 Section 34 of Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 9. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 9. Section 34 An Expedition Against Ogres from a Connecticut Yankee and King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain. My expedition was all the talk that day and that night, and the boys were very good to me, and made much of me, and seemed to have forgotten their vexation and disappointment, and come to be as anxious for me to hive those ogres and set those ripe old virgins loose as if it were themselves that had the contract. Well, they were good children, but just children, that is all, and they gave me no end of points about how to scout for giants, and how to scoop them in, and they told me all sorts of charms against enchantments, and gave me salves and other rubbish to put on my wounds. But it never occurred to one of them to reflect that if I was such a wonderful necromancer as I was pretending to be, I ought not to need salves, or instructions, or charms against enchantments, and least of all, arms and armor, on a foray of any kind, even against fire-spouting dragons and devils hot from perdition, let alone such poor adversaries as these I was after, these commonplace ogres of the back settlements. I was to have an early breakfast and start at dawn, for that was the usual way, but I had the demons own time with my armor, and this delayed me a little. It is troublesome to get into, and there is so much detail. First you wrap a layer or two of blanket around your body for a sort of cushion, and to keep off the cold iron. Then you put on your sleeves and shirt of chain mail. These are made of small steel links woven together, and they form a fabric so flexible that if you toss your shirt onto the floor it slumps into a pile like a peck of wet fishnet. It is very heavy, and is nearly the uncomfortablest material in the world for a night-shirt. Yet plenty used for that. Max collectors and reformers and one-horse kings with an effective title and those sorts of people. Then you put on your shoes, flat boats roofed over with interleaving bands of steel, and screw your clumsy spurs into the heels. Next you buckle your greeds on your legs and your quises to your thighs, then come your backplate and your breastplate, and you begin to feel crowded. Then you hitch on to the breastplate the half-pedicode of broad overlapping bands of steel which hangs down in front but is co-oped out behind so you can sit down. And isn't any real improvement on an inverted coal-scuttle, either for looks or for wear, or to wipe your hands on. Next you belt on your sword. Then you put your stove-pipe joints onto your arms, your iron gauntlets onto your hands, your iron rat-trap onto your head with a rag of steel web hitched onto it to hang over the back of your neck. And there you are, snug as a candle in a candle mold. This is no time to dance. While a man that is packed away like that is a nut that isn't worth the cracking, there is so little of the meat when you get down to it by comparison with a shell. The boys helped me, or I never could have got in. Just as we finished, Sir Bedivere happened in, and I saw that as like as not I hadn't chosen the most convenient outfit for a long trip. How stately he looked, and tall and broad and grand. He had on his head a conical steel cask that only came down to his ears, and for visor had only a narrow steel bar that extended down to his upper lip and protected his nose, and all the rest of him, from head to heel, was flexible chain mail, trousers and all. But pretty much all of him was hidden under this outside garment, which of course was of chain mail, as I said, and hung straight from his shoulders to his ankles, and from his middle to the bottom, both before and behind, divided, so that he could ride and let the skirts hang down on each side. He was going grailing, and it was just the outfit for it too. I would have given a good deal for that, Ulster, but it was too late now to be fooling around. The sun was just up. The king and the court were all on hand to see me off and wish me luck, so it wouldn't be etiquette for me to tarry. You don't get on your horse yourself. No, if you tried it you would get disappointed. They carry you out, just as they carry a sun-struck man to the drugstore, and put you on, and help get you to rights and fix your feet in the stirrups, and all the while you do feel so strange and stuffy and like somebody else, like somebody that has been married on a sudden, or struck by lightning, or something like that, and hasn't quite fetched around yet, and is sort of numb and can't just get his bearings. Then they stood up the mass they called a spear in its socket by my left foot, and I gripped it with my hand. Lastly they hung my shields around my neck, and I was all complete and ready to up anchor and get to sea. Everybody was as good to me as they could be, and a maid of honour gave me the stirrup cup her own self. There was nothing more to do now but for that damsel to get up behind me on Pillion, which he did, and put an arm or so around me to hold on. And so we started, and everybody gave us a good buy and waved their handkerchiefs or helmets, and everybody we met, going down the hill and through the village, was respectful to us, except some shabby boys on the outskirts. They said, Oh, what a guy! and hoofed clouds at us. In my experience, boys of the same in all ages. They don't respect anything. They don't care for anything or anybody. They say, Go up, baldhead! to the Prophet, going his unfending way in the gray of antiquity. They sass me in the holy gloom of the Middle Ages. And I had seen them act the same way in Buchanan's administration. I remember because I was there and helped. The Prophet had his bears and settled with his boys, and I wanted to get down and settle with mine, but it wouldn't answer because I couldn't have gotten up again. I hate a country without a derrick. Straight off, we were in the country. It was most lovely and pleasant in those silven solitudes in the early cool morning in the first freshness of autumn. From hilltops we saw fair green valleys lying spread out below, with streams winding through them and island groves of trees here and there, and huge lonely oaks scattered about and casting black blots of shade. And beyond the valleys we saw the ranges of hills, blue with haze, stretching away in billowy perspective to the horizon, with at wide intervals a dim fleck of white or grey on a wave-summit, which we knew was a castle. We crossed broad natural lawns sparkling with dew, and we moved like spirits, the cushioned turf giving out no sound of footfall. We dreamed along through glades in a mist of green light that got its tint from the sun-drenched roof of leaves overhead. And by our feet the clearest and coldest of runlets went frisking and gossiping over its reefs and making a sort of whispering music comfortable to hear. And at times we left the world behind and entered into the solemn great deeps in rich gloom of the forest, where fur-to-wild things whisked and scurried by and were gone before you could even get your eye on the place where the noise was. And where only the earliest birds were turning out and getting to business, with a song here and a quarrel yonder, and a mysterious far-off hammering and drumming of worms on a tree-trunk away somewhere in the impenetrable remoteness of the woods. And by and by out we would swing again into the glare. About the third or fourth or fifth time that we swung out into the glare, it was along there somewhere, a couple of hours or so after sun-up, it wasn't as pleasant as it had been. It was beginning to get hot. This was quite noticeable. We had a very long pull, after all, without any shade. Now it is curious how progressively little frets grow and multiply after they once get a start. Things which I didn't mind at all at first I begin to mind now, and more and more too all the time. The first ten or fifteen times I wanted my handkerchief I didn't seem to care. I got along and said never mind, it isn't any matter, and dropped it on it by mind. But now it was different. I wanted it all the time. It was nag, nag, nag, right along, and no rest. I couldn't get it out of my mind, and so at last I lost my temper and said, hang a man that would make a suit of armor without any pockets in it. You see, I had my handkerchief and my helmet and some other things, but it was that kind of a helmet that you can't take off by yourself. That hadn't occurred to me when I put it there. And in fact I didn't know it. I suppose it would be particularly convenient there. And so now the thought of it being there, so handy and close by, and yet not get-ad-able, made it all the worst and harder to bear. Yes, the thing that you can't get is the thing you want, mainly. Everyone has noticed that. Well, it took my mind off from everything else, took it clear off and centered it into my helmet, and mile after mile there it stayed, imagining the handkerchief, picturing the handkerchief, and it was bitter and aggravating to have the salt sweat keep trickling down into my eyes and I couldn't get at it. It seems like a little thing on paper, but it was not a little thing at all. It was the most real kind of misery. I would not say it if it was not so. I made up my mind that I would carry along a reticule next time, let it look how it might, and people say what they would. Of course these iron dudes at the round table would niggle with scandalous and maybe raise shawl about it. But as for me, give me comfort first and style afterwards. So we jogged along. And now and then we struck a stretch of dust and it would tumble up in clouds and get into my nose and make me sneeze and cry, and of course I said things I ought to have said. I don't deny that. I am not better than others. We couldn't seem to meet anybody in this lonesome Britain, not even an ogre. And in the mood I was in then it was well for the ogre. That is, an ogre with a handkerchief. Most knights would have thought of nothing but getting his armor. But so I got his bandana he could keep his hardware for all me. Meanwhile it was getting hotter and hotter in there. You see the sun was beating down and warming up the iron more and more all the time. Well, when you are hot that way every little thing irritates you. When I trod it I rattled like a crate of dishes and that annoyed me. And moreover I couldn't seem to stand that shield slatting and banging now about my breast now about my back. And if I dropped into a walk my joints creaked in that worrisome way that a wheelbarrow does. And as we didn't create any breeze that gate I was like to get fried in that stove. And besides the quieter you went the heavier the iron settled down on you and the more and more tons you seemed to weigh every minute. And you had to be always changing hands and passing your spear over to the other foot. It got so irksome for one hand to hold it long at a time. Well, you know when you perspire that way in rivers there comes a time when you, well, when you itch. You are inside, your hands are outside. So there you are, nothing but iron between. It is not a light thing, let it sound as it may. First it is one place, then another, then some more. And it goes on spreading and spreading and it lasts the territory as all occupied and nobody can imagine what you feel like or how unpleasant it is. And when it had got to the worst and it seemed to me I could not stand anything more a fly got into the bars and settled on my nose and the bars were stuck and wouldn't work and I couldn't get the visor up and I could only shake my head which was baking hot by this time and the fly, well, you know how a fly acts when he has got a certainty. He only minded the shaking enough to change from nose to lip and lip to ear and buzz and buzz all around in there and keep on blighting and biting in a way that a person already so distressed as I simply could not stand. So I gave in and got Alsanda to unzip the helmet and relieve me of it. The convenience is out of it and fetched it full of water and I drank and then stood up and she poured the rest down inside the armor. One cannot think how refreshing it was. She continued to fetch and pour until I was well soaked and thoroughly comfortable. It was good to have a rest and peace but nothing is quite perfect in this life at any time. I had made a pipe a while back and also some pretty fair tobacco juice, the inside bark of the willow dried. These comforts had been in the helmet and now I had them again but no matches. Gradually as time wore long one annoying fact was born in upon my understanding that we were weather bound and armed novice cannot mount his horse without help and plenty of it. Sandy was not enough, not enough for me anyway. We had to wait until somebody should come along. Waiting in silence would have been agreeable enough for I was full of matter for reflection and wanted to give it a chance to work. I wanted to try and think out how it was that rational or even half rational men could ever have learned to wear armor considering its inconveniences and how they had managed to keep up such a fashion for generations when it was plain that what I had suffered today they had had to suffer all the days of their lives. I wanted to think that out and moreover I wanted to think out some way to reform this evil and persuade the people to let the foolish fashion die out. But thinking was out of the question in the circumstances. You couldn't think where Sandy was. She was quite a bit of a creature and good-hearted but she had a flow of talk that was as steady as a mill and made your head soar like the dres and wagons in a city. If she had had a cork she would have been a comfort but you can't cork that kind they would die. Her clack was going all day and you would think something would surely happen but no, they never got out of order and she never had to slack up for words she could grind and pump and churn and buzz by the week and never stopped to oil up or blow out and yet the result was just nothing but wind she never had any ideas any more than a fog has she was a perfect blather-skite I mean for jaw jaw jaw talk talk talk jabber jabber jabber but just as good as she could be I hadn't minded her mill that morning on account of having that whiff of her mill that morning on account of having that hornet's nest of other troubles but more than once in the afternoon I had to say take a rest child the way you were using up all the domestic air the kingdom will have to go to importing it by tomorrow and it's a low enough treasury without that. End of Section 34 Recording by Todd Section 35 of Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern Volume 9 This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern Volume 9 Section 35 The True Prince and the Famed One from The Prince and the Popper by Mark Twain At last the final act was at hand The Archbishop of Canterbury lifted up the crown of England from its cushion and held it out over the trembling mock king's head In the same instant a rainbow radiance flashed along the spacious transept for with one impulse every individual in a great concourse of nobles lifted a coronet and poised it over his or her head and paused in that attitude A deep hush pervaded the abbey At this impressive moment a startling apparition intruded upon the scene An apparition observed by none in the absorbed multitude until it suddenly appeared moving up the great central aisle It was a boy, bareheaded, ill-shod and clothed in coarse Poblian macarmons that were falling to rags He raised his hand with a solemnity which ill-comported with his soiled and sorry aspect and delivered this note of warning I forbid you to set the crown of England upon that forfeited head I am the king In an instant several indignant hands were laid upon the boy but in the same instant Tom Canty in his regal vestments made a swift step forward and cried out in a ringing voice Loose him and forbear! He is the king! A sort of panic of astonishment swept the assemblage and they partly rose in their places and stared in a bewildered way at one another and at the chief figures in this scene whether they were awake and in their senses or asleep and dreaming The Lord Protector was as amazed as to rest but quickly recovered himself and exclaimed in a voice of authority Mind not, His Majesty! His melody is upon him again! Seize the vagabond! He would have been obeyed but the mock king stamped his foot and cried out On your peril! Touch him not! He is the king! The hands were withheld A paralysis fell upon the house No one moved No one spoke Indeed no one knew how to act or what to say in so strange and surprising an emergency While all minds were struggling to write themselves the boy still moved steadily forward with high port and confident mean He had never halted from the beginning and while the tangled minds still floundered helplessly he stepped upon the platform and the mock king ran with a glad face and fell upon his knees before him and said Oh, my Lord the King! Let poor Tom Canty be first to swear fealty to thee and say Put on thy crown and enter into thine own again The Lord Protector's eye fell sternly upon the newcomer's face but straight away the sternness vanished away and gave place to an expression of wondering surprise This thing happened also to the other great officers They glanced at each other by a common and unconscious impulse The thought in each mind was the same What a strange resemblance! The Lord Protector reflected a moment or two in perplexity Then he said with grave respectfulness By your favour, sir I desire to ask certain questions which I will answer them then, my Lord The Duke asked him many questions about the court the late king, the prince, the princesses The boy answered them correctly and without hesitating He described the rooms of state in the palace the late king's apartments and those of the Prince of Wales It was strange It was wonderful Yes, it was unaccountable So all said that hurt it The tide was beginning to turn and Tom Canty's hopes to run high When the Lord Protector shook his head and said It is true it is most wonderful But it is no more than our Lord the King This remark and this reference to himself is still the King saddened Tom Canty and he felt his hopes crumbling under him These are not proofs added the Protector The tide was turning very fast now very fast indeed but in the wrong direction It was leaving poor Tom Canty stranded on the throne and sweeping the other out to sea The Lord Protector communed with himself shook his head upon him It is perilous to the state and to us all to entertain so fateful a riddle is this It could divide the nation and undermine the throne He turned and said Sir Thomas, arrest this No, hold His face lighted and he confronted the ragged candidate with this question Where lieth the great seal? Answer me this truly and the riddle is unriddled for only he that was Prince of Wales can so answer on so trivial a thing hang the throne and a dynasty It was a lucky thought a happy thought that it was so considered by the great officials was manifested by the silent applause that shot from eye to eye around their circle in the form of bright approving glances Yes, none but the two Prince could dissolve the stubborn mystery of the vanished great seal This forlorn little imposter had been taught his lesson well but here his teachings must fail for his teacher himself could not answer that question Ah, very good, very good indeed now we shall be rid of this troublesome and perilous business in short order and so they nodded invisibly and smiled inwardly with satisfaction and looked to see this foolish lad stricken with a palsy of guilty confusion How surprised they were then to see nothing of the sort happen How they marveled to hear he have answered up promptly in a confident and untroubled voice and say, there is not in this riddle then without so much as a buyer leave to anybody he turned and gave this command with the easy manner of one accustomed to doing such things My Lord St. John Go you to my private cabinet in the palace for none knoweth the place better than you and close down to the floor in the left corner remotest from the door that opens from the auntie chamber you shall find in the wall a brazen nail-head press upon it and a little jewel closet will fly open which not even you do know of No, nor any soul else in all the world but me and the trusty artist in that did contrive it for me the first thing that followed under your eye will be the great seal Fetch it hither All the company wondered at this speech and wondered still more to see the little medican pick out this pier without hesitancy or a parrot fear of mistake and called him by name with such a placidly convincing air of having known him all his life The pier was almost surprised into obeying he even made a movement as if to go but quickly recovered his tranquil attitude and confessed his blunder with a blush Tom Canty turned upon him and said sharply Why does thou hesitate? Hast thou not heard the king's command? Go! The Lord St. John made a deep obitience and it was absurd that it was a significantly cautious and non-committal one it not being delivered at either of the kings but at the neutral ground about half way between the two and took his leave Now began a movement of the gorgeous particles of that official group which was slow scarcely perceptible and yet steady and persistent a movement such as is observed in a kaleidoscope that is turned slowly whereby the components of one splendid cluster fall away and join themselves to another a movement which little by little in the present case dissolved the glittering crowd that stood about Tom Canty and clustered it together again in the neighborhood of the newcomer Tom Canty stood almost alone now ensued a brief season of deep suspense and waiting during which even the few faint hearts still remaining near Tom Canty gradually scraped together courage enough to glide one by one over to the majority so at last Tom Canty in his royal robes and jewels stood wholly alone and isolated from the world a conspicuous figure occupying an elegant vacancy Now the Lord St. John was seen returning as he advanced up the mid-isle the interest was so intense that the low murmur of conversation in the great assemblage died out and was exceeded by a profound hush a breathless stillness through which his footfalls pulsed with a dull and distant sound every eye was fastened upon him as he moved along he reached the platform paused a moment then moved towards Tom Canty with a deep obisience and said Sire, the seal is not there a mob does not melt away from the presence of a plague patient with more haste than the band of pallid courtiers melted away from the presence of the shabby little claimant of the crown in a moment he stood all alone without friend or supporter a target upon which was concentrated a bitter fire of scornful and angry looks the Lord Protector called out fiercely cast the beggar into the street and scourged him through the town the paltry nave is worth no more consideration officers of the guards bring forward to obey but Tom Canty waved them off and said back! who so touches how was his life? the Lord Protector was perplexed in the last degree he said to the Lord St. John search too well but it boots not to ask that it does seem passing strange little things trifles slip out of one's ken and one does not think it matter for surprise but how so bulky a thing as the seal of England can vanish away and no man be able to get track of it again a massy golden disc Tom Canty with beaming eyes ranked forward and shouted hold that is enough was it round and thick and had it letters and devices graved upon it yes oh now I know what this great seal is that there's been such worry and bother about and you had described it to me you could have had it three weeks ago right well I know where it lies but it was not I that put it there first who then my Lige asked the Lord Protector he that stands there the rightful king of England and he shall tell you himself where it lies then you will believe he knew of it with his own knowledge b'think thee, my king, spur thy memory it was the last the very last thing that didst that day before thou didst rush forth from the palace closed to my rags to punish the soldier that insulted me a silence ensued undisturbed by any movement or whisper and all eyes were fixed upon the newcomer who stood with bent head and corrugated brow hoping in his memory among a thronging multitude of valueless recollections for one single little elusive fact which found would seat him upon a throne unfound would leave him as he was for good and all a pauper and an outcast moment after moment passed the moments built themselves into minutes still the boy struggled silently on and gave no sign but at last he heaved a sigh shook his head slowly and said with a trembling lip and in a despondent voice I call the scene back all of it but the seal hath no place in it he paused then looked up and said with gentle dignity my lords and gentlemen if ye will rob your rightful sovereign of his own for lack of this evidence which he is not able to furnish I may not stay ye being powerless but oh folly oh madness my king cried Tom Canty in a panic wait think stop the cause is not lost nor shall be neither list to what I say follow every word I am going to bring that morning back again every hap just as it happened we talked I told you of my sisters Nan and Bet ah yes you remember that and above my old grandam and the rough games of the lads of awful court yes you remember these things also very well follow me still you shall recall everything food and drink and did with princely courtesy send away the servants so that my low breeding might not shame me before them ah yes this also you remember as Tom checked off his details and the other boy nodded his head in recognition of them the great audience and the officials stared in puzzled wonderment the tale sounded like true history yet how could this impossible conjunction between a prince and a beggar boy have come about never was a company of people so perplexed so interested and so stupefied before for a jest my prince we did the exchange of garments then we stood before a mirror and so alike were we that both said it seemed as if there had been no change made yes you remember that then you noticed that the soldier had hurt my hand look here it is I cannot yet even write with it the fingers are so stiff at this your highness sprang up vowing vengeance upon that soldier and ran toward the door the seal lay on the table you snatched it up and looked eagerly about as if for a place to hide it your eye caught sight of there disefficient and the great god be thanked exclaimed the ragged claimant in a mighty excitement go my good saint John in an arm piece of the millenies armor that hangs on the wall thou shall find the seal right my king right cried Tom Canty now the scepter of England is thine own and it were better for him that would dispute it that he had been born dumb oh my lord saint John give thy feet wings the whole assemblage was on its feet now and well nigh out of his mind with uneasiness apprehension and consuming excitement on the floor and on the platform a deafening buzz of frantic conversation burst forth and for some time nobody knew anything or heard anything or was interested in anything but what his neighbor was shouting into his ear or he was shouting into his neighbor's ear time nobody knew how much of it swept by unheeded and unnoted at last a sudden hush fell upon the house and in the same moment saint John appeared upon the platform and held the great seal aloft in his hand then such a shout went out long live the true king for five minutes the air quaked with shouts in the crash of musical instruments and was white with a storm of waving handkerchiefs and through it all a ragged lad the most conspicuous figure in England stood flushed and happy and proud in the center of the spacious platform with the great vassals of the kingdom kneeling about him then all rose and Tom Canty cried out now my king take these regal garments back and give poor Tom my servant his shreds and remnants again the lord protector spoke up let the small violet be stripped and flung into the tower but the new king the true king said I will not have it so but for him I had not got my crown again none shall I hand upon him to harm him and as for thee my good uncle my lord protector this conduct of thine is not grateful toward this poor lad for I hear he hath made thee a duke the protector blushed yet he was not a king wherefore what is this fine title worth now? tomorrow you shall sue to me through him for its confirmation else no duke but a simple earl thou shall remain under this rebuke is grace the duke of Somerset retired a little from the front of the moment the king turned to Tom and said kindly my poor boy how was it that you could remember where I hid the seal when I could not remember it myself ah my king that was easy since I used it diverse days used it? yet could not explain where it was I did not know that it was that they wanted they did not describe it your majesty then how used you it? the red blood began to steal up into Tom's cheeks and he dropped his eyes and was silent speak up good lad and fear nothing said the king how used you the great seal of England? Tom stammered a moment in a pathetic confusion then got it out to crack nuts with poor child the avalanche of laughter that greeted this and nearly swept him off his feet but if a doubt remained in any mind that Tom Canty was not the king of England and familiar with the august affordances of royalty this reply disposed of it utterly meantime the sumptuous robes of state had been removed from Tom's shoulders to the king's whose rags were effectually hidden from sight under it then the coronation ceremonies were resumed the true king was anointed and the crown set upon his head lost cannon thundered the news to the city and all London seemed to rock with applause End of Section 35 Recording by Todd Section 36 Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern Volume 9 This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rita Butros Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern Volume 9 Section 36 Author Hugh Clow 1819 to 1861 by Charles Elliot Norton The intellectual mood of many of the finest spirits in England and New England during the second quarter of the 19th century had something of the nature of a surprise to themselves no less than to those who came to see the influence. It was indeed a natural though unforeseen result of forces various in kind that had long been silently at work. The conflicting currents of thought and moral sentiment which in all ages perplex and divide the hearts of men took a new direction and seemed to have gathered volume and swiftness hardly since the Reformation was deep and general a stirring of the questions the answers to which whether they be final or merely provisional involve conclusions relating to the deepest interests of men. Old convictions were confronted by new doubts ancient authority was met by a modern spirit of independence. This new intellectual mood in Carlisle's essays and correspondingly in New England in the essays and poems of Emerson it was expressed in in memoriam and mod. It gave the undertone of Arnold's most characteristic verse and it found clear and strikingly distinctive utterance in the poems of Clow. His nature was of rare superiority a like of character and intellect. His moral integrity and sincerity imparted clearness to his imagination and strength to his intelligence so that while the most marked distinction of his poems is that which they possess as a mirror of spiritual conditions shared by many of his contemporaries they have hardly less interest as the expression and image of his own individuality. Author Hugh Clow was born at Liverpool on New Year's Day, 1819. His father who came of an old Welsh family his mother Ann Perfect was from Yorkshire had established himself in Liverpool as a cotton merchant. Toward the end of 1822 he emigrated with his wife and four children lost in South Carolina and here for four years was their home. For Arthur they were important years he was a shy sensitive boy already considered as the genius of the family he was his mother's darling. She was a woman rigidly simple in her tastes and habits of stern integrity of cultivated intelligence fond of poetry a lover of nature and quickly sympathetic with high character whether in real life or in the pages of romance. While his father taught him his Latin grammar and his arithmetic his mother read with him from Pope's Iliad and Odyssey from Scots novels and other books fitted to quicken the imagination her influence was strong in the shaping of his taste and disposition. In 1828 the family returned for a visit to England and Arthur was put to school at Chester whence in the next year he was transferred to Rugby Doctor Arnold had then very lately become the headmaster at Rugby and was already giving to the school a tone and quality unknown previously and drove to impress upon the boys the sense of personal responsibility and to rouse their conscience to the doing of duty not so much as a matter essential to the discipline of the school as to the formation of manly and religious character. The influence of his high vigorous and ardent nature was of immense force but its virtue was impaired by the artificiality of the ecclesiastical system of the church of England and the irrationality of the dogmatic creed which even to a nature as liberal as Doctor Arnold seemed to belong to the essentials of religion and to be indissoluble from the foundation of morality. Clow became Arnold's devoted disciple but he had intellectual sincerity enough to save him from yielding his own individuality to any stream of external influence however powerful. What he called the busy, arguing spirit of the prized school boy stood him in good stead but the moral stress was great and it left him early with a sense of strain and of perplexity as his mind opened to the greater and deeper problems of life for the solution of which the traditional creed seemed insufficient. His career at school was of the highest distinction and when he was leaving rugby for Oxford in 1836 Doctor Arnold broke the rule of silence to which he almost invariably adhered in the delivery of prizes and congratulated Clow on having gained every honor which rugby could bestow and on having done the highest credit to the school at the university for he had won the Balliol Scholarship then and now the highest honor which a school boy could obtain. Clow went into residence at Oxford in October 1837 it was a time of stirring of heart and trouble of mind at the university the great theological controversy which was to produce such far reaching effects upon the lives of individuals and upon the church of England as a whole was then rising to its height Newman was at the acme of his popularity and influence his followers were zealous and active Ward, his most earnest disciple was one of Clow's nearest friends Clow not yet 19 years old but morally and intellectually developed beyond his years and accustomed already to independent speculation in regard to creed and conduct was inevitably drawn into the deep waters of theological discussion he heard too those other voices which Matthew Arnold in his admirable lecture in Emerson has spoken of as deeply affecting the more sensitive youthful spirits of the Oxford of this time the voices of Goethe of Carlisle and of Emerson he studied hard but his studies seemed for the moment at least to be of secondary importance although unusually reserved in demeanor and silent in general company his reputation grew especially as a scholar but as a man distinguished above his fellows for loftiness of spirit for sweetness of disposition and for superiority of moral no less than of intellectual qualities with much interior storm and stress his convictions were gradually maturing he resisted the prevailing tendencies of Oxford thought but did not fully find a secure basis for his own beliefs in 1841 he tried for and missed his first class in the examinations it was more a surprise and disappointment to others than to himself he knew that he had not shown himself in the examinations for what he really was and his failure did not affect his confidence in his own powers nor did others lose faith in him as was shown by his election in the next year to a fellowship at Oriel and the year later to his appointment as tutor his livelihood being thus assured he led from 1843 to 1848 a quiet, hardworking uneventful tutor's life diversified with reading parties in the vacations he was writing poems from time to time but his vocation as poet was not fully recognized by himself or by others he had been obliged in assuming the duties of tutor to sign the 39 articles though as he wrote to a friend reluctantly enough and I am not quite sure whether or not in a justifiable sense however I have for the present laid by that perplexity though it may perhaps recur at some time or other and in general I do not feel perfectly satisfied about staying in my tutor capacity at Oxford the perplexity would not down but as the years went on the troubled waters of his soul gradually cleared themselves he succeeded in attaining independence of mind such as few men attain in finding if not a solution of the moral perplexities of life at least a position from which they might be frankly confronted without blinking and without self-deception it became impossible for him to accept however they might be interpreted the doctrines of any church he would not play tricks with words nor paltre with the integrity of his soul this perfect mental honesty of Clow and his entire sincerity of expression were a stumbling block to many of his more conventional contemporaries and have remained as a rock of offence to many of the readers of his poetry who find it disturbing to be obliged to recognize in his work a test of their own sincerity in dealing with themselves with how few conviction and profession perfectly at one the difficulty of the struggle in Clow's case the difficulty of freeing himself from the chains of association of tradition of affection of interest which bound him to conformity with and acceptance of the popular creed in one or the other of its forms has led superficial critics of his life and poetry to find in them evidence that the struggle was too hard for him and the result unsatisfactory there could not be a greater error Clow's honest acceptance of the insolubility of the vain questions which men are perpetually asking and his recognition of the insufficiency of the answers which they are ready to accept or to pretend to accept him as regards his most inward soul one of the serenest of men the questions of practical life of action of duty indeed presented themselves to his sensitive and contemplative nature with their full perplexity but his spiritual life was based on a foundation that could not be shaken he had learned the lesson and accepted without trouble the fact of the limitation of human faculties and the insolubility of the mystery of life he was indeed tired with the hard work of years and worried by the uncertainty of his future when at length in order to deliver himself from a constrained if not a false position and to obtain perfect freedom of expression as well as of thought he resigned in 1848 both his fellowship and tutorship it was a momentous decision for it left him without any definite means of support it alienated the authorities of the university it isolated him from many old friends immediately after resigning his tutorship Clow went to Paris with Emerson then on a visit to Europe as his companion they were drawn thither by interest in the strange revolution which was then in progress and by desire to watch its aspects the social conditions of England had long been matter of concern to Clow he had been deeply touched by the misery of the Irish famine in 1847 and had printed a very striking pamphlet in the autumn of that year urging upon the students at Oxford retrenchment of needless expenditure and restrictions of waste and luxury his sympathies were with the poor and he was convinced of the need of radical social reform he therefore observed the course of revolution on the continent not merely with curiosity but with sympathetic hope in the autumn of this year after his return home and while at Liverpool with his mother and sister he wrote his first long poem the bathy of Turburn of Wallach a long vacation pastoral it had no great immediate success but it made him known to a somewhat wider public than that of Oxford it was in its form the fruit of the reading parties in the Highlands in previous summers it was in hexameters and he asked Emerson to convey to Mr. Longfellow the fact that it was a reading of his Evangeline allowed to my mother and sister which coming after a re-parousel of the Iliad occasioned this outbreak of hexameters it is a delightful poem full of vitality and variety original in design simple in incident it has the freshness and wholesomeness of the open air the charm of nature and of life with constant interplay of serious thought and light humor of gravity and gaiety of sentiment its publication was followed speedily by a little volume entitled Ambarvalia made up of two parts one of poems by Clow one of those by an old school and college friend Mr. Burbridge Clow's part consisted as he wrote to Emerson of old things the casualties of at least ten years but many of these casualties are characteristic expressions of personal experience to which Clow's absolute sincerity gives deep human interest they are the records of the maze of life for a Clow whereby to move they deal with the problems of his own life and these problems perplex other men as well I have seen higher holier things than these he writes in 1841 I have seen higher holier things than these and therefore must to these refuse my heart yet I am panting for a little ease I'll take and so depart but he checks himself ah hold the heart is prone to fall away her high and cherished visions to forget and if thou takest how wilt thou repay so vast so dread a debt the little volume appealed to but a small band of readers the poems it contained did not allure by fluency of fancy or richness of diction they were not of a kind to win sudden popularity but they gave evidence of a poet who though not complete master of his art and not arrived at a complete understanding of himself had yet a rare power of reflection and expression and a still rarer sincerity of imaginative vision they were poems but gave large promise and that promise was already in part fulfilled by the Buffy early in 1849 the headship of University Hall in London was offered to Clow and accepted by him this was an institution professedly non-sectarian established for the purpose of receiving students in attendance upon the lectures at he was not to enter upon the duties of the place until October and he spent the greater part of the intervening period in a fruitful visit to Italy he reached Rome in April all Italy was in revolution the Pope had fled from Rome the Republic had been declared and Masini was in control of the government the French army was approaching to besiege the city and Clow resolved to await the event no more vivid and picturesque account of aspects of the siege exist than is to be found in his poem of Amours de Voyage written in great part at Rome under the pressure and excitement of the moment then laid aside in the poet's desk and not published till long afterward it consists of a series of letters supposed to be written by various persons in which a narrative of passing events is interwoven with a love story the hero of the story is a creation of extraordinary subtlety and interest he has much of the temperament of Hamlet not wanting in personal courage nor in resolution when forced to action but hesitating through sensitiveness of conscience through dread of mistaking momentary impulse for fixed conviction through the clearness with which diverging paths of conduct present themselves to his imagination with the inevitable doubt as to which be the right one to follow the character though by no means an exact or complete image of the poet's own yet drawn in part from himself and offers glimpses of his inner nature of the delicacy of his sensitive poetic spirit of his tendency to subtle introspective reflection of his honesty in dealing with facts and with himself to see things as they are to keep his eyes clear to be true to the living central in most eye within the scales of mere exterior were the principles of his life the charm of Amours de Voyage however consists not merely in animated description in delicate sentiment and in the poetic representation of sensitive impressionable and high-minded youth but in its delicate humor in the delineation of character and in its powerful imaginative picturesque reproduction of the atmosphere and influence of Rome and of the spirit of the moment to which the poem relates it is as unique and as original in its kind as the Buffy it is a poem that appeals strongly to the lovers of the poetry of high culture and is not likely to lack such readers in future generations from Rome in July Clow went to Naples and there wrote another of his most striking poems Easter Day in the autumn of 1850 he again went during a short vacation to Italy but now to Venice and while there began his third long poem Dipsicus of which this scene is in that city in this poem which represents the conflict of the soul in its struggles to maintain itself against the temptations of the world and the devil Clow again wrote out much of his inner life it is not so much a piece of strict autobiography of the spirit of an individual as an imaginative drama of the spiritual experience common in all times to men of fine nature a solution of the puzzle of their own hearts in none of his other poems is there such variety of tone or such an exhibition of mature poetic power it is indeed loosely constructed but its separate parts each contributing to the development of its main theme with their diversity of imagination reflection, wit and sentiment in an impressive unity of effect the position at University Hall proved not altogether satisfactory and no other opening for him offering itself in England Clow determined after much hesitation and deliberation to try his fortune as a teacher and writer in America he sailed in October 1852 on a steamer which he had Lowell and Thackeray for fellow passengers he spent the next 8 months at Cambridge employed in tutoring and in literary work winning the warm regard of the remarkable group of men of letters who then gave distinction to the society of Cambridge and of Boston and especially keeping up his friendship with Emerson by frequent visits to Concord he received a fair prospect of success for him in his new career but his friends at home deeply attached to him and ill content that he should leave them obtained for him an appointment as examiner in the education department of the council office the salary would give to him a secure though moderate income he was the more drawn to accept the place because shortly before leaving England he had become engaged to be married and accordingly in July 1853 he returned home and at once entered on the duties of his office in June 1854 he married for the next 7 years his life was tranquil, laborious and happy the account of these years contained in the beautiful sketch of his life by his wife which is prefixed to the collection of his letters, poems and prose remains gives a picture of Claude's domestic felicity and of the various interests which engaged him outside of the regular drudgery of official work his own letters bear witness to the content of his days he had little leisure for poetry he was overworked in 1860 his health gave way leave of absence from the office was given to him he went to the seashore he visited the continent but though at times he seemed to gain strength there was no steady recovery in the autumn of 1861 he went to Italy accompanied by his wife he enjoyed the journey but they had only reached the lakes when he experienced a touch of fever they went on to Florence he became more seriously ill he began however apparently to recover but a sudden blow of paralysis struck him down and on the 13th day of November he died among the most original and beautiful of Matthew Arnold's poems is his Thersis a monody to commemorate his friend author Hugh Clow Thersis his mate has gone no purer or more subtle soul than he ever sought the light that leaves its seeker still untired still onward faring by his own heart inspired the lament is as true as it is tender the singer continues what though the music of thy rustic flute kept not for long lost it too soon and learned a stormy note of men contention tossed of men who groan which tasked thy pipe too sore and tired thy throat it failed and thou must mute yet hath thou always visions of our light yes always visions of the light but Arnold's usual felicity of discrimination in this last stanza the stormy note is not the characteristic note of Clow's mature song nor does his art betray the overtast pipe his pipe indeed is not attuned as was Arnold's own to the soft melancholy of regret at leaving behind the happy fields of the past in the quest for the light that shines beyond and across the untraveled and waste before them its tone was less pathetic but not less clear the music of each is the song of travelers whose road is difficult whose goal is uncertain their only guide is the fugitive light now faint now distinct which allures them with irresistible compulsion their pathways at time diverge but when most divergent the notes of their accordant pipes are heard in the same direction the memory of Clow remains with those who had the happiness of knowing him in life distinct and precious it is that of one of the highest and purest souls sensitive, simple tender, manly his figure stands as one of the ideal figures of the past the image of the true poet the true friend the true man he died too young for his full fame but not too young for the love which is better than fame End of section 36 from Balaclare, Inc. under Northern Ireland situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern volume 9, section 37 selected poems by Arthur Hugh Clow there is no god there is no god said the wicked and truly it's a blessing for what he might have done with us is better only guessing there is no god a youngster thinks or really if there may be a man always to be a baby there is no god or if there is the tradesman thinks to a funny if he should take it ill in me to make a little money whether there be the rich man says it matters very little for I and mine thanks somebody or not in vain a victim some others also to themselves who scare so much as doubt it think there is none when they are well and do not think about it country folks who live beneath the shadow of the steeple the person and the person's wife are mostly married people youths green and happy in first love so thankful for illusion and men cut out in what the world calls guilt in first confusion and almost everyone when age disease or sorrows strike him inclines to think that there is a god or something very like him the latest catalogue thou shalt have one god only who would be at the expense of two no graven images may be worshiped save in the currency swear not at all since for thy curse thine enemy is none the worse at church and Sunday to attend will serve to keep the world thy friend honor thy parents that is all from whom advancement may befall thou shalt not kill but need us not strife ofacaciously to keep alive adultery is not fit or safe for women to commit thou shalt not an empty feet when tis as lucrative to cheat bear not false witness let the lie have time on its own wings to fly thou shalt not covet but tradition approves all forms of competition to the unknown god although his image in the shrine of human spirits dwells divine which from that precinct once conveyed to be to utter day displayed doth vanish part and leave behind mere blank and void of empty mind which willful fancy seeks in vain with casual shapes to fill again O thou that in our bosoms shrine doth dwell unknown because divine I thought to speak I thought to say the light is here behold the way the voice was thus and thus the word and thus I saw and that I heard and from the lips that half a said the imperfect utterance fell on maid O thou in that mysterious shrine enthroned as I must say divine I will not frame one thought of what thou must either be or not I will not create of thus and so and be profane with yes and no enough that in our show and heart thou whatsoever thou must be art unseen secure in that high shrine acknowledged present and divine I will not ask some upper air some future day to place through there nor say nor yet deny such men and women say the thus and then thy name was such and there or here to him or her thou didst appear do only thou in that dim shrine unknown or known remain divine there or if not at least in eyes that scan the fact that round them lies the hand to sway the judgment guide in sight and sense thyself divide be thou but there in soul and heart will not ask to fail thy art Easter day enables 1849 through the great sinful streets of Naples as I passed with fiercer heat than flamed above my head my heart was hot within me till at last my brain was lightened when my tongue had said Christ is not risen Christ is not risen now he lies and moulders low Christ is not risen what though the stone were rolled away and though the grave found empty there if not there then elsewhere if not where Joseph laid him first why then were other men translated him after some humbler clay long air today corruption that sad perfect work hath done which here she scarcely lightly had begun the file in gendered worm feeds on the flesh of the life-giving form of our most holy and anointed one he is not risen now he lies and moulders low Christ is not risen what if the women are the dawn was gray so one or more great angels as they say angels or him himself yet there nor then nor afterwards nor elsewhere nor at all hath he appeared to Peter or the 10 nor save in thunderous terror to blind Paul save in an after gospel and they creed he is not risen indeed Christ is not risen or what if Ian as runs a tale the 10 saw heard and touched again and yet again what if at emiss is in and by Capernaum's Lake came one the bread came one that speak as never mortal speak and with them ate and drank and stood and walked about ah some did well to doubt ah the true Christ while these things came to pass nor heard nor speak nor walked nor lived alas he is not risen no he lay and mouldered low Christ was not risen as circulates in some great city crowd and murmur changeful big import unit and loud from no determined center or a fact or authorship exact which no man can deny nor verify so spread the wonders frame he all the same lay senseless mouldering low he is not risen no Christ was not risen ashes to ashes dust to dust as of the unjust also of the just yeah of that just one too this is the one sad gospel that is true Christ is not risen he is not risen and shall we not rise oh we unwise what did we dream what wake we to discover e hills fallen us a new mountains cover in darkness and great gloom come here we thought it is our day of doom from the cursed world which is one tomb Christ is not risen eat drink and play and think that this is bliss there is no heaven but this there is no hell save earth which deserves to purpose doubly well saying it still with equalist apportionment of ill both good and bad alike and brings to one same dust the unjust and the just with Christ who is not risen eat drink and die for we are souls bereaved of all the creatures under heaven's wide cope we are most hopeless who had once most hope and most believeless that had most believed ashes to ashes dust to dust as of the unjust also of the just yeah of that just one too it is the one sad gospel that is true Christ is not risen wait not beside the tomb ye women onto whom he was great solace while you tended him ye who with napkin over the head and folds of linen round each wounded limb laid out the sacred dead and thou that bearst him in that wandering womb ye daughters of Jerusalem depart bind up as best you may your own sad bleeding heart go to your homes your living children tend your earthly spouse's love yet your affections not on things above which moth and rust corrupt which quick list come to end or pray if pray ye must and pray if pray ye can for death since dead is he whom ye deemed more than man who is not risen no but lies and moulders low who is not risen ye men of Galilee why stands ye looking up to heaven where him ye never may see neither ascending hence nor returning hither again he ignorant and idle fishermen hence to your huts and boots and inland native shores and catch not men but fish what error things ye might wish him neither here nor there ye error shall meet with more ye purred a little youths go home mend the old nets ye left to roam tie the split oar patch the torn sail it was indeed an idle tale he was not risen and oh good men of ages yet to be who shall believe because ye did not see obey ye warned be wise no more with pleading eyes and sobbed strong desire unto the empty vacant void aspire seeking another and impossible birth that is not of your own and only mother earth but if there is no other life for you sit down and be content since this must even do he is not risen one look and end apart ye humble and ye holy men of heart and ye ye ministers and stewards of a word which ye would preach because another herd ye worshipers of that ye do not know take these things hence and go he is not risen here on our Easter day we rise we come and lo we find him not gardener not other on the sacred spot where they have laid him there is not to say no sound nor in nor out no word of where to seek the dead or meet the living Lord there is no glistering of an angel wings there is no voice of heavenly clear behest let us go hence and think upon these things in silence which is best is he not risen no but lies in moulders low Christ is not risen it fortifies my soul to know it fortifies my soul to know that though I perish truth is so that how so ever I stray in range what error I do thou dost not change I steady or step when I call that if I slip thou dost not fall say not the struggle not availeth say not the struggle not availeth the labour and the wounds are vain the enemy feints not nor faileth and as things have been they remain if hopes were gyps fares may be liars it may be in yon smoke concealed your comrades chase a and now the flyers but for you possess the field for while the tired waves vainly breaking seem here no painful inch to gain far back through creeks and inlets making comes silent flooding in the main and not by eastern windows only when daylight comes comes in the light in front the sun climbs slow how slowly but westward look the land is bright come back come back come back behold with straining mast and swelling sail behold her steaming fast with one new sun to see her voyage o'er with morning light to touch her native shore come back come back come back come back while westward labouring by with sailish yards a bare black hulk we fly see how the gale we fight with sweeps her back to our lost home on our forsaken track come back come back come back come back across the flying foam we hear faint far off voices call us home come back ye seem to say ye seek in vain we went homeward turned again come back come back come back come back and wither back or why to fan quenched hopes for second schemes to try walk the old fields pace the familiar street dream with the idlers with the bards compete come back come back come back come back and wither and for what to finger idly some old gordian knot unskilled to sunder and too weak to cleave and with much toil attain to half leave come back come back come back come back ye back indeed do go sighs panting thick and tears that want to flow fawn fluttering hopes uprise their useless wings and wishes idly struggle in the strings come back come back come back come back more eager than the breeze the flying fancies sweep across the seas and lighter far than oceans flying foam the hearts message hurries to its home come back come back come back back flies to foam the hoisted flag streams back the long smoke waivers on the homework track back fly with winds things which the wind obey the strong ship follows its appointed way as ships be calmed as ships be calmed at eve that lay with canvas dripping side by side to towers of sail at dawn of day or scarce long leagues of heart when fell the night up sprang the breeze and all the darkling ours they plied not dreamt but each the south same seas by each was clearing side by side even so but why the tale reveal of those whom year by year unchanged brief absence joined anew to fail astound soul from soul estranged at dead of night their sails were filled and onward each rejoicing stared ah blame for neither willed or wist what first with dawn appeared to veer how then on onward strain brave barks in light and darkness too through winds and ties one compass guides to that and your own selves be true but oblithe breeze and all great seas though nearer that earliest parting past on your wide plane they join again together lead them home at last the port me thought alike they sought one purpose hold where ever they fare o bounding breeze o rushing seas at last at last unite them there the unknown course where lies the land to which the ship would go far far ahead is all her seamen no and where the land she travels from away far far behind is all that they can say o sunny nuns upon the deck smooth face linked arm in arm how pleasant here to piece or or the stern reclining watch below the foaming wake far widening as we go on stormy nights when wild north westers rave how proud a thing to fight with wind and wave the dripping sailor on the reeling mast exalts to bear and scorns to worship past where lies the land to which the ship would go far far ahead is all her seamen no and where the land she travels from away far far behind is all they can say the gondola a flute we move delicious ah what else is like the gondola this level flow of liquid glass begins beneath us swift to pass it goes as though it went alone by some impulsion of its own highlight it moves how softly ah where all things like the gondola highlight it moves how softly ah could life as does our gondola unvexed with quarrels aims and cares our moral duties and affairs on swaying noiseless swift and strong forever thus thus glide along how light we move how softly ah where life but as the gondola with no more motion than should bear a freshness to the languid air with no more effort than expressed the need and naturalness of rest which we beneath our delightful shade should take on peaceful hellos laid highlight we move how softly ah where life but as the gondola in one unbroken passage born to closing night from opening mourn uplift at wiles slow eyes to mark some palace front some passing bark three windows catch the varying shore and hear the soft turns of the oar highlight we move how softly ah where life but as the gondola in one place in life come come a thousand labourers ply their task and what it tends to scarcely ask and trembling thinkers on the brink shiver and know not what to think to tell the report of their pain and what our silly joys contain in lasting linements portray the substance of the shadowy day or rail and inner deeds rehearse and make our meaning clear and verse come come for but in vain We do the work or feel the pain, And gather up the evening gain, Unless before the end thou come, To take ere they are lost their sum, Come pot, come, To give an utterance to the dumb, And make, vey and babbler, silent, come, A thousand gyps, point here and there, Bewildered by the show and glare, And wise men half have learnt to doubt, Whether we are not best without, Come pot, both but wait to see, Their error-proof to them, And they, come pot, come, In vain, I seem to call, And yet think not the living times forget. Ages of heroes fought and fell, That Homer in the end might tell, Overgrovelling, generations past, Upstood the dork, feign, at last. And countless hearts and countless years Had wasted thoughts and hopes and veirs, Rude laughter and unmeaning tears, Ere England Shakespeare saw, Or roamed the pure perfection of her doom, Others I doubt not, if not we, The issue of our toils shall see, Young children gather as their own, The harvest that the dead had sown, The dead forgotten and unknown, On keeping within one's proper sphere. From the Boothie of Tuber na Vulech, A party of Oxford men spend their long vacation In Scotland, In due course they return to their colleges, Adam, one of the party, The grave man, nicknamed Adam, White, Tide, clerical, silent, And antique, square-cut waistcoat, Thieves a letter at Christmas from Philip Euston, The Chartist, The Poet, The eloquent speaker. What I said at Baloch has truth in it, Only distorted, plants are some for fruit, And some for flowering only. Let there be deer in parks, As well as kind in paddocks, Christian buildings upon the earth, As well as gothic. There may be men, perhaps, Whose vocation it is to be idle. Idle, sumptuous, even, Luxurious, if it must be. We let each man seek to be That for which nature mint him. Independent surely of pleasure, If not regardless, independent also of station, If not regardless, Erespective also of station, as of enjoyment. Do his duty in that state of life To which God not man shall call him. If you were meant to plow, Lord Marcus, Out with you and do it. If you were meant to be idle, O beggar, Behold, I will feed thee. Take my purse, You have far better right to it. And than the Marcus, If you were born for a grim, And you seem by your dress to believe so, Do it like a man's or George's for pay, In a livery stable. Yes, you may so release That slip of a boy at the corner. Fingering books at the window, Mist doubting the Eighth Commandment, What a mere dean, with whose wits That debtor and creditor headpiece. So, my detective Dee Dee, Make the place of Burns for Gager, Ah fair Lady Maria, God meant you to live and to be lovely. Be so then, and I bless you, But ye, you spurious wearer, Who might be plain women, And can be by no possibility better. Ye unhappy statuettes, Ye miserable trinkets, Poor alabaster, Timney, peace, Ornaments under glass cases, Come in God's name, come down, The very French clock by you Puts you to shame with ticking, The fire irons deride you. Break your glasses, ye can, Come down, ye are not really plaster. Come in God's name, come down, Do anything, babe, or something. You young girl, Who have had such advantages learned so quickly, Can ye not teach? Oh yes, and she likes Sunday school extremely, Only at sin in the morning. Away, if to teach be your calling, It is no play, but a business off, Go teach and be paid for it. Surely that fussy old Gager yonder Was meant for the counter. Only she is notable at very, And keeps her servants in order, Past admiration indeed, And keeps to employ her talent. How many pray, To what use away the hotel's her vocation. Lady Sophie's so good to the sick, So firm and so gentle, Is there a nobler sphere Than of hospital nurse a maitreum, Hast thou for cooking a turn, Little Lady Clarissa? In with them, in with your fingers, Their beauty it spoils but your own it enhances, For it is beautiful only to do The thing we are meant for. But they will marry, Have husbands and children and guests and households, Are there so many trades for a man, For a woman one only, To look out for a husband, And then to preside at his table? Have you ever, Philip, my boy, Looked at it in this way? When the armies are set in array, And the battle beginning, Is it well that the soldier Whose post is far to the left would say, I will go to the right, It is there I shall do best service. There is a great field, Marshal, my friend, Who arrays our battalions, Let us to Providence trust, And abide and work in our stations. All things need not be therefore true, O brother men, nor yet the new, Ah, still a while the old thought retain, And yet consider it again. The souls of now two thousand years Have laid up here their toils and veers, And all the yearnings of their pain, Ah, yet consider it again. We, what do you say, Each a space of some few yards before his face, Does that the whole wide-plan explain, Ah, yet consider it again. Alas, the great world goes its way, And takes its truth from each new day, They do not quit, nor yet retain, Far less consider it again.