They are very neat and handsome, you'll agree.

Solid in sense as Dryden at his best, And smooth as Waller, but with something more,-- That touch of grace, that airier elegance Which only rank can give.

'Tis very sad That one so n.o.bly praised should--well, no matter!-- I am told, sir, that these troubles all began At Cambridge, when his ma.n.u.scripts were burned.

He had been working, in his curious way, All through the night; and, in the morning greyness Went down to chapel, leaving on his desk A lighted candle. You can imagine it,-- A sadly sloven altar to his Muse, Littered with papers, cups, and greasy plates Of untouched food. I am told that he would eat His Monday's breakfast, sir, on Tuesday morning, Such was his absent way!

When he returned, He found that Diamond (his little dog Named Diamond, for a black patch near his tail) Had overturned the candle. All his work Was burned to ashes.

It struck him to the quick, Though, when his terrier fawned about his feet, He showed no anger. He was heard to say, 'O Diamond, Diamond, little do you know...'

But, from that hour, ah well, we'll say no more."

Halley was there that day, and spoke up sharply, "Sir, there are hints and hints! Do you _mean_ more?"

--"I do, sir," chirruped Samuel, mightily pleased To find all eyes, for once, on his fat face.

"I fear his intellects are disordered, sir."

--"Good! That's an answer! I can deal with that.

But tell me first," quoth Halley, "why he wrote That letter, a week ago, to Mr. Pepys."

--"Why, sir," piped Samuel, innocent of the trap, "I had an argument in this coffee-house Last week, with certain gentlemen, on the laws Of chance, and what fair hopes a man might have Of throwing six at dice. I happened to say That Mr. Isaac Newton was my friend, And promised I would sound him."

"Sir," said Halley, "You'll pardon me, but I forgot to tell you I heard, a minute since, outside these doors, A very modish woman of the town, Or else a most delicious lady of fashion, A melting creature with a bold black eye, A bosom like twin doves; and, sir, a mouth Like a Turk's dream of Paradise. She cooed, 'Is Mr. Pepys within?' I greatly fear That they denied you to her!"

Off ran Pepys!

"A hint's a hint," laughed Halley, "and so to bed.

But, as for Isaac Newton, let me say, Whatever his embroilments were, he solved With just one hour of thought, not long ago The problem set by Leibnitz as a challenge To all of Europe. He published his result Anonymously, but Leibnitz, when he saw it, Cried out, at once, old enemy as he was, 'That's Newton, none but Newton! From this claw I know the old lion, in his midnight lair.'"

VI

(_Sir Isaac Newton writes to Mrs. Vincent at Woolthorpe._)

Your letter, on my eightieth birthday, wakes Memories, like violets, in this London gloom.

You have never failed, for more than three-score years To send these annual greetings from the haunts Where you and I were boy and girl together.

A day must come-it cannot now be far-- When I shall have no power to thank you for them, So let me tell you now that, all my life, They have come to me with healing in their wings Like birds from home, birds from the happy woods Above the Witham, where you walked with me When you and I were young.

Do you remember Old Barley--how he tried to teach us drawing?

He found some promise, I believe, in you, But quite despaired of me.

I treasure all Those little sketches that you sent to me Each Christmas, carrying each some glimpse of home.

There's one I love that shows the narrow lane Behind the schoolhouse, where I had that bout Of schoolboy fisticuffs. I have never known More pleasure, I believe, than when I beat That black-haired bully and won, for my reward, Those April smiles from you.

I see you still Standing among the fox-gloves in the hedge; And just behind you, in the field, I know There was a patch of aromatic flowers,-- Rest-harrow, was it? Yes; their tangled roots Pluck at the harrow; halt the sharp harrow of thought, Even in old age. I never breathe their scent But I am back in boyhood, dreaming there Over some book, among the diligent bees, Until you join me, and we dream together.

They called me lazy, then. Oddly enough It was that fight that stirred my mind to beat My bully at his books, and head the school; Blind rivalry, at first. By such fond tricks The invisible Power that shapes us--not ourselves-- Punishes, teaches, leads us gently on Like children, all our lives, until we grasp A sudden meaning and are born, through death Into full knowledge that our Guide was Love.

Another picture shows those woods of ours, Around whose warm dark edges in the spring Primroses, knots of living sunlight, woke; And, always, you, their radiant shepherdess From Elfland, lead them rambling back for me, The dew still clinging to their golden fleece, Through these grey memory-mists.

Another shows My old sun-dial. You say that it is known As "Isaac's dial" still. I took great pains To set it rightly. If it has not shifted 'Twill mark the time long after I am gone; Not like those curious water-clocks I made.

Do you remember? They worked well at first; But the least particles in the water clogged The holes through which it dripped; and so, one day, We two came home so late that we were sent Supperless to our beds; and suffered much From the world's harshness, as we thought it then.

Would G.o.d that we might taste that harshness now.

I cannot send you what you've sent to me; And so I wish you'll never thank me more For those poor gifts I have sent from year to year.

I send another, and hope that you can use it To buy yourself those comforts which you need This Christmas-time.

How strange it is to wake And find that half a century has gone by, With all our endless youth.

They talk to me Of my discoveries, prate of undying fame Too late to help me. Anything I achieved Was done through work and patience; and the men Who sought quick roads to glory for themselves Were capable of neither. So I won Their hatred, and it often hampered me, Because it vexed my mind.

This world of ours Would give me all, now I have ceased to want it; For I sit here, alone, a sad old man, Sipping his orange-water, nodding to sleep, Not caring any more for aught they say, Not caring any more for praise or blame; But dreaming-things we dreamed of, long ago, In childhood.

You and I had laughed away That boy and girl affair. We were too poor For anything but laughter.

I am old; And you, twice wedded and twice widowed, still Retain, through all your nearer joys and griefs, The old affection. Vaguely our blind old hands Grope for each other in this growing dark And deepening loneliness,--to say "good-bye."

Would that my words could tell you all my heart; But even my words grow old.

Perhaps these lines, Written not long ago, may tell you more.

I have no skill in verse, despite the praise Your kindness gave me, once; but since I wrote Thinking of you, among the woods of home, My heart was in them. Let them turn to yours:

_Give me, for friends, my own true folk Who kept the very word they spoke; Whose quiet prayers, from day to day, Have brought the heavens about my way.

Not those whose intellectual pride Would quench the only lights that guide; Confuse the lines 'twixt good and ill Then throne their own capricious will;

Not those whose eyes in mockery scan The simpler hopes and dreams of man; Not those keen wits, so quick to hurt, So swift to trip you in the dirt.

Not those who'd pluck your mystery out, Yet never saw your last redoubt; Whose cleverness would kill the song Dead at your heart, then prove you wrong.

Give me those eyes I used to know Where thoughts like angels come and go; --Not glittering eyes, nor dimmed by books, But eyes through which the deep soul looks.

Give me the quiet hands and face That never strove for fame and place; The soul whose love, so many a day Has brought the heavens about my way._

VII

_Was it a dream, that low dim-lighted room With that dark periwigged phantom of Dean Swift Writing, beside a fire, to one he loved,-- Beautiful Catherine Barton, once the light Of Newton's house, and his half-sister's child?_ Yes, Catherine Barton, I am brave enough To face this pale, unhappy, wistful ghost Of our departed friendship.

It was I Savage and mad, a snarling kennel of sins, "Your Holiness," as you called me, with that smile Which even your ghost would quietly turn on me-- Who raised it up. It has no terrors, dear.

And I shall never lay it while I live.

You write to me. You think I have the power To shield the fame of Newton from a lie.

Poor little ghost! You think I hold the keys Not only of Parna.s.sus, then, but h.e.l.l.

There is a tale abroad that Newton owed His public office to Lord Halifax, Your secret lover. Coa.r.s.eness, as you know, Is my peculiar privilege. I'll be plain, And let them wince who are whispering in the dark.

They are hinting that he gained his public post Through you, his flesh and blood; and that he knew You were his patron's mistress!

Yes, I know The coffee-house that hatched it--to be scotched, Nay, killed, before one snuff-box could say "snap,"

Had not one cold malevolent face been there Listening,--that crystal-minded lover of truth, That lucid enemy of all lies,--Voltaire.

I am told he is doing much to spread the light Of Newton's great discoveries, there, in France.

There's little fear that France, whose clear keen eyes Have missed no morning in the realm of thought, Would fail to see it; and smaller need to lift A brand from h.e.l.l to illume the light from heaven.

You fear he'll print his lie. No doubt of that.

I can foresee the phrase, as Halley saw The advent of his comet,--_jolie niece, a.s.sez amiable,_ ... then he'll give your name As _Madame Conduit_, adding just that spice Of infidelity that the dates admit To none but these truth-lovers. It will be best Not to enlighten him, or he'll change his tale And make an answer difficult. Let him print This truth as he conceives it, and you'll need No more defence.

All history then shall d.a.m.n his death-cold lie And show you for the laughing child you were When Newton won his office.

For yourself You say you have no fear. Your only thought Is that they'll soil his fame. Ah yes, they'll try, But they'll not hurt it. For all time to come It stands there, firm as marble and as pure.

They can do nothing that the sun and rain Will not erase at last. Not even Voltaire Can hurt that n.o.ble memory. Think of him As of a viper writhing at the base Of some great statue. Let the venomous tongue Flicker against that marble as it may It cannot wound it.

I am far more grieved For you, who sit there wondering now, too late, If it were some suspicion, some dark hint Newton had heard that robbed him of his sleep, And almost broke his mind up. I recall How the town buzzed that Newton had gone mad.

You copy me that sad letter which he wrote To Locke, wherein he begs him to forgive The hard words he had spoken, thinking Locke Had tried to embroil him, as he says, with women; A piteous, humble letter.

Had he heard Some hint of scandal that he could not breathe To you, because he honoured you too well?

I cannot tell. His mind was greatly troubled With other things. At least, you need not fear That Newton thought it true. He walked aloof, Treading a deeper stranger world than ours.

Have you not told me how he would forget Even to eat and drink, when he was wrapt In those miraculous new discoveries And, under this wild maze of shadow and sun Beheld--though not the Master Player's hand-- The keys from which His organ music rolls, Those visible symphonies of wild cloud and light Which clothe the invisible world for mortal eyes.

I have heard that Leibnitz whispered to the court That Newton was an "atheist." Leibnitz knew His audience. He could stoop to it.

Fools have said That knowledge drives out wonder from the world; They'll say it still, though all the dust's ablaze With miracles at their feet; while Newton's laws Foretell that knowledge one day shall be song, And those whom Truth has taken to her heart Find that it beats in music.

Even this age Has glimmerings of it. Newton never saw His own full victory; but at least he knew That all the world was linked in one again; And, if men found new worlds in years to come, These too must join the universal song.

That's why true poets love him; and you'll find Their love will cancel all that hate can do.

They are the sentinels of the House of Fame; And that quick challenging couplet from the pen Of Alexander Pope is answer enough To all those whisperers round the outer doors.

There's Addison, too. The very spirit and thought Of Newton moved to music when he wrote _The s.p.a.cious Firmament_. Some keen-eyed age to come Will say, though Newton seldom wrote a verse, That music was his own and speaks his faith.