Part 2

If she but had the chance, I b’lieve, She’d ’cept the first with glee, And would not any longer grieve O’er man’s depravity.

She’d be as different as I— Oh, laws! what fun ’twould be; For missus is a very guy, ’Twixt you and Tom and me.

P’rhaps love would make her young once more, And change her temper too, For certain, love has witchcraft’s power, All things he likes, to do.

Tom says _so_, and _so_ ’tis true, Tom never tells a lie; And what Tom bids I’ll always do, Until at last I die.

CHIVALRY.

CHIVALRY, ho yes, I have heerd of such a thing, but I don’t mind owning—not allus having a Tomson’s Dixonary aside o’ me—as I never rightly unnerstood the full meanin’ o’ the word until this very day, when the subjick was suggested and my opinion arxed, which, why should I deny, I _had_ supposed it strictly limited to the man in Brass ninth o’ November Lord Mayor’s Show, as they says it is to be abolished in future times, and a great loss I’m sure to the rising generation, though apt to be mostly all mud and squeeging and more pains than profit to grownups, and likewise in Christmas pantomines and bur-lesks at theayters I have seen Alls of Chivalry most georgius to beeold with young ladies in uncountless troops coming out o’ shells and flowers and bells and stars as made the rime of infancy seem quite reesnable, though why slugs and snails only for the other sect is more than I can explain, and I don’t blush to own free and frank as I believed the time for it in reel life was past and gone these ages, though efforts made many a year back at the Eglintown Turnamount rung through the country, and well I remember seeing picters of queens o’ beauty and gentlemen done up in harmer and a hossback as looked when once they was hup it was more than they could do to save their lives to get down again without most competent assistance, and far from comfortable or easy I should say them mettal dresses was, as it stands to reesin, man being of a active character, was never intended by nature to go about with a shell outside of him like snails, which is both slow and useless, _I_ should say, unless making your palings slimy and nibbling at your cabbage sprouts is useful acts, which much I doubt, though how I’ve got from Chivalry to snails is most surpriging, only the workings of the huming mind _is_ so surpriging as no one never need be surpriged at nothing of the sort,—where was I, ho at harmer which, if you arx my opinion, I do consider such a ill-conwenience as there ought to be a deal to make up for it, and if you can’t have Chivalry without harmer I must say I think we’re better as we are, fur what with crinnerlin the world’s ardly big enough as it is, and if these coats of male was to come in, made of steel likewise, you couldn’t walk in London, excep in Portland Place, praps, and in quiet distrix like Islington and Upper Baker Street, while as for omnibuses, my belief is they’re only kep going as it is by the lightness and tightness of manly figgers and costoom, and if _they_ took to harmer there’d be an end of twelve inside, much less of thirteen out, and pit seats would have to be enlarged, as also pews in church, and especially pulpits, likewise the Houses of Parliament and the Corts of Lor, and everythink would be deranged together fur no particklar good that I can see, but Mrs. Jones she ses it’s not the harmer, it’s not the outside man as needs a haltering in this year age of ourn, it’s not the costoom she ses, it’s the manners, she ses, which in ancient times was so much superior to any think we know on in the presint day, she ses, fur in them distant days there was galliant knights which wore a scarve or a ribbing of the lady as they preferred, and went about the world with long spears a defying all the other knights to say as that there lady of theirs wasn’t the most beautifulest of all living ladies, and fight they would with them spears, and sometimes got ard nox too, in spite of their harmer, but got up again a hossback mostly, and went off to other parts a doing the same thing, which, if that’s chivalry, why I arx you what on erth is the good of such goings on as that, but ho Mrs. Jones ses, that’s not all, she ses, and torx at me fur hours on end, she does, a trying to show me what a deal more obliginger and politer was the manners of them there knights to the manners of these year days, and how they was always a helping of the helpless, and a succouring the distressed, and how they thought it a honner and no trouble to put theirselves to all sorts of inconvenience to oblige one of our sect which, especially the unprotected female, was their joy and pride, never you mind how many bangboxes she might have, nor how pouring of rain, outside of the omnibuses of the period them knights would go immediate, and only count it a ordinary part of what they called their devour to the fare, which I will own I _have_ met with quite contrairy condick from well drest pussons, as doubtless calls theirselves gentlemen, and after standing hours, I may say, in Regint Circus or corner of Tottenham Court Road, have been pushed from getting of my place inside by the very harms that in other times Mrs. Jones ses would have been lifted to my haid, but lor! I ses to her, though this may appen occasional, I ses, what can you expeck in London in the midst of millions of snobs as thinks only of theirselves, and has never learned any better, poor deers, which I’m sorry fur ’em, fur sure I am as the feelins is much more comfortabler of a reel and right down _gentle_ man, which the word explains itself, don’t it, and we don’t want no knights in harmer while there’s men left, and proud I am to say I know a many such, and have met with kindness from a many more as I don’t know the names on, which if they’d had harmer on twice over couldn’t be more ready to lend their strength to the weak, and their elp to the elpless, and chivalry can’t mean no more than that, so let alone the harmer, we can’t have too much of it, _I_ ses, and Mrs. Jones she ses so too, and we ses it not as wimming only but as humane beings as likes to see their feller creeturs a growing in good arts and appiness, not forgetting as wimming likewise has _our_ duties, which is seldom done as well as one could wish, and so has no manner of rite to preech, which much I fear I’ve been a running on most unconscionable, and took up a deal too much of your time, but umbly arx your parding and won’t intrude no further.

CHILDHOOD’S CASTLES IN THE AIR.

GENTLY, no pushing; there’s room to sit All three without grumbling, One in front, two behind, well you fit, And mamma to hold you from tumbling. Rock, rock, old rocking chair, You’ll last us a long time with care, And still without balking Of us four any one, From rocking and talking— That is what we call fun.

Curtains drawn, and no candles lit, Great red caves in the fire, This is the time for us four to sit Rocking and talking all till we tire. Rock, rock, old rocking chair, How the fire-light glows up there, Red on the white ceiling; The shadows every one Might be giants, reeling On their great heads, for fun.

Shall we call this a boat out at sea, We, four sailors rowing? Can you fancy it well? As for me I feel the salt wind blowing. Up, up and down, lazy boat, On the top of a wave we float, Down we go with a rush; Far off I see a strand Glimmer; our boat we’ll push Ashore on Fairy-land.

The fairy people come running To meet us down on the sand, Each holding out toward us the very thing We’ve long wished for, held in his hand. Up, up again; one wave more Holds us back from the fairy shore; Let’s pull all together, Then with it, up we’ll climb, To the always fine weather That makes up fairy time.

Come to us through the dark, children, Hark! the fairy people call, But a step between us and you, children, And in Fairy-land room for us all. Climb the main and you will be Landed safe in gay Fairie, Sporting, feasting, both night and noon, No pause in fairy pleasures; Silver ships that sail to the moon, Magic toys for treasures.

Ah! the tide sweeps us out of our track, The glimmer dies in the fire, There’s no climbing the wave that holds back Just the things that we all most desire! Never mind, rock, rocking-chair; While there’s room for us four there, To sit by fire-light swinging, Till some one open the door, Birds in their own nest singing Ain’t happier than we four.

AUTUMN LEAVES.

I.

WHO cares to think of autumn leaves in spring? When the birds sing, And buds are new, and every tree is seen Veil’d in a mist of tender gradual green; And every bole and bough Makes ready for the soft low-brooding wings Of nested ones to settle there and prove How sweet is love; Alas, who then will notice or avow Such bygone things?

II.

For, hath not spring the promise of the year? Is she not always dear To those who can look forward and forget? Her woods do nurse the violet; With cowslips fair her fragrant fields are set; And freckled butterflies Gleam in her gleaming skies; And life looks larger, as each lengthening day Withdraws the shadow, and drinks up the tear: Youth shall be youth for ever; and the gay High-hearted summer with her pomps is near.

III.

Yes; but the soul that meditates and grieves, And guards a precious past, And feels that neither joy nor loveliness can last— To her, the fervid flutter of our Spring Is like the warmth of that barbarian hall To the scared bird, whose wet and wearied wing Shot through it once, and came not back at all. Poor shrunken soul! she knows her fate too well; Too surely she can tell That each most delicate toy her fancy made, And she herself, and what she prized and knew, And all her loved ones too, Shall soon lie low, forgotten and decay’d, Like autumn leaves.

SILENCE. (OF A DEAF PERSON.)

I SEE the small birds fluttering on the trees, And _know_ the sweet notes they are softly singing; I see the green leaves trembling in the breeze, And _know_ the rustling that such breeze is bringing; I see the waters rippling as they flow, And _know_ the soothing murmur of their noise; I see the children in the fire-light’s glow, Laughing and playing with their varied toys; I see the signs of merriment and mirth; I see the music of God’s lovely earth; I see the earnest talk of friend with friend, And wish my earnest thoughts with theirs could blend; But oh! to my deaf ears there comes no sound, I live a life of silence most profound.

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS.

DEAR heart! what a little time it is, since Francis and I used to walk From church in the still June evenings together, busy with loving talk; And now he is gone far away over seas, to some strange foreign country,—and I Shall never rise from my bed any more, till the day when I come to die.

I tried not to think of him during the prayers; but when his dear voice I heard I fail’d to take part in the hymns, for my heart flutter’d up to my throat like a bird; And scarcely a word of the sermon I caught. I doubt ’twas a grievous sin; But ’twas only one poor little hour in the week that I had to be happy in.

When the blessing was given, and we left the dim aisles for the light of the evening star, Though I durst not lift up my eyes from the ground, yet I knew that he was not far; And I hurried on, though I fain would have stayed, till I heard his footstep draw near, And love rising up in my breast like a flame, cast out every shadow of fear.

Ah me! ’twas a pleasant pathway home, a pleasant pathway and sweet, Ankle deep through the purple clover, breast high ’mid the blossoming wheat: I can hear the landrails call through the dew, and the night-jars’ tremulous thrill, And the nightingale pouring her passionate song from the hawthorn under the hill.

One day, when we came to the wicket gate, ’neath the elms, where we used to part, His voice began to falter and break as he told me I had his heart; And I whisper’d that mine was his; we knew what we felt long ago: Six weeks are as long as a lifetime almost when you love each other so.

So we put up the banns, and were man and wife in the sweet fading time of the year, And till Christmas was over and past I knew neither sorrow nor fear. It seems like a dream already, a sweet dream vanished and gone; So hurried and brief while passing away, so long to look back upon.

I had only had him three months, and the world lay frozen and dead, When the summons came which we feared and hoped, and he sail’d over sea for our bread. Ah well! it is fine to be wealthy and grand, and never to need to part; But ’tis better to love and be poor, than be rich with an empty heart.

Though I thought ’twould have kill’d me to lose him at first, yet was he not going for me? So I hid all the grief in my breast which I knew it would pain him to see. He’d be back by the autumn, he said; and since his last passionate kiss He has scarcely been out of my thoughts, day or night, for a moment, from that day to this.

When I wrote to him how I thought it would be, and he answered so full of love; Ah! there was no angel happier than I, in all the bright chorus above; And I seem’d to be lonely no longer, the days slipp’d so swiftly away; And the March winds died, and the sweet April showers gave place to the blossoms of May.

And then came the sad summer eve, when I sat with the little frock in the sun, And Annie ran in with the news of the ship. Ah, well! may His will be done! They said that all hands were lost, and I swoon’d away like a stone, And another life came ere I knew he was safe, and that mine was over and gone.

So now I lie helpless here, and shall never rise up again, I grow weaker and weaker, day by day, till my weakness itself is a pain. Every morning the creeping dawn, every evening I see from my bed The orange-gold fade into lifeless grey, and the old evening star overhead.

Sometimes in the twilight dim, or the awful birth of the day, As I lie, not asleep nor awake, my soul seems to flutter away, And I seem to be floating beyond the stars, till I thrill with an exquisite pain, And the feeble touch of a tiny hand recalls me to life again.

And the doctor says she will live. Ah! ’tis hard to leave her alone, And to think she will never know in the world the love of the mother who’s gone! He will tell her of me, by and by,—she will shed me a childish tear; But if I should stoop to her bed in the night, she would start with a horrible fear.

She will grow into girlhood, I trust, and will bask in the light of love, And I, if I see her at all, shall only look on from above— I shall see her, and cannot help, though she fall into evil and woe. Ah! how can the angels find heart to rejoice when they think of their loved ones below?

And Francis, he too, will forget me, and will go on the journey of life, And I hope, though I dare not think of it yet, will take him another wife. It will scarcely be Annie, I think, though she liked him in days gone by; Was that why she came?—but what thoughts are these for one who is going to die?

I hope he will come ere I go, though I feel no longer the thirst For the sound of his voice, and the light of his eye, that I used to feel at first: ’Tis not that I love him less, but death dries, like a whirlwind of fire, The tender springs of innocent love, and the torrents of strong desire.

And I know we shall meet again. I have done many things that are wrong, But, surely, the Lord of Life and of Love, cannot bear to be angry long. I am only a girl of eighteen, and have had no teacher but love; And, it may be, the sorrow and pain I have known will be counted for me, above;

For I doubt if the minister knows all the depths of the goodness of God, When he says He is jealous of earthly love, and bids me bow down ’neath the rod. He is learnèd and wise, I know, but, somehow, to dying eyes God opens the secret doors of the shrine that are closed to the learnèd and wise.

So now I am ready to go, for I know He will do what is best, Though he call me away while the sun is on high, like a child sent early to rest. I should like to see Francis look on our child, though the longing is over and past— But what is that footstep upon the stair? Oh! my darling—at last! at last!

ECHOES.

ON Thursday I sat in the choir of Canterbury Cathedral and watched the Bishops, Deans, Canons, and other clergy as they walked up in procession, leading the new Archbishop. The Archbishop seemed, I thought, to look with sheepish glances at two young men in full ball-room dress, who walked behind, holding up his long train; and I am satisfied that nothing but the proprieties of the place prevented his Grace from kicking them both, and carrying his tail in his own hands. The clergy, in their white gowns, with their various University colours, presented a rather pleasant appearance in the aggregate, and, with the environment of the old Cathedral arches, I thought they must have appeared to the best advantage. But while I gazed upon the old Archbishop and those who were doing him homage, the first notes of a distant chant broke faintly through the air. The choristers had just entered the western door far away, and as they slowly moved at the end of the long procession, they uttered a sweet old Gregorian chant. At first, as I listened, I thought how very sweet it was; then I thought it was in danger of becoming monotonous; nevertheless, the little cherubs had not consulted me about the length of it, and so continued their chant. But then the old music began to strike me with subtle effects, like the strain of some long sound-seasoned Cremona violin. And at length it began to work some strange spell upon me, and weave for my ear echoes caught up as it were from the dead past which before had seemed sleeping in its many tombs around. The echoes of wild pagan song, uttered with the tramp of mystic dances, gathering at last to the dying groan of some poor wretch perishing on a rude altar that a complacent smile may be won to the face of his god. The echo of the voice of a monk who finds that altar, and raises the crucifix above it. His voice blends with the outcry of the people for their old gods, and the loud command of the baptized King. What wild echoes are these hiding under that outburst of young voices? The echoes of a thousand savage martyrs who will not bow down to the Pope. Their protest is stifled with their blood; they pass to Valhalla for whose All-Father they have died; and the howling tempest marks his passage over the scene. Echoes again; the sounds of war. Hark! a tumult—words of anger—a hoarse cry—an Archbishop’s last sigh as his life ebbs away on the floor—there on the spot near the choir’s gate, where Archbishop Tait now gazes as if he could see the stark form of à-Becket lying there. Yes, plainly I heard that groan in the Gregorian chant. Then there were the echoes of stripes. A King in the dark crypt, beneath the shrine of the murdered Archbishop, now canonized, is being scourged in penance for his sins. Blended with these, the echoes of the voices of the great prelates and princes of many kingdoms, who have come to build a shrine for the martyr: their exclamations before the shrine decked with all the gleaming gems owned by the monarchs of Europe. One of them, Louis of France, has refused to offer a diamond, the finest in the world, but when the shrine is uncovered, the stone leaps from his ring and sets itself in the centre of the brilliants. The people shout, nay, weep with excitement at this miracle. All these I heard again in the chant. Then came pathetic echoes out of many ages: the tones of mourners as they followed here their honoured dead; the prayers of souls here aspiring towards the mysteries of existence; voices of hearts that found peace; the sobs of those who found it not; the low-toned benediction or exhortation of confessors. The voices of priests from pulpits, and of those who responded. All are hushed in death; but I heard their awakened echoes. The echoes of tolling bells, of marriage chimes. The tones of marriage vows. The startled cry of the infant wondering at the holy water sprinkled upon it. The echoes of Chaucer’s merry or sad pilgrims with their gracious or wanton stories, beguiling their way to the old inn near Christ Church Gate, which one seeks now only to find it has been burnt down. The echoes of their prayers for health at St. Dunstan’s or St. Thomas’s Shrine, and that other shrine where the stones are worn deepest with the knees of pilgrims, but whose saint is unknown. All these echoes were awakened for my ear by the sweet chant of the boys in Canterbury Cathedral; and unreal as they were, I confess they still seem to me more real than the actual prayers for the confusion of Dr. Tait’s imaginary enemies, or the ceremony of his enthronement. To sit upon fourteen centuries and see a London gentleman in a coat so much too large for him that his friends have to hold up its skirts for him, and to see plethoric Englishmen, suggestive of sirloins, on their knees praying that the snares set for their feet shall be broken,—produced in me feelings, to say the least, of a mixed character; such as those which may have been experienced by the landlady in the Strand, when she found that her lodger Mr. Taylor (the Platonist) had sacrificed a bull to Jupiter in her back parlour. There is something not undignified in an old Greek sacrificing a heifer, laurel-crowned, to Zeus; and there is something not unimpressive in old missionaries of the Cross struggling with pagan foes, and symbolizing their faith in their vesture and in their candles which lit up the caves to which they often had to fly. But to the crowd that went down between business and business, to see so long as a return-ticket permitted this effigy of a real past, there must have been more absurdity than impressiveness in it. From the whole pageant I recall with pleasure only the long sweet chant,—a theme ensouled by genius and piety,—which, between the doorway and the altar, filled the old Cathedral and made it a vast organ, with historic tones breathing the echoes of millions of heaven-seeking pilgrims whose prayers and hymns began at that spot before the advent of Christianity, and may perhaps remain there after it has passed away.

EXPEDIENCY.