. I don't think this was bad for the time of the year. In April and May, heavy bags might be made I should fancy. The expense was nominal, my ticket for a fortnight only costing me five shillings. I may add that the little Yarty, a tributary of the Axe, abounds with good trout and peal, but it is strictly preserved by the several proprietors, from whom, however, I should fancy a day's fly-fishing might be always obtained. The minnow (natural or artificial) and the worm are prohibited both in the Axe and the Yarty, consequently the fish run 28 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. pretty large, a great consideration in my opinion. I believe there is good peal-fishing in the Axe, below Axminster, but I heard that the water was a good deal netted. When my ticket expired, we determined to fly to "fresh fields and pastures new." So on the 20th September, we bid adieu to our old haunts with regret, and started for dear Chagford, associated with my earliest memories, when I was yet a tyro in the noble art. Past Honiton, with its lovely surroundings, past Sidmouth Junction, Broad Clyst, and Pinhoe, till we once more rattled into the Queen-street Station at Exeter, which presented a scene of unwonted bustle after the quiet and repose of Axminster, onward we flew like lightning along the banks of the placid Exe, till at length we sniffed the salted air once more, and sped along the marge of the tranquil sea, with distant snowy sails like sea-birds resting peacefully on its bosom ; a minute's halt at Little Dawlish, with its ornamental water, a short glimpse of Teign mouth, and we brought up at Newton Abbott, when we changed carriages for Moreton, from which town to Chagford we posted it in one of guide Perrott's best carriages, with a pair of hardy horses to boot. I may note en passant that the scenery on the line from Newton to Moreton, especially near Lustleigh Cleave, is exceeding beautiful, and quite mocks my humble powers of description. From the carriage windows you see a lovely land, a land of plenty and peace, exquisitely wooded, and very broken. Hill and dale in endless variety, charming dells watered by crystal brooks, fine old woods whose glades you long to PROSE. 29 explore, and above all the grand Tors of dear old Dart- moor in the distance, the whole forming a picture, which once seen, " becomes a part of sight." We reached Chagford just before dark, and put up at the Moor Park Hotel, which is delightfully situated, and where the angler will find every comfort. We just came in for the tail of the autumn fishing here, the licence on the Dartmoor streams expiring on the 30th September. I cannot dwell long on our fortnight-sojourn in Chagford. I could cover sheets with pleasant reminis- cences of our happy days on the rocky Teign, where I once lost my wife, and had worked myself up to a terrible pitch of anxiety by the time she turned up again. She had fallen asleep on a rock near the Logan Stone. Nor will space allow me to dilate on our days on the dreary moorland, by Cherry Brook, and the two Darts, where I made some very decent bags for the time of year. The weather was like June, and my wife was my constant companion. We had one day with the carp in a picturesque mere, called Bradmere Pool, but did nothing. In guide Perrott, who always accompanied us, we found an inexhaustible source of merriment, his many droll stories and original sayings keeping us in a con- tinual roar. Did space permit it, I could dilate on the merits of the village bully, of whom as a proficient in the art of blasphemy, Perrott was justly proud. I could also descant on some wonderful " Penny Readings," in which the excellent and honoured rector took part ; where young Chagford applauded lustily in the wrong place, and one reader a mechanic yelled like a Red Indian, 3 o SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. but space forbids, and this paper, like our tour, must come to an end. I may add that I scored altogether at Chagford about ninety trout, in seven or eight excursions. My best day was twenty on the Taw, and the killing flies were the yellow duns, red and blue uprights, and red palmers. Many of the fish were of fair size for moorland trout, but, of course, not comparable in this respect to the Axe fish. THAT BLESSED BABY ! WE were travelling to Reading, Jones and I, on a fine afternoon in September, in the year 18 . I was inde- pendent of a profession, and my friend was a barrister whose " briefs " occurred at long intervals. We had started from Exeter that morning en route to Reading, where we were to spend a week or so in exploring the beauties of the neighbourhood. As we neared Swindon Junction, Jones, who had been taking "forty winks," suddenly roused himself, and said, " Frank, old boy, I am peckish, and mean to make the most of the ten minutes so generously allowed us, What a shame it is the provender should be so bad at the stations in this enlightened age of ours ! Are you for a plate of watery soup and a glass of brandied sherry, Frank?" " Yes, I suppose so," I sighed, thinking of the ex- cellent viands I had consumed on French railways in PROSE. 31 my time. " A veal patty, though as heavy as a bullet, is preferable to starvation, and I am really famished." At this instant we rattled into the Junction, where there was the usual animated scene. Women rushing wildly in all directions, and cannoning against trucks to the immense disgust of the busy porters, babies crying, men gesticulating, piles of luggage being tumbled out, and larger piles being tumbled in, the engine shrieking even louder than the babies, and "only ten minutes allowed." We gulped down a plate of the aforesaid watery soup, hurriedly devoured some fossil buns, and again took our seats. The whistle soon screamed shrilly, and the iron horse again slowly moved off with prodigious shrieks and snorts. For an instant only we saw a woman's form at our window a dark bundle flew through it, and lo ! a bouncing baby of some six months or so was dexterously deposited on my lap ! We both uttered a cry of horror; but it was too late, the woman had vanished, and the train was well under way ! Our first thought was to break the communication-glass and stop the train, but we at once abandoned that idea. It would be too absurd stopping a whole train because an animated bundle had been shot into my lap ! Jones, the monster, actually proposed to gag it, and fling it out of window ! " But," suggested I, nervously, " it would assuredly be killed by the fall, and infanticide is an ugly word, my boy, especially as it would doubtless be brought home to us in the end ! " " Strangle it first, then," said this fiend in human 32 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. shape ; " and then pitch it out ! Ten to one they will think it strayed on to the line, and was run over by a passing train ! " I smiled a ghastly smile, and said compassionately, " Babies of six months old don't usually stray much, do they? Besides, how about marks of violence on the throat ? " " True," groaned Jones, " I forgot that ;" and sank back helpless in his seat. All this time that dreadful baby was squalling piteously, and nearly drowning our voices with its dulcet tones. Its ugly phiz was as red as a beetroot with passion, I suppose, at the trick which had been played on it, and fearing it might really burst in its frenzy, I raised it gingerly so that it might rest against my shoulder. There it was, this fearful legacy, dressed in a longish robe of blue, with a queer-looking cap on its head, tied securely under its chin. It was an awful predicament truly, and I fear we both launched terrible anathemas on its unlucky head. As for its sex we were quite at sea, there being no characteristic of any kind to determine this point and all the time the creature was sucking the knob of my stick in its lucid intervals, once viciously snapping at Jones' fingers when he advanced them too near. " It could have no teeth," I said, and that seemed to console Jones. But at length Didcot Junction was reached here the train only stopped a minute or two, being late, and we did not dare get out. Reading was our destination, and by-and-by we rolled into its imposing station. The PROSE. 33 thought of what we suffered there freezes my blood even now. How I was forced to carry that hateful baby along the platform amid the jeers of the unfeeling pas- sengers. How the porters sniggled behind our backs, and how pretty girls tittered provokingly. How I generously offered it to any one who would give it a home and a cradle, and how promptly my offer was declined by the wretches who made me their butt ! How every policeman courteously but firmly avoided me, and how finally we and the baby were whirled away in a cab amid senseless bursts of laughter on all sides ! All this I remember, and with what infinite relief we at length reached our quiet lodgings, when we consigned our charge to the care of our elderly landlady, to her intense astonishment. We were both known to her, so she at once believed our tale, and expressed her decided opinion " that it was done for a lark." However, she readily took charge of our bete-noir, and 'did the needful for it in every way. She was a good motherly soul a widow who had had chicks of her own, and so yearned towards the helpless little thing. After about a week had elapsed, on our return home one evening, we were told the baby was gone ! Our landlady said an odd-looking but rather lady-like woman had called for her child, and being very like that child, our old friend, after some parleying, had handed it over to her. The mother confessed to having palmed it off on us by way of a joke at Swindon, but remorse soon drove her in pursuit of her offspring, whose whereabouts she had eventually traced. It transpired later that the D 34 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. unfortunate woman having been deserted by her husband, was subject to fits of insanity, and would wander about with her child in her arms, as though seeking her cruel spouse. It was evident that in one of these insane fits, she had been impelled by some uncontrollable impulse to throw her baby into our carriage, to seek it again when in her proper mind. We never heard of mother or child again, but to the day of our death Jones and I will never forget our adventure with " That blessed Baby ! " A STRANGE ERRAND. I WAS in love with Estella. There was no doubt at all about that, and she reciprocated my ardent affection. We had played together as children, and had ripened towards maturity side by side. We read from the same pages beneath the cool green shade of the beeches in the sultry summer-time; our young voices echoed to- gether in song; we wandered through the quiet forest aisles linked arm in arm ; in short, our two young natures seemed imperceptibly to blend into one, and like twin flowers springing from the same parent stem, we seemed unable to exist apart. At seventeen Estella was tall and gloriously fair, with eyes of liquid blue, and a wealth of golden hair, that reached to her knee. And not only had Nature lavished beauty of form and feature on Estella, but her mind was richly cultivated. Can it be wondered at that I, then a romantic youth of eighteen, PROSE. 35 should have long since loved this beautiful girl with all the ardour of a strangely sympathetic nature ? But our dream of love, with all its joys, was soon to be rudely dispelled ! My father was a poor artist, while Estella's was a rich merchant of Liverpool, who was determined that his only child should make une grande alliance ; our fathers had been playmates at the same school, had con- tracted a firm friendship at the same college, and had finally settled down in the same city to pass the evening of their days. Notwithstanding the different measure of success that each had met with in life my father deeming himself fortunate to get ten guineas for a picture occa- sionally, and her father spending as much on a bracelet for his darling despite this, the old friendship lasted still, and their children were naturally thrown together a great deal. Like Estella, I was an only child, and idolized by my parents, who gratified my every whim, and especially looked with favour on my attachment to Estella, who had long since learnt to entwine herself round their hearts. But her father, as already stated, had long secretly destined his child for a wealthy and titled suitor, and when Sir Arthur Carlyon formally presented himself in that capacity, his proposals were met with evident approval. The shock was terrible we had been allowed, through mistaken kindness on the part of Estella's parents, to wander on to the very brink of the precipice, totally unconscious of the terrible fall awaiting us. And now it came. My darling was overwhelmed with grief, and on D 2 36 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. her knees, implored her father not to insist on her betrothal to Sir Arthur, when she could not give him her heart. But all in vain. Her parents, but too ready to gratify their child's slightest wish on every other occa- sion, were inexorable here, and trusted to time to heal the wound in their daughter's heart. I suppose they thought then, blind as they were, that the union would eventually prove a happy one for Estella, and that the early playmate would soon be forgotten amid the whirl of the fashionable world. My own parents also felt the blow keenly, for my sorrow was their own, and they had never for one moment suspected the designs of Estella's parents, so well had the merchant preserved his secret She had only met Sir Arthur once at a picnic given by his mother when he, fascinated by her beauty, instantly determined to ask her hand. I was not at the picnic of course, and in our sylvan stroll on the following day, Estella had laughingly told me of the young patrician's evident admiration for her, and feigning for the nonce to be coquettish, had teased me in her own sweet way by descanting on his many charms, and by pretending to be deeply enamoured of him. But I was not alarmed the soft pressure of the hand the loving kiss im- pressed on my eager lips the soft love-light shining in her deep-blue eyes, all told me that her heart was still irrevocably mine. And this was the end ! From the day that Sir Arthur presented himself at the home of Estella my visits there were strictly forbidden ; and so well was Estella guarded, that all stolen trysts, or even PROSE. 37 occasional billets-doux were out of the question. Thus, two young hearts, ruthlessly torn asunder, were con- demned to endure their agony in silence. We were allowed one short parting, and that calm August evening in the old orchard, with the sun's last rays slanting through the apple-boughs, rises sadly in my memory from the mist of years, and conjures up once more that sweet face now, alas ! composed in the last long dream- less sleep. For Estella lies at rest in yonder pretty churchyard, and the village children come to gather violets at her grave. But to return. Longing to escape from those scenes so fraught with sweet associations and happy memories, where every tree and mossy bank had its own story, I bid adieu to my sorrowing parents, and with a somewhat scantily-furnished purse, sailed for Australia, in the vain hope of drowning all memory of the past in some profit- able and congenial occupation, which would tax my energies, mental and physical alike, and tear away the cobwebs of romance, and hapless love from my youthful brain. I need not dwell upon my ten years' sojourn in the colony, but will only say that I took to the occupation of sheep-farming, and by dint of great energy and per- severance gradually amassed a small fortune. But in spite of the change of scene, and the enforced activity of my new life, I never forgot Estella. Of course I heard of her in my parents' letters ; that, although she shone pre-eminently in her new sphere, and was beloved by all, yet still she was evidently gradually pining away, 38 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. and her hidden sorrow, like a canker, was slowly eating into her heart, and undermining her health. Her hus- band also treated her harshly, it was said, and soon wearied of his bride. In short, it was evident that the union was a roost unhappy one, and I heard that her beauty was of a softer and more delicate type now, and the roses on her cheeks were paling day by day; so thus the ten years passed away with but little variety in these tidings of my old love, and at last I embarked for the dear old land on a bright spring morning in 186 . I well remember the strange emotions, alternating between joy and sorrow, that filled my breast, as, after a prosperous voyage, we anchored at Liverpool on a lovely summer evening joy to be once more near her, and bitter anguish at the thought of the gulf between us. My father had told me the name of Sir Arthur's country- seat, where they at present resided : Mere Hall it was called, about fifty miles from Liverpool, in the county of Cheshire. It so happened that my father was called away on urgent business to town a day or two before I landed (my mother had died several years before), so I post- poned my visit to the dear old house in the suburbs of the town, and after a few hours' rest at an hotel, I was whirled away towards the little town of M , within a few miles of Mere Hall. Leaving the quaint little place, with its red brick houses and staring green shutters, behind me, I pro- ceeded on foot towards the village of Crawmere, which I was informed, was close to the Hall. The village was PROSE. 39 only a couple of miles distant, and my road lay through pleasant fields and woodland glades, all bathed in the golden glow of a calm August evening. I strolled on in a dream, my heart quickening a little perhaps as I won- dered how Estella would receive me whether she would recognize me, now I was so altered and how Sir Arthur (whom, strange to say, I had never seen) would take my visit. I was roused from my reverie by the sound of wheels, and looking up I perceived I was close to the village churchyard, towards which a funeral procession of a hearse, several mourning-coaches, and a long train of mourners on foot, was slowly wending its way. I asked an old labourer who passed by, whose funeral it was, and was informed that it was that of the Squire's lady, the Lady Carlyon, who had died very suddenly only two days before. Again all around me seemed a dream, and the old man's words only caused a dull heavy pain in my heart. Unnoticed and unknown, I mingled with the crowd of mourners, and viewed the sad rites from a short distance. But still the whole scene appeared shadowy and dreamlike to me ; yet I can recall it even to the minutest detail still, although more than twenty years have passed away. The ancient grey pile, ivy- mantled and picturesque, with its equally ancient churchyard, overgrown with weeds, and thickly studded with cypress and yews the tall, stately figure of the widower the sorrowful faces of the mourners, and lastly, that coffin of oak, upon the silver mountings of which the last rays of the sun were flashing, in which all 40 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. that was mortal of my lost love was now lying at rest ; and then the coffin was lowered into the family vault, the mourners gradually dispersed, and the widower, getting into his carriage, was driven towards his home. With that same dull, aching pain at my heart, I entered the village, and selecting a pretty little inn, half hidden in woodbine and clematis, I sat down in my tiny yet comfortable room to muse upon the event T had just witnessed. After trying to take a little refreshment in the sanded parlour, I again retired to my solitary room, and mused long and earnestly in the waning light. And so the soft summer twilight deepened into night, and still I sat at my little window, the scented night- winds gently fanning my heated brow, and murmuring softly amid the roses, as ever and anon they swayed against the quaint mullioned panes of the tiny casement. Happy memories were borne to me on that evening wind, and the voice of my buried love mingled with its tender sighings, and its gentle rustling amid the honey- suckle and the roses, whilst still dreaming, and unable to realize that afternoon's spectacle, I mused on far into the night. Suddenly a strange revulsion of feeling seemed almost to overpower me, as some memory of the long ago quickened the beating of my heart. What was that memory that at once awoke me from my dream, and disclosed to me the reality of my terrible sorrrow ? What was that memory which, while it showed me this, also whispered to me the necessity for instant action, leading me to light my candle, and to search with trembling fingers for a small lantern which I always carried in my PROSE. 41 little carpet-bag ? Whatever it was, it had changed me n a few moments from a dreamer to a feverishly active and determined man, who had resolved on some perilous and mysterious task, the object of which was known to himself alone. Whatever it was, it led me away from that little chamber, with my lantern closely concealed in the folds of a large cloak, away down the narrow staircase, and out into the placid starlit night. It led me on to the little churchyard, to the heavy doors of the vault in which were sleeping the ancestors of Sir Arthur Carlyon. It was about half an hour after mid- night, and not a soul was stirring abroad. My walk to the churchyard had been, I knew, unobserved by any one in the sleeping village, and now, as if still further to favour my design, the aspect of the night changed, and dark threatening masses of cloud began to roll across the sky, soon eclipsing the light of the stars that had hitherto shone so brightly. With a trembling hand I picked the strong lock of the massive door, with an instrument adapted for that purpose which formed part of my heavy clasp-knife, and drawing back the huge bolts from their staples, I opened the door, softly closed it again, and descending a narrow flight of stone steps, entered the dark abode of the dead. Then lighting my lantern, whose imperfect rays cast a murky glare around the vault, and showed me long rows of coffins in which the ancestors of Sir Arthur were sleeping their last long sleep, I commenced my search with a beating heart. I soon paused before a new coffin of polished oak, evidently the last placed there, upon the brass plate of 42 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. which I could just read with the dim light, this inscrip- tion ESTELLA, The beloved wife of Sir Arthur Carlyon, Bart., Died 25th August, 186 , aged 28 years. Then a fit of dizziness and trembling seized me, and I was compelled to sit down on a neighbouring coffin to meditate awhile on my strange errand. Could it be that my darling's soul was still cribbed and confined in that narrow coffin, and not yet escaped to the far-off Spirit-Land ? I suddenly started from my seat, and trembling from head to foot, began to unscrew the coffin-lid, with the aid of a little turnscrew also attached to my knife. Screw by screw was slowly detached, till at length the lid was raised, and I again gazed on the fair white face of my lost love ! My thoughts instantly reverted to that sultry autumn evening in the old orchard, when I had last seen that sweet face flushed with the rosy glow of health, with the soft love-light shining in the clear blue eyes. How changed was it now ! White and calm it was, but not rigid ; the features as handsome as ever, though they had lost the roundness of youth somewhat, and were a little sharper, and more defined, than of old. There lay my beloved one in her ample shroud of spotless white, her small and delicately-formed hands crossed lightly on her bosom, and a white flower placed between her wan white fingers. As I gazed on her fondly, eagerly, and yet with awe, and marked how PROSE. 43 calmly and happily she seemed to sleep, I could not believe her to be dead ; on the contrary, the features lacked the rigidity of death, and bending close over her, with my ear at her heart, I fancied I detected the shadow of a sound the very faintest approach to a gentle and irregular beating of that organ. Joy thrilled through my every nerve. Bending lower still over the sheeted form, chafing the cold limbs, moistening the snowy temples, and murmuring her name in a low, distinct voice, I at length heard her draw a faint breath, and felt a perceptible thrill through her whole frame. Then gradually the stiffened limbs relaxed, a faint flush suffused (as it seemed in the dim light) her face, the eyes slowly opened, pulsation and breathing slowly returned, and Estella raised herself on her arm, and saw me there ! What a moment for me ! For an instant only she looked horrified at the awful surroundings, and seemed not to recognize me, then with a strange cry of joy, she clasped my neck ; for something, even in that dim light, told her that her deliverer was none other than her never-forgotten love ! Tremblingly, I raised her gently from her narrow bed, and wrapping her round closely in my long cloak, sat down with her in my arms. In a voice weak and broken at first, but gradually becoming stronger as she pro- ceeded, she told me that Sir Arthur did not know she was subject to these strange visitations. She had, from some strange whim of her own, wished the matter to be scrupulously kept from him, and so he was unprepared. She thought she had entirely outgrown these fits, she 44 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. said ; and her parents (who alone knew of them) thought with her, that there was not the slightest fear of their recurrence. The last thing she remembered was feeding her canary. From that moment, until she awoke to consciousness in the dreary vault, her existence had been a complete blank. Of course I could not tell how long the trance had lasted, but I fancied, from what subsequently transpired, that it must have been for several days, if not longer. Her married life, unhappy and loveless, seemed like a hideous dream. That awful blank in her life seemed to have nearly blotted it out altogether, or at any rate had made it seem unreal to her, and so far away ! But strange to say, it had not effaced that earlier and happier past the memories of those days when we read from the same pages under the cool green shade of the beech-trees. All this she told me, as she reclined in my arms in the dark vault, and to my earnest entreaties that she would go with me instantly from the scenes of past suffering and cruelty, she could only murmur a rapturous assent. Raising her tenderly, I placed a dark velvet smoking- cap (which I had with me) on her head, and bound up her fair tresses as well as I could, to conceal her identity from any prying eyes we might encounter. Then I carried her, for she was as light as a child, out of the abode of death into the dark and solemn night, first taking the precaution to screw down the coffin-lid again, PROSE. 45 and replace it in its original position. I managed also to re-fasten the door of the vault, and then with joy I bore my sweet burden to an isolated cottage, a little way out of the village, which I had noticed in the morning. No one was abroad at that untimely hour, so my plan seemed destined to reach a successful issue. After waiting for about ten minutes for a response to my knock, the door was at last opened by a decrepit old woman, who, shading the flickering candle as well as she could with her trembling hands, asked what I wanted. For reply I bore Estella at once into the little room, and setting her down in a large chair in a dark corner, I turned to the trembling old woman and told her that I had found a poor insane lady, who had escaped from the neighbouring asylum in her night-dress, and whom I was about to convey back again, with her (the old woman's) assistance. Could she send any one to the village for a convey- ance, and in the meantime I would remain with the lady in the adjoining room, as she might become violent at the sight of strangers ? Luckily the old woman had a grandson of twelve, who slept upstairs, and he was despatched for the vehicle, whilst I conveyed Estella into the crazy little room at the rear of the cottage. The old woman, who was a motherly soul, ransacked a dilapidated chest of drawers and got out some decent garments that had formerly belonged to her daughter, who had died some years before. I took the clothes to Estella, and leaving a candle on the rickety table, returned to the outer room, where in company with the hostess I 46 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. anxiously awaited the arrival of the vehicle. Presently it came, and fetching Estella from the inner room, I wrapped her up in a warm cloak, and placed her inside. A few hurried words of thanks to the old woman, a chink of gold in her scraggy palm, and we were off free at last ! It was long past midnight, and still very dark, but a glance at my watch told me we should catch the last train to the south from the village of M , where was the nearest railway-station. Giving the driver, who was inclined to be inquisitive, a guinea as hush-money, and warning him to be silent on the matter, we alighted at the lonely little station, and caught our train. But little more remains to be told. I bought Estella suitable apparel at the town of K , where we arrived in the early morning, and then snatched a few hours' repose. The same night saw us safe on board the Calais Packet, Estella still looking weak and ill of course, but she gained in strength and spirits every hour. We found a home in the South of France, and very shortly afterwards heard of the sudden death of Sir Arthur Carlyon. No obstacle now remained to our union ; Estella's parents had died a year or two before, and my father died soon after our marriage. The strange discovery made in the vault a few days after our flight caused, as may be imagined, great excitement for a time, but at length people ceased to talk about it. After some years of happiness in our Southern home, we returned to England, and shortly after that event I PROSE. 47 laid my darling to rest in the village churchyard, and am now calmly waiting the summons to join her in the " Silent Land." THE HISTORY OF A HALF-SOVEREIGN. AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. I FIRST saw the light in the year of our Lord 1845, m her Majesty's mint. Many of my brethren came into the world with me, and strange to say, we were all so like each other that you could not perceive any differ- ence in us. The first thing I clearly remember of myself is being in a large drawer with many of my rela- tives, some of whom were apparently the same age, and others younger or older than myself. From the accidental glimpse I got of the place, when our tem- porary home was once most unceremoniously pulled into day, I concluded it must be a bank, as many strange beings, with goose-quills behind their ears, were flitting to and fro, whilst others were poring over long columns of figures in musty old books. I was naturally a sensitive and tender-hearted being, and imagine my feelings when daily, sometimes hourly, a huge uncouth hand, seemingly a giant's, would sweep my brethren from my side in the drawer by dozens, though I remained in happy ignorance of their fate. We had mustered some five or six hundred at first, and were as jolly as sand- boys, but this horrible despoiling power, from constant incursions into our retreat, soon reduced us to twenty. 48 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. At last there were only three of us left, and then it was a trying time indeed. The thought that all or one of us might be hurried off at any moment to meet the dark, mysterious fate of our lost comrades, and the uncertainty attending that fate, made our little hearts very sad. Day was our time of danger, for then the place out side, from the strange noises we heard, was evidently full of beings of some kind, and besides, all our brethren had been carried away by daytime. But in the long dark nights of winter, when our little home, always dingy, was as dark as the grave, it was dreary work indeed. Lucky for us if we were huddled one on another for warmth's sake, as we chanced to be some- times, for we had not the power of locomotion, and in whatever position we chanced to be thrown after one of those terrible incursions, so we had to remain. These incursions being, as before stated, of frequent occurrence, scarcely two nights saw us in the same positions ; some- times all together, at others in opposite corners, and sometimes in a ring. At any rate we were near enough to converse with each other in our own way, and that was something. Sometimes in the depths of night we would hear strange steps pattering over the roof of our dwelling, which alarmed us a good deal at first, but one of our number declaring they were only mice, we soon got the better of our fears. At length on an unhappy day my two remaining comrades were taken, and I was left alone in undisputed possession. I thought I should have gone wild at first, it was so lonely and dull in that dingy little place, but I was not destined to remain PROSE. 49 there long. One fine morning I was roughly dragged from my retreat into the light of day, and I found my- self in a jiffy lying in the skinny palm of a withered- looking being, whom I set down as a miser directly. How the old wretch gloated over me, how he languished over the beauty of my fine yellow coat, which was as good as new, till I really feared he would swallow me down- right ! But he presently consigned me to a filthy, dingy corner in a greasy old purse, where I had some common vulgar creatures, bigger than myself, and dressed in brown coats, for my companions. These were of the Penny and Half-penny clan, and I was much too aristo- cratic to have anything to say to them. There was one other little fellow, about half my size, in a white jacket, who seemed a shade better than the brown arTairs, but even he was not the ton by any means. He called himself John O'Groat, so there was nothing aristocratic in his name at any rate. Well, we all remained in peace for awhile, except that now and then a brown boy was taken from us, who was scarcely missed. Our master evidently set great store on all of us, as he so seldom diminished our number, till one wet morning, when he was talking to a friend in the street, he suddenly whipped the purse out of his pocket and drew me forth. After gloating over me as he did before, he transferred me to the broad palm of his friend, and what do you think he received in exchange for me ? Ten, yes, actually ten of those white-frocked commoners were handed to him as my equivalent, and from that hour I thought infinitely more of myself than before, and despised the silvery E 50 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. gentry more than ever. I was now transferred to a thick iron prison, called, I believe, a safe, where I was confined by lock and key. Here I met lots of my own clan again, and I recognized amongst them one of my old com- panions in the drawer. Here I remained nearly a year, whilst my friends were often abstracted as in the old days, till one dark winter-night we heard steps approach- ing the cellar, where our prison was placed, and presently a cautious hand tried to pick the lock of our prison-door. Presently it was gently opened, and I with hundreds of my companions were hastily swept into a large bag, when the thief hurried away. In this bag we all lay some time, when one day, strange to say, I was selected from all the others and vegetated for a few hours at the bottom of my master's pocket, which was remarkably greasy by the way. My next dwelling was in the till of a small shop, where to my infinite disgust I was thrown pell-mell amongst the white and brown creatures, which disgusted me not a little. But my release soon came. Once more I was exchanged for another lot of white- robed snobs, and this time I fell into the hands of a schoolboy, who seemed to have got me entirely for my golden coat, which he was never tired of admiring. He kept me in his waistcoat pocket in company with a few crumbs of mouldy biscuit, a clasp-knife, and a piece of string. He would take me out about twenty times a day, send me spinning into the air, when I turned ever so many somersaults, and then adroitly catch and pocket me again. This, you would think, was barbarous enough, but worse was behind. Some little wretch like PROSE. 51 himself had actually the audacity to make guesses, during these compulsory somersaults of mine, as to whether I would eventually alight on my head or my heels ! Nice amusement this for a personage of my exalted notion. and aristocratic ideas, to be the sport of a couple of schoolboys ! But somehow my gymnastics did not hurt me, and owing to the roughness of my hide did me scarcely any injury. But my adventures are nearly over my little master one day presented me to a young man of twenty summers or so his elder brother I took him to be and what do you think this incarnate fiend did with me ? He happened to be in love with a pretty girl, so one day he actually divided me, yes, cut me clean in two (though the operation was a painless one) and hanging half my body on his watch-guard, he gave the other to his enamorata, who suspended it on hers. Henceforth mine has been a dual existence, but I need not say which of my homes is the pleasantest one. To be attached to the watch-chain of a beautiful maiden of seventeen, in company with a tiny key, a locket, a steam engine, and mimic key bugle ; to be comfortably clasped between her snowy fingers in a very loving way, and occasionally pressed to her dainty lips, is, you will allow? a most enviable fate, and I am more thankful than I can tell you that my adventures are over. A REMINISCENCE. I MUSED thoughtfully in my study in the solemn stillness of the summer night. The lamp was turned down low 2 52 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. and the soft subdued light of the apartment harmonized well with the strange and shadowy thoughts that flitted through my brain. Half buried in the purple velvet of a luxurious fauteuil, I contemplated the costly appoint- ments of the chamber with a dreamy yet complete sense of security and repose. The bay-windows fronting me, draped with claret-coloured damask and snowy muslin, opened on the moonlit ocean, whose gentle murmur fell at intervals on my ears. Two other bay-windows on my right looked out on a well-kept lawn, on either side of which were parterres of lovely flowers, whose gay hues, indistinguishable at that hour, made the spot another Eden by day. A door on my left led into a small inner room, not much used by me, and another behind my chair, as I then sat, opened on a corridor of some length, at one end of which a few steps led down into the garden. I have been thus particular in describing the arrangements of the place for reasons which will appear as my story proceeds. I have already said with what dreamy satisfac- tion I gloated over the appointments of my snuggery. The room itself, though small, was lofty, and hexagonal in shape. The base of the hexagon (which was irregular) was formed by the wall behind me, and the two bay- windows fronting on the ocean were inclined to each other at an angle, with about ten feet of wall between. The walls were covered with a paper of great delicacy the ground of light grey figured with brown and gold ; a few exquisitely coloured crayons and some rare aqua- tinta designs depended from the walls in light gilt frames, whilst a fine bust of Venus in plaster of Paris, raised on a PROSE. 53 low pedestal of Parian marble, stood on the table at my elbow. The furniture of the room was of light walnut, and the feet sank low in a rich Turkey carpet : a few tastefully-bound books and pretty nicknacks lay on the centre table and some more of the latter graced several smaller tables at the angles of the room. A beautiful ormolu clock, representing a Bacchanalian procession, ticked on a slab of the purest Parian marble, and a lovely bouquet of azaleas and other flowers graced a cut-glass vase on the centre table ; on each of the smaller tables were also antique vases profusely heaped with roses and geraniums, whose united perfume almost acted as an opiate on the senses. Flowers indeed were the prevailing decoration of the apartment and attested the whim of its owner, who loves them both for their own sakes and the gentle associations they ever call up in his brain. In this room, and amid these objects, I mused far into the still summer night. As I glanced through the bay-windows on the gently heaving breast of the ocean, where the soft moonbeams were playing, the tremulous motion of the billows made low fairy music, to which the soft breezes of the night kept time as they whispered amongst the trees in the garden. In, those mysterious zephyrs came, like restless spirits rustling the snowy curtains, and kissing the flowers in the vases then they departed, but to come again, and still their low whispers kept time with the music of the sleeping ocean and still I mused on, on through the quiet hours, my senses drugged with the rich perfume around me, and then a vision of that lovely child flitted before me 54 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. as I had but that day seen her. Large liquid blue eyes, in whose depths seemed mirrored an infinity of innocent love ; a broad beautiful brow swept by masses of true golden hair that streamed in rich profusion far below her waist ; a perfect nose, and a dimpled mouth whose kisses would atone for a lifetime of misery ; a complexion fairer than the fairest lily, and a fairy figure uniting the airyness and grace of childhood (I did not think her more than sixteen) with the roundness of maturer years ; a voice music itself, and a smile that seemed caught from a sun- beam. Such was that lovely child, and was it strange I felt an interest in her, though we had never exchanged a word with each other ? Her home was near my cottage, and I saw her almost daily, longing, yet, for some un- accountable reason, almost dreading, to accost her. But there was that in the more than mortal beauty of that child which made her image " the morning star of memory " with me, and it seemed to follow me every- where. In the depths of that summer night, with all its softening associations, my desire to see and speak to her in that room, and at that hour, ripened into a firm resolve to do so. But how ? For some time I sat motionless, wrapped in thought, my features rigidly set, though the muscles of my mouth were working, my gaze fixedly bent on the moonlit ocean. I had solved the problem, and was exerting my power of will to its fullest extent to bring her to me there. Suddenly I raised my head and listened. Heavens ! Was that fancy, or was it really a light step I heard on the garden walk? On it came up the steps, softly and gently along the corridor leading to my door. PROSE. 55 My heart beat wildly, and in spite of a delirium of joy, a strange awe overshadowed my spirit. But there came a gentle knock at my door, and without waiting for a reply some one entered; turning suddenly round, I saw that beautiful child ! There she stood, just within the room, as though hesitating to approach further. There she stood, clad in simple white, with a blue sash tied coquet- ishly round her left shoulder and fresh flowers in her golden hair; a smile parted her lovely lips whilst her sweet young face was irradiated with joy. And then she told me how that sleep had refused to close her eyelids that night, and as she lay musing suddenly an irresistible impulse seized her to go to my cottage. She had at first ridiculed the notion to herself as wild and absurd, but the impulse grew momentarily stronger, till at length she could no longer resist it, and was obliged to yield. On her way to my abode a strange interest which (so she confessed) she had ever taken in me ripened into feelings of a softer and more dangerous nature ; in other words there came the dawnings of pure unfathomable love, and this had led her to adorn her hair with flowers as she went along, that her beauty might be heightened still more in my eyes. And then I, who had for longyears been a lonely, solitary man, took that beautiful child to my heart, where she was happy, only there she said. And there we sat on, listening together now to the whispers of the zephyrs and the melancholy music of the ocean, her golden tresses covering my shoulders and her large eyes raised to mine in trustful love, whilst the summer night waxed apace and the stars began to put out their lamps in the sky. Then 56 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. that beautiful child, as pure and good as one of God's holy angels, left me and returned to her home, whilst I felt such calm and perfect joy as rarely falls to the lot of mortals. That was a strange wooing, reader, the first and last ! I am no longer a lonely and morose man now ; my beautiful child- wife (we were married a few days after) is also my " Guardian Angel," and we have spent many a summer night since then watching the moonlit ocean from those same bay-windows in my favourite study. A SAD STRANGE STORY. I AM prematurely old. Though not yet forty, my hair is as white as snow, and such deep unutterable grief is stamped on my countenance that my death would be deemed a happy release for me by all my friends. I know they think so, and I long to go too, long to go to her, and learn from her lips in Heaven that secret which was never to be divulged on earth. My whole life is now a dream nothing seems real human beings seem as shadows, and come and go unnoticed by me, for the mental film which has darkened my intellect seems to have obscured my eyes as well, and I see all " as in a glass, darkly/ 1 Not all though one joy remains, an oasis amid a world of misery the face of Nature can charm me still, and the sight of distant woodlands standing out against the fair evening sky, of waving corn-fields and pleasant cottage homes, together with the PROSE. 57 ripple of crystal waters mingling with the sweet song of some late birds these sights and sounds can still soothe my breast and bring me a brief respite from sorrow. I thank God for that, and I seem always to be nearer my lost darling at such times. Sometimes I fancy her voice is borne on the odorous night-breeze ; but soon the breeze dies away, and with it my vague imaginings. It is now twenty years since I lost her how wearily they have dragged along ! She was barely one-and-twenty when I married her, and lovely beyond comparison. I cannot bring myself to describe her even on paper ; enough for me that I see before me now that wealth of hair which descended far below her waist, its countless ripples flashing back the sunbeams ; enough for me that I can recall her large and wonderful grey eyes with a something in them that I even could never fathom, and yet their glance could never be forgotten ; there was more of Heaven than earth there. She loved me to distraction , and our tastes were very similar. Our home was fixed in a secluded yet beautiful spot, the surroundings such as we both loved, deep umbrageous woods, pleasant meadows, and beyond, the " everlasting hills." We sketched, gathered wild flowers, read our favourite authors together, and rambled away the summer's day through many a " lovely dell " and old forest aisle, till the shades of evening warned our footsteps homeward and what a home it was ! Our little drawing-room was a gem in its way the countless elegant nicknacks so tastefully yet carelessly arranged, the correct adjustment of the damask curtains so as to produce the necessary lights and shades, 58 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. the frequent bouquets of fresh flowers dispersed here and there, the work-boxes, the scraps of lace and ribbon (so dear to woman) scattered about, the albums, the half- finished sketches, all these attested the presence of the gentler and softer sex, without whom a home is un- worthy of the name. And in the stormy nights of winter, when the shrieking winds were howling their loudest, and the moon was wreathing in white the bleak uplands and the deserted fields, it was doubly HOME. Then the bright fire on the cosy hearth would make our little room look more cosy still, as it flashed merrily out, lighting up all the dark corners and many recesses, while the quaint shadows danced fitfully on the walls. And then amid the howling of the storm without, as the pure snow fell noiselessly, or the rain plashed savagely against the window-panes, would my darling lay her beautiful head on my lap, as I reclined in my easy-chair, while her long tresses caught a warmer glow from the firelight. Then would she raise her wonderful eyes to mine, and there, alas ! did I often see, amid all the serenity, the happiness, and the love that slumbered there, a strange half-sad expression, almost unearthly, that I could never fathom. She had told me before we married that her life, otherwise so joyous, was marred by some dark secret, one that she could never divulge even to me, and which might (her lips trembled as she said it) separate us before death. She asked me whether, knowing this, I still wished to wed her, whether I dared face the un- known evil. " She could never love again," she said, " but a man was differently constituted ; he " but I PROSE. 59 cannot write more of this ; the reader will have seen the end. And as I said before, our early married life was more than usually happy. That sad abstracted look of hers, which seemed to pierce to my soul when I saw it, was the only cloud on my horizon. We married in spring, and during the summer (we only had one together) our woodland rambles seemed to benefit her, both mentally and physically. Naturally delicate, the rich glow of health began to mantle in her cheek, whilst her spirits were more uniformly buoyant. But I noticed that when- ever I chanced to mention the month of February, however casually, that strange look came into her eyes. I once mentioned this coincidence to her, but she im- plored me for her sake never to recur to the fact again. She was so earnest, and her whole manner was so strange, that I had nothing left but to comply. So the summer and autumn passed, and winter came, but I seldom saw that look, and I have said how happy we were. One night in February and a wild, stormy night it was she was resting her head on my lap as usual, when that look came ; it soon passed, however, and she kissed me pas- sionately. Then I remember she left me a moment to go to her room, as she said, to fetch something. I watched the flutter of her white dress as she disappeared, and my eyes lingered lovingly on her fairy form and sweet face as she tripped away, casting a loving glance at me the while. Scarcely had she gone when I remem- bered it was February, and with a cold feeling of terror and awe on me, I went to seek her. / never saw her again ; in the room to which she had gone her candle 60 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. was burning, but it was tenantless. No bolt had been drawn from the door, no shutter had been disturbed, the servants had not seen or heard her, but she was gone, and/0r ever ! Whither ? Not into the dark, tempestuous night, surely not there but whither, and why? These questions, gentle reader, will never be answered on earth. I shall meet her in Heaven and there learn from her own lips this strange mystery. And now I am an altered man. Nearly twenty years have passed since then ; our former home is some thousands of miles away from my present abode, and maybe is occupied by strangers. How long ago those happy days seem now ! Her rela- tions were of course plunged into deepest grief at the time, mingled with astonishment, but Time, the great renovator, has, I believe, much softened their sorrow. Not so with me I dare not seek for a solution of the mystery (though something like one flashes on my brain at times), but still through the stormy nights of winter and the still hours of summer twilight, I sit waiting watching. FORE-WARNED IS FORE-ARMED THE events which I am about to relate, strange, nay even supernatural though they be, are yet true. So extraordinary is my story that I am fully prepared to be taxed with imposture and mysticism by a sceptical world, perhaps even with insanity. In a word I expect few PROSE. 6r if any to believe my narrative. Yet the incredulity of the universe cannot mar the consciousness of truth which per- vades my spirit, as I write these lines. I know what I have seen with these eyes, dim and feeble now, what I have heard with these ears, soon perchance to be closed to every earthly sound. Who dare deny that to the most highly gifted and etherealized natures amongst us, those who retain above their fellows the mark of the Creator's ringer, visions glorious, unearthly, mystical, may sometimes be patent, and yet the entranced one makes no sign. Sounds beyond our usual range, may often strike upon the ears of such beings as these, liquid, undefined tremu- lous sounds which may be the plashing of the fountain before God's throne ; and yet the hearers are mute. And mute have I been as to the scene and sounds of that dreary evening in November, forty years ago, even until now the new and better life came, the blossom expanded and bore much fruit, but the cause of all was locked in the innermost recesses of my breast. But now, as I am tottering on the very verge of the grave, I feel I should die all the more happily for leaving my tale as a legacy to the rising generation. It may serve to warn them in time against that canker of all true happiness, a cynical and morose disposition. To begin. The 2yth of November, 1830, had passed drearily enough. All the day dark and wild-looking clouds had been chasing each other through the wintry sky, and the November blasts had been holding revels. Sharp angry gusts had whistled over lonely, far-off moorlands, shrieked through the leafless branches of the deserted forest, torn round 62 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. the gables of old-fashioned country-houses, driving the cold rain remorselessly against the mullioned panes, and making the warm and happy groups within, congratulate themselves on being beyond its cruel power. As evening approached, the fitful gusts became more continuous, and at length freshened to a perfect gale. Night came on intensely dark, and with it terrible storms of rain and hail, which beat savagely against the windows of my cosy study. It was indeed a night of all others for sitting over a bright coal-fire, with ones slippered feet on the fender, and sipping Chateau Lafitte, or old port. And so I thought that evening, as having finished a good dinner, I wheeled an armchair close to the fire, and re- plenishing my glass from a decanter which stood on a small side-table at my elbow, sipped and mused alter- nately. Peering hard into the recesses of the glowing coals, and seeing there all kinds of fantastic shapes, and faces known long ago, gradually the features of one who was the best loved of all, shaped themselves for me, far more distinct than the rest, and I grew very sad. Ten years had passed then since I lost her, and her death had proved a doubly bitter epoch in my life. Whilst she was with me, all had been sunshine with us, my natural acerbity and moroseness of disposition gradually softening beneath the influence of her bright smile and gentle voice, as the snow melts beneath the burning glances of the sun. But God was pleased to exchange that joyous smile for another, a nobler and calmer one that illumines the cold white face of death. He was pleased to say " Hush " to that gentle voice which was PROSE. 63 the music of my life, and it fell upon my ears no more. No more save in pleasant dreams of calm summer nights, and then came the awakening to loneliness and silent sorrow. When my Guardian Angel had gone, my old cynicism, and moroseness returned, linked as I grew older, with the besetting vice of avarice. By dint of con- siderable talent I had risen rapidly in my profession, that of a lawyer, and had amassed wealth. But friends I had none. My parents long since dead, and but few of any kith or kin left, I was too proud to seek friends, and those who seemed inclined to fraternize with me, were soon de- terred by my harsh and repellent manner from making further advances. Often and often had I spurned the starving outcast from my doors, though he had begged with streaming eyes, but for a morsel of bread and a temporary shelter from the storm. I had, too, been hard with my poorer clients, widows and orphans, and had not hesitated to extort their last penny from them, little recking of their misery as long as I could fill my coffers, and eat of the fat of the land. I was not, moreover, very scrupulous in my many schemes and plottings in honour of Mammon, and my tell-tale conscience tormented me fearfully at times. The reader will pardon this digres- sion, for the fancied face in the firelight brought my past and present life back to me but too vividly, and with something like remorse I turned from what I was, to what I had been only for a minute or two, however, then with a contemptuous " pshaw " I started from my reverie, poked the fire, and lighting a fragrant " Cuba " threw myself back in my easy-chair with a sense of 64 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. dreamy satisfaction. I built strange castles in the air arnid the wreaths of smoke that curled gracefully above my head and reflected rather complacently on the contents of the strong-box in my bedroom, where there was gold enough to buy up the whole county. Glancing sleepily at a timepiece on the mantel I saw that it was half-past nine o'clock. Once more I abandoned myself to literally a golden reverie, for guineas, guineas, nothing but guineas glistened amid the smoke-wreaths. Gradually the glitter of the coins waxed duller and duller, the smoke-wreaths more indistinct, till at length the cigar dropped from my hand and I slept. When I awoke the fire had burned down very low, and as I had partially turned down the argand lamp previously to my nap, part of the room was buried in deep shadow. The fast-expiring embers flickered weirdly and fitfully on the objects in their vicinity, and it was bitterly cold. The tempest seemed to be at its loudest, and the shrieking blasts drove the rain more savagely than ever against the window-panes. A strange feeling of desolation mingled with shadowy terror stole over me, as I looked at the clock on the mantel it was close on midnight. Sud- denly a cold perspiration stood on my forehead, and my heart beat violently a cold, strange, undefinable terror, such as I had never experienced before, seemed to thrill through me aye to the very marrow of my bones, and I felt I was not the sole occupcuit of that silent, dimly-lighted chamber. Trembling violently, I raised my eyes from the expiring fire to an armchair, a facsimile of the one I occupied, PROSE. 65 on the other side of the fireplace on it was seated an old man, evidently infirm and bent down beneath a weight of years, habited in a suit of rusty black, with threadbare knee-breeches, a large white cravat round his wrinkled throat, and his feet encased in a well-worn pair of shoes with enormous steel buckles. His hair, which was grizzled and thick, streamed down his shoulders, and his head was supported on his withered old palms, his elbows resting on his knees. His face being partially averted from me, and half buried in his hands I could not distinguish his features. At first, sheer bewilder- ment as to how he could have entered the house and room without my knowledge (the front and back doors and windows having been securely bolted and barred some hours before), quite absorbed every other feeling, and I sat stupefied. I seemed to have lost all power of volition, my limbs seemed powerless and beyond my control, my tongue seemed to cleave tightly to the roof of my mouth, and I could make no sound. I remember well how we sat there for a long time in silence, my eyes riveted in a kind of fascination upon the strange crouching figure at my fireside, and my mind rife with a thousand wild surmises as to his appearance there, and the object of his visit. At length the first shock of surprise having abated, my deadened faculties slowly re- asserted their sway ; I seemed once more to be possessed with nerves, and volition returned to me. The stranger all this time had remained motionless in the same attitude not a muscle had stirred. At length with a superhuman effort, I rose from my seat, and was about F 66 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. advancing towards my visitor, when he raised his head suddenly, and looked me full in the face I sank back in the chair from which I had just risen, once more dumb with horror. Such a face, one that I never wish to see again, such as I had never looked on before ! Deeply furrowed with wrinkles, yet of cadaverous white- ness, with small wicked-looking red eyes that seemed to blaze beneath their pent-house of long grey lashes, and a forbidding brow, and white thin lips turned down at the corners lips such as one would think would never open but to lie or blaspheme. Such was that face as seen in the uncertain light the rays of the fire played weirdly across its pale rugged surface (the eyes being still fixed on me), making it yet more horrible. A face where all the worst passions and vices incidental to our fallen race, lust, revenge, avarice, hypocrisy, malice, seemed to have set their stamp the face of one who had grown old in unimagined wickedness, and yet the expression was one of deep-rooted misery and settled gloom. I noted all this whilst the red eyes appeared to pierce the innermost recesses of my soul by their own unhallowed light, and I felt the strange being before me was none of earth's sons, but a wanderer from the spirit- land. At length, unable any longer to stand the scrutiny of those terrible eyes, I broke silence, "Who and whence art thou, old man, and why dost thou seek to disturb my repose ? " Without withdrawing his eyes, the old man replied in low sepulchral tones, " I am come to warn you ere it be too late ; why, you may your,self discover." Looking earnestly into that forbidding face, PROSE. 67 a new horror filled my soul, for white, wrinkled, and weather-beaten as it was, I traced a clear resemblance between its features and my own yes, there could be no doubt of it. Twenty or thirty years perhaps had passed over my head, but in every movement of the spare sinewy frame, in every gesture, in the cut of the clothes, in the shape of the hands, nay, even in the voice itself, I saw myself- horrible thought ! as I should be in the future ! The old man had risen from his chair, and was warming his skinny palms at the few remaining embers. He seemed perfectly at home, and I noticed that he glanced round the chamber with the air of one who had surveyed it often before, and knew every nook and corner of it. Suddenly he again spoke " A brave chamber in sooth and well appointed; but a change will come. Shall I show you another picture?" Suddenly, as though by magic, the costly room disappeared, and I was crouching by a wretched fire in a small garret, in one corner of which was a poor truckle bed covered with straw. A few people whose faces were known to me stood by talking softly, and gazing at the occupant of the bed. I followed their eyes, and there I saw the figure of the old man, my future self, stretched in the last agonies of death " Poor old fellow," I heard one of the bystanders say, " I never envied him even when he was rich, and it was just as well all his money was stolen from him last year, for it never brought him aught but misery ; and see him now dying a neglected and friendless pauper." I heard no more the scene again changed and I was once more sitting in my costly room, with the old F 2 68 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. man standing on the hearth-rug eyeing me maliciously. " Have you seen enough ? " he inquired, " or shall I show you more ? " " Forbear," I murmured, my voice trembling through excess of horror and wonder. " Can I not avert my fate ? " The old man fixed his wicked eyes on me, and laying his withered hand on my shoulders, made answer, " You can. I died many, many years ago, and my career was a fearful one. As an additional punishment for my crimes, I am this night sent from the shadow-land to warn you. I am compelled, as you see, to assume your future form and mien, and in addition to my just, but intolerable load of remorse, I am now tortured with a vicarious agony, nearly equalling my own. In a word I am yourself as you will be when old, and all the remorse which you will then feel for a godless, ill-spent life, is now racking my unhappy soul. Towards you the indirect cause of my double burden what can I feel but undying hatred ? Would that you may slight my forced warning, and become as myself, but howe'er that be, I shall hate you for ever." With one malignant glance from his red eyes, he was gone. A cold horror seemed to pass away from me, some dread weight seemed removed from my breast, and I looked around. The fire had gone out, and the cold, feeble glare diffused by the turned-down lamp served to show me that it was one o'clock. The Phantom had been with me an hour, as near as I could guess. Those awful words " hate you for ever " seemed still ringing in my ears, as lighting my bed-room candle, I went up the broad stairs to my chamber. But the scenes of PROSE. 69 that terrible night made me a changed man, and since then I have been happy. Now that my life's sands are ebbing fast, I give to the world the cause of the metamorphosis. IN DREAMLAND. MANY years ago I seemed to awake from my slumbers in the dead of night, when the midsummer moon was riding high in the heavens. The weather was excessively sultry, and the breezes wandered in and out at the open windows, laden with rare perfume from the slumbering flowers. I have said, I seemed to awake, and I did so in an agony of fear. I became slowly conscious that some awful change had passed over me. Body and soul had lost their apparent entity, my being was divided, I felt that form and substance had departed, but my spirit, the real and pure essence of existence, remained. My intellectual powers seemed unbounded, all the most abstruse questions in science and theology were plain as day to my perfected understanding. My memory also had become unconceivably great. No longer the imper- fect faculty of an imperfect state, where the boundless aspirations of the soul are marred and cramped by its incarceration in a fleshy prison, my past life was spread out before me like a book. Not an act that I had ever done, not a thought that had ever flashed meteor-like across my spirit, not a word I had ever uttered but were there nothing was omitted. The once imperfect faculty 70 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. had ripened into one of the many perfect and glorious attributes of the spirit-life. Yet another wonder. With such a perfect knowledge of the past, and an intense appreciation of the present, in all its fulness of bliss, I had lost all idea of the future. In a word, all prospi- cience was merged in the intensity of present happiness. But there are yet stranger things to tell. So far I have dwelt upon metaphysical changes. I will now relate those that came upon material things. On my apparent awakening to consciousness from sleep, I seemed to be in the middle of my apartment. I recognized it at once, but there was an inexplicable sense of vastness about it then. A strange, pale light suffused all, and articles of furniture and pictures that were usually within a few yards of me, from my present position now loomed indistinctly at some distance. Yet, as far as I could tell, the familiar objects were all there though seen so dimly. Suddenly the whiteness of the bed furniture broke through the uncertain light, and by mere volition, as it seemed, I was beside it in a moment ; on it lay in a natural position my own form, the face was of a death- like pallor, and the dull, lustreless eyes, which were open to their full extent, stared horribly at me. The soul, the true vital spark, had fled, and the empty frame of clay was all that remained. A strange unfathomable awe crept over me at the sight of this poor silent body, this whilom tenement of my now released soul, under such circumstances, and at such an hour. Its pallor, con- trasting with the strange, pale light that flooded the room, rendered its aspect yet more horrible, and I PROSE. 71 seemed to hasten from it on wings. Sounds of fairy- like music entranced me, as I passed through the open window into the garden. On, on, it seemed to beckon me as I glided over the smooth turf, through an atmo- sphere redolent with sweeter perfume than earthly flowers can give. Unlike the chamber, the garden and its surroundings were entirely changed. The moon shone with supernatural radiance upon scenes of unearthly loveliness ; upon beautiful orange and myrtle groves, through which sequestered paths wound in all directions, the boughs intertwining lovingly overhead, and flowers of rarest beauty blushing on either side ; upon stately terraces with balustrades of the purest marble, looking down upon smoothly-shaven lawns where fountains of gold and silver were playing, and tossing the feathery spray high into the moonlight ; upon crystal streams that rippled musically through the orange groves, and, lastly, upon a fine expanse of flower-spangled fields, cool, shadowy woods and lonely dells, the whole bounded by the blue hills dimly seen in the far distance. Such were the scenes that the moon lighted up so brilliantly on that midsummer night, and through which I wandered with the ecstatic joy of a newly-disenthralled spirit. Misty indistinct forms moved hither and thither, in complete silence. They glided swiftly by me at every turn in the orange glades, they wandered over the noble terraces, and lingered by the sides of the fountains. Others seemed to cull the fruitage from the dusky trees, but their actions and their gestures like their shapes were so indistinct that I could make little of them. Their forms 72 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. were dimly seen through a thin grey mist that enveloped them like a crowd. The lineaments, or what seemed to be such, of those who passed me in the groves were, as far as I could discern, stern and pale, with eyes of startling brilliancy. Sometimes I fancied I recognized friends long since dead, sometimes well-known characters in history, but all was mere conjecture, so restlessly and swiftly did they shoot by. I was totally unregarded by them, as though my arrival in their demesne had been expected. None accosted me or each other, but flitted about in gloomy silence. But though no voices broke that silence, the most exquisite and ethereal melody floated through the heavy perfumed air. Softly and sweetly that unearthly music welled up from the depths of the lonely dells, now lingering in the depths of the dim forests, and now mingling with the song of the rivulets as they rippled through the myrtle groves. But the sweetest strains of all came from a vast fabric at the end of a long terrace, a mass of fretted gold and silver work, but so airily and delicately fashioned that it might have been built of the moonbeams which played upon its pinnacled towers, and kissed its rarely coloured Gothic windows. The shades were pouring in through the chief entrance, and I would have followed, but some unknown power detained me, so I lingered at the gate. Gradually the music waxed fainter and fainter, and millions of strange voices sang : THE SPIRITS' SONG. Our's a fair yet strange demesne, "Where the moon doth never wane, PROSE. 73 We, a weird and shadowy throng, Pour out this our even song, Whilst rare music soft and low In a solemn measured flow, Welleth up for evermore ! Ever evermore ! In this temple vast and dim Sing we our diurnal hymn, While pale Luna's silvery ray Makes an ever glorious day, Kissing all the tracery rare On yon Gothic window there, Making all around more fair, Fairer, yet more fair ! And we love our ancient home, Love all silently to roam Through the cool umbrageous wood, By the flower-bordered flood, Whilst at quiet eventide, Here we gather side by side, Listening to the music's flow, Sometimes deep-tongued, sometimes low, Flowing on for evermore ! Ever evermore ! Here the voices ceased, the vast temple slowly dis- solved away into thin air, and I awoke to find it was only a dream. MAGAZINE POETRY. " DARK BLUE." THE following sonnet, or whatever the reader likes to call it, is in the February number of Dark Bhie^ and we quote it to show how easily some magazine editors are 74 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. satisfied in the matter of verses now-a-days. The Poem in question is the second of " Two Pictures," and a very queer picture it truly is. The first " Picture " will pass muster perhaps. Here is the second : II. A proud, firm, queenly form, splendour and bloom, Youth and an insolent glory, burn and gleam Around her grand, intolerable, intense Through gorgeous glimmers of voluptuous gloom That fold her, while the fierce light's golden beam Threads the dim shade and flashes on the sense Pale brows, where dreams unutterable sleep, Hard eyes like diamonds, glittering cold and keen, Dark lashes with the proud imperial sweep, White drooping lids, so dazzlingly serene Beneath the wild magnificence that stays And winds and wantons o'er the queenly brow, E'en to the snowy shoulder : white and warm Throbs the full throat, love-dinted even now, And full breasts heave where failing drap'ry betrays The lithe, smooth-rounded undulating form, Gauze-cinctured, yielding, languorous the while One indolent hand adjusts the wreathed hair, And one arrests the sliding robe for shame, But the red luscious lips too tremblingly close To hide the agonies that slumber where Hot love too real mocks that proud cold smile, And the frail vestures quiveringly declare We be but lightly clasped her shuddering frame Struggles and pants for ruinous repose. Now, the general effect here is good, because unique. The effect of a true poem should be unique ; that is, after perusal the mind should be able to grasp the whole picture conveyed, at once. Therefore there can be no such thing as a long single poem. The strain upon the PROSE. 75 reader's mind is too great, and when he has reached the looth or i2oth line he flings the poem aside, to be finished at another reaching, or perhaps in twenty more readings. Thus, the spell once broken, the singleness, the totality of the effect is lost, and the production can- not lay claim to the character of a true poem, though, like Paradise Lost, it may consist of a series a mass of pictures each picture a poem in itself. The reader will pardon this digression (if such it be), but we wish it to be clearly understood that the sonnet in question, in possessing this merit of brevity, starts well \ it has at least this sine qua non of a true poem, and if it can be shown to possess the other requisites of the poem proper, all will be well. But has it these requisites ? Let us see. The conception is good, at any rate. It is that of a proud, indolent, voluptuous woman musing, in a scene of artificial and gloomy grandeur, upon her love, which, from "the agonies that slumber," and "the shuddering frame," we presume is unrequited. So far, therefore, we repeat, in its unity and its conception, the poem is good ; though the latter is a trifle hackneyed, perhaps. But nothing can be looser than the rhythm and the metre. The former is evidently meant to be Iambic, but the number of bastard feet is legion. In the very first line, the word " splendour " must be wrongly accentuated to preserve the rhythm. The stress (to make the word an Iambic) must be laid upon the last syllable ; but the word is in reality a Trochee. Again, in the 2nd line, " insolent," a decided dactyle, is tortured into a bastard trochee, for the sake of the rhythm, which 76 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. is rather an insolent act on the part of the Author, we think. How much more musically would the line read thus Youth and a regal glory burn and gleam, where the rhythm, and consequently the music, is pre- served. We admit that the epithet " insolent," as applied to " glory," is more expressive and more characteristic, under the circumstances ; but rhythm must not be sacrificed to expression in this wholesale manner. In line 3, the metre is faulty, because of the word " in- tolerable," which, in truth, makes a very intolerable line out of what might have been a highly musical one. There is a syllable too much here ; intolerant might be substituted with advantage, when both rhythm and metre would have been maintained. Again, in line 4 to say nothing of " gorgeous," which suffers an ugly contraction, we come to a similar barbarism in the very same line, where " voluptuous," a word of four syllables, has to be compressed into three. But enough of this. These gross inaccuracies of rhythm crowd upon us so thick and fast that we have neither time nor space for pointing out any more. The reader can easily do that for himself. Inaccuracy of rhythm is, in the poem before us, accom- panied by incorrectness of metre, which though evidently pentametric, is constantly disfigured by a redundant syllable; that is, if we give each word its proper inflection. We cannot help pointing out those uncouth and jaw- splitting vocables, " dazzlingly," " languorous," " trem- blingly," and that questionable adverb, " quiveringly." PROSE. 77 The whole batch is indeed calculated to make one quiver and tremble ! In the 2oth and 23rd lines, the word " the " must be unduly accentuated to preserve the rhythm, which even then would be faulty, on account of the aforesaid adverbs at the close of each line. Thus, we have seen that the author has failed completely in the purely mechanical part of his art, viz. metre and rhythm, and consequently his lines are robbed of that indispen- sable attribute of all true poetry a musical flow. But if the prosody be bad, the grammar and diction is worse. There is not one full stop from beginning to end of the poem (25 lines), and only one colon. The pauses are marked (and quite incorrectly) by hyphens. Now the hyphen ( ) should not be used instead of a stop, but only when we make use of a second thought, as it were, in composition where we correct or strengthen one ex- pression by another one having a similar tenor. I have just unconsciously exhibited its legitimate use, as the reader will see I had written the word " composition," when I fancied I could make my meaning plainer still, and a hyphen is employed to mark the transition. But in the poem before us, this sign is used indiscriminately for semicolons, colons, and goodness knows what beside! The diction is too ornate, and the author's meaning is half hidden in the mass of sonorous adjectives and un- couth adverbs. This should not be. A pure and refined simplicity is a sine qua non of true poetry. The impro- prieties of expression, too, are numerous. How can gloom glimmer, and what in the name of goodness is meant by voluptuous gloom ? Why should dreams take it into 78 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. their heads to sleep on brows? (see line 7). Would they not be equally comfortable in eyes or noses ? " Dazzlingly serene " is a solecism. The very term serenity implies an absence of glare, does it not ? " The full breast heaving where failing drap'ry (sic)" &c., is a little warm, to say the least of it ; and as for what " the frail vestures quiveringly declare " ah, well ! we really cannot pursue that part of the matter farther, but will leave the terrible beauty to what (we are sorry to learn) is her " ruinous repose." Seriously, the author has failed in not only the mechanical, but also the higher and nobler phases of his art ; all we can concede him is unity of effect, a fine conception, and a moderate amount of fancy (for nothing higher is displayed). In every other point he scores /7, and yet this is the kind of writing which, owing to the clique system (and often through interest with the Editor), finds a place in a well- known magazine. [The above was written many years ago.] SOCIAL SKETCHES No. i. THE PURGATORY OF PLEASURE ! JOHN BULL'S sons and daughters have many strange idiosyncrasies, but their idea of pleasure is perhaps the strangest of all. Country pleasures are intelligible enough, and rational withal, but it is with the pleasures of the London Season that we are concerned just now. Behold a " Drum " or an " at home " in the height of the season. The main object of these institutions appears to PROSE. 79 be the resolution of suffering ' humanity into hot pan- cakes ! Sane folks would, we should think, shun with horror that struggling, perspiring mass of humanity on the staircase, where hair is disarranged, dresses torn to shreds, swallow-tails split across the back, tempers ruffled, caloric evolved but too freely, in short every con- ceivable kind of misery endured by the votaries of fashion and " cui bono ? " Merely to shake hands with a haughty Dame at the top of the stairs, who doesn't care a pinch of snuff for you, and then to struggle down the stairs and so into your carriage once more. But you may talk for a month afterwards of having been to the Countess of A's " At Home," whilst less fortunate friends listen with respectful awe ! What more would you have ? Then there is the delightful London dinner-party, when twenty guests sit at a table that can only accommodate ten with any comfort! Ah, that " mauvais quart d'heure" before dinner, before which the most severe penance endured of yore in monkish cell pales into insignificance! Strangers glare at each other in an appalling way, and even friends are apt to wish one another at Jericho; the most wearisome platitudes are reiterated in a listless, dreary way that must sadden the gayest spirits, and each guest's attitude is more or less aggressive, until the " Tocsin of the Soul " breaks on their ears like fairy music ! Then the feast itself, though icy reserve is thawed, and tongues are loosened by mine host's champagne, is a very questionable enjoyment from a rational being's view. The heat the perpetual clatter of plates and tongues the limited space you have to So SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. occupy the insipid and vapid twaddle that passes for conversation all tend to detract from the small modicum of animal pleasure which is derived from discussing a really good dinner not that this last phase is by any means universal : on. the contrary, a bad fit of indigestion is often one outcome of your delightful dinner-party. Then there is the delicious musical soiree. In a crowded room heated like an oven, and with the audience at a corresponding temperature, you are forced to listen to the cries of the Grand Old Masters or rather their death- pangs as they are massacred, one after another by ruthless amateurs. " If this be pleasure give me pain, 'tis surely sweetest of the twain ! " Then we have the mild dissipation of afternoon tea. Five o'clock tea is the term, I believe. Here with a tiny cup of Bohea filled to the brim in one hand, and a bit of cake in the other, you are taken into the confidence of withered old maids, and generally initiated into the mysteries of their poodles' complaints, and the idiosyn- crasies of their next-door neighbours. Sometimes you may get the " benefit of clergy " (as I did once), when prosy clerics will explain minutely to you the faulty con- struction of their domiciles, and enlighten you as to where the draught comes in ! And yet all the while, with that horrid little brimming cup of tea in your hand too hot to drink and nowhere to put it down you are expected, during the delivery of these homilies, to look not only at ease, but highly delighted ? There may be a pretty girl or two, at these " five o'clocks" occasionally, but all I know is I never get near them, but always hap PROSE. 8 1 on the fossilized specimens of society. Altogether we take our " pleasuring " sadly indeed, and in a resigned martyr-like fashion, as though we were doing penance for our many sins, as some of us may really imagine we are. But why make our social recreations a vehicle for penance? We do that, or ought to, in church or closet. Well- planned balls, unconventional lawn tennis parties, free and easy picnics are pleasures indeed, and to be valued accordingly. The working classes reach the sum- mum bonum in horse-play, wearing black broadcloth, and getting extremely drunk a sorry notion of pleasure, truly, but then they act according to their lights ex- tremes meet, and when we compare their sensual excesses and vulgar revelry, with the stilted demeanour, and bored, listless air of the upper crust when taking their pleasure, I am not at all sure whether the one is not quite as rational as the other. " The Purgatory of Pleasure," describes in a word the conventional notion of enjoyment among the Upper Ten. SOCIAL SKETCHES-NO. 2. TITTLE-TATTLE. IT has always seemed to me that conversation should be enrolled among the arts, and made a special subject of instruction at all the seminaries throughout the land. If boys and girls were formed in special classes for con- versation, and forced to talk to each other in an original and intelligent manner for half an hour daily, under the auspices of a master of the art, we should have far fewer c 82 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. adult failures in the talking line. To make the instruc- tion complete a few boys might be mingled with the girls occasionally, for the ball colloquial should especially be gracefully tossed backwards and forwards between those of opposite sex, without letting it fall to the ground in an ignominious fashion. It may seem an easy art to acquire, but a good talker is " born, not made" after all, and a racy original conversationalist is a rara avis indeed. Originality wit point brevity are all essential ele- ments in the science prosing and egotism are fatal foes to it. " Small-talk " may be termed the sixpences, four- penny and threepenny bits of the current conversational coin, but they must be of the genuine metal, and not have a spurious ring. To interest people about a common topic to make the most of it to put it in a new light is the great desideratum here. For even "small talk " may be made amusing, bright, and entertaining with a little art and originality thrown in to season it The scientific jargon that flavours the conversation of Savans, where polysyllables are - frequent, may be called the croum pieces and half-crowns of colloquial coin ; heavy and solid it may be, but by no means pure gold! Speech is God's noblest gift to man, we presume, but how grossly it is abused ! Look at the terrible twaddle that is interchanged over the average dinner-table ! Mr. Jones's new front gate, or Mrs. Smith's habit of turning her toes in when she walks, are thought vastly more engrossing subjects than the Eastern Roumelian question, the new uses of the electric light, or the daily wonders of the telephone. The fatal cancer in usual PROSE. 83 conversation which eats into its very heart, is the per- nicious habit of talking about our friends and their pec- cadilloes rather than of interesting things in the world of Literature, Science, and Art. This cancer if we would raise conversation to one of the fine arts must be ruthlessly excised we must cut deep with the keen knife of intelligence and with a firm hand. When men don't get on theology or politics, their normal club-talk is trivial in the extreme and often merely idle gossip. And yet what a vast field for the exercise of speech is lying around them. But it is the ladies (God bless them and their bright eyes !) who are the worst offenders in this respect ! Their sweet tongues are easily loosed, and seem ready to flow on for ever ! The stream is decidedly shallow, we fear, but how swiftly it flows ! Damaged reputations, the peccadilloes of cooks and parlour-maids, the newest fashion in bonnets, the mysteries of crewel work, the complaints of pet poodles, the failings of their dear friends none of these come amiss to them ; all are borne rapidly down the conver- sational tide in turn, and so pass away, to make room for other equally absorbing and momentous topics! Especially among women when alone is this the case, but the entrance of a few male bipeds only gives the gossip a little more seasoning ! Its flavour becomes a little strange perhaps, but loses not a whit of its inanity. The following may pass as a specimen of the normal colloquial tattle. Mrs. A. : " Is it true she winks with both eyes ? " Captain B. : "Who?" G 2 84 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Miss C. : " Miss M. the girl with just the suspicion of a moustache don't you know her ? " Captain B. : "Yes, by Jove, but I never noticed it." Mrs. D. : " Noticed what ? The winking ? " Miss H. : "Why it's as plain as " Captain B. : " No, I mean the moustache ! " And so ad infinitum for half-an-hour longer. This . is hardly exaggerated, and is really very sad indeed it is enough to make us wish some of our fellow-creatures were born as dumb as a " drum with a hole in it." Let us think a moment If only a tittle of the human breath that is wasted in " tittle-tattle," were expended on some useful purpose, such as inhaling from the ammoniaphone for instance, or blowing the bellows in the case of a recalcitrant fire, what a much pleasanter world this would be to live in ! SOCIAL SKETCHESNO. 3. FLIRTATION. THIS is a delicate subject indeed, and one which requires very careful handling at the hands of the male biped, if he would not bring a whole bevy of his fair acquaintances buzzing about his unlucky ears, accusing him of libel, at the very least. First, then, how shall we define this fascinating pastime which too often proves anything but fun for one of the players. Briefly it may be described as an interchange of soft nothings, never meant to be taken au seritux, with a good deal of dangerous bye- play with eyes and gestures, and often, on the part of the PROSE. 85 lady, with her fan, if she happens to have that weapon handy. If both players happen to be born flirts, there is usually no harm done, each is a hypocrite or actor in the little drama, and each sees through the other accord- ingly. But when one is in earnest and ignorant of the other's rdle, it is a very different matter. We will first suppose she, the syren, is the flirt, and he the victim, who is lured to his fate by her brilliant eyes and silvery tongue. They have danced together, say, and are sitting out the lancers in an alcove in the conservatory. She is ravishingly dressed, her eyes are bright with real enjoyment, which he puts down to the delight she finds in his society, on her soft cheeks is a rosy glow, which is alluring beyond measure. All her charms are heightened by the soft subdued light in which she sits, and there is a delicious abandon about her to- night which poor he cannot resist ! Her tones are sweet and low, and fragrance floats from her bonny brown tresses which, partly unloosened by the dance, stray over her white neck and shoulders. She fans her- self in a most provoking way, he thinks, and is for ever shielding her face with that witching weapon, occasionally darting quick bright glances at him over the top of it ! The moon shining placidly on them between the rifts of the garden-trees, makes the hour a very dangerous one indeed, and he is in an " earthly paradise ! " Her radiant eyes are pregnant with meaning, her replies are soft and tender, and, altogether, he is decidedly " hard hit." Poor fellow ! he fancies himself her " true knight? little recking that she is merely amusing herself, and 86 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. would be equally as lavish of her favours to fifty others did the opportunity present itself. He is but one more captive of " her bow and spear," and his name will be duly inscribed, ere she closes those lustrous orbs of hers, on the lengthy roll of her victims. Let us draw the veil over his " awakening," his frantic jealousy and his wounded pride ! Now for the reverse of the picture, when he is the destroyer of a maiden's peace. The scene may remain the same, but he is the hypocrite or actor now, and she the natural loving woman who translates his every amorous look and gesture at her own sweet will, with the help of Love's delicious Dictionary ! She is really far more witching than her false sister was, for a certain depth in her glance when their eyes meet as though she saw her u'hole world in /it's, and a certain indefinable and scarcely perceptible tremor in her voice at times tells her tale only too well. He^ the traitor sees these signs, but they only whet his ardour for conquest the more, experienced fencer with Love's foils that he is ! We will consign him to the oblivion that he deserves, merely hoping that she, the deceived one, may possess a doughty champion in the shape of some huge brother with biceps of steel ! For does not Byron sing : " Man's love is from man's life a thing apart ; 'Tis woman's whole existence ; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart. * * * * * Men have all these resources, we but one To love again, and be again undone / " Thus, though we regard the moral guilt of the male PROSE. 87 and feminine flirts as precisely equal, there can be no doubt that He is the greatest destroyer of human happiness, for the reasons advanced by the great poet just quoted. And yet flirts have their use in the social economy of the universe, or they assuredly would not be there ! Like chamois leather, they are admirably adapted /0r rubbing up the "spoons" those youthful, awkward male " spoons " we see everywhere.. In the hands of a shy, simple girl, these " spoons " wax more inane than ever, but let a bond fide flirt take one of them in hand, and she is sure to make something out of him ! She rubs him up smartly, rubs the idiotcy off a little, and makes him talk a bit in spite of himself. Altogether, though Flirtation does a large amount of real harm, it is often a wholesome corrective to juvenile vanity, when the would-be male biter is decidedly bit ! Feminine flirts, at any rate, can lay claim to the same function in the universe as that of chamois leather ! Not a very lofty one, perhaps, but often very useful in its way. SOCIAL SKETCHES No. 4. ROUND MEN IN SQUARE HOLES. IT would almost seem one of man's primitive impulses that insane desire of his to force himself into a posi- tion for which his Maker most assuredly never intended him. How much more easy would the wheels of our social mechanism work, did men but realize a little more clearly their own missions in a sadly muddled world ? 88 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. In our belief, nine-tenths of the jarrings and hitches in the social system, any number of heart-burnings and bitter disappointments are to be traced to this cause. If a man once mistakes his mission in life, failure and chagrin are inevitable at every turn. He is, metaphori- cally, a fish out of water, like one who is wearing his neighbour's clothes which don't fit him, he is for ever uncomfortable, and conscious of a certain impropriety and waste of energy which poisons, sooner or later, the springs of his existence. For instance, one conceives that his mission is literature ; so he is for ever scribbling articles or poems that no one reads, or reading books (for conscience sake) that he doesn't understand ! Oh, the gallons of good ink spilt in vain ! The reams of fair foolscap utterly wasted ! He is the round man in the square hole, and his real vocation may be pigs and poultry perhaps, where he would have shone, and have materially added to the comfort of his fellows. Often, whilst cudgelling his brains for romantic ideas, he feels a dim yearning towards short-horns and prize porkers, but angrily strives to banish it as degrading to his higher aspirations ; and so is one more added to the long list of failures. Another imagines it is his mission to take orders, and edify his brothers from the pulpit, where he only supplies the place of chloral or laudanum in the pharmacopoeia. As a village doctor he might have done untold good with these same anodynes, and have been a true blessing, instead of the reverse, to long-suffering humanity ! Other gentlemen conceive themselves as intended by Heaven for directors, in which office they do PROSE. 89 inconceivable harm ; whereas, as quiet country gentle- men leading a jog-trot life, with no particular mission at all, they would have been fulfilling their mute inglorious destinies to the satisfaction of all men ! Multiply these individual instances of social and professional failures by some millions, and we shall then have an idea of the amount of misery they cause in the world at large. How many a true naturalist is lost to the ranks of science by a man who has a natural eye for the peculiarities of a beetle, imagining it to be his mission to ivear silk, and to hold forth to unappreciative jurymen ! We are aware, of course, that the exigences of social life often force round men into square holes ; but, after making this deduction, how many voluntarily and pig-headedly strive to play parts on the world's stage for which they are radically unfitted. One cause would appear to be, that primitive faculty of perversity which lies so deep in the human breast, that faculty which so often forces us to belie our better self, to say what we don't mean, and to strut in borrowed plumes. Any more fatal mistake than forcing our youths into a calling for which they are unsuited, we are unable to imagine. We look around, and our sense of social fitness and propriety is jarred everywhere. We see bad lawyers who would have made good doctors, bad actors who would have been good authors, bad parsons who had been decent peda- gogues, and so on, ad infinitum. As for the fair ones, God bless them, their mission is to wear pretty bonnets or hats, to look charming and lovable, to be the sun- shine and the flowers of man's life, and not to be too 9 o SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. chary of their sweet lips when the petitioner can show good cause for the gratification of his request. Strong- minded women who invade man's province^ had better never have been born ! SOCIAL SKETCHES No. 5. THE IRONY OF FATE. WHETHER Fate, Fortuna, Chance be (as the ancients thought) that very changeable young woman who lives in the clouds, and from thence delights to plague or benefit humanity, or whether she be in truth a con- venient figure or abstraction which we unconsciously employ to denote God's moral system in His government of the Universe, it is clear, at any rate, that the heading of this sketch represents a common experience. Let us, for the nonce, personify Fate make a Goddess of her, and call her Fortune or Miss Fortune^ since she is to be a young lady. One of her favourite practical jokes is to inveigle us into starting for a long walk without an umbrella or overcoat, and then to bribe Jupiter Pluvius (by a kiss perhaps !) to drench us to the skin with his inexhaustible watering-pot. The rare point of the joke is that we have walked out day after day previously, armed with our gamp or gingham, only to find it a useless incumbrance ! Another of naughty Miss Fortune's tricks is to con- trive our meeting with the wrong people. Those two pretty and lively girls, if we could only meet them this lovely morning, got up to the '''nines " (or the " tens " PROSE. 91 why not ?) as we are, with our delicate tie, most becom- ing hat, and our best smile ! We feel nothing could be more apropos than a rencontre this sunny May morning. But it is not to be Miss Fortune being a young lady herself and so jealous presumably of her own sex is determined to sell us, and thus brings us face to face with old Parson Dreary, of Dumps Rectory, or the estimable but wearisome Canon Heavi- sides, just in the very spot where we ought to have met those charmers with their dangerous eyes, and their tresses floating in the breeze ! We are duly buttonholed of course, for half an hour or so, and at length escape from our tormentors with rather clearer ideas than we had before on the subject of rectorial tithes, and the eschatology of the early Church. Need we say that we don't meet our syrens at all, but our whole attention is occupied in dexterously dodging garrulous old maids, and bores great and small of the male sex, each of whom rides his hobby-horse to the death. But a few mornings later, when we are feeling seedy and ill at ease, pale after a bad night, and with (oh horror !) an untrimmed moustache and unshaven chin, we almost run into the arms of the darlings whom we had devoutly hoped to avoid ! Alas ! we show to sorry advantage indeed, with cheeks as red as a beet, and a nervous shifting from one leg to the other, whilst we murmur the brilliant things that usually occur to unfortunates so situated. Flo' and Hilda flash scorn from those fine grey eyes of theirs, and leave us with the coldest of bows, and a very perceptible curl of the upper lip. And that false hussy, Miss Fortune, 92 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. all the while is laughing in her sleeve. Another of her favourite scenes is the railway-station here she abso- lutely revels in her sly tricks, and from her place of van- tage on high she must be royally amused at the chagrin and annoyance of her victims. Is it not a fact that when we have timed our arrival beautifully at the station, and have just five minutes to spare, the train is invariably very late twenty minutes perhaps and for that time we are airing our heels on the draughty platform ? But when we are a minute late, up comes the " Milo " or " Excelsior," snorting and puffing in virtuous pride at its own punctuality, and we enjoy the exquisite felicity of seeing our train steaming slowly off, whilst wedged between two stout ladies at the ticket pigeon-hole, one of whom is prodding us in the ribs with her gamp, and the other counting her change as deliberately as though she had twelve months to do it in ! We were perhaps half a minute behind time, but the company that day had resolved on being punctual to the fraction of a second. And Miss Fortune's blue eyes are dancing with mirth at our mortification. She is always marking us for her own when we are in a hurry. A hurried glance at our watch shows barely ten minutes to jump into our sable plumes and arrange our back parting our fair tormentor is in her glory now, and one contretemps succeeds another with marvellous rapidity. Crack ! There's the collar-button gone, and no one to sew another on ! And where oh where are our white chokers ? Rattle ! There go our shirt-studs careering over the floor, where we capture them with difficulty, PROSE. 93 candle in hand, splashing our best front with grease, and bursting well, never mind ! At any rate, we " cut in " about the end of fish time, feeling and looking the picture of misery, and worst of all there's a seat left for us next Marian Kiss-me-Quick, that lovely girl we are so far " gone on," and would especially captivate to- night ! How calm, cool and bewitching she looks in her gossamer robes and creamy laces, not a fold out of place, not a glossy tress disarranged in her soft luxuriant hair ! And what a hot, flustered, flushed, red-faced specimen of humanity we are, with half-brushed hair, tie all awry, and coat-collar unbecomingly turned up in our rear ! We only trust Miss Fortune up in sky-land won't break a blood-vessel (if she has any) in her hilarious mirth at our discomfort and generally " shoddy " appearance ! We must pass over some of her commonest freaks, such as upsetting our ink-bottle over a recently finished MSS., coupling us with the wrong people at dinner-parties, hiding everything from view when we most want it, and revert for a moment to the more serious side of our subject. We hinted at the outset that these contretemps might be an essential part of the moral discipline of the Universe so many " thorns in the flesh " to purify and ennoble our characters. So, fair reader, when next you see an hungry mosquito exploring that white arm of yours with bloodthirsty intent, do not kill him, but regard him as a tiny agent for your advancement in goodness, and moral excellence, and treat him accordingly ! Let him banquet ad lib. on his snowy fare; though his bites be sharp they are salutary, and you will have 94 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. the proud consciousness of feeling that you are en- nobling your character, and sparing the life of a happy but slightly greedy insect at the same time ! Think too of the compliment he has paid you ! He has selected your fair white arm out of many others perhaps, for his mid-day meal, thus indubitably showing his ap- preciation of your charms ! If, however, you are too human to take this lofty view of things and find his bites a leetle too sharp to be agreeable, why then then, I pity the mosquito ! ! And you lover of lasses in general, and comely ones in particular, when next you see your Clarissa coy or cold, supercilious, sarcastic or sneering, do not hate her there and then for it, and resolve to avoid her in future, but regard her as an angel in disguise, whose earthly mission is to test the true metal of your character, and so you may rise superior at last, even to the " Irony of Fate ! " 95 POETRY : DESCRIPTIVE AND SENTIMENTAL. GLIMPSES OF IMMORTALITY ! PROEM. WHAT grander theme wherewith to weave A slender wreath of solemn song Which may entwine some hearts that long For light, yet dare not to believe ? As one who dallying with a rose, Now twirls it in her fingers fair, Now sheaths it in her silken hair, Amid its beauty to repose, in. Must bear a remnant of its scent Throughout a golden summer's day, Though carelessly she throws away Her plaything, when her love is spent ; 96 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. IV. So those who turn in idle mood To this a Poet's latest theme And o'er its crude conclusions dream Awhile in times of solitude, v. May from it snatch some grains of gold, Some thoughts, which in the years to come May strike the Doubting Devil dumb, And make them happier than of old. PART I. (!N BABYHOOD.) Within its tiny cot it lies, This human bud anon to blow In God's own garden here below, And slumber seals those laughing eyes. ii. The proud young mother bends above Her darling babe's unbroken rest, A tender yearning in her breast, And in her eyes the light of love. POEMS DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 97 in. She sees a smile all softly play, As moonbeams tremble on the deep, Across the features stilled in sleep, Then sees it slowly die away ! IV. She watches still it comes once more That gleam which seems too sweet for earth, Too holy to be born of mirth, But caught from the eternal shore. v. The fair-haired mother cannot guess The source of that mysterious smile, She is content to muse awhile In perfect self-forgetfulness \ VI. She is not versed in psychic lore, Her babe and husband are her crown, No sophist she in silken gown, A loving woman nothing more ! VII. She saw, and saw with calm delight It was a passing gleam of joy Shot o'er the features of her boy, And so her bosom too was light J H c;8 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. VIII. But she had all unconscious seen The semblance of a mystery For human wisdom far too high, That cannot look behind the screen ! IX. Impressions brought the brain by sense, And recombined in visions fair, Woke not that flash of joyance there Upon the face of innocence ! x. For, immatured the baby brain, And crystal waters summer skies Though daily mirrored in his eyes, In slumber could not live again ! XL Far back in Time's Cimmerian night In some dim realm afar unknown That fragile blossom may have blown To fruitage in a purer light XII. Than that which laves this grosser sphere, Wherein the flower that elsewhere died Had found a lowlier Eastertide, Whose rosy dawn was held so dear ! POEMS DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. XIII. Bright glimpses of that long ago, Of sunny meads, and fairy bower, May come at slumber's silent hour And move the smile that angels know ! XIV. And if beneath another sky, That rosebud was ordained to blow, It may, for all that we can know, Have bloomed from all Eternity ! xv. And if we dare not dower the soul With earthly birthright, who will dare In this our world however fair, And full of song to fix its goal? xvi. % " It cannot be ! " that strange voice cries To human hearts in every land, " Upon an unseen brink we stand Between two vast Eternities ! " PART II. (CHILDHOOD. } The flowing robes are cast away, The patter comes of little feet, And careless laughter clear and sweet Makes music for us through the day ! H 2 ioo SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. ii. We love Ihe fair ingenuous brow, The peach-like cheek is all aglow With ruddy health full long ago Seems that dim cradle era now ! in. His bonny ringlets in the breeze Are waving fetterless and free, His prattle fills the heart with glee, And echoes lightly o'er the leas ! IV. We see each day the bud expand And some new glory in the face, Some novel charm, some subtle grace That makes his presence fairyland ! i v. Dear boy ! He has not dashed as yet The gloss from Pleasure's fickle wing, But finds delight in everything, And is a stranger to regret ! VI. He bends with lips all rosy red Above a beaker brimming bright With that rich vintage of delight That streams from Nature's fountain-head ! POEMS DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 101 VII. Not yet for him that gilded bowl, Which fair yet fading flowers entwine, Whence worldlings drain that deadly wine That saps the safety of the soul. vim Lips pure as his may tempt at first The poisoned wine which bubbles round That goblet's brim ; but soon have found It never can appease their thirst ! IX. Yet even Pleasure's slaves may drain A draught from Nature's fountain clear, So cool to fevered lips so dear To those who would be pure again ! x. And if they find a taste of Heaven, Whom Pleasure drugged with deadly sweets, How freshly Nature's vintage meets The rosy laughing lips of " seven ! " XI. Then as we watch him dance and run, The fairest thing on God's fair earth, A bright embodiment of mirth Whose sunny course has just begun, 102 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. XII. We feel there lurks within that frame A fiery essence dimly known, Which, when this grosser life has flown, Shall flash into a quenchless flame ! XIII. And as he stands in sweet surprise Before some wonder of the morn, Eternity begins to dawn Within the Heaven of his eyes ! XIV. Anon we see his raptured gaze Strained far into the stainless blue, As though some vision chained his view Beyond this Planet's silvery haze ! xv. And then we call him to our side, And listen to the eager flow Of winsome words that come and go, Upon the winds of Morning-Tide ! XVI. Those words that from his red lips pour Awake vibrations in the air, .That travel on serenely there, And know no rest for evermore ! POEMS DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 103 XVII. If those vibrations never die Within the Ether's boundless deep, But ever widen, as they sweep On through the blue immensity ; XVIII. The soul that gave that babble birth Must surely soar beyond the sun When this corporeal course is run, And scorn the swathing-bands of earth ! PART III. (MANHOOD.) i. The fragrant flower is fully blown, The rich blood dashes thro' the frame, His cheeks with ardour are aflame, He feels the Universe his own ! ii. From Nature's bright refreshing stream He drinks with ever stronger zest, Yet wanders in a strange unrest Through dell and dingle in a dream. in. Though every fairy sound and sight Awakes an echo in his soul, Still, sadness plays the spoiler's role, And breaks the spell of his delight. io 4 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. IV. The wild bird's full entrancing strain Is ever wedded to regret, And shadows waxing darker yet, Obscure the chambers of his brain. v. Delicious as that song may be, No joy untainted will it bring, And Fancy sails on idle wing O'er speculation's troubled sea ! VI. She whispers in the dreamer's ear That far beyond yon crimsoned west Some twilight realm of perfect rest Wrapped in a purer atmosphere VII. May lie beneath the seething foam Of Ocean's wild distempered sway, Where Time and Space are cast away And man may haply find his home ! VIII. When birds may warble in the palm And rills may tinkle at our feet, Yet song and tinkle be so sweet, They shall intensify the calm. POEMS DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 105 IX. For here we feel the sadness most, When softest songs the ears invade, Poured through the leafy greenwood glade, By the enamoured feathered host. x. The fairer that the landscape be Which grows into the gazer's eyes, The sadder are the thoughts that rise Within the gazer's phantasy ! XI. A sense of something incomplete A yearning for the dim unknown Will push Enjoyment from her throne And mingle bitter with the sweet. XII. And more some scene familiar seems Its features breathe of days gone by, Ne'er seen before beneath the sky, Can they have lit the land of dreams ? XIII. Yet dreams, however fair and bright, Are sense impressions recombined, The golden key is hard to find, For God has hidden it from sight. io6 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. XIV. A pre-existence in the past, Amid surroundings that we know, May on the gloom a glimmer throw, But man is baffled to the last ! PART IV. (OLD AGE.) The head is bent, the gait is slow, The hair is silver sprinkled now, Pale sorrow's seal is on the brow, Life takes its light from long ago ! n. Fled has the pristine bloom for aye, The worn wan worldling wanes apace, Death presses on to win the race, And reap the harvest when he may ! in. The crimson blood that glanced of yore Through all the winding veins of blue, Doth now a feebler course pursue, A stream whose strength is nearly o'er ! IV. Enjoyment's keen and eager zest That hailed new beauties as they rose With all the joy that manhood knows, Has dwindled to a spark, at best ! POEMS DESCRIPTIVE d- SENTIMENTAL. 107 v. And though that sea of sylvan song Still rolls its music on the ear Of sense as rhythmically clear As in the days when hope was strong, VI. And though in Nature's magic bowl The vintage sparkles as of eld, That cup in palsied fingers held, Is fraught with sadness to the soul ! VII. For ever, melancholy broods O'er flow'ry field and lonely lea, And tints in more or less degree, Fair Nature's ever changing moods. VIII. The man has played his chequered part Upon the world's mysterious stage, And now the chilling calm of age Makes deep stagnation in his heart. IX. But just as life's expiring flame Begins to flicker ere it dies, To only leave dead darkened eyes Within the cold corporeal frame, io8 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. The inner life God lends to light The tameless soul, will brightly burn, Within its broken crumbling urn, As day springs radiant out of night. XI. And as below the hills of Time Life's setting sun dips lower yet, He/a?/r "the fever and the fret " May fade in some serener clime ! XII. Whilst more and more he closely clings To that fond hope if nothing more, That he may rise, his journey o'er, From earth, upon immortal wings ! XIII. The hopes and fears of earthly birth, That chained his soul in earlier days, Now drift into oblivion's haze, And pass with all the things of earth. XIV. He feels as one who nears the close Of some confused distorted dream, And seems to see the distant gleam Of morning with its streaks of rose ! POEMS DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 109 xv. And when the silver cord at length Is loosened, and the golden bowl Is broken, will the deathless soul Soar far, rejoicing in its strength ! XVI. Oft, as it flashes from the clay, Bright visions break upon his eyes, Of angel faces summer skies The " Regions of Eternal Day ! " THE VOICES OF NATURE. I STAND upon the border-land 'Twixt garish youth, and sober age, No longer rash, yet scarcely sage, And yearning for a guiding hand ii. To plumb the depths of this my brain, And pointing to a narrow way, To bid me track it night and day, And forthwith cease to live in vain ! no SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. in. For one who knows no mundane cares, And locks no purpose in his breast, The tricksy demon called " Unrest," Will lay a thousand specious snares ! IV. And so with me my talents lend Themselves to countless petty aims, And yet a voice within me claims To know, " How will I meet the end?" v. I hear the music of the sea, It steals upon the ear from far, And many a mystic listening star Is whispering of the life to be ! VI. When God shall wipe all tears away, When aching hearts shall be at rest, And only sunshine flood the breast Which beateth in that perfect day. VII. But in the pauses of the roar, A distant murmuring is heard, Again my restless soul is stirred By that dread question asked before ! POEMS DESCRIPTIVE &> SENTIMENTAL. 1 1 1 VIII. And then I say below my breath, " There is no bird that beats the air With aimless wing Oh ! do thy share, Or life will be a living Death ! " IX. Then as I dash away the tear That starts unbidden to the eye, I think of those I love and sigh, And vow to strengthen with the year ! x. And I have cause to strive and fret, For as in thought, I wander back Along the dead year's misty track, I see what I would fain forget. XI. I do not look upon the man Who mused upon the cliffs to-day, And in a weak half-hearted way, Still dissipates his little span. XII. I see a Being imperfect still, But one who wrestled with his foe That sloth which sought to lay him low- And slew temptation with his will. ii2 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. XIII. And then, as I emerge again From tangled labyrinths of the past, Upon to-day I look aghast, And feel I surely live in vain ! XIV. Light, light, once more ! And into air Dissolve those visions sombre-hued ; My soul with keener strength imbued, Disdains to dally with despair ! xv. To-day I looked upon the deep, Without a furrow on its breast, And like a spell its perfect rest Lulled all my stormier thoughts to sleep. XVI. For all was joy, around, above, The swallow pierced the liquid blue, The linnet singing, round me flew, And every flower breathed of Love. XVII. I musing said, " He is sublime ! If this our earthly home's so bright, On ! on ! till in that perfect light, Thou standest by the tomb of Time." POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 1 1 3 XVIII. When I shall see with clearer eyes, Than those which now would vainly peer Beyond our narrow circle here, Into his solemn mysteries. XIX. When on the ear shall steal once more That voice Death silenced in the past, To bid me welcome home at last To that unseen mysterious shore, xx. Where faith for aye is lost in sight, And through that happy morning land We both shall wander hand in hand . Through dazzling avenues of light ! XXI. My soul drinks in the stainless blue, That lives in yonder summer sky With deep delight, until my eye Is sated with the changeless hue. XXII. When lo ! Across the vaulted floor, A train of dusky cloudlets sweep, The winds awaken from their sleep, And angry gusts begin to roar. i ii4 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. XXIII. So o'er the ocean of my mind, That in a calm unbroken lay, The darkest doubts will often play, And Faith departing, leave me blind. XXIV. And then I murmur " Is it so ? Is there another life than this ? " We bask in dreams of endless bliss, But ruthless Reason whispers " No I " XXV. But when the garish daylight fled, I look above, and plainly trace His writing in the starry space, And muse in silence on the dead ! XXVI. My spirit beats those fancied bars With angry wings ; I see again A token in the moon-lit main, And in the beauty of the stars, XXVII. That here we cannot wholly rest, When " night rounds off our little day," His angels call our souls away To some far region in the west. POEMS,DESCRIPTIVE& SENTIMENTAL. 115 XXVIII. Then Reason totters on her throne, And Faith's star rising thro' the gloom Upon that shore beyond the tomb, Proclaims Eternity my own ! XXIX. To breathe the same ambrosial air As angels, and to wing the sky Above a sea of melody, Without the shadow of a care ! xxx. To hear the choral stars sublime Sing o'er a ransomed universe, To feel the first primeval curse Has perished with the tyrant Time ! XXXI. Oh ! tried and troubled mortal, say, If thus, in dying, thou art blest, Is there no yearning in thy breast To plume thy pinions, and away ? = XXXII. Art thou so confident, my soul, That all thy task is nobly done, That ere has set another sun Thou would'st attain the final goal ? I 2 n6 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. XXXIII. And would'st thou pass unto thy rest, And tempt that sea without a shore, Whose breakers sing " No more ! No more ! " Without one qualm within thy breast ? xxxiv. Without one qualm, or any fears Lest in thy looked-for Paradise, The spectral hours should sadly rise, From the dark graves of buried years ? XXXV. To chide thee for thy wasted prime, When golden minutes swiftly fled Unheeded, though a warning dread Pealed from the iron throat of Time. xxxvi. Oh ! were it not sublimer far, These pleasant dreams awhile to cease, And not to idly whisper " Peace," While all around is rife with war ? XXXVII. He wants thee here a little space, To pour on Sorrow's troubled sea From that cruise He has filled for thee, A little oil ; then veil thy face ! POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE 6- SENTIMENTAL, 1 1 7 XXXVIII. Are there no secrets in the gale That softly sways the golden grain, Which thou hast tried to read in vain When twilight broodeth o'er the vale ? XXXIX. Dost know what yonder grey rocks say, That ever lean across the stream ? Or what the sleeping birds may drearn Through many a drowsy summer's day ? XL. Or hast thou ever laid thine ear Beside the foxglove's dappled bell, When west winds whisper thro' its cell, And was the murmured message clear ? XLI. There is a meaning buried deep In that sweet sea of sylvan song Thou mayest fathom it ere long The birds, as yet^ their secret keep ! XLH. Each moss and fern each subtle phase Of Nature's moods from spring to spring May typify some fairer thing In worlds now hidden from the gaze ! uS SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. XLIII. And as I hear the weird winds roll Through woodland ways at vesper dim Or listen to the birds' last hymn, I feel their echo in my soul. XLIV. A thousand voices to me call From yonder distant purple hills, I muse o'er flowers rocks and rills, Some meaning underlies them all. XLV. If here we kneel at Nature's shrine, And thus with reverential eyes Seek to unveil her mysteries, And read her marvels line by line ! XLVI. Though baffled wheresoe'er we turn, The task each day will dearer grow ; The truest wisdom is to know That we have countless things to learn ! XLVII. And ever and anon will light From Heaven fall upon the mind, As, hour by hour, we haply find Some new star breaking through the night POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 1 19 XLVIII. Some meaning in the drop of dew That flashes in the morning sun, And in the ivied wreaths that run About the sad funereal yew. XLIX. And thus as slowly we draw near Our narrow home the last long sleep, How sweet to feel that we shall reap Above, the grain we planted here ! Yet we may wander in the dale, From flower to flower, from tree to tree, A long life through, and never see A beam far glimmering through the veil. LI. May feel, as summer evenings die, The amorous zephyr's gentle kiss Upon our cheek, yet ever miss The meaning hidden in its sigh ! LII. May see the loosestrife's spires swing Like censers, in the scented air, Yet fail though haply charmed to share In that sweet message which they bring ! 120 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE LIII. And yearnings deep will rack the breast Of him who lingers by the rill, Who threads the maze or climbs the hill, In doubtful dreams, and strange unrest LIV. Unrest because he feels that each Fair fretted fern, and mossy stone, Has some rare language of its own, Could he but understand its speech ! LV. And it indeed would seem the doom Of many an ardent soul to stray Alone through winding woodland way, And trackless labyrinths of bloom. LVI. To haunt the waning woods at eve, When on them falls a cool, deep rest, To watch day dying in the west, And hear the fluttering breezes grieve LVII. Without an inkling in the brain Of all the mighty truths they tell, And in the heart is born a hell To feel they speak to us in vain ! POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 121 LVIII. Time pauses in his course to-night, And ere his chariot onwards roll, Through the dim past, my restless soul, Shall wing her solitary flight. LIX. A phantom herald, dark and dread, She leads me back through vanished years, Through shadowy valleys wet with tears, And sad with memories of the dead ! LX. To regions where a purer air Is dallying with remembered trees, And clouds of visionary bees Steal honey from the flowers that were ! LXI. Where once I roved, and felt no thrill Of wonder, as I brushed the dew, In showers, from the speedwell's blue, Or climbed the gorse-illumined hill. LXII. When I would peer with careless eyes Into each fairy coloured cell, And never deem that it could tell A tale all fraught with mysteries 122 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. LXIII. The old year's sands are nearly run, And all those voices strange and low, That murmured on, through shine and snow, At last, are blending into one / LXIV. Aye, all the myriad .tongues that cry For ever to a heedless throng, Are hushed before angelic song That wakes the silence of the sky ! LXV. The waning year will soon depart Upon Earth's breast the snow lies deep, And muffles through her solemn sleep, The strong pulsations of her heart ! LXVI. Again, we welcome, high and low, Our ancient guest, whose hoary head Is wreathed with berries blushing red, And many a spray of mistletoe. LXVII. His frozen blood, like fire shall run, Anon, through all his withered veins, Thawed by the wassail bowls he drains Throughout the breadth of Christendom ! POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 1 23 LXVIII. And we will pledge him, ere he dies, In brimming bumpers, three times three, Whilst bells ring out o'er vale and lea, Their message to the midnight skies ! LXIX. Where'er a British bosom swells, In torrid climes on ocean drear Will softly steal on fancy's ear The echoes of those Christmas bells ! LXX. Now Love her banner has unfurled, And down the avenues of Time Far floating, come those strains sublime, Once sung by angels to the world ! LXXI. But yet through all the hallowed rest Of Christmas eve, when from the wall The berries wink in cot and hall, A longing lingers in my breast ! LXXII. A yearning for the golden key To all those undertones I love, That soon again my soul will move, With murmurs of the mystery ! i2 4 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. LXXIII. Now in a vision of the night, When from its prison-house of clay My spirit soared a little way, I read those mystic tones aright. LXXIV. The rill that sparkled in the sun, And lashed the boulders on its way, Bid me press onward while the day Still lingered till the goal was won ! LXXV. But that same brooklet as it swept In silence past the flag and fern, With many a curve and stately turn Yet still its breast unruffled kept LXXVI. Spoke in a yet sublimer strain, And whispered that the time would come, When wearied voices might be dumb, And we might steal repose again ! LXXVII. Then as its waters paused to kiss The bending flowers here and there, As though in eagerness to share With them its argosy of bliss POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE^ SENTIMENTAL. 125 LXXVIII. It told me gently as a psalm, Whilst my calm days sped smoothly by, To pause and wipe the tearful eye, And scatter broadcast Pity's balm ! LXXIX. The breeze that fluttered to and fro, Amid the leaves at vesper dim, Breathed but the echoes of a hymn By angels chanted soft and low. LXXX. But when in darkness overhead, That wind wailed through imagined bloom, I knew that Nature, in the gloom, Sang funeral dirges for the dead ! LXXXI. The restless golden-belted bees That hummed serenely through the air, Discreetly gathering here and there Delicious sweets from flowery leas ! LXXXII. Were typical, my spirit said, Of that mysterious ceaseless hum Of men who ever go and come, In crowded streets, with rapid tread f26 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. LXXXIII. And as those bees from full-blown May The cool and luscious honey drain, So too, these eager men would fain Sip Pleasure's potion on their way ! LXXXIV. Anon my soul was hovering near The margin of a bubbling beck, Whose shore marsh marigolds did deck ; Where gleamed the loosestrife's purple spear. LXXXV. Behind, a forest barred the way, So near, that violets white and blue, Which on its mossy border grew, Were often drenched with silver spray LXXXVI. From some white waterfall that sung For ever to the burning bloom Of celandine, and golden broom, A song of eld, yet ever young ! LXXXVI I. And glancing through the boughs above, The sun-shafts through the bars of green Shone softly on the happy scene, W r hilst cushats cooed their tale of love ! POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE 6- SENTIMENTAL. 127 LXXXVIII, Thus, Truth's serene and lustrous ray Through Error's dusky web, at last Will surely break, and scatter fast The lying barriers in its way ! IN THE OLDEN TIME. I AM not all I was in days gone by ! You say this dull corporeal frame of mine Has been transmuted surely, noiselessly, In the mysterious crucible of time, Till not one particle is left of those Which helped to form it seven years ago, Swelling to-day the beauty of some rose Or shrined in yonder hawthorn who can know? It is too true this blue-veined nervous hand, Pen poising in an ecstasy of thought, Is not the one, which in a fairer land, In earlier years, intuitively wrought The silent mandates of the busy brain ; But what of this ? Some priceless gem may rest For years within a casket, then again White hands consign it to another nest, The first resembling, but still not the same, The husk which hid the jewel that alone Is changed the peerless diamond will flame, And flash, and dazzle on the pristine stone ! 128 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Thus with the spirit though its earthly cell Be changed, the pure atomic being is far Beyond the spoiler's dread corroding spell, And ever shines like some eternal star From its allotted windows ; as I gaze Upon yon mirror's face, a glance is flung Back to these eyes of mine and buried days Like phantoms rise the days when I was young ! Thus, though the never-dying soul has found Another prison-house, the man who stood In distant days upon enchanted ground Girt by the deep blue ocean's restless flood, Is he, within whose brain is surging fast A host of memories that waft him now Along the shadowy vistas of the past, Deep'ning the lines of thought upon his brow ! But I was purer then than now I wot, And meeter far to live beneath those skies From whose all matchless tints my soul had caught A hue that made my home a Paradise ! My music then the ocean's murmuring, My very day-dreams sweeter far than those That came to me in sleep ; for then no sting Of conscience marred my exquisite repose ! Was it in Heaven, or was it on Earth, Where long, long years ago, W T e saw together the fair day's birth, And the first faint eastern glow ? Was it, in sooth, a living bird, POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENIAL. 129 Or the chorister of a dream, Who sang where the quivering aspen stirred On the marge of a saucy stream ? Was it a spirit who whispered to me In the hush of the summer night, Or was it a maiden whose purity Shamed even the lily white ? It matters not, I a little reck, Alas, in this far off time, Of the verity of that blithesome beck, And its clear melodious chime ! It still may flash at its own wild will, Or wind through a mythic land, Enough that its silvery treble still Is linked with a " vanished hand ! " Whether in truth we wandered there In the golden dawn of love, To bathe in the cool and the unsunned air. In the home of the blue winged dove ; Or whether in spirit we threaded then Dim regions beyond the sun, That only lie in a dreamer's ken, When the daylight's course is run ; So far that time that I scarcely know, The pictures, that somewhere rest, In Memory's halls, of that long ago, Are shadowy, at the best. But as some seer o'er a crystal's face, In a darkened room will bend, 130 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. And seek in the glassy depths to trace The form of a long lost friend ; So let me silently sometime gaze, In Memory's mystic well, To woo a vision of vanished days, And the tender tale they tell. All blurred at first, for the mists of years Move sullenly to and fro O'er the crystal depths ; not a gleam appears From the fairy realm below ! Till lo ! a break in the veil at last As the mists begin to rise, And a happy scene of the happy past, Breaks slowly on my eyes ! In a cottage chamber growing dim As the twilight stealeth on, A lady looks to the western rim Of the hills, where the day has gone ! It is my love (who is ever mine /) In her favourite oaken chair, She toys with the purple columbine, There are wind-flowers in her hair ! That chair is wreathed with the woodbine won Where the wild bees love to roam, Above her tresses the tendrils run, As though in their leafy home ! Fair flowers azure and white, and red, From her soft grasp slowly slide (Thrice happy flowers ! ) to find a bed On the lap of my bonny bride ! POEMS,DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 131 And there all dewy and bright they rest On her robe of virgin white, Whilst the scent that breathes where the blithe birds nest Is haunting the summer night ! And I, as I bend o'er the musing maid, Feel her rippling ringlets blown O'er my sunburnt cheek, which is lightly laid To the loveliness of her own ! But as when bells are pealing At dewy close of day, Whose minstrelsy is stealing Our truant thoughts away, On zephyrs perfume laden The sweet sounds float from far, And waft us to that Aidenn Where our lost ones are, So Memory's breath is crisping The Mind's unruffled sea, And its wavelets now are lisping Of the glories gone from me ! Lo ! now the Spirit of the past appears, And slowly doth unroll The dusty records of the vanished years, Like some fair pictured scroll ! No more alone that scene at eventide, So dim, so calmly fair, With quaint old oaken chair and happy bride, And flower- woven hair ; K 2 132 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. But every glance from those resistless eyes That found a home in mine And every bower of that paradise Where I would oft entwine Her dainty waist, whilst through the leafy screen The birds flashed to and fro All, all, once more, I trow, are clearly seen, To-day is long ago ! And each sweet word that from her red lips fell Like roses dropping dew, Again I hear ah, hear alas ! too well I Though they are all too few I So ere yon storm-clouds gathering dark and dread, Above the sad to-day, Shall shroud these tender memories of the dead, I'll woo them while I may ! We dwelt in a home that was calm and quiet, Hidden away like some secret nest, Out of the region of restless riot, In the dusky dells of the pleasant West. The twitter of birds, and the first faint flutter Of early winds through the woodlands grey, Were ever the voices first to utter A welcome back to the glad young day ! The moorland bare in its stern wild glory Skirted the edge of a smiling land, And the ancient Tors in their vestment hoary Of rolling mists, towered darkly grand ! POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 133 Beneath us, the rapt gaze wandered over Fair Plenty's paradise lapped in peace, Yellowing corn fields, and realms of clover, Canopied softly with clouds of fleece ! Our cosy cot was a rose-girt bower In a garden of greenery bravely set, Where the silvery shafts of the summer shower Pattered on pansy and mignonette ; Sheltered alike from the Frost King's ire, And the biting blasts of the upland drear, We bent o'er the beauties that glowed like fire, Or echoed the sky tints all the year ! Never a ripple disturbed the ocean In which our blithe bark anchored lay, Never a pang, or a sad emotion Clouded the days as they slid away ! Never a voice or a step unbidden From the world around us to break the spell That hung o'er the haven in which were hidden Two loving hearts in that Devon dell ! And though the snow-time is charming In its own rough boisterous way, When the oaks and the beeches are arming Amain, as for some fierce fray ! When the icicles deck them proudly, Like glittering coat of mail, And the war notes are echoing loudly Through many a dreary dale ! 134 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Though lovers may tread together The beautiful realm of snow, And win from the winter weather A healthful becoming glow ! And though in the bright home-fire Fresh faces they find each night, When the tempests are rising higher, And shrieking in wild delight, For my memories, summer's hours Of softness are far more meet, And the fluttering leaves of the bowers, Where roses make love more sweet ! And more I am clearly bidden To dip where the fair days shine From that well, where they all lie hidden In this foolish old heart of mine ! For never the blue of Heaven Was veiled by the virgin snow, In that dear little dell of Devon Where we loved in the long ago ! Who knows not the Heavenly hush That hallows this earth so fair, As we greet the first exquisite flush From the sun-god's rosy lair ? When the bird still nods in his nest, And the woodlands are dim and grey, And the whispering winds of the West Are kissing each dewy spray ! POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE c^ SENTIMENTAL. 135 From the joyaunce of happy dreams We arose at this holy time When the cheek of the glowing rose Was touched with the early rime. 'Twas then with a silent prayer On the lips, that we softly trod That paradise dim and fair Alone with the birds and God ! And we felt, as we onwards strayed Through solitudes half awake, Down the shadowy silent glade, Through the sinuous tangled brake : A touch of that old world calm Which they might have felt of yore Who watched neath the graceful palm The sunrise on Eden's shore ! So deep was the rapt repose That mantled this orb of ours, Ere the fiery monarch rose From his slumber in Eastern bowers, That we might have stood alone On earth, 'neath the cold grey sky With the mountains for our throne, And the winds for our minstrelsy ! We saw the cold mists rise From hollows dim and grey, With wistful eager eyes We watched them float away 136 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Like phantoms fraught with death To all that's fair and bright, Whose dank and chilling breath Spreads universal blight. Reluctantly they sail, Dissolving, as they go, Across the quiet vale That nestles far below, 'Till to the sun-god's ire Their waning strength being given, Before his shafts of fire They fly dispersed and riven ! And beauty, in her strength, Leapt conquering from the tomb, As day emerged at length From night's mysterious womb ! How fair the sylvan scene that met the view ! I seem to see it still ! To hear again the cushat's plaintive coo, The ripple of the rill. Again the distant spire cleaves the sky, As showing us the way, Again I hear the tufted plovers cry From moorlands wild and grey ! The leafy dell that slumbered at our feet, The home for ever fair Of many a floral treasure fresh and sweet That only blossom there ! POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 137 The sunny slopes upon the further side With burning broom aglow Where many a burnished insect in its pride Flashed gaily to and fro ! The sportive swift careering far above Upon his sable wing, The gentle turtle making low-voiced love, The lark's clear carolling ! The Mavis fluting softly from his bower Of leaves, and bramble rose, The pert daw wheeling round the ivied tower Invading its repose ! All these and more are pictured in my mind, As we two saw them then, Swept by a silver-footed western wind That whispered down the glen ! All these the fairer for their lengthened spell Of slumber, through the night ; A rarer fragrance from the dewy dell, The countless hues more bright ! A deeper glory shining far and nigh Upon the landscape's face, As though anew from their Creator's die, His works illumined space. Then homewards ere Apollo Should blind us with his beams, Through many a cool deep hollow, Where pensive silence dreams, 138 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Through music-haunted bowers, Across the gleaming grass, In those fair morning hours, We rapturously pass ! Passed homewards to the dwelling, Where moaned the cushat dove, Our twin hearts fairly swelling With all their weight of love ! What a change from the glare and the heat, Was the twilight that met us there, As we sought our dim retreat, With the flower-wreathed oaken chair ! Where the air was for ever dense With the sweets from a wealth of bloom, That sickened the sated sense, And fastened the eyelids soon ! Whilst ever the drowsy hum Of the velvety toilers fell On the ear, as they go and come, From the fiery tulip's well, Where often the soft low note Of the bird, as he wooed his love, On the dallying airs would float From the heart of the firry grove ; And borne through the lattice dear, Flung back for the scent and shine, Would melt on the perfect ear, That nestled so close to mine ! POEMS.DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 139 And oh, it was meet, we thought, That the feathered gallants should woo, In their bower, of roses wrought, Where never a beam broke through ! Whilst we, as we sat apart, From the glance of the garish day, Were opening heart to heart, And kissing the hours away ! But the gloom of the room was soft, and seductive, and sweet, And the sheen of your een made all that we cared for of light, Our rest was so blest after all the sun's glamour and heat, That we were, sitting there, in a rarer and lovelier night, Dreaming dreams of delight. And the song rich and strong of the merle in the blossoming thorn Floated clear on the ear, and made for us music divine, Whilst the wind, gay and kind, and fresh with the breath of the morn, In its bliss came to kiss those ravishing tresses of thine, That I loved to call mine. 1 40 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Even now though my brow is seamed with the foot- prints of Time, Who has shed on my head his wreath of invincible snows, How my cheek wan and weak will flush with a radiance divine, As I seem in a dream to be once more caressing my Rose, In that twilight repose. But her sleep it is deep, where only the sough of the wind Seems to toll for the soul that was summoned so soon to its rest. God above in his love will beckon the one left behind ; By the side of my bride I shall lie in that dell of the West, In a year at the best. When from reverie we awaken, To trial and tears once more, From the swift wings of thought are shaken, The dews of a mythic shore So we, in that quiet bower, Forbidden to rest for aye, Might dream for a happy hour, The waking must come some day ! As a Dryad of classic story Might steal from her forest lair, When the sun in his perfect glory Was beating upon her hair, So you, with your young cheeks glowing, And eyes shaming Heaven's blue, POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. And your aureate tresses flowing, Would rise from your day dreams too ! The spoils of woodland bowers Would claim your earliest care, Those freshly gathered flowers, Upon the table there ! And soon within the crystal clear, That wealth of dewy bloom, Its sheen toned with green, Would beautify the room Would scatter fragrance far and wide, And beautify the room. The orchis and the pansy, The loosestrife's purple spire, The hyacinth and tansy, The " cup " that " shines like fire," The daffodil's pure lustre, The speedwell's perfect blue, With a spray of pink may, Stole softly into view All told a tale of hill and dale, And charmed the sight anew. Then o'er this ordered beauty, My love awhile would muse, Intent upon her duty, Of harmonizing hues, And as her eager scruting Detected nought amiss, 1 42 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. She would glide to my side, For the guerdon of a kiss, Would lay her bonny cheek to mine, For my approving kiss ! ****** Long withered are those flowers ; The icy north winds blow, And those deep summer bowers Alas ! are veiled in snow. The hands that fluttered 'mid the blooms, For ever are at rest, For Death, with his breath, Chilled the blossom I loved best, For envious Death has called her home Beyond the crimson West ! Soul ! why turnest thou so sadly, To wild winds, and leaden skies, When thou shouldest guide me gladly, Through that whilom Paradise ? Lingering in those bowers olden, Swept by zephyrs from the West? 'Neath thy wings I would be folden, In a dream of perfect rest ! For a little dost thou dally, Poised in thought's remotest sky, Looking on that quiet valley, Where we dwelt, my love and I ! Looking down on shadows sleeping, In the hollows of the hills, POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 143 Where the fretted ferns are keeping Gentle vigil by the rills ! Turning then on sudden pinions, From these scenes, so calmly fair, Leaving Dreamland's dear dominions, For the desert of Despair, Through a region tempest riven Wingest thou thy lonely flight, Drifting here and there, till driven, On the sable realm of night. I must follow ! I must follow ! Far from Fairy Land, ah me ! Far-from music-haunted hollow, Far from sunny summer sea ! Till we have explored together, All the interval of years, Safely braved the wild wet weather, But to be baptized in tears ! For our journey ever endeth, In a quiet churchyard's gloom, Where a single willow bendeth, O'er a solitary tomb ! Ever endeth here, where only Yews loom darkly overhead, Doomed to keep their watches lonely, O'er the slumber of the dead ! Soul ! I know they brought her hither, Sleeping sweetly, long ago, 144 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Ere the leaves began to wither, In the soft September glow. But I cannot cannot wake her, So in vain the solemn quest, In the mansions of her Maker, She has found eternal rest ! But I left her pressing, Red lips to my own, Coaxingly caressing, Locks now grizzled grown ! Left her twining rosy Remnants in my hair, Pilfered from the posy, That had been her care, On my shoulder leaning, In her simple guise, Pleading in the meaning Language of the eyes. Then my bonny burden, Nestled closer yet, As her wonted guerdon On her lips was set ! Of it I had wronged her, Slyly, for a space, But to look the longer On her upturned face ! Then as I would shower, On the coral twins, POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE 6- SENTIMENTAL. 145 Far the sweetest dower That a maiden wins, Ere she had arisen, Blinded by this rain From its rosy prison, Music broke again ! Broke in words of rapture, Tripping from her tongue, Accents that would capture, Hearts no longer young ! Then tossing back her tawny hair From her serene young brow, She slowly sought a quaint old chair (It stands deserted now), And drawing forth an ample sheet Of softly tinted hue, The brushes, for her labors meet, And glowing colours too ! The slender fingers soon would trace Grey rock, or moorland stream, And as I watched her perfect face, And saw her white hands gleam, I guessed indeed ! I knew full well, How fair the end would be, And how her pencil's subtle spell Would soon unlock for me Again the silence of the glade Where tall ferns dwell apart, i 4 6 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. The vision of the beck, that played Deep in the forest's heart ! And well I guessed the beauty rare, That made her brow its throne, Would pass into the picture there And stamp it as her own ! At last the trim brushes Are all tossed aside, Her lovely cheek flushes With shame not with pride ! For shame that her picture " Lacked verve, and looked dead," And many a stricture She launched at its head ! Betwixt her fair fingers, She holds it a space, And over it lingers, A cloud on her face ! Then pushing her tresses Away, in her haste, Those shimmering tresses That reached to her waist, She laughs, ah ! how sweetly, And springs from her seat, Then trips, ah ! how featly, Towards my retreat. She clasps her creation, She holds it in air, In mute expectation, I glance at my fair ! POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 147 The wrong side the fairy Displays to my eye, And she is so wary And holds it so high, That though I manoeuvre For one little peep, If only to prove her Own judgment asleep, My tactics all vainly Are brought into play, My love tells me plainly " No vision to-day ! " " No matter," I mutter, And turn from my bride, Who sinks in a flutter Of tears, by my side I Still closer I press her Fair form to my breast, I gently caress her, And say " 7 Twas a jest ! " Then as the sun's splendour Will rapidly drain The rivulet slender, That murmurs in vain, So in that glad hour, Her smile's sunny glow, Absorbs the bright shower Of tears, in their flow ! Their channel, thank Heaven, Is stainless once more, L 2 148 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. And we of all Devon, Most blest, as of yore ! Then as on my shoulder She rests in a dream, I praise her " grey boulder," The sweep of her stream ! I prove in her plover, There's nothing amiss, And sign, like a lover, My " notes " with a kiss ! Then o'er the same book we would bend in the fashion of lovers, My whitening locks lying close to her aureate tresses, Now tracking the path of those daring knights errant of Spenser, Or musing awhile o'er the manifold charms of Bel- phoebe, Next riding, in thought, from the door of the Hostel at Southwark, And hanging entranced on the marvellous tales of the Pilgrims, Then treading with awe in the venturous footsteps of Dante, And shuddering low at the horrors that haunt the Inferno ! Perhaps revelling long in the glorious pages of Shake- speare, And living anew in the midst of his subtle creations POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 149 Bewailing with Lear the strange hardness of heart of his daughters, Or seeking to prove the mysterious madness of Hamlet, Alone with Macbeth in the gloom of the turreted chamber, Or watching the Moor as he slaughters the wife of his bosom. Then leaving at last the exciting domains of the drama, A calm sweet and deep would enchain our fluttering spirits As we wandered in thought in a shadowy garden of Eden, Ay, roved there alone, as we had in the cool of the morning, Then, fancy alone did exclude Time and Space for a season Now, from them we sped on the deathless winged words of the poet ! Next, turning to fiction, we skimmed the delectable pages Of Eliot, and laughed at the wit of the feminine Poyser, Now dropping a tear at the many misfortunes of Adam, Now pitying much the misguided and beautiful Hetty ! We followed Jane Eyre in her flight o'er the desolate moorland, And shared in her joy, when again in the arms of her lover. We sped with John Ridd up the glen to the cottage of Lorna, And both felt a pang at the fate of the terrible Carver ! 150 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. In a word, cheek to cheek, and reclining so close to each other, We could feel the heart-beats keeping time with the clock on the mantel, Did we glide through the meads, and the flowery forest of fiction, And culled choicest bits from the mystical lore of the sages, Rattling fast o'er those " Stones " that John Ruskin dis- covered in Venice, And puzzling awhile o'er the wisdom of Sartor Resartus ! Thus fiction philosophy poetry helped to enchant us, Though oft our eyes played the truant and stole from the volume, To meet in a look, that was fraught with a rapture unspoken, Whilst e're and anon music burst from the lips of my loved one, In a clear ringing laugh, or the tones of an eager inquiry. And so the day waned in that quiet and shadowy bower, And* slantwise the rays of the summer sun streamed thro' the casement ! Then we wandered away Away from our rose-girt home, As the fiery god of day, Descended the deep blue dome. POEMS,DESCRIPTIVE& SENTIMENTAL. 151 The evening air was fresh and sweet, And flowers were blushing at our feet, A thrush sang well from her dim retreat Fit hour for musing man and maid, When half the garden was hidden in shade, And zephyrs thro' the tree-tops played ! Vagabond zephyrs now sailing by The cruel rose with a love-lorn sigh^ As knowing well that she loved them not, That glowing queen of the garden plot, But kept her charms for a fairer guest, The wind that blows full from the purple West, When, in the silence all things rest ! Zephyrs there were who had dallied long In the vale to list to the streamlet's song. Others, who'd flirted the long day through, With the meadow-sweet, and the speedwell blue, Now listlessly through the gloaming move Sated ay, to the full with love ! And seeking yon poplars tall and grey, Rustle their tresses, and die away. A soft hush fell o'er field and dell, The sun's last arrows came, And we could see the laburnum tree Those shafts had set aflame ! Each level ray from the god of day, Flashed swiftly, o'er the wold, And in their light, each blossom bright Shone forth like burnished gold ! And as we gaze, a fancy strays 152 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. Unsought into my breast A dream of eld, when Alfred held The sceptre in the West. When jewels rare swung free and fair From every bending spray, On birch or thorn from night to morn, From morn till close of day ! And to and fro the people go Beneath those tempting trees Where rich chains glance, and bracelets dance With every passing breeze. And though each eye will soon espy Those novel blossoms there, No single hand thro' all th land To gather one would dare ! Oh ! it was grand, thro' all the land They swung unharmed in air. Did not those blossoms burning bright In that last fiery glow, Remind us of the strangest sight That eyes shall ever know ? Then golden chains flashed back the light, Now golden flowers I trow ! And as aloud I spoke my thought In tones that told of tenderness, And clasped her hands, so rarely wrought With soft and subtle slenderness ! The metaphor was fine, she said, She liked its quaintness mightily, POEMS, DESCRIPTIVE & SENTIMENTAL. 153 Then reaching up her shapely head, She kissed my cheek delightedly When like a maiden in a dream She mused awhile deliciously, Whilst o'er her forehead's tender gleam, The shadows slid capriciously ! But one by one, she fondly flung Back each swift glance again to me, And then with bell-like accents sung This sweet yet solemn strain to me ! SONG. Now has the sheen and splendour of the day, The daring, dazzling day, Departed. Across the spirit steals a deep repose That o'er its own turmoil and trouble throws A spell that even charms away your woes, Sad-hearted ! n. Now has the mighty monarch of the sky, The silent star-strewn sky, Descended With stately steps a splendid shining stair, Poised in the purple prairies of air To nether worlds for us his reign so fair Has ended ! in. Beneath the wings of twilight wondrous wings ! Those dim delicious wings, Are folden 154 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE. The garish glories of the summer scene, Wild woodland ways, and solitudes serene, Far-flaming fields, and glowing gardens green And golden ! IV. Her sister Silence too, with unseen hand, With pale uplifted hand Is hushing Sounds that from pleasant places all remote, To our charmed ears on gentle zephyrs float, And streams of song that from each tiny throat Are gushing ! v. And slowly, surely, fadeth flood and fell, Familiar flood and fell, From vision. As things grow dim to darkened dying eyes So sadly strained towards the summer skies, Ere the freed soul shall pass where landscapes rise Elysian ! VI. But soon, a sister who is sterner still, A sister sadder still, Shall follow ! Veiling with sable shroud a world at rest, The still dim woodlands pictured in the West, The purple hills, and many a rugged crest, And hollow. POEMS, DESCRIPT2 VE 6- SENTIMENTAL. 1 5 5 Thus sang my love, and as her accents sweet Upon the evening breezes died away, Within my soul was born an answer meet, And so I chanted this "responsive lay : I He will arise the fairer for his flight, His far and fiery flight, To-morrow ! Will rise again " with healing in his wings," To shed new beauty on material things, And steal from saddened souls the subtle stings Of sorrow. ii To-night he fled in robes of blue and gold- - Of burning, burnished gold, And amber, The morrow morn with pageantry as rare, He will return from regions strange and fair, And bravely up that vast aerial stair Will clamber. in. Now at his passing, Silence from her lair, Her lonely leafy lair, Is stealing, Then will he scare that mute mysterious maid Back to the depths of her congenial shade, And once again with song will every glade Be pealing ! 156 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND VERSE IV. Were day not tracked with stealthy steps by night, The needful noiseless night, We never Should feel the flush of sunset in the West Fall, like a spell, upon the weary breast, But still in ceaseless toil should find no rest For ever ! v. So now we face the fury of the sun, The scorching summer sun, Undaunted ; Assured that to this blinding glare and heat There will succeed an hour hushed and sweet, When stars shall shine, and dells by fairy feet Be haunted ! VI. So life's red river with its troubled tide, Its tearful troubled tide, Is tending Towards a silent and a soundless sea That sweeps those shadowy shores, where haply we May greet our dead anon where bliss shalj be Unending ! Ceasing, I felt that her arm tightened palpably, As it lay locked in my own ! Was it my strain had awakened old memories, Now that the daylight had flown ? POEMS.DESCRIPT2VE