Chapter 15

Jam veniet virgo, jam dicetur Hymenæus.

But a revulsion again came over the spirit of Elspie,When she thought of his wealth, his birth and education:Wealth indeed but small, though to her a difference truly;Father nor mother had Philip, a thousand pounds his portion,Somewhat impaired in a world where nothing is had for nothing;Fortune indeed but small, and prospects plain and simple.But the many things that he knew, and the ease of a practisedIntellect’s motion, and all those indefinable graces(Were they not hers, too, Philip?) to speech, and manner, and movement,Lent by the knowledge of self, and wisely instructed feeling,—When she thought of these, and these contemplated daily,Daily appreciating more, and more exactly appraising,—With these thoughts, and the terror withal of a thing she could notEstimate, and of a step (such a step!) in the dark to be taken,Terror nameless and ill-understood of deserting her station,—Daily heavier, heavier upon her pressed the sorrow,Daily distincter, distincter within her arose the conviction,He was too high, too perfect, and she so unfit, so unworthy,(Ah me! Philip, that ever a word such as that should be written!)It would do neither for him nor for her; she also was something,Not much indeed, it was true, yet not to be lightly extinguishedShouldhe—he, she said, have a wife beneath him? herself beAn inferior there where only equality can be?It would do neither for him nor for her.Alas for Philip!Many were tears and great was perplexity. Nor had availed thenAll his prayer and all his device. But much was spokenNow, between Adam and Elspie: companions were they hourly:Much by Elspie to Adam, inquiring, anxiously seeking,From his experience seeking impartial accurate statementWhat it was to do this or do that, go hither or thither,How in the after-life would seem what now seeming certainMight so soon be reversed; in her quest and obscure exploringStill from that quiet orb soliciting light to her footsteps;Much by Elspie to Adam, inquiringly, eagerly seeking:Much by Adam to Elspie, informing, reassuring,Much that was sweet to Elspie, by Adam heedfully speaking,Quietly, indirectly, in general terms, of Philip,Gravely, but indirectly, not as incognisant wholly,But as suspending until she should seek it, direct intimation;Much that was sweet in her heart of what he was and would be,Much that was strength to her mind, confirming beliefs and insightsPure and unfaltering, but young and mute and timid for action:Much of relations of rich and poor, and of true education.It was on Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October,Then when brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded,And amid russet of heather and fern green trees are bonnie;Alders are green, and oaks; the rowan scarlet and yellow;One great glory of broad gold pieces appears the aspen,And the jewels of gold that were hung in the hair of the birch-tree,Pendulous, here and there, her coronet, necklace, and ear-rings,Cover her now, o’er and o’er; she is weary and scatters them from her.There, upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October,Under the alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip,For as they talked, anon she said,It is well, Mr. Philip.Yes, it is well: I have spoken, and learnt a deal with the teacher.At the last I told him all, I could not help it;And it came easier with him than could have been with my father;And he calmly approved, as one that had fully considered.Yes, it is well, I have hoped, though quite too great and sudden;I am so fearful, I think it ought not to be for years yet.I am afraid; but believe in you; and I trust to the teacher;You have done all things gravely and temperate, not as in passion;And the teacher is prudent, and surely can tell what is likely.What my father will say, I know not; we will obey him:But for myself, I could dare to believe all well, and venture.O Mr. Philip, may it never hereafter seem to be different!And she hid her face—Oh, where, but in Philip’s bosom!After some silence, some tears too perchance, Philip laughed, and said to her,So, my own Elspie, at last you are clear that I’m bad enough for youAh! but your father won’t make one half the question about itYou have—he’ll think me, I know, nor better nor worse than Donald,Neither better nor worse for my gentlemanship and bookwork,Worse, I fear, as he knows me an idle and vagabond fellow,Though he allows, but he’ll think it was all for your sake, Elspie,Though he allows I did some good at the end of the shearing.But I had thought in Scotland you didn’t care for this folly.How I wish, he said, you had lived all your days in the Highlands!This is what comes of the year you spent in our foolish England.You do not all of you feel these fancies.No, she answered.And in her spirit the freedom and ancient joy was reviving.No, she said, and uplifted herself, and looked for her knitting,No, nor doI, dear Philip, I don’t myself feel alwaysAs I have felt, more sorrow for me, these four days lately,Like the Peruvian Indians I read about last winter,Out in America there, in somebody’s life of Pizarro;Who were as good perhaps as the Spaniards; only weaker;And that the one big tree might spread its root and branches,All the lesser about it must even be felled and perish.No, I feel much more as if I, as well as you, were,Somewhere, a leaf on the one great tree, that, up from old timeGrowing, contains in itself the whole of the virtue and life ofBygone days, drawing now to itself all kindreds and nationsAnd must have for itself the whole world for its root and branches.No, I belong to the tree, I shall not decay in the shadow;Yes, and I feel the life-juices of all the world and the ages,Coming to me as to you, more slowly no doubt and poorer:You are more near, but then you will help to convey them to me.No, don’t smile, Philip, now, so scornfully! While you look soScornful and strong, I feel as if I were standing and trembling,Fancying the burn in the dark a wide and rushing river;And I feel coming unto me from you, or it may be from elsewhere,Strong contemptuous resolve; I forget, and I bound as across it.But after all, you know, it may be a dangerous river.Oh, if it were so, Elspie, he said, I can carry you over.Nay, she replied, you would tire of having me for a burden.O sweet burden, he said, and are you not light as a feather?But it is deep, very likely, she said, over head and ears too.O let us try, he answered, the waters themselves will support us,Yea, very ripples and waves will form to a boat underneath us;There is a boat, he said, and a name is written upon it,Love, he said, and kissed her.—But I will read your books, though,Said she: you’ll leave me some, Philip?Not I, replied he, a volume.This is the way with you all, I perceive, high and low together.Women must read, as if they didn’t know all beforehand:Weary of plying the pump, we turn to the running water,And the running spring will needs have a pump built upon it.Weary and sick of our books, we come to repose in your eyelight,As to the woodland and water, the freshness and beauty of Nature.Lo, you will talk, forsooth, of things we are sick to the death of.What, she said, and if I have let you become my sweetheart,I am to read no books! but you may go your ways then,And I will read, she said, with my father at home as I used to.If you must have it, he said, I myself will read them to you.Well, she said, but no, I will read to myself, when I choose it;What, you suppose we never read anything here in our Highlands,Bella and I with the father, in all our winter evenings!But we must go, Mr. Philip—I shall not go at all, saidHe, if you call me Mr. Thank heaven! that’s over for ever.No, but it’s not, she said, it is not over, nor will be.Was it not then, she asked, the name I called you first by?No, Mr. Philip, no—you have kissed me enough for two nights;No—come, Philip, come, or I’11 go myself without you.You never call me Philip, he answered, until I kiss you.As they went home by the moon that waning now rose later,Stepping through mossy stones by the runnel under the alders,Loitering unconsciously, Philip, she said, I will not be a lady;We will do work together—you do not wish me a lady.It is a weakness perhaps and a foolishness; still it is so;I have been used all my life to help myself and others;I could not bear to sit and be waited on by footmen,No, not even by women—And God forbid, he answered,God forbid you should ever be aught but yourself, my Elspie!As for service, I love it not, I; your weakness is mine too,I am sure Adam told you as much as that about me.I am sure, she said, he called you wild and flighty.That was true, he said, till my wings were clipped. But, my Elspie,You will at least just go and see my uncle and cousins,Sister, and brother, and brother’s wife. You should go, if you liked it,Just as you are; just what you are, at any rate, my Elspie.Yes, we will go, and give the old solemn gentility stage-playOne little look, to leave it with all the more satisfaction.That may be, my Philip, she said; you are good to think of it.But we are letting our fancies run on indeed; after all, itMay all come, you know, Mr. Philip, to nothing whatever,There is so much that needs to be done, so much that may happen.All that needs to be done, said he, shall be done, and quickly.And on the morrow he took good heart, and spoke with David.Not unwarned the father, nor had been unperceiving:Fearful much, but in all from the first reassured by the Tutor.And he remembered how he had fancied the lad from the first; andThen, too, the old man’s eye was much more for inner than outer,And the natural tune of his heart without misgivingWent to the noble words of that grand song of the Lowlands,Rank is the guinea stamp, but the man’s a man for a’ that.Still he was doubtful, would hear nothing of it now, but insistedPhilip should go to his books; if he chose, he might write; if afterChose to return, might come; he truly believed him honest.But a year must elapse, and many things might happen.Yet at the end he burst into tears, called Elspie, and blessed them:Elspie, my bairn, he said, I thought not when at the doorwayStanding with you, and telling the young man where he would find us,I did not think he would one day be asking me here to surrenderWhat is to me more than wealth in my Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.

But a revulsion again came over the spirit of Elspie,

When she thought of his wealth, his birth and education:

Wealth indeed but small, though to her a difference truly;

Father nor mother had Philip, a thousand pounds his portion,

Somewhat impaired in a world where nothing is had for nothing;

Fortune indeed but small, and prospects plain and simple.

But the many things that he knew, and the ease of a practised

Intellect’s motion, and all those indefinable graces

(Were they not hers, too, Philip?) to speech, and manner, and movement,

Lent by the knowledge of self, and wisely instructed feeling,—

When she thought of these, and these contemplated daily,

Daily appreciating more, and more exactly appraising,—

With these thoughts, and the terror withal of a thing she could not

Estimate, and of a step (such a step!) in the dark to be taken,

Terror nameless and ill-understood of deserting her station,—

Daily heavier, heavier upon her pressed the sorrow,

Daily distincter, distincter within her arose the conviction,

He was too high, too perfect, and she so unfit, so unworthy,

(Ah me! Philip, that ever a word such as that should be written!)

It would do neither for him nor for her; she also was something,

Not much indeed, it was true, yet not to be lightly extinguished

Shouldhe—he, she said, have a wife beneath him? herself be

An inferior there where only equality can be?

It would do neither for him nor for her.

Alas for Philip!

Many were tears and great was perplexity. Nor had availed then

All his prayer and all his device. But much was spoken

Now, between Adam and Elspie: companions were they hourly:

Much by Elspie to Adam, inquiring, anxiously seeking,

From his experience seeking impartial accurate statement

What it was to do this or do that, go hither or thither,

How in the after-life would seem what now seeming certain

Might so soon be reversed; in her quest and obscure exploring

Still from that quiet orb soliciting light to her footsteps;

Much by Elspie to Adam, inquiringly, eagerly seeking:

Much by Adam to Elspie, informing, reassuring,

Much that was sweet to Elspie, by Adam heedfully speaking,

Quietly, indirectly, in general terms, of Philip,

Gravely, but indirectly, not as incognisant wholly,

But as suspending until she should seek it, direct intimation;

Much that was sweet in her heart of what he was and would be,

Much that was strength to her mind, confirming beliefs and insights

Pure and unfaltering, but young and mute and timid for action:

Much of relations of rich and poor, and of true education.

It was on Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October,

Then when brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded,

And amid russet of heather and fern green trees are bonnie;

Alders are green, and oaks; the rowan scarlet and yellow;

One great glory of broad gold pieces appears the aspen,

And the jewels of gold that were hung in the hair of the birch-tree,

Pendulous, here and there, her coronet, necklace, and ear-rings,

Cover her now, o’er and o’er; she is weary and scatters them from her.

There, upon Saturday eve, in the gorgeous bright October,

Under the alders knitting, gave Elspie her troth to Philip,

For as they talked, anon she said,

It is well, Mr. Philip.

Yes, it is well: I have spoken, and learnt a deal with the teacher.

At the last I told him all, I could not help it;

And it came easier with him than could have been with my father;

And he calmly approved, as one that had fully considered.

Yes, it is well, I have hoped, though quite too great and sudden;

I am so fearful, I think it ought not to be for years yet.

I am afraid; but believe in you; and I trust to the teacher;

You have done all things gravely and temperate, not as in passion;

And the teacher is prudent, and surely can tell what is likely.

What my father will say, I know not; we will obey him:

But for myself, I could dare to believe all well, and venture.

O Mr. Philip, may it never hereafter seem to be different!

And she hid her face—

Oh, where, but in Philip’s bosom!

After some silence, some tears too perchance, Philip laughed, and said to her,So, my own Elspie, at last you are clear that I’m bad enough for youAh! but your father won’t make one half the question about itYou have—he’ll think me, I know, nor better nor worse than Donald,Neither better nor worse for my gentlemanship and bookwork,Worse, I fear, as he knows me an idle and vagabond fellow,Though he allows, but he’ll think it was all for your sake, Elspie,Though he allows I did some good at the end of the shearing.But I had thought in Scotland you didn’t care for this folly.How I wish, he said, you had lived all your days in the Highlands!This is what comes of the year you spent in our foolish England.You do not all of you feel these fancies.No, she answered.And in her spirit the freedom and ancient joy was reviving.No, she said, and uplifted herself, and looked for her knitting,No, nor doI, dear Philip, I don’t myself feel alwaysAs I have felt, more sorrow for me, these four days lately,Like the Peruvian Indians I read about last winter,Out in America there, in somebody’s life of Pizarro;Who were as good perhaps as the Spaniards; only weaker;And that the one big tree might spread its root and branches,All the lesser about it must even be felled and perish.No, I feel much more as if I, as well as you, were,Somewhere, a leaf on the one great tree, that, up from old timeGrowing, contains in itself the whole of the virtue and life ofBygone days, drawing now to itself all kindreds and nationsAnd must have for itself the whole world for its root and branches.No, I belong to the tree, I shall not decay in the shadow;Yes, and I feel the life-juices of all the world and the ages,Coming to me as to you, more slowly no doubt and poorer:You are more near, but then you will help to convey them to me.No, don’t smile, Philip, now, so scornfully! While you look soScornful and strong, I feel as if I were standing and trembling,Fancying the burn in the dark a wide and rushing river;And I feel coming unto me from you, or it may be from elsewhere,Strong contemptuous resolve; I forget, and I bound as across it.But after all, you know, it may be a dangerous river.Oh, if it were so, Elspie, he said, I can carry you over.Nay, she replied, you would tire of having me for a burden.O sweet burden, he said, and are you not light as a feather?But it is deep, very likely, she said, over head and ears too.O let us try, he answered, the waters themselves will support us,Yea, very ripples and waves will form to a boat underneath us;There is a boat, he said, and a name is written upon it,Love, he said, and kissed her.—But I will read your books, though,Said she: you’ll leave me some, Philip?Not I, replied he, a volume.This is the way with you all, I perceive, high and low together.Women must read, as if they didn’t know all beforehand:Weary of plying the pump, we turn to the running water,And the running spring will needs have a pump built upon it.Weary and sick of our books, we come to repose in your eyelight,As to the woodland and water, the freshness and beauty of Nature.Lo, you will talk, forsooth, of things we are sick to the death of.What, she said, and if I have let you become my sweetheart,I am to read no books! but you may go your ways then,And I will read, she said, with my father at home as I used to.If you must have it, he said, I myself will read them to you.Well, she said, but no, I will read to myself, when I choose it;What, you suppose we never read anything here in our Highlands,Bella and I with the father, in all our winter evenings!But we must go, Mr. Philip—I shall not go at all, saidHe, if you call me Mr. Thank heaven! that’s over for ever.No, but it’s not, she said, it is not over, nor will be.Was it not then, she asked, the name I called you first by?No, Mr. Philip, no—you have kissed me enough for two nights;No—come, Philip, come, or I’11 go myself without you.You never call me Philip, he answered, until I kiss you.As they went home by the moon that waning now rose later,Stepping through mossy stones by the runnel under the alders,Loitering unconsciously, Philip, she said, I will not be a lady;We will do work together—you do not wish me a lady.It is a weakness perhaps and a foolishness; still it is so;I have been used all my life to help myself and others;I could not bear to sit and be waited on by footmen,No, not even by women—And God forbid, he answered,God forbid you should ever be aught but yourself, my Elspie!As for service, I love it not, I; your weakness is mine too,I am sure Adam told you as much as that about me.I am sure, she said, he called you wild and flighty.That was true, he said, till my wings were clipped. But, my Elspie,You will at least just go and see my uncle and cousins,Sister, and brother, and brother’s wife. You should go, if you liked it,Just as you are; just what you are, at any rate, my Elspie.Yes, we will go, and give the old solemn gentility stage-playOne little look, to leave it with all the more satisfaction.That may be, my Philip, she said; you are good to think of it.But we are letting our fancies run on indeed; after all, itMay all come, you know, Mr. Philip, to nothing whatever,There is so much that needs to be done, so much that may happen.All that needs to be done, said he, shall be done, and quickly.And on the morrow he took good heart, and spoke with David.Not unwarned the father, nor had been unperceiving:Fearful much, but in all from the first reassured by the Tutor.And he remembered how he had fancied the lad from the first; andThen, too, the old man’s eye was much more for inner than outer,And the natural tune of his heart without misgivingWent to the noble words of that grand song of the Lowlands,Rank is the guinea stamp, but the man’s a man for a’ that.Still he was doubtful, would hear nothing of it now, but insistedPhilip should go to his books; if he chose, he might write; if afterChose to return, might come; he truly believed him honest.But a year must elapse, and many things might happen.Yet at the end he burst into tears, called Elspie, and blessed them:Elspie, my bairn, he said, I thought not when at the doorwayStanding with you, and telling the young man where he would find us,I did not think he would one day be asking me here to surrenderWhat is to me more than wealth in my Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.

After some silence, some tears too perchance, Philip laughed, and said to her,

So, my own Elspie, at last you are clear that I’m bad enough for you

Ah! but your father won’t make one half the question about it

You have—he’ll think me, I know, nor better nor worse than Donald,

Neither better nor worse for my gentlemanship and bookwork,

Worse, I fear, as he knows me an idle and vagabond fellow,

Though he allows, but he’ll think it was all for your sake, Elspie,

Though he allows I did some good at the end of the shearing.

But I had thought in Scotland you didn’t care for this folly.

How I wish, he said, you had lived all your days in the Highlands!

This is what comes of the year you spent in our foolish England.

You do not all of you feel these fancies.

No, she answered.

And in her spirit the freedom and ancient joy was reviving.

No, she said, and uplifted herself, and looked for her knitting,

No, nor doI, dear Philip, I don’t myself feel always

As I have felt, more sorrow for me, these four days lately,

Like the Peruvian Indians I read about last winter,

Out in America there, in somebody’s life of Pizarro;

Who were as good perhaps as the Spaniards; only weaker;

And that the one big tree might spread its root and branches,

All the lesser about it must even be felled and perish.

No, I feel much more as if I, as well as you, were,

Somewhere, a leaf on the one great tree, that, up from old time

Growing, contains in itself the whole of the virtue and life of

Bygone days, drawing now to itself all kindreds and nations

And must have for itself the whole world for its root and branches.

No, I belong to the tree, I shall not decay in the shadow;

Yes, and I feel the life-juices of all the world and the ages,

Coming to me as to you, more slowly no doubt and poorer:

You are more near, but then you will help to convey them to me.

No, don’t smile, Philip, now, so scornfully! While you look so

Scornful and strong, I feel as if I were standing and trembling,

Fancying the burn in the dark a wide and rushing river;

And I feel coming unto me from you, or it may be from elsewhere,

Strong contemptuous resolve; I forget, and I bound as across it.

But after all, you know, it may be a dangerous river.

Oh, if it were so, Elspie, he said, I can carry you over.

Nay, she replied, you would tire of having me for a burden.

O sweet burden, he said, and are you not light as a feather?

But it is deep, very likely, she said, over head and ears too.

O let us try, he answered, the waters themselves will support us,

Yea, very ripples and waves will form to a boat underneath us;

There is a boat, he said, and a name is written upon it,

Love, he said, and kissed her.—

But I will read your books, though,

Said she: you’ll leave me some, Philip?

Not I, replied he, a volume.

This is the way with you all, I perceive, high and low together.

Women must read, as if they didn’t know all beforehand:

Weary of plying the pump, we turn to the running water,

And the running spring will needs have a pump built upon it.

Weary and sick of our books, we come to repose in your eyelight,

As to the woodland and water, the freshness and beauty of Nature.

Lo, you will talk, forsooth, of things we are sick to the death of.

What, she said, and if I have let you become my sweetheart,

I am to read no books! but you may go your ways then,

And I will read, she said, with my father at home as I used to.

If you must have it, he said, I myself will read them to you.

Well, she said, but no, I will read to myself, when I choose it;

What, you suppose we never read anything here in our Highlands,

Bella and I with the father, in all our winter evenings!

But we must go, Mr. Philip—

I shall not go at all, said

He, if you call me Mr. Thank heaven! that’s over for ever.

No, but it’s not, she said, it is not over, nor will be.

Was it not then, she asked, the name I called you first by?

No, Mr. Philip, no—you have kissed me enough for two nights;

No—come, Philip, come, or I’11 go myself without you.

You never call me Philip, he answered, until I kiss you.

As they went home by the moon that waning now rose later,

Stepping through mossy stones by the runnel under the alders,

Loitering unconsciously, Philip, she said, I will not be a lady;

We will do work together—you do not wish me a lady.

It is a weakness perhaps and a foolishness; still it is so;

I have been used all my life to help myself and others;

I could not bear to sit and be waited on by footmen,

No, not even by women—

And God forbid, he answered,

God forbid you should ever be aught but yourself, my Elspie!

As for service, I love it not, I; your weakness is mine too,

I am sure Adam told you as much as that about me.

I am sure, she said, he called you wild and flighty.

That was true, he said, till my wings were clipped. But, my Elspie,

You will at least just go and see my uncle and cousins,

Sister, and brother, and brother’s wife. You should go, if you liked it,

Just as you are; just what you are, at any rate, my Elspie.

Yes, we will go, and give the old solemn gentility stage-play

One little look, to leave it with all the more satisfaction.

That may be, my Philip, she said; you are good to think of it.

But we are letting our fancies run on indeed; after all, it

May all come, you know, Mr. Philip, to nothing whatever,

There is so much that needs to be done, so much that may happen.

All that needs to be done, said he, shall be done, and quickly.

And on the morrow he took good heart, and spoke with David.

Not unwarned the father, nor had been unperceiving:

Fearful much, but in all from the first reassured by the Tutor.

And he remembered how he had fancied the lad from the first; and

Then, too, the old man’s eye was much more for inner than outer,

And the natural tune of his heart without misgiving

Went to the noble words of that grand song of the Lowlands,

Rank is the guinea stamp, but the man’s a man for a’ that.

Still he was doubtful, would hear nothing of it now, but insisted

Philip should go to his books; if he chose, he might write; if after

Chose to return, might come; he truly believed him honest.

But a year must elapse, and many things might happen.

Yet at the end he burst into tears, called Elspie, and blessed them:

Elspie, my bairn, he said, I thought not when at the doorway

Standing with you, and telling the young man where he would find us,

I did not think he would one day be asking me here to surrender

What is to me more than wealth in my Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.

Arva, beata Petamus arva!

So on the morrow’s morrow, with Term-time dread returning,Philip returned to his books, and read, and remained at Oxford,All the Christmas and Easter remained and read at Oxford.Great was wonder in College when postman showed to butlerLetters addressed to David Mackaye, at Tober-na-vuolich,Letter on letter, at least one a week, one every Sunday:Great at that Highland post was wonder too and conjecture,When the postman showed letters to wife, and wife to the lassies,And the lassies declared they couldn’t be really to David;Yes, they could see inside a paper with E. upon it.Great was surmise in College at breakfast, wine, and supper,Keen the conjecture and joke; but Adam kept the secret,Adam the secret kept, and Philip read like fury.This is a letter written by Philip at Christmas to Adam.There may be beings, perhaps, whose vocation it is to be idle,Idle, sumptuous even, luxurious, if it must be:Only let each man seek to be that for which nature meant him.If you were meant to plough, Lord Marquis, out with you, and do it;If you were meant to be idle, O beggar, behold, I will feed you.If you were born for a groom, and you seem, by your dress, to believe so,Do it like a man, Sir George, for pay, in a livery stable;Yes, you may so release that slip of a boy at the corner,Fingering books at the window, misdoubting the eighth commandment.Ah, fair Lady Maria, God meant you to live and be lovely;Be so then, and I bless you. But ye, ye spurious ware, whoMight be plain women, and can be by no possibility better!—Ye unhappy statuettes, and miserable trinkets,Poor alabaster chimney-piece ornaments under glass cases,Come, in God’s name, come down! the very French clock by youPuts you to shame with ticking; the fire-irons deride you.You, young girl, who have had such advantages, learnt so quickly,Can you not teach? O yes, and she likes Sunday-school extremely,Only it’s soon in the morning. Away! if to teach be your calling,It is no play, but a business: off! go teach and be paid for it.Lady Sophia’s so good to the sick, so firm and so gentle.Is there a nobler sphere than of hospital nurse and matron?Hast thou for cooking a turn, little Lady Clarissa? in with them,In with your fingers! their beauty it spoils, but your own it enhancesFor it is beautiful only to do the thing we are meant for.This was the answer that came from the Tutor, the grave man, AdamWhen the armies are set in array, and the battle beginning,Is it well that the soldier whose post is far to the leftwardSay, I will go to the right, it is there I shall do best service?There is a great Field-Marshal, my friend, who arrays our battalions;Let us to Providence trust, and abide and work in our stations.This was the final retort from the eager, impetuous Philip.I am sorry to say your Providence puzzles me sadly;Children of Circumstance are we to be? you answer, On no wise!Where does Circumstance end, and Providence, where begins it?What are we to resist, and what are we to be friends with?If there is battle, ’tis battle by night, I stand in the darkness,Here in the mêlée of men, Ionian and Dorian on both sides,Signal and password known; which is friend and which is foeman?Is it a friend? I doubt, though he speak with the voice of a brother.Still you are right, I suppose; you always are, and will be;Though I mistrust the Field-Marshal, I bow to the duty of order.Yet is my feeling rather to ask, where is the battle?Yes, I could find in my heart to cry, notwithstanding my Elspie,O that the armies indeed were arrayed! O joy of the onset!Sound, thou Trumpet of God, come forth, Great Cause, to array us,King and leader appear, thy soldiers sorrowing seek thee.Would that the armies indeed were arrayed, O where is the battle!Neither battle I see, nor arraying, nor King in Israel,Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation,Backed by a solemn appeal, ‘For God’s sake, do not stir, there!’Yet you are right, I suppose; if you don’t attack my conclusion,Let us get on as we can, and do the thing we are fit for;Every one for himself, and the common success for us all, andThankful, if not for our own, why then for the triumph of others,Get along, each as we can, and do the thing we are meant for.That isn’t likely to be by sitting still, eating and drinking.These are fragments again without date addressed to Adam.As at return of tide the total weight of ocean,Drawn by moon and sun from Labrador and Greenland,Sets-in amain, in the open space betwixt Mull and Scarba,Heaving, swelling, spreading the might of the mighty Atlantic;There into cranny and slit of the rocky, cavernous bottomSettles down, and with dimples huge the smooth sea-surfaceEddies, coils, and whirls; by dangerous Corryvreckan:So in my soul of souls, through its cells and secret recesses,Comes back, swelling and spreading, the old democratic fervour.But as the light of day enters some populous city,Shaming away, ere it come, by the chilly day-streak signal,High and low, the misusers of night, shaming out the gas-lamps—All the great empty streets are flooded with broadening clearness,Which, withal, by inscrutable simultaneous accessPermeates far and pierces to the very cellars lying inNarrow high back-lane, and court, and alley of alleys:—He that goes forth to his walks, while speeding to the suburb,Sees sights only peaceful and pure: as labourers settlingSlowly to work, in their limbs the lingering sweetness of slumber;Humble market-carts, coming in, bringing in, not onlyFlower, fruit, farm-store, but sounds and sights of the countryDwelling yet on the sense of the dreamy drivers; soon afterHalf-awake servant-maids unfastening drowsy shuttersUp at the windows, or down, letting-in the air by the doorway;School-boys, school-girls soon, with slate, portfolio, satchel,Hampered as they haste, those running, these others maidenly tripping,Early clerk anon turning out to stroll, or it may beMeet his sweetheart—waiting behind the garden gate there;Merchant on his grass-plat haply bare-headed; and now by this timeLittle child bringing breakfast to ‘father’ that sits on the timberThere by the scaffolding; see, she waits for the can beside him;Meantime above purer air untarnished of new-lit fires:So that the whole great wicked artificial civilised fabric—All its unfinished houses, lots for sale, and railway out-works—Seems reaccepted, resumed to Primal Nature and Beauty:——Such—in me, and to me, and on me the love of Elspie!Philip returned to his books, but returned to his Highlands after;Got a first, ’tis said; a winsome bride, ’tis certain.There while courtship was ending, nor yet the wedding appointed,Under her father he studied the handling of hoe and of hatchet:Thither that summer succeeding came Adam and Arthur to see himDown by the lochs from the distant Glenmorison; Adam the tutor,Arthur, and Hope; and the Piper anon who was there for a visit;He had been into the schools; plucked almost; all but agone-coon;So he declared; never once had brushed up hishairyAldrich;Into the great might-have-been upsoaring sublime and idealGave to historical questions a free poetical treatment;Leaving vocabular ghosts undisturbed in their lexicon-limbo,Took Aristophanes up at a shot; and the whole three last weeksWent, in his life and the sunshine rejoicing, to Nuneham and Godstowe:What were the claims of Degree to those of life and the sunshine?There did the four find Philip, the poet, the speaker, the Chartist,Delving at Highland soil, and railing at Highland landlords,Railing, but more, as it seemed, for the fun of the Piper’s fury.There saw they David and Elspie Mackaye, and the Piper was almostAlmost deeply in love with Bella the sister of Elspie;But the good Adam was heedful: they did not go too often.There in the bright October, the gorgeous bright October,When the brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded,And amid russet of heather and fern green trees are bonnie,Alders are green, and oaks, the rowan scarlet and yellow,Heavy the aspen, and heavy with jewels of gold the birch-tree,There, when shearing had ended, and barley-stooks were garnered,David gave Philip to wife his daughter, his darling Elspie;Elspie the quiet, the brave, was wedded to Philip the poet.So won Philip his bride. They are married and gone—But oh, ThouMighty one, Muse of great Epos, and Idyll the playful and tender,Be it recounted in song, ere we part, and thou fly to thy Pindus,(Pindus is it, O Muse, or Ætna, or even Ben-nevis?)Be it recounted in song, O Muse of the Epos and Idyll,Who gave what at the wedding, the gifts and fair gratulations.Adam, the grave careful Adam, a medicine chest and tool-box,Hope a saddle, and Arthur a plough, and the Piper a rifle,Airlie a necklace for Elspie, and Hobbes a Family Bible,Airlie a necklace, and Hobbes a Bible and iron bedstead.What was the letter, O Muse, sent withal by the corpulent hero?This is the letter of Hobbes the kilted and corpulent hero.So the last speech and confession is made, O my eloquent speaker!Sothe good timeiscoming, or come is it? O my Chartist!So the cathedral is finished at last, O my Pugin of women;Finished, and now, is it true? to be taken out whole to New Zealand!Well, go forth to thy field, to thy barley, with Ruth, O Boaz,Ruth, who for thee hath deserted her people, her gods, her mountains.Go, as in Ephrath of old, in the gate of Bethlehem said they,Go, be the wife in thy house both Rachel and Leah unto thee;Be thy wedding of silver, albeit of iron thy bedstead!Yea, to the full golden fifty renewed be! and fair memorandaHappily fill the fly-leaves duly left in the Family Bible.Live, and when Hobbes is forgotten, may’st thou, an unroasted Grand-sire,See thy children’s children, and Democracy upon New Zealand!This was the letter of Hobbes, and this the postscript after.Wit in the letter will prate, but wisdom speaks in a postscript;Listen to wisdom—Which things—you perhaps didn’t know, my dear fellow,I have reflected;Which things are an allegory, Philip.For this Rachel-and-Leah is marriage; which, I have seen it,Lo, and have known it, is always, and must be, bigamy only,Even in noblest kind a duality, compound, and complex,One part heavenly-ideal, the other vulgar and earthy:For this Rachel-and-Leah is marriage, and Laban, their father,Circumstance, chance, the world, our uncle and hard task-master.Rachel we found as we fled from the daughters of Heth by the desertRachel we met at the well; we came, we saw, we kissed her;Rachel we serve-for, long years,—that seem as a few days only,E’en for the love we have to her,—and win her at last of Laban.Is it not Rachel we take in our joy from the hand of her father?Is it not Rachel we lead in the mystical veil from the altar?Rachel we dream-of at night: in the morning, behold, it is Leah.‘Nay, it is custom,’ saith Laban, the Leah indeed is the elder.Happy and wise who consents to redouble his service to Laban,So, fulfilling her week, he may add to the elder the younger,Not repudiates Leah, but wins the Rachel unto her!Neither hate thou thy Leah, my Jacob, she also is worthy;So, many days shall thy Rachel have joy, and survive her sister;Yea, and her children—Which things are an allegory, Philip,Aye, and by Origen’s head with a vengeance truly, a long one!This was a note from the Tutor, the grave man, nick-named Adam.I shall see you of course, my Philip, before your departureJoy be with you, my boy, with you and your beautiful Elspie.Happy is he that found, and finding was not heedless;Happy is he that found, and happy the friend that was with him.So won Philip his bride:—They are married and gone to New Zealand.Five hundred pounds in pocket, with books, and two or three pictures,Tool-box, plough, and the rest, they rounded the sphere to New Zealand.There he hewed, and dug; subdued the earth and his spirit;There he built him a home; there Elspie bare him his children,David and Bella; perhaps ere this too an Elspie or Adam;There hath he farmstead and land, and fields of corn and flax fields;And the Antipodes too have a Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.

So on the morrow’s morrow, with Term-time dread returning,

Philip returned to his books, and read, and remained at Oxford,

All the Christmas and Easter remained and read at Oxford.

Great was wonder in College when postman showed to butler

Letters addressed to David Mackaye, at Tober-na-vuolich,

Letter on letter, at least one a week, one every Sunday:

Great at that Highland post was wonder too and conjecture,

When the postman showed letters to wife, and wife to the lassies,

And the lassies declared they couldn’t be really to David;

Yes, they could see inside a paper with E. upon it.

Great was surmise in College at breakfast, wine, and supper,

Keen the conjecture and joke; but Adam kept the secret,

Adam the secret kept, and Philip read like fury.

This is a letter written by Philip at Christmas to Adam.

There may be beings, perhaps, whose vocation it is to be idle,

Idle, sumptuous even, luxurious, if it must be:

Only let each man seek to be that for which nature meant him.

If you were meant to plough, Lord Marquis, out with you, and do it;

If you were meant to be idle, O beggar, behold, I will feed you.

If you were born for a groom, and you seem, by your dress, to believe so,

Do it like a man, Sir George, for pay, in a livery stable;

Yes, you may so release that slip of a boy at the corner,

Fingering books at the window, misdoubting the eighth commandment.

Ah, fair Lady Maria, God meant you to live and be lovely;

Be so then, and I bless you. But ye, ye spurious ware, who

Might be plain women, and can be by no possibility better!

—Ye unhappy statuettes, and miserable trinkets,

Poor alabaster chimney-piece ornaments under glass cases,

Come, in God’s name, come down! the very French clock by you

Puts you to shame with ticking; the fire-irons deride you.

You, young girl, who have had such advantages, learnt so quickly,

Can you not teach? O yes, and she likes Sunday-school extremely,

Only it’s soon in the morning. Away! if to teach be your calling,

It is no play, but a business: off! go teach and be paid for it.

Lady Sophia’s so good to the sick, so firm and so gentle.

Is there a nobler sphere than of hospital nurse and matron?

Hast thou for cooking a turn, little Lady Clarissa? in with them,

In with your fingers! their beauty it spoils, but your own it enhances

For it is beautiful only to do the thing we are meant for.

This was the answer that came from the Tutor, the grave man, Adam

When the armies are set in array, and the battle beginning,

Is it well that the soldier whose post is far to the leftward

Say, I will go to the right, it is there I shall do best service?

There is a great Field-Marshal, my friend, who arrays our battalions;

Let us to Providence trust, and abide and work in our stations.

This was the final retort from the eager, impetuous Philip.

I am sorry to say your Providence puzzles me sadly;

Children of Circumstance are we to be? you answer, On no wise!

Where does Circumstance end, and Providence, where begins it?

What are we to resist, and what are we to be friends with?

If there is battle, ’tis battle by night, I stand in the darkness,

Here in the mêlée of men, Ionian and Dorian on both sides,

Signal and password known; which is friend and which is foeman?

Is it a friend? I doubt, though he speak with the voice of a brother.

Still you are right, I suppose; you always are, and will be;

Though I mistrust the Field-Marshal, I bow to the duty of order.

Yet is my feeling rather to ask, where is the battle?

Yes, I could find in my heart to cry, notwithstanding my Elspie,

O that the armies indeed were arrayed! O joy of the onset!

Sound, thou Trumpet of God, come forth, Great Cause, to array us,

King and leader appear, thy soldiers sorrowing seek thee.

Would that the armies indeed were arrayed, O where is the battle!

Neither battle I see, nor arraying, nor King in Israel,

Only infinite jumble and mess and dislocation,

Backed by a solemn appeal, ‘For God’s sake, do not stir, there!’

Yet you are right, I suppose; if you don’t attack my conclusion,

Let us get on as we can, and do the thing we are fit for;

Every one for himself, and the common success for us all, and

Thankful, if not for our own, why then for the triumph of others,

Get along, each as we can, and do the thing we are meant for.

That isn’t likely to be by sitting still, eating and drinking.

These are fragments again without date addressed to Adam.

As at return of tide the total weight of ocean,

Drawn by moon and sun from Labrador and Greenland,

Sets-in amain, in the open space betwixt Mull and Scarba,

Heaving, swelling, spreading the might of the mighty Atlantic;

There into cranny and slit of the rocky, cavernous bottom

Settles down, and with dimples huge the smooth sea-surface

Eddies, coils, and whirls; by dangerous Corryvreckan:

So in my soul of souls, through its cells and secret recesses,

Comes back, swelling and spreading, the old democratic fervour.

But as the light of day enters some populous city,

Shaming away, ere it come, by the chilly day-streak signal,

High and low, the misusers of night, shaming out the gas-lamps—

All the great empty streets are flooded with broadening clearness,

Which, withal, by inscrutable simultaneous access

Permeates far and pierces to the very cellars lying in

Narrow high back-lane, and court, and alley of alleys:—

He that goes forth to his walks, while speeding to the suburb,

Sees sights only peaceful and pure: as labourers settling

Slowly to work, in their limbs the lingering sweetness of slumber;

Humble market-carts, coming in, bringing in, not only

Flower, fruit, farm-store, but sounds and sights of the country

Dwelling yet on the sense of the dreamy drivers; soon after

Half-awake servant-maids unfastening drowsy shutters

Up at the windows, or down, letting-in the air by the doorway;

School-boys, school-girls soon, with slate, portfolio, satchel,

Hampered as they haste, those running, these others maidenly tripping,

Early clerk anon turning out to stroll, or it may be

Meet his sweetheart—waiting behind the garden gate there;

Merchant on his grass-plat haply bare-headed; and now by this time

Little child bringing breakfast to ‘father’ that sits on the timber

There by the scaffolding; see, she waits for the can beside him;

Meantime above purer air untarnished of new-lit fires:

So that the whole great wicked artificial civilised fabric—

All its unfinished houses, lots for sale, and railway out-works—

Seems reaccepted, resumed to Primal Nature and Beauty:—

—Such—in me, and to me, and on me the love of Elspie!

Philip returned to his books, but returned to his Highlands after;

Got a first, ’tis said; a winsome bride, ’tis certain.

There while courtship was ending, nor yet the wedding appointed,

Under her father he studied the handling of hoe and of hatchet:

Thither that summer succeeding came Adam and Arthur to see him

Down by the lochs from the distant Glenmorison; Adam the tutor,

Arthur, and Hope; and the Piper anon who was there for a visit;

He had been into the schools; plucked almost; all but agone-coon;

So he declared; never once had brushed up hishairyAldrich;

Into the great might-have-been upsoaring sublime and ideal

Gave to historical questions a free poetical treatment;

Leaving vocabular ghosts undisturbed in their lexicon-limbo,

Took Aristophanes up at a shot; and the whole three last weeks

Went, in his life and the sunshine rejoicing, to Nuneham and Godstowe:

What were the claims of Degree to those of life and the sunshine?

There did the four find Philip, the poet, the speaker, the Chartist,

Delving at Highland soil, and railing at Highland landlords,

Railing, but more, as it seemed, for the fun of the Piper’s fury.

There saw they David and Elspie Mackaye, and the Piper was almost

Almost deeply in love with Bella the sister of Elspie;

But the good Adam was heedful: they did not go too often.

There in the bright October, the gorgeous bright October,

When the brackens are changed, and heather blooms are faded,

And amid russet of heather and fern green trees are bonnie,

Alders are green, and oaks, the rowan scarlet and yellow,

Heavy the aspen, and heavy with jewels of gold the birch-tree,

There, when shearing had ended, and barley-stooks were garnered,

David gave Philip to wife his daughter, his darling Elspie;

Elspie the quiet, the brave, was wedded to Philip the poet.

So won Philip his bride. They are married and gone—But oh, Thou

Mighty one, Muse of great Epos, and Idyll the playful and tender,

Be it recounted in song, ere we part, and thou fly to thy Pindus,

(Pindus is it, O Muse, or Ætna, or even Ben-nevis?)

Be it recounted in song, O Muse of the Epos and Idyll,

Who gave what at the wedding, the gifts and fair gratulations.

Adam, the grave careful Adam, a medicine chest and tool-box,

Hope a saddle, and Arthur a plough, and the Piper a rifle,

Airlie a necklace for Elspie, and Hobbes a Family Bible,

Airlie a necklace, and Hobbes a Bible and iron bedstead.

What was the letter, O Muse, sent withal by the corpulent hero?

This is the letter of Hobbes the kilted and corpulent hero.

So the last speech and confession is made, O my eloquent speaker!

Sothe good timeiscoming, or come is it? O my Chartist!

So the cathedral is finished at last, O my Pugin of women;

Finished, and now, is it true? to be taken out whole to New Zealand!

Well, go forth to thy field, to thy barley, with Ruth, O Boaz,

Ruth, who for thee hath deserted her people, her gods, her mountains.

Go, as in Ephrath of old, in the gate of Bethlehem said they,

Go, be the wife in thy house both Rachel and Leah unto thee;

Be thy wedding of silver, albeit of iron thy bedstead!

Yea, to the full golden fifty renewed be! and fair memoranda

Happily fill the fly-leaves duly left in the Family Bible.

Live, and when Hobbes is forgotten, may’st thou, an unroasted Grand-sire,

See thy children’s children, and Democracy upon New Zealand!

This was the letter of Hobbes, and this the postscript after.

Wit in the letter will prate, but wisdom speaks in a postscript;

Listen to wisdom—Which things—you perhaps didn’t know, my dear fellow,

I have reflected;Which things are an allegory, Philip.

For this Rachel-and-Leah is marriage; which, I have seen it,

Lo, and have known it, is always, and must be, bigamy only,

Even in noblest kind a duality, compound, and complex,

One part heavenly-ideal, the other vulgar and earthy:

For this Rachel-and-Leah is marriage, and Laban, their father,

Circumstance, chance, the world, our uncle and hard task-master.

Rachel we found as we fled from the daughters of Heth by the desert

Rachel we met at the well; we came, we saw, we kissed her;

Rachel we serve-for, long years,—that seem as a few days only,

E’en for the love we have to her,—and win her at last of Laban.

Is it not Rachel we take in our joy from the hand of her father?

Is it not Rachel we lead in the mystical veil from the altar?

Rachel we dream-of at night: in the morning, behold, it is Leah.

‘Nay, it is custom,’ saith Laban, the Leah indeed is the elder.

Happy and wise who consents to redouble his service to Laban,

So, fulfilling her week, he may add to the elder the younger,

Not repudiates Leah, but wins the Rachel unto her!

Neither hate thou thy Leah, my Jacob, she also is worthy;

So, many days shall thy Rachel have joy, and survive her sister;

Yea, and her children—Which things are an allegory, Philip,

Aye, and by Origen’s head with a vengeance truly, a long one!

This was a note from the Tutor, the grave man, nick-named Adam.

I shall see you of course, my Philip, before your departure

Joy be with you, my boy, with you and your beautiful Elspie.

Happy is he that found, and finding was not heedless;

Happy is he that found, and happy the friend that was with him.

So won Philip his bride:—

They are married and gone to New Zealand.

Five hundred pounds in pocket, with books, and two or three pictures,

Tool-box, plough, and the rest, they rounded the sphere to New Zealand.

There he hewed, and dug; subdued the earth and his spirit;

There he built him a home; there Elspie bare him his children,

David and Bella; perhaps ere this too an Elspie or Adam;

There hath he farmstead and land, and fields of corn and flax fields;

And the Antipodes too have a Bothie of Tober-na-vuolich.

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