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Cornell University Library 
 
 PR5101.M39S9 
 
 Susan; a poem of degrees, by the author of 
 
 3 1924 013 528 827 
 
The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013528827 
 
SUSAN. 
 
Susan 
 
 A POEM OF DEGREES. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 'DOROTHY- A COUNTRY STORY IN ELEGIAC VERSE," 
 "VULGAR VERSES," ETC. 
 
 Ar+Kuy "ToS^isk |^iA.v\l>u 
 
 Abra was ready, ere I call'd her name ; 
 And tho' I call'd another, Abra came. 
 
 and for sche wolde vertu please, 
 
 Sche knew well labour, but noon ydel ease. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 REEVES AND TURNER, 196 STRAND. 
 
 1893- 
 
 [AU Rights reserved.^ 
 iff 
 
A. I 2.&4-3»f 
 
At Monte di Vico, locally called Mondovi, which is about 
 twenty miles hillward from Ivrea in Piedmont, there lived, 
 about the year 1800, a gentleman of old family, a landowner ; 
 who was in fact the squire of the parish. He, while still 
 young, married one of his own servants ; a peasant girl named 
 Rosa, who was his kitchenmaid. She was a quiet, good- 
 tempered, innocent young creature ; she loved her master, but 
 she never desired, and indeed she always refused, to be a 
 lady. She would not be called Signora, nor even Monna, 
 but only Rosa. She dressed as before, in her village costume, 
 and bel^aved precisely as she had done in her servant days. 
 If her husband had company to dinner, she retired to her own 
 room until they went away. At church on Sunday, she wore 
 her peasant's dress; and walked behind her husband, along 
 with his old housekeeper, while the nurse carried her baby 
 boy. Her husband used to drive back from church in his 
 carriage ; but Rosa never dreamed of accompanying him. She 
 even seemed to think her own child superior to herself; whilst 
 to her parents and her other poor kinsfolk, she continued as 
 dutiful and affectionate as before : in no way elated at her 
 good fortune, or changed by her altered position. 
 
 Fuller details as to these facts may be found in a book 
 called Lizzie Loraine, published by Messrs. Kegan Paul and 
 Co. in 1877. 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 We talk'd together, Arundel and I, 
 
 Of women's characters : the mystery 
 
 Of some strange lives ; how noble yet how base, 
 
 How foul in heart and yet how fair of face 
 
 The selfsame woman may be ; and again. 
 
 How often women, resolutely plain 
 
 Or ugly, the mere refuse of their kind 
 
 In outward aspect, have to the just mind 
 
 A beauty fairer than the passing guise 
 
 Of rosy lips and soft enchanting eyes. 
 
 Also, in classes lower than our own, 
 
 How many a working woman we had known. 
 
 How many a wench robust and rough with toil. 
 
 Whose harden'd fingers would but wound and soil 
 
 Your tender palms. Lord Fanny or Sir Plume, 
 
 And yet, to whom the mattock and the broom. 
 
 The sweat of labour, the mere black result 
 
 Of drudgery, become a kind of cult 
 
 That leaves these muscular maidens nobler far 
 
 Than the most feminine of ladies are. 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 On them we dwelt, these creatures masculine : 
 
 Rough servant girls, whom nothing can refine ; 
 
 The black and rugged wenches of the mine ; 
 
 The sunburnt damsels of the field or farm ; 
 
 All, who by force of bulk and strength of arm 
 
 Can keep a bad man's insolence at bay, 
 
 And make him feel that they, and such as they, 
 
 Can hold their own unaided. Some, indeed, 
 
 Grave lusty lasses of laborious breed, 
 
 Have all their energies inform'd by love : 
 
 They spend their strength in serving one above 
 
 (Too far above) themselves. Such a mute maid, 
 
 Whose low condition nothing can degrade 
 
 Save vice, will use each large and sinewy limb 
 
 Of her coarse frame, in drudgery for him 
 
 Who owns her heart, and whose adored commands 
 
 Direct the efforts of her horny hands. 
 
 She makes herself his slave ; not that he wills 
 
 She should do thus ; but that her passion fills 
 
 The only channel it can hope to find. 
 
 She cannot help him with the equal mind 
 
 Of educated woman ; but by this. 
 
 Her own rude work, she can be wholly his : 
 
 Her own rude labour will suffice to show 
 
 The strenuous love that makes her labour so ; 
 
 And by its very baseness may express 
 
 Her deep devotion, and her happiness 
 
 In having such a sweetheart for her own. 
 
 " I knew a man,'' said Arundel, " unknown 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 Perchance to many, but not all obscure, 
 
 Who chose himself a maiden of the poor, 
 
 A wench like these we speak of; and to her, 
 
 Though she was but a rustic labourer, 
 
 He gave the best he had, till she became 
 
 The sharer of his hfe and of his name. 
 
 He married her. Well — she could read and write. 
 
 But that was all ; she could take no delight 
 
 In what he lived for : she could never share 
 
 His wider sympathies, nor greatly care 
 
 For his high aims and interests. How absurd, i 
 
 To think that things which she had never heard. 
 
 Names that she knew not, places all unknown 
 
 To her who knew one spot of earth alone 
 
 And cared for naught beyond it, could become 
 
 To her as real as her humble home ! i 
 
 Yes — but he did not think so. Not for these — 
 Not for her knowledge or her sympathies — 
 He loved her : why, the compass of her head 
 Would hold all books that ever she had read, 
 And all the outland treasures she had seen ! 
 What was her knowledge? She could scrub and clean, 
 And sweep and scour ; wash dishes mugs and plates ; 
 Cleanse the foul chimneys, and blacklead the grates. 
 And clean your boots, and polish up your knives. 
 Hers was the blackest busiest of lives ; 5 
 
 For, having done all this, she still work'd hard — 
 Dug coals, hew'd wood, drew water, swill'd the yard, 
 Shook carpets, wash'd the doorsteps : furthermore. 
 She daily fetch'd and carried to the door - 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 Some stranger's luggage, which she had to bear 
 On her strong shoulders up or down the stair 
 That she had clean'd, descending on her knees. 
 Such tasks she stoutly did, and did with ease ; 
 For now, she was promoted to a place 
 Of indoor service ; and her comely face, 
 Though clouded oft with labour and with sweat, 
 Still pleased the guests, and made them half forget 
 How rough she was, how humble, how forlorn 
 Of all those gifts and graces that adorn 
 The ways of man or woman who enjoys 
 A life of leisure in a land of toys. 
 
 But she was well contented with her lot : 
 For gifts and graces, they concern'd her not. 
 Save those she had ; and they were genuine, 
 And suited her, because they were not fine. 
 Her artless manners and her rustic speech. 
 Her modest reverent curtsy, well might teach 
 The virtue of a sweet simplicity 
 To all who saw her. Oh how simple, she 
 Who counted as the best of all her charms 
 The massive hands and strong laborious arms 
 That earn'd her living ! Yet, from such as knew 
 The worth of toil, these gain'd her honour too. 
 
 And he who loved her knew the worth of toil : 
 He did not care, though drudgery might soil 
 Her helpful hands and arms, or leave its trace 
 Even on the rural roses of her face. 
 Truly, he loved her just for what she was : 
 The beauty which her lowly calhng has 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 When used aright, to his indulgent mood 
 
 Seem'd more than all the bliss of ladyhood. 
 
 And she loved him, because he was to her 
 
 Not sweetheart only, but interpreter 
 
 Of all the many things she did not know. 
 
 How good of him, to love a maid so low ; 
 
 To be content with what she had to give, 
 
 And ask no higher aid, but let her live 
 
 Still in the quiet ways where she was bom ! 
 
 So thought she ; and she dreaded too the scorn 
 
 And cold contumely of his kith and kind. 
 
 What would they think of her? What could they find 
 
 In such as she, to warrant or excuse 
 
 His conduct, who for her sake should refuse 
 
 His own fair station and his proper friends ? 
 
 Would they not say, that for her own bad ends 
 
 She let him love unworthily ; that thus 
 
 She might escape her life laborious, 
 
 And rise to be a lady ? No, indeed ! 
 
 They never should have room for such a creed, 
 
 For she would not be raised. Why should she be, 
 
 Why should she leave the work she loved, when he, 
 
 Her master and her lover, loved it too, 
 
 And liked to see her do it ? He well knew 
 
 She did it now by custom, and for hire ; 
 
 But, as she sat beside her kitchen fire, 
 
 She thought. How nice, to do it all for love ! 
 
 Then, she need never have to go above 
 
 Into that life of his, remote and strange. 
 
 For which she would not wiUingly exchange 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 Her homely labour, and her humble dress, 
 
 And all that gave her health and happiness 
 
 In the sweet service of the man she loved. 
 
 Could she have happiness, if once removed 
 
 From that familiar footing ? Should she vie 
 
 With the young ladies of his family 
 
 In looks and manners, or attempt in vain 
 
 Things that to them came easily and plain. 
 
 By lifelong use ? ' I arena such a fool,' 
 
 She thought; 'for when I left the Bluecoat School, 
 
 I know'd no more but just to read and write. 
 
 And do my sampler of a winter's night 
 
 When stockins was all mended. Bless your heart ! 
 
 What, me, as never rode but in a cart. 
 
 An' trudged afoot to market wi' my load, 
 
 An' gather'd muck upon the hot high road, 
 
 An' work'd afield, an' welly fit to clem — 
 
 Me, to be even'd up wi' such as them 
 
 What sits i' parlours, an' is drest up fine, 
 
 An' has soft hands, not granner'd hands like mine ? 
 
 Nay, t/iat 'ud never do ! Wife or no wife, 
 
 I are the master's servant, all my life.' 
 
 Such were her views ; for this poor servant-maid 
 Had no ambition. Service was her trade ; 
 And since she own'd no learning and no art 
 Wherewith to utter what was in her heart, 
 Or please him with accomplishments and wit. 
 She wisely kept her place, and built on it 
 The fabric of her future. All her days 
 She had been earning wages, aye and praise, 
 
SUSAN. 13 
 
 As a strong servant : now, the time was come "» 
 
 When this her strength could be employ'd at home, 
 
 For him she loved ; so would he but approve 
 
 The strange unselfish methods of her love. 
 
 Even in others' houses, when she knelt 
 
 And scrubb'd on hands and knees, she always felt n-? 
 
 As if she work'd for him : how many an hour 
 
 Of joy were hers, if she could scrub and scour 
 
 In Ms house, and have leave to keep it clean ! 
 
 ' Dear heart ! ' she cried, ' I never need be seen, 
 
 Unless you ring for me to come upstairs ; 180 
 
 I never want to give myself no airs, 
 
 Nor shame your fine folks wi' the sight o' me : 
 
 You do the talk afore your coompany. 
 
 An' me the work ! I canna talk like you. 
 
 Nor do them fidfad things what ladies do.' is 
 
 He laugh'd ; and with a lover's grasp embraced 
 The large proportions of her ample waist. 
 Saying ' Why, Susan, have you then no taste 
 For what your betters value, and no wish 
 For some more graceful task than gutting fish im 
 
 And cleaning pots and pans, and wringing out 
 The foul conditions of a kitchen clout ? 
 How can you love me, and not care to rise ? ' 
 She answer'd — and her eloquent blue eyes 
 Were full of tears, as if they seem'd to mourn wc 
 
 His hopeless case — ' My love is not like yourn : 
 I are no lady, nor I couldna bear 
 To vex you with pretending as I were. 
 Lord, I should do it badly ! And besides, 
 
14 SUSAN. 
 
 I hate pretence, an' everything as hides 
 My repitation an' my character. 
 I have my feelins, same as you have, Sir ; 
 An' if I are a servant, well, you know 
 I always said you went a deal too low. 
 To make a wife out of a scullion-wench 
 As canna tell no music, nor no French, 
 Nor nothing, as you make a fuss about. 
 I always said, I was too big an' stout, 
 An' coarse, an' homely, to be mate wi' you. 
 As is a gentleman, an' looks it too. 
 But what ! I have my character. My word ! 
 I wouldna had you if you was a Lord, 
 To be my sweetheart, if you'd ever thought 
 As I was one o' them what could be bought 
 Wi' ladies' gewgaws, an' a lady's place. 
 To wed a man above her. It's disgrace, 
 Thafs what I call it, to be rose at all ; 
 As if my loving was that weak an' small. 
 It couldna stand, but mun be cocker'd up 
 An' fed wi' spoon-meat, like a bulldog pup 
 Took from it mother. Eh, my love for you, 
 What you ha' had since when you ax'd me to, 
 My patience, it's a different sort to that ! 
 Aye, it's my own sort ; an' I'll tell ye what, 
 Master, just let your servant's love alone — 
 Yo'n got no call to mix it wi' your own. 
 Stick to your place, an' be my master, dear ; 
 An' so I'll stick to mine : an' never fear. 
 Us two can live together, you an' me, — 
 
SUSAN. 15 
 
 One i' the room, an' one in scullery, m 
 
 An' each adoin' what they're fit to do, — 
 
 Easy as owt. Why, T was made for you : 
 
 You hanna heerd me tell it, but it's true. 
 
 One day at Coatham's, when I'd clean'd the byre 
 
 And come indoors, right i' the kitchen-fire 2-- 
 
 I seed your face, plain as I see it now ; 
 
 An' yet, I'd never sin yo' then, yo' know. 
 
 Well, next year after, when yo' catch'd me first 
 
 An' spoke to me, that time at Hazelhurst, 
 
 I know'd at onst, yo' was the very same — 240 
 
 Yo' was my sweetheart ! Eh, I did feel shame 
 
 To think as I was not a equal, though ; 
 
 I felt afear'd ; I wouldna let it grow 
 
 To nothing settled, till at last I seed 
 
 Yo' meant no harm. Then, oh my love ! indeed 245 
 
 I give myself for ever, in my mind. 
 
 To be your servant of all womankind. 
 
 An' be your wife an' all. That's what it is : 
 
 An' if yo' please Sir, yo' mun take a kiss, 
 
 To show as yo're agreed. Wife, servant, slave — 250 
 
 Thafs all the rising as I mean to have ! ' " 
 
 Such was the tale I heard from Arundel ; 
 And with such warmth he told it, I might well 
 Think that the strange experience was his own. 
 Yet, he had always seem'd to live alone : 
 There was no mystery in his outward life ; 
 No female serf, no unacknowledged wife. 
 
i6 SUSAN. 
 
 Clad as a servant and kept out of view, 
 
 Disgraced his household ; for his friends all knew 
 
 Each corner of his hospitable home. 
 
 Incredible, that such a man should come 
 
 To love a scullion-wench ! And still more strange, 
 
 That the dull creature, with her narrow range 
 
 Of interests and emotions, caring not 
 
 For men or things outside her sordid lot. 
 
 Should yet be able thus to love again 
 
 A man like him ; and, all untaught, attain 
 
 Such virtue, such serene self-sacrifice ! 
 
 So thought I, ere I lifted up mine eyes 
 And look'd once more at Arundel ; whose face, 
 All unabash'd, maintain'd the quiet grace 
 And self-possession of an earnest man 
 Ashamed of nothing. " Surely," I began, 
 " Surely, a marriage such as you describe, 
 Where neither gives, and neither takes, the bribe 
 Of swift advancement to a higher grade, 
 Which one of them can offer, was not made 
 Where marriages should come from ! 'Tis absurd, 
 And most absurd in Mm : who ever heard 
 Of men refined, yet stooping to adore 
 A girl whose duty is to scrub the floor, 
 And who enjoys such duties, and declines 
 To leave them at his bidding ? Jle resigns 
 All that his life is worth, in loving her ; 
 And she, poor drudge ! would certainly prefer 
 A suitor like herself — a man whose hands 
 Are hard like hers, and whose coarse love expands 
 
SUSAN. 17 
 
 In rude caresses at her master's gate. 
 
 Why should blind Chance or more capricious Fate 
 
 Exalt her o'er her fellows, and condemn -'oi 
 
 One who is only fit to herd with them 
 
 To live in isolation and alone, 
 
 Despised by his folk, hated by her own ; 
 
 Estranged from those whom still she counts as dear, 
 
 Yet not admitted to her husband's sphere ? " as 
 
 " Ah ! you admit," said Arundel again, 
 " You do admit she /las a husband, then ! 
 Well, if she has, and is absorb'd in him. 
 Can she be lonely, sipping at its brim 
 From Love's full bowl, and seeing there within 300 
 
 Sorrow perhaps, but not a taint of sin ? 
 And you forget her force of character : 
 What, is it nothing, that a maid like her. 
 So ignorant, so lowly, so obscure, 
 
 So utterly uncared for, and so poor, w, 
 
 Should feel as she did, and should carry out 
 Without regret or wavering or doubt. 
 Her strong resolve, to be the servant still, 
 And not the equal, of the man whose will 
 Had long become her own will, and whose love, -:m 
 
 Pure as herself, had raised them both above 
 The very notion of equality ? 
 Equality 1 why, neither he nor she 
 Thought of the thing : he worshipp'd her, I know ; 
 He worshipp'd her because she was so low sis 
 
 And yet so lofty ; she, robust in frame, 
 Rough-handed and red-arm'd ; who felt no shame 
 
i8 SUSAN. 
 
 Even in the basest toil, and no disgrace 
 
 When the fine features of her highbred face 
 
 Were all disguised with blackness and with sweat ; 
 
 She, though so mere a labourer, had yet 
 
 Through some unknown ancestral blood, the gift 
 
 Of finer instincts, nobler traits, that lift 
 
 Her being toward the educated few. 
 
 She knew she had these treasures, but she knew 
 
 Scarce what they meant or what they tended to. 
 
 Within her mind they lay unused, unknown. 
 
 Unnoticed, unimproved ; yet still, her own ; 
 
 Waiting till he should see them at a glance. 
 
 Who had them also, by inheritance. 
 
 How could she know ? To serve and to obey 
 
 The cook her master, through the livelong day, 
 
 Left her no time for thinking ; and to her 
 
 Nature had given such strength, and such a stir 
 
 Of energy within, that all she did, 
 
 From the brisk scouring of a saucepan-lid 
 
 To that tremendous swilling of the yard, 
 
 Her weekly duty, seera'd to her not hard 
 
 But easy and delightful ; her young soul. 
 
 Long train'd to look on labour as the goal 
 
 Of all that she was fit for, still could find 
 
 Delight in gaining credit, of a kind, 
 
 For menial tasks like these. But no one shared 
 
 Her higher instincts ; not a creature cared 
 
 For her ; though oft, attracted by her face, 
 
 The lordly butler left his lofty place 
 
 And brought his friends to see her, at the mouth 
 
SUSAN. 19 
 
 Of that dark den, all grimy and uncouth, 
 
 Wherein she lived and wrought There through the c.oor 
 
 He shoVd her charms, and ran them gaily o'er 
 
 Even in her presence ; for she dared not show 
 
 How much she felt the insult — being so low, 
 
 So much beneath him. For his private bliss, 
 
 He often tried to bargain for a kiss, 
 
 Spite of her humble protest; but he saw 
 
 With envious admiration and with awe. 
 
 At each attempt, this daughter of the farm 
 
 Uplift the terrors of her red right arm. 
 
 Ii was her sole defence ; a needful one 
 
 For maids like her, who have no chaperon 
 
 Save their own virtue ; and who walk alone. 
 
 Without a champion, and with scarce a friend 
 
 " But, Arundel," said I, " what was the end 
 Of this romance ? Did the stoat serving4ass 
 Keep her resolve, and stay in her own class. 
 While her superior husband sta/d in his ? 
 Was he content to leave her as she is — 
 As vou have left her — drudging all unknown 
 Down in his kitchen, whilst he held his own 
 Among fair ladies on the tenms lawn ? 
 Or did she come, reluctantly withdrawn 
 From servile tasks, and standing at his side 
 Arouse the indignation and the pride 
 Of all that fashionable loveliness 
 
 By her rough aspect, and her kitchen dress, --? 
 
 Her bare red arms, and many another sign 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 That she was one whom they must all decline 
 
 To visit or to recognise ? ' He dare 
 
 To bring that unaccustom'd creature there, 
 
 Who, though good-looking certainly and tall, 
 
 Was nothing but a menial, after all ! ' 
 
 Ah yes — I fancy I can see her stand 
 
 With that one ring upon her big brown hand. 
 
 While he, politely bending over it 
 
 As if she were a lady, in his fit 
 
 Of love, says most ungallantly, ' I fear 
 
 You may be somewhat startled, ladies dear, 
 
 But what I tell you is exactly true : 
 
 This is the woman I prefer to you ; 
 
 This is my wife — a servant ! ' " 
 
 Arundel 
 Look'd up and smiled ; as if he too could tell 
 How nearly I had happen'd on the truth ; 
 But he replied, " Oh no, ingenuous youth ! 
 The man I spoke of did not mar his life. 
 Nor do such despite to his low-born wife. 
 As to produce her that way. In a word, 
 I'll tell you what I happen to have heard 
 About his marriage, not so long ago. 
 
 He could not, dared not, let his own folk know, 
 So none of thera were present : as for hers, 
 Her sisters and her brothers — labourers 
 And servants like herself — they all were there 
 In the old church at Hazelhurst, to share 
 In giving up the maiden whom they loved 
 To that one man whom she and they approved, 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 Though he was not of their sort ; for they knew 
 He loved her purely, and his love was true. 
 It was a rustic wedding. What she wore 
 Confess'd her station, and proclaim'd once more 
 Her love for it. She wore no gloves, no veil, 
 No ornament, no flowers ; but none could fail 
 To like her simple bonnet, her neat cloak. 
 Her plain stuff gown ; and even gentlefolk 
 Might surely now admire her shapely hands. 
 Large as they were, since the disfiguring brands 
 Of daily labour had been scrubb'd away 
 For once, in honour of her wedding-day 
 And of that ring she soon would have to wear. 
 
 She look'd as charming and she look'd as rare 
 As on that other day at Hazelhurst 
 When he who now possess'd her, saw her first. 
 Walking alone, on homely errands bent ; 
 Silent, yet in herself most eloquent — 
 And wonder'd much who such a girl might be. 
 She walk'd erect, with grace and dignity ; 
 And yet she was a servant, he could see : 
 Her round and ruddy arms were wholly bare. 
 And she was drest as other servants are, 
 White-capp'd, white-apron'd;and the cotton print 
 That mask'd her queenly figure, gave no hint 
 That she could be a lady in disguise. 
 But yet, her rosy mouth and clear blue eyes 
 Had more of purpose, nobler character. 
 Than a mere peasant's : one might well infer 
 That some august progenitor in her 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 Had reappear'd ; so delicate and fine 
 Her features were, so proudly aquiline. 
 
 Ah, surely, she, now wedded to her love, 
 And he a man in rank at least above 
 Her birth and calling, would at last begin i 
 
 To feel her new position, and take in 
 The sweetness of its leisure ; and perceive 
 That she had reach'd the land of Make-believe, 
 And must be mistress of her lord's abode 
 And whirl with him along the broad high road j- 
 
 That leads to Fashion, to Society ! 
 Yes, she will like the change, no doubt. Not she ! 
 She wants no change; she hates the thought of change. 
 Her range is bounded by the kitchen-range, 
 And asks no wider tether. When he came * 
 
 To seek his bride, he found her just the same 
 As yesterday ; a waiting-maid stood there, 
 Ready to serve behind her husband's chair, 
 And hand the dishes, and uncork the wine ! 
 ' What, is it thus,' said he, ' I am to dine a 
 
 Upon our wedding-day? Why have you laid 
 One cover only ? Are you still afraid 
 To sit beside me, now you are my wife. 
 Named by my name, and one with me for life ? ' 
 He open'd out his arms ; and she came near, * 
 
 And, clasp'd within them, whisper'd ' Massa dear, 
 I dunna wish to be nought else, you know. 
 Nor what I was afore ; I told you so : 
 Call me your bride, or call me what you will, 
 I only feel I are your servant still ! ' * 
 
SUSAN. 23 
 
 That day, they dined on little else than love. 
 And he, intent to soften or remove 
 Her dread of things that she had never known. 
 Intent to show that she was all his own. 
 And by her right of wedlock, now should be ♦" 
 
 If not a lady, yet as good as he. 
 Respected for her own sake and for his — 
 He, arm'd with many a soft persuasive kiss. 
 At last prevail'd ; yet only half prevail'd. 
 She murmur'd, and she pleaded, and she quail'd, ' <75 
 
 At the bare thought of going out with him, 
 Drest up so smart, and forced to be so prim. 
 And kept away from all she loved to do 
 For him and for herself; and fearing too 
 That in her ignorance she might disgrace *"> 
 
 The man she loved, and shame him to his face. 
 ' At least, yo' munna let 'em see my hands,' 
 Said she ; ' 'cause them as sees 'em, understands 
 How you an' me is different, like afore< 
 Lend me your gloves, a pair as you have wore — <&5 
 
 They'd do, when you ha' stretch'd 'em out a bit ! ' 
 
 Alas, poor soul ! She never thought of it. 
 But gloves like his, so masculine in size. 
 Suited but ill the lady-like disguise 
 In which he had her clothed : such draperies «o 
 
 As, till that hour, she never had endured. 
 But, when she donn'd them, and was well assured 
 That this must be, she set herself at once 
 To play the clever wife, and not the dunce ; 
 
24 SUSAN. 
 
 And do him credit, in her new attire, 
 Just as she did beside the kitchen fire. 
 
 They went abroad. Ah, what a change of scene 
 From that old cottage on the village green 
 Where she was born and bred ! She wonder'd much 
 At all she saw ; yet never lost that touch 
 Of native shrewdness, which could make her wise 
 To hide her wonder from the strangers' eyes. 
 But most she wonder'd at the things she heard : 
 ' I canna make out not a single word,' 
 She sadly said ; ' they dunna talk like us ! 
 It's jabber, jabber, an' a deal o' fuss 
 As I can't tell. It inna likely, though, 
 As I could speak a-thatns ! Do you know, 
 One day when you was out, I rung the bell 
 (I seem'd as I was ringin for mysel, 
 When I did that) an' straight away, there come 
 A servant, same as I look like at home ; 
 An' then, I was in such a dreadful way — 
 I couldna tell her what I'd got to say ! 
 Her stood an' stared at me, an' me at her : 
 At last I says, ' My wench, your character 
 'S as good as mine, I reckon ; you an' me 
 'Ud do for fellow-servants ; but yo' see, 
 Us canna make each other out at all ! 
 Inna that dreadful ? ' Well, it's what I call 
 A mercy — but her understood me, then ! 
 I know she did ; for her spoke up again 
 
SUSAN. 25 
 
 A-sayin ' Oui, Madame ! ' an' them two words, 
 
 I know'd what ihey mean, long since, at my Lord's, 
 
 When I was scullion. Mossu Philibert, 525 
 
 He didna like to see me i' my dirt, 
 
 A-cIeanin stewpans an' a-diggin coal ; 
 
 He made me stop all day inside my hole, 
 
 While them things was a-doin. But I heard 
 
 Folks passin by ; an' though I was afeard, sso 
 
 I often got to see 'em, unbeknown — 
 
 High ladies of upstairs, as 'ud coom down 
 
 To see the kitchens, an' the cookin too. 
 
 Well, he spoke French, you know, the same as you 
 
 To these here foreigners ; an' I made out, sas 
 
 A little bit, what it was all about : 
 
 ' Mon Dieu,' he used to say ; an' then ' Mon dme,' 
 
 An' ' Peste ' ; an' always, he said ' Oui Madame,' 
 
 A-speakin to them ladies. So I seed 
 
 As i/iat meant ' Yes ma'am ' ; an' it do, indeed ! 540 
 
 Nobody never call'd me Ma'am afore ; 
 
 But that wench did say Ma'am, an' nothin more, 
 
 In her French talk ; an' went away downstairs, 
 
 A-thinkin, maybe, what tremenjous airs 
 
 Us English servants has ; drest up so prime, ms 
 
 An' you to go about with !' 
 
 Many a time. 
 Trials like this assail'd the peasant bride, 
 As she moved onward by her husband's side 
 Through lands so fair and scenes so beautiful, 
 That she, whose sympathies were fain and full 550 
 
26 SUSAN. 
 
 As Nature's own, with beauty, used to say 
 
 That things like them was far too good to stay 
 
 Outside of Heaven, and a deal too nice 
 
 For folks as hadna come to Paradise. 
 
 ' If I'd ha' known,' said she, ' how monstrous grand 
 
 Them mountains is, as welly seems to stand 
 
 Right up above the clouds ; an' what a sight 
 
 O' runnin water, pourin down as white 
 
 An' full o' froth as suds o' washin day, 
 
 Bless yo', I reckon I'd ha' stopp'd away. 
 
 An' never let you 'tice me out to here ! 
 
 For why, it grips me with a kind o' /ear.- 
 
 If you an' me, now, was at Bagworth Fair, 
 
 I shouldna mind ; not as I wish nor care 
 
 For swings an' gingerbread ; but one do feel 
 
 It's humanlike, an' homelier by a deal 
 
 Nor these great mountains is. Dear heart alive ! 
 
 To think as folks can fret an' sweat an' thrive 
 
 An' live i' sin, in sight o' such as them— 
 
 The very walls o' New Jerusalem ! ' 
 
 How like you these her sentiments, my friend ? 
 Said Arundel ; do they not seem to lend 
 A spice of strange originality, 
 A special flavour that you rarely see, 
 To the mild honey of a bridal tour ? " 
 
 "No doubt," I said; "but one is very sure 
 That either he converted her, and gave 
 A lady's tastes to this strange freeborn slave. 
 
SUSAN. 27 
 
 Or else she broke away from him, and went 
 
 Back to her cottage and her element — sso 
 
 The care of dishes and of kitchen floors." 
 
 " Are you so sure, that what the world adores," 
 Said Arundel, " a lady ought to love ? 
 Was not this rustic servant far above, 
 And not below, the level of her sex, ess 
 
 In feeling how the mighty Earth can vex 
 A gazing soul, oppressing it with awe 
 Unspeakable, in presence of that law 
 Which lifts such brute things high, and keeps them safe, 
 Whilst the quick human spirit, a mere waif r.m 
 
 On grossest air, just sees them and is gone ? 
 That is what Susan meant, when she put on 
 Her thoughtful mood ; though phrases such as these 
 To her were strange as mountain mysteries. 
 J/er phrase was clumsy, for her speech was rude : ■'■>-• 
 
 But surely, she by Nature was endued 
 With finer sympathies and stronger sense 
 Than those who lounge in listless indolence 
 Through the gay Kursaal by some woodland lake, 
 Or those who climb the peaks for fashion's sake «<» 
 
 Or fame's, and not for communing with God. 
 
 Rough were the paths that her stern youth had trod ; 
 But now, her lover's presence, and the joy 
 Born of that joy, the freedom from annoy 
 And thwarting toil, had made her delicate ms 
 
 In act and manner ; now, she walk'd elate, 
 With all her native dignity restored, 
 And all her beauty flashing, like a sword 
 
28 SUSAN. 
 
 Snatch'd from the sheath that hid it. Such a brand 
 Did execution, in that foreign land ; 
 Men turn'd to look at her ; and well-bred dames, 
 Who knew not of her story, and whose aims 
 Soar'd mountains-high above her lowly lot. 
 Admired the wench who understood them not, 
 And said. He truly would be blest for life. 
 Who had that noble woman for his wife. 
 Yes ! But he kept her snugly at his side : 
 From him alone, she was not forced to hide 
 Her country talk, her large hardworking hands ; 
 And, these once hid, his bride securely stands 
 A figure of the proudest, where the proud 
 Themselves are gather'd in a lordly crowd. 
 
 Far other crowds, too, held her in respect. 
 Once at some rural town, I recollect, 
 He left her at the station, all alone, 
 While he went forth to seek an inn. ' My own,' 
 Said he, ' if people come and speak to you, 
 You will not understand them, it is true ; 
 But, just say this, whatever f/iey may say — 
 J' attends mon mart.' Ere he went away, 
 She, oft repeating, knew the words by heart ; 
 And knew their meaning. She took up her part 
 Fearless, confiding in his safe return ; 
 And, coming back, his glad eyes did discern 
 The lithe and stately stranger, standing there 
 Beside the baggage which was now her care. 
 But ranged in front of her as courtiers use, 
 Stood the %X.on\. facteur in his wellworn blouse, 
 
SUSAN. 29 
 
 The female clerk, the little Chef de Gare ; 
 
 All looking up, and awed as children are «<" 
 
 By some majestic fairy in a play. 
 
 Silent and pleased and wondering stood they : 
 
 The while that tall fair woman of the isles 
 
 Look'd down on them with sweet impartial smiles, 
 
 And said, ' J'attends mon mari — here he is ! ' 645 
 
 Then, when he claim'd her with a grateful kiss. 
 
 They smiled and clapp'd their hands, with friendly voice 
 
 Crying ' C'est lui — the husband of her choice ! ' " 
 
 " A pretty tale," said I, " friend Arundel, 
 
 Prettily told ! And I believe it well. eso 
 
 But, how did that majestic servant-maid, 
 
 So queenly, so superior to her grade. 
 
 And yet so fond of labour, and so fit 
 
 By birth and breeding, to indulge in it, 
 
 How did she like such novel scenes as these ? 655 
 
 The admiration, the luxurious ease, 
 
 Which she enjoy'd with you — I mean, with h'm — 
 
 Did they convert her ? Did her waist grow slim, 
 
 Her large hands smooth and more presentable, 
 
 And she herself more apt to sit at table seo 
 
 Among the ladies who admired her so ? 
 
 Or did she (my alternative, you know) 
 
 Did she forsake all this, and run away 
 
 Back to her kitchen ? " 
 
 " I am glad to say," 
 Said Arundel with sometliing of reserve, ess 
 
 " That neither happen'd. She had strength and nerve 
 
30 SUSAN. 
 
 Of body and of soul, to stand the strain 
 
 Of her new life, so long as it was vain 
 
 To seek escape from that strange ladyhood : 
 
 But, being sensitive, she felt how rude 
 
 Her own upbringing was ; and what a rent 
 
 The apparatus of accomplishment 
 
 Which she beheld, whatever way she went, 
 
 Would make, in such a nature as her own. 
 
 Oh, to be back in service, all alone, 
 
 With none to notice what she did or said. 
 
 Nor with what toil she won her daily bread, 
 
 Nor how uncouth her manners were at meals ! 
 
 That is her feeling ; and she also feels 
 
 That she had known no burden, all her life, 
 
 So hard as this — to be her husband's wife, 
 
 And not allow'd to be his servant too ! 
 
 ' Dear heart alive, I dunno what to do ! ' 
 
 She said to him; 'you know, I'd liefer stand 
 
 Behind your chair, an' change the plates, an' hand 
 
 What dishes you may want, an' call you Sir, 
 
 Same as I used to, nor to sit and purr 
 
 Like a tame cat, among these gentlefolk ! 
 
 Bless you, I feel as if I'd got a yoke 
 
 Stuck always on my showthers, with it pails, 
 
 An' me afeard to spill 'em ! Eh, what tales, 
 
 What a queer sight o' tales, I've got to tell 
 
 When I get back to Jim's ! It's terrible 
 
 To think o' me among such clever talk. 
 
 An' such long words they welly seems to baulk 
 
 My wits, an' bash my senses to a maze ; 
 
SUSAN. 31 
 
 Aye, an' such dainty airs an' mincin ways — 
 J never seed the like ! No, master, no : 
 I arena fit for 'em, — an' that you know.' 
 
 He smiled at her untutor'd vehemence — too 
 
 Born of a soul that hated all pretence. 
 And had no guidance save its own plain sense ; 
 He smiled, and said, ' But we two are alone : 
 Love is our comrade, and our only one. 
 You see I always keep you from the taunts to 
 
 Of such as in these fashionable haunts 
 Are curious, and would be revenged on you 
 For your superior beauty, if they knew 
 That you are not as they are. Truly, dear, 
 You need not feel anxiety nor fear, 710 
 
 For none of these who criticise and stare 
 Could once imagine what you really are, 
 Save that you are my wife.' ' Aye, that's the thing,' 
 Cried she, ' as frets an' galls me like a sting : 
 I are your wife, so I mun sit, an' see 71s 
 
 Them others do my work, instead o' me ! 
 I munna do a single job for you — 
 Cleanin or cookin, what I like to do, 
 Nor waitin neither, easy though it is ; 
 I'm good for nothin. Why, it's come to this — rx 
 
 You winna let me even clean your boots ! — 
 You think to pluck my life up by the roots. 
 My life an' work an' all my livelihood, 
 What I ha' said I'd stick to it for good 
 An' be your servant always ? Eh, my lad, nr. 
 
 For all thee bist a gentleman, I'm glad 
 
32 SUSAN. 
 
 Thou canna do it, nohow. Dun yo' think 
 
 As I forget my scullery an' my sink, 
 
 An' wants to leave 'em an' be took away 
 
 An' rose to be a lady ? Nay lad, nay ! 
 
 What did that lady's maid once say to me, — 
 
 The proud un', as spoke French ? Her said, says she, 
 
 ' You're only fit to live in scullery ; 
 
 The sink's your toilet, Susan ; stick to it — 
 
 You'll want no better ! ' That was just her wit ; 
 
 But it was true ; an' so I says to her, 
 
 ' Yes Ma'am,' I says ; ' an' that's what I prefer.' 
 
 An' so I always says to you, dear heart ! 
 
 Bless you, I'm not afeard ; I've got the start 
 
 Of every other servant, in this race : 
 
 Aye, I've got you, an' means to keep my place ! ' 
 
 Those were her words,'' said Arundel ; " and then — 
 And then — she kiss'd him, and went on again : 
 ' What, me,' she said, 'to think o' giving in 
 To such a set o' servants as I've sin 
 At every place we come to ? Fid-fad chits. 
 What seems as they ha' welly lost their wits 
 A-gossippin wi' any fool they sees 1 
 They canna scrub a floor on hands an' knees, 
 Nor clean a winder, nor wash out a steen, 
 Nor blacklead grates — for there's no grates to clean, 
 I' these outlandish countries wheer we be, 
 For all their fauseness an' their flummery. 
 Eh, I ha' watch'd them wenches now for long, 
 Doin their work, an' doin of it wrong ; 
 An' me, as could ha' done it, traipsin here 
 
SUSAN. 33 
 
 As idle as a popinjay. Oh dear ! 
 When will you think o' me, an' be that wise 
 To take me fairly out o' this disguise, 
 An' let me don my livery again — 76o 
 
 Your livery, my Master — poor an' plain. 
 What I have always wore ? ' 
 
 So she ran on. 
 Time after time ; entreating to be gone 
 From those fair lands of indolence ; resolved 
 That she at least would never be involved 76-. 
 
 In the gilt meshes of luxurious life. 
 He loved to listen to his ignorant wife 
 Thus setting forth in language apt though rude 
 The larger liberty of servitude ; 
 
 He loved to hear her soft voice rise and fall, 770 
 
 While its clear tones in accents musical 
 Rang out for him and reproduced uncheck'd 
 Quaint phrases of her native dialect, 
 Quaint sayings of her own ; he loved to see 
 The emphasis, the stout simplicity 77^ 
 
 Of action, that possess'd her and set free 
 Such sudden contrasts to her softer charms : 
 She flung abroad her big laborious arms ; 
 Her warm lips quiver'd and her blue eyes flash'd ; 
 And her strong hands, smitten together, clash'd 7so 
 
 Like cymbals, with a hard metallic ring. — 
 
 A panther of the desert — a wild thing 
 Not civilised to any common mood — 
 A woman of God's making ! If you could, 
 
34 SUSAN. 
 
 You would not pare this rugged shape divine 
 
 To the smooth form that we call feminine, 
 
 We, nursed in parlours and brought up on pap? 
 
 The large live creature, caught as in a trap 
 
 By strange privations, strange indulgences, — 
 
 All the strict usage of an etiquette 
 
 Such as she never dream'd of, — can she yet 
 
 Have patience' with such novelties as these? 
 
 She asks no praise ; she scorns to be at ease ; 
 
 She asks not anything, save Love alone, 
 
 And that stern strenuous labour of her own 
 
 Which is the free expression of her love. 
 
 Sure, he were less than man, who would not move 
 
 To meet the wishes of a wife like this ! 
 
 He owns her love and her : her every kiss, 
 
 And all her best endearments, are for him : 
 
 Nay, each apt effort of each hardy limb 
 
 Has At's love for its motive. Shall he then 
 
 From fear of censure, or for praise of men, 
 
 Still strive to break this ardent nature in. 
 
 By rules she hates, and ways that seem Uke sin 
 
 To her robust untutor'd womanhood ? 
 
 She is already beautiful and good : 
 
 And shall she risk the dangers of a class 
 
 That would despise her and think him an ass 
 
 For loving such as she is ? Well he knows 
 
 Her love is like its perfume to the rose — 
 
 Part of herself: 'tis inexhaustible. 
 
 Boundless and fathomless ; as deep as hell, 
 
 As high and pure as heaven. And her reward 
 
SUSAN. 35 
 
 Is, that he loves her though her hands are hard, sis 
 
 And that her treasure, in its earthen mould. 
 Shall be as highly honour'd, and shall hold 
 As fair a place, as if its vase were gold. 
 
 Thus then he ended this long argument : 
 Rising, he took her in his arms, and sent 820 
 
 Through all the pulses of her broad firm breast 
 A sense that she had conquer'd, and was blest. 
 ' Oh,' she exclaim'd, with such a countenance 
 As when some maiden, eager for the dance. 
 Takes her first plunge in that enchanting whirl f^a 
 
 (And this fond creature also was a girl) 
 ' Oh, what a blessed thing ! You've set me free : 
 Thank Goodness, Master, I shall coom to be 
 Myself again at last, an' never more 
 
 Pretend to be a lady ! I ha' bore >^» 
 
 A deal o' fine folks' coompany, for you : 
 Eh, how I've suifer'd ! For you know it's true 
 I Aate pretending.' Kisses plump and warm 
 Confirm'd that truth ; then she upon his arm 
 Descended bravely to the table-d^hote, sao 
 
 Not now confused or sad : her graceful throat 
 Throbb'd with the pleasure of a newborn hope — 
 The hope of finding exercise and scop^e 
 For her own talents, and becoming soon 
 No silken saunterer in a gay saloon, no 
 
 But a good servant, working underground. 
 
 Ere long, they left each foreign sight and sound, 
 
36 SUSAN. 
 
 And came to England; where upon the way 
 She show'd her husband, one eventful day, 
 Deep in the dim recesses of her box, f 
 
 Her servant's clothes complete : aprons and frocks 
 And caps, and brushes too, and suchlike gear 
 As maids like her may want, for work or wear. 
 ' Oh yes,' she said, ' I brought 'em unbeknown ; 
 For why, I thought you'd maybe chance to own s 
 
 What I are really, in my proper dress : 
 But t/iat would ha' bin too much happiness ! ' 
 Ah surely now, such happiness may come : 
 Here in old England, speeding on toward home, 
 Fair Cinderella in the flying train s 
 
 Doffs her gay garments, and appears again 
 In her own guise, a simple country maid. 
 'Theer now ! ' she cries, ' I've done wi' this grand trade 
 An' all them ladies' things you bought for me ; 
 An' gloves — I winna weer your gloves no more ; a 
 
 I are a servant, like I was afore. 
 Let me go on, an' take the luggage too ; 
 Lord ! I can heave it, what I used to do 
 When I was maid-of-all-work. Many a day, 
 You know yourself, when lodgers went away, s 
 
 I had to heave their luggage to the fly. 
 They often give me shillins, on the sly, 
 For that, an' for to have a kiss o' me — 
 What they could never get, though ; no — ye see, 
 Master, my kisses all was kept for (hee. t 
 
 Let me go on, then ; you can stop behind 
 Till I ha' got things ready to your mind, 
 
SUSAN. 37 
 
 An' clean'd all up : gie me a day or two, 
 An' I shall make the places fit for you.' 
 
 So said, so done ; and when her lord was gone, «» 
 
 The servant with the luggage went alone 
 Back to her place. But he, the banish'd spouse 
 Of such a wife whom common work could rouse 
 To larger energy and keener joy 
 
 Than all the Alps from Gothard to Savoy, sso 
 
 He, lingering sadly and unsatisfied, 
 Set forth ere long to join his stalwart bride ; 
 And chiding much that tedious tardy road, 
 Regain'd at last the door of his abode. 
 'Twas open'd — surely by the blackest drudge *8s 
 
 That ever crawl'd and clean'd in kitchen sludge ! 
 Black was her face ; and black her lusty arms ; 
 A crust of soot and coaldust hid her charms. 
 If charms she had ; and soak'd in hquid dirt 
 Appear'd her sacking apron, her coarse skirt, sm 
 
 And the rude bonnet that conceal'd her hair. 
 She was a loathly figure — fit to scare 
 The roughest sweetheart. With indignant stare 
 The master gazed at her : whence had she come. 
 So foul a servant, to disgrace his home ? 895 
 
 The thing before him saw his stern surprise ; 
 Dropp'd a meek curtsy, and with sparkling eyes 
 Whose beauty shone through even that dark disguise, 
 Look'd straight at his ; and murmur'd ' Oh my life. 
 This hideous creature is your own poor wife ! ' mo 
 
 ' My wife ! ' said he ; ' Oh Susan, is it you ? 
 I half suspected — yet I scarcely knew 
 
38 SUSAN. 
 
 Your fair blue eyes in sucli a face as this, 
 
 Nor the soft lips that I had hoped to kiss ! ' 
 
 ' Aye — but,' she said, ' you canna kiss 'em now ; 
 
 You canna touch me ; I'm a deal too low, 
 
 A deal too dirty, to be kiss'd by thee, 
 
 My master an' my husband ! Look at me — 
 
 Inna my face as black as any sweep's ? 
 
 An' these here spots o' whitewash, how they steeps 
 
 The black in white, an' makes me uglier ! 
 
 Well — I ha' done it all o' purpose, Sir : 
 
 O' purpose for to show you what I are. 
 
 An' what I wish to be. Why, this is far 
 
 Far more delightful nor them ladies' rooms, 
 
 AN'heer I had naught to do wi' pails an' brooms, 
 
 But sat as mum as any moniment, 
 
 An' couldna reekon what their talkin meant. 
 
 Nor come to have a notion o' their ways. 
 
 You've had your will wi' me, a many days. 
 
 An' now I've my will. Oh, my master dear, 
 
 I winna be a lady, never fear — 
 
 I will be ikis t ' In self-abasement sweet 
 
 Sudden she flung herself upon his feet. 
 
 Caressing them in Love's divine embrace : 
 
 Love, the more noble that it seem'd so base. 
 
 But he, transported with a passionate shame. 
 
 Raised her at once, and clasp'd her quivering frame 
 
 In faithful arms still stronger than her own. 
 
 Flesh of his flesh she was, bone of his bone : 
 
 And recklessly he kiss'd her, till her lips 
 
 Again grew ruddy from their black eclipse. 
 
SUSAN. 39 
 
 And the bright blushing roses of her cheeks 
 
 Peep'd out once more, in intermittent streaks 
 
 Glowing and glistening through their sable shroud ess 
 
 Like a red sunset 'neath a thunder-cloud. 
 
 Surprised, at first she suffer'd his embrace ; 
 
 Then quick remembering her disfigured face 
 
 And all the sordid stains of her rude dress, 
 
 She thrust him off, affrighted at the stress «» 
 
 Of his untimely ardour, and exclaim'd, 
 
 ' Dear heart alive ! My darling, I are shamed 
 
 An' bash'd, to think o' you a-doin this ! 
 
 Yo've paid a pretty penny for your kiss — 
 
 Blackin yourself all over, I declare, ms 
 
 Welly as black as me ! ' ' How can I care,' 
 
 Said he, ' for blackness, since you love me so ? 
 
 But why should you degrade yourself so low. 
 
 And tell your love in such a servile way, 
 
 And be so dirty as you are to-day ? ' i-,i, 
 
 ' Eh, lad ! ' she said, ' I'd be as rough as rough. 
 
 As low as low — theer's nothin seems enough 
 
 To tell you by — I'd be I carena what, 
 
 If ony I may show my love like that, 
 
 An' not i' your way, like I did abroad. 'ss 
 
 Why, I'll upho'd it, you ha' never know'd. 
 
 Nor never seed, nor never thought to see, 
 
 A wench as noggan an' as rough as me ! 
 
 Well then — in service, when I clean'd the steps, 
 
 Or filled the scuttles an' the cinderskeps seo 
 
 Wi' coals I'd gather'd in my bare hard hands, 
 
 I used to think, What odds ? I/e understands 
 
40 SUSAN. 
 
 An' likes it too, this dirty work o' mine ; 
 
 He knows as all I do is just a sign 
 
 To show my love, an' what I are to him — 
 
 One as can serve him both wi' life an' limb, 
 
 But not with edication. Aye, that's it : 
 
 I are no good in parlours — not a bit. 
 
 Eh, what a difference ! Would they smile an' bow. 
 
 Or reckon me to be a lady, now ? 
 
 Or would they call me Afa'am, like them folks did 
 
 I' foreign countries, when my hands was hid 
 
 An' I was drest as fine as anything? 
 
 Not they — they'd shun me, like a burying 
 
 After a wedding : an' I tell you true, 
 
 It's me as mun be buried, an' not you. 
 
 Nay, never wince ! I dunna want to die, 
 
 I ony want a buryin. An' for why ? 
 
 Well — 'cause I winna be your equal, then ! 
 
 I mun be took away from gentlemen 
 
 An' ladies too ; an' I mun have a home 
 
 Down i' your kitchen, wheer they canna come.' 
 
 Thus saying, she drew up to its full height 
 Her stately figure ; whose attractive might. 
 Black as she was, and meanly clad, and coarse. 
 Had still enough of beauty and of force 
 To charm the casual gazer : how much more 
 Him who so loved her, and whose name she bore ! 
 He look'd at her : a Juno carved in coal. 
 With lustrous eyes and firm devoted soul ; 
 Goddess within, beneficent and brave. 
 Yet outwardly a negress and a slave ! 
 
SUSAN. 41 
 
 He look'd at her, but answer made he none. 
 
 She, his beloved and his only one, 
 
 So comely and so beautiful ; who late ms 
 
 Hung proudly on his arm, a queenlike mate. 
 
 The envy of the women, the despair 
 
 Of men, who wonder'd at that lady fair 
 
 And turn'd admiring, as she pass'd them by — 
 
 She, once the cynosure of every eye — 1000 
 
 Now sunk again to servitude and toil. 
 
 And so defiled, her merest touch must soil 
 
 The husband who embraced her ! She was still 
 
 Comely as ever : 'twas her own strong will, 
 
 Her own pure act, that thus degraded her ma 
 
 Down to the level of a labourer. 
 
 That was her own old level : She knew well 
 Its humble joys and duties ; she could tell 
 The dear delight of labour, to an arm 
 As stout as hers, and the peculiar charm 1010 
 
 To a meek spirit, of obscurity. 
 Who would be curious about such as she ? 
 To live unpraised, unnoticed, and unknown. 
 And yet a life that was indeed her own ; 
 With none to criticise, and none to care wis 
 
 How she was drest or how she hid her hair — 
 None, save the sweetheart who would never fail 
 To like her cap, her frock, her broom, her pail ; 
 Because he loved her, and because by these 
 She acted out his favourite theories, — 1020 
 
 That was the life she had resolved to live : 
 And oh, what freedom such a life could give 
 
42 SUSAN. 
 
 To the strong love that spends itself in deeds 
 
 And not in words ! to which her lover's needs, 
 
 His lowest needs, his common daily wants, 1025 
 
 Are just the food for which her nature pants — 
 
 The food of service and self-sacrifice. 
 
 Yes : such a love is folly to the wise, 
 
 And baseness to the dainty and the proud. 
 
 These were his thoughts — and hers : not told aloud, 1030 
 Not whisper'd even. He was too refined, 
 And she too simple, to express his mind 
 In terms of hers, or hers in terms of his. 
 Yet in a moment, with one single kiss. 
 The lofty bridegroom and the rough black bride w:i- 
 
 Standing together, yet apart how wide ! 
 Found each the other's meaning, and confess'd 
 A kindred purpose in each other's breast. 
 ' I know what you're a-thinkin on,' she said, 
 And turn'd from side to side her graceful head mn 
 
 As if to see herself; ' when I'm got clean 
 (For now, I are too dirty to be seen) 
 Yo'U ring for me, an' us can talk of it. 
 So, let me goo downstairs, an' rest a bit, 
 An' tell my fellow-servants as you're here. imj 
 
 They know I've bin a-cleanin ; but, oh dear ! 
 To think as I should gie myself such airs 
 To meet my master on the best front stairs. 
 An' even take to answerin' the door — 
 Such a big fright as I are ! ' 
 
 To the floor io» 
 
SUSAN. 43 
 
 She curtsy'd low, and smiled like any dame ; 
 
 Then vanish'd toward the kitchen whence she came." 
 
 Such was the story. In his wide armchair 
 Sat Arundel ; who told it with an air 
 Of sad mysterious gravity ; of hope io.-.s 
 
 Still tentative, yet of unusual scope 
 And unexpected promise. And so well, 
 With such familiar knowledge, did he tell 
 The tale of that fair woman's character, 
 One could but think him wedded — and to Aen mo 
 
 For courtesy, I dared not say De te 
 
 (A phrase ambiguous, as you surely see) 
 
 But still, I wish'd to know the very truth. 
 
 And lead him to confession. In our youth 
 
 We framed and shared strange views of women's work : io65 
 
 How a divinest woman need not shirk 
 
 The meanest, rudest calling ; how that she 
 
 Who spends her days in household drudgery. 
 
 Or toils afield, or in the swarthy mine. 
 
 Or at the forge, may still be feminine 1070 
 
 And noble, and most lovable and pure. 
 
 Gaining the while robustness to endure 
 
 The charge of wifehood and of motherhood. 
 
 What if her hands are hard, her life but rude ? 
 
 She can subdue the rigour of her lot 1075 
 
 By a strong nature, that disdains it not 
 
 Or glories in the labour it disdains, 
 
 Using her muscles to employ her brains. 
 
44 SUSAN. 
 
 Perhaps this Susan was of such a kind ; 
 A woman form'd and fashion'd to his mind 
 By him, the new Pygmalion — but who wrought 
 Unwisely at the model of his thought ; 
 For the rough marble, so constrain'd to live. 
 Refused that polish he had wish'd to give ? 
 Well — I admired at least her homely sense. 
 Her fortitude, her hatred of pretence. 
 Her beauty, and her hot heroic heart 
 That clung to her own class, and would not part— 
 No, not for him to whom she was so true — 
 With the stern duties she was born to do. 
 
 Thus then, half jesting, I at length began ; — 
 " That was a striking creature ! And the man, 
 The husband, his too was no common case : 
 Not merely captive to a pretty face, 
 But bent on giving that fair misplaced soul 
 The charm of culture and of self-control ; 
 Prompt to endow her with whate'er she lack'd, 
 And yet defeated in the very act 
 By her own purpose — her resolve to prove 
 Only a servant, with a servant's love 
 For him she call'd her Master. But as yet 
 The sequel is not told. You do forget. 
 Perhaps, that famed adventure of the bear. 
 That broke off in the middle ? " 
 
 " Do you care," 
 Said Arundel, " to know the rest, my friend ? " 
 " Oh yes ! " said I ; "each novel has an end, 
 And this is very novel : 'tis too soon 
 
SUSAN. 45 
 
 To close your story with the honeymoon — 
 
 So strangely spent, too ! Did she still desire 
 
 To dwell beside her husband's kitchen-fire ; nio 
 
 Or did his wife consent to go up higher ? " 
 
 " That," said my host, " will presently appear. 
 
 But I must tell you, 'tis not yet a year 
 
 Since all this happen'd ; we are still afloat 
 
 And in mid-ocean ; and the little boat nis 
 
 Sits gallantly, with her and him aboard, 
 
 And no one else : but can such craft afford 
 
 To take in others ? Many a passenger 
 
 Would scoff at him ; and few would sail with Aer. 
 
 But you shall see her. I have long since felt "m 
 
 That you perceive my heroine has dwelt 
 
 Under this roof; and that you do not fail 
 
 To find in me the hero of my tale. • 
 
 Yes ; this is my experimental life ; 
 
 And Susan is my servant — and my wife ! " nja 
 
 "And do your other servants know," I said, 
 " That she is now the mistress, not the maid ? " 
 
 " Oh yes — for they are of her kith and kin ; 
 And her unique position seems to win 
 Respect for her, in kitchen company. nso 
 
 ' lis true, they envy her ; they ask her ' Why, 
 IVky won't you be a lady ? Him and you 
 Was wed in church, an' us was theer to view — 
 Why don't you live like equals, and sit down 
 Wi' him to dinner, in a satin gown ? ' 1135 
 
 And Susan answers, ' I are none such fool 1 
 I mean to live wi' him by that same rule 
 
46 SUSAN. 
 
 As I was bred to ; for ye see, I hate 
 To be wi' ladies, or to sit in state. 
 I'd liefer live i' kitchen here, wi' yo'. 
 Still, I are with him as his wife, ye know, 
 An' if he wants my coompany, he rings, 
 Or tells me when I take away the things.' 
 
 Such are her views of marriage ! Rather, say 
 That she propounds her views in this blunt way 
 To hide the deep devotion that she feels 
 For him who loves her, and who ne'er conceals ' 
 His passion for the labourer in her. 
 You do me more than justice, worthy sir. 
 Concerning culture : she already knows 
 A good deal more than you perhaps suppose, 
 Aye, all that she has need of; and her wit. 
 Her untaught wit, can jump with mine, and hit 
 The mark at which my own would have her aim. 
 No : I confess I like her double fame, 
 As a strong servant, a most willing drudge, 
 And yet a clever woman, who can judge 
 Of beauty, and of literary skill 
 (Slie can do i/iat too — wonder, if you will) 
 And can enjoy the higher forms of art, 
 Yet keep her humble ways, her rustic heart, 
 And be to me — no fashionable wife, 
 But one who fills the compass of my life, 
 From highest needs to lowest, with her powers. 
 None but myself can know our evening hours 
 Of full companionship ; to other men, 
 And to all women, she becomes again 
 
SUSAN. 47 
 
 A servant, talking as a servant should, 
 
 And shunning aught that smacks of ladyhood. 
 
 1 wish'd to make a lady of her — true : uto 
 
 But that was just to see if men like you, 
 
 And ladies like your wife, could understand 
 
 An Odalisque so fitted to command, 
 
 Yet only born to serve : and I would know 
 
 If she, so uninstructed and so low, in- 
 
 Could rise to new occasions, and appear 
 
 Born in the purple of another sphere. 
 
 She did : she show'd me what she might have been 
 
 Had Nature and had Fortune changed the scene ; 
 
 She proved herself right worthy to becouie nso 
 
 The gracious mistress of a wealthy home : 
 
 Yet she preferr'd her own home — underground ! 
 
 Well — since she does so, am not I too bound 
 
 To share her preference, and give her leave. 
 
 Being what she is, to please herself and weave "■■^ 
 
 Her web of daily duties as she will ? 
 
 She is my wife and eke my servant, still, 
 
 Though the world blame us both, and take it ill 
 
 That nevermore will she consent to try 
 
 With me, the pleasures of society. nm 
 
 But I forget : she's waiting now below, 
 Till I shall ring for tea. You must not show, 
 By word or look, that she is more to me 
 Than any other servant. We shall see 
 How she behaves ; and my behaviour too nsa 
 
 Depends on hers. She comes to wait on you ; 
 
48 SUSAN. 
 
 Not to h6 gazed at, not to be made known, 
 Or spoken to, or order'd to sit down, 
 Or introduced as Madame Arundel : 
 To call her i/iaf, would be to sound the knell 
 Of your acquaintance with my servant-wife ; 
 She has been known as Susan, all her life, 
 And you must call her Susan. As for her, 
 You are my friend, and she will call you Sir. 
 No matter ! We shall not disgrace ourselves : 
 No need to leave our manners on the shelves. 
 Nor quite forget that Susan bears my name, 
 Though she declines to be a drawing-room dame." 
 
 He rang the bell. A minute of suspense ; 
 A gentle knock ; and with most curious sense 
 Of incongruity, I saw at last 
 The woman for whose sake my friend had pass'd 
 Out of the greater world ; content to live 
 Far from such pleasures as it has to give. 
 She enter'd, with the modest mien demure 
 Of a train'd servant, who can well endure 
 To know that neither for her comeliness 
 (If she be comely) nor her artless dress 
 Nor her demeanour, is she aught to you ; 
 Save for the sake of what she comes to do. 
 You ring — she brings the tea-tray or the coals ; 
 She mends the fire ; she serves the breakfast-rolls 
 In their hot napkin ; with unnoticed arts 
 She does each stated task, and then departs 
 
SUSAN. 49 
 
 And no one misses her : none check their talk i^--. 
 
 For her, unless indeed they wish to baulk 
 Her ears of news that servants should not hear. 
 
 Thus Susan enter'd ; and 'twas very clear 
 She wish'd to be unnoticed. At the door, 
 She blush'd and curtsy'd ; and the tray she bore i.™ 
 
 Shook for a moment, in her sinewy hands. 
 She set it down, like one who understands 
 Her duties well ; and with minute display 
 Arranged the cups — then wish'd herself away. 
 I knew she wish'd it ; for I saw her looks n-w 
 
 Glance toward her husband bending o'er his books 
 As if he did not see her. So she stay'd, 
 Unwillingly, and as it were afraid 
 To vex him by retiring. In the glass 
 I saw her figure : what a servant-lass, 1240 
 
 And what a queen of womanhood, was there ! 
 Tall and robust ; by labour bronzed, yet fair ; 
 With large blue eyes, and soft abundant hair 
 Hid by her housemaid's cap, whose snowy white 
 Made all her rosy blushes glow more bright ; 1^4'^^ 
 
 Robust and tall, yet lissom and refined 
 In shape, her large limbs suited well the mind 
 That spoke expressive in her noble face. 
 No servile soul was there ; no kitchen grace 
 Inspired her movements : she was one of those 1250 
 
 Who in the lowliest station never lose 
 Their primal sense of woman's dignity, 
 True, she was humble ; but in such as she, 
 
50 SUSAN. 
 
 Humility is like a nobler pride : 
 
 Whatever lot were given or denied, i 
 
 Whatever labours she might undergo, 
 
 She kept her place ; and loftily said No 
 
 To all who bade her change it. 
 
 Thoughts like these 
 Flash'd through that instant of admiring ease 
 When first I saw her waiting attitude — i 
 
 So graceful, so expectant. Nothing rude 
 Nor coarse, in all her person could be seen. 
 Save her broad hands ; and they were all but clean, 
 And shapely as a noble hand should be. 
 
 'Twas but an instant ; for her husband, he i 
 
 Who had not seem'd to see her, quickly rose 
 And went to her, and said, " You don't suppose 
 I did not mean to own you, Susan dear? 
 I only wish'd you, darling, to appear 
 One moment as you are, before I tell i 
 
 My friend, that you are Susan Arundel. 
 Come — he would know you ! And you recollect 
 I told you long since, that we must expect 
 Friends of my own, to see us ; gentlemen. 
 Not ladies : iAey will never come again, i 
 
 And so yoii need not fear them. Anthony, 
 This is my wife — my Susan ! " 
 
 But when I, 
 Advancing, smiled and offer'd her my hand, 
 She made as though she did not understand ; 
 With those laborious fingers of her own i 
 
 She twitch'd her frock, and smooth'd her apron down ; 
 
SUSAN. SI 
 
 Then curtsy'd, and look'd gravely on the floor. 
 At length, with eyes averted towards the door, 
 She shyly said, " Oh Sir, I are afeard 
 Your lady wouldna like it, if her heerd !»'■ 
 
 As you should offer to shake hands wi' me ; 
 For why, it seems too great a liberty 
 In one like me, a-shakin hands wi' you. 
 I are my Master's wife, it's very true ; 
 But still a servant ; and my hands is hard — ijjo 
 
 They winna do for you. Sir." Her regard 
 Rose as she spoke ; and in those clear blue eyes 
 I saw the very soul of sacrifice ; 
 The pathos of humility ; the wise 
 
 Undoubting ardour of a woman's love — i»-, 
 
 Lit by some inner light, as from above ; 
 A light that is not ours. I might have framed 
 Some trivial answer ; but her husband, shamed, 
 Yet proud of her, cried, " Nonsense, Susan ! Come, 
 Shake hands with him t this dwelling is your home, nw 
 And you its mistress : though your hand be hard 
 With work all done for me, and roughly marr'd 
 By honest toil, it is the very same 
 You gave me, dear, when you received my name 
 In church, before the parson. So, for shame, »i.> 
 
 Give him your hand t" " Oh Master, let me first 
 Take yourn ! " she said ; and with a sudden burst 
 Of tenderness, she took his hand, and smiled ; 
 Kiss'd it ; look'd up ; and, like a happy child 
 That does its mother's bidding, gave me hers. ism 
 
 Well — 'twas a rugged hand ; a labourer's, 
 
52 SUSAN. 
 
 Though shapely, as I said : in lack of grace, 
 Sad contrast to her figure and her face. 
 Yet, I could feel the deep significance, 
 When such a hand and such a countenance 
 Meet in one woman who adorns them both. 
 I took her hand, and grasp'd it, nothing loath ; 
 And answer'd, " Surely, such a hand as this 
 Deserves all reverence ! Let me claim a kiss. 
 For friendship's sake, fair Susan, and your own." 
 And so I stoop'd, and kiss'd it. As a stone 
 Dropt into water, did that strange surprise 
 Enlarge the circles of her brilliant eyes. 
 " Oh Sir, to think as you should kiss my hand ! 
 I didna think as any in the land 
 'Ud kiss it — such a noggan hand as mine ! " 
 " What, wench ? " said Arundel, " do / decline 
 That privilege ? then I will have it now. 
 To kiss away my friend ! " And with a bow, 
 He too brought fresher crimson to her cheeks. 
 Doing as I did. 
 
 When the master speaks, 
 The servant must obey ; and Arundel, 
 Using his high prerogative, cried, "Well, 
 A truce to kissing ! Susan dear, sit down — 
 Sit down and talk with us." Her cotton gown. 
 Her large white apron and her servant's cap, 
 And those hardworking hands upon her lap, 
 Embarrass'd her ; and yet of old she knew 
 This was the thing that she would have to do. 
 When once her wifehood and herself were known. 
 
SUSAN. S3 
 
 Ah, but to' sit unaided and alone, 
 
 Observed of others, and in that fine room 
 
 Where she was wont to ply her pail and broom 
 
 And clean the windows and blacklead the grate — 
 
 To sit down there, how throughly did she hate i-ns 
 
 That new position I And to sit with us, 
 
 Her betters, men who make so great a fuss 
 
 About them books she dusted, and to bear ' 
 
 The stress of talk in which she could not share — 
 
 Oh what a dreadful prospect ! And, alas ! i:™ 
 
 That dreadful future now had come to pass. 
 
 She yielded : it were hopeless to refuse ; 
 But took the furthest chair, as servants use, 
 And next the door. Thence, with that manly grace 
 Wherewith he hands a lady to her place, it>-> 
 
 Her husband brought her forward ; and decreed 
 That she should sit between us, and should read. 
 What — read aloud, and to a stranger too ? 
 "Oh yes," said he ; "this volume is not new; 
 You've read it. Once, when you were dusting it 1300 
 
 For me, I saw you open it a bit. 
 And so I let you read it to yourself; 
 And when you put it back upon the shelf, 
 I ask'd you if you liked it. Now confess 
 How wet your eyes were, when you answer'd Yes ! " im' 
 'Twas Enoch Arden and his wretchedness. 
 " Eh ! " said poor Susan, " it's a cuttin tale ! 
 Him to ha' lost her, an' his love to fail 
 For want o' knowin ! In the kitchen, now, 
 I've often tell'd it ; an' they wonder'd how 1370 
 
54 SUSAN. 
 
 He could ha' left her, when he seed her first 
 
 In at that winder, an' was fit to burst, 
 
 Seein' her theer, an' childern at her knee. 
 
 ' Aye, but,' I says, ' that was his misery : 
 
 It was them childern, why he let her be.' " 1375 
 
 " Right, Susan ! " I exclaim'd ; " and you are one 
 Who can enjoy the charms of Tennyson. 
 And have you read Tke Lord of Burleigh, too?" 
 " Yes, Sir," she said ; and the rich blushes grew 
 Like sunset, o'er her face ; "Oh yes, indeed ! nm 
 
 My Master often give it me to read. 
 An' never tell'd me whyT " There was no need," 
 Said Arundel \ and took her hand in his, 
 And kept it : rude memorial of the bliss 
 Of a new Sally, and a new John Jones. vm, 
 
 " But then," he said, " I was not one who owns 
 An earldom, or a splendid heritage ; 
 And Susan here, who wrought for little wage 
 As a mere maid-of-all-work, could not vie 
 With that fair Shropshire maid, in dignity." i3» 
 
 " No," said his wife; "her was a farmer's child ; 
 Not such as me, brought up to run like wild 
 Among the lads an' wenches, in the street. 
 Her got her edication all complete. 
 
 My Master says, an' stopp'd at school quite big. nso 
 
 But me, I work'd afield, an' had to dig, 
 An' carry muck, an' go a-peapickin 
 An' leasin, wi' poor Mother. We begin. 
 Poor folks like us, uncommon early, Sir ! " 
 "Yes," I replied; "but you have character, 1400 
 
SUSAN. ss 
 
 And sense, and spirit ; and you like your work ; 
 
 And you have health and strength. Vou need not shirk 
 
 The hardest labours nor the humblest gains 
 
 For want of muscle, or for lack of brains ! " 
 
 That was a compliment she understood ; "05 
 
 She smiled, and said, " Sir, you are very good. 
 
 To speak so well o' me ! An' in my time 
 
 I've done a deal o' black work : soot an' grime 
 
 Enough to bash the strongest servant-maid ! 
 
 No one have bested me wi' broom an' spade, mo 
 
 Nor yet at scrubbin on my hands an' knees. 
 
 But what is all such common things as these 
 
 To them as lives wi' ladies ? " " Much," said I ; 
 
 " Much ! " cried her master ; " never be afraid, 
 
 Oh Susan, to compare your work with theirs. m- 
 
 You claim no rank ; you give yourself no airs ; 
 
 You show your worth by keeping in your place : 
 
 Proud of her labour and her peasant race. 
 
 My wife remains a simple servant still." 
 
 "Aye — so I do, an' so I always will !" i«o 
 
 Cried Susan, clasping in her prison'd hand 
 
 His smaller palm ; " an' yet, I understand 
 
 All as he tells me, an' can do it too, 
 
 As well as any lady : though it's true, 
 
 I canna tell no music, nor no French. ni- 
 
 But what, I reckon as a kitchen-wench 
 
 Could never come to tkat. Eh, look at me, 
 
 Talkin a-thisns, sittin here so free, 
 
 Wi' you Sir, an' my Master ! " " Well, why not ? " 
 
 Said I; "you are contented with your lot — "m 
 
S6 SUSAN. 
 
 More than contented. If I may speak plain, 
 
 You, Mistress Susan, are a trifle vain, 
 
 Because your dress, and these hard hands of yours, 
 
 Show that your place is not the same as ours." 
 
 " Nay, dunna call me mispress, Sir ! I scours 
 
 This very room, an' cleans this very hearth : 
 
 An' that's no missis' work 1 It's true, I'm worth 
 
 More nor a servant, to my Master here ; 
 
 But, for my hands, I know he holds 'em dear ; 
 
 An' if I'm proud on 'em, it's ony this — 
 
 They tell folks what my work an' station is, 
 
 An' I are not ashamed on it ! " " Quite right," 
 
 Her husband said ; " and it is my delight 
 
 That you are not ashamed, dear. To the strong, 
 
 There is no shame, except in doing wrong. 
 
 But now for Enoch Arden." 
 
 " Stay, oh stay ! " 
 I cried ; " let Susan tell me, if she may, 
 About her schooling. Time could never yield 
 Fruits to your liking, even from this fair field, 
 Without some schooling." "Well, Sir, all I had 
 Was charity. You should ha' seen how glad 
 Poor Mother was, when I had got the chance ! 
 I was a Bluecoat Girl, Sir ; me an' Nance, 
 My cousin, as was cleverer nor me. 
 We sat together in our livery 
 (A blue serge frock, an' yellow band, it were ; 
 White apron, an' a cap to hide your hair) 
 We sat, an' we was learnt to stitch an' hem. 
 An' do our samplers, an' such things as them ; 
 
SUSAN. 
 
 Aye, an' they learnt us how to read and write : 
 An' that was all. My goodness ! what a fright 
 I used to think myself, in that theer dress ! 
 An' yet I wore it always. You mun guess 
 How pleased I was, when after three good year 
 I left, an' had a cotton frock to weer ! " 
 "But was that aH, you say? Did they not teach 
 How to do sums, and know the parts of speech ? " 
 " The wAaf, Sir ? " said poor Susan, in amaze : 
 " I never learnt no speech, in all my days. 
 Except our country talk, as used to come 
 As nateral to me as kiss-my-thumb ; 
 An' Sir, I are a-speakin of it now. 
 But, as for sums, they never show'd us how ; 
 Us never learnt no suramin. Reason good — 
 I canna reckon, nor I never could ! " 
 
 We smiled in concert, Arundel and I, 
 At Susan's — shall I say vulgarity ? 
 No ; it was artless candour and plain sense, 
 Resolved to tell the truth, and shun pretence. 
 But still — her husband was a gentleman, 
 A scholar : let him tell us if he can 
 How he could bear with one so ignorant, 
 One who had nothing that his own class want. 
 One whose rough manners and whose uncouth talk 
 Prove her unfit for aught, except to walk 
 In the strait compass of a servant's hfe. 
 He did ; he thus address'd his candid wife : 
 " My faithful Susan, this will never do ! 
 What will my clever friend here think of you, 
 
 57 
 
S8 SUSAN. 
 
 Confessing siich enormous ignorance ? 
 
 You, who have been with me abroad — in France, 
 
 In countries where each traveller must find 
 
 A thousand methods to improve his mind ; 
 
 You, who have read and talk'd with me so much. 
 
 Who know the tragic or the comic touch 
 
 Of Johnson and of Boswell and of Thrale — 
 
 Clarissa's moving story, and the tale 
 
 Of bright Angelica, and the high tone. 
 
 Courteous and apt, that thrills through Grandison — 
 
 You, to pretend you never were at school 
 
 Save in your Bluecoat livery ? Oh fool. 
 
 To trust the wit of woman ! " And he threw 
 
 His arms aloft, as she was wont to do 
 
 When struck with sudden pity or surprise. 
 
 She thought he meant to scold her; and her eyes 
 
 Grew moist with tears ; then, seeing her mistake. 
 
 She laugh'd, and cried " Eh, what a fuss yo' make 
 
 Wi' them fine names an' stories. Master dear ! 
 
 Yes, I ha' read 'em all ; I read 'em here. 
 
 Betwixt your knees, a-sittin on my boss ; 
 
 An' when I read 'em wrong, you wasna cross, 
 
 But tell'd me all about 'em — many a score 
 
 O' long hard words I'd never sin afore ! 
 
 Aye, i/iaf was edication ; an' of coorse 
 
 Yo' mean as I med easy ha' bin worse. 
 
 If yo' had never teach'd me. Well, it's true : 
 
 All as I know, I've took it in fro' you, 
 
 Except that once when I lived nursery-maid 
 
 At Parson Sandys's. It was me, as laid 
 
SUSAN. 59 
 
 The schoolroom fire, for lesson-times ; an' then mw 
 
 I waited on the two young gentlemen, 
 
 An' little miss, too, and the governess. 
 
 So, when I dared, I used to make a mess, 
 
 Spillin the coals, to pick up wi' my hands 
 
 An' listen while I did it. Master Sandys i-^s 
 
 Made fun o' me, an' so did Master Jack, 
 
 An' wonder'd I could bear to get so black — 
 
 They loved to tease a youngling wench like me. 
 
 But what, I didna care ; I let 'em be, 
 
 xAn' listen'd to the lessons as they said, I'^o 
 
 An' stored 'em up, like, in my empty head, 
 
 An' thought on 'em, a tryin to make out 
 
 By bits an' bits, what they was all about. 
 
 An' Sir, you'll maybe think it's ony cheek 
 
 In such as me — but when they said their Greek, ist; 
 
 Their Alpha Beta and the like o' that, 
 
 I learnt it too, an' said it off quite pat 
 
 To my own self: aye, I could say it still." 
 
 " Could you ? Then say it, Susan, if you will ; 
 
 And you shall have the honour you deserve, 1540 
 
 For talking Attic Greek : you, a mere serv 
 
 I mean, a rustic, all unknown to fame." 
 
 " Nay, it was schoolroom Greek, Sir ; I should shame 
 
 To speak it in my attic, wheer I slept 
 
 With Ann, the under-housemaid as they kept ; 1545 
 
 Her would ha' call'd it gibberish ! After all, 
 
 'Twas ony ABC, Sir, what they call." 
 
 " Well, say it ! " And she said it perfectly, 
 
6o SUSAN. 
 
 First turning to her husband, then to me, 
 From Alpha to Omega. " Now,'' said he, 
 " You see her education : what it was, 
 And how she got it. She has none, alas ! 
 Save what she gain'd by these nefarious means, 
 And what myself have given her, in scenes 
 Where we have dwelt together. Susan dear, 
 Your memory for Greek is good and clear ; 
 And now at last my friend and I will hear 
 The tale of Enoch Arden." 
 
 " Must I read ? " 
 She said; "you know I like it, and indeed 
 The only parlour job as I can do 
 Is readin out. But still- — to read to you 
 Afore your friend, it do seem strange an' new. 
 Sir, you'll remember what I are, I hope, 
 An' not expect a barrowful o' soap 
 Off them as deals in coals." Harsh metaphor ! 
 Yet accurate, in what she meant it for. 
 
 Her Master gave the signal, with a look : 
 Then, timidly as if afraid, she took 
 In her rough hands the Laureate's dainty book. 
 And straight began. But when she did begin. 
 Her own mute sense of poesy within 
 Broke forth to hail the poet, and to greet 
 His graceful fancies and the accents sweet 
 In which they are express'd. Oh lately lost, 
 Long loved, long honour'd, and whose Captain's post 
 No living bard is competent to fill — 
 How strange, to the deep heart that now is still, 
 
SUSAN. 6i 
 
 And to the vanish'd hand, and to the ear 
 
 Whose soft melodious measures are so dear 
 
 To us who cannot rival them — how strange, i» 
 
 If thou, the lord of such a various range, 
 
 Hadst heard this new voice telling Arden's tale ! 
 
 For this was no prim maiden, scant and pale, 
 
 Full of weak sentiment, and thin delight 
 
 In pretty rhymes, who mars the resonant might ixa 
 
 Of noble verse with arts rhetorical 
 
 And simulated frenzy : not at all ! 
 
 This was a peasant woman ; large and strong ; 
 
 Redhanded, ignorant, unused to song — 
 
 Accustom'd rather to the rudest prose. vm 
 
 And yet, there lived within her rustic clothes 
 
 A heart as true as Arden's ; and a brain. 
 
 Keener than his, that counts it false and vain 
 
 To seem aught else than simply what she is. 
 
 How singular, her faculty of bliss ! i ' ■ 
 
 Bliss in her servile work ; bliss deep and full 
 
 In things beyond the vision of the dull, 
 
 Whate'er their rank : things beautiful as these 
 
 Sonorous lines and solemn harmonies 
 
 Suiting the tale they tell of; bliss in love — iwu 
 
 Ah, chiefly that ! which lifts her soul above 
 
 Its common life, and gives to labours coarse 
 
 Such fervour of imaginative force 
 
 As makes a passion of her basest toil 
 
 Surely, this servant-dress was but a foil wos 
 
 To her more lofty being ! As she read, 
 Her accent was as pure, and all she said 
 
62 SUSAN. 
 
 As full of interest and of varied grace 
 As were the changeful moods, that o'er her face 
 Pass'd, like swift clouds across a windy sky, 
 At each sad stage of Enoch's history. 
 Such ease, such pathos, such abandonment 
 To what she utter'd, moulded as she went 
 Her soft sweet voice, and with such self-control 
 Did she, interpreting the poet's soul. 
 Bridle her own, that when the tale was done 
 I look'd at her, amazed : she seem'd like one 
 Who from some sphere of music had come down, 
 And donn'd.the white cap and the cotton gown 
 As if to show how much of skill and art 
 May dwell unthought of, in the humblest heart. 
 Yet there was no great mystery to tell : 
 She felt it deeply, so she read it well. 
 
 I rose ; and glancing at her tearful eyes, 
 Her glowing cheeks, and that wherein the sighs 
 Of sympathy with sorrow, long represt, 
 Now went and came at liberty — her breast — 
 I thank'd her much ; and took her willing hand. 
 And said to Arundel, " I understand 
 At last, your love for her, and hers for you. 
 You have no need to do as others do. 
 To mask the real woman in the wife 
 Of fashion or of circumstance : your life 
 Is independent of all else but her. 
 Be she a heroine or a labourer, 
 A lady or a servant.'' 
 
 " She is a//;' 
 
SUSAN. 63 
 
 He answer'd ; " and whatever lot befall, 
 She can adorn it Yes, she is all these, 
 And more than that, to me ! " 
 
 " But if yo' please,'' 
 Said Susan, smiling on him through her tears, ino 
 
 " What is a heroine 1 I've know'd for years 
 What lady means ; though any one can see 
 /are no lady, nor I winna be : 
 And labourer, and servant — yes, indeed ! 
 I ha' bin both ; for all I like to read low 
 
 Such books as this. But Master, what you said 
 Is true — there's more betwixt us ; we are wed : 
 An' so," she added in her softest voice, 
 "To be your wife an' servant, is my choice !" 
 
 B. F. 
 
 November I, 1892. 
 
 PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON.