Chapter 14

Ut vidi, ut perii, ut me malus abstulit error.

So in the golden weather they waited. But Philip returned not.Sunday six days thence a letter arrived in his writing.—But, O Muse, that encompassest Earth like the ambient ether,Swifter than steamer or railway or magical missive electric,Belting like Ariel the sphere with the star-like trail of thy travel,Thou with thy Poet, to mortals mere post-office second-hand knowledgeLeaving, wilt seek in the moorland of Rannoch the wandering hero.There is it, there, or in lofty Lochaber, where, silent upheaving,Heaving from ocean to sky, and under snow-winds of September,Visibly whitening at morn to darken by noon in the shining,Rise on their mighty foundations the brethren huge of Ben-nevis?There, or westward away, where roads are unknown to Loch Nevish,And the great peaks look abroad over Skye to the westernmost islands?There is it? there? or there? we shall find our wandering hero?Here, in Badenoch, here, in Lochaber anon, in Lochiel, inKnoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ardnamurchan,Here I see him and here: I see him; anon I lose him!Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from mountain to mountain,Leaving the crest of Ben-more to be palpable next on Ben-vohrlich,Or like to hawk of the hill which ranges and soars in its hunting,Seen and unseen by turns, now here, now in ether eludent.Wherefore, as cloud of Ben-more or hawk over-ranging the mountains,Wherefore in Badenoch drear, in lofty Lochaber, Lochiel, andKnoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ardnamurchan,Wandereth he who should either with Adam be studying logic,Or by the lochside of Rannoch on Katie his rhetoric using;He who, his three weeks past, past now long ago, to the cottagePunctual promised return to cares of classes and classics.He who, smit to the heart by that youngest comeliest daughter,Bent, unregardful of spies, at her feet, spreading clothes from her wash-tub?Can it be with him through Badenoch, Morrer, and Ardnamurchan;Can it be with him he beareth the golden-haired lassie of Rannoch?This fierce, furious walking—o’er mountain-top and moorland,Sleeping in shieling and bothie, with drover on hill-side sleeping,Folded in plaid, where sheep are strewn thicker than rocks by Loch Awen,This fierce, furious travel unwearying—cannot in truth beMerely the wedding tour succeeding the week of wooing!No, wherever be Katie, with Philip she is not; I see him,Lo, and he sitteth alone, and these are his words in the mountain.Spirits escaped from the body can enter and be with the living;Entering unseen, and retiring unquestioned, they bring,—do they feel too?—Joy, pure joy, as they mingle and mix inner essence with essence;Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!Joy, pure joy, bringing with them, and, when they retire, leaving afterNo cruel shame, no prostration, despondency; memories rather,Sweet happy hopes bequeathing. Ah! wherefore not thus with the living?Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!Is it impossible, say you, these passionate fervent impulsions,These projections of spirit to spirit, these inward embraces,Should in strange ways, in her dreams, should visit her, strengthen her, shield her?Is it possible, rather, that these great floods of feelingSetting-in daily from me towards her should, impotent wholly,Bring neither sound nor motion to that sweet shore they heave to?Efflux here, and there no stir nor pulse of influx!Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!Surely, surely, when sleepless I lie in the mountain lamenting,Surely, surely, she hears in her dreams a voice, ‘I am with thee,’Saying, ‘although not with thee; behold, for we mated our spiritsThen, when we stood in the chamber, and knew not the words we were saying;’Yea, if she felt me within her, when not with one finger I touched herSurely she knows it, and feels it while sorrowing here in the moorland.Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!Spirits with spirits commingle and separate; lightly as winds do,Spice-laden South with the ocean-born zephyr! they mingle and sunder;No sad remorses for them, no visions of horror and vileness.Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!Surely the force that here sweeps me along in its violent impulse,Surely my strength shall be in her, my help and protection about her,Surely in inner-sweet gladness and vigour of joy shall sustain her,Till, the brief winter o’er-past, her own true sap in the springtideRise, and the tree I have bared be verdurous e’en as aforetime!Surely it may be, it should be, it must be. Yet ever and ever,Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!No, wherever be Katie, with Philip she is not: behold, forHere he is sitting alone, and these are his words in the mountain.And, at the farm on the lochside of Rannoch, in parlour and kitchen,Hark! there is music—the flowing of music, of milk, and of whisky;Lo, I see piping and dancing! and whom in the midst of the battleCantering loudly along there, or, look you, with arms uplifted,Whistling, and snapping his fingers, and seizing his gay-smiling Janet,Whom?—whom else but the Piper? the wary precognisant Piper,Who, for the love of gay Janet, and mindful of old invitation,Putting it quite as a duty and urging grave claims to attention,True to his night had crossed over: there goeth he, brimful of music,Like a cork tossed by the eddies that foam under furious lasher,Like to skiff, lifted, uplifted, in lock, by the swift-swelling sluices,So with the music possessing him, swaying him, goeth he, look you,Swinging and flinging, and stamping and tramping, and grasping and claspingWhom but gay Janet?—Him rivalling, Hobbes, briefest-kilted of heroes,Enters, O stoutest, O rashest of creatures, mere fool of a Saxon,Skill-less of philabeg, skill-less of reel too,—the whirl and the twirl o’t:Him see I frisking, and whisking, and ever at swifter gyrationUnder brief curtain revealing broad acres—not of broad cloth.Him see I there and the Piper—the Piper what vision beholds not?Him and His Honour with Arthur, with Janet our Piper, and is it,Is it, O marvel of marvels! he too in the maze of the mazy,Skipping, and tripping, though stately, though languid, with head on one shoulder,Airlie, with sight of the waistcoat the golden-haired Katie consoling?Katie, who simple and comely, and smiling and blushing as ever,What though she wear on that neck a blue kerchief remembered as Philip’s,Seems in her maidenly freedom to need small consolement of waistcoats!—Wherefore in Badenoch then, far-away, in Lochaber, Lochiel, inKnoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, or Ardnamurchan,Wanders o’er mountain and moorland, in shieling or bothie is sleeping,He, who,—and why should he not then? capricious? or is it rejected?Might to the piping of Rannoch be pressing the thrilling fair fingers,Might, as he clasped her, transmit to her bosom the throb of his own—yea,—Might in the joy of the reel be wooing and winning his Katie?What is it Adam reads far off by himself in the cottage?Reads yet again with emotion, again is preparing to answer?What is it Adam is reading? What was it Philip had written?There was it writ, how Philip possessed undoubtedly had been,Deeply, entirely possessed by the charm of the maiden of Rannoch;Deeply as never before! how sweet and bewitching he felt herSeen still before him at work, in the garden, the byre, the kitchen;How it was beautiful to him to stoop at her side in the shearing,Binding uncouthly the ears that fell from her dexterous sickle,Building uncouthly the stooks,[10]which she laid by her sickle to straighten,How at the dance he had broken through shyness; for four days afterLived on her eyes, unspeaking what lacked not articulate speaking;Felt too that she too was feeling what he did.—Howbeit they parted!How by a kiss from her lips he had seemed made nobler and stronger,Yea, for the first time in life a man complete and perfect,So forth! much that before has been heard of.—Howbeit they parted!What had ended it all, he said, was singular, very.—I was walking along some two miles off from the cottageFull of my dreamings—a girl went by in a party with others;She had a cloak on, was stepping on quickly, for rain was beginning;But as she passed, from her hood I saw her eyes look at me.So quick a glance, so regardless I, that although I had felt it,You couldn’t properly say our eyes met. She cast it, and left it:It was three minutes perhaps ere I knew what it was. I had seen herSomewhere before I am sure, but that wasn’t it; not its import;No, it had seemed to regard me with simple superior insight,Quietly saying to itself—Yes, there he is still in his fancy,Letting drop from him at random as things not worth his consideringAll the benefits gathered and put in his hands by fortune,Loosing a hold which others, contented and unambitious,Trying down here to keep up, know the value of better than he does,What is this? was it perhaps?—Yes, there he is still in his fancy,Doesn’t yet see we have here just the things he is used to elsewhere;People here too are people and not as fairy-land creatures;He is in a trance, and possessed; I wonder how long to continue;It is a shame and a pity—and no good likely to follow.—Something like this, but indeed I cannot attempt to define it.Only, three hours thence I was off and away in the moorland,Hiding myself from myself if I could; the arrow within me.Katie was not in the house, thank God: I saw her in passing,Saw her, unseen myself, with the pang of a cruel desertion;What she thinks about it, God knows! poor child; may she onlyThink me a fool and a madman, and no more worth her remembering!Meantime all through the mountains I hurry and know not whither,Tramp along here, and think, and know not what I should think.Tell me then, why, as I sleep amid hill-tops high in the moorland,Still in my dreams I am pacing the streets of the dissolute city,Where dressy girls slithering by upon pavements give sign for accosting,Paint on their beautiless cheeks, and hunger and shame in their bosoms;Hunger by drink, and by that which they shudder yet burn for, appeasing,—Hiding their shame—ah God!—in the glare of the public gas-lights?Why, while I feel my ears catching through slumber the run of the streamlet,Still am I pacing the pavement, and seeing the sign for accosting,Still am I passing those figures, not daring to look in their faces?Why, when the chill, ere the light, of the daybreak uneasily wakes me,Find I a cry in my heart crying up to the heaven of heavens,No, Great Unjust Judge! she is purity; I am the lost one.You will not think that I soberly look for such things for sweet Katie;No, but the vision is on me; I now first see how it happens,Feel how tender and soft is the heart of a girl; how passiveFain would it be, how helpless; and helplessness leads to destruction.Maiden reserve torn from off it, grows never again to reclothe it,Modesty broken through once to immodesty flies for protection.Oh, who saws through the trunk, though he leave the tree up in the forest,When the next wind casts it down,—ishisnot the hand that smote it?This is the answer, the second, which, pondering long with emotion,There by himself in the cottage the Tutor addressed to Philip.I have perhaps been severe, dear Philip, and hasty; forgive me;For I was fain to reply ere I wholly had read through your letter;And it was written in scraps with crossings and counter-crossingsHard to connect with each other correctly, and hard to decipher;Paper was scarce, I suppose: forgive me; I write to console you.Grace is given of God, but knowledge is bought in the market;Knowledge needful for all, yet cannot be had for the asking.There are exceptional beings, one finds them distant and rarely,Who, endowed with the vision alike and the interpretation,See, by the neighbours’ eyes and their own still motions enlightened,In the beginning the end, in the acorn the oak of the forest,In the child of to-day its children to long generations,In a thought or a wish a life, a drama, an epos.There are inheritors, is it? by mystical generationHeiring the wisdom and ripeness of spirits gone by; without labourOwning what others by doing and suffering earn; what old menAfter long years of mistake and erasure are proud to have come to,Sick with mistake and erasure possess when possession is idle.Yes, there is power upon earth, seen feebly in women and children,Which can, laying one hand on the cover, read off, unfaltering,Leaf after leaf unlifted, the words of the closed book under,Words which we are poring at, hammering at, stumbling at, spelling.Rare is this; wisdom mostly is bought for a price in the market;—Rare is this; and happy, who buys so much for so little,As I conceive have you, and as I will hope has Katie.Knowledge is needful for man,—needful no less for woman,Even in Highland glens, were they vacant of shooter and tourist.Not that, of course, I mean to prefer your blindfold hurryUnto a soul that abides most loving yet most withholding;Least unfeeling though calm, self-contained yet most unselfish;Renders help and accepts it, a man among men that are brothers,Views, not plucks the beauty, adores, and demands no embracing,So in its peaceful passage whatever is lovely and graciousStill without seizing or spoiling, itself in itself reproducing.No, I do not set Philip herein on the level of Arthur;No, I do not compare still tarn with furious torrent,Yet will the tarn overflow, assuaged in the lake be the torrent.Women are weak, as you say, and love of all things to be passive,Passive, patient, receptive, yea, even of wrong and misdoing,Even to force and misdoing with joy and victorious feelingPatient, passive, receptive; for that is the strength of their being,Like to the earth taking all things, and all to good converting.Oh ’tis a snare indeed!—Moreover, remember it, Philip,To the prestige of the richer the lowly are prone to be yielding,Think that in dealing with them they are raised to a different region,Where old laws and morals are modified, lost, exist not;Ignorant they as they are, they have but to conform and be yielding.But I have spoken of this already, and need not repeat it.You will not now run after what merely attracts and entices,Every-day things highly-coloured, and common-place carved and gilded.You will henceforth seek only the good: and seek it, Philip,Where it is—not more abundant, perhaps, but—more easily met with;Where you are surer to find it, less likely to run into error,In your station, not thinking about it, but not disregarding.So was the letter completed: a postscript afterward added,Telling the tale that was told by the dancers returning from Rannoch.So was the letter completed: but query, whither to send it?Not for the will of the wisp, the cloud, and the hawk of the moorland,Ranging afar thro’ Lochaber, Lochiel, and Knoydart, and Moydart,Have even latest extensions adjusted a postal arrangement.Query resolved very shortly, when Hope, from his chamber descending,Came with a note in his hand from the Lady, his aunt, at the Castle;Came and revealed the contents of a missive that brought strange tidings;Came and announced to the friends, in a voice that was husky with wonder,Philip was staying at Balloch, was there in the room with the Countess,Philip to Balloch had come and was dancing with Lady Maria.Philip at Balloch, he said, after all that stately refusal,He there at last—O strange! O marvel, marvel of marvels!Airlie, the Waistcoat, with Katie, we left him this morning at Rannoch;Airlie with Katie, he said, and Philip with Lady Maria.And amid laughter Adam paced up and down, repeatingOver and over, unconscious, the phrase which Hope had lent him,Dancing at Balloch, you say, in the Castle, with Lady Maria.

So in the golden weather they waited. But Philip returned not.

Sunday six days thence a letter arrived in his writing.—

But, O Muse, that encompassest Earth like the ambient ether,

Swifter than steamer or railway or magical missive electric,

Belting like Ariel the sphere with the star-like trail of thy travel,

Thou with thy Poet, to mortals mere post-office second-hand knowledge

Leaving, wilt seek in the moorland of Rannoch the wandering hero.

There is it, there, or in lofty Lochaber, where, silent upheaving,

Heaving from ocean to sky, and under snow-winds of September,

Visibly whitening at morn to darken by noon in the shining,

Rise on their mighty foundations the brethren huge of Ben-nevis?

There, or westward away, where roads are unknown to Loch Nevish,

And the great peaks look abroad over Skye to the westernmost islands?

There is it? there? or there? we shall find our wandering hero?

Here, in Badenoch, here, in Lochaber anon, in Lochiel, in

Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ardnamurchan,

Here I see him and here: I see him; anon I lose him!

Even as cloud passing subtly unseen from mountain to mountain,

Leaving the crest of Ben-more to be palpable next on Ben-vohrlich,

Or like to hawk of the hill which ranges and soars in its hunting,

Seen and unseen by turns, now here, now in ether eludent.

Wherefore, as cloud of Ben-more or hawk over-ranging the mountains,

Wherefore in Badenoch drear, in lofty Lochaber, Lochiel, and

Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ardnamurchan,

Wandereth he who should either with Adam be studying logic,

Or by the lochside of Rannoch on Katie his rhetoric using;

He who, his three weeks past, past now long ago, to the cottage

Punctual promised return to cares of classes and classics.

He who, smit to the heart by that youngest comeliest daughter,

Bent, unregardful of spies, at her feet, spreading clothes from her wash-tub?

Can it be with him through Badenoch, Morrer, and Ardnamurchan;

Can it be with him he beareth the golden-haired lassie of Rannoch?

This fierce, furious walking—o’er mountain-top and moorland,

Sleeping in shieling and bothie, with drover on hill-side sleeping,

Folded in plaid, where sheep are strewn thicker than rocks by Loch Awen,

This fierce, furious travel unwearying—cannot in truth be

Merely the wedding tour succeeding the week of wooing!

No, wherever be Katie, with Philip she is not; I see him,

Lo, and he sitteth alone, and these are his words in the mountain.

Spirits escaped from the body can enter and be with the living;

Entering unseen, and retiring unquestioned, they bring,—do they feel too?—

Joy, pure joy, as they mingle and mix inner essence with essence;

Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!

Joy, pure joy, bringing with them, and, when they retire, leaving after

No cruel shame, no prostration, despondency; memories rather,

Sweet happy hopes bequeathing. Ah! wherefore not thus with the living?

Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!

Is it impossible, say you, these passionate fervent impulsions,

These projections of spirit to spirit, these inward embraces,

Should in strange ways, in her dreams, should visit her, strengthen her, shield her?

Is it possible, rather, that these great floods of feeling

Setting-in daily from me towards her should, impotent wholly,

Bring neither sound nor motion to that sweet shore they heave to?

Efflux here, and there no stir nor pulse of influx!

Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!

Surely, surely, when sleepless I lie in the mountain lamenting,

Surely, surely, she hears in her dreams a voice, ‘I am with thee,’

Saying, ‘although not with thee; behold, for we mated our spirits

Then, when we stood in the chamber, and knew not the words we were saying;’

Yea, if she felt me within her, when not with one finger I touched her

Surely she knows it, and feels it while sorrowing here in the moorland.

Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!

Spirits with spirits commingle and separate; lightly as winds do,

Spice-laden South with the ocean-born zephyr! they mingle and sunder;

No sad remorses for them, no visions of horror and vileness.

Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!

Surely the force that here sweeps me along in its violent impulse,

Surely my strength shall be in her, my help and protection about her,

Surely in inner-sweet gladness and vigour of joy shall sustain her,

Till, the brief winter o’er-past, her own true sap in the springtide

Rise, and the tree I have bared be verdurous e’en as aforetime!

Surely it may be, it should be, it must be. Yet ever and ever,

Would I were dead, I keep saying, that so I could go and uphold her!

No, wherever be Katie, with Philip she is not: behold, for

Here he is sitting alone, and these are his words in the mountain.

And, at the farm on the lochside of Rannoch, in parlour and kitchen,

Hark! there is music—the flowing of music, of milk, and of whisky;

Lo, I see piping and dancing! and whom in the midst of the battle

Cantering loudly along there, or, look you, with arms uplifted,

Whistling, and snapping his fingers, and seizing his gay-smiling Janet,

Whom?—whom else but the Piper? the wary precognisant Piper,

Who, for the love of gay Janet, and mindful of old invitation,

Putting it quite as a duty and urging grave claims to attention,

True to his night had crossed over: there goeth he, brimful of music,

Like a cork tossed by the eddies that foam under furious lasher,

Like to skiff, lifted, uplifted, in lock, by the swift-swelling sluices,

So with the music possessing him, swaying him, goeth he, look you,

Swinging and flinging, and stamping and tramping, and grasping and clasping

Whom but gay Janet?—Him rivalling, Hobbes, briefest-kilted of heroes,

Enters, O stoutest, O rashest of creatures, mere fool of a Saxon,

Skill-less of philabeg, skill-less of reel too,—the whirl and the twirl o’t:

Him see I frisking, and whisking, and ever at swifter gyration

Under brief curtain revealing broad acres—not of broad cloth.

Him see I there and the Piper—the Piper what vision beholds not?

Him and His Honour with Arthur, with Janet our Piper, and is it,

Is it, O marvel of marvels! he too in the maze of the mazy,

Skipping, and tripping, though stately, though languid, with head on one shoulder,

Airlie, with sight of the waistcoat the golden-haired Katie consoling?

Katie, who simple and comely, and smiling and blushing as ever,

What though she wear on that neck a blue kerchief remembered as Philip’s,

Seems in her maidenly freedom to need small consolement of waistcoats!—

Wherefore in Badenoch then, far-away, in Lochaber, Lochiel, in

Knoydart, Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, or Ardnamurchan,

Wanders o’er mountain and moorland, in shieling or bothie is sleeping,

He, who,—and why should he not then? capricious? or is it rejected?

Might to the piping of Rannoch be pressing the thrilling fair fingers,

Might, as he clasped her, transmit to her bosom the throb of his own—yea,—

Might in the joy of the reel be wooing and winning his Katie?

What is it Adam reads far off by himself in the cottage?

Reads yet again with emotion, again is preparing to answer?

What is it Adam is reading? What was it Philip had written?

There was it writ, how Philip possessed undoubtedly had been,

Deeply, entirely possessed by the charm of the maiden of Rannoch;

Deeply as never before! how sweet and bewitching he felt her

Seen still before him at work, in the garden, the byre, the kitchen;

How it was beautiful to him to stoop at her side in the shearing,

Binding uncouthly the ears that fell from her dexterous sickle,

Building uncouthly the stooks,[10]which she laid by her sickle to straighten,

How at the dance he had broken through shyness; for four days after

Lived on her eyes, unspeaking what lacked not articulate speaking;

Felt too that she too was feeling what he did.—Howbeit they parted!

How by a kiss from her lips he had seemed made nobler and stronger,

Yea, for the first time in life a man complete and perfect,

So forth! much that before has been heard of.—Howbeit they parted!

What had ended it all, he said, was singular, very.—

I was walking along some two miles off from the cottage

Full of my dreamings—a girl went by in a party with others;

She had a cloak on, was stepping on quickly, for rain was beginning;

But as she passed, from her hood I saw her eyes look at me.

So quick a glance, so regardless I, that although I had felt it,

You couldn’t properly say our eyes met. She cast it, and left it:

It was three minutes perhaps ere I knew what it was. I had seen her

Somewhere before I am sure, but that wasn’t it; not its import;

No, it had seemed to regard me with simple superior insight,

Quietly saying to itself—Yes, there he is still in his fancy,

Letting drop from him at random as things not worth his considering

All the benefits gathered and put in his hands by fortune,

Loosing a hold which others, contented and unambitious,

Trying down here to keep up, know the value of better than he does,

What is this? was it perhaps?—Yes, there he is still in his fancy,

Doesn’t yet see we have here just the things he is used to elsewhere;

People here too are people and not as fairy-land creatures;

He is in a trance, and possessed; I wonder how long to continue;

It is a shame and a pity—and no good likely to follow.—

Something like this, but indeed I cannot attempt to define it.

Only, three hours thence I was off and away in the moorland,

Hiding myself from myself if I could; the arrow within me.

Katie was not in the house, thank God: I saw her in passing,

Saw her, unseen myself, with the pang of a cruel desertion;

What she thinks about it, God knows! poor child; may she only

Think me a fool and a madman, and no more worth her remembering!

Meantime all through the mountains I hurry and know not whither,

Tramp along here, and think, and know not what I should think.

Tell me then, why, as I sleep amid hill-tops high in the moorland,

Still in my dreams I am pacing the streets of the dissolute city,

Where dressy girls slithering by upon pavements give sign for accosting,

Paint on their beautiless cheeks, and hunger and shame in their bosoms;

Hunger by drink, and by that which they shudder yet burn for, appeasing,—

Hiding their shame—ah God!—in the glare of the public gas-lights?

Why, while I feel my ears catching through slumber the run of the streamlet,

Still am I pacing the pavement, and seeing the sign for accosting,

Still am I passing those figures, not daring to look in their faces?

Why, when the chill, ere the light, of the daybreak uneasily wakes me,

Find I a cry in my heart crying up to the heaven of heavens,

No, Great Unjust Judge! she is purity; I am the lost one.

You will not think that I soberly look for such things for sweet Katie;

No, but the vision is on me; I now first see how it happens,

Feel how tender and soft is the heart of a girl; how passive

Fain would it be, how helpless; and helplessness leads to destruction.

Maiden reserve torn from off it, grows never again to reclothe it,

Modesty broken through once to immodesty flies for protection.

Oh, who saws through the trunk, though he leave the tree up in the forest,

When the next wind casts it down,—ishisnot the hand that smote it?

This is the answer, the second, which, pondering long with emotion,

There by himself in the cottage the Tutor addressed to Philip.

I have perhaps been severe, dear Philip, and hasty; forgive me;

For I was fain to reply ere I wholly had read through your letter;

And it was written in scraps with crossings and counter-crossings

Hard to connect with each other correctly, and hard to decipher;

Paper was scarce, I suppose: forgive me; I write to console you.

Grace is given of God, but knowledge is bought in the market;

Knowledge needful for all, yet cannot be had for the asking.

There are exceptional beings, one finds them distant and rarely,

Who, endowed with the vision alike and the interpretation,

See, by the neighbours’ eyes and their own still motions enlightened,

In the beginning the end, in the acorn the oak of the forest,

In the child of to-day its children to long generations,

In a thought or a wish a life, a drama, an epos.

There are inheritors, is it? by mystical generation

Heiring the wisdom and ripeness of spirits gone by; without labour

Owning what others by doing and suffering earn; what old men

After long years of mistake and erasure are proud to have come to,

Sick with mistake and erasure possess when possession is idle.

Yes, there is power upon earth, seen feebly in women and children,

Which can, laying one hand on the cover, read off, unfaltering,

Leaf after leaf unlifted, the words of the closed book under,

Words which we are poring at, hammering at, stumbling at, spelling.

Rare is this; wisdom mostly is bought for a price in the market;—

Rare is this; and happy, who buys so much for so little,

As I conceive have you, and as I will hope has Katie.

Knowledge is needful for man,—needful no less for woman,

Even in Highland glens, were they vacant of shooter and tourist.

Not that, of course, I mean to prefer your blindfold hurry

Unto a soul that abides most loving yet most withholding;

Least unfeeling though calm, self-contained yet most unselfish;

Renders help and accepts it, a man among men that are brothers,

Views, not plucks the beauty, adores, and demands no embracing,

So in its peaceful passage whatever is lovely and gracious

Still without seizing or spoiling, itself in itself reproducing.

No, I do not set Philip herein on the level of Arthur;

No, I do not compare still tarn with furious torrent,

Yet will the tarn overflow, assuaged in the lake be the torrent.

Women are weak, as you say, and love of all things to be passive,

Passive, patient, receptive, yea, even of wrong and misdoing,

Even to force and misdoing with joy and victorious feeling

Patient, passive, receptive; for that is the strength of their being,

Like to the earth taking all things, and all to good converting.

Oh ’tis a snare indeed!—Moreover, remember it, Philip,

To the prestige of the richer the lowly are prone to be yielding,

Think that in dealing with them they are raised to a different region,

Where old laws and morals are modified, lost, exist not;

Ignorant they as they are, they have but to conform and be yielding.

But I have spoken of this already, and need not repeat it.

You will not now run after what merely attracts and entices,

Every-day things highly-coloured, and common-place carved and gilded.

You will henceforth seek only the good: and seek it, Philip,

Where it is—not more abundant, perhaps, but—more easily met with;

Where you are surer to find it, less likely to run into error,

In your station, not thinking about it, but not disregarding.

So was the letter completed: a postscript afterward added,

Telling the tale that was told by the dancers returning from Rannoch.

So was the letter completed: but query, whither to send it?

Not for the will of the wisp, the cloud, and the hawk of the moorland,

Ranging afar thro’ Lochaber, Lochiel, and Knoydart, and Moydart,

Have even latest extensions adjusted a postal arrangement.

Query resolved very shortly, when Hope, from his chamber descending,

Came with a note in his hand from the Lady, his aunt, at the Castle;

Came and revealed the contents of a missive that brought strange tidings;

Came and announced to the friends, in a voice that was husky with wonder,

Philip was staying at Balloch, was there in the room with the Countess,

Philip to Balloch had come and was dancing with Lady Maria.

Philip at Balloch, he said, after all that stately refusal,

He there at last—O strange! O marvel, marvel of marvels!

Airlie, the Waistcoat, with Katie, we left him this morning at Rannoch;

Airlie with Katie, he said, and Philip with Lady Maria.

And amid laughter Adam paced up and down, repeating

Over and over, unconscious, the phrase which Hope had lent him,

Dancing at Balloch, you say, in the Castle, with Lady Maria.

——PutaviStultus ego huic nostræ similem.

——Putavi

Stultus ego huic nostræ similem.

So in the cottage with Adam the pupils five togetherDuly remained, and read, and looked no more for Philip,Philip at Balloch shooting and dancing with Lady Maria.Breakfast at eight, and now, for brief September daylight,Luncheon at two, and dinner at seven, or even later,Five full hours between for the loch and the glen and the mountain,—So in the joy of their life and glory of shooting-jackets,So they read and roamed, the pupils five with Adam.What if autumnal shower came frequent and chill from the westward,What if on browner sward with yellow leaves besprinkled,Gemming the crispy blade, the delicate gossamer gemming,Frequent and thick lay at morning the chilly beads of hoar-frost,Duly inmatutinestill, and daily, whatever the weather,Bathed in the rain and the frost and the mist with the Glory of headersHope. Thither also at times, of cold and of possible guttersCareless, unmindful, unconscious, would Hobbes, or ere they departed,Come, in heavy pea-coat his trouserless trunk enfolding,Come, under coat over-brief those lusty legs displaying,All from the shirt to the slipper the natural man revealing.Duly there they bathed and daily, the twain or the trio,Where in the morning was custom, where over a ledge of graniteInto a granite basin the amber torrent descended;Beautiful, very, to gaze in ere plunging; beautiful also,Perfect as picture, as vision entrancing that comes to the sightless,Through the great granite jambs the stream, the glen, and the mountain,Beautiful, seen by snatches in intervals of dressing,Morn after morn, unsought for, recurring; themselves too seemingNot as spectators, accepted into it, immingled, as trulyPart of it as are the kine in the field lying there by the birches.So they bathed, they read, they roamed in glen and forest;Far amid blackest pines to the waterfall they shadow,Far up the long, long glen to the loch, and the loch beyond it,Deep, under huge red cliffs, a secret; and oft by the starlight,Or the aurora, perchance, racing home for the eight o’clock mutton.So they bathed, and read, and roamed in heathery Highland;There in the joy of their life and glory of shooting-jacketsBathed and read and roamed, and looked no more for Philip.List to a letter that came from Philip at Balloch to Adam.I am here, O my friend!—idle, but learning wisdom.Doing penance, you think; content, if so, in my penance.Often I find myself saying, while watching in dance or on horsebackOne that is here, in her freedom and grace, and imperial sweetness,Often I find myself saying, old faith and doctrine abjuring,Into the crucible casting philosophies, facts, convictions,—Were it not well that the stem should be naked of leaf and of tendril,Poverty-stricken, the barest, the dismallest stick of the garden;Flowerless, leafless, unlovely, for ninety-and-nine long summers,So in the hundredth, at last, were bloom for one day at the summit,So but that fleeting flower were lovely as Lady Maria.Often I find myself saying, and know not myself as I say it,What of the poor and the weary? their labour and pain is needed.Perish the poor and the weary! what can they better than perish,Perish in labour for her, who is worth the destruction of empires?What! for a mite, for a mote, an impalpable odour of honour,Armies shall bleed; cities burn; and the soldier red from the stormingCarry hot rancour and lust into chambers of mothers and daughters:What! would ourselves for the cause of an hour encounter the battle,Slay and be slain; lie rotting in hospital, hulk, and prison:Die as a dog dies; die mistaken perhaps, and dishonoured.Yea,—and shall hodmen in beer-shops complain of a glory denied them,Which could not ever be theirs more than now it is theirs as spectators?Which could not be, in all earth, if it were not for labour of hodmen?And I find myself saying, and what I am saying, discern not,Dig in thy deep dark prison, O miner! and finding be thankful;Though unpolished by thee, unto thee unseen in perfection,While thou art eating black bread in the poisonous air of thy cavern,Far away glitters the gem on the peerless neck of a Princess.Dig, and starve, and be thankful; it is so, and thou hast been aiding.Often I find myself saying, in irony is it, or earnest?Yea, what is more, be rich, O ye rich! be sublime in great houses,Purple and delicate linen endure; be of Burgundy patient;Suffer that service be done you, permit of the page and the valet,Vex not your souls with annoyance of charity schools or of districts,Cast not to swine of the stye the pearls that should gleam in your foreheads.Live, be lovely, forget them, be beautiful even to proudness,Even for their poor sakes whose happiness is to behold you;Live, be uncaring, be joyous, be sumptuous; only be lovely,—Sumptuous not for display, and joyous, not for enjoyment;Not for enjoyment truly; for Beauty and God’s great glory!Yes, and I say, and it seems inspiration—of Good or of Evil!Is it not He that hath done it, and who shall dare gainsay it?Is it not even of Him, who hath made us?—Yea,for the lions,Roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from God!Is it not even of Him, who one kind over anotherAll the works of His hand hath disposed in a wonderful order?Who hath made man, as the beasts, to live the one on the other,Who hath made man as Himself to know the law—and accept it!You will wonder at this, no doubt! I also wonder!But we must live and learn; we can’t know all things at twenty.List to a letter of Hobbes to Philip his friend at Balloch.All Cathedrals are Christian, all Christians are Cathedrals,Such is the Catholic doctrine; ’tis ours with a slight variation;Every woman is, or ought to be, a Cathedral,Built on the ancient plan, a Cathedral pure and perfect,Built by that only law, that Use be suggester of Beauty,Nothing concealed that is done, but all things done to adornment,Meanest utilities seized as occasions to grace and embellish.—So had I duly commenced in the spirit and style of my Philip,So had I formally opened the Treatise uponthe Laws ofArchitectural Beauty in Application to Women,So had I writ.—But my fancies are palsied by tidings they tell me.Tidings—ah me, can it be then? that I, the blasphemer accounted,Here am with reverent heed at the wondrous Analogy working,Pondering thy words and thy gestures, whilst thou, a prophet apostate,(How are the mighty fallen!) whilst thou, a shepherd travestie,(How are the mighty fallen!) with gun,—with pipe no longer,Teachest the woods to re-echo thy game-killing recantations,Teachest thy verse to exalt Amaryllis, a Countess’s daughter?What, thou forgettest, bewildered, my Master, that rightly consideredBeauty must ever be useful, what truly is useful is graceful?She that is handy is handsome, good dairy-maids must be good-looking,If but the butter be nice, the tournure of the elbow is shapely,If the cream-cheeses be white, far whiter the hands that made them,If—but alas, is it true? while the pupil alone in the cottageSlowly elaborates here thy System of Feminine Graces,Thou in the palace, its author, art dining, small-talking and dancing,Dancing and pressing the fingers kid-gloved of a Lady Maria.These are the final words, that came to the Tutor from Balloch.I am conquered, it seems! you will meet me, I hope, in Oxford,Altered in manners and mind. I yield to the laws and arrangements,Yield to the ancient existent decrees: who am I to resist them?Yes, you will find me altered in mind, I think, as in manners,Anxious too to atone for six weeks’ loss of your Logic.So in the cottage with Adam, the pupils five together,Read, and bathed, and roamed, and thought not now of Philip,All in the joy of their life, and glory of shooting-jackets.

So in the cottage with Adam the pupils five together

Duly remained, and read, and looked no more for Philip,

Philip at Balloch shooting and dancing with Lady Maria.

Breakfast at eight, and now, for brief September daylight,

Luncheon at two, and dinner at seven, or even later,

Five full hours between for the loch and the glen and the mountain,—

So in the joy of their life and glory of shooting-jackets,

So they read and roamed, the pupils five with Adam.

What if autumnal shower came frequent and chill from the westward,

What if on browner sward with yellow leaves besprinkled,

Gemming the crispy blade, the delicate gossamer gemming,

Frequent and thick lay at morning the chilly beads of hoar-frost,

Duly inmatutinestill, and daily, whatever the weather,

Bathed in the rain and the frost and the mist with the Glory of headers

Hope. Thither also at times, of cold and of possible gutters

Careless, unmindful, unconscious, would Hobbes, or ere they departed,

Come, in heavy pea-coat his trouserless trunk enfolding,

Come, under coat over-brief those lusty legs displaying,

All from the shirt to the slipper the natural man revealing.

Duly there they bathed and daily, the twain or the trio,

Where in the morning was custom, where over a ledge of granite

Into a granite basin the amber torrent descended;

Beautiful, very, to gaze in ere plunging; beautiful also,

Perfect as picture, as vision entrancing that comes to the sightless,

Through the great granite jambs the stream, the glen, and the mountain,

Beautiful, seen by snatches in intervals of dressing,

Morn after morn, unsought for, recurring; themselves too seeming

Not as spectators, accepted into it, immingled, as truly

Part of it as are the kine in the field lying there by the birches.

So they bathed, they read, they roamed in glen and forest;

Far amid blackest pines to the waterfall they shadow,

Far up the long, long glen to the loch, and the loch beyond it,

Deep, under huge red cliffs, a secret; and oft by the starlight,

Or the aurora, perchance, racing home for the eight o’clock mutton.

So they bathed, and read, and roamed in heathery Highland;

There in the joy of their life and glory of shooting-jackets

Bathed and read and roamed, and looked no more for Philip.

List to a letter that came from Philip at Balloch to Adam.I am here, O my friend!—idle, but learning wisdom.Doing penance, you think; content, if so, in my penance.Often I find myself saying, while watching in dance or on horsebackOne that is here, in her freedom and grace, and imperial sweetness,Often I find myself saying, old faith and doctrine abjuring,Into the crucible casting philosophies, facts, convictions,—Were it not well that the stem should be naked of leaf and of tendril,Poverty-stricken, the barest, the dismallest stick of the garden;Flowerless, leafless, unlovely, for ninety-and-nine long summers,So in the hundredth, at last, were bloom for one day at the summit,So but that fleeting flower were lovely as Lady Maria.Often I find myself saying, and know not myself as I say it,What of the poor and the weary? their labour and pain is needed.Perish the poor and the weary! what can they better than perish,Perish in labour for her, who is worth the destruction of empires?What! for a mite, for a mote, an impalpable odour of honour,Armies shall bleed; cities burn; and the soldier red from the stormingCarry hot rancour and lust into chambers of mothers and daughters:What! would ourselves for the cause of an hour encounter the battle,Slay and be slain; lie rotting in hospital, hulk, and prison:Die as a dog dies; die mistaken perhaps, and dishonoured.Yea,—and shall hodmen in beer-shops complain of a glory denied them,Which could not ever be theirs more than now it is theirs as spectators?Which could not be, in all earth, if it were not for labour of hodmen?And I find myself saying, and what I am saying, discern not,Dig in thy deep dark prison, O miner! and finding be thankful;Though unpolished by thee, unto thee unseen in perfection,While thou art eating black bread in the poisonous air of thy cavern,Far away glitters the gem on the peerless neck of a Princess.Dig, and starve, and be thankful; it is so, and thou hast been aiding.Often I find myself saying, in irony is it, or earnest?Yea, what is more, be rich, O ye rich! be sublime in great houses,Purple and delicate linen endure; be of Burgundy patient;Suffer that service be done you, permit of the page and the valet,Vex not your souls with annoyance of charity schools or of districts,Cast not to swine of the stye the pearls that should gleam in your foreheads.Live, be lovely, forget them, be beautiful even to proudness,Even for their poor sakes whose happiness is to behold you;Live, be uncaring, be joyous, be sumptuous; only be lovely,—Sumptuous not for display, and joyous, not for enjoyment;Not for enjoyment truly; for Beauty and God’s great glory!Yes, and I say, and it seems inspiration—of Good or of Evil!Is it not He that hath done it, and who shall dare gainsay it?Is it not even of Him, who hath made us?—Yea,for the lions,Roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from God!Is it not even of Him, who one kind over anotherAll the works of His hand hath disposed in a wonderful order?Who hath made man, as the beasts, to live the one on the other,Who hath made man as Himself to know the law—and accept it!You will wonder at this, no doubt! I also wonder!But we must live and learn; we can’t know all things at twenty.List to a letter of Hobbes to Philip his friend at Balloch.All Cathedrals are Christian, all Christians are Cathedrals,Such is the Catholic doctrine; ’tis ours with a slight variation;Every woman is, or ought to be, a Cathedral,Built on the ancient plan, a Cathedral pure and perfect,Built by that only law, that Use be suggester of Beauty,Nothing concealed that is done, but all things done to adornment,Meanest utilities seized as occasions to grace and embellish.—So had I duly commenced in the spirit and style of my Philip,So had I formally opened the Treatise uponthe Laws ofArchitectural Beauty in Application to Women,So had I writ.—But my fancies are palsied by tidings they tell me.Tidings—ah me, can it be then? that I, the blasphemer accounted,Here am with reverent heed at the wondrous Analogy working,Pondering thy words and thy gestures, whilst thou, a prophet apostate,(How are the mighty fallen!) whilst thou, a shepherd travestie,(How are the mighty fallen!) with gun,—with pipe no longer,Teachest the woods to re-echo thy game-killing recantations,Teachest thy verse to exalt Amaryllis, a Countess’s daughter?What, thou forgettest, bewildered, my Master, that rightly consideredBeauty must ever be useful, what truly is useful is graceful?She that is handy is handsome, good dairy-maids must be good-looking,If but the butter be nice, the tournure of the elbow is shapely,If the cream-cheeses be white, far whiter the hands that made them,If—but alas, is it true? while the pupil alone in the cottageSlowly elaborates here thy System of Feminine Graces,Thou in the palace, its author, art dining, small-talking and dancing,Dancing and pressing the fingers kid-gloved of a Lady Maria.These are the final words, that came to the Tutor from Balloch.I am conquered, it seems! you will meet me, I hope, in Oxford,Altered in manners and mind. I yield to the laws and arrangements,Yield to the ancient existent decrees: who am I to resist them?Yes, you will find me altered in mind, I think, as in manners,Anxious too to atone for six weeks’ loss of your Logic.

List to a letter that came from Philip at Balloch to Adam.

I am here, O my friend!—idle, but learning wisdom.

Doing penance, you think; content, if so, in my penance.

Often I find myself saying, while watching in dance or on horseback

One that is here, in her freedom and grace, and imperial sweetness,

Often I find myself saying, old faith and doctrine abjuring,

Into the crucible casting philosophies, facts, convictions,—

Were it not well that the stem should be naked of leaf and of tendril,

Poverty-stricken, the barest, the dismallest stick of the garden;

Flowerless, leafless, unlovely, for ninety-and-nine long summers,

So in the hundredth, at last, were bloom for one day at the summit,

So but that fleeting flower were lovely as Lady Maria.

Often I find myself saying, and know not myself as I say it,

What of the poor and the weary? their labour and pain is needed.

Perish the poor and the weary! what can they better than perish,

Perish in labour for her, who is worth the destruction of empires?

What! for a mite, for a mote, an impalpable odour of honour,

Armies shall bleed; cities burn; and the soldier red from the storming

Carry hot rancour and lust into chambers of mothers and daughters:

What! would ourselves for the cause of an hour encounter the battle,

Slay and be slain; lie rotting in hospital, hulk, and prison:

Die as a dog dies; die mistaken perhaps, and dishonoured.

Yea,—and shall hodmen in beer-shops complain of a glory denied them,

Which could not ever be theirs more than now it is theirs as spectators?

Which could not be, in all earth, if it were not for labour of hodmen?

And I find myself saying, and what I am saying, discern not,

Dig in thy deep dark prison, O miner! and finding be thankful;

Though unpolished by thee, unto thee unseen in perfection,

While thou art eating black bread in the poisonous air of thy cavern,

Far away glitters the gem on the peerless neck of a Princess.

Dig, and starve, and be thankful; it is so, and thou hast been aiding.

Often I find myself saying, in irony is it, or earnest?

Yea, what is more, be rich, O ye rich! be sublime in great houses,

Purple and delicate linen endure; be of Burgundy patient;

Suffer that service be done you, permit of the page and the valet,

Vex not your souls with annoyance of charity schools or of districts,

Cast not to swine of the stye the pearls that should gleam in your foreheads.

Live, be lovely, forget them, be beautiful even to proudness,

Even for their poor sakes whose happiness is to behold you;

Live, be uncaring, be joyous, be sumptuous; only be lovely,—

Sumptuous not for display, and joyous, not for enjoyment;

Not for enjoyment truly; for Beauty and God’s great glory!

Yes, and I say, and it seems inspiration—of Good or of Evil!

Is it not He that hath done it, and who shall dare gainsay it?

Is it not even of Him, who hath made us?—Yea,for the lions,

Roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from God!

Is it not even of Him, who one kind over another

All the works of His hand hath disposed in a wonderful order?

Who hath made man, as the beasts, to live the one on the other,

Who hath made man as Himself to know the law—and accept it!

You will wonder at this, no doubt! I also wonder!

But we must live and learn; we can’t know all things at twenty.

List to a letter of Hobbes to Philip his friend at Balloch.

All Cathedrals are Christian, all Christians are Cathedrals,

Such is the Catholic doctrine; ’tis ours with a slight variation;

Every woman is, or ought to be, a Cathedral,

Built on the ancient plan, a Cathedral pure and perfect,

Built by that only law, that Use be suggester of Beauty,

Nothing concealed that is done, but all things done to adornment,

Meanest utilities seized as occasions to grace and embellish.—

So had I duly commenced in the spirit and style of my Philip,

So had I formally opened the Treatise uponthe Laws of

Architectural Beauty in Application to Women,

So had I writ.—But my fancies are palsied by tidings they tell me.

Tidings—ah me, can it be then? that I, the blasphemer accounted,

Here am with reverent heed at the wondrous Analogy working,

Pondering thy words and thy gestures, whilst thou, a prophet apostate,

(How are the mighty fallen!) whilst thou, a shepherd travestie,

(How are the mighty fallen!) with gun,—with pipe no longer,

Teachest the woods to re-echo thy game-killing recantations,

Teachest thy verse to exalt Amaryllis, a Countess’s daughter?

What, thou forgettest, bewildered, my Master, that rightly considered

Beauty must ever be useful, what truly is useful is graceful?

She that is handy is handsome, good dairy-maids must be good-looking,

If but the butter be nice, the tournure of the elbow is shapely,

If the cream-cheeses be white, far whiter the hands that made them,

If—but alas, is it true? while the pupil alone in the cottage

Slowly elaborates here thy System of Feminine Graces,

Thou in the palace, its author, art dining, small-talking and dancing,

Dancing and pressing the fingers kid-gloved of a Lady Maria.

These are the final words, that came to the Tutor from Balloch.

I am conquered, it seems! you will meet me, I hope, in Oxford,

Altered in manners and mind. I yield to the laws and arrangements,

Yield to the ancient existent decrees: who am I to resist them?

Yes, you will find me altered in mind, I think, as in manners,

Anxious too to atone for six weeks’ loss of your Logic.

So in the cottage with Adam, the pupils five together,Read, and bathed, and roamed, and thought not now of Philip,All in the joy of their life, and glory of shooting-jackets.

So in the cottage with Adam, the pupils five together,

Read, and bathed, and roamed, and thought not now of Philip,

All in the joy of their life, and glory of shooting-jackets.

Ducite ab urbe domum, mea carmina, ducite Daphnin.

Bright October was come, the misty-bright October,Bright October was come to burn and glen and cottage;But the cottage was empty, thematutinedeserted.Who are these that walk by the shore of the salt sea water?Here in the dusky eve, on the road by the salt sea water?Who are these? and where? it is no sweet seclusion;Blank hill-sides slope down to a salt sea loch at their bases,Scored by runnels, that fringe ere they end with rowan and alder:Cottages here and there outstanding bare on the mountain,Peat-roofed, windowless, white; the road underneath by the water.There on the blank hill-side, looking down through the loch to the ocean,There with a runnel beside, and pine-trees twain before it,There with the road underneath, and in sight of coaches and steamers,Dwelling of David Mackaye, and his daughters Elspie and Bella,Sends up a column of smoke the Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.And of the older twain, the elder was telling the younger,How on his pittance of soil he lived, and raised potatoes,Barley, and oats, in the bothie where lived his father before him;Yet was smith by trade, and had travelled making horse-shoesFar; in the army had seen some service with brave Sir Hector,Wounded soon, and discharged, disabled as smith and soldier;He had been many things since that,—drover, schoolmaster,Whitesmith,—but when his brother died childless came up hither;And although he could get fine work that would pay in the city,Still was fain to abide where his father abode before him.And the lassies are bonnie,—I’m father and mother to them,—Bonnie and young; they’re healthier here, I judge, and safer,I myself find time for their reading, writing, and learning.So on the road they walk by the shore of the salt sea water,Silent a youth and maid, and elders twain conversing.This was the letter that came when Adam was leaving the cottage.If you can manage to see me before going off to Dartmoor,Come by Tuesday’s coach through Glencoe (you have not seen it),Stop at the ferry below, and ask your way (you will wonder,There however I am) to the Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.And on another scrap, of next day’s date, was written:—It was by accident purely I lit on the place; I was returning,Quietly, travelling homeward by one of these wretched coaches;One of the horses cast a shoe; and a farmer passingSaid, Old David’s your man; a clever fellow at shoeingOnce; just here by the firs; they call it Tober-na-vuolich.So I saw and spoke with David Mackaye, our acquaintance.When we came to the journey’s end some five miles farther,In my unoccupied evening I walked back again to the bothie.But on a final crossing, still later in date, was added:Come as soon as you can; be sure and do not refuse me.Who would have guessed I should find my haven and end of my travel,Here, by accident too, in the bothie we laughed about so?Who would have guessed that here would be she whose glance at RannochTurned me in that mysterious way; yes, angels conspiring,Slowly drew me, conducted me, home, to herself; the needleWhich in the shaken compass flew hither and thither, at last, longQuivering, poises to north. I think so. But I am cautious:More, at least, than I was in the old silly days when I left you.Not at the bothie now; at the changehouse in the clachan;[11]Why I delay my letter is more than I can tell you.There was another scrap, without or date or comment,Dotted over with various observations, as follows:Only think, I had danced with her twice, and did not remember.I was as one that sleeps on the railway; one, who dreamingHears thro’ his dream the name of his home shouted out; hears and hears not,—Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in distance;Dimly conscious, with something of inward debate and choice,—andSense of claim and reality present, anon relapsesNevertheless, and continues the dream and fancy, while forwardSwiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows not whither.Handsome who handsome is, who handsome does is more so;Pretty is all very pretty, it’s prettier far to be useful.No, fair Lady Maria, I say not that; but Iwillsay,Stately is service accepted, but lovelier service rendered,Interchange of service the law and condition of beauty:Any way beautiful only to be the thing one is meant for.I, I am sure, for the sphere of mere ornament am not intended:No, nor she, I think, thy sister at Tober-na-vuolich.This was the letter of Philip, and this had brought the Tutor:This is why Tutor and pupil are walking with David and Elspie.—When for the night they part, and these, once more together,Went by the lochside along to the changehouse near in the clachan,Thus to his pupil anon commenced the grave man, Adam.Yes, she is beautiful, Philip, beautiful even as morning:Yes, it is that which I said, the Good and not the Attractive!Happy is he that finds, and finding does not leave it!Ten more days did Adam with Philip abide at the changehouse,Ten more nights they met, they walked with father and daughter.Ten more nights, and night by night more distant away werePhilip and she; every night less heedful, by habit, the father.Happy ten days, most happy: and, otherwise than intended,Fortunate visit of Adam, companion and friend to David.Happy ten days, be ye fruitful of happiness! Pass o’er them slowly,Slowly; like cruse of the prophet be multiplied, even to ages!Pass slowly o’er them, ye days of October; ye soft misty mornings,Long dusky eves; pass slowly; and thou, great Term-time of OxfordAwful with lectures and books, and Little-goes, and Great-goes,Till but the sweet bud be perfect, recede and retire for the lovers,Yea, for the sweet love of lovers, postpone thyself even to doomsday!Pass o’er them slowly, ye hours! Be with them, ye Loves and Graces!Indirect and evasive no longer, a cowardly bather,Clinging to bough and to rock, and sidling along by the edges,In your faith, ye Muses and Graces, who love the plain present,Scorning historic abridgment and artifice anti-poetic,In your faith, ye Muses and Loves, ye Loves and Graces,I will confront the great peril, and speak with the mouth of the lovers,As they spoke by the alders, at evening, the runnel below them,Elspie, a diligent knitter, and Philip her fingers watching.

Bright October was come, the misty-bright October,

Bright October was come to burn and glen and cottage;

But the cottage was empty, thematutinedeserted.

Who are these that walk by the shore of the salt sea water?

Here in the dusky eve, on the road by the salt sea water?

Who are these? and where? it is no sweet seclusion;

Blank hill-sides slope down to a salt sea loch at their bases,

Scored by runnels, that fringe ere they end with rowan and alder:

Cottages here and there outstanding bare on the mountain,

Peat-roofed, windowless, white; the road underneath by the water.

There on the blank hill-side, looking down through the loch to the ocean,

There with a runnel beside, and pine-trees twain before it,

There with the road underneath, and in sight of coaches and steamers,

Dwelling of David Mackaye, and his daughters Elspie and Bella,

Sends up a column of smoke the Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.

And of the older twain, the elder was telling the younger,

How on his pittance of soil he lived, and raised potatoes,

Barley, and oats, in the bothie where lived his father before him;

Yet was smith by trade, and had travelled making horse-shoes

Far; in the army had seen some service with brave Sir Hector,

Wounded soon, and discharged, disabled as smith and soldier;

He had been many things since that,—drover, schoolmaster,

Whitesmith,—but when his brother died childless came up hither;

And although he could get fine work that would pay in the city,

Still was fain to abide where his father abode before him.

And the lassies are bonnie,—I’m father and mother to them,—

Bonnie and young; they’re healthier here, I judge, and safer,

I myself find time for their reading, writing, and learning.

So on the road they walk by the shore of the salt sea water,

Silent a youth and maid, and elders twain conversing.

This was the letter that came when Adam was leaving the cottage.

If you can manage to see me before going off to Dartmoor,

Come by Tuesday’s coach through Glencoe (you have not seen it),

Stop at the ferry below, and ask your way (you will wonder,

There however I am) to the Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.

And on another scrap, of next day’s date, was written:—

It was by accident purely I lit on the place; I was returning,

Quietly, travelling homeward by one of these wretched coaches;

One of the horses cast a shoe; and a farmer passing

Said, Old David’s your man; a clever fellow at shoeing

Once; just here by the firs; they call it Tober-na-vuolich.

So I saw and spoke with David Mackaye, our acquaintance.

When we came to the journey’s end some five miles farther,

In my unoccupied evening I walked back again to the bothie.

But on a final crossing, still later in date, was added:

Come as soon as you can; be sure and do not refuse me.

Who would have guessed I should find my haven and end of my travel,

Here, by accident too, in the bothie we laughed about so?

Who would have guessed that here would be she whose glance at Rannoch

Turned me in that mysterious way; yes, angels conspiring,

Slowly drew me, conducted me, home, to herself; the needle

Which in the shaken compass flew hither and thither, at last, long

Quivering, poises to north. I think so. But I am cautious:

More, at least, than I was in the old silly days when I left you.

Not at the bothie now; at the changehouse in the clachan;[11]

Why I delay my letter is more than I can tell you.

There was another scrap, without or date or comment,Dotted over with various observations, as follows:Only think, I had danced with her twice, and did not remember.I was as one that sleeps on the railway; one, who dreamingHears thro’ his dream the name of his home shouted out; hears and hears not,—Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in distance;Dimly conscious, with something of inward debate and choice,—andSense of claim and reality present, anon relapsesNevertheless, and continues the dream and fancy, while forwardSwiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows not whither.Handsome who handsome is, who handsome does is more so;Pretty is all very pretty, it’s prettier far to be useful.No, fair Lady Maria, I say not that; but Iwillsay,Stately is service accepted, but lovelier service rendered,Interchange of service the law and condition of beauty:Any way beautiful only to be the thing one is meant for.I, I am sure, for the sphere of mere ornament am not intended:No, nor she, I think, thy sister at Tober-na-vuolich.This was the letter of Philip, and this had brought the Tutor:This is why Tutor and pupil are walking with David and Elspie.—When for the night they part, and these, once more together,Went by the lochside along to the changehouse near in the clachan,Thus to his pupil anon commenced the grave man, Adam.Yes, she is beautiful, Philip, beautiful even as morning:Yes, it is that which I said, the Good and not the Attractive!Happy is he that finds, and finding does not leave it!Ten more days did Adam with Philip abide at the changehouse,Ten more nights they met, they walked with father and daughter.Ten more nights, and night by night more distant away werePhilip and she; every night less heedful, by habit, the father.Happy ten days, most happy: and, otherwise than intended,Fortunate visit of Adam, companion and friend to David.Happy ten days, be ye fruitful of happiness! Pass o’er them slowly,Slowly; like cruse of the prophet be multiplied, even to ages!Pass slowly o’er them, ye days of October; ye soft misty mornings,Long dusky eves; pass slowly; and thou, great Term-time of OxfordAwful with lectures and books, and Little-goes, and Great-goes,Till but the sweet bud be perfect, recede and retire for the lovers,Yea, for the sweet love of lovers, postpone thyself even to doomsday!Pass o’er them slowly, ye hours! Be with them, ye Loves and Graces!Indirect and evasive no longer, a cowardly bather,Clinging to bough and to rock, and sidling along by the edges,In your faith, ye Muses and Graces, who love the plain present,Scorning historic abridgment and artifice anti-poetic,In your faith, ye Muses and Loves, ye Loves and Graces,I will confront the great peril, and speak with the mouth of the lovers,As they spoke by the alders, at evening, the runnel below them,Elspie, a diligent knitter, and Philip her fingers watching.

There was another scrap, without or date or comment,

Dotted over with various observations, as follows:

Only think, I had danced with her twice, and did not remember.

I was as one that sleeps on the railway; one, who dreaming

Hears thro’ his dream the name of his home shouted out; hears and hears not,—

Faint, and louder again, and less loud, dying in distance;

Dimly conscious, with something of inward debate and choice,—and

Sense of claim and reality present, anon relapses

Nevertheless, and continues the dream and fancy, while forward

Swiftly, remorseless, the car presses on, he knows not whither.

Handsome who handsome is, who handsome does is more so;

Pretty is all very pretty, it’s prettier far to be useful.

No, fair Lady Maria, I say not that; but Iwillsay,

Stately is service accepted, but lovelier service rendered,

Interchange of service the law and condition of beauty:

Any way beautiful only to be the thing one is meant for.

I, I am sure, for the sphere of mere ornament am not intended:

No, nor she, I think, thy sister at Tober-na-vuolich.

This was the letter of Philip, and this had brought the Tutor:

This is why Tutor and pupil are walking with David and Elspie.—

When for the night they part, and these, once more together,

Went by the lochside along to the changehouse near in the clachan,

Thus to his pupil anon commenced the grave man, Adam.

Yes, she is beautiful, Philip, beautiful even as morning:

Yes, it is that which I said, the Good and not the Attractive!

Happy is he that finds, and finding does not leave it!

Ten more days did Adam with Philip abide at the changehouse,

Ten more nights they met, they walked with father and daughter.

Ten more nights, and night by night more distant away were

Philip and she; every night less heedful, by habit, the father.

Happy ten days, most happy: and, otherwise than intended,

Fortunate visit of Adam, companion and friend to David.

Happy ten days, be ye fruitful of happiness! Pass o’er them slowly,

Slowly; like cruse of the prophet be multiplied, even to ages!

Pass slowly o’er them, ye days of October; ye soft misty mornings,

Long dusky eves; pass slowly; and thou, great Term-time of Oxford

Awful with lectures and books, and Little-goes, and Great-goes,

Till but the sweet bud be perfect, recede and retire for the lovers,

Yea, for the sweet love of lovers, postpone thyself even to doomsday!

Pass o’er them slowly, ye hours! Be with them, ye Loves and Graces!

Indirect and evasive no longer, a cowardly bather,

Clinging to bough and to rock, and sidling along by the edges,

In your faith, ye Muses and Graces, who love the plain present,

Scorning historic abridgment and artifice anti-poetic,

In your faith, ye Muses and Loves, ye Loves and Graces,

I will confront the great peril, and speak with the mouth of the lovers,

As they spoke by the alders, at evening, the runnel below them,

Elspie, a diligent knitter, and Philip her fingers watching.

Vesper adest, juvenes, consurgite. Vesper OlympoExpectata diu vix tandem lumina tollit.

Vesper adest, juvenes, consurgite. Vesper Olympo

Expectata diu vix tandem lumina tollit.

For she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw not her blushes,Elspie confessed at the sports long ago with her father she saw him,When at the door the old man had told him the name of the bothie;Then after that at the dance; yet again at a dance in Rannoch—And she was silent, confused. Confused much rather PhilipBuried his face in his hands, his face that with blood was bursting.Silent, confused, yet by pity she conquered her fear, and continued.Katie is good and not silly; be comforted, Sir, about her;Katie is good and not silly; tender, but not, like many,Carrying off, and at once, for fear of being seen, in the bosomLocking-up as in a cupboard the pleasure that any man gives them,Keeping it out of sight as a prize they need be ashamed of;That is the way, I think, Sir, in England more than in Scotland;No, she lives and takes pleasure in all, as in beautiful weather,Sorry to lose it, but just as we would be to lose fine weather.And she is strong to return to herself and feel undeserted,Oh, she is strong, and not silly: she thinks no further about you;She has had kerchiefs before from gentle, I know, as from simple.Yes, she is good and not silly; yet were you wrong, Mr. Philip,Wrong, for yourself perhaps more than for her.But Philip replied not,Raised not his eyes from the hands on his knees.And Elspie continued.That was what gave me much pain, when I met you that dance at Rannoch,Dancing myself too with you, while Katie danced with Donald;That was what gave me such pain; I thought it all a mistaking,All a mere chance, you know, and accident,—not proper choosing,—There were at least five or six—not there, no, that I don’t say,But in the country about—you might just as well have been courtingThat was what gave me much pain, and (you won’t remember that, though),Three days after, I met you, beside my uncle’s, walking,And I was wondering much, and hoped you wouldn’t notice,So as I passed I couldn’t help looking. You didn’t know me.But I was glad, when I heard next day you were gone to the teacher.And uplifting his face at last, with eyes dilated,Large as great stars in mist, and dim, with dabbled lashes,Philip, with new tears starting,You think I do not remember,Said,—suppose that I did not observe! Ah me, shall I tell you?Elspie, it was your look that sent me away from Rannoch.It was your glance, that, descending, an instant revelation,Showed me where I was, and whitherward going; recalled me,Sent me, not to my books, but to wrestlings of thought in the mountains.Yes, I have carried your glance within me undimmed, unaltered,As a lost boat the compass some passing ship has lent her,Many a weary mile on road, and hill, and moorland:And you suppose that I do not remember, I had not observed it!O, did the sailor bewildered observe when they told him his bearings?O, did he cast overboard, when they parted, the compass they gave him?And he continued more firmly, although with stronger emotion:Elspie, why should I speak it? you cannot believe it, and should not:Why should I say that I love, which I all but said to another?Yet should I dare, should I say, O Elspie, you only I love; you,First and sole in my life that has been and surely that shall be;Could—O, could you believe it, O Elspie, believe it and spurn not?Is it—possible,—possible, Elspie?Well,—she answered,And she was silent some time, and blushed all over, and answeredQuietly, after her fashion, still knitting, Maybe, I think of it,Though I don’t know that I did: and she paused again; but it may be,Yes,—I don’t know, Mr. Philip,—but only it feels to me strangely,Like to the high new bridge, they used to build at, below there,Over the burn and glen on the road. You won’t understand me.But I keep saying in my mind—this long time slowly with troubleI have been building myself, up, up, and toilfully raising,Just like as if the bridge were to do it itself without masons,Painfully getting myself upraised one stone on another,All one side I mean; and now I see on the otherJust such another fabric uprising, better and stronger,Close to me, coming to join me: and then I sometimes fancy,—Sometimes I find myself dreaming at nights about arches and bridges,—Sometimes I dream of a great invisible hand coming down, andDropping the great key-stone in the middle: there in my dreaming,There I felt the great-key stone coming in, and through itFeel the other part—all the other stones of the archway,Joined into mine with a strange happy sense of completeness. But, dear me,This is confusion and nonsense. I mix all the things I can think of.And you won’t understand, Mr. Philip.But while she was speaking,So it happened, a moment she paused from her work, and pondering,Laid her hand on her lap: Philip took it: she did not resist:So he retained her fingers, the knitting being stopped. But emotionCame all over her more and yet more from his hand, from her heart, andMost from the sweet idea and image her brain was renewing.So he retained her hand, and, his tears down-dropping on it,Trembling a long time, kissed it at last. And she ended.And as she ended, uprose he: saying, What have I heard? Oh,What have I done, that such words should be said to me? Oh, I see it,See the great key-stone coming down from the heaven of heavens;And he fell at her feet, and buried his face in her apron.But as under the moon and stars they went to the cottage,Elspie sighed and said, Be patient, dear Mr. Philip,Do not do anything hasty. It is all so soon, so sudden.Do not say anything yet to any one.Elspie, he answered,Does not my friend go on Friday? I then shall see nothing of you.Do not I go myself on Monday?But oh, he said, Elspie!Do as I bid you, my child: do not go on calling me Mr.;Might I not just as well be calling you Miss Elspie?Call me, this heavenly night for once, for the first time, Philip.Philip, she said, and laughed, and said she could not say it;Philip, she said; he turned, and kissed the sweet lips as they said it.But on the morrow Elspie kept out of the way of Philip:And at the evening seat, when he took her hand by the alders,Drew it back, saying, almost peevishly,No, Mr. Philip,I was quite right, last night; it is too soon, too sudden.What I told you before was foolish perhaps, was hasty.When I think it over, I am shocked and terrified at it.Not that at all I unsay it; that is, I know I said it,And when I said it, felt it. But oh, we must wait, Mr. Philip!We mustn’t pull ourselves at the great key-stone of the centre:Some one else up above must hold it, fit it, and fix it;If we try ourselves, we shall only damage the archway,Damage all our own work that we wrought, our painful upbuilding.When, you remember, you took my hand last evening, talking,I was all over a tremble: and as you pressed the fingersAfter, and afterwards kissed them, I could not speak. And then, too,As we went home, you kissed me for saying your name. It was dreadful.I have been kissed before, she added, blushing slightly,I have been kissed more than once by Donald my cousin, and others;It is the way of the lads, and I make up my mind not to mind it;But, Mr. Philip, last night, and from you, it was different, quite, Sir.When I think of all that, I am shocked and terrified at it.Yes, it is dreadful to me.She paused, but quickly continued,Smiling almost fiercely, continued, looking upward.You are too strong, you see, Mr. Philip! just like the sea there,Whichwillcome, through the straits and all between the mountainsForcing its great strong tide into every nook and inlet,Getting far in, up the quiet stream of sweet inland water,Sucking it up, and stopping it, turning it, driving it backward,Quite preventing its own quiet running: and then, soon after,Back it goes off, leaving weeds on the shore, and wrack and uncleanness:And the poor burn in the glen tries again its peaceful running,But it is brackish and tainted, and all its banks in disorder.That was what I dreamt all last night. I was the burnie,Trying to get along through the tyrannous brine, and could not;I was confined and squeezed in the coils of the great salt tide, thatWould mix-in itself with me, and change me; I felt myself changing;And I struggled, and screamed, I believe, in my dream. It was dreadful.You are too strong, Mr. Philip! I am but a poor slender burnie,Used to the glens and the rocks, the rowan and birch of the woodies,Quite unused to the great salt sea; quite afraid and unwilling.Ere she had spoken two words, had Philip released her fingers;As she went on, he recoiled, fell back, and shook and shivered;There he stood, looking pale and ghastly; when she had ended,Answering in hollow voice,It is true; oh, quite true, Elspie;Oh, you are always right; oh, what, what have I been doing?I will depart to-morrow. But oh, forget me not wholly,Wholly, Elspie, nor hate me; no, do not hate me, my Elspie.But a revulsion passed through the brain and bosom of Elspie;And she got up from her seat on the rock, putting by her knitting;Went to him, where he stood, and answered:No, Mr. Philip,No, you are good, Mr. Philip, and gentle; and I am the foolish:No, Mr. Philip, forgive me.She stepped right to him, and boldlyTook up his hand, and placed it in hers: he dared no movement;Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the heavy elbow.I am afraid, she said, but I will; and kissed the fingers.And he fell on his knees and kissed her own past counting.But a revulsion wrought in the brain and bosom of Elspie;And the passion she just had compared to the vehement ocean,Urging in high spring-tide its masterful way through the mountainsForcing and flooding the silvery stream, as it runs from the inland;That great power withdrawn, receding here and passive,Felt she in myriad springs, her sources far in the mountains,Stirring, collecting, rising, upheaving, forth-outflowing,Taking and joining, right welcome, that delicate rill in the valley,Filling it, making it strong, and still descending, seeking,With a blind forefeeling descending ever, and seeking,With a delicious forefeeling, the great still sea before it;There deep into it, far, to carry, and lose in its bosom,Waters that still from their sources exhaustless are fain to be addedAs he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the ground before her,Yielding backward she sank to her seat, and of what she was doingIgnorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague emotion,Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the hair on his forehead:And Philip, raising himself, gently, for the first time round herPassing his arms, close, close, enfolded her, close to his bosom.As they went home by the moon, Forgive me, Philip, she whispered;I have so many things to think of, all of a sudden;I who had never once thought a thing,—in my ignorant Highlands.

For she confessed, as they sat in the dusk, and he saw not her blushes,

Elspie confessed at the sports long ago with her father she saw him,

When at the door the old man had told him the name of the bothie;

Then after that at the dance; yet again at a dance in Rannoch—

And she was silent, confused. Confused much rather Philip

Buried his face in his hands, his face that with blood was bursting.

Silent, confused, yet by pity she conquered her fear, and continued.

Katie is good and not silly; be comforted, Sir, about her;

Katie is good and not silly; tender, but not, like many,

Carrying off, and at once, for fear of being seen, in the bosom

Locking-up as in a cupboard the pleasure that any man gives them,

Keeping it out of sight as a prize they need be ashamed of;

That is the way, I think, Sir, in England more than in Scotland;

No, she lives and takes pleasure in all, as in beautiful weather,

Sorry to lose it, but just as we would be to lose fine weather.

And she is strong to return to herself and feel undeserted,

Oh, she is strong, and not silly: she thinks no further about you;

She has had kerchiefs before from gentle, I know, as from simple.

Yes, she is good and not silly; yet were you wrong, Mr. Philip,

Wrong, for yourself perhaps more than for her.

But Philip replied not,

Raised not his eyes from the hands on his knees.

And Elspie continued.

That was what gave me much pain, when I met you that dance at Rannoch,

Dancing myself too with you, while Katie danced with Donald;

That was what gave me such pain; I thought it all a mistaking,

All a mere chance, you know, and accident,—not proper choosing,—

There were at least five or six—not there, no, that I don’t say,

But in the country about—you might just as well have been courting

That was what gave me much pain, and (you won’t remember that, though),

Three days after, I met you, beside my uncle’s, walking,

And I was wondering much, and hoped you wouldn’t notice,

So as I passed I couldn’t help looking. You didn’t know me.

But I was glad, when I heard next day you were gone to the teacher.

And uplifting his face at last, with eyes dilated,

Large as great stars in mist, and dim, with dabbled lashes,

Philip, with new tears starting,

You think I do not remember,

Said,—suppose that I did not observe! Ah me, shall I tell you?

Elspie, it was your look that sent me away from Rannoch.

It was your glance, that, descending, an instant revelation,

Showed me where I was, and whitherward going; recalled me,

Sent me, not to my books, but to wrestlings of thought in the mountains.

Yes, I have carried your glance within me undimmed, unaltered,

As a lost boat the compass some passing ship has lent her,

Many a weary mile on road, and hill, and moorland:

And you suppose that I do not remember, I had not observed it!

O, did the sailor bewildered observe when they told him his bearings?

O, did he cast overboard, when they parted, the compass they gave him?

And he continued more firmly, although with stronger emotion:

Elspie, why should I speak it? you cannot believe it, and should not:

Why should I say that I love, which I all but said to another?

Yet should I dare, should I say, O Elspie, you only I love; you,

First and sole in my life that has been and surely that shall be;

Could—O, could you believe it, O Elspie, believe it and spurn not?

Is it—possible,—possible, Elspie?

Well,—she answered,

And she was silent some time, and blushed all over, and answered

Quietly, after her fashion, still knitting, Maybe, I think of it,

Though I don’t know that I did: and she paused again; but it may be,

Yes,—I don’t know, Mr. Philip,—but only it feels to me strangely,

Like to the high new bridge, they used to build at, below there,

Over the burn and glen on the road. You won’t understand me.

But I keep saying in my mind—this long time slowly with trouble

I have been building myself, up, up, and toilfully raising,

Just like as if the bridge were to do it itself without masons,

Painfully getting myself upraised one stone on another,

All one side I mean; and now I see on the other

Just such another fabric uprising, better and stronger,

Close to me, coming to join me: and then I sometimes fancy,—

Sometimes I find myself dreaming at nights about arches and bridges,—

Sometimes I dream of a great invisible hand coming down, and

Dropping the great key-stone in the middle: there in my dreaming,

There I felt the great-key stone coming in, and through it

Feel the other part—all the other stones of the archway,

Joined into mine with a strange happy sense of completeness. But, dear me,

This is confusion and nonsense. I mix all the things I can think of.

And you won’t understand, Mr. Philip.

But while she was speaking,

So it happened, a moment she paused from her work, and pondering,

Laid her hand on her lap: Philip took it: she did not resist:

So he retained her fingers, the knitting being stopped. But emotion

Came all over her more and yet more from his hand, from her heart, and

Most from the sweet idea and image her brain was renewing.

So he retained her hand, and, his tears down-dropping on it,

Trembling a long time, kissed it at last. And she ended.

And as she ended, uprose he: saying, What have I heard? Oh,

What have I done, that such words should be said to me? Oh, I see it,

See the great key-stone coming down from the heaven of heavens;

And he fell at her feet, and buried his face in her apron.

But as under the moon and stars they went to the cottage,

Elspie sighed and said, Be patient, dear Mr. Philip,

Do not do anything hasty. It is all so soon, so sudden.

Do not say anything yet to any one.

Elspie, he answered,

Does not my friend go on Friday? I then shall see nothing of you.

Do not I go myself on Monday?

But oh, he said, Elspie!

Do as I bid you, my child: do not go on calling me Mr.;

Might I not just as well be calling you Miss Elspie?

Call me, this heavenly night for once, for the first time, Philip.

Philip, she said, and laughed, and said she could not say it;

Philip, she said; he turned, and kissed the sweet lips as they said it.

But on the morrow Elspie kept out of the way of Philip:And at the evening seat, when he took her hand by the alders,Drew it back, saying, almost peevishly,No, Mr. Philip,I was quite right, last night; it is too soon, too sudden.What I told you before was foolish perhaps, was hasty.When I think it over, I am shocked and terrified at it.Not that at all I unsay it; that is, I know I said it,And when I said it, felt it. But oh, we must wait, Mr. Philip!We mustn’t pull ourselves at the great key-stone of the centre:Some one else up above must hold it, fit it, and fix it;If we try ourselves, we shall only damage the archway,Damage all our own work that we wrought, our painful upbuilding.When, you remember, you took my hand last evening, talking,I was all over a tremble: and as you pressed the fingersAfter, and afterwards kissed them, I could not speak. And then, too,As we went home, you kissed me for saying your name. It was dreadful.I have been kissed before, she added, blushing slightly,I have been kissed more than once by Donald my cousin, and others;It is the way of the lads, and I make up my mind not to mind it;But, Mr. Philip, last night, and from you, it was different, quite, Sir.When I think of all that, I am shocked and terrified at it.Yes, it is dreadful to me.She paused, but quickly continued,Smiling almost fiercely, continued, looking upward.You are too strong, you see, Mr. Philip! just like the sea there,Whichwillcome, through the straits and all between the mountainsForcing its great strong tide into every nook and inlet,Getting far in, up the quiet stream of sweet inland water,Sucking it up, and stopping it, turning it, driving it backward,Quite preventing its own quiet running: and then, soon after,Back it goes off, leaving weeds on the shore, and wrack and uncleanness:And the poor burn in the glen tries again its peaceful running,But it is brackish and tainted, and all its banks in disorder.That was what I dreamt all last night. I was the burnie,Trying to get along through the tyrannous brine, and could not;I was confined and squeezed in the coils of the great salt tide, thatWould mix-in itself with me, and change me; I felt myself changing;And I struggled, and screamed, I believe, in my dream. It was dreadful.You are too strong, Mr. Philip! I am but a poor slender burnie,Used to the glens and the rocks, the rowan and birch of the woodies,Quite unused to the great salt sea; quite afraid and unwilling.Ere she had spoken two words, had Philip released her fingers;As she went on, he recoiled, fell back, and shook and shivered;There he stood, looking pale and ghastly; when she had ended,Answering in hollow voice,It is true; oh, quite true, Elspie;Oh, you are always right; oh, what, what have I been doing?I will depart to-morrow. But oh, forget me not wholly,Wholly, Elspie, nor hate me; no, do not hate me, my Elspie.But a revulsion passed through the brain and bosom of Elspie;And she got up from her seat on the rock, putting by her knitting;Went to him, where he stood, and answered:No, Mr. Philip,No, you are good, Mr. Philip, and gentle; and I am the foolish:No, Mr. Philip, forgive me.She stepped right to him, and boldlyTook up his hand, and placed it in hers: he dared no movement;Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the heavy elbow.I am afraid, she said, but I will; and kissed the fingers.And he fell on his knees and kissed her own past counting.

But on the morrow Elspie kept out of the way of Philip:

And at the evening seat, when he took her hand by the alders,

Drew it back, saying, almost peevishly,

No, Mr. Philip,

I was quite right, last night; it is too soon, too sudden.

What I told you before was foolish perhaps, was hasty.

When I think it over, I am shocked and terrified at it.

Not that at all I unsay it; that is, I know I said it,

And when I said it, felt it. But oh, we must wait, Mr. Philip!

We mustn’t pull ourselves at the great key-stone of the centre:

Some one else up above must hold it, fit it, and fix it;

If we try ourselves, we shall only damage the archway,

Damage all our own work that we wrought, our painful upbuilding.

When, you remember, you took my hand last evening, talking,

I was all over a tremble: and as you pressed the fingers

After, and afterwards kissed them, I could not speak. And then, too,

As we went home, you kissed me for saying your name. It was dreadful.

I have been kissed before, she added, blushing slightly,

I have been kissed more than once by Donald my cousin, and others;

It is the way of the lads, and I make up my mind not to mind it;

But, Mr. Philip, last night, and from you, it was different, quite, Sir.

When I think of all that, I am shocked and terrified at it.

Yes, it is dreadful to me.

She paused, but quickly continued,

Smiling almost fiercely, continued, looking upward.

You are too strong, you see, Mr. Philip! just like the sea there,

Whichwillcome, through the straits and all between the mountains

Forcing its great strong tide into every nook and inlet,

Getting far in, up the quiet stream of sweet inland water,

Sucking it up, and stopping it, turning it, driving it backward,

Quite preventing its own quiet running: and then, soon after,

Back it goes off, leaving weeds on the shore, and wrack and uncleanness:

And the poor burn in the glen tries again its peaceful running,

But it is brackish and tainted, and all its banks in disorder.

That was what I dreamt all last night. I was the burnie,

Trying to get along through the tyrannous brine, and could not;

I was confined and squeezed in the coils of the great salt tide, that

Would mix-in itself with me, and change me; I felt myself changing;

And I struggled, and screamed, I believe, in my dream. It was dreadful.

You are too strong, Mr. Philip! I am but a poor slender burnie,

Used to the glens and the rocks, the rowan and birch of the woodies,

Quite unused to the great salt sea; quite afraid and unwilling.

Ere she had spoken two words, had Philip released her fingers;

As she went on, he recoiled, fell back, and shook and shivered;

There he stood, looking pale and ghastly; when she had ended,

Answering in hollow voice,

It is true; oh, quite true, Elspie;

Oh, you are always right; oh, what, what have I been doing?

I will depart to-morrow. But oh, forget me not wholly,

Wholly, Elspie, nor hate me; no, do not hate me, my Elspie.

But a revulsion passed through the brain and bosom of Elspie;

And she got up from her seat on the rock, putting by her knitting;

Went to him, where he stood, and answered:

No, Mr. Philip,

No, you are good, Mr. Philip, and gentle; and I am the foolish:

No, Mr. Philip, forgive me.

She stepped right to him, and boldly

Took up his hand, and placed it in hers: he dared no movement;

Took up the cold hanging hand, up-forcing the heavy elbow.

I am afraid, she said, but I will; and kissed the fingers.

And he fell on his knees and kissed her own past counting.

But a revulsion wrought in the brain and bosom of Elspie;And the passion she just had compared to the vehement ocean,Urging in high spring-tide its masterful way through the mountainsForcing and flooding the silvery stream, as it runs from the inland;That great power withdrawn, receding here and passive,Felt she in myriad springs, her sources far in the mountains,Stirring, collecting, rising, upheaving, forth-outflowing,Taking and joining, right welcome, that delicate rill in the valley,Filling it, making it strong, and still descending, seeking,With a blind forefeeling descending ever, and seeking,With a delicious forefeeling, the great still sea before it;There deep into it, far, to carry, and lose in its bosom,Waters that still from their sources exhaustless are fain to be addedAs he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the ground before her,Yielding backward she sank to her seat, and of what she was doingIgnorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague emotion,Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the hair on his forehead:And Philip, raising himself, gently, for the first time round herPassing his arms, close, close, enfolded her, close to his bosom.As they went home by the moon, Forgive me, Philip, she whispered;I have so many things to think of, all of a sudden;I who had never once thought a thing,—in my ignorant Highlands.

But a revulsion wrought in the brain and bosom of Elspie;

And the passion she just had compared to the vehement ocean,

Urging in high spring-tide its masterful way through the mountains

Forcing and flooding the silvery stream, as it runs from the inland;

That great power withdrawn, receding here and passive,

Felt she in myriad springs, her sources far in the mountains,

Stirring, collecting, rising, upheaving, forth-outflowing,

Taking and joining, right welcome, that delicate rill in the valley,

Filling it, making it strong, and still descending, seeking,

With a blind forefeeling descending ever, and seeking,

With a delicious forefeeling, the great still sea before it;

There deep into it, far, to carry, and lose in its bosom,

Waters that still from their sources exhaustless are fain to be added

As he was kissing her fingers, and knelt on the ground before her,

Yielding backward she sank to her seat, and of what she was doing

Ignorant, bewildered, in sweet multitudinous vague emotion,

Stooping, knowing not what, put her lips to the hair on his forehead:

And Philip, raising himself, gently, for the first time round her

Passing his arms, close, close, enfolded her, close to his bosom.

As they went home by the moon, Forgive me, Philip, she whispered;

I have so many things to think of, all of a sudden;

I who had never once thought a thing,—in my ignorant Highlands.

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