What? To fix me thus meant nothing? But I can't tell (there's my weakness) What her look said!--no vile cant, sure, about "need to strew the bleakness Of some lone sh.o.r.e with its pearl-seed, that the sea feels"--no "strange yearning That such souls have, most to lavish where there's chance of least returning".

III.

Oh, we're sunk enough here, G.o.d knows! but not quite so sunk that moments, Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, when the spirit's true endowments Stand out plainly from its false ones, and apprise it if pursuing Or the right way or the wrong way, to its triumph or undoing.

IV.

There are flashes struck from midnights, there are fire-flames noondays kindle, Whereby piled-up honours perish, whereby swollen ambitions dwindle, While just this or that poor impulse, which for once had play unstifled, Seems the sole work of a life-time that away the rest have trifled.

V.

Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she fixed me, she felt clearly, Ages past the soul existed, here an age 'tis resting merely, And hence fleets again for ages: while the true end, sole and single, It stops here for is, this love-way, with some other soul to mingle?

VI.

Else it loses what it lived for, and eternally must lose it; Better ends may be in prospect, deeper blisses (if you choose it), But this life's end and this love-bliss have been lost here. Doubt you whether This she felt as, looking at me, mine and her souls rushed together?

VII.

Oh, observe! Of course, next moment, the world's honours, in derision, Trampled out the light for ever. Never fear but there's provision Of the devil's to quench knowledge, lest we walk the earth in rapture!

--Making those who catch G.o.d's secret, just so much more prize their capture!

VIII.

Such am I: the secret's mine now! She has lost me, I have gained her; Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect, I shall pa.s.s my life's remainder.

Life will just hold out the proving both our powers, alone and blended: And then, come next life quickly! This world's use will have been ended.

LXVII. THE LOST LEADER.

From _Dramatic Lyrics_; written in 1845.

I.

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat-- Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others, she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!

We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die?

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Sh.e.l.ley, were with us,--they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

II.

We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to G.o.d!

Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

(1811-1863.)

LXVIII. PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX.

Published among Thackeray's "Ballads" under the sub-heading "Lines written to an Alb.u.m Print".

As on this pictured page I look, This pretty tale of line and hook, As though it were a novel-book, Amuses and engages: I know them both, the boy and girl; She is the daughter of the Earl, The lad (that has his hair in curl) My lord the County's page is.

A pleasant place for such a pair!

The fields lie basking in the glare; No breath of wind the heavy air Of lazy summer quickens.

Hard by you see the castle tall; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small Young progeny of chickens.

It is too hot to pace the keep; To climb the turret is too steep; My lord the Earl is dozing deep, His noonday dinner over: The postern warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep): And so from out the gate they creep; And cross the fields of clover.

Their lines into the brook they launch; He lays his cloak upon a branch, To guarantee his Lady Blanche 's delicate complexion: He takes his rapier from his haunch, That beardless, doughty champion staunch; He'd drill it through the rival's paunch That question'd his affection!

O heedless pair of sportsmen slack!

You never mark, though trout or jack, Or little foolish stickleback, Your baited snares may capture.

What care has _she_ for line and hook?

She turns her back upon the brook, Upon her lover's eyes to look In sentimental rapture.

O loving pair! as thus I gaze Upon the girl who smiles always, The little hand that ever plays Upon the lover's shoulder; In looking at your pretty shapes, A sort of envious wish escapes (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) The Poet, your beholder.

To be brave, handsome, twenty-two; With nothing else on earth to do, But all day long to bill and coo: It were a pleasant calling.

And had I such a partner sweet; A tender heart for mine to beat, A gentle hand my clasp to meet;-- I'd let the world flow at my feet, And never heed its brawling.

LXIX. ON A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

This is one of the most popular of the famous Roundabout Papers written by Thackeray for the _Cornhill Magazine_, of which he was the first editor.

Where have I just read of a game played at a country house? The party a.s.sembles round a table with pens, ink, and paper. Some one narrates a tale containing more or less incidents and personages. Each person of the company then writes down, to the best of his memory and ability, the anecdote just narrated, and finally the papers are to be read out.

I do not say I should like to play often at this game, which might possibly be a tedious and lengthy pastime, not by any means so amusing as smoking a cigar in the conservatory; or even listening to the young ladies playing their piano-pieces; or to Hobbs and n.o.bbs lingering round the bottle and talking over the morning's run with the hounds; but surely it is a moral and ingenious sport. They say the variety of narratives is often very odd and amusing. The original story becomes so changed and distorted that at the end of all the statements you are puzzled to know where the truth is at all. As time is of small importance to the cheerful persons engaged in this sport, perhaps a good way of playing it would be to spread it over a couple of years.

Let the people who played the game in '60 all meet and play it once more in '61, and each write his story over again. Then bring out your original and compare notes. Not only will the stories differ from each other, but the writers will probably differ from themselves. In the course of the year the incidents will grow or will dwindle strangely.

The least authentic of the statements will be so lively or so malicious, or so neatly put, that it will appear most like the truth. I like these tales and sportive exercises. I had begun a little print collection once. I had Addison in his nightgown in bed at Holland House, requesting young Lord Warwick to remark how a Christian should die. I had Cambronne clutching his c.o.c.ked hat, and uttering the immortal _La Garde meurt et ne se rend pas_. I had the _Vengeur_ going down, and all the crew hurraying like madmen. I had Alfred toasting the m.u.f.fin: Curtius (Haydon) jumping into the gulf; with extracts from Napoleon's bulletins, and a fine authentic portrait of Baron Munchausen.

What man who has been before the public at all has not heard similar wonderful anecdotes regarding himself and his own history? In these humble essaykins I have taken leave to egotize. I cry out about the shoes which pinch me, and, as I fancy, more naturally and pathetically than if my neighbour's corns were trodden under foot. I prattle about the dish which I love, the wine which I like, the talk I heard yesterday--about Brown's absurd airs--Jones's ridiculous elation when he thinks he has caught me in a blunder (a part of the fun, you see, is that Jones will read this, and will perfectly well know that I mean him, and that we shall meet and grin at each other with entire politeness). This is not the highest kind of speculation, I confess, but it is a gossip which amuses some folks. A brisk and honest small-beer will refresh those who do not care for the frothy outpourings of heavier taps. A two of clubs may be a good handy little card sometimes, and able to tackle a king of diamonds, if it is a little trump. Some philosophers get their wisdom with deep thought, and out of ponderous libraries; I pick up my small crumbs of cogitation at a dinner-table; or from Mrs. Mary and Miss Louisa, as they are prattling over their five-o'clock tea.

Well, yesterday at dinner, Jucundus was good enough to tell me a story about myself, which he had heard from a lady of his acquaintance, to whom I send my best compliments. The tale is this. At nine o'clock on the evening of the 31st of November last, just before sunset, I was seen leaving No. 96 Abbey Road, St. John's Wood, leading two little children by the hand, one of them in a nankeen pelisse, and the other having a mole on the third finger of his left hand (she thinks it was the third finger, but is quite sure it was the left hand). Thence I walked with them to Charles Boroughbridge's, pork and sausage man, No.

29 Upper Theresa Road. Here, whilst I left the little girl innocently eating a polony in the front shop, I and Boroughbridge retired with the boy into the back parlour, where Mrs. Boroughbridge was playing cribbage. She put up the cards and boxes, took out a chopper and a napkin, and we cut the little boy's little throat (which he bore with great pluck and resolution), and made him into sausage-meat by the aid of Purkis's excellent sausage-machine. The little girl at first could not understand her brother's absence, but, under the pretence of taking her to see Mr. Fechter in _Hamlet_, I led her down to the New River at Sadler's Wells, where a body of a child in a nankeen pelisse was subsequently found, and has never been recognized to the present day.