PART III.

LABOR.

Ten years of love!--a sleep, a pleasant dream That passed its culmen in the early half, Concluding in confusion--a wild scene Of bargains, auctions, partings, and what not?-- And an awaking!

I was in Broadway, A unit in a million. Like a bath In ocean surf, blown in from farthest seas Under the August ardors, the grand rush Of crested life assailed me with its waves, And cooled me while it fired. With sturdy joy I sought its broadest billows, and resigned My spirit to their surge and sway; or stood In sheltered coves, reached only by the spume And crepitant bubbles of the yesty floods, Drinking the roar, the sheen, the restlessness, As inspiration, both of sense and soul.

I saw the waves of life roll up the steps Of great cathedrals and retire; and break In charioted grandeur at the feet Of marble palaces, and toss their spray Of feathered beauty through the open doors, To pile the restless foam within; and burst On crowded caravansaries, to fall In quick return; and in dark currents glide Through sinuous alleys and the grimy loops Of reeking cellars; and with softest plash Assail the gilded shrines of opulence, And slide in musical relapse away.

With senses dazed and stunned, and soul o'erfilled With chaos of new thoughts, I turned away, And sought my city home. There all was calm, With wife and daughter waiting my return, And eager with their welcome. That was life!-- An interest in the great world of life, A place for toil within a world of toil, And love for its reward. "Amen!" I said, "And twice amen! I've found my life at last, And we will all be happy."

Day by day-- The while I sought adjustment to the life Which I had chosen, and with careful thought Gathered to hand the fair material Elect by Fancy for the organism Over whose germ she brooded--I went out, To bathe again upon the shore of life My long-enfeebled nature.

Every day I met some face I knew. My college friends Came up in strange disguises. Here was one, With a white neck-cloth and a saintly face, Who had been rusticated and disgraced For lawlessness. Now he administered A charge which proved that he had been at work, And made himself a man. And there was one-- A lumpy sort of boy, as memory Recalled him to me--grown to portliness And splendid spectacles. He drove a chaise, And practised surgery,--was on his way To meet a class of youth, who sought to be Great surgeons like himself, and took full notes Of all his stolen wisdom. By his watch-- A gold repeater, with a mighty chain-- He gave me just five minutes; then rolled off--- Pretension upon wheels. Another grasped My hand as if I were his bosom friend, Just in from a long voyage. He was one Who stole my wood in college, and received With grace the kick I gave him. He had grown To be the tail of a portentous firm Of city lawyers: managed, as he said, The matter of collections; and had made In his small way--to use his modest phrase, Truthful as modest--quite a pretty plum. He was o'erjoyed to see me in the town: Hoped I would call upon him at his den: If I had any business in his line, Would do it for me promptly; as for price, No need to talk of that between two friends!

But these, and all--the meanest and the best-- Were hard at work. They always questioned me Before we parted, touching my pursuits; And though they questioned kindly, I grew sore Under the repetition, and ashamed To iterate my answer, till I burned To do some work, so lifted into fame, That shame should be to him whose ignorance Compelled a question.

Simplest foresters Have learned the trick of woodland broods, that fly In radiant divergence from the flash Of death and danger, and, when all is still, Steal back to where their fellows bit the dust For rendezvous. And thus society Follows the brutal instinct. When the friends, Who from her father's ruin fled amain, Found out my wife, and learned that it was safe To gather back to the old feeding-ground, They came. Her old home had become my own And they were all delighted. It was sweet To have her back again; and it was sad To know that those who once were happy there, Dispensing happiness, could come no more.

It had its modicum of earnestness,-- This talk of theirs--and she received it all With hearty courtesy, and yielded it The unction of her charity, so far That it was smooth and redolent to her. The difference--the world-wide difference-- Between my wife and them was obvious; But she was generous through nature's gift I fancied--could not well be otherwise; Although their fawning filled me with disgust. Oh! fool and blind! not to perceive the Christ That shone and spoke in her!

The hour approached-- The predetermined time--when I should close My study door, and wrap my kindling brain In the poetic dream which, day by day, Was gathering consistence in my brain. The quick, creative instinct in me plumed Its pinions for the flight, and I could feel The influx of fresh power; but whence it I did not question; though it fired my heart With the assurance of success.

I told My dear companion of my hopeful plans For winning fame, and making for myself A lofty place; but I could not inspire Her heart with my ambition, or win o'er Her judgment to my motive. She adhered To her old theory, and gave no room To any motive it did not embrace. We argued much, but always argued wide, And ended where we started. Postulates On which we stood in perfect harmony, Were points of separation, out from which We struck divergently, till sympathy, That only lives by rhythm of thoughts and hearts, Lay dead between us.

"Man loves praise," I said. "It is an appetence which He who made The human soul, made to be satisfied. It is a tree He planted. If it grow On that which feeds it, and become at last Thrifty and fruitful, it is still His own, With usury. And if, in His intent, This passion have no place among the powers Of active life, why is it mighty there From youngest childhood? Pray you what is fame But concrete praise?--the universal voice Which bears, from every quarter of the earth. Its homage to a name, that grows thereby To be its own immortal monument Outlasting all the marble and the bronze Which cunning fingers, since the world began, Have shaped or stamped with story? What is fame But aggregate of praise? And if it be Legitimate to win, for sake of praise, The praise of one, why not of multitudes?"

"Ay," she replied; "'tis true that men love praise And it is true that He who made the soul Planted therein the love of praise, to be A motive in its life--all true so far? And so far we agree. But motives all Have their appropriate sphere and sway, like men Who bear them in their breasts. The love of praise Fills life with fine amenities. Not all Who live have pleasant tempers, and not all The gift of gracious manners, or the love Of nobler motive, higher meed than praise. The world is full of bears, who smooth their hair, And glove their paws, and put on manly airs, And hold our honey sacred, and our lives Our own, because they hunger for our praise. 'Tis a fine thing for bears--this love of praise-- And those who deal with them; and a good thing For children, and for parents, teachers--all Who have them in their keeping. It may hold A little mind to rectitude, until It grow, and grow ashamed to yield itself To such a petty motive. Children all Like sugar, and it may admit of doubt Whether our praise or sugar sweetens more Their petulant sub-acids; but a man Would choke in swallowing the compliment Which we should pay him, were we but to say 'Go to! Do some great deed, and you shall have Your pay in sugar:--maple, mind you, now, So you shall do it featly.'"

"Very good!" I answered, "very good, indeed! if we Engage in talk for sport; but argument On themes like these must have the element Of candor. Highest truth, in certain lights, May be ridiculous, and yet be truth. Women are angels: just a little weak And just a little wicked, it may be, Yet still the sweetest beings in the world; But when one stands with apprehensive gasp At verge of sternutation, or leaps off, Projecting all her being in a sneeze, Or snores with lips wide-parted, or essays The 'double-quick,' we turn our eyes away In sadness, that a creature so divine Can be so shockingly ridiculous; Yet who shall say she's not an angel still? Now you present to me the meanest face Of a most noble truth. I laugh with you Over its sorry semblance; but the truth Is still divine, and claims our reverence. The great King Solomon--and you believe In Solomon--has said that a good name Is more to be desired than much fine gold. If a good name be matter of desire Beyond all wealth--and you will pardon me For holding to the record--it may stand As a grand motive in the life of man, To grand endeavor. I have yet to learn That Solomon addressed his words to bears, Or little children. I am forced to think That you and I, and all who read his words, Are those for whom he wrote."

Rejoining she: "A good may be the subject of desire, And not be motive to achievement. Life, If I may speak the riddle, is a scheme Of indirections. My own happiness Is something to desire; and yet, I know That I must win it by forgetting it In ministry to others. If I make My happiness the motive of my work, I spoil it by the taint of selfishness. But are you sure that you do not presume Somewhat too much, in claiming the desire For a good name as motive of your life? Greatness, not goodness, is the end you seek, If I mistake you not; and these are held, In the world's thought, as two, and most distinct. King Solomon was wise, but wiser He Who said to those who loved and followed him, 'Who would be great among you, let him serve.' The greatest men and artists should be such, For they are God's nobility and man's Should work from greatest motives. Selfishness Is never great, and moves to no great deeds. To honor God, to benefit mankind, To serve with lofty gifts the lowly needs Of the poor race for which the God-man died, And do it all for love--oh! this is great! And he who does this will achieve a name Not only great but good."

"Not in this world," I answered her. "I know too much of it. The world is selfish; and it never gives Due credit to a motive which assumes To be above its own. If a man write, It takes for granted that he writes for fame, And judges him accordingly. It holds Of no account all other aims and ends; And visits with contempt the man who bears A mission to his kind. The critic pens That twiddle with his work, or play with it As cats with mice, are not remarkable For gentle instincts; and my name must live By pens like these. I choose to take the world Just as I find it, and I pitch my tune To the world's key, that it may sing my tune. And sing for me. Ay, and I take myself Just as I find myself. I do not love The human race enough to work for it. Having no motive of philanthropy, I'll make pretence to none. The love of praise I count legitimate and laudable. 'Tis not the noblest motive in the world, But it is good; and it has won more fames Than any other. Surely, my good wife, You would not shut me from it, and deprive My power of its sole impulse."

"No; oh! no," She answered quickly. "I am only sad That it should be the captain of your host. All creatures of the brain are the result Of many motives and of many powers. All life is such, indeed. The power that leads-- The motive dominant--this stamps the work With its own likeness. Throughout all the world Are careful souls, with careful consciences, That pierce themselves with questionings and fears Because that, with the motives which are good, And which alone they seek, a hundred come They do not seek, and aye sophisticate Their finest action. They are wrong in this: All motives bowing to one leadership, And aiding its emprise, are one with it-- The same in trend, the same in terminus. All the low motives that obey the law, And aid the work, of one above them all, Do holy service, and fulfil the end For which they were designed. The love of praise Is not the lowest motive which can move The human soul. Nay, it may do good work As a subordinate, and leave no soil On whitest fabric, at whose selvage shines The Master's broidered signature. Although You write for fame, think not you will escape The press of other motives. You love me; You love your child; you love your pleasant home; You love the memory of one long dead. These, joined with all those qualities of heart Which make you dear to me, will throng around The leader you appoint, and come and go Under his banner; and the work of God Will thrive through these, the while your own goes on God will not be defrauded, nor yet man; And you, who like the Pharisees make prayer At corners of the streets, for praise of men, Will have reward you seek."

"Ay, verily!" Responded I with laughter. "Verily! Though not a saint, I'll do a saintly work For my own profit, and in spite of all The selfishness that moves me. Better, this, Than I suspected. My sweet casuist-- My gentle, learned, lovely casuist-- I thank you; and I'll pay you more than thanks. I'll promise that when these fine motives come, And volunteer their service, they shall find Welcome and entertainment, and a place Within the rank and file, with privilege Of quick promotion, so they show themselves Motives of mettle."

This the type of talk That passed between us. I was not a fool To count her wisdom worthless; nor a God, To work regeneration in myself. That something which I longed for, to fill up The measure of my good, was human praise; Yet I could see that she was wholly right, And that she held within herself resource Of satisfaction better than my own. But I was quite content--content to know I trod the average altitude of those Within the paths of art, and had no aims To be misconstrued or misunderstood By Pride and Selfishness--that these, in truth, Expected of me what I had to give.

Strange, how a man may carry in his heart, From year to year--through all his life, indeed-- A truth, or a conviction, which shall be No more a part of it, and no more worth Than to his flask the cork that slips within! Of this he learns by sourness of his wine, Of muddle of its color; by the bits That vex his lips while drinking; but he feels No impulse in his hand to draw it forth, And bid it crown and keep the draught it spoils.

I write this, here, not for its relevance To this one passage of my story, but Because there slipped into my consciousness Just at this juncture, and would not depart, A truth I carried there for many years, Each minute seeing, feeling, tasting it, Yet never touching it with an attempt To draw it forth, and put it to its place.

One evening, when our usual theme was up, I asked my wife in playful earnestness How she became so wise. "You talk," I said, "Like one who has survived a thousand years, And drunk the wisdom of a thousand lives."

"Who lacketh wisdom, let him ask of God, Who giveth freely and upbraideth not," Was her reply.

"I never ask of God," I said. "So, while you take at second hand His breathings to the artist, I will take At second hand the wisdom that he gives To you his teacher."

"Do you never pray?"

"Never," I answered her. "I cannot pray: You know the reason. Never since the day God shut his heart against my mother's prayer Have I raised one petition, or been moved To reverence."

Her long, dark lashes fell, And from her eyes there dropped two precious tears That bathed her folded hands. She pitied me, With tenderness beyond the reach of words. I did not seek her pity. I was proud, And asked her if she blamed me.

"No," she said; "I have no right to blame you, and no wish. I marvel only that a man like you Can hold so long the errors of a boy. I've looked--with how much longing, words of mine Can never tell--for reason to restore That priceless thing which passion stole from you, And looked in vain."

Though piqued by the reproach Her words conveyed (unwittingly I knew), I wished to learn where, in her theory Of human life, my case had found a place; So, bidding pride aback, I questioned her. "You are so wise in other things," I said, "And read so well God's dealings with his own, Perhaps you can explain this mystery That clouds my life."

"I know that God is good," She answered, "and, although my reason fail To explicate the mystery that wraps His providence, it does not shake my faith. But this sad case of yours has seemed so plain, That Reason well may spare the staff of Faith To climb to its conclusions. You are loved, My husband: can you tell your wife for what?"

"Oh! modesty! my dear; hem! modesty! Spare me these blushes! I have not at hand The printed catalogue of qualities Which give you inspiration, and decline The personal rehearsal."

"You mistake," She answered, smiling. "Not for modesty; And as for blushes, they're not patent yet. But frankly, soberly, I ask you this: Have you a quality of heart or brain Which makes you lovable, and in my eyes A man to be admired, that was not born Quick in your blood? Pray, have you anything Which you did not inherit? Who to me Furnished my husband? By what happy law Was all that was the finest, noblest, best In those who gave you life, bestowed on you? You have your father's form, your father's brain: You have your mother's eyes, your mother's heart. Those twain produced a man for me to love, Out of themselves. I am obliged to them For the most precious good the round earth holds, Transmitted by a law that slew them both. It was not sin, or shame, for them to die Just as they died. They passed with whiter hands Up to The Throne than he who wantonly Murders a sparrow. When your mother prayed She prayed for the suspension of the law By which from Eve, the mother of the race, She had received the grace and loveliness Which made her precious to your heart--the law By which alone she could convey these gifts To others of her blood. Your daughter's face Is beautiful, her soul is pure and sweet, By largess of this law. Could God subvert, To meet her wish, though shaped in agony, The law which, since the life of man began In life of God, has kept the channel clear For His own blood, that it might bless the last Of all the generations as the first? What could He more than give her liberty-- When reason lay in torture or in wreck, And life was death--to part with stainless hand The tie that held her from his loving breast?"

If God himself had dropped her words from heaven. They had not reached with surer plummet-plunge The depths of my conviction. I was dumb; I opened not my mouth; but left her side, And sought the crowded street. I felt that all Delusions, subterfuges, self-deceits, By which my soul had shut itself from God, Were stripped away, and that no barrier Was interposed between us which was not My own hand's building. Never, nevermore, Could I hold God in blame, or deem myself A guiltless, injured creature. I could see That I was hard, implacable, unjust; And that by force of wilful choice I held Myself from God; for no impulsion came To seek his face and favor. Nay, I feared And fought such incidence, as enemy Of all my plans.

So it became thenceforth A problem with me how to separate My new conviction from my life--to hold A revolutionizing truth within, And hold it yet so loosely, it should be Like a dumb alien in a mural town-- No guest, but an intruder, who might bide, By law or grace, but win no domicile, And hold no power.

When I returned, that night My course was chosen, with such sense of guilt I blushed before the calm, inquiring eyes That met me at my threshhold; but the theme Was dropped just there. My gentle mentor read The secret of the struggle and the sin, And left me to myself.

At the set time, I entered on my task. The discipline Of early years told feebly on my work, For dissipation and disuse of power Had brought me back to infancy again. My will was weak, my patience was at fault, And in my fretful helplessness, I stormed And sighed by turns; yet still I held in force Determination, as reserve of will; And when I flinched or faltered, always fell Back upon that, and saved my powers from rout. Casting, recasting, till I found the germ Of my conception putting forth its whorls In orderly succession round the stem Of my design, that straight and strong shot up Toward inflorescence, my long work went on, Till I was filled with satisfying joy. This lasted for a little time, and then There came reaction. I grew tired of it. My verses were as meaningless and stale As doggrel of the stalls. I marvelled much That they could ever have beguiled my pride Into self-gratulation, or done aught But overwhelm me with contempt for them, And the dull pen that wrote them.

I had hoped To form and finish my projected work Within, and by, myself,--to tease no ear With fragmentary snatches of my song, And call for no support from friendly praise To reinforce my courage; but the stress Of my disgust and my despair--the need, Imperative and absolute, to brace myself By some opinion borrowed for the nonce, And bathe my spirit in the sympathy Of some strong nature--mastered my intent, And sent me for resource to her whose heart Was ever open to my call.

She sat Through the long hour in which I read to her, Absorbed, entranced, as one who sits alone Within a dim cathedral, and resigns His spirit to the organ-theme, that mounts, Or sinks in tremulous pauses, or sweeps out On mighty pinions and with trumpet voice Through labyrinthine harmonies, at last Emerging, and through silver clouds of sound Receding and receding, till it melts In the abysses of the upper sky. It was not needful she should say a word; For in her glowing eyes and kindling face, I caught the full assurance that my heart Had yearned for; but she spoke her hearty praise And when I asked her for her criticism, Bestowed it with such modest deference To my opinion, as to spare my pride; Yet, with such subtle sense of harmony, And insight of proportion, that I saw That I should find no critic in the world More competent or more severe. I said, Gulping my pride: "Better this ordeal In friendly hands, before the time of types, Than afterward, in hands of enemies!"

So, from that reading, it was understood Between us that, whenever I essayed Revising and retouching, I should know Her intimate impressions, and receive Her frank suggestions. In this oversight And constant interest of one whose mind Was excellent and pure, and raised above All motive to beguile me, I secured New inspiration.

Weeks and months passed by With gradient hopefulness, and strength renewed At each renewal of the confidence I had reposed in her; till I perceived That I was living on her praise--that she Held God's place in me and the multitude's. And now, as I look back upon those days Of difficult endeavor, I confess That had she not been with me, I had failed-- Ay, foundered in mid-sea--my hope, my life, The spoil of deep oblivion.

At last The work was done--the labored volume closed. "I cannot make it better," I exclaimed. "I can write better, but, before I write, I must have recognition in the voice Of public praise. A good paymaster pays When work is finished. Let him pay for this, And I will work again; but, till he pay, My leisure is my own, and I will wait."

"And if he grudge your wage?" suggested she To whom I spoke.

"I shall be finished too."

Came then the proofs and latest polishing Of words and phrases--work I shared with her To whom I owed so much; and then the fear, The deathly heart-fall, and the haunting dread That go before exposure to the world Of inmost life, and utmost reach of power Toward revelation;--then the shrinking spell, When morbid love of self awaits in pain The verdict it has courted.

But at last The book was out. My daughter's hand in mine-- Her careless feet, that thrilled with springing life, Skipping the pavement--I walked down Broadway, To ease the restlessness and cool the heat That vexed my idle waiting. As we passed A showy window, filled with costly books, My little girl exclaimed: "Oh, father! See! There is your name!"

Straight all the bravery Within my veins, at one wild heart-thump, dropped, And I was limp as water; but I paused, And read the placard. It announced my book In characters of flame, with adjectives My daring publisher had filched, I think From an old circus broadside.

"Well!" thought I-- Biting my lip--"I'm in the market now! How much--O! rattling, roaring multitude! O! selfish, cheating, lying multitude! O! hawking, trading, delving multitude!-- How much for one man's hope, for one man's life? What for his toil and pain?--his heart's red blood? What for his brains and breeding? Oh, how much For one who craves your praises with your pence, And dies with your denial?"

I went in, And bought my book--not doubting I was first To give response to my apostrophe. The smug old clerk, who found his length of ear Convenient as a pencil-rack, and thus Made nature's wrath proclaim the praise of trade, Wrapped my dear bantling well; and, as he dropped My dollar in his till, smiled languidly Upon my little girl, and said to me-- To cheer me in my purchase--that the book Was thought to be a deuced clever thing. He never read such books; he had no time; Indeed, he had no interest in them. Still, other people had, and it was well, For it helped trade along.

It was for him-- A vulgar fraction of the integral We speak of as "the people," and "the world"-- I had been writing! Had he read my book, And given it his praise, I should have been Delighted, though I knew that his applause Was worthless as his brooch. I was a fool Undoubtedly; yet I could understand, Better than e'er before, how separate The artist is from such a soul as his-- What need of teachers and interpreters To crumble in his pewter porringer The rounded loaf, whose crust was adamant To his weak fingers.

The next morning's press Was purchased early, though I read in vain To find my reputation. But at night, My door-bell rang; and I received a note From one who edited an evening print, (I had dined with him at my publisher's), Inclosing a review, and venturing The hope that I should like it.

Cunning man! He knew the tricks of trade, and was adroit. My poem was "a revelation." I had "burst Like thunder from a calm and cloudless sky." Well, not to quote his language, this the drift: A man of fortune, living at his ease, But fond of manly effort, had sat down, And turned his culture to supreme account; And he--the editor--took on himself To thank him on the world's behalf. Withal, The poet had betrayed the continence Of genius. He had held, undoubtedly, The consciousness of power from early youth; But, yielding never to the itch for print, Had nursed and chastened and developed it, Until his hand was strong, and swept his lyre With magic of a master.

Followed here Sage comments on the rathe and puny brood Of poet-sucklings, who had rushed to type Before their time--pale stems that spun their flowers In the first sunshine, but, when Autumn came, Were fruitless. It was pleasant, too, to see, In such an age of sentimental cant, One man who dared to hold up to the world A creature of his brain, and say: "Look you! This is my thought; and it shall stand alone. It has no moral, bears no ministry Of pious teaching, and makes no appeal To sufferance or suffrage of the muffs Who, in the pulpit or the press, prepare The nation's pap. The fiery-footed barb That pounds the pampas, and the lily-bells That hang above the brooks, present the world With no apology for being there, And no attempt to justify themselves In uselessness. It is enough for God That they are beautiful, and hold his thought In fine embodiment; and it shall be Enough for me that, in this book of mine, I have created somewhat that is strong And beautiful, which, if it profit,--well: If not, 'tis no less strong and beautiful, And holds its being by no feebler right."

Ay, it was glorious to find one man Who piled no packs upon his Pegasus, Nor chained him to a rag-cart, loaded down With moral frippery, and strings of bells To call the people to their windows.

Then There followed extracts, with a change of type To mark the places where the editor Had caught a fancy hiding, which he feared Might slip detection under slower eyes Than those he carried; or to emphasize Felicities of diction that were stiff In Roman verticals, but grew divine At the Italic angle; then apology, Profoundly humble, to his patrons all For quoting at such length, and one to me For quoting anything, and deep regrets, In quite a general way, that lack of space Forbade a reproduction of the book From title-page to tail-piece, winding up With counsel to all lovers of pure art, Patrons of genius, all Americans, All friends of cis-Atlantic literature, To buy the book, and read it for themselves.

I drank the whole, at one long, luscious draught; Tipping the tankard high, that I might see My features at the bottom, and regale My pride, after my palate. Then I tossed The paper to my wife, and bade her read. I watched her while she read, but failed to find The sympathy of pleasure in her face I had expected. Finishing at last, She raised her eyes, and, fixing them on me, Said thoughtfully: "You like this, I suspect."

"Well, truly!" I responded, "since it seems To be the first instalment of the wage Which you suggested might come grudgingly. Ay, it is sweet to me. I know it fails In nice discrimination,--that it slurs Defects which I perceive as well as you; But it is kind, and places in best light Such excellences as we both may find-- May claim, indeed."

"And yet, it is a lie, Or what the editor would call 'a puff,' From first to last. The 'continence,' my dear, 'Of genius!' What of that? And what about The 'manly effort,' for whose exercise He thanked you on the world's behalf? And so Your nursing, chastening and developing Of power!--Pray what of these?"

"Oh! wife!" I said, "Don't spoil it all! Be pitiful, my love! I am a baby--granted: so I need The touch of tender hands, and something sweet To keep me happy."

"Babies take a bath, Sometimes, from which the hand of warmest love Filches the chill, and you must have one dash," She answered me, "to close your complement. The weakest spot in all your book, he found With a quick instinct; and on that he spent His sharpest force and finest rhetoric, Shoring and bracing it on every side With bold assumptions and affirmatives, To blind the eyes of novices, and scare With fierce forestalment all the critic-quills Now bristling for their chance. He saw at once Your poem had no mission, save, perhaps, The tickle of the taste, and that it bore Upon its glowing gold small food for life. He saw just there the point to be attacked; And there threw up his earth-works, and spread out His thorned abattis. He was very kind Undoubtedly, and very cunning, too; For well he knew that there are earnest souls In the broad world, who claim that highest art Is highest ministry to human need; And that the artist has no Christian right To prostitute his art to selfish ends, Or make it vehicle alone of plums For the world's pudding."

"These will speak in time," Responded I; "but they have not the ear Of the broad world, I think. The Christian right Of which you speak is hardly recognized Among the multitude, or by the guild In which I claim a place. The sectaries Who furnish folios, quartos, magazines, To the religious few, are limited In influence; and these, my wife, are all I have to fear;--nay, could I but arouse Their bitter enmity, I might receive Such superflux of praise and patronage As would o'erwhelm my sweetly Christian wife With shame and misery. But we shall see; And, in the meantime, let us be content That, if one man shall praise me overmuch, Ten, at the least, will fail to render me Befitting justice."

As the days went on, Reviews and notices came pouring in. I was notorious, at least; and fame, I whispered comfortably to myself, Is only notoriety turned gray, With less of fire, if more of steadiness. The adverse verdicts were not numerous; And these were rendered, as I fancied then, By sanctimonious fools who deemed profane All verse outside their thumb-worn hymnodies. My book received the rattling fusilade Of all the dailies: then the artillery Of the hebdomadals, whose noisy shells, Though timed by fuse to burst on Saturday, Exploded at the middle of the week; At last, a hundred-pounder quarterly Gave it a single missive from its mask Of far and dark impersonality. The smoke cleared up, and still my colors And still my book stood proudly in the sun, Nor breached nor battered.

I had won a place That I was sure of. All had said of me That I was "brilliant:" was not that enough? The petty pesterers, with card and stamp, Who hunt for autographs, were after me, In packages by post; and idle men Held me at corners by the button-hole, And introduced me to their friends. I dined With meek-eyed men, whose literary wives Were dying all to know me, as they said; And the lyceums, quick at scent and sight-- Watching the jungles for a lion--all Courted the delectation of my roar Upon their platforms, pledging to my hand (With city reference to stanchest names), Such honoraria as would have been The lion's share of profits. These were straws; But they had surer fingers for the wind Than withes or weathercocks.

The book sold well My publisher (who published at my risk, And first put on the airs of one who stooped To grant a favor), brimmed and overflowed With courtesy; and ere a year was gone, Became importunate for something more. This was his plea: I owed it to myself To write again. The time to make one's hay Is when the sun shines: time to write one's books Is when the public humor turns to them. The public would forget me in a year, And seek another idol; or, meanwhile, Another writer might usurp my throne, And I be hooted from my own domain As a pretender. Then the market's maw Was greedy for my poems. Just how long The appetite would last, he could not tell, For appetite is subject of caprice, And never lasts too long.

The man was wise, I plainly saw, and gave me the results Of observation and experience. I took his hint, accepting with a pang The truths that came with it: for instance, these:-- That he who speaks for praise of those who live, Must keep himself before his audience, Nor look for "bravas," cheers, and cries of "hear! And clap of hands and stamp of feet, except With fresh occasion; that applause of crowds, Though fierce, runs never to the chronic stage; That good paymasters, having paid for work The doer's price, expect receipt in full At even date; and that if I would keep My place, as grand purveyor to the greed For novelties of literary art, My viands must be sapid, and abound With change, to wake or whet the appetite I sought to feed.

I say I took his hint. Bestowed in selfishness, without a doubt, Though in my interest. For ten long years It was the basis of my policy. I poured my poems with redundancy Upon the world, and won redundant meed. If I gave much, the world was generous, Repaying more than justice: but, at last, Tired and disgusted, I laid down my pen. I knew my work would not outlast my life, That the enchantments which had wreathed themselves Around my name were withering away, With every breath of fragrance they exhaled; And that, too soon, the active brain and hand Whose skill had conjured them, would faint and fail Under the press of weariness and years. My reputation piqued me. None believed That it was in me to write otherwise Than I had written. All the world had laughed, Or shaken its wise head, had I essayed A work beyond the round of brilliancies In which my pen had revelled, and for which It gave such princely guerdon. If I looked, Or came to look, with measureless contempt On those who gave with such munificence The boon I sought, I had provoking cause. I fooled them all with patent worthlessness, And they insisted I should fool them still. The wisdom of a whole decade had failed To teach them that the thing my hand had done Was not worth doing.

More and worse than this; I found my character and self-respect Eroded by the canker of conceit, Poisoned by jealousy, and made the prey Of meanest passions. Harlequins in mask, Who live upon the laughter of the throng That crowds their reeking amphitheatres; Light-footed dancing-girls, who sell their grace To gaping lechers of the pit, to win That which shall feed their shameless vanity; The mimics of the buskin--baser still, The mimics of the negro--minstrel-bands. With capital of corks and castanets And threadbare jests--Ah! who and what was I But brother of all these--in higher walk, But brother in the motive of my life, In jealousy, in recompense for toil, And, last, in destiny?

My wife had caught Stray silver in her hair in these long years; And the sweet maiden springing from our lives Had grown to womanhood. In my pursuits, Which drank my time and my vitality, I had neglected them. I worked at home, But lived in other scenes, for other lives, Or, rather, for my own; and though my pride Shrank from the deed, I had the tardy grace To call them to me, and confess my shame, And beg for their forgiveness.

Once again-- All explanations passed--I sat beside My faithful wife, and canvassed as of old New plans of life. I found her still the same In purpose and in magnanimity; For she dealt no upbraidings and no blame; Cast in my teeth no old-time prophecies Of failure; felt no triumph which rejoiced To mock me with the words, "I told you so," Calmly she sat, and tried, with gentlest speech, To heal the bruises of my fall; to wake A better feeling in me toward the world, And soothe my morbid self-contempt.

The world, She said, is apt to take a public man At his own estimate, and yield him place According to his choice. I had essayed To please the world, and gather in its praise; And, certainly, the world was pleased with me, And had not stinted me in its return Of plauditory payment. As the world Had taken me according to my rate, And filled my wish, it had a valid claim On my good nature.

Then, beyond all this, The world was not a fool. Those books of mine, That I had come to look upon as trash, Were not all trash. My motive had been poor, And that had vitiated them for me; But there was much in them that yielded strength To struggling souls, and, to the wounded, balm. Indeed, she had been helped by them, herself. They were all pure; they made no foul appeal To baseness and brutality; they had An element of gentle chivalry, Such as must have a place in any man Shrinking with sensitiveness, like myself, From a fine reputation, scorning it For motive which had won it.

Words like these, From lips like hers, were needed medicine. They clarified my weak and jaundiced sight, And helped to juster vision of the world, And of myself. But there was no return Of the old greed; and fame, which I had learned To be an entity quite different From my conceit of it in other days, Was something much too far and nebulous To be my star of life.

"You have some plan?"-- Statement and query in same words, which fell From lips that sought to rehabilitate My will and self-respect.

"I have," I said.

"Else you were dead," responded she. "To live, Men must have plans. When these die out of men They crumble into chaos, or relapse Into inanity. Will you reveal These plans of yours to me?"

"Ay, if I can," I answered her; "but first I must reveal The base on which I build them. I have tried To find the occasion of my discontent, And find it, as I think, just here; in quest Of popularity, I have become Untrue both to myself and to my art. I have not dared to speak the royal truth For fear of censure; I have been a slave To men's opinions. What is best in me Has been debauched by the pursuit of praise As life's best prize. Conviction, sentiment, All love and hate, all sense of right and wrong, I have held in abeyance, or compelled To work in menial subservience To my grand purpose. If my sentiment Or my conviction were but popular, It flowed in hearty numbers: otherwise, It slept in silence.

"Now as to my art; I find that it has suffered like myself, And suffered from same cause. My verse has been Shaped evermore to meet the people's thought. That which was highest, grandest in my art I have not reached, and have not tried to reach I have but touched the surfaces of things That meet the common vision; and my art Has only aimed to clothe them gracefully With fancy's gaudy fabrics, or portray Their patent beauties and deformities. Above the people in my gift and art, Both gift and art have had a downward trend And both are prostitute.

"Discarding praise As motive of my labor, I confess My sins against my art, and so, henceforth, As to my goddess, give myself to her. The chivalry which you are pleased to note In me and works of mine, turns loyally To her and to her service. Nevermore Shall pen of mine demean itself by work That serves not first, and with supreme intent, The art whose slave it is."

"I understand, I think, the basis of your plan," she said; "And e'en the plan itself. You now propose To write without remotest reference To the world's wishes, prejudices, needs, Or e'en the world's opinions,--quite content If the world find aught in you to applaud; Quite as content if it condemn. With full Expression of yourself in finest terms And noblest forms of art, so far as God Has made you masterful, you give yourself Up to yourself and to your art. Is this Fair statement of your purpose?"

"Not unfair," I answered. "Tell me what you think of it."

"Suppose," she said, "that all the artist-souls That God has made since time and art began Had acted on your theory: suppose In architecture, picture, poetry, Naught had found utterance but works that sprang To satisfy the worker, and reveal That bundle of ideas which, to him, Is constituted art; but which, in truth, Is figment of his fancy, or his thought,-- His creature, made his God--say where were all The temples, palaces and homes of men; The galleries that blaze with history, Or bloom with landscape, or look down With smile of changeless love or loveliness Into the hearts of men? And where were all The poems that give measure to their praise, Voice to their aspirations, forms of light To homely facts and features of their life, Enveloping this plain, prosaic world In an ideal atmosphere, in which Fair angels come and go? All gifts of men Were made for use, and made for highest use, If highest use be service of one's self, And highest standard, one's embodiment Of dogmas, theories and thoughts of art, As art's identity, then are you right; But if a higher use of gift and art Be service of mankind, and higher rule God's regal truth, revealed in words or worlds, And verified by life, then are you wrong."

"But art?"--responded I--"you do not mean That art is nothing but a thing of thought, Or, less than that, of fancy? Nay, I claim That it is somewhat--a grand entity-- An organism of lofty principles, Informed with subtlest life, and clothed upon With usage and tradition of the men Who, working in those sunny provinces Where it holds eminent domain, have brought To build its temple and adorn its walls The usufruct of countless lives. So far Is art from being creature of man's thought That it is subject of his knowledge--stands In mighty mystery, and challenges The study of the world; rules noblest minds Like law or like religion; is a power To which the proudest artist-spirits bow With humblest homage. Is astronomy The creature of man's thought? Is chemistry? Yet these hold not, in this our universe, A form more definite, nor yet a place In human knowledge more beyond dispute, Than art itself. To this embodiment Of theory--of dogmas, if you will-- This body aggregate of truth revealed In growing light of ages to the eyes Touched to perception, I devote my life."

"Nay, you're too fast," she said: "let alchemy And old astrology present your thought. These were somewhat; these were grand entities; But they went out like candles in thin air When knowledge came. The sciences are things Of law, of force, relations, measurements, Affinities and combinations, all The definite, demonstrable effects Of first and second causes. Between these And men's opinions, braced by usages, The space is wide. The thing which you call art Is anything but definite in form, Or fixed in law. It has as many shapes As worshippers. The world has many books, Written by earnest men, about this art; But having read them, we are no more wise Than he whose observation of the sun Is taken by kaleidoscope. The more He sees in it, the more he is confused. The sun works, doubtless, many fine effects With what he sees, but he sees not the sun."

"But art is art," I said. "You'd cheat my sense. And mock my reason too. Ay, art is art. Things must have being that have history."

Then she: "Yes, politics has history, And therefore has a being,--has, in truth, Just such a being as I grant to art-- A being of opinions. Every state Has origin and ends of government Peculiarly its own, and so, from these, Constructs its theory of politics, And holds this theory against the world; And holds it well. There is no fixedness Or form of politics for all mankind; And there is none of art. Each artist-soul Is its own law; and he who dares to bring From work of other man, to lay on yours, His square and compass--thus declaring him The pattern man--and tells, by him, you lack Just so much here, or wander so much there, Thereby confesses just how much he lacks Of wisdom and plain sense. For every man Has special gift of power and end of life. No man is great who lives by other law Than that which wrapped his genius at his birth. The Lind is great because she is the Lind, And not the Malibran. Recorded art Is yours to study--e'en to imitate, In education--imitate or shun, As the case warrants; but it has destroyed, Or toned to commonplace, more gifts of God Than it has ever fanned to life or fed. Who never walks save where he sees men's tracks Makes no discoveries. Show me the man Who, leaving God and nature and himself, Sits at the feet of masters, stuffs his brain With maxims, notions, usages and rules, And yields his fancy up to leading-strings, And I shall see a man who never did A deed worth doing. So, in the name of art-- Nay, in the name of God--do no such thing As smutch your knees by bowing at a shrine, Whose doubtful deity, in midst of dust, Sits in the cast-off robes of devotees, And lives on broken victuals!"

"Drive, my dear! Drive on, and over me! You're on the old High-stepping horse to-night; so give him rein, For exercise is good," I said, in mirth. "You sit your courser finely. I confess I'm very proud of you, and too much pleased With your accomplishments to check your speed. Drive on, my love! drive on!"

"I thank you, sir No one so gracious as your grudging man Under compulsion! With your kind consent I'll ride a little further," she replied,-- "For I enjoy it quite as much as you-- The more because you've given me little chance In these last years.... Now, soberly, this art Of which we talk so much, without the power To tell exactly what we understand By the hack term--suppose we take the word, And try to find its meaning. You recall Old John who dressed the borders in our court: You called him, hired him, told him what to do. He and his rake stood interposed between You and your work. You chose his skilful hands, Endowing them with pay, or pledge of pay, And set him at his labor. Now suppose Old John had had a philosophic turn After you left him, and had thought like this: 'I am called here to do a certain work-- My rake tells what; and he who called me here Has given me the motive for the job. The work is plain. These borders are to be Levelled and cleaned of weeds: my hand and rake Are fitted for the service;--this my art; And it is first of all the arts. There's none More ancient, useful, worshipful, indeed, Than agriculture. Adam practised it; Poets have sung its praises; and the great Of every age have loved and honored it. This art is greater than the man I serve, And greater than his borders. Therefore I Will serve my art, and let the borders lie, And my employer whistle. True to that, And to myself, it matters not to me What weeds may grow, or what the master think Of my proceeding!'

"So, intent on this, He hangs his rake upon your garden wall, And steals your clematis, with which to wind The handle upward; then o'erfills his hands With roses and geraniums, and weaves Their beauty into laurel, for a crown For his slim god, completing his devoir By buttering the teeth, and kneeling down In abject homage. Pray, what would you say, At close of day, when you should go to see Your untouched borders, and your gardener At genuflexion, with your mignonette In every button-hole? Remember, now, He has been true to art and to himself, According to his notion; nor forget To take along a dollar for his hire, Which he expects, of course! What would you say?"

"Oh, don't mind that: you've reached your 'fifthly' now, And here the 'application' comes," I said.

"I think," responded she, with an arch smile, "The application's needless: but you men Are so obtuse, when will is in the way, That I will do your bidding. Every gift That God bestows on men holds in itself The secret of its office, like the rake The gardener wields. The rake was made to till-- Was fashioned, head and handle, for just that; And if, by grace of God, you hold a gift So fashioned and adapted, that it stands In like relation of supremest use To life of men, the office of your gift Has perfect definition. Gift like this Is yours, my husband. In your facile hands God placed it for the service of himself, In service of your kind. Taking this gift, And using it for God and for the world, In your own way, and in your own best way; Seeking for light and knowledge everywhere To guide your careful hand; and opening wide To spiritual influx all your soul, That so your master may breathe into you, And breathe his great life through you, in such forms Of pure presentment as he gives you skill To build withal--that's all of art--for you. Art is an instrument, and not an end-- A servant, not a master, nor a God To be bowed down to. Shall we worship rakes? Honor of art, by him whose work is art, Is a fine passion; but he honors most Whose use and end are best."

"Use! Use! Use!" I cried impatiently;--"nothing but use! As if God never made a violet, Or hung a harebell, or in kindling gold Garnished a sunset, or upreared the arch Of a bright rainbow, or endowed a world-- A universe, indeed--stars, firmament, The vastitudes of forest and of sea, Swift brooks and sweeping rivers, virid meads And fluff of breezy hills--with tints that range The scale of spectral beauty, till they leave No glint or glory of the changeful light Without a revelation! Is this use-- I beg your pardon, love: you say 'this art'-- The sum and end of art? If it be so, Then God's no artist. Are the crystal brooks Sweeter for singing to the thirsty brutes That dip their beaded muzzles in the foam? Burns the tree better that its leaves are green? Sleeps the sun sounder under canopy Of gold or rose?"

"Yet beauty has its use," Responded she. "Whatever elevates Inspires, refreshes, any human soul, Is useful to that soul. Beauty has use For you and me. The dainty violet Blooms in our thought, and sheds its fragrance there And we are gainers through its ministry. All God's great values wear the drapery That most becomes them. Beauty may, in truth, Be incident of art and not be end-- Its form, condition, features, dress, and still The humblest value of the things of art. This truth obtains in all God's artistry. Does God make beauty for himself, alone? He is, and holds, all beauty. Has he need To kindle rushes that he may behold The glory of his thoughts? or need to use His thoughts as plasms for the amorphous clay That he may study models? For an end Outside himself, he ever speaks himself; And end, with him, is use."

"Well, I confess There's truth in what you utter," I replied;-- "A modicum of truth, at least; and still There's something more which this our subtle talk Has failed to give us. I will not affirm That art, recorded in its thousand forms, And clothed with usages, traditions, rules,-- The thing of history--the mighty pile Of drift that sweep of ages has brought down To heap the puzzled present--is the sum And substance of all art. I will not claim-- Nay, mark me now--I will not even claim That beauty is art's end, or has its end Within itself. Our tedious colloquy Has cleared away the rubbish from my thought, And given me cleaner vision. I can see Before, around me, underneath, above, The great unrealized; and while I bow To the traditions and the things of art, And hold my theories, I find myself Inspired supremely by the Possible That calls for revelation--by the forms That sleep imprisoned in the snowy arms Of still unquarried truth, or stretch their hands At sound of sledge and drill and booming fire, Imploring for release. I turn from men, And stretch my hands toward these. I feel--I know-- That there are mighty myriads waiting there, And listening for my steps. Suppose my age Should fail to give them welcome: ay, suppose They may not help a man to coin a dime Or cook a dinner: they will fare as well As much of God's truth fares, though clothed in forms Divinely chosen. Does God ever stint His utterance because no creature hears? Is it a grand and goodly thing, to spend Brave life and precious treasure in a search For palpitating water at the pole, That so the sum of knowledge may be swelled, Though pearls are not increased; and something less To probe the Possible in art, or sit Through months of dreary dark to catch a glimpse Of the live truth that quivers with the jar Of movement at its axle? Is it good To garner gain beyond the present need, Won by excursive commerce in all seas; And something less to pile redundantly The spoil of thought?"

"These latest words of yours," She answered musingly, "impress me much; And yet, I think I see where they will lead, Or, rather, fail to lead. Your fantasy Is beautiful but vague. The Possible Is a vast ocean, from which one poor soul, With its slight oars, can float but flimsy freight; Yet I would help your courage, for I see Where your sole motive lies. Go on, and prove Whether your scheme or mine holds more of good; And take my blessing with you."

Then she rose, And kissed my forehead. Looking in her face, By the sharp light that touched her, I was thrilled By her flushed cheeks and strangely lustrous eyes. She spoke not; but I heard the sigh she breathed-- The long-drawn, weary sigh--as she retired; And then the Possible, which had inspired So wondrously my hope, drooped low around, And filled me with foreboding.

Had her life Been chilled by my neglect? Was it on wane? Could she be lost to me? Oh! then I felt, As I had never felt before, how mean Beside one true affection is the best Of all earth's prizes, and how little worth The world would be without her love--herself!

But sleep refreshed her, and next morn she sat At our bright board, in her accustomed place; And sunlight was not sweeter than her smile, Or cheerfuller. My quick fears died away; And though I saw that she had lost the fire Of her young life, I comforted myself With thinking that it was the same with me-- The sure result of years.

My time I gave To my new passion, rioting at large In the fresh realm of fancy and of thought To which the passion bore me, and from which I strove to gather for embodiment Material of art.

The more I dreamed, The broader grew my dream. The further on My footsteps pushed, the brighter grew the light; Till, half in terror, half in reverence, I learned that I had broached the Infinite! I had not thought my Possible could bear Such name as this, or wear such attribute; And shrank befitting distance from the front Of awful secrets, hid in awful flame, That scorched and scared me.

So, more humble grown, And less adventurous, I chose, at last, My theme and vehicle of song, and wrote. My faculties, grown strong and keen by use, Bent to their task with earnest faithfulness, And glowed with high endeavor. All of power I had within me flowed into my hand; And learning, language--all my life's resource-- Lay close around my enterprise, and poured Their hoarded wealth of imagery and words Faster than I could use it. For long weeks, My ardent labor crowded all my days, Invaded sleep, and haunted e'en my dreams: And then the work was done.

I left it there, And sought for recreative rest in scenes That once had charmed me--in society Where I was welcome: but the common talk Of daily news--of politics and trade-- Was senseless as the chatter of the jays In autumn forests. No refreshing balm Came to me in the sympathy of men. In my retirement, I had left the world To go its way; and it had gone its way, And left me hopelessly.

I told my wife Of my dissatisfaction and disgust, But found small comfort in her words. She said: "The world is wide, and woman's vision short; But I have never seen a man who turned His efforts from his kind, and failed to spoil All men for him--himself, indeed, for them; And he who gives nor sympathy nor aid To the poor race from which he seeks such boon Must be rejoiced if it be generous; Content, if it be just. Society Is a grand scheme of service and return. We give and take; and he who gives the most, In ways directest, wins the best reward."

By purpose, I closed eyes upon my work For many weeks, resisting every day The impulse to review the glowing dream My fancy had engendered: for I wished To go with faculty and fancy cooled To its perusal. I had strong desire, So far as in me lay, to see the work With the world's eyes, for reasons--ah! I shrink From writing them! All men are sometimes weak, And some are inconsistent with their wills. If I were one of these, think not I failed To justify my weakness to myself, In ways that saved my pride.

Yet this was true; I had an honest wish to learn how far My work of heat had power to re-inspire The soul that wrought it, and how well my verse Had clothed and kept the creature of my thought; For memory still retained the loveliness That filled the fresh conceit.

When, in good time. Rest and diversion had performed their work, And the long fever of my brain was gone, I broached my feast, first making fast my door. That so no eye should mark my greedy joy Or my grimaces,--doubtful of the fate That waited expectation.

It were vain To try, in these tame words, to paint the pang, The faintness and the chill, which overwhelmed My disappointed heart. My welded thoughts Which, in their whitest heat, had bent and bound My language to themselves, imparting grace To stiffest words, and meanings fresh and fine To simplest phrases, interfusing all With their own ardency, and shining through With smoothly rounded beauty, lay in heaps Of cold, unmeaning ugliness. My words Had shrunk to old proportions, and stood out In hard, stiff angles, challenging a guess Of what they covered.

Meaningless to me, Who knew the meaning that had once informed Its faithless numbers, what way could I hope That, to my own, or any future age, My work should speak its full significance? My latest child, begot in manly joy, Conceived in purity, and born in toil, Lay dead before me,--dead, and in the shroud My hopeful hands had woven and bedecked To be its chrisom.

Then the first I learned Where language finds its bound--learned that beyond The range of human commerce, save by force, It never moves, nor lingers in the realm It thus invades, a moment, if the voice Of human commerce speak not the demand;-- That language is a thing of use;--that thought Which seeks a revelation, first must seek Adjustment in the scale of human need, Or find no fitting vehicle.

And more: That the great Possible which lies outside The range of commerce is identical With the stupendous Infinite of God, Which only comes in glimpses, or in hints Of vague significance, so dim, so vast, That subtlest, most prehensile language, shrinks From plucking of its robes, the while they sweep The perfumed air!

I closed my manuscript, And locked it in my desk. Then stealing forth, I sought the bustle of the street, to drown In the great roar of careless toil, the pain That brings despair. My last resource was gone; And as I brooded o'er the awful blank Of hopeless life that waited for my steps, A fear which I had feared to entertain Found entrance to my heart, and held it still, Almost to bursting.

Not alone my life Was sliding from me; for my better life, My pearl of price, the jewel in my crown, My wife Kathrina, growing lovelier With every passing day, arose each morn From wasting dreams to paler loveliness, And sank in growing weariness each night, And hotter hectic, to her welcome bed. Her bed! The sweet, the precious nuptial bed! Bed sanctified by love! Bed blest of God With fruit immortal! Bed too soon to be Crowned with the glory of a Christian death! Ah God! How it brought back the agony, And the rebellious hate of other years-- The hopeless struggle of my will with Him Whose will is law!

Thus torn with mingled thought: Of fear, despair and spite, I wore away Miles of wild wandering about the streets, Till weariness at last compelled my feet To drag me to my home.

Before my door Stood the familiar chair of one whose call Was ominous of ill. My heart grew sick With flutter of foreboding and foredoom; But in swift silence I flew up the steps, And, blind with stifled frenzy, reached the side Of my poor wife. She smiled at seeing me, But I could only kneel, and bathe her hands With tears and kisses. In her gentle breast-- True home of love, and love and home to me-- The blood had burst its walls, and flowed in flame From lips it left in ashes.

In her smile Of perfect trustfulness, I caught first glimpse Of that aureola of fadeless light Which spans my lonely couch, and kindles hope That when my time shall come to follow her, My spirit may go out, enwreathed and wrapped By the familiar glory, which to-night Shall brood o'er all my vigils and my dreams!

DESPAIR.

Ah! what is so dead as a perished delight! Or a passion outlived! or a scheme overthrown! Save the bankrupt heart it has left in its flight, Still as quick as the eye, but as cold as a stone!

The honey-bee hoards for its winter-long need, The treasure it gathers in joy from the flowers; And drinks in each sip of its silvery mead The flavor and flush of the sweet summer hours.

But a pleasure expires at its earliest breath: No labor can hoard it, no cunning can save; For the song of its life is the sigh of its death, And the sense it has thrilled is its shroud and its grave.

Ah! what is our love, with its tincture of lust, And its pleasure that pains us and pain that endears, But joy in an armful of beautiful dust That crumbles, and flies on the wings of the years?

And what is ambition for glory and power, But desire to be reckoned the uppermost fool Of a million of fools, for a pitiful hour, And be cursed for a tyrant, or kicked for a tool?

Nay, what is the noblest that art can achieve, But to conjure a vision of light to the eyes, That will pale ere we paint it, and pall ere we leave On the heart it betrays and the hand it defies?

We love, and we long with an infinite greed For a love that will fill our deep longing, in vain; The cup that we drink of is pleasant, indeed, Yet it holds but a drop of the heavenly rain.

We plan for our powers the divinest we can; We do with our powers the supremest we may; And, winning or losing, for labor and plan The best that we garner is--rest and decay!

Content--satisfaction--who wins them? Look down! They are held without thought by the dolts and the drones: 'Tis the slave who in carelessness carries the crown; And the hovels have kinglier men than the thrones.

The maid sings of love to the hum of her wheel; And her lover responds as he follows his team; They wed, and their children come quickly to seal In fulfilment the pledge of their loftiest dream.

With humblest ambitions and homeliest fare, Contented, though toiling, they travel abreast, Till the kind hand of death lifts their burden of care, And they sink, in the faith of their fathers, to rest.

Did I beg to be born? Did I seek to exist? Did I bargain for promptings to loftier gains? Did I ask for a brain, with contempt of the fist That could win a reward for its labor and pains?

Was it kind--the strong promise that girded my youth? Was it good--the endowment of motive and skill? Was it well to succeed, when success was, in truth, But the saddest of failure? Make answer, who will!

Do I rave without reason? Why, look you, I pray! I have won all I sought of the highest and best; But it brings me no guerdon; and hopeless, to-day, I am poorer than when I set out on the quest.

Oh! emptiness! Life, what art thou but a lie, Which I greeted and honored with hopefullest trust? Bah! the beautiful apples that tempted my eye Break dead on my tongue into ashes and dust!

"A Father who loves all the children of men"? "A future to fill all these bottomless gaps"? But one life has failed: can I fasten again With my faith and my hope to a specious Perhaps!

O! man who begot me! O! woman who bore! Why, why did you call me to being and breath? With ruin behind me, and darkness before, I have nothing to long for, or live for, but death!