Part 4

Seeing that my phrase exalted Fell upon his senses vainly, In my full career I halted, And I spoke my orders plainly. “Never seek to trim or lop it, Once for all I charge thee, drop it.” And I added, to my sorrow, “You shall ‘cut your stick’ to-morrow Know what _that_ means, I suppose?” “Yes,” he said, “I thinks I does.” So I left him at this crisis, Left him to his own devices, Left him like the royal Vandal, Leaning on his old spade handle. Oh! those vulgar slang expressions,— How I smart for my transgressions! Judge my wrath, surprise, and horror, When I rose upon the morrow, To behold my tree in ruin, And be told ’twas all _my_ doing, While the villain grinn’d in glee! “Wretch!” I thunder’d, “Where’s my tree?” And these words came from his lips, “There’s the tree, and them’s the Chips.”

TRANSFORMATION.

THE LAST SPEECH AND CONFESSION OF A MAHOGANY-TREE NYMPH.

YOU’VE heard in Greek mythology Of nymph and hamadryad Who had their being in a tree; Perchance, the tale admired. Yet live we, in oblivion sunk; Though strange, my tale’s as sure as That I was once a stately trunk In the forests of Honduras.

My home was in a jungle low, And tall tree ferns grew round me; The humming-birds flew to and fro, And wild lianas bound me; The panther, jaguar, and ounce, Lurk’d ever in my branches On weary travellers to pounce While journeying to their ranches. Me, merchants from Honduras found Who had not got a log any; They cut me prostrate on the ground To make first-rate mahogany.

They pack’d me in a darksome hold; We cross’d the ocean quivering; They took me to a region cold That set my timbers shivering; Above, an atmosphere of fog; Around me, masts upstanding— When they had piled me log by log, Upon the dockyard landing.

And then they came with rule and chalk Numb’ring my feet and inches, And pack’d us high beside that walk With pullies, cranks, and winches; And one by one my logs were sold, And one by one were taken, Till I, the spirit of the whole, Was left of form forsaken.

And when the auction sale was past, Mourning each separate splinter I flitted formless round the masts, Through all that ice-bound winter, Still with benumb’d and torpid sense All plan or hope deferring, Till, when the spring sun shone intense, My spirit’s sap was stirring,

I heard a wordless, whisper’d sound, (Such as we tree-nymphs utter,) Of swelling twigs, and buds unbound, And tremulous leaflets’ flutter,— And saw a dim, green, glossy face With eyes like pearly flowers,— And knew the spirit of our race, Fresh from Honduras’ bowers.

“Poor disembodied nymph,” I thought It said; “Go, seek thy children, A true statistical report To bring us, though bewild’ring, Of what with every inch they’ve done, Each splintering and chipling; Then, backwards to Honduras flown, Thou’lt have another sapling.”

I wing’d my way elate with hopes, To seek each cabinet maker— To Druse and Heal’s well furnish’d shops, And the Bazaar of Baker— Each piano manufactory, To Broadwood and to Collard— Where’er a portion of my tree, Was carried, there I follow’d:

And where’er a sofa or chair I saw, Or bedstead or wardrobe furnish’d, Or centre-table with spreading claw, With my wood all brightly burnish’d, Each knot, and knob, and scar, and split, And delicate grain appearing. Long was my search, made longer yet By the general use of veneering.

I’ve flitted through a mansion proud To watch a grand piano, The centre of a list’ning crowd High-bred in tone and manner: I’ve stood by many a shining board, Were dinners were demolish’d, And view’d the silver and glass _encored_— Seen double in the polish.

And beside a stately bed I’ve stood, Where curtains of silken splendour O’er damask hangings and polish’d wood, Threw a lustre subdued and tender. A dainty cradle stood near its head, But no form was in it sleeping, For the couch of state held the baby dead, And the mother knelt near it weeping:

I came beneath a gorgeous dome, With fretted arch and column, And stained glass windows through the gloom That made it very solemn. And by the pulpit stairs I stood The preacher’s words to follow— The sounding-board was my own wood— (That, and the words were hollow):

And I’ve wandered to the library— The bookshelves there were mine— Belonging to one of the Ministry; The whole was wondrous fine. (I thought the pay seem’d very high, The work of an easy nature, And wondered if that was the reason why They would not suffer women to try To sit in the Legislature):

And I’ve been up a dismal attic flight, Not knowing why there I hasten’d, And I found ’twas the sewing-table bright To which a machine was fasten’d; And a girl was working, so pale and drear, And in such a forlorn condition, That, ghost as I was, I had shed a tear, But I knew that that garret was woman’s sphere, And dressmaking her mission.

Last month I came to a table round Which cover’d, to my surprise, is, (Whilst a critical crowd collects around,) With chips of all lengths and sizes: And I knew I’d found the last piece of wood; And back, to my former station, My spirit crossed the Atlantic flood To begin a new transformation. So I laid the glimpses that I had had Of the motley life of this nation Upon this table—or good or bad— For the general delectation.

TRANSFORMATION. LITTLE SEAL-SKIN.

THE fisherman walked up the hill, His boat lay on the sand, His net was on his shoulder still, His home a mile inland. And as he walk’d among the whin He saw a little white seal-skin, Which he took up in his hand. Then “How,” said he, “can this thing be? A seal-skin, and no seal within?” Thus pondered he, Partly in fear, Till he remember’d what he’d heard Of creatures in the sea,— Sea-men and women, who are stirred One day in every year To drop their seal-skins on the sand, To leave the sea, and seek the land For twelve long hours, Playing about in sweet sunshine, Among the corn-fields, with corn-flowers, Wild roses, and woodbine: Till night comes on, and then they flit Adown the fields, and sit Upon the shore and put their seal-skins on, And slip into the sea, and they are gone. The fisherman strok’d the fur Of the little white seal-skin, Soft as silk, and white as snow; And he said to himself, “I know That some little sea-woman lived in This seal-skin, perhaps not long ago. I wonder what has become of her! And why she left this on the whin, Instead of slipping it on again When all the little sea-women and men Went hurrying down to the sea! Ah! well, she never meant It for me, That I should take it, but I will, Home to my house on the hill,” Said the fisherman; and home he went.

The Fisher dozed before his fire, The night was cold outside, The bright full moon was rising higher Above the swelling tide, And the wind brought the sound of breakers nigher, Even to the hill side; When suddenly Something broke at the cottage door, Like the plash Of a little wave on a pebbly shore; And as water frets in the backward drain Of the wave, seeming to fall in pain, There came a wailing after the plash.— The fisherman woke, and said, “Is it rain?” Then he rose from his seat And open’d his door a little way, But soon shut it again With a kind of awe; For the prettiest little sea-woman lay On the grass at his feet That you ever saw; She began to sob and to say, “Who has stolen my skin from me? And who is there will take me in? For I have lost my little seal-skin, And I can’t get back to the sea.”

The Fisherman stroked the fur Of the downy white seal-skin, And he said, “Shall I give it her?— But then she would get in, And hurry away to the sea, And not come back to me, And I should be sorry all my life, I want her so for my little wife.” The Fisherman thought for a minute, Then he carried the seal-skin to A secret hole in the thatch, Where he hid it cleverly, so That a sharp-sighted person might go, In front of the hole and not catch A glimpse of the seal-skin within it. After this he lifted the latch Of his door once more, But the night was darker, for The moon was swimming under a cloud, So the Fisherman couldn’t see The little sea-woman plainly, Seeing a fleck of white foam only, That was sobbing aloud As before.

“Little sea-woman,” said the Fisherman, “Will you come home to me, Will you help me to work, and help me to save, Care for my house and me, And the little children that we shall have?” “Yes, Fisherman,” said she. So the Fisherman had his way, And seven years of life Pass’d by him like one happy day; But, as for his sea-wife, She sorrowed for the sea alway And loved not her land life. Morning and evening, and all day She would say To herself—“The sea! the sea!” And at night, when dreaming, She stretch’d her arms about her, seeming To seek little Willie, It was the sea She would have clasp’d, not he— The great sea’s purple water, Dearer to her than little son or daughter. Yet she was kind To her children three, Harry, fair Alice, and baby Willie; And set her mind To keep things orderly. “Only,” thought she, “If I _could_ but find That little seal-skin I lost one day.” She didn’t know That her husband had it hidden away; Nor he That she long’d for it so. Until One evening as he climb’d the hill, The Fisherman found her amongst the whin, Sobbing, saying, “My little seal-skin— Who has stolen my skin from me? How shall I find it, and get in, And hurry away to the sea?” “Then she shall have her will,” Said he.

So Next morning, when he rose to go A-fishing, and his wife still slept, He stole The seal-skin from that secret hole Where he had kept It, and flung it on a chair, Saying, “She will be glad to find it there To-day When I am gone, And yet Perhaps she will not put it on,” He said, “Nor go away.” In sleeping his wife wept; Then the Fisherman took his net And crept Into the chill air.

The night drew on—the air was still, Homeward the fisher climbed the hill. All day he’d thought, “She will not go;” And now, “She has not,” pondered he. “She is not gone,” he said, “I know, There is a lamp in our window, Put ready on the sill To guide me home, and I shall see The dear light glimmering presently, Just as I round the hill.” But when he turn’d, there was no light To guide him homeward through the night. Then, “I am late,” he said, “And maybe she was weary Looking so long for me. She lays the little ones in bed Well content, In the inner room where I shall find her, And where she went, Forgetting to leave the light behind her.”

So he came to his cottage door, And threw it open wide; But stood a breathing space, before He dared to look inside. No fire was in the fireplace, nor A light on any side; But a little heap lay on the floor, And the voice of a baby cried. Rocking and moaning on the floor, That little heap Was the children, tired with crying, Trying to sleep, Moaning and rocking to and fro; But Baby Willie hindered the trying By wailing so.

Then “Wife! wife!” said the Fisherman, “Come from the inner room.” There was no answer, and he ran Searching into the gloom.

“Wife! wife! why don’t you come? The children want you, and I’ve come home.” “Mammy’s gone, Daddy,” said Harry— “Gone into the sea; She’ll never come back to carry Tired Baby Willie. It’s no use now, Daddy, looking about; I can tell you just how it all fell out.

“There was a seal-skin In the kitchen— A little crumpled thing; I can’t think how it came there; But this morning Mammy found it on a chair, And when she began To feel it, she dropped It on the floor— But snatch’d it up again and ran Straight out at the door, And never stopped Till she-reach’d the shore.

“Then we three, Daddy, Ran after, crying, ‘Take us to the sea! Wait for us, Mammy, we are coming too! Here’s Alice, Willie can’t keep up with you! Mammy, stop—just for a minute or two!’ But Alice said, ‘Maybe She’s making us a boat Out of the seal-skin cleverly, And by-and-by she’ll float It on the water from the sands For us.’ Then Willie clapt his hands And shouted, ‘Run on, Mammy, to the sea, And we are coming, Willie understands.’

“At last we came to where the hill Slopes straight down to the beach, And there we stood all breathless, still, Fast clinging each to each. We saw her sitting upon a stone, Putting the little seal-skin on. Oh! Mammy! Mammy! She never said good-bye, Daddy, She didn’t kiss us three; She just put the little seal-skin on, And slipped into the sea! Oh! Mammy’s gone, Daddy; Mammy’s gone! She slipp’d into the sea!”

A SURPRISE.

“SHE is dead!” they said to him. “Come away; Kiss her! and leave her!—thy love is clay!”

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of stone they laid it fair:

Over her eyes, which gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows, and her dear, pale face They tied her veil and her marriage-lace;

And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes;— Which were the whiter no eye could choose!

And over her bosom they crossed her hands; “Come away,” they said,—“God understands!”

And then there was Silence;—and nothing there But the Silence—and scents of eglantere,

And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary; For they said, “As a lady should lie, lies she!”

And they held their breath as they left the room, With a shudder to glance at its stillness and gloom.

But he—who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,—

He lit his lamp, and took the key, And turn’d it!—Alone again—he and she!

He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kiss’d, in the old place, the quiet cheek;

He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he call’d her the name that was fondest erewhile.

He and she; and she did not move To any one passionate whisper of love.

Then he said, “Cold lips! and breast without breath! Is there no voice?—no language of death

“Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct,—intense?

“See, now,—I listen with soul, not ear— What was the secret of dying, Dear?

“Was it the infinite wonder of all, That you ever could let life’s flower fall?

“Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o’er the agony steal?

“Was the miracle greatest to find how deep, Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep?

“Did life roll backward its record, Dear, And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

“And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so what a wisdom love is?

“Oh, perfect Dead! oh, Dead most dear, I hold the breath of my soul to hear;

“I listen—as deep as to horrible hell, As high as to heaven!—and you do not tell!

“There must be pleasures in dying, Sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet!

“I would tell you, Darling, if I were dead, And ’twere your hot tears upon my brow shed.

“I would say, though the angel of death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

“You should not ask, vainly, with streaming eyes, Which in Death’s touch was the chiefest surprise;

“The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring.”

* * * *

Ah! foolish world! Oh! most kind Dead! Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say, With the soft rich voice, in the dear old way:—

“The utmost wonder is this,—I hear, And see you, and love you, and kiss you, Dear;

“I can speak now you listen with soul, not ear; If your soul could see, it would all be clear

“What a strange delicious amazement is Death, To be without body and breathe without breath.

“I should laugh for joy if you did not cry; Oh, listen! Love lasts!—Love never will die.

“I am only your Angel who was your Bride; And I see, that though dead, I have never died.”

THE GLOAMING.

THE gloaming! the gloaming! “What is the gloaming?” was asked by some honourable member of this honourable Society, when the word was chosen a month ago. “Twilight,” was promptly answered by another honourable member! And although the gloaming is undoubtedly _twilight_, is twilight as undoubtedly the gloaming?—the gloaming of Burns, of Scott, the gloaming so often referred to in our old Northern minstrelsy? The City clerk on the knife-board of his familiar “bus,” soothing himself with a fragrant Pickwick, after his ten hours’ labour in that turmoil and eddy of restless humanity—the City—may see, as he rolls westward, the sun slowly sinking and setting in its fiery grandeur behind the Marble Arch. He may see the shades of evening stealing over the Park and the Bayswater Road, and darkness settling softly over gentle Notting Hill; and he may see, if there be no fog, or not too much smoke in the atmosphere to prevent astronomical observations, the stars stealing out one by one in the Heavens above him, as the gas-lamps are being lit in the streets around him; but would that observant youth on his knife-board, with his Pickwick, amidst the lamp-lights, in the roar of London, be justified in describing what he had seen as “the gloaming?” I think not. Is not the gloaming twilight only in certain localities, and under certain conditions? Is not the gloaming chiefly confined to the North country, or to mountainous districts? It is difficult to say where the gloaming shall be called gloaming no more, and where twilight is just simple twilight, and no gloaming; but surely there lives not the man who will assert that he has seen a real gloaming effect in the _Tottenham Court Road_, for instance!

Can it be applied to eventide in the flat fens of Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire? Does the gloaming ever fall on the manufacturing districts of Yorkshire—Leeds, Sheffield, Huddersfield? Twilight in the Potteries is surely twilight and no gloaming. May not, are not the limits within which the latter word may be used as aptly describing eventide, be the limits within which our old balladry sprung and flourished? May not, are not the limits within which the word is wholly inapplicable to describe the close of day, be the limits within which the love of song was not so strongly developed—where external nature did not, and does not suggest song, or poetry to the mind? Well, that definition is quite enough for the present day, in which “hard and fast lines” are at a discount! But there is still that awkward question, “What is the gloaming?” And what is there in the gloaming that distinguishes it from that which is twilight merely? To answer that with any hope of conveying any sense of the difference which undoubtedly _does_ exist, is a matter which is beyond the capacity of any one not being a Ruskin. As to _define_ the gloaming is beyond the powers of ordinary mortals, and as ostracism is threatened if I do not do something—as I am writing _in terrorem_, and to save my pen-and-pencil existence, which is hanging on this slender thread—I will, in default of being able to do better, give my own experiences of a real “GLOAMING.”

Time of year—the end of August. Locality, _not_ the Tottenham Court Road, but one of the northernmost points of the Northumberland border—a wild, rough, hard land—the fighting ground, for centuries upon centuries, first of the old Romans, and then of our own border laddies, who held it against the “rieving Scots”—a land over which the famous Sixth Legion has marched—a land which has seen Hotspur fight and Douglas fall—a land where almost every hillside and burn has its legend and ballad—a land on which one would reasonably expect to see the gloaming, as distinguished from twilight, fall! I had had ten days walking after wild grouse—tramping through the heather, generally dripping wet, for the Scotch mist did not observe or keep the border line, worse luck to it. At last a fine day, and a long tramp on the moors. At the close of it, having first walked enough over the soft moss and young heather to make me exult in the grand condition for exercise which ten days’ hill air will give, I separated from my party to try for a snipe down by a little tarn, lying in the midst of a “faded bent” in the moor, intending to tramp home afterwards in my own company—and in my own company it _was_ that I had full opportunity of studying the effect of the gloaming.