Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Free Classic E-books

Home Again by George MacDonald

Part 1 out of 3

Adobe PDF icon
Download this document as a .pdf
File size: 0.3 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Sandra Brown and Distributed Proofreaders




_(A Duplex Edition)_

By George MacDonald




In the dusk of the old-fashioned best room of a farm-house, in the faint
glow of the buried sun through the sods of his July grave, sat two
elderly persons, dimly visible, breathing the odor which roses unseen
sent through the twilight and open window. One of the two was scarcely
conscious of the odor, for she did not believe in roses; she believed
mainly in mahogany, linen, and hams; to the other it brought too much
sadness to be welcomed, for it seemed, like the sunlight, to issue from
the grave of his vanished youth. He was not by nature a sad man; he was
only one that had found the past more delightful than the present, and
had not left his first loves.

The twilight of his years had crept upon him and was deepening; and he
felt his youth slowly withering under their fallen leaves. With more
education, and perhaps more receptivity than most farmers, he had
married a woman he fervently loved, whose rarely truthful nature, to
which she had striven to keep true, had developed the delicate flower of
moral and social refinement; and her influence upon him had been of the
eternal sort. While many of their neighbors were vying with each other
in the effort to dress, and dwell, and live up to their notion of
_gentility_, Richard Colman and his wife had never troubled themselves
about fashion, but had sought to please each the taste of the other, and
cultivate their own. Perhaps now as he sat thus silent in the _dimmits_,
he was holding closer converse than he knew, or any of us can know, with
one who seemed to have vanished from all this side of things, except the
heart of her husband. That clung to what people would call _her memory_;
I prefer to call it _her_.

The rose-scented hush was torn by the strident, cicala-like shrilling of
a self-confident, self-satisfied female voice--

"Richard, that son of yours will come to no good! You may take my word
for it!"

Mr. Colman made no answer; the dusky, sweet-smelling waves of the
silence closed over its laceration.

"I am well aware my opinion is of no value in your eyes, Richard; but
that does not absolve me from the duty of stating it: if you allow him
to go on as he is doing now, Walter will never eat bread of his own

"There are many who do, and yet don't come to much!" half thought, but
nowise said the father.

"What do you mean to make of him?" persisted Miss Hancock, the
half-sister of his wife, the _a_ in whose name Walter said ought to have
been an _e_.

"Whatever he is able to make himself. He must have the main hand in it,
whatever it be," answered Mr. Colman.

"It is time twice over he had set about something! You let him go on
dawdling and dawdling without even making up his mind whether or not he
ought to do anything! Take my word for it, Richard, you'll have him on
your hands till the day of your death!"

The father did not reply that he could wish nothing better, that the
threat was more than he could hope for. He did not want to provoke his
sister-in-law, and he knew there was a shadow of reason in what she
said, though even perfect reason could not have sweetened the mode in
which she said it. Nothing could make up for the total absence of
sympathy in her utterance of any modicum of truth she was capable of
uttering. She was a very dusty woman, and never more dusty than when she
fought against dust as in a warfare worthy of all a woman's
energies--one who, because she had not a spark of Mary in her, imagined
herself a Martha. She was true as steel to the interests of those in
whose life hers was involved, but only their dusty interests, not those
which make man worth God's trouble. She was a vessel of clay in an
outhouse of the temple, and took on her the airs--not of gold, for gold
has no airs--but the airs of clay imagining itself gold, and all the
golden vessels nothing but clay.

"I put it to you, Richard Colman," she went on, "whether good ever came
of reading poetry, and falling asleep under hay-stacks! He actually
writes poetry!--and we all know what that leads to!"

"Do we?" ventured her brother-in-law. "King David wrote poetry!"

"Richard, don't garble! I will not have you garble! You know what I mean
as well as I do myself! And you know as well as I do what comes of
writing poetry! That friend of Walter's who borrowed ten pounds of
you--did he ever pay you?"

"He did, Ann."

"You didn't tell _me_!"

"I did not want to disappoint you!" replied Richard, with a sarcasm she
did not feel.

"It was worth telling!" she returned.

"I did not think so. Everybody does not stick to a bank-note like a
snail to the wall! I returned him the money."

"Returned him the money!"


"Made him a present of _ten pounds_!"

"Why not?"

"Why then?"

"I had more reasons than one."

"And no call to explain them! It was just like you to throw away your
hard earnings upon a fellow that would never earn anything for himself!
As if one such wasn't enough to take all you'd got!"

"How could he send back the money if that had been the case! He proved
himself what I believed him, ready and willing to work! The money went
for a fellow's bread and cheese, and what better money's worth would you

"You may some day want the bread and cheese for yourself!"

"One stomach is as good as another!"

"It never was and never will be any use talking to some people!"
concluded sister Ann, in the same tone she began with, for she seldom
lost her temper--though no one would have much minded her losing it, it
was so little worth keeping. Rarely angry, she was always disagreeable.
The good that was in her had no flower, but bore its fruits, in the
shape of good food, clean linen, mended socks, and such like, without
any blossom of sweet intercourse to make life pleasant.

Aunt Ann would have been quite justified in looking on poetry with
contempt had it been what she imagined it. Like many others, she had
decided opinions concerning things of which her idea nowise corresponded
with the things themselves.



While the elders thus conversed in the dusky drawing-room, where the
smell of the old roses almost overpowered that of the new, another
couple sat in a little homely bower in the garden. It was Walter and his
rather distant cousin, Molly Wentworth, who for fifteen years had been
as brother and sister. Their fathers had been great friends, and when
Molly's died in India, and her mother speedily followed him, Richard
Colman took the little orphan, who was at the time with a nurse in
England, home to his house, much to the joy of his wife, who had often
longed for a daughter to perfect the family idea. The more motherly a
woman is, the nearer will the child of another satisfy the necessities
of her motherhood. Mrs. Colman could not have said which child she loved

Over the still summer garden rested a weight of peace. It was a night to
the very mind of the fastidious, twilight-loving bat, flitting about,
coming and going, like a thought we can not help. Most of Walter's
thoughts came and went thus. He had not yet learned to think; he was
hardly more than a medium in which thought came and went. Yet when a
thought seemed worth anything, he always gave himself the credit of
it!--as if a man were author of his own thoughts any more than of his
own existence! A man can but live so with the life given him, that this
or that kind of thoughts shall call on him, and to this or that kind he
shall not be at home. Walter was only at that early stage of development
where a man is in love with what he calls his own thoughts.

Even in the dark of the summer-house one might have seen that he was
pale, and might have suspected him handsome. In the daylight his gray
eyes might almost seem the source of his paleness. His features were
well marked though delicate, and had a notable look of distinction. He
was above the middle height, and slenderly built; had a wide forehead,
and a small, pale mustache on an otherwise smooth face. His mouth was
the least interesting feature; it had great mobility, but when at rest,
little shape and no attraction. For this, however, his smile made
considerable amends.

The girl was dark, almost swarthy, with the clear, pure complexion, and
fine-grained skin, which more commonly accompany the hue. If at first
she gave the impression of delicacy, it soon changed into one of
compressed life, of latent power. Through the night, where she now sat,
her eyes were too dark to appear; they sank into it, and were as the
unseen soul of the dark; while her mouth, rather large and exquisitely
shaped, with the curve of a strong bow, seemed as often as she smiled to
make a pale window in the blackness. Her hair came rather low down the
steep of her forehead, and, with the strength of her chin, made her face
look rounder than seemed fitting.

They sat for a time as silent as the night that infolded them. They were
not lovers, though they loved each other, perhaps, more than either
knew. They were watching to see the moon rise at the head of the valley
on one of whose high sloping sides they sat.

The moon kept her tryst, and revealed a loveliness beyond what the day
had to show. She looked upon a wide valley, that gleamed with the
windings of a river. She brightened the river, and dimmed in the houses
and cottages the lights with which the opposite hill sparkled like a
celestial map. Lovelily she did her work in the heavens, her poor
mirror-work--all she was fit for now, affording fit room, atmosphere,
and medium to young imaginations, unable yet to spread their wings in
the sunlight, and believe what lies hid in the light of the workaday
world. Nor was what she showed the less true for what lay unshown in
shrouded antagonism. The vulgar cry for the real would bury in deepest
grave every eternal fact. It is the cry, "Not this man, but Barabbas!"
The day would reveal a river stained with loathsome refuse, and rich
gardens on hill-sides mantled in sooty smoke and evil-smelling vapors,
sent up from a valley where men, like gnomes, toiled and caused to toil
too eagerly. What would one think of a housekeeper so intent upon saving
that she could waste no time on beauty or cleanliness? How many who
would storm if they came home to an untidy house, feel no shadow of
uneasiness that they have all day been defiling the house of the Father,
nor at night lifted hand to cleanse it! Such men regard him as a fool,
whose joy a foul river can poison; yet, as soon as they have by
pollution gathered and saved their god, they make haste to depart from
the spot they have ruined! Oh, for an invasion of indignant ghosts, to
drive from the old places the generation that dishonors the ancient
Earth! The sun shows all their disfiguring, but the friendly night comes
at length to hide her disgrace; and that well hidden, slowly descends
the brooding moon to unveil her beauty.

For there was a _thriving_ town full of awful chimneys in the valley,
and the clouds that rose from it ascended above the Colmans' farm to the
great moor which stretched miles and miles beyond it. In the autumn sun
its low forest of heather burned purple; in the pale winter it lay white
under snow and frost; but through all the year winds would blow across
it the dull smell of the smoke from below. Had such a fume risen to the
earthly paradise, Dante would have imagined his purgatory sinking into
hell. On all this inferno the night had sunk like a foretaste of
cleansing death. The fires lay smoldering like poor, hopeless devils,
fain to sleep. The world was merged in a tidal wave from the ocean of
hope, and seemed to heave a restful sigh under its cooling renovation.



"A penny for your thought, Walter!" said the girl, after a long silence,
in which the night seemed at length to clasp her too close.

"Your penny, then! I was thinking how wild and sweet the dark wind would
be blowing up there among the ringing bells of the heather."

"You shall have the penny. I will pay you with your own coin. I keep all
the pennies I win of you. What do you do with those you win of me?"

"Oh, I don't know! I take them because you insist on paying your bets,

"Debts, you mean, Walter! You know I never bet, even in fun! I hate
taking things for nothing! I wouldn't do it!"

"Then what are you making me do now?"

"Take a penny for the thought I bought of you for a penny. That's fair
trade, not gambling. And your thought to-night is well worth a penny. I
felt the very wind on the moor for a moment!"

"I'm afraid I sha'n't get a penny a thought in London!"

"Then you are going to London, Walter?"

"Yes, indeed! What else! What is a man to do here?"

"What is a man to do there?"

"Make his way in the world."

"But, Walter, please let me understand! indeed I don't want to be
disagreeable! What do you wish to make your way to?"

"To such a position as--"

Here he stopped unsure.

"You mean to fame, and honor, and riches, don't you, Walter?" ventured

"No--not riches. Did you ever hear of a poet and riches in the same

"Oh, yes, I have!--though somehow they don't seem to go together
comfortably. If a poet is rich, he ought to show he couldn't help it."

"Suppose he was made a lord, where would he then be without money?"

"If to be a lord one must be rich, he ought never to wish to be a lord.
But you do not want to be either lord or millionaire, Walter, do you?"

"I hope I know better!"

"Where does the way you speak of lead then, Walter? To fame?"

"If it did, what would you have to say against it? Even Milton calls it
'That last infirmity of noble mind!'"

"But he calls it an infirmity, and such a bad infirmity, apparently,
that it is the hardest of all to get rid of!"

The fact was that Walter wanted to be--thought he was a poet, but was
far from certain--feared indeed it might not be so, therefore desired
greatly the verdict of men in his favor, if but for his own
satisfaction. Fame was precious to him as determining, he thought, his
position in the world of letters--his kingdom of heaven. Well read, he
had not used his reading practically enough to perceive that the praise
of one generation may be the contempt of another, perhaps of the very
next, so that the repute of his time could assure him of nothing. He did
not know the worthlessness of the opinion that either grants or
withholds fame.

He looked through the dark at his cousin, thinking, "What sets her
talking of such things? How can a girl understand a man with his career
before him!"

She read him through the night and his silence.

"I know what you are thinking, Walter!" she said. "You are thinking
women can't think. But I should be ashamed not to have common sense, and
I can not see the sense of doing anything for a praise that can help
nothing and settle nothing."

"Why then should all men have the desire for it?"

"That they may get rid of it Why have all men vanity? Where would the
world be on the way to now, if Jesus Christ had sought the praise of

"But He has it!"

"Not much of it yet, I suspect. He does not care for the praise that
comes before obedience!--that's what I have heard your father say."

"I never heard him!"

"I have heard him say it often. What could Jesus care for the praise of
one whose object in life was the praise of men!"

Walter had not lived so as to destroy the reverence of his childhood. He
believed himself to have high ideals. He felt that a man must be
upright, or lose his life. So strongly did he feel it, that he imagined
himself therefore upright, incapable of a dishonest or mean thing. He
had never done, never could, he thought, do anything unfair. But to what
Molly said, he had no answer. What he half thought in his silence, was
something like this: that Jesus Christ was not the type of manhood, but
a man by himself, who came to do a certain work; that it was both absurd
and irreverent to talk as if other men had to do as He did, to think and
feel like Him; that He was so high above the world He could not care for
its fame, while to mere man its praises must be dear. Nor did Walter
make any right distinction between the approbation of understanding men,
who know the thing they praise, and the empty voice of the unwise many.

In a word, Walter thought, without knowing he did, that Jesus Christ was
not a man.

"I think, Molly," he said, "we had better avoid the danger of

For the sake of his poor reverence he would frustrate the mission of the
Son of God; by its wretched mockery justify himself in refusing the
judgment of Jesus!

"I know you think kindly of me, Molly," he went on, "and I should be
sorry to have you misunderstand me; but surely a man should not require
religion to make him honest! I scorn the notion. A man must be just and
true because he is a man! Surely a man may keep clear of the thing he
loathes! For my own honor," he added, with a curl of his lip, "I shall
at least do nothing disgraceful, however I may fall short of the

"I doubt," murmured Molly, "whether a man is a man until he knows God."

But Walter, if he heard the words, neither heeded nor answered them. He
was far from understanding the absurdity of doing right from love of

He was no hypocrite. He did turn from what seemed to him degrading. But
there were things degrading which he did not see to be such, things on
which some men to whom he did not yet look up, would have looked down.
Also there was that in his effort to sustain his self-respect which was
far from pure: he despised such as had failed; and to despise the human
because it has fallen, is to fall from the human. He had done many
little things he ought to be, and one day must be, but as yet felt no
occasion to be--ashamed of. So long as they did not trouble him they
seemed nowhere. Many a youth starts in life like him, possessed with the
idea, not exactly formulated, that he is a most precious specimen of
pure and honorable humanity. It comes of self-ignorance, and a low ideal
taken for a high one. Such are mainly among the well-behaved, and never
doubt themselves a prize for any woman. They color their notion of
themselves with their ideal, and then mistake the one for the other. The
mass of weaknesses and conceits that compose their being they compress
into their ideal mold of man, and then regard the shape as their own.
What composes it they do not heed.

No man, however, could look in the refined face of Walter Colman and
imagine him cherishing sordid views of life. Asked what of all things he
most admired, he might truly answer, "The imaginative intellect." He was
a fledgling poet. He worshiped what he called thoughts, would rave about
a thought in the abstract, apostrophize an uncaught idea. When a
concrete thinkable one fell to him, he was jubilant over the isolate
thing, and with his joy value had nothing to do. He would stand wrapped
in the delight of what he counted its beauty, and yet more in the
delight that his was the mind that had generated such a meteor! To be
able to think pretty things was to him a gigantic distinction! A thought
that could never be soul to any action, would be more valuable to him
than the perception of some vitality of relation demanding the activity
of the whole being. He would call thoughts the stars that glorify the
firmament of humanity, but the stars of his firmament were merely
atmospheric--pretty fancies, external likenesses. That the grandest
thing in the world is to be an accepted poet, is the despotic craze of a
vast number of the weak-minded and half-made of both sexes. It feeds
poetic fountains of plentiful yield, but insipid and enfeebling flow,
the mere sweat of weakness under the stimulus of self-admiration.



Walter was the very antipode of the Molly he counted commonplace, one
outside the region of poetry; she had a passion for turning a _think_
into a thing. She had a strong instinctive feeling that she was in the
world to do something, and she saw that if nobody tried to keep things
right, they would go terribly wrong: what then could she be there for
but to set or keep things right! and if she could do nothing with the
big things, she must be the busier with the little things! Besides, who
could tell how much the little might have to do with the big things! The
whole machine depended on every tiny wheel! She could not order the
clouds, but she could keep some weeds from growing, and then when the
rain came, they would not take away the good of it!

The world might be divided into those who let things go, and those who
do not; into the forces and facts, the slaves and fancies; those who are
always doing something on God's creative lines, and those that are
always grumbling and striving against them.

"Another penny for your thought, Walter!" said Molly.

"I am not going to deal with you. This time you would not think it worth
a penny! Why are you so inquisitive about my thoughts?"

"I want to know what you meant when you said the other day that thoughts
were better than things."

Walter hesitated. The question was an inclined plane leading to unknown
depths of argument!

"See, Walter," said Molly, "here is a _narcissus_--a pheasant's eye:
tell me the thought that is better than this thing!"

How troublesome girls were when they asked questions!

"Well," he said, not very logically, "that narcissus has nothing but air
around it; my thought of the narcissus has mind around it."

"Then a thought is better than a thing because it has thought round
about it?"

"Well, yes"

"Did the thing come there of itself, or did it come of God's thinking?"

"Of God's thinking."

"And God is always the same?"


"Then God's thought is about the narcissus still--and the narcissus is
better than your thought of it!"

Walter was silent.

"I should so like to understand!" said Molly. "If you have a thought
more beautiful than the narcissus, Walter, I should like to see it! Only
if I could see it, it would be a thing, would it not? A thing must be a
think before it be a thing. A thing is a ripe think, and must be better
than a think--except it lose something in ripening--which may very well
be with man's thoughts, but hardly with God's! I will keep in front of
the things, and look through them to the thoughts behind them. I want to
understand! If a thing were not a thought first, it would not be worth
anything! And everything has to be thought about, else we don't see what
it is! I haven't got it quite!"

Instead of replying, Walter rose, and they walked to the house side by
side in silence.

"Could a thought be worth anything that God had never cared to think?"
said Molly to herself as they went.



Mr. Colman and his adopted daughter were fast friends--so fast and so
near that they could talk together about Walter, though but the adoptive
brother of the one, and the real son of the other. Richard had
inherited, apparently, his wife's love to Molly, and added to it his
own; but their union had its root in the perfect truthfulness of the
two. Real approximation, real union must ever be in proportion to mutual
truthfulness. It was quite after the usual fashion, therefore, between
them, when Molly began, to tell her father about the conversation she
had had with Walter.

"What first made you think, Molly, of such a difference between thoughts
and things?" asked Mr. Colman.

"I know quite well," answered Molly. "You remember our visit to your old
school-friend, Mr. Dobson?"

"Of course; perfectly."

Mr. Dobson was a worthy clergyman, doing his weary best in a rural

"And you remember Mrs. Evermore?"


"You thought her name a funny one; but you said it ought to have been
_'Nevermore,'_ because she seemed never to get any further!"

"Come, come, Molly! that won't do! It was you, not I, that said such a
spiteful thing!" "It was true any way!" answered Molly; "and you agreed
with me; so if I said it first, you said it last! Well, I had to study
this Mrs. Evermore. From morning to night she was evermore on the hunt
after new fancies. She watched for them, stalked them, followed them
like a boy with a butterfly-net She caught them too, of the sort she
wanted, plentifully. But none ever came to anything, so far as I could
see. She never did anything with one of them. Whatever she caught had a
cage to itself, where it sat on 'the all-alone-stone.' Every other
moment, while you and Mr. Dobson were talking, she would cry 'oh! oh!
o--o--oh!' and pull out her note-book, which was the cork-box in which
she pinned her butterflies. She must have had a whole museum of ideas!
The most accidental resemblance between words would suffice to start
one: after it she would go, catch it, pin it down, and call it a
correspondence. Now and then a very pretty notion would fall to her net,
and often a silly one; but all were equally game to her. I found her
amusing and interesting for two days, but then began to see she only led
nothing nowhere. She was touchy, and jealous, and said things that
disgusted me; never did anything for anybody; and though she hunted
religious ideas most, never seemed to imagine they could have anything
to do with her life. It was only the fineness of a good thought even
that she seemed to prize. She would startle you any moment by an
exclamation of delight at some religious fancy or sentimentality, and
down it most go in her book, but it went no further than her book: she
was just as common as before, vulgar even, in her judgments of motives
and actions. She seemed made for a refined and delicate woman, but not
to take the trouble to be what she was made for. You told me, you know,
that God makes us, but _we_ have to be. She talked about afflictions as
one might of manure: by these afflictions, of which she would complain
bitterly, she was being fashioned for life eternal! It was all the most
dreary, noisome rubbish I had ever come across. I used to lie awake
thinking what could ever rouse such a woman to see that she had to _do_
something; that man nor woman can become anything without having a hand
in the matter. She seemed to expect the spirit of God to work in her
like yeast in flour, although there was not a sign of the dough rising.
That is how I came to see that one may have any number of fine thoughts
and fancies and be nothing the better, any more than the poor woman in
the gospel with her doctors! And when Walter, the next time he came
home, talked as he did about thoughts, and quoted Keats to the same
effect, as if the finest thing in the universe were a fine thought, I
could not bear it, and that made me speak to him as I did."

"You have made it very clear, Molly; and I quite agree with you: thinks
are of no use except they be turned into things."

"But perhaps, after all, I may have been unfair to her!" said Molly.
"People are so queer! They seem sometimes to be altogether made up of
odd bits of different people. There's Aunt Ann now! she would not do a
tradesman out of a ha'penny, but she will cheat at backgammon!"

"I know she will, and that is why I never play with her. It is so seldom
she will give herself any recreation, that it makes me sorry to refuse

"There is one thing that troubles me," said Molly, after a little pause.

"What is it, my child? I always like to hear something troubles you, for
then I know you are going to have something. To miss is the preparation
for receiving."

"I can't care--much--about poetry--and Walter says such fine things
about it! Walter is no fool!"

"Far from one, I am glad to think!" said Richard, laughing. Molly's
straightforward, humble confidence, he found as delightful as amusing.

"It seems to me so silly to scoff at things because you can't go in for
them! I sometimes hear people make insulting remarks about music, and
music I _know_ to be a good and precious and lovely thing. Then I think
with myself, they must be in the same condition with regard to music,
that I am in with regard to poetry. So I take care not to be a fool in
talking about what I don't know. That I am stupid is no reason for being
a fool. Any one whom God has made stupid, has a right to be stupid, but
no right to call others fool because they are not stupid."

"I thought you liked poetry, Molly!"

"So I do when you read it, or talk about it. It seems as if you made
your way of it grow my way of it. I hear the poetry and feel your
feeling of it. But when I try to read it myself, then I don't care for
it. Sometimes I turn it into prose, and then I get a hold of it."

"That is about the best and hardest test you could put it to, Molly! But
perhaps you have been trying to like what ought not, because it does not
deserve to be liked. There is much in the shape of poetry that set in
gold and diamonds would be worth nothing."

"I think the difficulty is in myself. Sometimes I am in the fit mood,
and other times not. A single line will now and then set something
churning, churning in me, so that I can not understand myself. It will
make me think of music, and sunrise, and the wind, and the song of the
lark, and all lovely things. But sometimes prose will serve me the same.
And the next minute, perhaps, either of them will be boring me more than
I can bear! I know it is my own fault, but--"

"Stop there, Molly! It may sometimes be your own fault, but certainly
not always! You are fastidious, little one; and in exquisite things how
can one be too fastidious! When Walter is gone, suppose we read a little
more poetry together?"

Richard Colman had made some money in one of the good farming times, but
of late had not been increasing his store. But he was a man too
genuinely practical to set his mind upon making money.

There are parents who, notwithstanding they have found possession
powerless for their own peace, not the less heap up for the sons coming
after, in the weak but unquestioned fancy that possession will do for
them what it could not do for their fathers and mothers. Richard was
above such stupidity. He had early come to see that the best thing money
could do for his son, was to help in preparing him for some work fit to
employ what faculty had been given him, in accordance with the tastes
also given him. He saw, the last thing a foolish father will see, that
the best a father can do, is to enable his son to earn his livelihood in
the exercise of a genial and righteous labor. He saw that possession
generates artificial and enfeebling wants, overlaying and smothering the
God-given necessities of our nature, whence alone issue golden hopes and
manly endeavors.

He had therefore been in no haste to draw from his son a declaration of
choice as to profession. When every man shall feel in himself a call to
this or that, and scarce needs make a choice, the generations will be
well served; but that is not yet, and what Walter was fit for was not
yet quite manifest. It was only clear to the father that his son must
labor for others with a labor, if possible, whose reflex action should
be life to himself. Agriculture seemed inadequate to the full employment
of the gifts which, whether from paternal partiality or genuine insight,
he believed his son to possess; neither had Walter shown inclination or
aptitude for any department of it. All Richard could do, therefore, was
to give him such preparation as would be fundamentally available for any
superstructure: he might, he hoped, turn to medicine or the law. Partly
for financial reasons, he sent him to Edinburgh.

There Walter neither distinguished nor disgraced himself, and developed
no inclination to one more than another of the careers open to a young
man of education. He read a good deal, however, and showed taste in
literature--was indeed regarded by his companions as an authority in its
more imaginative ranges, and specially in matters belonging to verse,
having an exceptionally fine ear for its vocal delicacies. This is one
of the rarest of gifts; but rarity does not determine value, and Walter
greatly overestimated its relative importance. The consciousness of its
presence had far more than a reasonable share in turning his thoughts to
literature as a profession.

When his bent became apparent, it troubled his father a little. He knew
that to gain the level of excellence at which labor in that calling
insured the merest livelihood, required in most cases a severe struggle;
and for such effort he doubted his son's capacity, perceiving in him
none of the stoic strength that comes of a high ideal, and can encounter
disappointment, even privation, without injury. Other and deeper dangers
the good parent did not see. He comforted himself that, even if things
went no better than now, he could at least give his son a fair chance of
discovering whether the career would suit him, until he should attain
the material end of it. Long before Miss Hancock's attack upon his
supposed indifference to his son's idleness, he had made up his mind to
let him try how far he could go in the way to which he was drawn; and
the next day told his son, to his unspeakable delight, that he was ready
to do what lay in his power to further his desire; that his own earthly
life was precious to him only for the sake of the children he must by
and by leave; and that when he saw him busy, contented, and useful, he
would gladly yield his hold upon it.

Walter's imagination took fire at the prospect of realizing all he had
longed for but feared to subject to paternal scrutiny, and he was at
once eager to go out into the great unhomely world, in the hope of being
soon regarded by his peers as the possessor of certain gifts and
faculties which had not yet handed in their vouchers to himself. For, as
the conscience of many a man seems never to trouble him until the look
of his neighbors bring their consciences to bear upon his, so the mind
of many a man seems never to satisfy him that he has a gift until other
men grant his possession of it. Around Walter, nevertheless, the world
broke at once into rare bloom. He became like a windy day in the house,
vexing his aunt with his loud, foolish gladness, and causing the wise
heart of Molly many a sudden, chilly foreboding. She knew him better
than his father knew him. His father had not played whole days with him,
and day after day! She knew that happiness made him feel strong for
anything, but that his happiness was easily dashed, and he was then a
rain-wet, wind-beaten butterfly. He had no soul for bad weather. He
could not therefore be kept in wadding, however! He must have his trial;
must, in one way or another, encounter life, and disclose what amount of
the real might be in him--what little, but enlargeable claim he might
have to manhood!



Every morning, a man may say,
Calls him up with a new birth-day;
Every day is a little life,
Sunny with love, stormy with strife;
Every life is a little death,
From which too soon he awakeneth--

--as Walter himself wrote, not then knowing half that the words meant.
As with the skirt of her mantle the dark wipes out the day, so with her
sleep the night makes a man fresh for the new day's journey. If it were
not for sleep, the world could not go on. To feel the mystery of day and
night, to gaze into the far receding spaces of their marvel, is more
than to know all the combinations of chemistry. A little wonder is worth
tons of knowledge. But to Walter the new day did not come as a call to
new life in the world of will and action, but only as the harbinger of a
bliss borne hitherward on the wind of the world. Was he not going forth
as a Titanic child to become a great man among great men! Who would be
strong among the weak! who would be great among the small! He did not
suspect in himself what Molly saw, or at least suspected in him. When a
man is hopeful, he feels strong, and can work. The thoughts come and the
pen runs. Were he always at his best, what might not a man do! But not
many can determine their moods; and none, be they poets or economists,
can any more secure the conditions of faculty than they can create the
faculty. When the mood changes and hope departs, and the inward
atmosphere is grown damp and dismal, there may be whose imagination will
yet respond to their call; but let some certain kind of illness come,
and every one must lose his power; his creature-condition will assert
itself; he is compelled to discover that we did not create ourselves,
neither live by ourselves.

Walter loved his father, but did not mind leaving him; he loved Molly,
but did not mind leaving her; and we can not blame him if he was glad to
escape from his aunt. If people are not lovable, it takes a saint to
love them, or at least one who is not afraid of them. Yet it was with a
sense of somewhat dreary though welcome liberty, that Walter found
himself, but for the young man his father had befriended, alone in
London. With his help he found an humble lodging not far from the
British Museum, to the neighborhood of which his love of books led him;
and for a time, feeling no necessity for immediate effort, he gave
himself to the study of certain departments of our literature not
hitherto within his easy reach. In the evening he would write, or
accompany his new friend to some lecture or amusement; and so the weeks
passed. To earn something seemed but a slowly approaching necessity, and
the weeks grew to months. He was never idle, for his tastes were strong,
and he had delight in his pen; but so sensitive was his social skin,
partly from the licking of his aunt's dry, feline tongue, that he shrunk
from submitting anything he wrote to Harold Sullivan, who, a man of
firmer and more world-capable stuff than he, would at least have shown
him how things which the author saw and judged from the inner side of
the web, must appear on the other side. There are few weavers of thought
capable of turning round the web and contemplating with unprejudiced
regard the side of it about to be offered to the world, so as to
perceive how it will look to eyes alien to its genesis.

It would be to repeat a story often told, to relate how he sent poem
after poem, now to this now to that periodical, with the same
result--that he never heard of them again. The verses over which he had
labored with delight, in the crimson glory they reflected on the heart
whence they issued, were nothing in any eyes to which he submitted them.
In truth, except for a good line here and there, they were by no means
on the outer side what they looked to him on the inner. He read them in
the light of the feeling in which he had written them; whoever else read
them had not this light to interpret them by, had no correspondent mood
ready to receive them. It was the business of the verse itself, by
witchery of sound and magic of phrase, to rouse receptive mood: of this
it was incapable. A course of reading in the first attempts of such as
rose after to well-merited distinction, might reveal not a few
things--among the rest, their frequent poverty. Much mere babbling often
issues before worthy speech begins. There was nothing in Walter's mind
to be put in form except a few of the vague lovely sensations belonging
to a poetic temperament. And as he grew more and more of a reader, his
inspiration came more and more from what he read, less and less from
knowledge of his own heart or the hearts of others. He had no revelation
to give. He had, like most of our preachers, set out to run before he
could walk, begun to cry aloud before he had any truth to utter; to
teach, or at least to interest others, before he was himself interested
in others. Now and then, indeed, especially when some fading joy of
childhood gleamed up, words would come unbidden, and he would throw off
a song destitute neither of feeling nor music; but this kind of thing he
scarcely valued, for it seemed to cost him nothing.

He comforted himself by concluding that his work was of a kind too
original to be at once recognized by dulled and sated editors; that he
must labor on and keep sending.

"Why do you not write something?" his friend would say; and he would
answer that his time was not come.

The friends he made were not many. Instinctively he shrunk from what was
coarse, feeling it destructive to every finer element. How could he
write of beauty, if, false to beauty, he had but for a moment turned to
the unclean? But he was not satisfied with himself: he had done nothing,
even in his own eyes, while the recognition of the world was lacking!

He was in no anxiety, for he did not imagine it of consequence to his
father whether he began a little sooner or a little later to earn. The
governor knew, he said to himself, that to earn ought not to be a man's
first object in life, even when necessity compelled him to make it first
in order of time, which was not the case with him! But he did not ask
himself whether he had substituted a better object. A greater man than
himself, he reflected--no less a man, indeed, than Milton--had never
earned a dinner till after he was thirty years of age! He did not
consider how and to what ends Milton had all the time been diligent. He
was no student yet of men's lives; he was interested almost only in
their imaginations, and not half fastidious enough as to whether those
imaginations ran upon the rails of truth or not. He was rapidly filling
his mind with the good and bad of the literature of his country, but he
had not yet gone far in distinguishing between the bad and the good in
it. Books were to him the geological deposits of the literary forces. He
pursued his acquaintance with them to nourish the literary faculty in
himself. They afforded him atmosphere and stimulant and store of matter.
He was in full training for the profession that cultivates literature
for and upon literature, and neither for nor upon truth.



A big stone fell suddenly into the smooth pool of Walter's conditions. A
letter from his father brought the news that the bank where he had
deposited his savings had proved but a swollen mushroom. He had lost

"Indeed, my son," wrote the sorrowful Richard, "I do not see how with
honesty to send you a shilling more! If you have exhausted the proceeds
of my last check, and can not earn a sufficiency, come home. Thank God,
the land yet remains!--so long as I can pay the rent."

In the heart of Walter woke a new impulse. He drew himself up for combat
and endurance. I am afraid he did not feel much trouble for his father's
trouble, but he would have scorned adding to it. He wrote at once that
he must not think of him in the affair; he would do very well. It was
not a comforting letter exactly, but it showed courage, and his father
was glad.

He set himself to find employment in some one of the mechanical
departments of literature--the only region in which he could think to do
anything. When the architect comes to necessity, it is well if stones
are near, and the mason's hammer: if he be not the better mason that he
is an architect, alas for his architecture! Walter was nothing yet,
however, neither architect nor mason, when the stern hand of necessity
laid hold of him. But it is a fine thing for any man to be compelled to
work. It is the first divine decree, issuing from love and help. How
would it have been with Adam and Eve had they been left to plenty and
idleness, the voice of God no more heard in the cool of the day?

But the search for work was a difficult and disheartening task. He who
has encountered it, however, has had an experience whose value far more
than equals its unpleasantness. A man out of work needs the God that
cares for the sparrows, as much as the man whose heart is torn with
ingratitude, or crushed under a secret crime. Walter went hither and
thither, communicated his quest to each of his few acquaintances,
procured introductions, and even without any applied to some who might
have employment to bestow, putting so much pride in his pockets that,
had it been a solid, they must have bulged in unsightly fashion, and
walked till worn with weariness, giving good proof that he was no fool,
but had the right stuff in him. He neither yielded to false
fastidiousness, nor relaxed effort because of disappointment--not even
when disappointment became the very atmosphere of his consciousness. To
the father it would have been the worst of his loss to see his son
wiping the sweat and dust from the forehead his mother had been so
motherly proud of, and hear the heavy sigh with which he would sink in
the not too easy chair that was all his haven after the tossing of the
day's weary groundswell. He did not rise quite above self-pity; he
thought he was hardly dealt with; but so long as he did not respond to
the foolish and weakening sentiment by relaxation of effort, it could
not do him much harm; he would soon grow out of it, and learn to despise
it. What one man has borne, why should not another bear? Why should it
be unfit for him any more than the other? Certainly he who has never
borne has yet to bear. The new experience is awaiting every member of
the Dives clan. Walter wore out his shoes, and could not buy another
pair; his clothes grew shabby, and he must wear them: it was no small
part of his suffering, to have to show himself in a guise which made him
so unlike the Walter he felt. But he did not let his father know even a
small part of what he confronted.

He had never drawn close to his father; they had come to no spiritual
contact. Walter, the gentleman, saw in Richard the farmer. He knew him
an honorable man, and in a way honored him; but he would have been
dissatisfied with him in such society to which he considered himself
belonging. It is a sore thing for a father, when he has shoved his son
up a craggy steep, to see him walk away without looking behind. Walter
felt a difference between them.

He had to give up his lodgings. Sullivan took him into his, and shared
his bed with him--doing all he could in return for his father's

Where now was Walter's poetry? Naturally, vanished. He was man enough to
work, but not man enough to continue a poet._ His_ poetry!--how could
such a jade stand the spur!

But to bestir himself was better than to make verses; and indeed of all
the labors for a livelihood in which a man may cultivate verse, that of
literature is the last he should choose. Compare the literary efforts of
Burns with the songs he wrote when home from his plow!

Walter's hope had begun to faint outright, when Sullivan came in one
evening as he lay on the floor, and told him that the editor of a new
periodical, whom he had met at a friend's house, would make a place for
him. The remuneration could suffice only to a grinding economy, but it
was bread!--more, it was work, and an opening to possibilities! Walter
felt himself equal to any endurance short of incapacitating hunger, and
gladly accepted the offer. His duty was the merest agglomeration; but
even in that he might show faculty, and who could tell what might
follow! It was wearisome but not arduous, and above all, it left him



Walter found that compulsory employment, while taking from, his time for
genial labor, quickened his desire after it, increased his faculty for
it, and made him more careful of his precious hours of leisure. Life,
too, had now an interest greater than before; and almost as soon as
anxiety gave place, the impulse to utterance began again to urge him.
What this impulse is, who can define, or who can trace its origin? The
result of it in Walter's case was ordered words, or, conventionally,
poetry. Seldom is such a result of any value, but the process is for the
man invaluable: it remained to be seen whether in Walter it was for
others as well as himself.

He became rapidly capable of better work. His duty was drudgery, but
drudgery well encountered will reveal itself as of potent and precious
reaction, both intellectual and moral. One incapable of drudgery can not
be capable of the finest work. Many a man may do many things well, and
be far from reception into the most ancient guild of workers.

Walter labored with conscience and diligence, and brought his good taste
to tell on the quality of his drudgery. He is a contemptible workman who
thinks of his claims before his duties, of his poor wages instead of his
undertaken work. There was a strong sense of fairness in Walter; he saw
the meanness of pocketing the poorest without giving good work in
return; he saw that its own badness, and nothing else, makes any work
mean--and the workman with it. That he believed himself capable of
higher work was the worst of reasons for not giving money's worth for
his money. That a thing is of little value is a poor excuse for giving
bad measure of it. Walter carried his hod full, and was a man.

Sullivan was mainly employed in writing the reviews of "current
literature." One evening he brought Walter a book of some pretension,
told him he was hard pressed, and begged him to write a notice of it.
Walter, glad of the opportunity of both serving his friend and trying
his own hand, set himself at once to read the book. The moment he thus
took the attitude of a reviewer, he found the paragraphs begin, like
potatoes, to sprout, and generate other paragraphs. Between agreeing and
disagreeing he had soon far more than enough to say, and sought his
table, as a workman his bench.

To many people who think, writing is the greatest of bores; but Walter
enjoyed it, even to the mechanical part of the operation. Heedless of
the length of his article, he wrote until long after midnight, and next
morning handed the result to his friend. He burst out laughing.

"Here's a paper for a quarterly!" he cried. "Man, it is almost as long
as the book itself! This will never do! The world has neither time,
space, money, nor brains for so much! But I will take it, and see what
can be done with it"

About a sixth part of it was printed. In that sixth Walter could not
recognize his hand; neither could he have gathered from it any idea of
the book.

A few days after, Harold brought him a batch of books to review, taking
care, however, to limit him to an average length for each. Walter
entered thus upon a short apprenticeship, the end of which was that, a
vacancy happening to occur, he was placed on "the staff" of the journal,
to aid in reviewing the books sent by their publishers. His income was
considerably augmented, but the work was harder, and required more of
his time.

From the first he was troubled to find how much more honesty demanded
than pay made possible. He had not learned this while merely
supplementing the labor of his friend, and taking his time. But now he
became aware that to make acquaintance with a book, and pass upon it a
justifiable judgment, required at least four times the attention he
could afford it and live. Many, however, he could knock off without
compunction, regarding them as too slight to deserve attention:
"indifferent honest," he was not so sensitive in justice as to reflect
that the poorest thing has a right to fair play; that, free to say
nothing, you must, if you speak, say the truth of the meanest. But
Walter had not yet sunk to believe there can be _necessity_ for doing
wrong. The world is divided, very unequally, into those that think a man
can not avoid, and those who believe he _must_ avoid doing wrong. Those
live in fear of death; these set death in one eye and right in the

His first important review, Walter was compelled to print without having
finished it. The next he worked at hardest, and finished, but with less
deliberation. He grew more and more careless toward the books he counted
of little consequence, while he imagined himself growing more and more
capable of getting at the heart of a book by skimming its pages. If to
skim be ever a true faculty, it must come of long experience in the art
of reading, and is not possible to a beginner. To skim and judge, is to
wake from a doze and give the charge to a jury.

Writing more and more smartly, he found the usual difficulty in
abstaining from a smartness which was unjust because irrelevant.

So far as his employers were concerned, Walter did his duty, but forgot
that, apart from his obligation to the mere and paramount truth, it was
from the books he reviewed--good, bad, or indifferent, whichever they
were--that he drew the food he eat and the clothes that covered him.

His talent was increasingly recognized by the editors of the newspaper,
and they began to put other, and what they counted more important work
in his way, intrusting him with the discussion of certain social
questions of the day, in regard to which, like many another youth of
small experience, he found it the easier to give a confident opinion
that his experience was so small. In general he wrote logically, and,
which is rarer, was even capable of being made to see where his logic
was wrong. But his premises were much too scanty. What he took for
granted was very often by no means granted. It mattered, little to
editors or owners, however, so long as he wrote lucidly, sparklingly,
"crisply," leaving those who read, willing to read more from the same



Within a year Walter began to be known--to the profession, at least--as
a promising writer; and was already, to more than a few, personally
known as a very agreeable, gentlemanly fellow, so that in the following
season he had a good many invitations. It was by nothing beyond the
ephemeral that he was known; but may not the man who has invented a good
umbrella one day build a good palace? His acquaintance was considerably
varied, but of the social terraces above the professional, he knew for a
time nothing.

One evening, however, he happened to meet, and was presented to Lady
Tremaine: she had asked to have the refined-looking young man, of whom
she had just heard as one of the principal writers in the "Field
Battery," introduced to her. She was a matronly, handsome woman, with
cordial manners and a cold eye; frank, easy, confident, unassuming.
Under the shield of her position, she would walk straight up to any
subject, and speak her mind of it plainly. It was more than easy to
become acquainted with her when she chose.

The company was not a large one, and they soon found themselves alone in
a quiet corner.

"You are a celebrated literary man, Mr. Colman, they tell me!" said Lady

"Not in the least," answered Walter. "I am but a poor hack."

"It is well to be modest; but I am not bound to take your description of
yourself. Your class at least is in a fair way to take the lead!"

"In what, pray?"

"In politics, in society, in everything."

"You ladyship can not think it desirable."

"I do not pretend to desire it. I am not false to my own people. But the
fact remains that you are coming to the front, and we are falling
behind. And the sooner you get to the front, the better it will be for
the world, and for us too."

"I can not say I understand you."

"I will tell you why. There are now no fewer than three aristocracies.
There is one of rank, and one of brains. I belong to the one, you to the
other. But there is a third."

"If you recognize the rich as an aristocracy, you must allow me to
differ from you--very much!"

"Naturally. I quite agree with you. But what can your opinion and mine
avail against the rising popular tide! All the old families are melting
away, swallowed by the _nouveaux riches_. I should not mind, or at least
I should feel it in me to submit with a good grace, if we were pushed
from our stools by a new aristocracy of literature and science, but I do
rebel against the social _regime_ which is every day more strongly
asserting itself. All the gradations are fast disappearing; the
palisades of good manners, dignity, and respect, are vanishing with the
hedges; the country is positively inundated with slang and
vulgarity--all from the ill-breeding, presumption, and self-satisfaction
of new people."

Walter felt tempted to ask whether it was not the fault of the existent
aristocracy in receiving and flattering them; whether it could not
protect society if it would; whether in truth the aristocracy did not
love, even honor money as much as they; but he was silent.

As if she read his thought, Lady Tremaine resumed:

"The plague of it is that younger sons must live! Money they must
have!--and there's the gate off the hinges! The best, and indeed the
only thing to help is, that the two other aristocracies make common
cause to keep the rich in their proper place."

It was not a very subtle flattery, but Walter was pleased. The lady saw
she had so far gained her end, for she had an end in view, and changed
the subject.

"You go out of an evening, I see!" she said at length. "I am glad. Some
authors will not."

"I do when I can. The evening, however, to one who--who--"

"--Has an eye on posterity! Of course! It is gold and diamonds! How
silly all our pursuits must appear in your eyes! But I hope you will
make an exception in my favor!"

"I shall be most happy," responded Walter, cordially.

"I will not ask you to come and be absorbed in a crowd--not the first
time at least! Gould you not manage to come and see me in the morning?"

"I am at your ladyship's service," replied Walter.

"Then come--let me see!--the day after to-morrow--about five o'clock.
17, Goodrich Square."

Walter could not but be flattered that Lady Tremaine was so evidently
pleased with him. She called his profession an aristocracy too!
therefore she was not patronizing him, but receiving him on the same
social level! We can not blame him for the inexperience which allowed
him to hold his head a little higher as he walked home.

There was little danger of his forgetting the appointment. Lady Tremaine
received him in what she called her growlery, with cordiality. By and by
she led the way toward literature, and after they had talked of several
new books--

"We are not in this house altogether strange," she said, "to your
profession. My daughter Lufa is an authoress in her way. You, of course,
never heard of her, but it is twelve months since her volume of verse
came out."

Surely Walter had, somewhere about that time, when helping his friend
Sullivan, seen a small ornate volume of verses, with a strange name like
that on the title-page! Whether he had written a notice of it he could
not remember.

"It was exceedingly well received--for a first, of course! Lufa hardly
thought so herself, but I told her what could she expect, altogether
unknown as she was. Tell me honestly, Mr. Colman, is there not quite as
much jealousy in your profession as in any other?"

Walter allowed it was not immaculate in respect of envy and evil

"You have so much opportunity for revenge, you see!" said Lady Tremaine;
"and such a coat of darkness for protection! With a few strokes of the
pen a man may ruin his rival!"

"Scarcely that!" returned Walter. "If a book be a good book, the worst
of us can not do it much harm; nor do I believe there are more than a
few in the profession who would condescend to give a false opinion upon
the work of a rival; though doubtless personal feeling may pervert the

"That, of course," returned the lady, "is but human! You can not deny,
however, that authors occasionally make furious assaults on each other!"

"Authors ought not to be reviewers," replied Walter. "I fancy most
reviewers avoid the work of an acquaintance even, not to say a friend or

The door opened, and what seemed to Walter as lovely a face as could
ever have dawned on the world, peeped in, and would have withdrawn.

"Lufa," said Lady Tremaine, "you need not go away. Mr. Colman and I have
no secrets. Come and be introduced to him."

She entered--a small, pale creature, below the middle height, with the
daintiest figure, and child-like eyes of dark blue, very clear,
and--must I say it?--for the occasion "worn" wide. Her hair was brown,
on the side of black, divided in the middle, and gathered behind in a
great mass. Her dress was something white, with a shimmer of red about
it, and a blush-rose in the front. She greeted Walter in the simplest,
friendliest way, holding out her tiny hand very frankly. Her features
were no smaller than for her size they ought to be, in themselves
perfect, \Walter thought, and in harmony with her whole being and
carriage. Her manner was a gentle, unassuming assurance--almost as if
they knew each other, but had not met for some time. Walter felt some
ancient primeval bond between them--dim, but indubitable.

The mother withdrew to her writing-table, and began to write, now and
then throwing in a word as they talked. Lady Lufa seemed pleased with
her new acquaintance; Walter was bewitched. Bewitchment I take to be the
approach of the real to our ideal. Perhaps upon that, however, depends
even the comforting or the restful. In the heart of every one lies the
necessity for homeliest intercourse with the perfectly lovely; we are
made for it. Yet so far are we in ourselves from the ideal, which no man
can come near until absolutely devoted to its quest, that we continually
take that for sufficing which is a little beyond.

"I think, Mr. Colman, I have seen something of yours! You do put your
name to what you write?" said Lady Lufa.

"Not always," replied Walter.

"I think the song must have been yours!"

Walter had, just then, for the first time published a thing of his own.
That it should have arrested the eye of this lovely creature! He
acknowledged that he had printed a trifle in "The Observatory."

"I was _charmed_ with it!" said the girl, the word charmingly drawled.

"The merest trifle!" remarked Walter. "It cost me nothing."

He meant what he said, unwilling to be judged by such a slight thing.

"That is the beauty of it!" she answered. "Your song left your soul as
the thrush's leaves his throat. Should we prize the thrush's more if we
came upon him practicing it?"

Walter laughed.

"But we are not meant to sing like the birds!"

"That you could write such a song without effort, shows you to possess
the bird-gift of spontaneity."

Walter was surprised at her talk, and willing to believe it profound.

"The will and the deed in one may be the highest art!" he said. "I
hardly know."

"May I write music to it?" asked Lady Lufa, with upward glance, sweet
smile, and gently apologetic look.

"I am delighted you should think of doing so. It is more than it
deserves!" answered Walter. "My only condition is, that you will let me
hear it."

"That you have a right to. Besides, I dared not publish it without
knowing you liked it."

"Thank you so much! To hear you sing it will let me know at once whether
the song itself be genuine."

"No, no! I may fail in my part, and yours be all I take it to be. But I
shall not fail. It holds me too fast for that!"

"Then I may hope for a summons?" said Walter, rising.

"Before long. One can not order the mood, you know!"



Birds when they leave the nest carry, I presume, their hearts with them;
not a few humans leave their hearts behind them--too often, alas! to be
sent for afterward. The whole round of the world, many a cloud-rack on
the ridge of it, and many a mist on the top of that, rises between them
and the eyes and hearts which gave their very life that they might live.
Some as they approach middle age, some only when they are old, wake up
to understand that they have parents. To some the perception comes with
their children; to others with the pang of seeing them walk away
light-hearted out into the world, as they themselves turned their backs
on their parents: they had been all their own, and now they have done
with them! Less or more, have we not all thus taken our journey into a
far country? But many a man of sixty is more of a son to the father gone
from the earth, than he was while under his roof. What a disintegrated
mass were the world, what a lump of half-baked brick, if death were
indeed the end of affection! if there were no chance more of setting
right what was so wrong in the loveliest relations! How gladly would
many a son who once thought it a weariness to serve his parents,
minister now to their lightest need! and in the boundless eternity is
there no help?

Walter was not a prodigal; he was a well-behaved youth. He was _only_
proud, _only_ thought much of himself; was _only_ pharisaical, not
hypocritical; was _only_ neglectful of those nearest him, always polite
to those comparatively nothing to him! Compassionate and generous to
necessity, he let his father and his sister-cousin starve for the only
real food a man can give, that is, _himself_. As to him who thought his
very thoughts into him, he heeded him not at all, or mocked him by
merest ceremony. There are who refuse God the draught of water He
desires, on the ground that their vessel is not fit for Him to drink
from: Walter thought his too good to fill with the water fit for God to

He had the feeling, far from worded, not even formed, but certainly in
him, that he was a superior man to his father. But it is a fundamental
necessity of the kingdom of heaven, impossible as it must seem to all
outside it, that each shall count other better than himself; it is the
natural condition of the man God made, in relation to the other men God
has made. Man is made, not to contemplate himself, but to behold in
others the beauty of the Father. A man who lives to meditate upon and
worship himself, is in the slime of hell. Walter knew his father a
reading man, but because he had not been to a university, placed no
value on his reading. Yet this father was a man who had intercourse with
high countries, intercourse in which his son would not have perceived
the presence of an idea.

In like manner, Richard's carriage of mind, and the expression of the
same in his modes and behavior, must have been far other than
objectionable to the ushers of those high countries; his was a certain
quiet, simply, direct way, reminding one of Nathanael, in whom was no
guile. In another man Walter would have called it bucolic; in his father
he shut his eyes to it as well as he could, and was ashamed of it. He
would scarcely, in his circle, be regarded as a gentleman! he would look
odd! He therefore had not encouraged the idea of his coming to see him.
He was not satisfied with the father by whom the Father of fathers had
sent him into the world! But Richard was the truest of gentlemen even in
his outward carriage, for he was not only courteous and humble, but that
rare thing--natural; and the natural, be it old as the Greek, must be
beautiful. The natural dwells deep, and is not the careless, any more
than the studied or assumed.

Walter loved his father, but the root of his love did not go deep enough
to send aloft a fine flower: deep in is high out. He seldom wrote, and
wrote briefly. He did not make a confidant of his father. He did not
even tell him what he was doing, or what he hoped to do. He might
mention a success, but of hopes, fears, aspirations, or defeats, or
thoughts or desires, he said nothing. As to his theories, he never
imagined his father entering into such things as occupied _his_ mind!
The ordinary young man takes it for granted that he and the world are
far ahead of "the governor;" the father may have left behind him, as
nebulae sinking below the horizon of youth, questions the world is but
just waking to put.

The blame, however, may lie in part at the parent's door. The hearts of
the fathers need turning to the children, as much as the hearts of the
children need turning to the fathers. Few men open up to their children;
and where a man does not, the schism, the separation begins with him,
for all his love be deep and true. That it is unmanly to show one's
feelings, is a superstition prevalent with all English-speaking people.
Now, wherever feeling means weakness, falsehood, or excitement, it ought
not merely not be shown, but not to exist; but for a man to hide from
his son his loving and his loathing, is to refuse him the divinest
fashion of teaching. Richard read the best things, and loved best the
best writers: never once had he read a poem with his son, or talked to
him about any poet! If Walter had even suspected his father's insight
into certain things, he would have loved him more. Closely bound as they
were, neither knew the other. Each would have been astonished at what he
might have found in the other. The father might have discovered many
handles by which to lay hold of his son; the son might have seen the
lamp bright in his father's chamber which he was but trimming in his.



AT length came the summons from Lady Lufa to hear her music to his

It was not much of a song, neither did he think it was.

Mist and vapor and cloud
Filled the earth and the air!
My heart was wrapt in a shroud.
And death was everywhere.

The sun went silently down
To his rest in the unseen wave;
But my heart, in its purple and crown.
Lay already in its grave.

For a cloud had darkened the brow
Of the lady who is my queen;
I had been a monarch, but now
All things had only been!

I sprung from the couch of death:
Who called my soul? Who spake?
No sound! no answer! no breath!
Yet my soul was wide awake!

And my heart began to blunder
Into rhythmic pulse the while;
I turned--away was the wonder--
My queen had begun to smile!

Outbrake the sun in the west!
Outlaughed the crested sea!
And my heart was alive in my breast
With light, and love, and thee!

There was a little music in the verses, and they had a meaning--though
not a very new or valuable one.

He went in the morning--the real, not the conventional--and was shown
into the drawing-room, his heart beating with expectation. Lady Lufa was
alone, and already at the piano. She was in a gray stuff with red
rosebuds, and looked as simple as any country parson's daughter. She
gave him no greeting beyond a little nod, at once struck a chord or two,
and began to sing.

Walter was charmed. The singing, and the song through the singing,
altogether exceeded his expectation. He had feared he should not be able
to laud heartily, for he had not lost his desire to be truthful--but she
was an artist! There was indeed nothing original in her music; it was
mainly a reconstruction of common phrases afloat in the musical
atmosphere; but she managed the slight dramatic element in the lyric
with taste and skill, following tone and sentiment with chord and
inflection; so that the music was worthy of the verses--which is not
saying very much for either; while the expression the girl threw into
the song went to the heart of the youth, and made him foolish.

She ceased; he was silent for a moment, then fervent in thanks and

"The verses are mine no more," he said. "I shall care for them now!"

"You won't mind if I publish them with the music?"

"I shall feel more honored than I dare tell you. But how _am_ I to go to
my work after this taste of paradise! It was too cruel of you, Lady
Lufa, to make me come in the morning!"

"I am very sorry!"

"Will you grant me one favor to make up?"


"Never to sing the song to any one when I am present. I could not bear

"I promise," she answered, looking up in his face with a glance of
sympathetic consciousness.

There was an acknowledged secret between them, and Walter hugged it.

"I gave you a frozen bird," he said, "and you have warmed it, and made
it soar and sing."

"Thank you; a very pretty compliment!" she answered--and there was a
moment's silence.

"I am so glad we know each other!" she resumed. "You could help me so
much if you would! Next time you come, you must tell me something about
those old French rhymes that have come into fashion of late! They say a
pretty thing so much more prettily for their quaint, antique, courtly
liberty! The _triolet_ now--how deliriously impertinent it is! Is it

Walter knew nothing about the old French modes of versifying; and,
unwilling to place himself at a disadvantage, made an evasive reply, and
went. But when at length he reached home, it was with several ancient
volumes, among the rest "Clement Marot," in pockets and hands. Ere an
hour was over, he was in delight with the variety of dainty modes in
which, by shape and sound, a very pretty French something was carved out
of nothing at all. Their fantastic surprises, the ring of their
bell-like returns upon themselves, their music of triangle and cymbal,
gave him quite a new pleasure. In some of them poetry seemed to approach
the nearest possible to bird-song--to unconscious seeming through most
conscious art, imitating the carelessness and impromptu of warblings as
old as the existence of birds, and as new as every fresh individual joy;
for each new generation grows its own feathers, and sings its own song,
yet always the feathers of its kind, and the song of its kind.

The same night he sent her the following _triolet_

Oh, why is the moon
Awake when thou sleepest?
To the nightingale's tune,
Why is the moon
Making a noon,
When night is the deepest
Why is the moon
Awake when thou sleepest?

In the evening came a little note, with a coronet on the paper, but
neither date nor signature:

"Perfectly delicious! How _can_ such a little gem hold so much color?
Thank you a thousand times!"



By this Walter was in love with Lady Lufa. He said as much to himself,
at least; and in truth he was almost possessed with her. Every thought
that rose in his mind began at once to drift toward her. Every hour of
the day had a rose-tinge from the dress in which he first saw her.

One might write a long essay on this they call _love,_ and yet
contribute little to the understanding of it in the individual case. Its
kind is to be interpreted after the kind of person who loves. There are
as many hues and shades, not to say forms and constructions of love, as
there are human countenances, human hearts, human judgments and schemes
of life. Walter had not been an impressionable youth, because he had an
imagination which both made him fastidious, and stood him in stead of
falling in love. When a man can give form to the things that move in
him, he is less driven to fall in love. But now Walter saw everything
through a window, and the window was the face of Lufa. His thinking was
always done in the presence and light of that window. She seemed an
intrinsic component of every one of his mental operations. In every
beauty and attraction of life he saw her. He was possessed by her,
almost as some are possessed by evil spirits. And to be possessed, even
by a human being, may be to take refuge in the tombs, there to cry, and
cut one's self with fierce thoughts.

But not yet was Walter troubled. He lived in love's eternal present, and
did not look forward. Even jealousy had not yet begun to show itself in
any shape. He was not in Lady Lufa's set, and therefore not much drawn
to conjecture what might be going on. In the glamour of literary
ambition, he took for granted that Lady Lufa allotted his world a higher
orbit than that of her social life, and prized most the pleasures they
had in common, which so few were capable of sharing.

She had indeed in her own circle never found one who knew more of the
refinements of verse than a school-girl does of Beethoven; and it was a
great satisfaction to her to know one who not merely recognized her
proficiency, but could guide her further into the depths of an art which
every one thinks he understands, and only one here and there does. It
was therefore a real welcome she was able to give him when they met, as
they did again and again during the season. How much she cared for him,
how much she would have been glad to do for him, my reader shall judge
for himself. I think she cared for him very nearly as much as for a
dress made to her liking. An injustice from him would have brought the
tears into her eyes. A poem he disapproved of she would have thrown,
aside, _perhaps_ into the fire.

She did not, however, submit much of her work to his judgment. She was
afraid of what might put her out of heart with it. Before making his
acquaintance, she had a fresh volume, a more ambitious one, well on its
way, but fearing lack of his praise, had said nothing to him about it.
And besides this diffidence, she did not wish to _appear_ to solicit
from him a good review. She might cast herself on his mercy, but it
should not be confessedly. She had pride though not conscience in the
matter. The mother was capable of begging, not the daughter. She might
use fascination, but never entreaty; that would be to degrade herself!

Walter had, of course, taken a second look at her volume. It did not
reveal that he had said of it what was not true; but he did see that,
had he been anxious to praise, he might have found passages to commend,
or in which, at least, he could have pointed out merit. But no allusion
was made to the book, on the one hand because Lady Lufa was aware he had
written the review, and on the other because Walter did not wish to give
his opinion of it. He placed it in the category of first works; and,
knowing how poor those of afterward distinguished writers may be, it did
not annoy him that one who could talk so well should have written such

Lady Lufa had indeed a craze for composition, and the indulgence of it
was encouraged by her facility. There was no reason in heaven, earth, or
the other place, why what she wrote should see the light, for it had
little to do with light of any sort. "Autumn Leaves" had had no such
reception as her mother would have Walter believe. Lady Tremaine was one
of those good mothers who, like "good churchmen," will wrong any other
to get for their own. She had paid her court to Walter that she might
gain a reviewer who would yield her daughter what she called justice:
for justice' sake she could curry favor! A half-merry, half-retaliative
humor in Lufa, may have wrought for revenge by making Walter fall in
love with her; at all events it was a consolation to her wounded vanity
when she saw him, in love with her; but it was chiefly in the hope of a
"good" review of her next book that she cultivated his acquaintance, and
now she felt sure of her end.

Most people liked Walter, even when they laughed at his simplicity, for
it was the simplicity of a generous nature; we can not therefore wonder
if he was too confident, and from Lady Lufa's behavior presumed to think
she looked upon him as worthy of a growing privilege. If she regarded
literature as she professed to regard it, he had but to distinguish
himself, he thought, to be more acceptable than wealth or nobility could
have made him. As to material possibilities, the youth never thought of
them; a worshiper does not meditate how to feed his goddess! Lady Lufa
was his universe and everything in it--a small universe and scantily
furnished for a human soul, had she been the prime of women! He scarcely
thought of his home now, or of the father who made it home. As to God,
it is hardly a question whether he had ever thought of Him. For can that
be called thinking of another, which is the mere passing of a name
through the mind, without one following thought of relation or duty?
Many think it a horrible thing to say there is no God, who never think
how much worse a thing it is not to heed Him. If God be not worth
minding, what great ruin can it be to imagine His non-existence?

What, then, had Walter made of it by leaving home? He had almost
forgotten his father; had learned to be at home in London; had passed
many judgments, some of them more or less just, all of them more or less
unjust; had printed enough for a volume of little better than truisms
concerning life, society, fashion, dress, etc., etc.; had published two
or three rather nice songs, and had a volume of poems almost ready; had
kept himself the greater part of the time, and had fallen in love with
an earl's daughter.

"Everybody is gone," said Lady Lufa, "and we are going to-morrow."

"To-day," he rejoined, "London is full; to-morrow it will be a desert!"

She looked up at him, and did not seem glad.

"I have enjoyed the season so much!" she said.

He thought her lip trembled.

"But you will come and see us at Comberidge, will you not?" she added.

"Do you think your mother will ask me?" he said.

"I think she will. I do so want to show you our library! And I have so
many things to ask you!"

"I am your slave, the jin of your lamp."

"I would I had such a lamp as would call you!"

"It will need no lamp to make me come."

Lamps to call moths are plenty, and Lufa was herself one.



London was very hot, very dusty, and as dreary as Walter had
anticipated. When Lufa went, the moon went out of the heavens, the stars
chose banishment with their mistress, and only the bright, labor-urging
sun was left.

He might now take a holiday when he pleased, and he had money enough in
hand. His father wanted him to pay them a visit; but what if an
invitation to Comberidge should arrive! Home was a great way in the
other direction! And then it would be so dull! He would of course be
glad to see his father! He ought to go! He was owing there! What was he
to do? He would not willingly even run the risk of losing his delight,
for the sake of his first, best, truest earthly friend!

But he must take his holiday now, in the slack of the London year, and
the heat was great! He need not be all day with his father, and the
thought of Lufa would be entrancing in the wide solitudes of the moor!
Molly he scarce thought of, and his aunt was to be forgotten. He would
go for a few days, he said, thus keeping the door open for a speedy

Just before he left, the invitation did arrive. He would have a week to
dream about it under the old roof!

His heart warmed a little as he approached his home. Certain memories
came to meet him. The thought of his mother was in the air. How long it
was since she had spoken to him! He remembered her and his father
watching by his bed while he tossed in a misery of which he could even
now recall the prevailing delirious fancies. He remembered his mother's
last rebuke; for insolence to a servant; remembered her last embrace,
her last words; and his heart turned tenderly to his father. Yet when he
entered the house and faced the old surroundings, an unexpected gloom
overclouded him. Had he been heart-free and humble, they would have been
full of delight for him; but pride had been busy in his soul. Its home
was in higher planes! How many essential refinements, as he foolishly
and vulgarly counted them, were lacking here! What would Lady Lufa think
of his _entourage_? Did it well become one of the second aristocracy? He
had been gradually filling with a sense of importance--which had no
being except in his own brain; and the notion took the meanest of mean
forms--that of looking down on his own history. He was too much of a
gentleman still not to repress the show of the feeling, but its mere
presence caused a sense of alienation between him and his. When the
first greetings were over, nothing came readily to follow. The wave had
broken on the shore, and there was not another behind it. Things did
not, however, go badly; for the father when disappointed always tried to
account for everything to the advantage of the other; and on his part,
Walter did his best to respond to his father's love-courtesy. He was not
of such as keep no rule over themselves; not willingly would he allow
discomfort to wake temper; he did not brood over defect in those he
loved; but it did comfort him that he was so soon to leave his
_uncongenial_ surroundings, and go where all would be as a gentleman
desired to see it. No one needs find it hard to believe such
snobbishness in a youth gifted like Walter Colman; for a sweet temper,
fine sympathies, warmth of affection, can not be called a man's own, so
long as he has felt and acted without co-operation of the will; and
Walter had never yet fought a battle within himself. He had never set
his will against his inclination. He had, indeed, bravely fronted the
necessity of the world, but we can not regard it as _assurance_ of a
noble nature that one is ready to labor for the things that are needful.
A man is indeed contemptible who is not ready to work; but not to be
contemptible is hardly to be honorable. Walter had never actively
_chosen_ the right way, or put out any energy to walk in it. There are
usurers and sinners nearer the kingdom of heaven than many a
respectable, socially successful youth of education and ambition. Walter
was not simple. He judged things not in themselves, but after an
artificial and altogether foolish standard, for his aim was a false
one--social distinction.

The ways of his father's house were nowise sordid, though so simple that
his losses had made scarcely a difference in them; they were hardly even
humble--only old-fashioned; but Walter was ashamed of them. He even
thought it unlady-like of Molly to rise from the table to wait on her
uncle or himself; and once, when she brought the tea-kettle in her own
little brown hand, he actually reproved her.

The notion that success lies in reaching the modes of life in the next
higher social stratum; the fancy that those ways are the standard of
what is worthy, becoming, or proper; the idea that our standing is
determined by our knowledge of what is or is not _the thing,_ is one of
the degrading influences of modern times. It is only the lack of dignity
at once and courtesy that makes such points of any interest or

Fortunately for Walter's temper, his aunt was discreetly silent, too
busy taking the youth's measure afresh to talk much; intent on material
wherewith to make up her mind concerning him. She had had to alter her
idea of him as incapable of providing his own bread and cheese; but as
to what reflection of him was henceforth to inhabit the glass of her
judgment, she had not yet determined, further than that it should be an
unfavorable one.

It was a relief when bed-time came, and he was alone in what was always
called his room, where he soon fell asleep, to dream of Lufa and the
luxuries around her--facilities accumulated even to incumbrance, and
grown antagonistic to comfort, as Helots to liberty. How different from
his dreams were the things that stood around them! how different his
thoughts from those of the father who knelt in the moonlight at the side
of his bed, and said something to Him who never sleeps! When he woke,
his first feeling was a pang: the things about him were as walls between
him and Lufa!

From indifference, or preoccupation--from some cause--he avoided any
_tete-a-tete_ with Molly. He had no true idea of the girl, neither
indeed was capable of one. She was a whole nature; he was of many parts,
not yet begun to cohere. This unlikeness, probably, was at the root of
his avoidance of her. Perhaps he had an undefined sense of rebuke, and
feared her without being aware of it. Never going further than half-way
into a thing, he had never relished Molly's questions; they went deeper
than he saw difficulty; he was not even conscious of the darkness upon
which Molly desired light cast. And now when, either from instinct, or
sense of presence, he became aware that Molly was looking at him, he did
not like it; he felt as if she saw some lack of harmony, between his
consciousness and his history. He was annoyed, even irritated, with the
olive-cheeked, black-eyed girl, who had been for so many years like his
sister: she was making remarks upon him in that questioning laboratory
of her brain!

Molly was indeed trying to understand what had gone different between
them. She had never felt Walter come very near her, for he was not one
who had learned, or would easily learn, to give himself; and no man who
does not give at least something of himself, gives anything; but now she
knew that he had gone further away, and she saw his father look
disappointed. To Molly it was a sad relief when his departure came. They
had not once disputed; she had not once offered him a penny for his
thoughts, or asked him a single question, yet he did not even want her
to go to the station with him.



From Comberidge a dog-cart had been sent to meet him at the railway. He
drove up the avenue as the sun was setting behind the house, and its
long, low, terraced front received him into a cold shadow. The servant
who opened the door said her ladyship was on the lawn; and following him
across the hall, Walter came out into the glory of a red sunset. Like a
lovely carpet, or rather, like a green, silent river, the lawn appeared
to flow from the house as from its fountain, issuing by the open doors
and windows, and descending like a gentle rapid, to lose itself far away
among trees and shrubs. Over it were scattered groups and couples and
individuals, looking like the creatures of a half-angelic paradise. A
little way off, under the boughs of a huge beech-tree, sat Lufa,
reading, with a pencil in her hand as if she made notes. As he stepped
from the house, she looked up and saw him. She laid her book on the
grass, rose, and came toward him. He went to meet her, but the light of
the low sun was directly in his eyes, and he could not see her shadowed
face. But her voice of welcome came athwart the luminous darkness, and
their hands found each other. He thought hers trembled, but it was his
own. She led him to her mother.

"I am glad to see you," said Lady Tremaine. "You are just in time!"

"For what, may I ask?" returned Walter.

"It is out at last!"

"No, mamma," interrupted Lufa; "the book is not out! It is almost
ready, but I have only had one or two early copies. I am so glad Mr.
Colman will be the first to see it! He will prepare me for the

"What do you mean?" asked Walter, bewildered. It was the first word he
had heard of her new book.

"Of course I shall be cut up! The weekly papers especially would lose
half their readers did they not go in for vivisection! But mamma
shouldn't have asked you now!"


"Well--you mightn't--I shouldn't like you to feel an atom less
comfortable in speaking your mind."

"There is no fear of that sort in my thoughts," answered Walter,

But it troubled him a little that she had not let him know what she was

"Besides," he went on, "you need never know what I think. There are
other reviewers on the 'Battery!'"

"I should recognize your hand anywhere! And more than that, I should
only have to pick out the most rigid and unbending criticism to know
which must be yours. It is your way, and you know it! Are you not always
showing me up to myself! That's why I was in such mortal terror of your
finding out what I was doing. If you had said anything to make me hate
my work," she went on, looking up at him with earnest eyes, "I should
never have touched it again; and I did want to finish it! You have been
my master now for--let me see--how many months? I do not know how I
shall ever thank you!" Here she changed tone. "If I come off with a
pound of flesh left, it will be owing entirely to the pains you have
taken with me! I wonder whether you will like any of my triolets! But it
is time to dress for dinner, so I will leave you in peace--but not all
night, for when you go to bed you shall take _your_ copy with you to
help you asleep."

While dressing he was full of the dread of not liking the book well
enough to praise it as he wished. A first book was nothing, he said to
himself; it might be what it would; but the second--that was another
matter! He recalled what first books he knew. "Poems by Two Brothers"
gave not a foretaste of what was to come so soon after them! Shelley's
prose attempts in his boyhood were below criticism! Byron's "Hours of
Idleness" were as idle as he called them! He knew what followed these
and others, but what had followed Lady Lufa's? That he was now to
discover! What if it should be no better than what preceded! For his own
part he did not, he would not much care. It was not for her poetry, it
was for herself he loved her! What she wrote was not she, and could make
no difference! It was not as if she had no genuine understanding of
poetry, no admiration or feeling for it! A poet could do well enough
with a wife who never wrote a verse, but hardly with one who had no
natural relation to it, no perception what it was! A poet in love with
one who laughed at his poetry!--that would want scanning! What or
wherein could be their relation to each other?

He is a poor poet--and Walter was such a poet--who does not know there
are better things than poetry. Keats began to discover it just ere he

Walter feared therefore the coming gift, as he might that of a doubted
enchantress. It was not the less a delight, however, to remember that
she said "_your_ copy." But he must leave thinking and put on his
neck-tie! There are other things than time and tide that wait for no

Lady Tremaine gave him Lufa, and she took his arm with old familiarity.
The talk at table was but such as it could hardly help being--only for
Walter it was talk with Lufa! The pleasure of talk often owes not much
to the sense of it. There is more than the intellect concerned in talk;
there is more at its root than fact or logic or lying.

When the scene changed to the drawing-room, Lufa played tolerably and
sung well, delighting Walter. She asked and received his permission to
sing "my song," as she called it, and pleased him with it more than
ever. He managed to get her into the conservatory, which was large, and
there he talked much, and she seemed to listen much. It was but the
vague, twilight, allusive talk which, coming readily to all men in love,
came the more readily to one always a poet, and not merely a poet by
being in love. Every one in love sees a little further into things, but
few see clearly, and hence love-talk has in general so little meaning.
Ordinary men in love gain glimpses of truth more and other than they
usually see, but from having so little dealing with the truth, they do
not even try to get a hold of it, they do not know it for truth even
when dallying with it. It is the true man's dreams that come true.

He raised her hand to his lips as at length she turned toward the
drawing-room, and he thought she more than yielded it, but could not be
sure. Anyhow she was not offended, for she smiled with her usual
sweetness as she bade him good-night.

"One instant, Mr. Colman!" she added: "I promised you a sedative! I will
run and get it. No, I won't keep you; I will send it to your room."

He had scarce shut his door when it opened again, and there was Lufa.

"I beg your pardon!" she said; "I thought you would not be come up, and
I wanted to make my little offering with my own hand: it owes so much to

She slipped past him, laid her book on his table, and went.

He lighted his candles with eager anxiety, and took it up. It was a
dramatic poem of some length, daintily bound in white vellum, with gilt
edges. On the title-page was written "The Master's Copy," with the date
and Lufa's initials. He threw himself into a great soft chair that with
open arms invited him, and began to read.

He had taken champagne pretty freely at dinner; his mind was yet in the
commotion left by the summer-wind of their many words that might seem so
much; he felt his kiss on her dainty hand, and her pressure of it to his
lips; as he read, she seemed still and always in the door-way, entering
with the book; its inscription was continually turning up with a shine:
such was the mood in which he read the poem. Through he read it, every
word, some of it many times; then rose and went to his writing-table, to
set down his judgment of his lady's poem. He wrote and wrote, almost
without pause. The dawn began to glimmer, the red blood of the morning
came back to chase the swoon of the night, ere at last, throwing down
his pen, he gave a sigh of weary joy, tore off his clothes, plunged into
his bed, and there lay afloat on the soft waves of sleep. And as he
slept, the sun came slowly up to shake the falsehood out of the earth.



Walter slept until nearly noon, then rose, very weary, but with a
gladness at his heart. On his table were spread such pages as must
please Lufa! His thoughts went back to the poem, but, to his uneasy
surprise, he found he did not recall it with any special pleasure. He
had had great delight in reading it, and in giving shape to his delight,
but he could not now think what kind of thing it was that had given him
such satisfaction. He had worked too long, he said to himself, and this
was the reaction; he was too tired to enjoy the memory of what he had so
heartily admired. Aesthetic judgment was so dependent on mood! He would
glance over what he had done, correct it a little, and inclose it for
the afternoon post, that it might appear in the next issue!

He drank the cup of cold tea by his bedside, sat down, and took up his
hurriedly written sheets. He found in them much that seemed good
work--of his own; and the passages quoted gave ostensible grounds for
the remarks made upon them; but somehow the whole affair seemed quite
different. The review would incline any lover of verse to read the book;

Book of the day: