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A SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
By the Same Author. 
 
 FEITHJOF AND INGEBJOKG and other Poems, by an 
 
 Australian Colonist. 
 
 London : C Kegan Paul & Co. 1882. 
 
 AUSTRALIAN LYRICS. 
 
 - Griffith & Farran, St Paul's Churchyard, E.G. 
 George Robertson, Melbourne, Sydney, and Adelaide. 
 1883. 
 
 A POETRY OF EXILES. 
 
 Griffith & Farran, St Paul's Churchyard, E.G. 
 C. E. Fuller & Co.I Sydney. 
 
 For the Opinions of the Press, see at end of Volume. 
 
A SUMMER CHRISTMAS 
 
 A SONNET UPON THE S.S. " BALLAARAT " 
 
 DOUGLAS B. W. SLADEN 
 
 AN AUSTRALIAN COLONIST 
 
 LATE SCHOLAR OF TRINITY COLLEGE, OXFORD ; B,A. OXFORD ; 
 
 B.A. AND LL.B. MELBOURNE 
 
 AUTHOR OF " FRITHJOF AND INGEBJORG;" " AUSTRALIAN LYRICS; 
 "a POETRY OF EXILES," ETC., ETC. 
 
 GRIFFITH, FARRAN, OKEDEN, & WELSH 
 
 (SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERY AND HARRIS) 
 
 WEST CORNEK ST PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, LONDON 
 
 1> 
 
^I'lM 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 p. BUTTON & Co., 
 
 39 WEST 23KD STREET. 
 
 T/ie rights Qf trans/atwn and of reproduction are reserved. 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 " A Summer Christmas " itself, like Hudibras or Dr 
 Syntax, does not pretend to be poetry. It is a novel 
 in rhyme, — a thread to string together a number of de- 
 tached poems, the composition of which has extended 
 over about ten years. The story has been told in 
 rhyme, because Hudibrastic verse is so good a vehicle 
 for conveying succinct pictures of life — in this instance 
 life upon an Australian station (i.e., sheep-station). 
 The idea of writing a novel in verse upon ordinary 
 social life was suggested to me by Mr Coventry 
 Patmore's delicious " Angel in the House.'' Several 
 tales have been inserted after the manner of Long- 
 fellow's " Tales of the Wayside Inn." Some of them 
 have already been published in magazines; and three 
 of them appeared separately in my first volume, 
 "Frithjof and Ingebjorg." "A Summer Christmas" 
 is a sequel to my poem, " The Squire's Brother,"* two 
 personages, Mr and Mrs Forte, appearing in both. 
 
 * "The Squire's Brother" has been published in "P'rithjof 
 and Ingebjorg and other Poems," by an Australian Colonist 
 (Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.) and " Australian Lyrics " (Griffith 
 & Farran), from whoni a few copies may still be obtained. 
 
vi To the Reader. 
 
 I shall be satisfied if I awaken in the English reader 
 some interest in the delightful sport and country- 
 life of the famous Western District of Victoria, which 
 I have myself enjoyed so often at the invitation of its 
 hospitable squatters ; but I must warn him that there 
 is a vast difference between the life on stations in 
 Victoria belonging to men of established fortune, and 
 the life of a pioneer squatter in the bush, and that 
 I am speaking of holiday time, not attempting to 
 depict the ordinary routine of station life. 
 
 The two Homeric tales and the " Song of Nausicaa " 
 were written after re-reading the bulk of the Iliad and 
 the Odyssey, owing to a fresh craving after them, pro- 
 voked by a perusal of Dr Schliemann's prefaces ; the 
 tale of Helen being finished at sea off the Eastern 
 coast of Australia. " The Last of the Britons," the 
 earliest composed of the tales, was written soon after 
 leaving Cheltenham College. 
 
 The "Sonnetto the s.s. 'Ballaarat' " waswritten upon 
 our last day on board that fine steamer, a sliip of nearly 
 five thousand tons, in which I recently returned from 
 Australia. 
 
 DOUGLAS BROOKE WHEELTON SLADEN. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 December 2^th. 
 December 2yh. 
 December 26th. 
 
 December z'jth. 
 
 December 2&lh. 
 
 December 2<)th. 
 December Tpth. 
 
 December t,\sI. 
 January \st. 
 
 January 2nd. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Christmas Eve — Enter . . . i 
 
 Saida, the Beloved of the Caliph . 17 
 
 Christmas Day 38 
 
 The Legend of Odysseus in Sheria 44 
 
 Boxing Day — Bush-Races ... 60 
 
 The Song of the Love-Sick Nausicaa 70 
 
 The Legend of Helen at Sparta . 72 
 
 The Picnic in the P'orest ... 87 
 The Last of the Britons, or the 
 
 Legend of Dunmail Raise . . 100 
 The Rabbit Drive . . . .112 
 
 Ethel 118 
 
 Proposal No. i 132 
 
 Sunday 140 
 
 Waterfowl Shooting on a Lake . 150 
 San Sebastian, A Lay of the Rank 
 
 AND File 159 
 
 The Kangaroo Drive . . .178 
 
 Sappho 1S5 
 
 New Year's Day — Sports at the 
 
 Township 210 
 
 The Ballad of the Seven Fairies . 217 
 
 Proposal No. 2 230 
 
 Exeunt ...... 238 
 
 A Sonnet upon the S.S. "Ballaarat" 
 
 239 
 
A SUMMER CHRISTMAS. 
 
 A STORY IN RHYME. 
 
 ^tiitntth to 
 MRS GEORGE CAWSTON. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 English 
 born. 
 
 John Cobham, a Professor in the Melbourne Uni- 
 versity. A Man of Kent. 
 
 Charles Forte (the Sqtiire's Brother), a Queensland 
 Squatter and a Victorian Station-holder, 
 
 Helen Forte (the Nellie of the Squire's Brother), 
 his Wife. 
 
 Mary Ridley, Governess to Lit and Margaret Forte. 
 
 William Forte, \ 
 
 Philip Forte, f 
 
 _ _ > Children of Mr and Mrs Forte. 
 
 Elizabeth Forte, I -^ 
 
 Margaret Forte, / 
 
 Kit Johnstone, the daughter of a neighbouring 
 
 Station-holder. An Amazon. 
 Ida Lewis, a young Widow from Melbourne. 
 Maud Morrison, a Melbourne Belle. 
 Launcelot, M. p. , an ex-Minister of the Crown tn 
 
 Victoria, nicknamed " Chesterfield." 
 Albert Hall, a Bushman — Phil Forte's partner in 
 
 a Queensland Run. 
 
 Lachlan Smith, « Barrister in the Sup-erne Court 
 
 of Victoria, 
 
 I 
 
 The Scene is laid at Waratah Station, a fictitious Station in the 
 Western District of Victoria, beyond Ballaarat. 
 
 Australian 
 born. 
 
A SUMMER CHRISTMAS. 
 
 At Waratah one Christmastide 
 Were sitting by the hall-fire side, 
 With fire unlit, a company- 
 Gathered for the festivity. 
 'Twas Christmas-eve, and they were at 
 A station beyond Ballaarat, 
 Out on the plains. The paddocks were 
 Well cleared of timber, scrub and burr, 
 And English-grassed, the house no hut 
 Built of bark slabs or boarded cot 
 But such a mansion as you see 
 In passing by the Werribee, 
 Stone built, with gardens well laid out 
 In gay beds, planted all about 
 With choice exotic shrubs and trees 
 And all that could subserve or please , 
 A wool-king with a broad freehold 
 All round his home, and flocks untold 
 On his buge runs on Queensland downs, 
 And, though far off from seaport towns. 
 With every luxury, now brought 
 From home, for wife and children bought. 
 Most noticeable of them all 
 
A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Around the fireside in the hall 
 Was this prince of the squatterhood, 
 Who, standing in his stockings, stood 
 Six feet and inches almost three. 
 Strong, and of hand and speech so free, 
 And still as active as a lad. 
 Though sixty years and hardships had 
 Grizzled his hair and beard with grey ; 
 A hero who had fought his way. 
 From pittance left him by his sire 
 (As younger brother of the squire), 
 To wealth immense by years of toil. 
 Exiled from v/hites, and in turmoil 
 With hostile blacks, out on a run 
 Far west, beneath a Queensland sun, 
 He who had once been known at Court 
 And in the Clubs as " Cupid " Forte. 
 
 No trace of ceremoniousness 
 Retained he now, though none the less 
 Was he a graceful well-bred host ; 
 But he was hearty in accost. 
 And giving the Australian grip 
 And good up-country fellowship 
 As bushmen. Few books had he read, 
 But good ones, and he truly said 
 That he had mastered their contents. 
 He'd sat in early parliaments, 
 And by his fellows been esteemed, 
 Though no great speaker, for he seemed 
 To do his best for everyone. 
 And always used a courteous tone ; 
 
A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And when such crises came about 
 
 As made men fear to speak, spoke out 
 
 With simple sense, what others thought 
 
 But how to best dissemble sought. 
 
 Close to her husband sat his wife. 
 
 Some years his junior in life, 
 
 And with her hair scarce changed a whit 
 
 Since they were wed. Yet shades would flit 
 
 Across her bright plaits 'neath the sun, 
 
 And grey hairs 'mid the gold were none. 
 
 E'en yet one noted that she, bore 
 
 The same slim figure as of yore, 
 
 And marked a majesty of gait 
 
 Which had been grace at twenty-eight 
 
 (The year her lord had crossed the foam 
 
 To fetch her to his Austral home), 
 
 And that her charms were scarce impaired. 
 
 All of her children had been spared. 
 And now were round her ; — Margaret, 
 The youngest, wellrgrown, but not yet 
 Out of the shy and modest awe 
 That urges childhood to withdraw 
 Or hang its head in company. 
 Dark-haired, with clear dark cheeks was she, 
 And had beneath her brow such eyes 
 As chained onlookers with surprise. 
 So weirdly blue, and spiritual. 
 And fathomless, were they withal. 
 
 The eldest, Will, was huge of limb 
 As was his Father, so like him 
 That, had he worn a bearded chin, 
 
A Stimmer Christmas. 
 
 And had his grizzled hair, no twin 
 
 Could have been closer. He had pulled 
 
 In the great boat race, but had mulled 
 
 His " little-go " (for he was bred 
 
 At Cambridge), and could with his head 
 
 Only remember points of sheep 
 
 And racehorse pedigrees, and keep 
 
 Note of his thousand kindly friends, 
 
 And scraps of business odds and ends. 
 
 In college days he was not wild, 
 
 But merely boisterous. No child 
 
 More sittiple, or more innocent 
 
 Of sin, and guile, and blandishment. 
 
 College had not unfitted him 
 
 For station life, but it would seem 
 
 Had given him fresh interest. 
 
 And added, as it were, a zest, 
 
 As if for real work his will 
 
 Had a great vacuum to fill. 
 
 He rode with fearless skill, and shot 
 Like a backwoodsman, and feared not 
 Into a swamp neck-deep to wade 
 When he a mob of ducks waylaid, 
 Or crawl on belly through a sedge 
 Hissing with snakes, to reach its edge. 
 He was as kind as he was brave, 
 And with less pleasure took than gave ; 
 And, though he loved society 
 And sports, he'd bid them all good-bye, 
 And work for months upon the runs 
 In Queensland, not like squatters' sons. 
 
A Sutnmer Ckrtsi?nas. 
 
 As rich as he was, often do, 
 But Hke a bushman staunch and true. 
 He was beloved alike by men 
 And women : once within his ken 
 You could but love his simple soul. 
 
 As far from him as pole from pole 
 Was Phil (though upright, yet so far 
 From the pure heart which like a star 
 Shone through his brother's life), sunk down, 
 As men of best intents must own 
 They have, by striking out too deep. 
 And, being then obliged to keep 
 Head above water, clutching at 
 Means they'd have shrunk from but for that. 
 In person, rather short than tall, 
 With the blue eyes that marked them all, 
 And handsomer than Will, and more 
 Like what his Father 'd been of yore. 
 He dressed much like an Englishman 
 Of well-bred fashion, spick and span, 
 In gloves and hats, and with his coats 
 Well cut but not extreme, his boots 
 The best that could be bought. He'd go 
 To Melbourne oft as a wool show 
 Or sale of stud sheep gave excuse, 
 Stay at the Club a month, and use 
 The hundred opportunities 
 Showered by fashion's votaries 
 Upon him (soon as they should chance 
 To hear that he'd arrived), to dance 
 And tennis. When he went, he stayed 
 
A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Beyond good resolutions made 
 Ere starting ; but still, conscience moved 
 Him thus far, that, though much he loved 
 Club life and town, he would not go 
 Without excuse of sale or show. 
 
 Will was the eldest, next came Phil, 
 And then Elizabeth, called Lil, 
 Partly to chime with " Phil " and " Will," 
 Partly from the Australian hate 
 For homely names, like Jane and Kate, 
 Mary and Sarah. They delight 
 To verge upon the opposite, 
 With Rubys, Hildas, Violets, 
 Gladyses, Idas, and Jeannettes, 
 Lorraines, and Pearls, and Isobels, 
 And Harolds, Kenneths, Lionels. 
 They'd had a fight that very day, 
 Ere dinner had been cleared away. 
 Over this much-vexed theme of names, 
 The English urging ancient claims 
 For Mary and its congeners, 
 The colonists preferring theirs 
 As nicer and more musical. 
 And then, some one proposed that all 
 In order should declare their own. 
 And first came the Professor's, John, 
 And then Miss Forte's, her name was Lil, 
 And therefore was on their part still 
 Said one side, but Elizabeth 
 The other. Next was Lachlan Smith, 
 A brisk young ' wig ' from Temple Court, 
 
A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Ready to cut his mother short, 
 
 And argue with her on his birth, 
 
 Or any other thing on earth. 
 
 Or out of it. Next him was Maud, 
 
 Maud Morrison, whom men applaud 
 
 As one of Melbourne's belles ; next her. 
 
 Will Forte; and next a character— 
 
 A widow, exquisitely dressed 
 
 (And not in widow's weeds), confessed 
 
 A sorceress, although she lacked 
 
 The charms of person which attract 
 
 The passer-by : her Christian name 
 
 Was Ida. She the gentle flame 
 
 Had lit, 'twas rumoured, in the breast 
 
 Of the ex-minister addressed 
 
 As Chesterfield (a man with grace 
 
 Of action^ and a pleasing face. 
 
 Who sat on Mrs Forte's right hand). 
 
 So exquisite was he, and bland 
 
 In manner, letter, speech, and smile, 
 
 But yet upright and without guile, 
 
 Liked upon both sides of the House, 
 
 For no attack on him could rouse 
 
 His tpngue to personalities 
 
 Levelled against their enemies 
 
 By M.P.'s in Assemblies new ; 
 
 A prepossessing man to view. 
 
 One liked to meet his figure slim 
 
 The more, the more one knew of him. 
 
 Some wag, with envy half-concealed. 
 
 Had christened him " The Chesterfield 
 
A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Of Melbourne," and the soubriquet 
 Had gradually made its way 
 Into the press, society, 
 And lastly his own family. 
 The widow sat upon the right 
 Of Mr Forte, and opposite 
 Miss Ridley, the girls' governess 
 (They were grown up, but kept her less 
 As teacher than companion), fair, 
 With smoothly plaited flaxen hair : 
 A vicar's daughter from the north, 
 Of a poor race of ancient birth. 
 Next her was Phil, and next to him, 
 Full woman, therefore not too slim, 
 But with a form of slender grace, 
 And with bright health writ on her face 
 In rosy cheeks and clear brown skin. 
 With grey eyes, classic nose and chin. 
 And curly hair, cut short behind, 
 Was Kit, a medley, both refined 
 And fast in instinct, delicate 
 In taste, but proof to bear her fate 
 In sports and hardships masculine, 
 Proud, and with courage leonine. 
 Full of wit 'and good fellowship. 
 And with the curved lines of her lip, 
 As prone to melt in laughter, born 
 Of pure fun, as to curl in scorn ; 
 Di. Vernon's rival in the chase. 
 Queen of the men's hearts in the place 
 And miles around, but far from love 
 
A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And wooing as the moon above, 
 The chaste, cold planet. She would rove 
 With horse or gun, the whole day long, 
 A month with the same lover, strong 
 In her robust celibacy, 
 Brimming with grace, her voice and eye 
 Full of bright mirth and happiness : 
 But if her frankness made him press 
 The claims of love, a soft firm voice, 
 Half laugh, half anger, gave him choice 
 Of instant change or banishment. 
 As far as maiden may, she went 
 As man meets man, and her delight 
 Was so contagious that one might 
 Mistake the light of smile and glance 
 For sign of more significance. 
 
 Dressed for the field, she wore a tweed 
 Made jacket-fashion, short-skirted, 
 Revealing all a slim arched foot 
 Laced in a natty shooting boot, 
 Replaced at early morn and night 
 By low-heeled pump of leather bright. 
 
 Full dressed she wore no jewellery, 
 And went in for simplicity. 
 With rich plain stuffs, good work and fit. 
 
 Her father's station much of it 
 Joined Mr Forte's, and rumour said 
 That Phil, if he'd his way, would wed 
 His handsome neighbopr. A contrast 
 Was Lil, whose girlhood stood aghast 
 At Kit's rough sports and manner based 
 
lO A Summer Christmas. 
 
 On manly canons of good taste, 
 Though she rode gracefully and well, 
 Played tennis fairly, and could tell 
 Of triumphs too. She was petite, 
 With slender waist, and pretty feet 
 In dainty Paris shoes, and dressed 
 In stuffs and fashions daintiest. 
 Her clear skin was of the warm hue 
 That marks the south, and o'er it grew 
 In wavy clusters the fair hair 
 Of Gothic ancestry ; a pair 
 Of liquid eyes spoke gentleness, 
 A heart most kindly to distress, 
 Most tender when besieged by love. 
 And true to home though it might rove. 
 Gracefully danced she, lightly swayed, 
 And tastefully the keys she played, 
 Whether for Lied of Mendelssohn 
 Or new waltz she was called upon. 
 She'd a smooth voice but did not sing, 
 Most prudently considering 
 That one more poor executante 
 Could not be called a social want. 
 
 She 'd not, her lovers must confess, 
 The noble, queenly loveliness 
 And rosy health that Kit could boast, 
 But the soft charms which we accost 
 Sooner and guard more tenderly, 
 The suppliant hand, the wistful eye. 
 The pleading voice, the tender mien ; 
 Nor had she the robust and keen 
 
A Slimmer Christmas. 1 1 
 
 Brain of the other, but her mind 
 Was healthy and enough refined 
 To glean some joy from books and art, 
 And the aesthetic tastes which part 
 The cultured from the common herd. 
 
 On Kit's left sat, without a word, 
 But with a shrewd wink in his eye, . 
 Which shewed that, opportunity 
 Requiring, he his views could state. 
 If not with fluency, with weight, 
 A stalwart man, with crisp bleached beard 
 And siinburnt face, with both hands seared 
 By scars and stains, and legs much bowed. 
 As if he far and often rode : 
 His name was Albert Hall, his seat 
 Was next to blue-eyed Maigaret : 
 Beyond was Chesterfield, who said 
 That he was Launcelot : at the head 
 Sat Helen, handsome Mrs Forte, 
 Her lord was Charlie. In the sport 
 Which followed, parties differed not 
 On Lachlan, Ida, Launcelot, 
 Albert and Maud, but each side sought 
 To reckon Helen and Margaret, 
 These since in Scottish homes the5?'d met 
 Helens and Maggies everywhere, 
 And those because the names were fair 
 And fanciful. Debate ran high 
 Between the rivals as to why 
 One chose names in so high a strain. 
 And one so simple and so plain. 
 
[ 2 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 None could convince and none would yield, 
 So they referred to Chesterfield, 
 Who appositely answered thus : 
 
 "If you reflect, it's obvious 
 Why Cobhams, who have lived in Kent 
 For centuries, should be content. 
 Age after age, to call a son 
 By the ancestral name of John. 
 But why my sire, who did not know 
 His own grandfather, should do so, ' 
 He failed to see, and therefore chose, 
 As I have reason to suppose. 
 What doubtless he esteemed to be 
 The name of names, and christened me 
 After his favourite Launcelot. 
 
 And so both sides can urge somewhat, 
 You with the humble name of John 
 Remembering that you're the son 
 Of twenty in succession. 
 Traced with all due minutiae 
 Upon a parchment pedigree, 
 While I, named after Arthur's knight. 
 Call to my mind the legends bright 
 About him, caring nought because 
 I don't know who my grandsire was.'' 
 
 His answer met with much applause. 
 But not with Lachlan Smith's — the jest, 
 At himself aimed by Launcelot, pressed 
 Harder on him, being the son 
 Of storekeepers at Flemington, 
 And striving to conceal his birth, 
 
A Summer Christmas. 1 3 
 
 By all the Lachlans of the earth 
 
 Being claimed as his affinities. 
 
 Nor did it altogether please 
 
 Maud, though she could evince at once, 
 
 By claiming all the Morrisons 
 
 As kinsfolk, that his satire sly 
 
 Did not in her own case apply. 
 
 But Smith was one who well deserved 
 All his success. He never swerved 
 From his high purpose, and his rise 
 Was due entirely to his wise 
 Exertions and abilities. 
 A state-school bo)', he had obtained 
 Grammar school scholarships, then gained 
 A college bursary and high 
 Distinctions as each year went by 
 While at the University. 
 Called to the Bar then, he had made 
 His way by hard work undismayed. 
 Too shallow and self-satisfied. 
 Like many self-raised men untried 
 With educations of a zone 
 More cultivated than their own, 
 Se was, but, all things said and done. 
 Praiseworthy. Contrast could be none 
 Greater than was between this one 
 And Cobham, the Oxonian, 
 In every sense a gentleman, 
 Man of the world and scholar, tall, 
 Of lithe build, and symmetrical. 
 With well-shaped head well set upon 
 
14 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Square shoulders, clean shaved face whereon 
 
 Was no hair save the black moustache, 
 
 With eyes that seemed to cloud or flash 
 
 With ev'ry thought. His hair was grey. 
 
 And had been silvered many a day, 
 
 Though he was still young and no care 
 
 Or grief had fallen to his share. 
 
 He had a certain easy grace 
 
 In each expression of his face 
 
 And motion of his body, voice 
 
 Alluring, power to rejoice 
 
 In diverse objects marvellous. 
 
 Science, the beauties various 
 
 Of Nature, Art, Society 
 
 (The pleasure-seeking and the high). 
 
 And sports of active exercise, 
 
 Fair women and grand enterprise. 
 
 All had their charms for him : he'd come 
 
 To his professorship from home. 
 
 And Chesterfield had taken him 
 
 To set him in the social swim. 
 
 And these last hospitalities 
 
 Were due to his good offices, 
 
 And he had come himself to make 
 
 The week go well for Cobham's sake. 
 
 'Twas Christmas-eve, and they sat round 
 Th' hearth filled with wattlebloom still found 
 On stray trees, and with Christmas-Bush 
 From New South Wales, and Bottle-Brush, 
 And snowy spikes of bayonet grass, 
 And treefern fronds and Sassafras. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 15 
 
 After dessert on summer nights, 
 Those who stayed in to have the lights 
 For work or reading used the hall, 
 Being the coolest room of all, 
 Tiled, and with many openings 
 And passages to rooms and wings ; 
 But most went out, the men to smoke 
 In the Verandah, women folk 
 To hear the words of wisdom come 
 From them in intervals of fume. 
 
 However, being Christmas-eve 
 They all were in the hall, to give 
 The night its due, with raisins snapped 
 Out of the burning brandy, capped 
 With dance and bumper of champagne. 
 But first they talked in idle strain. 
 And lounged about as people do 
 An after dinner hour or two, 
 And sat down, one by one, around 
 Where in the winter warmth was found, 
 And all with empty hands, save one 
 Who skimmed through the Decameron. 
 "What's the book, Chesterfield?" cried Will. 
 " Boccaccio," he said. Then Lil, 
 "Who or what was Boccaccio ?" 
 Whom the Professor answered, " Know 
 That some five hundred years ago 
 To northern Italy there came 
 A deadly pestilence, the same 
 As England christened the Black Death, 
 And to escape its mortal breath 
 
1 6 A Sumnter Christmas. 
 
 From Florence fled three noblemen, 
 
 And seven ladies fair. The ten 
 
 Beguiled the tedium of their stay 
 
 By choosing from themselves each day 
 
 A king or queen of sports ; each told 
 
 Each day a story new or old 
 
 Worth telling, till ten days were o'er. 
 
 And then to Florence turned once more." 
 
 " Famous," cried Lil, " why should not we 
 
 Have a Decameron ? But you see," 
 
 She added, " There are fourteen here 
 
 And eight days : that would interfere 
 
 With having kings and queens : and I 
 
 And Madge— why, half the family 
 
 Could not tell tales." Said Chesterfield, 
 
 To whom they for advice appealed, 
 
 "We could not — all of you must own — 
 
 Well stomach a Decameron, 
 
 But I have a proposal . . ." Each 
 
 Cried " Listen," while he made his speech. 
 
 He said, " To tell ten tales a day 
 
 Would take our time too much away. 
 
 And half of us would be too shy 
 
 Their skill in telling tales to try. 
 
 And some might fail : so I suggest 
 
 That the professor should be pressed 
 
 To be the spokesman every night. 
 
 And we draw lots to have the right 
 
 To choose the subject — none choose twice." 
 
 And all agreed to his advice. 
 
 And as for dance or snapdragon 
 
[^Saida, the Beloved of the Caliph. \ 1 7 
 
 Or toasts 'twas early yet, some one 
 Begged that he should begin at once, 
 And drew to see who for the nonce 
 Should be the King or Queen. It fell 
 To Mrs Forte, who bade him tell 
 Of fair wife loving husband well. 
 Then he, " It seems that my consent 
 Has been presumed : but while content 
 To do your will, I claim your grace 
 Where'er my tale exhibits trace 
 Of inconsistency in work. 
 Being extempore. The Turk, 
 Or rather Arab, by your leave 
 My subject of to-night shall give. 
 
 SAIDA, the' beloved OF THE CALIPH. 
 
 Haroun Al Raschid, it is said. 
 Was in his palace at Baghdad, 
 Sitting one summer day at noon, 
 And ready with the heat to swoon ; 
 When in the dusty shadeless square 
 He spied an Arab drawing near. 
 Jaded, and limping sore, and wan. 
 And when the Caliph looked thereon, 
 And saw him toiling up the road. 
 He cried out, " Hath Almighty God, 
 Ever since heaven and earth began. 
 Made such a wholly wretched man 
 As this who drags his bhstered feet 
 
A Summer Christmas. 
 
 At such an hour up the scorched street ? " 
 
 And, turning to the vizier, 
 
 He bade that if the traveller 
 
 Craved audience with him that day. 
 
 He should be brought to him straightway. 
 
 And so it fell out as he thought. 
 
 And the poor man to him was brought, 
 
 And, supplicating much, began 
 
 To make complaint against Merwan — 
 
 Who, at Medina's holy gate. 
 
 Gave justice for the Caliphate. 
 
 "Commander of the Faithful, I — 
 
 Now eaten by calamity — 
 
 Was once of all men happiest. 
 
 With a fair wife and loving blest. 
 
 And a young camel trained, whereby 
 
 Our food and raiment to supply : 
 
 But one by one misfortunes came. 
 
 And false friends fell of, as the flame 
 
 Dies when the substance of the wood 
 
 Is into empty ash subdued ; 
 
 And last of all came my wife's sire. 
 
 And, with well simulated ire, 
 
 Snatched my last treasure from me too. 
 
 And so I took my staff, and drew 
 
 To Merwan, our lord Governor, 
 
 And made complaint with groanings sore : 
 
[Saida, the Beloved of the CaliphJ] 19 
 
 Who at the first lent ready ear, 
 
 And bade mine enemy appear ; 
 
 Who, when he came, with lying word, 
 
 Cried that of her own free accord 
 
 She had left me and sought her home, 
 
 And that when, after I had come 
 
 To crave her to return to me. 
 
 She had entreated him that he 
 
 Would not allow her to be led 
 
 Back to the loathsomeness she fled. 
 
 So that I, fearing that his tale 
 
 Would with the Governor prevail. 
 
 Asked whether, if my wife were brought 
 Before him, and herself besought 
 To be restored to me once more, 
 He would compel them to restore : 
 Who answered that it should be so. 
 And bade mine adversary go 
 And bring the woman to his seat, 
 That he might judge her as was meet — 
 Who, coming back, with him did bring 
 My wife, shamefaced and quivering. 
 And she, when bidden to declare 
 Which of us two the truth did swear, 
 Spake up for me in such a wise 
 That Merwan — fain with his own eyes 
 To see the woman, who could say 
 That which he would in such a way — 
 
20 A- Summer Christmas. 
 
 Bade her uncover in that place, 
 And show the fashon of her face. 
 And she did so with shame and wince, 
 And he — whereas a minute since 
 He had adjudged her mine — ^perforce 
 Now made me crave him for divorce, 
 And took my wife to be his bride. 
 And therefore, weary and red-eyed. 
 In the mid-heat of a noonday 
 I drag my swollen feet, to lay 
 Suit for redress at thy divan, 
 And justice on the lord Merwan." 
 
 Nor did he sue without avail — 
 
 For when the Caliph heard his tale 
 
 Dark grew his eyeballs, and he sent 
 
 Letters of passionate intent 
 
 That bade Merwan give back the wife, 
 
 If he set any worth on life. 
 
 Or, by the Prophet's holy beard, 
 
 And by the sepulchre revered. 
 
 His headless body should be meat 
 
 For dogs and vultures in the street. 
 
 Then Merwan, as the Caliph bade. 
 Did send the woman to Baghdad. 
 And sent before her couriers. 
 Bearing such words as these, in verse : 
 
[^Sazda, the Beloved of the Caliph. ] 2 1 
 
 " Commander of the Faithful, I 
 Bend low to thine authority. 
 This Arab came to me to crave 
 Justice : and ready ear I gave, 
 As might beseem the judge who stands 
 To execute thy just commands. 
 He said that when prosperity 
 Had run ahead and passed him by, 
 The father of his wife had come 
 And haled her back to her old home, 
 And kept her there in his despite, 
 And prayed that I would do him right. , 
 I, willing to do what was mefet, 
 Called fortjiwith to the judgment seat 
 The wrong-doer, who, when he came. 
 And heard the count, denied the same, 
 Asserting that his child had fled 
 For succour, and yet lived in dread 
 Of being forced to dwell again 
 With the most hateful of all men. 
 
 Whereat the suppliant craved that I 
 Would have her brought to make reply. 
 And if so 'twere that she, when brought, . 
 To be restored to him, besought. 
 That I would bid her sire restore 
 The woman unto him once more. 
 
2 2 A Summer Ckrtsimas. 
 
 And they returned in no long time 
 
 With one who seemed in the young prime 
 
 Of comely graceful womanhood, 
 
 Out of whose close-drawn veil there glowed 
 
 Two eyes that shot a mingled flame 
 
 Of sorrow, love, surprise and shame ; 
 
 Who, when I bade her to declare 
 
 Which of the twain the truth did swear, 
 
 Spake for her lord in such a wise 
 
 That I was fain with mine own eyes 
 
 To see the fashioning of face 
 
 And somewhat further of the grace 
 
 Of this wise woman, who could say 
 
 That which she would in such a way, 
 
 And bade her draw her veil aside : 
 
 Whereat with shame the ruddy tide 
 
 Filled all the fairness of her cheeks. 
 
 And mid the shamefacedness that speaks 
 
 Of gentleness and modesty, 
 
 With trembling touch, she did comply. 
 
 And stood before my greedy eyes 
 
 A houri out of paradise. 
 
 Unmatched for soft alluring grace. 
 
 My heart leapt from me in that place 
 
 To touch the lips that could confess 
 
 With such sweet wisdom her distress. 
 
 And to be lord of her whose love 
 
 Misfortunes only helped to prove. 
 
[Saida, the Beloved of the Caliph. ] 2 3 
 
 And with persuasion did enforce 
 
 Her husband to obtain divorce, 
 
 And had the woman to my heart, 
 
 The which she took in loving part 
 
 Until thy firman came to me. 
 
 Her to this end I send to thee. 
 
 That thou may'st look on her and know 
 
 What gifts hath Allah to bestow 
 
 On woman if he mindeth to. 
 
 Nor do I think that, when thine eyes 
 
 Have looked on her, thou wilt despise 
 
 Thy servant for what he hath done. 
 
 But that thou'lt take her for thine own 
 
 Unto the grand Seraglio 
 
 Whereby the Tigris' waters flow." 
 
 Whereat the Caliph chafed again, 
 And cried, " This shameless one of men 
 Shall die the death who first deprives 
 My faithful Arabs of their wives, 
 And afterward accuseth me. 
 Saying that I have but to see 
 Her who hath brought about his blame 
 And that my sin will be the same ;" 
 Then, turning to his vjzier, bade 
 Bring forward him who sought his aid. 
 And said, " Thy wife to-day hath come. 
 And thou shalt have her to thine home ; 
 
24 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 But stay thou until first I see 
 What manner of woman this may be 
 Who speaketh with such honied lips, 
 And whose eyes' magic doth eclipse 
 The magic of all eyes in glance, 
 Of which Merwan hath cognizance. 
 And then do thou and she depart 
 Whereso on earth it likes thy heart." 
 
 Now she, for all her late resort 
 
 With Merwan at Medina's court. 
 
 Was as shamefaced and full of dread 
 
 When to the Caliph she was led, 
 
 And bidden to unveil her head, 
 
 As she had been when she was brought 
 
 To Merwan's palace and besought ; 
 
 And, when before the throne, she stood 
 
 In all her peerless womanhood, 
 
 As beautiful as Ayesha, 
 
 Upon whose fragrant bosom lay 
 
 The prophet's cheek in happy hours, 
 
 And whose fair hands, like lily flowers, 
 
 Were wreathed about his dying head. 
 
 Or Zeineb who was wife of Zeid, 
 
 Or Mary the Egyptian, 
 
 While down her face a tear there ran, 
 
 As pure as Zemzem'js sacred spring, 
 
 From eyes, like dog's eyes, questioning 
 
\Saida, the Beloved of the Caliph?^ 25 
 
 What was the feeling and intent 
 
 Of those whose gaze on her was bent 
 
 Whether it boded good or ill. 
 
 Meanwhile the Caliph drank his fill 
 Of this love-potion, and did muse 
 If he might not e'en now refuse 
 The boon he gave a moment since, 
 And yet do nothing that a prince 
 Who loved his people might not do. 
 And seemed it that, if it were so 
 That he might win the man's consent 
 With princely presents well content, 
 There should be little harm though he 
 Kept back the houri-eyed to be 
 A crown of loving to his life. 
 
 Natheless the Arab loved his wife 
 So graciously that for her sake, 
 Though beggared, he was loath to take 
 Three virgins, fair as the full moon, 
 And each of them as portion 
 Having a thousand gold dinars, 
 And for himself in the bazaars 
 To have all men bow low to him. 
 With downcast eyes and bended limb, 
 Like a great officer of state. 
 And to take from the Caliphate 
 
2 6 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Much gold and raiment by the year, 
 But answer made with many a tear, 
 
 " Caliph of Islam, I indeed 
 Came to thee in my utmost need 
 To claim thy hand's protection 
 Against the arm of Hakam's son : 
 But lo, thy little finger is 
 Thicker than Merwan's loin, I wis. 
 Nor do I know to whom to turn 
 For aid against thy purpose stem. 
 Take back thy gifts — I heed them not, 
 Though poor and painful be my lot ; 
 I would not change my low estate 
 To have the very Caliphate, 
 If to have it were to lose her."- 
 The Caliph said, " Thou didst aver 
 That thou hadst put her from tliy breast, 
 And Merwan's letter hath confessed 
 That he hath also done likewise. 
 How was she pleasing in thine eyes 
 Whom thou didst put away from thee ? 
 Now shall she choose between us three, 
 Thyself, and Hakam's son, and me : 
 If she choose thee, she shall be thine, 
 And, if she choose thee not, be mine. 
 Dost thou agree ? " 
 
 The Arab bowed, 
 
\_Sazela, the Beloved of the Caliph.] 27 
 
 And straight the Caliph cried aloud, 
 " Say, Saida, whether wilt thou wed 
 The Sheik of Islam to thy bed. 
 Who sits upon the Prophet's seat, 
 With all the nations at his feet, 
 And dwells in golden palaces, 
 And hath great realms and satrapies, 
 And slaves, and riches, and empire, 
 And can give all thou canst desire ? 
 Or wilt thou have the lord Merwan, 
 That tyrannous and wrongful man, 
 Who loveth thee so well, forsooth, 
 That the poor lover of thy youth, 
 Was driven, and constrained, perforce. 
 To sue unto him for divorce ? 
 Or wilt thou have this wretched one. 
 Who hath not to his portion. 
 Save hunger and, her mother, need ? " 
 "By Allah," she replied, " indeed. 
 Caliph of Islam, know that I 
 Do not desert when night is nigh 
 Those, whom I love in the broad day, 
 Because the sunshine sinks away ; 
 Nor do I change as the times do. 
 And, when the summer flies, fly too ; 
 Nor can I easily forget 
 That I have been his amulet 
 And ewe-lamb, from the very first ; 
 
2 8 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Nor are our old love-bonds yet burst, 
 
 That have grown like an ivy stem, 
 
 As year by year passed over them. 
 
 O Sir, should I not bear with him, 
 
 Now that the nights are wild and dim, 
 
 Who have with him lived cloudless days, 
 
 Wheiji he basked in the spring sun's rays. 
 
 It is the common way of men. 
 
 Like deer who dwell upon the plain, 
 
 While the sun shines, and peace is there, 
 
 To browse together free from care, 
 
 But when the wolves come with the night 
 
 To forget all things in their fright, 
 
 And each cry, " Save himself who can." 
 
 As with the deer, so with the man. 
 
 But woman is not ever so ; 
 
 Her love shines with as pure a glow 
 
 Right through the darkness, mist, and spray, 
 
 As the North star which guides the way 
 
 Of mariners on unknown seas. 
 
 " O Caliph, I am such as these, 
 And rather had I starve and die 
 With yon poor Arab, miserably, 
 Than share the grandeur of thy court. 
 Or with the base Merwan consort." 
 
 Haroun saluted as Al Raschid, 
 
A Summer Christmas. 29, 
 
 Caliph of Islam, the Abbassid, 
 Who sate upon the Prophet's seat, 
 And had the nations at his feet, 
 And dwelt in golden palaces, 
 Had seldom such reply as this. 
 And greatly doubted if his ear 
 Retained the faculty to hear, 
 But to his royal word adhered 
 And swore that, by the Prophet's beard. 
 Even so he would, and more also, 
 Unto the son of Hakam do 
 If ever afterward he pressed 
 This Saida from her Arab's breast. 
 And gave him charge to use his power 
 For their well-faring from that hour. 
 The Caliph Haroun Al Raschid 
 Many a deed of bloodshed did, 
 And many evil works wrought he ; 
 But this good shall remembered be 
 How that he kept his royal word 
 In giving Saida to her lord. 
 
 He ceased : and when th' applause was hushed 
 Which hailed his. effort, somewhat flushed 
 At having stepped into the breach 
 With even this small maiden speech, 
 " Thank you, Professor," Helen said, 
 " For the grand way in which you've pled 
 
30 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 For women. If we have one claim 
 Unquestioned to heroic fame, 
 It is that we pause not to test 
 Whether our idol be the best 
 Of gold, or merely common clay, 
 And scorn with scales its worth to weigh. 
 Your shaft struck where you took not aim, 
 For ere to this bright land I came 
 I was betrothed for ten whole years 
 Of trials, disappointments, fears 
 And . . ." "Now wife no tales out of school !" 
 " And I was laughed at for a fool 
 For holding true so many a day 
 To one twelve thousand miles away. 
 And you, with your pretended frowns, 
 Were, on the day you left the Downs, 
 No great catch for a girl who weighed 
 The value of the match she made ; 
 And I had suitors in my youth, 
 Instance your brother, who in truth 
 Were much to be preferred to you. 
 By one who took the worldly view. 
 For you were but a younger son, 
 Starting to try a backblock run 
 In Queensland, but (don't frown at me) 
 I always fancied you to be 
 A higher being, quite above 
 All human standards except love." 
 * * * * 
 
 When she had finished her romance 
 Will pushed the chairs back for a dance. 
 
A Summer Christmas. '^ 
 
 And Mrs Forte sat down and played 
 
 Waltz after waltz, in long cascade, 
 
 With the-well-modulated touch 
 
 Of one who had herself danced much. 
 
 All danced but Mr Forte, and Kit 
 
 Who would not dance, esteeming it 
 
 Effeminate for one who tried 
 
 To break the social fetters, tied 
 
 Round the weak hands of maid and wife, 
 
 And share the liberty and life 
 
 Which men usurp : and this though she 
 
 Could, when she chose, dance faultlessly 
 
 With the proud pose and noble air 
 
 So enviable and so rare. 
 
 Waltz after waltz Maud danced with Phil, 
 Because the Oxford man and Will, 
 Although they both danced fairly well. 
 In the last step did not excel, 
 And Chesterfield could only do 
 The deux-temps. Lachlan Smith, 'twas true, 
 Could dance the new step, but then he 
 In ease and poise failed woefully. 
 Although he pleased himself: and Hall 
 Could not be said to dance at all, 
 Although he briskly twisted round 
 His victims, whom he mostly found 
 In bashful, blue-eyed Margaret 
 (Who had not very often yet 
 Tried in society the steps 
 She did so well with Meinherr Kreps, 
 Who trained most Melbourne ladies' schools 
 
A Summer Christmas. 
 
 In dancing and deportment's rules), 
 And Mary Ridley, who had come 
 From a strict-low-church vicar's home, 
 Where dancing was esteemed a sin. 
 And stimulant as bad as gin. 
 Kind-hearted Will danced turn about 
 With Madge, who, having not come out. 
 And being shy and scarce full grown. 
 Might have been too much left alone. 
 And with his sisters' governess, 
 As chosen by the others less, 
 And Ida Lewis, who could dance 
 Only deux-temps (the step in France 
 When she was there at school, she said, 
 Which, if she spoke correctly, made 
 Her sweet and thirty). Lastly, Lil 
 Won praise from even captious Phil, 
 So perfect in her steps was she. 
 In pose so upright and so free. 
 And yet so yielding and so light. 
 
 Maud Morrison perhaps was quite 
 Her equal in mere stepping skill, 
 But lacked the gentle grace of Lil. 
 With Maud first the Professor danced. 
 Who was not much thereby advanced 
 In his good graces : she in fact 
 Repelled him with a want of tact. 
 The next he danced with Margaret, 
 Who started the new step, but yet 
 Adapted her step easily 
 To his, when she perceived that he 
 
A Stimmer Christrnas. 33 
 
 Preferred the trois temps, though to all 
 
 His efforts conversational 
 
 On twenty topics she replied 
 
 Laconically : then he tried 
 
 Miss Ridley, who displayed' no ease 
 
 And little grace, and by degrees 
 
 Fell out of step ; and then he walked 
 
 To where Kit Johnstone stood and talked 
 
 For half-an-hour, revelling 
 
 In her bright chat, and noticing 
 
 The shades of humour which gave chase 
 
 One to another o'er her face. 
 
 He did not dare ask Lil to dance, 
 
 Though he stole many a longing glancfe. 
 
 As round and round she floated by 
 
 On her light feet so gracefully 
 
 In the new step, — Maud Morrison 
 Had been so galling in her tone. 
 Because he danced trois temps, and she 
 Danced not her steps so daintily 
 As Lil : and so he stood with Kit, 
 Half satisfied with her arch wit, 
 Half taking his faint heart to task 
 That what he wished he dared not ask. 
 But as they talked Lil came and cried, 
 " Professor, dance with me, you've tried. 
 With all the others. I can do 
 Ypur step, for I was watching you 
 When you were with Maud Morrison, 
 And if I fail, why no harm's done." 
 And then they started, and he thought 
 
 i \ 
 
34 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 That he till then had never caught 
 The perfect luxury and grace 
 Of waltzing : so exact each pace 
 Fell into unison with his, 
 So full of subtle witcheries 
 Was the light form within his grasp, 
 So hearty-innocent the clasp 
 Of the small thrilling fingers thrust 
 Within his in such perfect trust. 
 And when at last the music ceased. 
 She thanked him with a smile as pleased 
 As if the honours of it lay 
 With him, not her, then led the way 
 To a broad lounge which stood before 
 The opening of the boudoir door. 
 Inside, and, making room for him. 
 Crossed on a stool her ankles slim, 
 And, leaning back, talked softly on. 
 How she'd enjoyed the dance just done, 
 And begged him once again to tell 
 , The tale he'd lately told so well. 
 'Twas rather Lily's way to form 
 Quite suddenly attachments warm. 
 And, when she did so, all her grace 
 And tenderness and pretty face 
 Were requisitioned to advance 
 Development of her romance. 
 She was so lovingly inclined. 
 And so romantic in her mind, 
 That she had aye some idol shrined 
 And pedestalled within her heart, 
 
A Summer Christmas. 35 
 
 And, when with one compelled to part, 
 Was hungry-souled and ill at rest 
 Till she was once again possessed : 
 Thus fiercely her hot southern blood 
 Strove with the cold of maidenhood. 
 
 She was a very child of love, 
 So marvellously could she move, 
 With glance and finger, thrill and voice. 
 All men, who met her, to rejoice. 
 She looked so full back to their eyes, 
 She clasped their hand in such a wise, 
 Her tones were pitched so sweet and low 
 That all she told them seemed as though 
 There wete some special confidence. 
 And yet 'twas all in innocence 
 And worship. The professor came 
 Just in the nick of time : the flame 
 Of the last love was hardly quenched, 
 And no new fetters had been clenched. 
 And he precisely was the man 
 Most likely to create and fan 
 The ' sacred fire ' within her breast. 
 Being at once the cleverest 
 And one of the best-looking men 
 Who'd ever come into her ken. 
 He dressed well, talked well, played at games 
 Well enough to support his claims 
 With most chance rivals, had a name 
 For books and scholarship, and came 
 Of ancient lineage. She fell 
 Into this new magician's spell 
 
.36 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 As soon as she had heard him tell 
 
 The legend about Saida, 
 
 So tenderly did he pourtray 
 
 A loving woman's constancy 
 
 And modest girl's timidity, 
 
 That seemed it that who thus could tell 
 
 Of woman's heart must know it well, 
 
 And set her longing to find out 
 
 What tenderness there was about 
 
 His own heart. Thus these two sat on, 
 
 And she asked many a question 
 
 About this Saida. But he 
 
 Knew nothing of her history, 
 
 Save that he'd read in volumes old 
 
 The outline of the tale he told. 
 
 She asked him if he cared again 
 
 To dance, and in condoling strain 
 
 Listened to the delinquencies 
 
 Of scornful Maud, and said that his 
 
 Was one of the most pleasant steps 
 
 She ever danced to, that Herr Kreps 
 
 Had said the " trois temps " was the best 
 
 Of all waltz steps — and all the rest 
 
 Which sympathetic girls do say 
 
 When they are carried right away 
 
 With championing some pet cause, 
 
 As ardent Lily just then was. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 Their confidences were cut short 
 By a stern summons to the sport 
 Of snapping dragons from a dish, 
 
A Summer Christmas. 57 
 
 With blazing brandy devilish, 
 Followed by bumpers of champagne 
 To welcome Christmas back again. 
 And ere they parted, after they 
 Had wished a Merry Christmas-day 
 And many of them, each to each, 
 The kind host made a short neat speech : 
 " Welcome to Waratah, young men, 
 Look to the ladies first, and then 
 Do all that in your pow'r you can 
 To show our guest, the Englishman, 
 The pleasures with which station-life 
 Can be in holidays made rife. 
 He entertains us every night, 
 So it is only fair and right 
 That we should show him all we may 
 Of our life and its joys by day." 
 
38 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Christmas Day, December 2t,th. 
 
 Waratah breakfasts were at nine : 
 
 Lil was down first and looked divine 
 
 In a fresh, simple, morning dress 
 
 Of gossamer, with snowiness 
 
 Unbroken save by sash pale blue 
 
 Wound round her, and a spray or two 
 
 Of the wild brook forget-me-not 
 
 Pinned in a cluster at her throat. 
 
 The others followed. One could see 
 
 Who were for church quite easily 
 
 Without appealing to the vote. 
 
 Old Mr Forte in his frock coat 
 
 And Chesterfield looked most devout : 
 
 Maud Morrison was much decked out, 
 
 And Mrs Forte wore rich black silk, 
 
 Margaret ' Surah,' white as milk. 
 
 Miss Ridley her best summer white, 
 
 While the Professor came down dight 
 
 In Paget suit of iron-grey twill,. 
 
 And stiff white waistcoat. Only Lil 
 
 Was neutral. Kit was careless in 
 
 A Norfolk jacket masculine. 
 
 And Phil and Will wore old tweed clothes, 
 
 Which told as plainly as would, oaths 
 
 How much church service they would hear, 
 
 And Hall replied with prompt " No fear," 
 
A Summer Christmas. 39 
 
 When he was challenged. Lachlan Smith 
 Was down too late, and Ida with 
 An " I don't think I'll go to-day," 
 Announced her wishes straight away. 
 
 At half past ten the waggonette, 
 In which old Mr Forte had met 
 Professor Cobham, was brought round, 
 When he to his surprise profound 
 Perceived that though a hot wind blew 
 (The Fahrenheit marked 92°) 
 With most oppressive sultriness, 
 Lil had exchanged her cool white dress 
 For a black silk with pannier 
 And flounce, and other heavy gear, 
 And long tight gloves — such sacrifice 
 Will women make to touches nice. 
 She certainly looked very well. 
 And what the vulgar call ' a swell,' 
 But not so graceful or so bright 
 As in her simple dress of white. 
 However it would not have done 
 For younger sisters to have gone 
 Much dressed, while elder went arrayed 
 In simple fabrics simply made. 
 The gentlemen left in the lurch 
 (For want of space) all walked to church, 
 A pretty little bluestone pile , 
 Which Mr Forte had built, with aisle 
 And nave and chancel. It was decked, 
 With some fair notion of effect, 
 By Lil, and Maud, and Margaret. 
 
40 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 The hymns to pretty tunes were set, 
 
 But like the sermon ill-prepared : 
 
 The gossips of the township stared, 
 
 As village gossips always will, 
 
 At Mrs Forte, and Maud, and Lil, 
 
 To criticize their loots and dress, 
 
 And comment on their ugliness : 
 
 And then the plate went round, and then 
 
 They shook hands and drove home again, 
 
 Along a heavy, sandy road, 
 
 While overhead a fierce sun glowed, 
 
 And the north wind with sudden gust 
 
 Caught up and eddied clouds of dust. 
 
 Arrived at home they came on Will, 
 
 And Kit, and Lachlan Smith, and Phil, 
 
 On sundry sofas lying prone, 
 
 And reading newspapers, alone. 
 
 In sheer disgust because the day 
 
 Was far too hot for tennis play. 
 
 Kit decked for dinner in a dress, 
 
 Cut with a habit's simpleness. 
 
 Made of black velvet, Will and Phil 
 
 In their old tweed shell jackets still. 
 
 The Christmas dinner was at two. 
 
 And all that wealth or pains could do 
 
 Was done to make it a success, 
 
 And njarks of female tastefulness 
 
 And traces of a lady's care 
 
 Were noticeable everywhere. 
 
 The port was old, the champagne dry, 
 
 And ev'ry kind of luxury 
 
A Summer Christmas. 41 
 
 Which Melbourne could supply was there. 
 
 They had the staple Christmas fare, 
 
 Roast beef and turkey (this was wild), 
 
 Mince pies, plum pudding, rich and mild, 
 
 One for the ladies, one designed 
 
 For Mr Forte's severer mind. 
 
 Were on the board. Yet in a way 
 
 It did not seem like Christmas day. 
 
 With no gigantic beech Yule-logs 
 
 Blazing between the brass fire dogs. 
 
 And with 100" in the shade 
 
 On the thermometer displayed. 
 
 Nor were there Christmas offerings 
 
 Of tasteful inexpensive things. 
 
 Like those which one in England sends 
 
 At Christmas to his kin and friends. 
 
 Though the professor with him took 
 
 A present of a recent book 
 
 For Lil, and Madge, and Mrs Forte, 
 
 And though a card of some new sort 
 
 Had been arranged by Lil to face, 
 
 At breakfast, everybody's place. 
 
 When dinner ended, nearly all 
 Stole off to have a snooze or sprawl 
 Upon the lounges in the hall. 
 The heat was too oppressive still 
 For outdoor exercise, but Will 
 Went out to give his dogs a run 
 In a plantation where the sun 
 And wind were broken by the trees. 
 And Kit, who bore the heat with ease, 
 
42 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Challenged Professor Cobham's skill 
 At billiards ; Hall, and Smith, and Phil, 
 Lazily blowing clouds of smoke, 
 And criticising every stroke. 
 Each of the players much surprised 
 The other, — Kit had not surmised 
 That the professor's play would show 
 Such mastery of " running through,'' 
 So quick an eye and sure a hand, 
 Nor he that she had such command 
 Of check and screw, and would display 
 So much sound judgment in her play. 
 
 And so the long close afternoon 
 To its late end dragged slowly on. 
 Without a breeze from morn to eve 
 The suffocation to relieve. 
 Sunset just took away the glare 
 But did not cool the heat-charged air, 
 And everybody in the house 
 Was glad when tea-time came to rouse 
 Their languid torpor and despair. 
 
 Tea over, no one seemed to care 
 To face the hothouse atmosphere 
 Of the verandah, but drew near 
 To listen to Lord Chesterfield 
 And the Professor, who distilled 
 The pith of Schliemann's ponderous 
 And formidable " Ilios ;" 
 Holding the book up in his hand 
 To illustrate as he explained 
 That those who heard might understand 
 
[^Odysseus in ScheriaT^ 43 
 
 A heavy subject, at the best 
 By no means easy to invest 
 With any human interest, 
 A fact which was not lost on Kit, 
 Who hinted with her ready wit 
 That she would like it just as well 
 If he would close the book, and tell 
 Homeric tales, and make them rife 
 With touches of the old Greek life 
 As painted by the bard. " You can 
 Bear out or quarrel with Schliemann 
 By following his theories 
 Or choosing those which he denies, 
 And we shall have our tale, and learn 
 Greek habits without study stern." 
 The rest her action ratified, 
 And, as a subject she'd supplied, 
 Declared her Queen without resort 
 To Justice Ballot-box's Court. 
 
 ODYSSEUS IN SCHERIA. 
 
 From the first shimmer of the summer-morn 
 Upon the breeze's wings had there been borne 
 Such echoes as are heard about a quay 
 When a great ship is putting out to sea ; 
 And all day long down to the port had rolled 
 A stream of men bearing great store of gold. 
 And broidered raiment, swords with studded hafts. 
 And brazen vessels, fair as that which wafts 
 
44 A Summer Christinas. 
 
 The incense-smoke from Delphi, and bright arms 
 
 Such as make manly men in war's alarms. 
 
 And King Alcinoiis stood upon the deck 
 
 Watching the lading, lest the crates should check 
 
 The crew in reaching forward with their oars 
 
 To waft Odysseus to the longed-for shores. 
 
 And then he turned home, meaning with high feast 
 
 To celebrate the parting of his guest, 
 
 And slew an ox to the cloud-gatherer Zeus. 
 
 Then those who in the palace had their use, 
 
 Roasted the thighs, and therewith made much mirth. 
 
 And, when they were well feasted, summoned forth 
 
 The gifted bard who pleased the multitude. 
 
 And by them was much honoured ; who renewed 
 
 A lay half sung upon an earlier day 
 
 That had pleased well. And when that it was gay 
 
 Loud shouts of laughter through the courtyard rang : 
 
 But when the deaths of island chiefs he sang. 
 
 And island queens with thongs bound round their 
 
 hands. 
 Driven with blows and shame to hostile lands, 
 The laughter died away and eyes grew dim. 
 Such mastery of song was there in him. 
 
 But one there sate, unchanging with the song. 
 And little noting aught, but all day long 
 Gazing with levelled glances at the west 
 To see the sun's tired horses sink to rest 
 
[Odysseus in ScheriaJ] 45 
 
 Behind the hill of ocean. For his cause 
 
 The sacrifice and song and feasting was ; 
 
 And yet he heeded to them least of all 
 
 Who were within Alcinoiis' palace-wall. 
 
 For he was thinking how that he should come 
 
 With no long-waiting to his island-home, 
 
 And queen and son, and flocks and herds and stead, 
 
 And whether he should find I^aertes dead ; 
 
 Or that the Theban's shade had told him truth ; 
 
 And in his mind viewed pictures of his youth, 
 
 And the old life in Ithaca, before 
 
 He followed the Atridae to the war. 
 
 No ploughman wearied by his clodded shoon, 
 
 Towards the close of winter afternoon, 
 
 Could look unto the setting of the sun 
 
 With more of hope and welcome than this one. 
 
 And lastly the sun set : and then he spake 
 
 Unto the King, craving that he might take 
 
 His escort and his treasures, and all things 
 
 That the great gods, whose lot is above kings', 
 
 Had vouchsafed to him, to the hollow ship. 
 
 And then he spake, and this with trembling lip, 
 
 Of her against whose pure and wifely name 
 
 Envy itself had never whispered blame. 
 
 While she spun on through twenty widowed years. 
 
 And nightly washed her spinning out in tears. 
 
 And then he spake the word which those who rove 
 
 On pathless seas and sands, and exiles love — 
 
46 A Slimmer Christmas. 
 
 "Home:" and then prayed that fair days should 
 
 befall 
 His kindly host — good cheer within his hall, 
 Chaste wives and goodly children ; and then prayed 
 The God, who ever makes it his to aid 
 The suppliant and stranger, to rain down 
 All manner of good gifts upon this town, ■ 
 And that no ill should come unto its folk 
 And take abode with them. 
 
 And while he spoke 
 There was a hum of praise, and when he made 
 An end of speaking, all with one mind bade 
 That he should have his ship ; nor did the King 
 Dissent from what they willed, but, summoning 
 Pontonous, the herald, bade him pour 
 Into the mystic graven bowl great store 
 Of sacred wine, and all the heroes call 
 Into the lofty roofed, bronze-paven hall. 
 That they might pray Zeus with a shielding hand 
 To bring the stranger to his fatherland. 
 And so it was — Pontonous filled the bowl 
 With wine that soothed the sorrows of the soul, 
 And gave to each in order as they sate. 
 Who to the gods, that hold their solemn state 
 On the broad hill of heaven, duly poured 
 The first drops in libation, and implored 
 Safe conduct for the guest. But he stood up 
 
\Odysseus in Scheria.~\ 47 
 
 'And set in the Queen's hand a drinking cup 
 With double bowls set base to base, one full 
 And crowned with wreathing flow'rs and snowy wool, 
 And spake therewith stich winged words to her — 
 " O Queen, I pray the gods to give thee cheer, 
 Until the fair day when old age and death 
 Come, as they come to all who draw our breath. 
 Nor do I think that age will come alone ; 
 For unto me thou seemest such an one 
 As are the blessed gods who wax not old. 
 And, but that I by Pallas had been told, 
 I had thought thee immortal, as they be. 
 Now I am going home. Zeus prosper thee, 
 And leave thee long to have thy full delight 
 In King Alcinous' heroic might, 
 And all thy children and the men, who love. 
 With oars too great for other folk, to rove 
 Over the open sea (whose waters shine 
 As darkly and as clearly as the wine 
 Crushed in the islands from the purple grape). 
 Delighting all these with thy queenly shape 
 And godlike wisdom. " 
 
 And therewith he passed 
 Over the threshold of the doorway vast. 
 Led by the royal Herald to the quay, 
 Whereby the ship rode chafing -for the sea. 
 And went aboard. And the Queen's womenfolk 
 
48 A Summer CkHslmas. 
 
 Brought him from her fair linen and a cloke 
 
 Fresh-washed but now, and the strong coffer faced 
 
 With plated bronze whereon Odysseus placed 
 
 A magic lock, which sunborn Circe wrought, 
 
 And with self-working understanding fraught; 
 
 Wherein were stored the princes' goodly gifts. 
 
 The talents of pure gold, the thirteen shifts 
 
 Of royal vesture, and the noble sword 
 
 Which Sir Euryalus brought forth from his hoard 
 
 Partly to do the bidding of the King, 
 
 And partly as his own free offering. 
 
 To soothe away the bitter words he spake ; 
 
 .Goodly the weapon, and of wondrous make, 
 
 With biting blade and sheath of ivory, 
 
 Carven with curious myths of days gone by, 
 
 And silver studded hilt. And there, too, lay 
 
 The wine bowl that Pontonous yesterday, 
 
 And many a year before, had daily filled 
 
 With the sweet grape juice, when Alcinous willed 
 
 To pour libations. This the King had given 
 
 That whensoe'er Odysseus looked to heaven, 
 
 Sitting at sacred feast, he might recall 
 
 The lofty-roofed, bronze-paved, Phaeacian hall 
 
 And him who sate within it on his throne. 
 
 Made all of gold it was, with handles on. 
 
 And with a wreath of leaves of beaten gold, 
 
 And mingled golden roses round it rolled. 
 
[Odysseus in ScheriaT^ 49 
 
 And others bare him ruddy wine and wheat ; 
 
 And when all things were brought, there sate at meat 
 
 Odysseus and the escort that he had ; 
 
 And, when all were with banqueting full glad, 
 
 Down in the hollow of the ship they made 
 
 Well in the stern a bed, and thereon laid 
 
 Soft cloths of wool and linen, that he might 
 
 Rest easy mid the rockings of the night. 
 
 And then with sound of flutes and many a shout 
 
 They from the capstan paid the cables out 
 
 Which moored the ship alongside of the quay, 
 
 And cast her out into the stream ; and she. 
 
 Unlike man's ship slow forging at the start, 
 
 Leapt straightway into swiftness like a hart, 
 
 Or like a four-horse chariot in the ring, 
 
 Or hawk that cleaves the wind on lightning wing. 
 
 And then with more of music and glad noise 
 
 (The while the seamen did the mainsail hoise) ; 
 
 The heralds took their way back to the house, 
 
 And mingled with the heroes in carouse. . . 
 
 But on the seashore, all alone, stood one 
 
 Who, with strained eyeballs, through the twilight dun 
 
 Scanned the dim form of the departing ship 
 
 Not without lashes moist and quivering Up ; 
 
 A maiden with her girlhood scarce outgrown. 
 
 Tall and still slender, with her brown hair done 
 
 Into a pkited coil, and with grey eyes 
 
50 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 That had the clearness of the summer skies, 
 And something of their colour ; her soft cheeks 
 Were tinted with the duskiness that speaks 
 Of sunny playhours and warm southern blood, 
 And yet when shame or dancing brought the flood 
 Of crimson to her face, the glow shone through 
 As fairly as through skins of fairer hue. 
 Robed was she in soft white, with but a braid 
 Of golden thread upon its border laid. 
 And with gold bosses on her sandal thongs. 
 And golden brooches with sharp pointed prongs 
 Buckling her peplus. 
 
 She gazed on the ship 
 With moistened eyelashes and quivering lip, 
 Not that it bore away her hopes ; they had 
 Been stricken over night, when all were glad 
 With the saved stranger's story, as he told 
 Of all his wars and perils manifold. 
 For therein had he spoken of his quest 
 To win to rocky Ithaca, and rest 
 In the chaste arms of his enduring wife. 
 And at that word there fell on her young life 
 A shadow such as falls upon the eve. 
 When the last glimmers of the sunset leave. 
 And yet the best of the Phaeacian land. 
 Great seamen, mighty chiefs, had sought her hand. 
 And wooed her pleasure many a day in vain. 
 
[Odysseics in Scheria7\ 5 1 
 
 And moved her not e'en so much as to pain 
 
 In the refusal, but were ever met 
 
 With a smooth, heedless smile and a "not yet. " 
 
 Her wont and her delight had been to sport 
 
 Among the maidens of her mother's court, 
 
 At ball and dance, and music, and to play 
 
 With her own brothers, passionless and gay, 
 
 And light of heart, giving no thought at all 
 
 Unto the lot that uses to befall 
 
 King's daughters and fair women, as of fate, 
 
 When they have come to womanly estate. 
 
 And why should this man win so much on her ? 
 
 He looked not like a lady's courtier 
 
 With his great shoulders, stoop, and weight of head 
 
 That his low stature nowise warranted. 
 
 Nor did he heed his person overmuch. 
 
 But let the sun and sea and weather smutch 
 
 His arms and face with brown, and let his hair 
 
 And beard curl and run riot everywhere. 
 
 Nor was he in the first prime of his age. 
 
 Nor were the nice tricks of a palace, page 
 
 Observed in his grave manner and address ; 
 
 Though there could not but be some courtliness 
 
 In one who had so much with outland men 
 
 Mingled as suppliant or alien. 
 
 Envoy or treaty-maker : nor had he. 
 
 At least as from his speech might gathered be. 
 
52 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Much heed for woman's beauty or fair ways, 
 
 But, speaking no great matter in their praise, 
 
 Dwelt much upon tlje palling of the love 
 
 With which Calypso, in her island-grove 
 
 Of poplar and sweet-scented cypress, strove 
 
 To move him to forgetfulness of home ; 
 
 Love of a kind that surely would not come 
 
 To all men thus unwelcomely, but most 
 
 Would look upon it as the crown and boast 
 
 Of all their lives, and not, as this strange man. 
 
 Seek how he might by wile Daedalian 
 
 And prayer, and by entreaty face to face. 
 
 Win his way out from each delightful place 
 
 To sail back to his rocky heritage 
 
 And to a wife now well advanced in age — 
 
 If she indeed yet lived, and had not gone 
 
 To join the shades that flit about the throne 
 
 Of gloomy Dis, and thirst for draughts of blood. 
 
 Sated he seemed of all fair womanhood, 
 
 As though the spring of worship and desire 
 
 Had dried up in his veins, and all youth's fire 
 
 Had burnt away. And he spake wearily 
 
 Of pageants, revels, and court ceremony 
 
 And even the nymphs' gardens of delight — 
 
 Full of strange sweetnesses to charm the sight, 
 
 And scent, and hearing of all mortal men 
 
 Whom fate or some god brought within their ken. 
 
[Odysseus in Sckeria.] 53 
 
 But when he spake of battles or of ships 
 
 The whole man changed, and then from out his lips 
 
 Poured such a stream of burning, speechful words 
 
 That he who heard half saw the play of swords, 
 
 The whirl of javelins, the dinted shields, 
 
 The blood-drenched herbage of the battle-fields 
 
 Rutted by wheels, and spattered up by hoofs. 
 
 And strewn with garments slashed of divers woofs, 
 
 And mangled limbs, and corpses, and dead steeds. 
 
 Or if he did recount his mighty deeds 
 
 On shipboard and his wondrous voyages 
 
 To haunted isles and undiscovered seas. 
 
 One seemed to hear the stormwind piping loud 
 
 About the rigging, and each stay and shroud 
 
 Groaning with ev'ry straining of the mast 
 
 As the great sail bent it before the blast. 
 
 And hear the ebb-wave rippling round the prow 
 
 When the shipmen had anchored from the bow ; 
 
 To see strange shapes of trees with naked stems 
 
 And cloud-high tops crested with diadems 
 
 Of giant flow'rs, and fruits, and spiky leaves ; 
 
 And see vast serpents and wild, humpbacked beeves 
 
 With manes like lions, and huge, fire-bright birds 
 
 With monstrous bills that shrieked out sounds like 
 
 words 
 Or mocked with human laughter. And he told 
 Of that which, neither beast nor fish, is rolled 
 In armour of such proof as neither spear 
 
54 A. Summer Christmas. 
 
 Nor sword can pierce and armed with triple tier 
 
 Of jagged teeth, as great in length and mouth 
 
 As are the dread sea monsters of the South. 
 
 And then, perchance, of the dwarf, hairy men 
 
 That lived in trees and spake not back again 
 
 When they were hailed, but fled with savage screams 
 
 Deeper into the forest, bridging streams 
 
 With their own bodies linked by sorcery 
 
 And cunningly swung over from a tree. 
 
 These had he told and much more : and the maid 
 
 Hung on his lips while he his tale displayed. 
 
 Nor ought of the man saw she but did grow 
 
 Into proportion. In his form did glow 
 
 The ravager of Troy, the voyager, 
 
 The nymphs' beloved, the Cyclops' vanquisher. 
 
 And then her. thoughts fell back and she built up 
 
 The magic golden palaces of hope, 
 
 Laid lately in the dust, of words of praise 
 
 Breathed through a rain of kisses, and fair days 
 
 Beside him in the lofty bronze-paved house, 
 
 And great sons many wise and valorous 
 
 Eeflecting back their father's praise on her 
 
 As he did on his mother. Then some cheer 
 
 Came to her, calling back the gracious words 
 
 He spake to her when the Phaeacian lords 
 
 Had left them, giving her the thanks and love 
 
 For his saved life. And then again she strove 
 
 To unbuild the fabric gently, course by course, 
 
A Stcmmer Ckristhtas. 55 
 
 But fell to weeping tribute to remorse, 
 And listening to the sad throb of the tide 
 Until she wept to sleep by the seaside. 
 
 The narrative was hardly o'er 
 When all were startled by the roar 
 Of thunder-claps right overhead, 
 And by a lightning fork which shed 
 A flash of light as broad as day 
 Over the hall, with its clear ray 
 Illuminating every nook, 
 Leaving the ladies terror-struck, 
 Excepting Mrs Forte, and Kit 
 Who went outside to look at it. 
 Peal after peal and flash on flash 
 Seemed to portend the instant crash 
 Of roof and chimney-stack and wall, 
 And swift destruction to them all. 
 But the Professor, who had gone 
 Outside with Kit to look upon 
 The glory' of the storm, could see 
 No shadow of anxiety 
 Or fear upon her proud fair face 
 When sometimes for a moment's space 
 'Twas lit with the electric gleam. 
 
 Now meanwhile it began to seem 
 To those inside in their suspense 
 As if the atmosphere intense 
 Would suffocate them even though 
 They were not crushed at one fell blow, 
 
56 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 For not a single drop of rain 
 Had fallen, though the hurricane 
 Raged with such fierceness o'er the plain. 
 But at the last, with rushing sound 
 And dashing huge Gums to the ground, 
 • Came the rain squall through the tree tops. 
 At first with huge infrequent drops, 
 Then in a deluge pouring down 
 Like waterfalls upon the crown 
 Of mountain-gorges when the snow 
 Beneath the sun's increasing glow 
 Is melted on the Alpine peaks. 
 While valiant Kit, whose rosy cheeks 
 Had blenched not at the storm, was fain 
 To flee in rout before the rain, 
 Which gave way to an icy chill 
 And hailstones huge enough to kill 
 Such hapless bird or animal 
 As in their path might chance to fall. 
 
 Soon as the rain began to pour. 
 The thunderstorm passed quickly o'er. 
 And with it fled the stifling heat. 
 Leaving the air quite fresh and sweet. 
 Which tempted most of them to walk 
 Out in the air to smoke or talk, 
 All save the two old folks and Lil, 
 Who made their hearts expand and thrill 
 By playing snatches slow and clear 
 Of carols they'd been used to hear 
 Some half-a-century ago 
 At High Wick Manor, when the two 
 
A Summer Christmas. 57 
 
 Were lad and maiden ; they talked on 
 Of England and what they had done 
 On bygone Christmas nights at home, 
 Of friends beyond the northern foam, 
 And friends beyond that other sea 
 Yet further — whither ceaselessly 
 Travellers follow the old track, 
 But whence no messenger comes back. 
 
 Outside, the conversation turned 
 On the same subject. Cobham learned 
 That Chesterfield, although in truth 
 Colonial-born, had passed his youth 
 And boyhood in the mother-isle. 
 Had been at Westminster awhile 
 And Cambridge, which however he 
 Had left too soon for a degree. 
 And so the two had much to say 
 About the good old English way 
 Of keeping Christmas — carols, waits. 
 Yule logs, a furbishing of skates, 
 A hanging up of mistletoe 
 O'er spots where everyone must go. 
 And decorating church and house 
 With holly, presents numerous, 
 And Christmas-boxes, boxing-day. 
 With opening theatres gay, 
 And Twelfth-night with its " characters," 
 And Twelfth-cake. Kit to their converse 
 Listened attentively, and walked 
 In silence with them as they talked. 
 She took uncommon interest 
 
58 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 In everything that was possessed 
 Or done by England. Englishmen 
 Of good position first, and then 
 Great English ladies, habits, sport. 
 And etiquette. Old Mr Forte 
 Had been her chief authority, 
 But he was half-a-century 
 Behind the latest. Now she had 
 One, not long since an undergrad. 
 In a crack Oxford College, near 
 To question on the social sphere 
 Of English gentry. So these three, 
 For half-an-hour it rnay be, 
 Walked up and down, till Mr, Forte 
 Called the Professor to support 
 Some view of English Christmastide, 
 Which Mrs Forte and Lil denied ; 
 And there he stayed and talked at first 
 With the old people till he durst 
 Steal off to Lil, who sat alone 
 At the piano, raute anon, 
 Then symphonizing. She had been 
 In the late elemental scene 
 More terrified than all the rest. 
 But Cobham in his heart confessed 
 That on the whole he'd rather have 
 A girl too timid than too brave. 
 And that a gentle helplessness 
 In petty cases of distress 
 Affords a pretty patronage 
 For ladies — to a certain age. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 59 
 
 His fancy certainly was struck 
 
 More with Lil's terror than Kit's pluck. 
 
 She looked so tender in her fright, 
 
 With quivering lips and cheeks blenched white, 
 
 And nervous hands clasped in dismay. 
 
 While there was, as the Scots would say, 
 
 A something unco' in the pride 
 
 Which thus the elements defied. 
 
 In one so young and exquisite 
 
 In woman's beauty as was Kit. 
 
6o A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Boxing Day, December 26 fh. 
 
 All the young folks on Boxing Day 
 Were to go some ten miles away 
 To races held at Linlithgow, 
 A township with a hut or two, 
 A state school and a public-house 
 Of functions rather various. 
 Post office, tavern, forge, and store. 
 
 Will said at breakfast, " Four or more 
 Will have to ride, the waggonette 
 Although it's pretty roomy, yet 
 Can't very well accommodate 
 More than the luncheon-things and eight. 
 Butters will ride on just ahead 
 To let us through the gates, and spread 
 The tablecloth and knives and forks, 
 And open tins and draw the corks. 
 Who is for riding ? " " I," said Phil, 
 And Albert Hall and Kit and Lil, 
 And the Professor, who confessed 
 That his seat was not of the best. 
 And asked to have a quiet horse. 
 Will answered gracefully,' " Of course 
 I never give a horse that kicks 
 Or ' bucks ' or has uncertain tricks 
 To any man until I ken 
 How he can ride, and never then 
 
A Summer Christmas. 6i 
 
 Unless he asks me, or we're short 
 Of nags. I think the so-called sport 
 Of putting new-chums on a brute 
 That bucks is cowardice absolute. 
 I don't think that we have a beast 
 About the place that bucks the least, 
 Except the grey Miss Johnstone picks. 
 Lil's chestnut shies but never kicks." 
 
 The riders started none too soon 
 At ten to reach the course by noon : 
 The ride itself amidst the trees. 
 Across bush paddocks, could but please. 
 But three at least of the cortege 
 Were chafing if not in a rage. 
 Not the Professor and not Kit, 
 Who rode exchanging shafts of wit, 
 And making the whole forest ring 
 With laughter blithe, or noticing 
 The glory of the summer morn 
 Through the thin gum-tree foliage borne. 
 But Phil and Lil and Albert Hall 
 Woefully disconcerted all 
 At this unlooked-for partnership. 
 Lil had looked forward to a trip 
 With the Professor tete-k-tSte, 
 Knowing the admiration great 
 Her brother Phil had always had 
 For dashing Kit, since quite a lad, 
 And that the bushman in his way 
 Liked well enough with her to stay ; 
 And Phil and Hall had reckoned on 
 
62 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Choosing their own companion. 
 
 As Lil anticipated, they 
 
 From the Professor held away, 
 
 But then he was with Kit, not her, 
 
 And Phil had not a character 
 
 For taking disappointments well, 
 
 And muttered hints about ' a sell.' 
 
 And ladies Hall scarce understood 
 
 Unless they sunk their womanhood 
 
 In masculine proclivities. 
 
 And so they rode in silence wise 
 
 With ennui undiversified, 
 
 Save when Lil's horse was scared and shied 
 
 Because a wounded wallaby 
 
 Sprung almost at its feet to fly. 
 
 Her fearlessness and skill combined 
 
 Astonished those who thought to find 
 
 A timid rider in the form 
 
 Which cringed so from the thunderstorm. 
 
 And Cobham, as they rode behind. 
 
 Revealed to Kit his puzzled mind. 
 
 " Lil's a conundrum," answered she, 
 
 " She'll pick a snake up fearlessly 
 
 To dash its head against a tree. 
 
 And run in terror from a cow 
 
 As tame as those we passed just now." 
 
 At length they rode up to the course. 
 An unfenced clearing where a horse 
 Could only know the track because 
 'Twas clear enough to let him pass. 
 A few drink-shanties and a box 
 
A Summer Christinas. 63 
 
 Built for the judge of redgum blocks, 
 With sundry poor time-honoured shows 
 Alone beside the " paddock " rose 
 To stamp the race-course. There were few 
 Bookmakers, the bookmaking crew 
 Flying at higher game elsewhere. 
 The horsey, noisy talent here 
 Was chiefly local. Then there were 
 Owners of horses, stable boys 
 And station-hands, who made much noise 
 Of a good-humoured hearty sort, 
 And shewed keen relish of the sport. 
 But did not drink as people do 
 In England, or " knock down their screw " 
 For a whole year like those who've been 
 On far-back stations Riverine. 
 Being bred up a Londoner, 
 Though he'd spent much of ev'ry year 
 Out in the country, Cobham knew 
 Little of horses but the two 
 That brought her carriage every day 
 To take his mother out, and they 
 When they had brought her home at night 
 Dropped as completely from his sight 
 Until the morrow afternoon 
 As if they stabled in the moon. 
 And therefore he paid far more heed 
 To lunch and lady than to steed. 
 But not to Kit instinctively, 
 For she had neither ear nor eye 
 For anything but boy and horse 
 
64 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 When she was once upon the course, 
 And was so far preoccupied 
 As to let Phil usurp her side 
 And feast his eyes upon her charms 
 Without recourse to flight or arms. 
 
 It was not altogether chance 
 Or undesigned, the circumstance 
 That in their morning gallop there 
 Cobham had been Kit's cavalier. 
 For Kit, as has been said above, 
 Was a sworn Amazon, and love 
 Was not a topic she'd endure 
 From any man, nor was she sure. 
 What Phil's precise intentions were. 
 He certainly bestowed on her 
 More of his company and care 
 Than he was wont to give the fair, 
 And she had seen him more than once 
 Dart her a glance that might announce 
 A state of feelings that would be 
 Distasteful in the last degree. 
 If he were to interpret it 
 As seemed most likely to her wit. 
 And if they'd ridden t^te-k-tgte, 
 And then had chanced to separate 
 From their companions as they rode 
 Through the lone paddocks, with their blood 
 Excited by the exercise 
 And storm-cleared atmosphere, Phil's eyes, 
 Might have been warmly seconded 
 By words she'd rather keep unsaid, 
 
A Summer Christmas. 65 
 
 And so she had condemned poor Lil 
 To penance between Hall and Phil. 
 But Lil could have her full reward 
 When they were once upon the sward, 
 For the Professor, as was said, 
 Had not been in the country bred. 
 And about horses knowing naught 
 Had not the interest he ought. 
 And Lil, although she'd always been 
 Much among horses, yet had seen 
 So much of racing and the best 
 That she took no great interest 
 In a bush-meeting, unless one 
 Of her friends' horses chanced to run, 
 And then just for the minute's space 
 Of the duration of the race. 
 Besides she looked much prettier, 
 As the Professor could aver, 
 Than he had seen her look before, 
 With a fresh rosy tint spread o'er 
 Her cheek, which sometimes, he'd confess. 
 Was just a shade too colourless. 
 Then the swift motion through the air 
 Had loosened a bright lock of hair. 
 And as, if fault in her you'd find, 
 She was a trifle too inclined 
 To slenderness, a habit made 
 Of soft grey " homespun " tweed displayed 
 Her figure at its best — the fit 
 Perfect enough for even Kit. 
 Lunch was a feature of the day, 
 
 E 
 
66 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Which Butters had been told to lay 
 
 As soon as he had fastened up 
 
 The nags and given them their sup. 
 
 The three seats of the waggonette 
 
 Could be detached, and they were set 
 
 Beneath a shady wattle tree, 
 
 So that each lady on her knee 
 
 Could take her lunch conveniently. 
 
 There was no lack of luxury. 
 
 For turkey, chicken, duck, and pie, 
 
 Were ranged before the luncher's eye, 
 
 Flanked with peach-tart, Madeira cake, 
 
 Plum pudding, shortbread (of Scotch make), 
 
 And summer fruit and clotted cream, 
 
 With champagne flowing in a stream 
 
 Exhaustless. Soon the ladies went 
 
 Satisfied to their heart's content. 
 
 Leaving their cavaliers at ease 
 
 To finish luncheon when they'd please. 
 
 The gentlemen had 'jolly fun,' 
 
 For they were hungry everyone 
 
 And in high spirits. Chesterfield 
 
 Had the consummate art, concealed 
 
 Beneath his kindness, to appear 
 
 Contented with whatever cheer 
 
 Was set before him ; , honest Will, 
 
 Child-like, loved any outing still ; 
 
 And the Professor, for his part, 
 
 A boon companion was at heart. 
 
 When they rejoined the ladies, he 
 Helped Lil to mount, a mystery 
 
A Summer Christmas. 67 
 
 He did not clearly understand, 
 
 But took her dainty foot in hand 
 
 As cheerfully as if he knew 
 
 Exactly what he ought to do. 
 
 And then he mounted, and the two 
 
 Rode slowly round, outside the course. 
 
 Oblivious of friend or horse, 
 
 Until the crowd that went away 
 
 Proclaimed the finish of the day. 
 
 When they resought their friends in time 
 
 Not to be noticed much. To climb 
 
 Unaided to her saddle took 
 
 Kit scarce a moment, then she shook 
 
 Her reins and cantered up to Lil 
 
 And Cobham, leaving Hall and Phil 
 
 To join the three or ride apart 
 
 Just as it pleased them — in her heart 
 
 Dreading a ride with Phil alone 
 
 A good deal more than she had done 
 
 Before he'd drunk so much champagne, 
 
 And striven with his might and main 
 
 To make her day enjoyable. 
 
 She had not liked it half as well 
 
 As she was wont, from constant care 
 
 Lest he should take her unaware 
 
 When none were near her, and intrude 
 
 The question she would fain elude. 
 
 Of which th' attentions he had paid 
 
 Gave her fresh cause to be afraid. 
 
 So she was forced for her own sake 
 
 Lil's tSte-k-tSte once more to break, 
 
68 A Summer Christmas^ 
 
 For, as she feared, esprit de corps 
 Or dread of being deemed a bore 
 Might make Hall spur his horse away. 
 If he thought Phil had aught to say. 
 
 However, Lily Forte and she 
 Had wide enough diversity 
 In character to be fast friends, 
 And Kit strove hard to make amends 
 For her intrusion by the will 
 To set the Oxford man and Lil 
 Each in the other's graces good. 
 To take care that each understood 
 The other's merits. They went home 
 A good deal faster than they'd come. 
 And soon had cantered into view 
 
 Of Mr Forte's oak-avenue. 
 
 * # * * * 
 
 Half way through dinner, Will had said 
 
 That, if objection no one made, 
 
 He voted that the tale should be 
 
 In the Verandah, so that he 
 
 And those who chose might have their smoke. 
 
 And very sensibly he spoke, 
 
 Since just as women like to sew 
 
 When they have nothing much to do. 
 
 But may not read or talk, so men 
 
 For their cigar or pipe are fain. 
 
 ***** 
 
 They did not draw the lots because 
 It seemed too formal, but Lil was 
 By common acclamation named 
 
\_The Song of the love-sick Nausicaa.\ 69 
 
 Queen of the night, and, as such, claimed 
 Another tale of old Greek lore, 
 Such as he'd told the night before. 
 And asked him, if he could, to say 
 More of the sad Nausicaa. 
 Accordingly th' Oxonian, 
 Ere he the evening's tale began. 
 Repeated to them a sad song 
 That he had fancied for her tongue. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE LOVE-SICK NAUSICAA. 
 
 Doomed back again to the dull island life, 
 
 To be at best the oft-neglected wife 
 
 Of some sea-roving, rude Phaeacian. 
 
 Nor shall I hear the breakers plash, nor scan 
 
 One ship bound outwards in the twilight dim, 
 
 Without a pang of longing after him. 
 
 The island chiefs are seamen skilled and bold ; 
 But when their feats in sea-craft have been told. 
 Their store of plundered wealth, their deeds of blood. 
 And some strange ventures on the Libyan flood, 
 There is not much made up unto their wives 
 For the unending sameness of their lives. 
 
 Had he but stayed, and had he not been wived, 
 How happy in his wedlock had 1 lived. 
 Watching him 'mid the heroes in the ring 
 Foremost in every art that fits a king. 
 
JO A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And, when night drave us into the high hall, 
 Hearing fair words from out his wise lips fall, 
 
 Of how, beside their ships in front of Troy, 
 The common round of gain and strife and joy 
 For nine long years busied the Argive chiefs, 
 Varied with skirmishes and some few griefs. 
 As when a prince ventured in foraying 
 Too far, and fell to Paris's bowstring : 
 
 Then he would tell of that last crowning year 
 When all things boded that the end drew near. 
 Of Hector's death and Paris' poisoned wound. 
 And how the kindly Menelaus found 
 And took his fair wife to himself again ; 
 And lastly of his own hap on the main, — 
 
 Of his escape from sunborn Circe's isle, 
 And from divine Calypso's love and guile, 
 Of Polyphemus and the Laestrygons, 
 And of the Sirens and the whitening bones — 
 His shipwreck, his stern struggle with the sea, ■ 
 And how that he looked lovingly on me 
 
 From the first sight ! How happy had I been 
 If fate had given me to be his queen. 
 To cherish him whose prudent counsels won 
 The overthrow of godlike Ilion, 
 
\The Legend of Helen at Sparta. ] 71 
 
 Who hath been in his very miseries 
 
 The love of nymphs and care of goddesses ! 
 
 But he hath passed away into the night, 
 Lost to our vision like the goodly light. 
 The light may come again on isle and sea, 
 But never the same perfect light to me, 
 In that my heart is darkened, and mine eyes 
 Will all things through his image see, veil-wise. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF HELEN AT SPARTA. 
 
 Helen, the daughter of King Tyndareus, 
 
 Or, as some say, of ^gis-bearing Zeus, 
 
 Had lived in Sparta many a goodly day 
 
 Ere the east wind blew down from Phrygia 
 
 Paris the fair, and many days lived she 
 
 In golden friendship free from taint, and free 
 
 With Paris and her husband afterward. 
 
 Until the son of Atreus went aboard 
 
 His swift black ship and sailed to far-off isles, 
 
 And there abode, leaving his wife long whiles 
 
 With Priam's godlike son (whether it was 
 
 By Aphrodite's lure, or for some cause 
 
 Of high state-policy or gain, or both). 
 
 The Queen to lose her lord was passing loath, 
 
 And fell to weeping, till the Phrygian 
 
 To soothe with words of comforting began, 
 
72 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And then was so insistent, that he must 
 Be as insistent to fulfil the trust 
 Of cherishing the dame, which the Greek King 
 Had laid upon his honour at parting. 
 In nowise dreaming of the afterhap 
 That Nemesis bare for him in her lap, 
 But full of tenderness for the young wife 
 Whom he was leaving, lest her daily life 
 Should be a prey to loneliness and tears, 
 And, as men oft iii their preventing fears 
 Prevent their hopes, so did the Spartan King. 
 For, after the first days of sorrowing, 
 Helen began to look with grateful eyes 
 Upon his youth, who in such tender wise 
 Had healed her sorrows, nor was gratitude 
 Long ere it did descry in what it viewed 
 Fair lineaments and princely qualities, 
 Such as few men in any man despise. 
 And least of all a woman, who has been 
 Won by those very graces from her teen. 
 And thus these two lived joyously each day. 
 Wiling the swift- winged golden hours away, 
 Charmed by each other's gifts, as by a spell. 
 Helen, as woman, could but note too well 
 Him unto whom her least wish was a care 
 Like a behest from heaven, and compare 
 The goodliness of shape, the fair bright hair, 
 Fair face, swift feet, and skill in archery, 
 
\The Legend of Helen at Sparta.\ 73 
 
 Which made him with far-darting Phcebus vie, 
 
 Against the simple worth of her own lord 
 
 Who, in the mel^e staunch and staunch in word. 
 
 Was yet none such as the Pergamian Prince, 
 
 Nor in such courtier-fashion could evince 
 
 The great, true love he bare her in his soul. 
 
 And, as for Paris, how should he control 
 
 His eyes from looking on the loveliness 
 
 That with its presence all his days did bless 
 
 And made his earth a heaven — not that he thought 
 
 In those first days of doing wrong in aught 
 
 Unto the son of Atreus ; nor did he deem 
 
 That such things would be. Nathless in a dream 
 
 It seemed that Aphrodite to him came. 
 
 And, garlanding a crown of amber flame 
 
 Around the sleeping princess where she lay. 
 
 Set him to thinking of that othei' day 
 
 When he bestowed the apple upon her. 
 
 And she on him had promised to confer 
 
 The fairest of fair women on the earth. 
 
 And set him thinking if for grace and worth 
 
 And tenderness and beauty and all love, 
 
 A goodlier dwelt e'en in the Paphian grove, 
 
 And set him thinking if it were not this 
 
 The goddess gave him in her promises. 
 
 And then he woke and to himself thus spake : 
 
 " Certes, great shame were on me did I break 
 
 The trust that Menelaus laid on me. 
 
74 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 But he has passed over the pitiless sea 
 To far-off isles, and may not ever come 
 Back to the haven of his high-roofed home, 
 And meanwhile godlike Helen pines alone : 
 I cannot stay here always and anon, 
 When I have sailed she will be left a prey 
 To the rude chieftains, who will on her lay 
 Hot impious hands and hasten to divide 
 The kingdom as a spoil. Better my bride 
 Were she than suffer such a cruel woe. 
 Yes ! Menelaus will not come back now. 
 Being so long gone, and I too must be gone, 
 Leaving the tender Queen thus doubly lone*" 
 
 With such and such words to himself he glozed, 
 While Helen on her lonely couch reposed 
 And dreamed ('twas Aphrodite moved the queen, 
 So sung old poets) of what might have been 
 Had she met Priam's son in the old days, 
 Howwhat would now be shame might have been praise, 
 And she been wedded to this peerless knight 
 Bright in the hair, bright in the face, and bright 
 In all that fills a house with joy and light, 
 And yet no woman but an archer bold. 
 His own well able in the field to hold 
 With all the Spartan princes, and in speed 
 Matched to outrun the boar, if there were need. 
 On Mount Taygetus. And then she woke 
 And chid herself for murmurs which she spoke 
 
\_The Legend of Helen at Sparta7\ 75 
 
 Unto herself while dreaming. But it chanced 
 That as she glid into the hall, she glanced 
 On Paris, while he chid himself hlj:ewise. 
 And lo it came to pass that when their eyes 
 Met, all the chidings vanished, and straightway 
 They thought but of the goodliness which they 
 Looked on in one another, and their hearts 
 Mingled, and, heedless of dread Hera's darts, 
 Who sanctifieth marriage, and the wrath 
 Of Menelaus, stepped on to the path, 
 AVhich leads through halls and gardens of delight 
 -Down to the black abyss, and on that night 
 And many another after, took deep draughts 
 Of passion's magic cup, until the shafts 
 Of Eos drove the friendly shades away. 
 
 But last of all there came the hateful day. 
 Put back how often, when he needs must sail 
 Back to the Ilian shore, when favouring gale 
 And low waves and propitious augury 
 Conspired to bid the wanderer to sea. 
 And even Paris durst no longer stay 
 Lest Zeus himself should chafe at his delay. 
 And so he called his Trojans, and gave word 
 That on the morrow he would go aboard 
 And hoise sail for the Troad. Whereat the)' 
 Shouted with joy, seeing that many a day 
 It had been their desire once more to come 
 Unto the softer living of their home. 
 
76 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Its rich broad meadows and its goodly trees, 
 Its wealth and well-built houses ; for of these 
 Small store was there at Sparta, great and strong 
 In heroes as she was. Then all day long 
 He and fair Helen gave themselves to love. 
 Although at first he took good heart and strove 
 To bid her his farewell, and swiftly go 
 Down to his ships to spread all sail and row 
 Beyond the reach of ill. But still she clung 
 Close unto him-, and on his shoulder hung, 
 And whispered that the summer sun was slow 
 In making home, and that fair winds would blow 
 For long days yet, and that the seas in June 
 Were softer than a summer afternoon. 
 Then wherefore haste to stand to sea that day ? 
 Or, if that day, why row the bark away 
 Before the sun's wrath softened and the eve 
 Stole down the sky the rowers to relieve 
 With calm and cool ? And even as she spake 
 She heaved up sighs as though the parting brake 
 Her heartstrings, and her white hands garlanded 
 About his neck, pressing her golden head 
 Against his shoulder lovingly. But he 
 Read in his heart a sullen augury 
 Of threatening ill, and, deeming that he might 
 Avert their consummation by swift flight, 
 Turned a deaf ear to her most moving pray'rs, 
 And to assist the seamen in their cares 
 
\_The Legend of Helen at Sparia.'\ 77 
 
 For watering and provision, forthwith passed 
 Down to his fleet black ship. But at the last, 
 When all things needful were within the hold, 
 In glitter of her beauty and red gold 
 Came peerless Helen, with a goodly train 
 Of virgins in bright raiment, Tyrian 
 Sea-purple or vermilion, whom she 
 Left standing by the ship's side on the quay. 
 And herself stepping on an outspread cloak, 
 Which one who seemed a ruler of ship-folk 
 Strewed for her slim, white, daintily-sandalled feet, 
 His homage with soft courtesy did greet, 
 And asked for Paris, safe voyage and God-speed 
 Wishing to bid him, and see if indeed 
 He was for sailing, and, when he had come. 
 Spake unto him of speeding to his home. 
 And, bidding him farewell in accents clear. 
 That all the folk who stood about might hear, 
 When they set up their din of loud applause, 
 Whispered to him to plead some specious cause 
 And stave the sailing off but for one day. 
 But for the night. Yet still he said her nay 
 In thstt he feared to. And then she again. 
 Seeing that Paris dared not to remain, 
 Gathered a desperate courage from despair, 
 And, flinging off" all wifely shame and care 
 In the fierce love that lorded o'er her heart, 
 And, reckoning life naught should he depart 
 
yS A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And leave her lonely in the bronze-sheathed house, 
 
 Whispered to him in accents tremulous 
 
 And passionate that, when she gave the word. 
 
 He should his faulchion draw and cut the cord 
 
 Which moored the ship and put straight out to sea 
 
 And carry her with him, and said that she 
 
 Would so dispose her train that none should be 
 
 Able to raise a finger in despite 
 
 When that she gave the signal for their flight. 
 
 And so it fell : for, bidding virgins twain 
 
 To stay by her, she bade the rest to gain 
 
 The homestead with all haste, and bring from thence 
 
 A milk-white steer with gilt horns and incense 
 
 For sacrifice and banquet, and rich wine 
 
 To win with gifts the clemency divine 
 
 Of King Poseidon, and to hold high feast 
 
 In honour of their parting, ancient guest. 
 
 And, when that they were gone, and as she thought 
 
 Come to the house, she turned about and sought 
 
 Paris, and he, although his heart waxed chill 
 
 Beneath the same presentiment of ill. 
 
 Bade to let go, and the huge galley leapt, 
 
 Like a loosed dog, from out the pier, and swept 
 
 With stately swing of deftly fitted oars 
 
 And swell of purple sails, and with bright spores 
 
 Of phosphorescent water sprinkled back 
 
 As the swift prow sped on its gleaming track, 
 
 And with rich strains of flutes and wafts of spice 
 
\The Legend of Helen at Sparta^ 79 
 
 Breathed from the poop moulded with some device 
 
 Of the Daedalian art, straight out to sea. 
 
 And those two sate together lovingly 
 
 Beneath an awning of thick web, with sides 
 
 Curtained from view, three golden eventides 
 
 And morningtides. And for the time great joy 
 
 Was theirs, but tempered with a dull alloy 
 
 Of aguish misgivings, and remorse. 
 
 Which sits behind the rider on the horse 
 
 Of pleasure when he tramples 'neath the hoofs 
 
 Another's paradise. And now the roofs 
 
 Upon the shore began to fade from view. 
 
 And they were left between the nether blue 
 
 And upper, without aught within their sight 
 
 To break the ring of azure, save the flight 
 
 Of wingfed fish escaping from the jaws 
 
 Of the bonitos to the expectant maws 
 
 Of hovering snowy sea birds, till the isles 
 
 With which the glorious ^Egaean smiles 
 
 Fronted the flying bark, and made them heed 
 
 Unto their helm and move with minished speed. 
 
 And so they came to Troy one summer day. 
 
 And long whiles ere they passed right up the bay, 
 
 Through the shrquds looking, Helen did she list 
 
 Could see the shore's grey outline, dimmed with mist 
 
 As by a mist of tears or by a dream — 
 
 So in her ecstasy it well might seem. 
 
 But when they drew up to the quays of Troy 
 
8o A Slimmer Christmas. 
 
 The city folk met them with hail of joy, 
 
 Seeing the well-known sails which they had deemed 
 
 Would never come again, and all men streamed 
 
 Down from the seaward gate unto the quay, 
 
 And women too, bareheaded, fired to see ' 
 
 The darling of their city once again, 
 
 Him who had been the brightest of all men. 
 
 Swiftest in chace, and surest with the bow, 
 
 And who had scouted every thought of woe. 
 
 Making the townsmen glad and of good heart. 
 
 Ready to play a gallant manly part. 
 
 On field or wall against the enemy. 
 
 This was the Paris of their memory, 
 
 Not like the after Paris, weak with sin, 
 
 Careless of all things so that he might win 
 
 Another hour with Helen, unashamed. 
 
 Though worsted in the fight, and world-wide blamed 
 
 As coward, miscreant, and city curse, 
 
 And basest knight of all the universe. 
 
 And when they looked on Helen, every shout 
 Doubled itself and brought eveA elders out 
 To see what good it should be that could raise 
 An outburst so beyond the wont of praise. 
 Such infinite grace was in her visage seen 
 To gladden eyes of men, and all her mien 
 So gentle, godlike, marvellously bright. 
 That all their hearts clave unto her outright ; 
 Nor did she ever fall from that high state. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 8i 
 
 But men were glad to meet their bitter fate 
 
 For her sake till the city fell. Such love 
 
 Had the gods deigned her in all hearts to move. 
 
 So they went up to Ilion, and the crowd 
 Followed with glee and joyous shoutings, proud 
 Of their long-lost and late-recovered chief 
 And his fair bride, and dreaming not that grief 
 Out of such joyful auspices should come. 
 And thus Queen Helen came to her new home. 
 
 He ceased mid acclamation — all 
 Listening to the fate and fall 
 Of Helen with attention wrapt. 
 And one there thinking 'how it happed 
 That he had had a Helen too, 
 A Helen who was fair to view. 
 And loved by all who looked on her 
 For womanly soft character. 
 With woman's steel devotion mixed, 
 And who her love unfaltering fixed 
 On him, although he lived away 
 For years as many as Greece lay 
 Before the ramparts of Troy town, 
 A Helen who had never known 
 A Paris — with clear sapphire eyes 
 Which never bent in loving wise 
 On any eyes but his, with hair. 
 So beautifully waved and fair, 
 Which never felt a coaxing hand 
 
82 A Stitnmer Christinas. 
 
 Save his, who left her native land 
 To share his exile and new home, 
 And not, like the first Helen, roam 
 To leave her husband. Helen Forte, 
 Wholly unconscious of the thought 
 Which flitted through her husband's brain, 
 Was thinking in a thankful strain 
 How merciful it was that she 
 Had ne'er been left by fate to be 
 Tempted like her fair eponym. 
 Not counting her long wait for him 
 As aught. So potent is the spell 
 Cast over women who love well. 
 
 Nor were the two old folks alone 
 Moved by the evening's tales, for one 
 Had listened to Nausicaa's grief 
 On learning that the island-chief 
 Was wedded, and would sail away 
 Not without picturing a daj^ 
 When she herself might sadly gaze 
 Toward the dim horizon's haze. 
 This story of Nausicaa 
 Planted the embryo of dismay 
 In her soft heart, though she cared not. 
 So she assured herself, one jot 
 For the Professor. Yet she knew, 
 , And swiftly the conviction grew, 
 That did she learn that he was wed 
 A load of disappointment dead 
 Would press on her, that when he went 
 The gentle hours of content 
 
A Summer Chrisimas. 83 
 
 Would take wing with him. Margaret, 
 
 Although she understood not yet 
 
 Much of the meaning of the tale 
 
 Of Spartan Helen, did not fail 
 
 To sympathize with her as one 
 
 On whom much woe would fall anon. 
 
 And practical Maud Morrison 
 
 Made up her mind that she would ne'er 
 
 Herself as witlessly ensnare 
 
 As the Greek Queen pourtrayed therein, 
 
 The type of beauty in soft sin, 
 
 With no fault but her frailties, 
 
 To bards of thirty centuries. 
 
 # # * * 
 
 The dancing flagged that night because 
 
 Phil, who had waltzed with scarce a pause 
 
 On yule night with Maud Morrison, 
 
 Was so unsettled by the tone 
 
 Kit had maintained while going to 
 
 And coming back from Linlithgow, 
 
 Though she was his companion 
 
 Through the delicious afternoon. 
 
 That he was fain to spend the night 
 
 In hanging by her side to right 
 
 That which was keeping them apart, 
 
 Not knowing in his blinded heart 
 
 That he was wooing his ill-fate 
 
 By striving to ingratiate. 
 
 " Leave well alone " 's a proverb old, 
 
 And truly, if the truth were told, 
 
 " Leave everything alone " should be 
 
84 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 A proverb too. The more that we 
 Multiply schemes and work we do 
 Multiply our misfortunes too. 
 The worst misfortunes of my life 
 I've brought down on my head by strife, 
 To lessen or to obviate 
 Misfortunes of a lighter weight 
 Which I anticipated and 
 Which would have, had I held my hand, 
 By a mysterious Power, been 
 Diverted from me (as I've seen 
 By the event). And thus poor Phil 
 Forced on his crisis. Pretty Lil 
 And the Professor somehow found 
 That although waltzing round and round 
 Has its own pleasures, maid and man 
 By sitting still together can 
 Equal, if not more joy obtain : 
 So they too left the mazy train. 
 And as young ladies entertain 
 A fear that if, e'en once they let 
 A man not in their dancing set 
 Dance with them much, because there are 
 . None of the real caviare 
 At hand, they afterwards may find 
 The barrier thus undermined 
 Hard to shore up to its old strength, 
 Poor Maud was satisfied at length 
 That she would have no dance that night : 
 So, wearing an expression bright 
 Which did not in the least express 
 
A Summer Christmas. 85 
 
 Her frame of mind, she went to press 
 
 Her services on Mrs Forte 
 
 As the musician, cutting short 
 
 Remonstrance with insistance stern 
 
 That she must be allowed her turn 
 
 Or could not bear to dance again. 
 
 A threefold end did she attain 
 
 By this manoeuvre. Firstly, she 
 
 Did honestly desire to be 
 
 Considerate ; and secondly, 
 
 It saved her having to comply 
 
 With undesirable requests 
 
 For dances, which good taste's behests 
 
 Would not permit her to refuse ; 
 
 And thirdly, 'twould be an excuse 
 
 If while she stayed there, she should chance 
 
 Again to deprecate a dance. 
 
 And further she could play so well 
 
 That, like most people who excel. 
 
 It flattered her to thus display 
 
 Her skill. And playing chased away 
 
 The demonry of jealousy 
 
 Which haunted her when Phil stood by 
 
 The Queenly Kit, who, ill at ease 
 
 With his mistimed attempts to please. 
 
 Was scarce her royal self that night, 
 
 Though she made some few sallies bright. 
 
 But occupied with all her strength 
 
 In keeping him at sword-arm's length. 
 
 The dancing lapsed, and left therewith 
 
 Maud to the clutch of Lachlan Smith, 
 
86 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And Hall and Will in sheer despair 
 Taking to billiards ; — the whole air 
 Was thundercharged with discontent. 
 
 Meanwhile the very contrast lent 
 Fresh graces to the laughing girl, 
 Baring a gleaming rim of pearl 
 At each fresh anecdote and jest 
 Related to her with such zest 
 By the Professor, who began 
 To feel himself a happier man 
 When good hap let him wile away 
 An hour alone in converse gay 
 With this warm-hearted gentle fay. 
 
 It certainly beatifies 
 Those who are not too worldly-wise 
 To have bright tender maiden's eyes 
 Sharing one's gaze at everything, 
 And white hands always dallying 
 Before one ; and it pleases well 
 If, when one has a tale to tell, 
 A pretty Lil with little ear 
 Is stretched on the " qui vive " to hear 
 Each word one says ; nor does one's mind, 
 If not too seriously inclined. 
 Object to a companion graced 
 With girlhood's flower, summer-faced 
 And sunny-haired and fairy-light. 
 Though not below the middle height. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 87 
 
 Deceinber 2 ith. 
 
 Last night before they went to bed 
 A picnic they'd determined 
 Into the forest, some to seek 
 A dish of yabbers* from the creek, 
 And some to gather maiden-hair, 
 And some to shoot and some to share 
 In laying lunch and brewing tea. 
 Phil drove the buggy, and much he 
 Entreated Kit his mate to be, 
 Which, seeing that it held but two, 
 She steadily refused to do ; 
 And as his pride would not submit 
 Beside her in a trap to sit 
 With any driving but his own, 
 He had to take Maud Morrison, 
 Only too pleased to have the chance 
 Of watching two swift ponies prance 
 Before a deft whip, while she sate 
 With her prime favourite tSte-k-t^te. 
 A thorough bushman, Albert Ha]l, 
 Had scarce been lured to go at all, 
 He'd too much of the real thing 
 To care about this picnicing. 
 
 * Yabbers are small fresh water cray fish rather larger than 
 prawns. 
 
88 A Summer Chris (mas. 
 
 He liked to picnic on a chair 
 
 At table with a dinner fair, 
 
 And would have not gone had not Kit, 
 
 Gauging him with a woman's wit, 
 
 Offered her horse, the fiery grey, 
 
 Which she on the preceding day 
 
 Had mastered with such horsemanship 
 
 And without martingale or whip. 
 
 For well-contested stand-up fight 
 
 'Twixt man and horse was his delight. 
 
 And much of it was waged in sight 
 
 Of one or other, because Will 
 
 Had asked him to keep up until 
 
 All gates were passed. Their road at first 
 
 Lay between paddocks interspersed 
 
 With few trees, rung,* and mostly dead ; 
 
 But when some miles were passed it led 
 
 Into a forest track which oft 
 
 Was block'd with " tea-tree bottom'' soft 
 
 Or fallen trunk, compelling them 
 
 To make detours, and thrice a stem 
 
 Some inches through had to be topped. 
 
 Or they would have been wholly stopped. 
 
 Kit eyed the "new-chum" carefully 
 
 To see if he was scared thereby. 
 
 But when her gaze upon him turned 
 
 She found him wholly unconcerned. 
 
 He had gone up in her esteem 
 
 Because, although he did not seem 
 
 Well used to horses, yet he shewed 
 
 *Rung, i.e., ring-barked. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 89 
 
 So much nerve when he drove or rode. 
 
 Will drove, and the Oxonian 
 Shared the box-seat with her, to scan 
 Whate'er there was of scenery, 
 Or unfamiliar to the eye. 
 Kit drove upon the road and track, 
 But, when they left it, Will took back 
 The reins, because he knew the lie 
 Of gaps in the vicinity. 
 Inside were Lil and Margaret 
 And Lachlan Smith on one side set, 
 And on the other Chesterfield 
 And Mrs Forte and Ida pealed 
 Glad laughter. So they came at last 
 To where a muddy creek ran past 
 An open space, of brushwood clear, 
 Where they could kindle without fear 
 A fire to boil the " billy " on. 
 Here Phil Forte and Maud Morrison 
 Were camped already — Phil, in spite 
 Of his first disappointment, bright. 
 Maud was so pretty, and then she 
 Snubbed many men so ruthlessly 
 That preference from her conferred 
 A kind of honour. She had heard 
 His overtures by Kit declined 
 And had forthwith made up her mind. 
 If he asked her, to exercise 
 Her repertoire of witcheries 
 To make him in his own despite 
 Enjoy himself — and won the fight. 
 
go A Summer Christmas. 
 
 It took Hall some time to enforce 
 Complete obedience from his horse, 
 But then the noble beast confessed 
 The masterhand and ceased contest. 
 
 When he arrived he volunteered 
 To go with any who preferred 
 Shooting to fishing. Only one 
 Went with him, Lachlan Smith — the gun 
 Was the Professor's, which he'd brought 
 In case some specimen he sought 
 Flew by him. The young barrister 
 Quite equalled any Londoner 
 In cockneyism, though he was 
 Australian-born, and gave Hall cause 
 To take the gun for all their sakes, 
 In terror at his wild mistakes, 
 Upon the pretext (which was true) 
 That the great common cockatoo, 
 Which Lachlan wanted most to shoot. 
 Was a most shy and wary brute, 
 Till one was wounded and its cries 
 Brought others round to sympathise. 
 
 " Give me the gun," he said, " and I 
 Will sneak along until I spy 
 One within easy shot. My eye 
 Will note them much more easily 
 Than yours." And then he plunged into 
 The scrub and soon was lost to view. 
 He had not fired a single shot 
 When he returned, though in one spot 
 A huge black snake he'd seen as near 
 
A Summer Christmas. 91 
 
 As horn to horn upon a deer. 
 He'd passed it lest the gun's report 
 Should scare the birds and spoil his sport. 
 So wholly was he without dread 
 Of what, had he not been bush bred, 
 Might have appeared like courting death. 
 'Twas fortunate that he not Smith 
 Came on it. What that legal sun 
 In his excitement might have done 
 Made the stout bushman shudder more 
 Than coming on black snakes, a score. 
 
 The ferners too had seen a snake, 
 A small one, which contrived to make 
 Escape into its hole unhurt. 
 Chesterfield's nails were full of dirt 
 But he and blue-eyed Margaret 
 And Mrs Forte had not as yet 
 Much else results for toil to show. 
 Though Albeit, when they told him so. 
 Plunged back into the scrub and brought 
 An armful of the prize* they sought. 
 With roots attached and fronds as large 
 As oak-ferns grow beside the marge 
 Of dripping rocks and welling rills, 
 Beneath the blue Dumfriesshire hills. 
 
 Ida was cook and parlour-maid. 
 And with Will's help the lunch-cloth laid, 
 But not the luncheon : for the ants 
 Were eager as annuitants, 
 As, not to be particular, 
 
 * A curious and rather rare variety of " Maiden-hair." 
 
92 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Ants in Australia always are. 
 In fact, the ant has far more right 
 To have its portrait opposite 
 The picture of the kangaroo 
 Upon our Arms than the Emu, 
 In that the latter every year 
 Less and less commonly appear, 
 A statement which does not apply 
 To the ant's busy family. 
 Will lit the fire, and Ida boiled 
 The tea and the potatoes spoiled. 
 Which in the ashes were to be 
 Toast-roasted so deliciously. 
 
 In the meantime the other five 
 Were catching stores of " fish-alive," 
 That is to say that two were, Lil 
 And the Professor. Kit and Phil 
 And Maud were far too worryish 
 To do much good at catching fish, 
 Proving the proverb's truth and fun 
 That " two are company, three none." 
 For Phil Forte wished Maud Morrison, 
 Who, as his drive's companion 
 Had wooed him so engagingly, 
 Right at the bottom of the sea, 
 Or anywhere but where she was. 
 And Maud at all events had cause 
 To wish Kit anywhere but there, 
 While Kit would rather that the pair 
 Would take themselves post haste elsewhere 
 And let her fish escape at will 
 
A Summer Ckrisimas. 93 
 
 In trying to escape from Phil. 
 
 But meanwhile, higher up the stream 
 Lil and her partner, in a dream 
 Of happiness, could scarcely pull 
 Their lines up fast enough, so full 
 Of yabbers seemed the creek where they 
 Had pitched their quarters for the day. 
 Their plan was simple and complete, 
 To tie a piece of lean raw meat 
 To a long stick, and leave between 
 A yard of string, and when they'd seen 
 Their quarry strike to raise the bait, 
 And a land-net insinuate 
 Behind the yabber, which darts back 
 Whenever it suspects attack. 
 
 Lil taught the piscatorial art, 
 And the Professof lent his heart 
 As well as his intelligence 
 To mastering its rudiments. 
 He tried the baits, she used the, net 
 With practised skilfulness, and met 
 With most unqualified success 
 Till luncheon came compassionless. 
 
 The lunch was hardly packed away 
 When picnic-making for the day 
 Was stopped most unexpectedly 
 With heavy rain. The morn was dry. 
 And not a sign of rain had there 
 Appeared on the barometer, 
 And when they reached the house again 
 They found that not a drop of rain 
 
94 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Had fallen on the open plain, 
 Thus showing how undoubtedly 
 Forests attract humidity. 
 
 Maud Morrison, in angry fit 
 At Phil's neglect of her for Kit, 
 Said she preferred the waggonette, 
 And so it fell to Margaret 
 To soothe his temper through a drive 
 Of miles not less than twenty-five. 
 Soaked to the skin before the start. 
 And with a big lump in her heart 
 Of pity for her brother's woe, 
 Which every one divined although 
 No one had put the thought in words. 
 If gaudy feathers make fine birds 
 There were no fine birds present there 
 Excepting Lil, and her welfare 
 Was due to the Professor's cloak. 
 Which he, accustomed to the soak 
 So imminent on any day 
 In Cumberland or Galloway, 
 Had, mid much laughter, stowed away 
 Before he left, beneath a seat. 
 Now he reaped thirty-fold, so sweet 
 Looked a fair face amid the tweed. 
 And gratitude for his kind deed. 
 
 Her mother too escaped the whole 
 Beneath a cotton parasol, 
 The food for many a biting jest 
 When she for its inclusion pressed 
 (To save her from the sun, not rain). 
 
A Summer Christmas. 95 
 
 The sunshine soon revived again 
 Kit's dress of ' hbmespun ' cheviot : 
 But all that sun could shine could not 
 Restore the cherry and pale blue 
 Washed from their sashes broad into 
 Ida's and Maud's white dainty skirts, 
 Or heal irreparable hurts 
 In outraged ostrich-feathered hats, 
 With plumes reduced from rounds to flats. 
 
 They meant to start at half-past four, 
 But started back two hours or more 
 Before the time, because the rain 
 Fell too hard-for them to remain. 
 And thus the clock shewed scarcely five 
 When they passed up the carriage drive. 
 
 So tennis was proposed, and Will, 
 Cziving him credit for more skill 
 Than he, at any rate, possessed 
 When out of form, politely pressed 
 The Oxford man to form a set 
 With him, his brother Phil and Kit, 
 Assigning him, as most expert. 
 To Kit, whose pride was nowise hurt 
 By the insinuation thus 
 Launched at her tennis genius 
 By Will unwittingly. But they 
 Proved quite unequal to the fray. 
 As all thought likely. Phil could play 
 A ' finished ' game, with ' low return,' 
 And ' service ' regular and stern, 
 Dealt ' overhand ' and much neat ' cut,' 
 
g6 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 While Will excelled in ' reach' and ' put,' 
 And had he practised with his peers 
 Need certainly have had no fears 
 From Phil, though Phil was champion 
 That year in Melbourne. But Phil won 
 Set after set whene'er they played 
 Against each other, for he made 
 Fewer mistakes, and seldom gave 
 A ' loose-ball ' quarter. Kit was brave, 
 But soon perceived the hopelessness 
 Of winning even scant success. 
 Though the Professor now and then 
 Fairly out-paced her countrymen 
 With a half volley quick and low, 
 Which few lawn-tennisers can do 
 Who were not racquet-bred in youth, 
 And he could give more ' cut ' in truth 
 Than Phil himself, but then he ' served' 
 So many faults that he observed 
 That if ' cut ' only won the day 
 He might be somewhere in the play, 
 But while returning ' overnet' 
 And into ' court ' won ev'ry set, 
 He would have hardly any chance 
 With Phil's cool, well-timed elegance. 
 
 Kit, for a lady, played with skill 
 Hardly inferior to Phil, 
 ' Served ' well and ' took her balls backhand 
 And front ' with wonderful command, 
 And ' cut ' well : her great weakness lay 
 In^her not ' getting back ' to play 
 
A Summer Chrisimas. 97 
 
 A fast ball ' volleyed ' straight at her. 
 
 After the first set it was clear 
 That she must play with Phil to make 
 An even match, which for all's sake 
 Was better. The Oxonian 
 Was much ashamed to be the man 
 To spoil a lady's game, and Phil 
 Had sulked at being given Will 
 Instead of Kit. 
 
 The other court 
 Had Lachlan Smith and Lily Forte 
 On one side, and Maud Morrison 
 And Chesterfield in union 
 Upon the other. Neither he 
 Nor Smith played very skilfully, 
 And he was much the worst. Howe'er 
 His partner did n'ot seem to care, 
 Although she hS.ted as a rule 
 One who was clumsy or a fool. 
 In truth most girls it gratifies 
 To have the chance to patronise 
 A man so marked in any walk. 
 As to attract the great world's talk. 
 She herself played lawn tennis well, 
 Though she did not like Kit excel. 
 And though Lil, when she played her best, 
 Played better, but then Maud possessed 
 So much more self-reliant ' pluck ' 
 That in a match, without good luck, 
 Lil would succumb submissively. 
 Maud took her cue with rapid eye, 
 
 G 
 
98 A Summei' Christmas. 
 
 And, seeing that they could not win, 
 
 Determined lightly to give in 
 
 In play, and her whole strength to wield 
 
 In fascinating Chesterfield. 
 
 When they had done one set they went 
 
 To watch the other tournament, 
 
 Which in the time was almost through 
 
 The last game of set number two. 
 
 Will, who had noticed Lachlan Smith 
 Looking at the Professor with 
 A glance of scorn and pity mixed 
 At his mis-strokes, was so much vexed 
 That he invited him to be 
 His partner in set number three, 
 At the same time inviting Kit 
 And Phil, who entered into it 
 Most thoroughly, with telling glance 
 To make him rue the circuinstance, 
 Which they did, playing every ball 
 Hard back to him, till his downfall 
 Was rendered final and complete 
 By Will's suggesting that the net 
 Might suit him better, where the two 
 Bade fair to beat him black and blue 
 With well-directed volleyings. 
 Nor was the altered state of things 
 Unpleasing to the other set 
 Where Lil and the Professor met 
 In fascinating rivalry, 
 Each wishing to be outdone by 
 The rival. Lil looked prettier 
 
A Summer Christmas. 99 
 
 For the excitement and the stir 
 
 As she did ever, when there came 
 
 Into her cheeks the rosy flame, 
 
 The charm she most lacked : and the game 
 
 Served to display the native grace 
 
 Of all her motions, while her face 
 
 Was wreathed in smiles which now gave place 
 
 To merry laughter, now were still 
 
 Because a stroke taxed all her skill. 
 * * * * 
 
 When from the dinner they withdrew 
 
 The audience was less by two. 
 
 For Phil and Hall had sauntered out 
 
 To smoke and chat and stroll about, 
 
 Liking their own society 
 
 Better than sitting idly by, 
 
 While the Professor on demand 
 
 Told what they scarce could understand. 
 
 And did not care for in the least. 
 
 And even Will was ill at rest. 
 
 Although he thought it impolite 
 
 Not to be present. On that night 
 
 Ida was chosen queen, but said, 
 
 That as a queen already had 
 
 Thrice worn the crown, 'twas time for it 
 
 Upon three gentlemen to sit. 
 
 And acclamation hailed the thought 
 
 And chose the host first, who besought 
 
 The story-teller for a tale 
 
 Romantic and historical. 
 
loo A Summer Christmas. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE BRITONS, OR THE LEGEND 
 OF DUNMAIL RAISE. 
 
 Round Grisedale's mountain-girdled mere 
 The latest moon of all the year 
 Lights in its wane an ancient host, 
 Each warrior an armour'd ghost, 
 Arm'd with the arms our country bore 
 E'er its first foeman touch'd its shore : 
 Of bronze their sword, of flint their spear, 
 Their leathern shield a hide of deer, 
 A British host, the last that held 
 The land, that all was theirs of eld. 
 
 Ten hundred years scarce pass'd away 
 After that first great Easter-day 
 E'er not a Keltic lord was known 
 Through all the coasts of Albion, 
 Save in the stormy hills of Wales, 
 And Cornwall's mines, and Cumbria's dales, 
 
 And Mona's citadel ; 
 And Saxon was in league with Scot 
 From this his last and best lov'd lot 
 
 The Briton to expel. 
 Then all at once the loyal men 
 Of Cymri leapt from rock and glen 
 
 To join their king Dunmail ; 
 From saddle-back'd Blencathra's height, 
 
[The Last of the Britons. \ loi 
 
 Where, hidden from the sun's good light, 
 
 The tarn they call Bowscale 
 Reflects the stars at middle day. 
 While in its depths unfathom'd play 
 
 That strange immortal twain, 
 The only fish in this wide earth 
 That liv'd at our Redeemer's birth : 
 
 They know not death or pain, 
 But live until he comes again, 
 For they, they only, did remain 
 
 Of that world famous seven 
 Wherewith the ' Lord of Life ' did feed 
 Those thousands four — this precious meed 
 
 To them alone is given. 
 At once did Cumbria's noblest pour 
 From all the peaks of huge Skiddaw, 
 From Skiddaw's cub, since called Latrigg, 
 From Windermere and Newby Brig. 
 High in the west from grim Sca'fell, 
 And wild Wastwater's lonely dell, 
 The dalesmen hurried down to bring 
 Arms, few but faithful to their king. 
 High in the east along that road, 
 The highest ever built, they strode : 
 And not a few from Langdale Pikes, 
 And Furness Fells and Furness Dykes, 
 
 Which now the sea doth hold, 
 But flocks and beeves and giant trees, 
 
I02 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And corn that shimmered in the breeze, 
 
 Held in the days of old. 
 Ten thousand — good men all, and true — 
 Came where his royal standard flew, 
 
 To fight for hearth and home ; 
 A home they'd held a thousand years 
 'Gainst Dane and Saxon, and the spears 
 
 E'en of Imperial Rome. 
 
 Hard by Helvellyn's mountain-steep, 
 Where Leathes' mere begins to peep, 
 Rises a knoll, in later days 
 Call'd in the dale King Dunmail's Raise. 
 Here 'neath the mountain's shoulders sheer 
 The road that runs from Windermere 
 Is one long hill from Grasmere shore 
 To W/bum town, six miles or more. 
 In such a pass three hundred men 
 Might drive ten thousand back again : 
 Upon this rise did Dunmail post 
 His faithful, but too scanty, host. 
 But what avails devotion high. 
 Or chivalrbus fidelity, 
 When tenfold is the foeman's rank. 
 And pouring in on front and flank. 
 'Twas thus that royal Dunmail's might 
 Was shattered in that fatal fight ; 
 For while ten times ten-thousand men. 
 
[The Last of ike Britons.~\ 103 
 
 The Saxon host, charged up the glen, 
 Down huge Helvellyn's rugged side 
 Pour'd the fierce Scot as pours the tide 
 Of some long-prisoned mountain stream 
 When broken is th' opposing beam 
 That damm'd its flood and turn'd its flow 
 To drive the miller's wheel below ; 
 Or like the Cyclon blasts that sweep 
 Over the face of India's deep. 
 The Briton bravely met the charge 
 With levell'd spear and sturdy targe : 
 But vain — for, hemm'd on every hand. 
 Nought could avail the gallant band : 
 Not all the valour and the might 
 Of Arthur and each boasted knight 
 
 Nam'd of the Table Round ; 
 Not all King Charlemagne's array 
 Of Paladins that on a day 
 
 A grave with Roland found. 
 
 A fiercer charge — his host gives way, 
 And Scot and Saxon fierce to slay , 
 Cut down the Britons man by man, 
 Till scarce a tithe of all the clan 
 Fight their way through to tell the tale 
 And save the crown of King Dunmail. 
 For he has lost his faithful brand, 
 And now is in the foeman's hand, 
 
I04 A Summei'- Christmas. 
 
 With both his sons, ill-fated three, 
 Doom'd to a conqueror's cruelty. 
 Their only crime that they did fight 
 To keep the realm that was their right. 
 Bound hand and foot with cords they lay 
 Until the ending of the fray 
 Should give their conqueror liberty 
 To revel in his cruel glee. 
 Then — such the custom of his day — 
 With his own hand does Edmond slay 
 The sire before the children's eyes 
 And blinds them soon as e'er he dies. 
 
 The Britons who escap'd the fray 
 Hid on the hills till close of day. 
 Then dug a grave twelve fathoms deep 
 And laid their monarch down to sleep. 
 And rais'd a cairn of boulders high 
 In homage to his memory : 
 Then wended in procession drear 
 To hide his crown in Grisedale mere. 
 With weapons fiercely clench'd they strode 
 Three miles along the Grasmere road, 
 Until they came to Grisedale burn. 
 And up the Faery glen did turn : 
 Awhile upon Seat-Sandal pause. 
 Then slowly wind through Grisedale Hause 
 Down to the mere and through the crown 
 
[ The Last of the Britons.\ 1 05 
 
 Where DoUywaggon Pike sheers down. 
 Fierce was the wave and fierce the storm, 
 And mist-besieg'd the mountain's form ; 
 The Spirits of the Lake and hills 
 Were anger'd at their country's ills, 
 Anger'd that stranger-hands had ta'en 
 The Briton's last, best loved domain. 
 That night o'er forest, lake, and fell 
 Resounded many a ghostly yell ; 
 Around Helvellyn's giant man 
 With threat'ning glare the marsh-fire ran. 
 In becks, that yester summer's night 
 Scarce trickled down in shallows bright, 
 By deep and furious floods were borne 
 Great rifted rocks and trees uptorn : 
 The wind that scarce was heard at noon 
 Roared like an Indian typhoon, 
 And westward over Langdale Pikes 
 The breakers fell on Fumess Dykes, 
 And with one wild tremendous sweep 
 Encompass'd in their greedy deep 
 Tree, corn and cot, and grassy down 
 From Lancaster to Barrow town. 
 And by the forked fire from heaven 
 The oldest Druid oak was riven. 
 The oak-tree gods might reign no more 
 Upon their native Britain's shore, 
 But now must fly, to stay awhile 
 
io6 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 In mother Mona's magic isle, 
 
 And thence be driven in wild unrest 
 
 For ever further, further west. 
 
 Till, when five hundred years were gone, 
 
 The land that tombs the setting sun 
 
 Should feel the conquering foot of Spain ; 
 
 Then, ousted from their home again 
 
 With other byegone godheads lie 
 
 In Limbo to eternity. 
 
 The Britons ere the day was light 
 Scal'd the o'erhanging mountain-height. 
 And climbing, just as dawn began. 
 Held council on Helvellynl Man. 
 Full little did they deem that night 
 That ev'ry eve, ere dawn was bright. 
 Their souls must go to Dunmail's cairn 
 And through the glen to Grisedale tarn ; 
 Then over Dollywaggon seek 
 The high Helvellyn's highest peak. 
 Yet so it is — for there are souls 
 Whom some almighty hand controls 
 To haunt some too-eventful scene, 
 Where in their lifetime they have been ; 
 Nor ever rest within their tomb 
 Until they have fulfiU'd their doom : 
 The souls of all who've foUow'd Cain, 
 The souls of all by murder slain, 
 
\The Last of the Britons7\ 107 
 
 Until the murderer pay the due 
 For him that fell and him that slew ; 
 The soul of him whose life was ill, 
 Who perish'd unrepentant still, 
 And him who treasure has conceal'd, 
 Until his treasure be reveal'd. 
 And so it is that Dunmail's host 
 Still haunt the battle-field in ghost. 
 Did they but deign betray their trust 
 Their souls might rest in hallow'd dust, 
 But while they guard their monarch's crown 
 May never to their tomb go down. 
 And so each day from fall of night 
 Until the morrow-morn is bright, 
 Through Grisedale-pass that ghostly clan 
 March grimly to Helvellyn Man. 
 And ev'ry night from Grisedale tarn 
 They bring a stone to Dunmail's cairn, 
 To show their sovereign that still 
 They're faithful to his royal will : 
 And when the cairn doth reach as high 
 As Dunmail 'neath the earth doth lie, 
 Once more shall be his flag unfurl'd 
 For the great Battle of the World, 
 For that great battle that must be 
 Before the day of Equity 
 When ev'ry man shall have his own 
 Each proud usurper overthrown, 
 
io8 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 When Israel shall reign once more 
 Upon the promised country's shore, 
 And Cossack, Georgian, and Pole 
 Be freed from Muscovite control. 
 Then Dunmail with his British spears 
 Again shall sally from the meres, 
 And free his own, his native land 
 From Saxon, Dane, and Norman hand. 
 From southmost Cornwall to Carlisle, 
 From Mona to the Kentish Isle 
 The Cymri, as in days of yore. 
 Shall rule our land from shore to shore ; 
 And all the Cymri clans bow down 
 Before the might of Dunmail's crown ; 
 The crown that erst in Grisedale's deep 
 His trusty host did nightly keep. 
 Now, after many a hundred years. 
 Again upon his head appears. 
 But never shall appear again 
 The gods that ruled our island then ; 
 Their day is past, their oaks are fell'd 
 In which their ritual was held. 
 No other gods shall be adored 
 Through all the earth but Judah's Lord, 
 And they be in that lifeless spot 
 For ever and for aye forgot. 
 
 But though that British army range 
 
[ The Last of the Britons.\ 1 09 
 
 Each midnight on that journey strange, 
 No eye can see their forms, no ear 
 Their footfall or their voices hear, 
 Save on one night — upon that night 
 AVhen dies away the waning light 
 Of the last moon of all the year : 
 Then if thou stand by Grisedale mere. 
 Betwixt the midnight hour and dawn, 
 When spirits move and graveyards yawn, 
 Through Grisedale Hause to Grisedale tide 
 Thou'It see a ghostly army glide 
 In Keltic harness — such a host 
 Fought the first Roman on our coast. 
 See thou provoke them not to strife, 
 'Twere likeliest to cost thy life. 
 But should'st thou venture to accost 
 By Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, 
 And bid them show thee where the crown 
 In Grisedale mere lies low a-down, 
 They needs must show thee ; and if then 
 Thou take the crown, they ne'er again 
 Shall leave their grave for Grisedale tarn. 
 Nor Dunmail ever leave his cairn ; 
 But other king shall free the land 
 From Saxon, Dane, and Norman hand. 
 So, if thou see that spirit host. 
 In pity do not thou accost, 
 Nor to indulge an idle whim 
 
no A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Or caitiff greed do harm to him ; 
 But gaze with awe and tell the tale 
 Of that weird army of Dunmail. 
 
 Kit said, " Professor you can tell 
 . A good ghost story very well : 
 But is it true?" He shook his head. 
 " I would not vouch it. Dunmail's dead, 
 If e'er he lived, and no one sights 
 His host on any other nights. 
 I can't say more : the legend's old, 
 And on the Cumbrian mountains told 
 Close by the cairn. Your course is clear. 
 If you want more, to take ship there, 
 And on the trysting night camp out 
 On Mount Helvellyn. It's about 
 As cold a place and cold a time 
 As any in the English clime." 
 Kit laughed back that she'd " take his word. 
 And treat as gospel all she heard," 
 And fearing Phil, and sparing Lil 
 Her dear Professor, challenged Will 
 To billiards, while the scouted one 
 Fell back upon Maud Morrison, 
 To dance his disappointment off, 
 Impatient as a Romanoff 
 At being crossed, no better pleased 
 Because his friends had often teased 
 Will as a lover undeclared. 
 Far better the Professor fared, 
 He had plain sailing, no one shared 
 
A Summer Chrisimas. 1 1 1 
 
 His fancy. All were blinded by 
 The brighter light that was so nigh. 
 These nights were golden nights for Lil, 
 She thought she ne'er could have her fill 
 Of the bright stream of wit and lore 
 Which from his honied lips did pour. 
 He seemed to have lived everywhere, 
 And to know all things great and fair. 
 Then he was manly, and he seemed 
 Like one who, while he did much, dreamed 
 Of higher spheres for him in store. 
 Lil oft had been in love before, 
 
 But not for men with hopes sublime 
 
 Of leaving their impress on time. 
 And he, what did he think of her ? 
 
 A ray of light, a soft zephyr, 
 
 A fair wild flower not too bright 
 
 Or large for love, an exquisite 
 
 And simple air reminding him 
 
 Of ballads sung in twilight dim 
 
 By Tweedside, the Breton Ysolde, 
 
 Or Enid of the legend old. 
 
112 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 December 22tth. 
 
 Eight o'clock saw them all arrive 
 In harness for a rabbit drive, 
 At the front door, then breakfast o'er 
 And luncheon packed and to the fore, 
 Kit with her feet in cowhide laced. 
 And with her Norfolk jacket's waist 
 Encircled with a cartridge belt, 
 And with a slouched man's hat of felt 
 Pressed down upon her golden hair, 
 As though quite ignorant how fair. 
 Was the face hidden underneath. 
 
 Hall had besought that Lachlan Smith 
 Should somehow be refused a gun. 
 If only in apparent fun, 
 After his feats of yesterday. 
 And Will descried an easy way 
 By screwing both the nipples out 
 From his gunlock to save all doubt, 
 Which Smith did not discover till 
 He fired both barrels and heard — nil. 
 Of course all present sympathised, 
 And search-parties were organised 
 To find the nipples (safe and sound 
 In Will's watch-pocket, so not found). 
 Will to crown everything explained, 
 That now no other gun remained, 
 
A Summer Christmas. 1 1 3 
 
 So that, unless they were found out, 
 Lachlan perforce must go without. 
 This left seven guns, for Chesterfield 
 Liked in a modest way to wield 
 His central fire, and Kit could kill 
 Almost as certainly as Will, 
 And Mr Forte came out to-day. 
 
 The shooting, some ten miles away, 
 On broken ' stony rises ' Jay, 
 And as the rabbits were so thick 
 That one could kill them with a stick 
 Not seldom, stores of cartridges 
 Were half the battle, and horses 
 Were wanted for the men to ride 
 As ' stops ' to head the rabbit-tide 
 Which poured before the guns in flood. 
 So no one of the party rode. 
 But Will and Albert Hall and Kit, 
 Left over from the waggonette 
 And buggy, took their quarters up 
 In a spring-waggon full to top 
 With ammunition, guns, and lunch. 
 And fodder for the nags to munch. 
 Kit drove because her favourite grey 
 Was needed for the shafts to-day. 
 Will by her ready to assist 
 In case its mettle tried her wrist, 
 And Hall in futile search for ease 
 Among the guns and cartridges. 
 Phil drove the buggy, Margaret 
 Being his partner, Maud not yet 
 
 H 
 
114 -^ Summer Christmas. 
 
 Having forgiven the neglect 
 He'd offered to her self-respect, 
 And Mr Forte the waggonette, 
 With Lil and the Professor set 
 Upon the box-seat, Lil was tasked 
 To do just what she would have asked, 
 If she had ventured to, to ride 
 Her father and his guest beside. 
 Arrived, the ladies took their seat 
 • Beneath some rocks to 'scape the heat, 
 First looking round to see that they 
 Had no snake-neighbour in the way, 
 While Kit and all the gentlemen 
 Were starting off on their campaign 
 With horsemen on their left and right 
 And horsemen in the front to fright 
 The rabbits back, who broke away. 
 Kit fired the first shot of the day, 
 A true one — followed in a breath 
 By all except poor Lachlan Smith 
 Who first discovered his ill-luck 
 When on void blocks his hammers struck. 
 There is not much variety 
 In shooting rabbits where they lie 
 As thick as negroes in the hold 
 Of a slave-schooner used of old. 
 The chief of the excitement lay 
 In watching columns break away 
 In desperation, closely packed. 
 Between the horsemen though they cracked 
 ' Their stock-whips loud as musket-shots. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 115 
 
 And covered all the likely spots, 
 Or when a serpent's angry hiss 
 Caused some one in a start to miss 
 Only to turn upon his foe 
 And end him with a shot or blow. 
 Serpents were too abundant far, 
 As on the ' Rises ' oft they are, 
 Mostly not large but venomous. 
 One of them was so curious 
 (Quite six feet long and rather thin, 
 With bright canary-coloured skin), 
 That Mr Forte when it was dead. 
 Fixing it just behind the head, 
 In cleft-stick, gave it to a man 
 To carry back to the spring-van, 
 Meaning to send it up to town 
 To the museum. ' Black ' and ' Brown ' 
 ' Tiger ' and ' whip ' and ' copperhead ' 
 ' Carpet ' and ' Diamond,' the dread 
 ' Death-Adder's ' self he'd chanced to spy 
 In some part of the colony 
 At one time or another — none 
 Of the same colour as this one. 
 A battue in an English wood 
 Of pheasants trained to take their food 
 From Keeper's hands has less excuse 
 Than rabbit-drives, which have their use. 
 For rabbits are as dire a foe 
 As the wolves stamped out long ago. 
 And battues are as merciful 
 As arsenic or traps which pull 
 
1 1 6 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Their limbs off but don't kill outright. 
 
 A rabbit drive presents a sight 
 Which those who in the dear old land 
 Shoot only, scarce can understand. 
 When once the line begins to drive 
 The ground seems verily alive 
 And one incessant roar of guns 
 Tells how the tale of slaughter runs. 
 Now your gunbarrel follows fast 
 A rabbit as in frantic haste 
 Along the jutting rocks he flies 
 Which bound and break the distant rise, 
 And now you hunch your back to bring 
 Your fire upon them as they spring 
 Right at your feet, now wheel sharp round 
 On one which short reprieve had found 
 By lying close till you had passed 
 Now right, now left, until at last 
 Your cartridges away you've shot 
 Or find your barrels grown too hot 
 To hold with comfort. You let lie 
 Your rabbits just where they may die. 
 No one would for a minute stop 
 To pick the mangled vermin up 
 But leave them for the hawks and ' cats ' 
 And ants that haunt their habitats, — 
 So vast a difference it makes 
 When the supply demand o'ertakes. 
 
 Luncheon suggested, none demurred 
 But hailed it as a welcome word. 
 The sun was hot, the ground was rough 
 
A Summer Christm,as. 117 
 
 The tussocks plentiful and tough, 
 
 And they had had three hours or more 
 
 Of walking without rest. Will bore 
 
 The palm for shooting. Chesterfield 
 
 Least deftly did his weapon wield. 
 
 Kit was astonished much to see 
 
 How steadily and sturdily 
 
 Cobham strode on (But Will told her 
 
 That as a rule the English were ' 
 
 Great walkers — ^better walkers far 
 
 Than average Australians are), 
 
 And what fine shots he sometimes made 
 
 Though he missed often. She displayed 
 
 Some skill herself and Mr Forte 
 
 Still shot well and enjoyed the sport. 
 
 At lunch the shooters quenched their thirst 
 With various liquors. Beer was first 
 In favour, claret next But Will 
 And Mr Forte prepared to fill 
 With oatmeal-water, which they said 
 Was the best drink for health and head 
 When one was hot. While Phil endured 
 Water with only whiskey cured. 
 
 Lunch over, the Professor went 
 To chat with Lil, with whom he spent 
 The smoking hour, soon joined by Kit, 
 Who feared an amatory fit 
 From Phil and sought to give redress 
 For her enforced obtrusiveness 
 By telling Lil how good a shot 
 And how enduring and what not 
 
m8 a Summer Christmas. 
 
 Her friend had proved, while Phil blew forth 
 In gusty puffs of smoke his wrath. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 That night two fresh deserters joined 
 The two who had at first declined, 
 The lawyer and Maud Morrison, 
 Maud, maybe, if the truth were known, 
 For Phil, arid Lachlan Smith for her. 
 Success was with the barrister. 
 For Phil and Hall had sauntered out 
 To-night again to smoke about. 
 
 Ida's suggestion, that three men, 
 Before the ladies chose again 
 Should choose a subject, pleasing most 
 Will was selected for the post, 
 Who for the evening's story chose 
 Life in an English manor-house. 
 
 When he some minutes had delayed 
 To ponder, the Professor said 
 The tale is one I heard at home 
 From Fred Rowe, my old college chum. 
 So he shall tell you, word for word 
 Where I remember, what I heard. 
 
 ETHEL. 
 
 Katie is a pretty shrew ; 
 Isabel a httle blue ; 
 Maud as proud as Lucifer ; 
 Christobel a sonneteer ; 
 
[^Etkel^ 119, 
 
 Edith is reserv'd and fair ; 
 Eleanor hath auburn hair ; 
 Margaret is masculine ; 
 I don't care for Adeline ; 
 Beatrix is very sweet ; 
 And hath many at her feet ; 
 Nothing hath she ever harm'd, 
 But an iceberg's sooner warmed ; 
 She's so dully temperate 
 That she cannot even hate ; 
 All her useful life is spent 
 In the tedious content 
 That in story-books befalls 
 Angels and good animals. 
 Mary is a peacemaker, 
 All the people round love her, 
 And I love her passively. 
 But she is too good for me. 
 Daring Ethel is a queen. 
 Most majestic in her mien 
 And most royal in her ways ; 
 All the men her beauty praise. 
 Not before her royal face 
 If they dread condign disgrace. 
 Admiration in your eyes 
 Is her look'd-for, lawful prize ; 
 Admiration in your speech 
 Is a statutable breach 
 
I20 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Of Her Grace's social code. 
 
 No one ever waltz'd or rode, 
 
 Shot an arrow or a glance, 
 
 With more finish'd elegance ; 
 
 Neither is she over-bold, 
 
 Callous, feelingless, nor cold. 
 
 If she sees a rough young squire 
 
 Reeling backwards from the fire 
 
 Of a merciless coquette 
 
 For his uncouth etiquette, 
 
 She will cross a crowded room 
 
 To alleviate his doom. 
 
 Make him come and sit by her. 
 
 Be a smiling listener 
 
 To the ' bag ' of yesterday, 
 
 Where the warmest corners lay 
 
 In the Earl of Foxshire's woods : 
 
 How his blood-mare swam the floods, 
 
 Of the row with Farmer Scroggs, 
 
 And the names of all the dogs. 
 
 And if talk-about is true 
 
 Ethel can be tender too. 
 
 Who remembers Dick Duval, 
 
 Once the favourite of all ? 
 
 Honest, hearty, handsome Dick, 
 
 Brave, and generous, and quick, 
 
 But there was no runagate 
 
 Ever so unfortunate. 
 
{Eihel^ 1 2 1 
 
 Dicky never could escape, 
 As a schoolboy, from a scrape ; 
 Dick was never in a brawl 
 But he came off worst of all ; 
 He, whose share was often least, 
 Bore the blame of all the rest. 
 Dick at last — it ne'er appear'd 
 ■yVhy or wherefore — was cashier'd. 
 Driven from his father's hall, 
 Scowl'd upon and shunn'd by all. 
 Dick to queenly Ethel came : 
 Ethel had no word of blame. 
 Did not turn away or frown, 
 Ask'd no explanation, 
 Wrung his slack hand heartily. 
 And, looking at him earnestly. 
 In a sweet firm whisper said : 
 " I can trust you, Dick ; you did 
 Nothing base, or mean, or low ; 
 What you did I do not know. 
 Do not tell me — only say 
 That you would not turn away' 
 From a man who did the same 
 As from one whose touch was shame." 
 While a tear splash'd in the dust, 
 " Bless you, Ethel, for your trust," 
 Was the broken-voic'd reply; 
 " Never such a thing did I. 
 
122 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 But I came to say good-bye : 
 
 I am going to the East, 
 
 Under Osman to enlist, 
 
 From my name to wipe the stain, 
 
 And retrieve fair fame again." 
 
 " Dick, I will not bid you stay. 
 
 Go and wipe the stain away ; 
 
 One thing promise me, that you 
 
 Nothing in despair will do ; 
 
 Try to come safe home again. 
 
 You have one who will remain 
 
 E'er your firm and faithful friend ; 
 
 Promise, Dick, and try to mend, 
 
 No more getting into scrapes, 
 
 No more hazardous escapes, 
 
 Saving when you face the foe. 
 
 But then do as brave men do ; 
 
 Wait until the battle — then 
 
 Give your gallant heart the rein ; 
 
 And, if you have time to write, 
 
 Send the story of a fight 
 
 Bravely fought and bravely won. 
 
 How you are, and what you've done ; 
 
 Saying when, your penance o'er, 
 
 You are coming home once more, 
 
 And where letters will reach you." 
 
 " Who will write them, if I do? " 
 
 " I myself, Dick." " You will ? " " Yes, 
 
[^EiAe/.] 123 
 
 I do not desert distress." 
 "And can you, who are so fair, 
 Coveted by all men, care — 
 Stoop to correspond with me ?" 
 " Correspond ? Yes, certainly. 
 Dick I place you far before 
 All the faultless fools who bore 
 One to death with etiquette ; 
 Who have nothing to regret, 
 Not because no ill they've wrought. 
 But because they've not done aught 
 Saving sleep, and drink, and eat. 
 And I hold the manly heat 
 That lands you in scrape and stain 
 Far above the force of brain 
 That leads some men to apply 
 Lifetimes to philosophy, 
 In contempt of common things — 
 Births, and loves, and buryings. 
 You've t)een hearty to excess, 
 But I like you none the less." 
 " Hear me, Ethel, I am mad, ^ 
 But I am not wholly bad ; 
 I am mad, but going away 
 For long months, perhaps for aye; 
 Hear me, Ethel, long have I 
 I.,oved you most devotedly, 
 In the days when I was heir 
 
124 ^ Summer Christmas. 
 
 To the acres broad and fair 
 Which are mine no longer now, 
 In the bright days of my youth 
 And wild days of later growth. 
 But you ever seem'd too good, 
 Of too queenly womanhood, 
 And too wonderful to be 
 For a simple man like me. 
 Hear me, Ethel, ere I go, — 
 Hear me, — I would have you know 
 That I love you as none can 
 But a passion-ridden man. 
 Hear me ; if I hve to come. 
 With refurbish'd honour, home. 
 And you e'er should need my aid, 
 If in life-blood it were paid, 
 I would shed it every drop 
 To give you a minute's hope. 
 But if I should never come, 
 Try to clear my name at home. 
 I will write you all the tale 
 Of this last scrape while I sail. 
 Good-bye, Ethel : do you weep ?, 
 Tears for worthier sorrows keep ; 
 I'm not worth a single tear 
 From your lashes. Ethel dear, 
 Darling Ethel, do not cry." 
 " Wait, Dick, do not say good-bye, 
 
[E^Ael] 125 
 
 I love you too : if you still 
 
 Wish to marry me, I will 
 
 Wish to marry you, love." " No, 
 
 Not when I have sunk so low ; 
 
 You who seemed too good for me 
 
 In my old prosperity. 
 
 Darling, you would stoop too far, 
 
 Fair and noble as you are. 
 
 I am, do I what I can, 
 
 A dishonourable man." 
 
 " Not dishonourable, Dick ; 
 
 Ills have fallen fast and thick 
 
 On your wild, unlucky head. 
 
 But I know you truly said 
 
 You've not done since *you were born 
 
 What would make you shrink in scorn 
 
 From a man who'd done the same. 
 
 As from one whose touch was shame. 
 
 Dick, you shall not leave me thus." 
 
 " You are over-generous." 
 
 " If I may not be your wife 
 
 I'll be single all my life ; 
 
 But I will not bid you stay 
 
 Till the stain is wip'd away 
 
 By good service bravely done 
 
 On the field of action ; 
 
 But when you come home again 
 
 I'll be yours if you are fain." 
 
126 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Dick look'd at her wistfully. 
 " Ethel, is this charity — 
 Just your nobleness of heart, 
 Seeing all my friends depart 
 But yourself — or is it true ? " 
 " True : I always have loved you ; 
 But if you had come to me 
 In your wild prosperity 
 Then I should have answer'd. No, 
 Not until you've learn'd to show 
 What good stuff you're moulded of. 
 When you've proven this, enough, 
 I will gladly be your wife. 
 But while all you do is rife 
 With outrage and escapade, 
 I would sooner be a maid. 
 Now, you do not need advice. 
 But the light of loving eyes." 
 
 " Sweet, this generosity 
 Too heroic is for me ; 
 I can't be so generous 
 As to once again refuse 
 Such a crown of love as this. 
 Darling Ethel, let me kiss 
 Your kind hand before I go." 
 " Let you kiss my hand, Dick ! No : 
 Kiss my lips ; they're not too good 
 
[^Etkel^ 1 2 7 
 
 For a brave man : spare your blood 
 And spare life whene'er you may, 
 Strike home on a doubtful day ; 
 If you can write to me, try ; 
 Good-bye, dear old Dick, good-bye ! " 
 
 This is Ethel's mystery, 
 No one knows it all but me. 
 Ethel bearded Squire Duval 
 In his study at the hall. 
 Told him Dick was not to blame. 
 But his answer was the same. 
 " Dick's disgraced an ancient line. 
 He's no longer son of mine." 
 But there's nought he will not do. 
 If Queen Ethel asks him to, 
 Saving this ; and on a day, 
 After Ethel's gone away. 
 He will say, with almost joy, 
 " She did not desert my boy." 
 
 When you look upon her face. 
 In her beauty you can trace 
 Something wistful now and then ; 
 Then she turns and smiles again 
 On her waiting worshippers : 
 They know not this spur of hers 
 Press'd against her noble heart. 
 
128 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And, when bootless they depart, 
 Mutter slanders of coquette. 
 I myself should not know yet 
 Were it not that Dick and I 
 Were school-cronies formerly. 
 Shared a study and a crib, 
 Had a fight : I broke his rib, 
 He made music in my head. 
 When he went away, he said : 
 " Ethel, I've told all to Fred ; 
 He and I are limb and limb. 
 Make a confidant of him 
 When you want to talk of me." 
 This is how I came to be 
 Privy to her sacrifice. 
 Often, with her grave sweet eyes, 
 Fasten'd on me, she will ask 
 Me of every trick and task 
 Of his scapegoat schoolboy life. 
 He is worthy such a wife ; 
 Try your best, you will not find 
 Better fellow of his kind. 
 He'd have been a famous knight 
 In the bright enchanted night 
 Of Provencal chivalry. 
 Modern-times reality, 
 Like a dull unwelcome day, 
 Drove the magic night away 
 
\Ethel^^ 129 
 
 With its legendary grace. 
 When I look upon her face, 
 Making Dick a schoolboy Cid, 
 Rubbing up the feats he did, 
 And her grateful fluent eyes 
 Give me eloquent replies, 
 Oft I wish that I might plead 
 Someone else's cause instead. 
 
 But I have a pet as well, 
 Lovely, laughing, light-heart Nell. 
 We don't talk of love, but play 
 At it all and every day : 
 I steal kisses and she laughs, 
 Swear they're earnest, and she chaffs. 
 Once, when I contrived to go 
 Underneath the misletoe. 
 Saying she'd a score to pay. 
 She kiss'd me and tripp'd away. 
 Not too quickly to be caught. 
 And with weU-feign'd struggles brought 
 Underneath the bough once more. 
 We've had quarrels o'er and o'er, 
 But we always make it up. 
 Neither cares to sulk or mope. 
 
 If my sisters hint that I 
 Feel for Nelhe tenderly, 
 I 'm indignant, and retort, 
 
130 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 From a well-assur'd report, 
 Of Sir This, and Captain That, 
 Giving tits for every tat 
 
 If her cousin, Bertie Bell, 
 Whispers spitefully to Nell, 
 " Nellie, you're in love with Fred," 
 She will toss her pretty head. 
 And, with mock humility, 
 Drop a curtsey and reply, 
 " Well, and if your charge were true. 
 Better far with Fred than you." 
 All the same one's fidgety 
 When the other is not by. 
 We engage at ev'ry ball 
 For the waltzes one and all : 
 Waltzing's too divine a dance 
 To be left to common chance : 
 You should only waltz with one 
 In such perfect unison 
 With you, as you cannot get 
 Save you often practise it : 
 Squares we always give away. 
 When it's supper time, we stay 
 Till the extras all are done, 
 Then we go and sup alone, 
 Make the mottoes vehicles 
 For the truths one never tells 
 Without such occasion. 
 
[_Ethel.~\ 13 1 
 
 Whispering we linger on 
 Until we away are sent 
 Or slip into sentiment : 
 Then we go and waltz again 
 Feeling fire in ev'ry vein : 
 Nellie shuts a blithe blue eye 
 In delicious ecstasy. 
 As we float (we hate to haste), 
 And I clasp her slender waist 
 With a more expressive arm : 
 Sweet abandon is her charm : 
 Nellie looks her loveliest 
 When the sunny elf-locks, press'd 
 In the heavy plaits behind^ 
 Play the truant in the wind, 
 And the errand-blushes stay 
 And don't hurry straight away 
 Soon as they have said their say. 
 
 Ev'ry Christmas here we meet 
 At my father's country seat, 
 Stapng for a month or more : 
 Ev'ry Christmas, when it's o'er, 
 Many wish it would begin 
 And think breaking-up a sin. 
 Nell and I are worst of all, 
 We'd like Christmas day to fall 
 Once a month : and now I find 
 
132 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 That I must make up my mind ; 
 For we clearly can't go on 
 In the way we've always done ; 
 Nellie will be eighteen soon, 
 I was twenty-one in June. 
 
 'Twas windy, and so when he ceased 
 All hasted in, Kit first, ill-pleased 
 At the unconquered Ethel's fall 
 Which seemed almost prophetical. 
 
 I would have said all went but Lil, 
 Who braved discomfort and the chill. 
 To steal a tSte-k-tete, and said, 
 " Is Ethel Kit?" He shook his head. 
 " For many reasons, no. Firstly, 
 'Twould be gross personality ; 
 And secondly, while Ethel loved 
 Her beauty's due, Miss Johnstone 's moved 
 By no such female weaknesses 3 
 And thirdly, she affects the dress 
 Of gentlemen and manly sports, 
 While Ethel's foibles and fortes 
 Were feminine. No Amazon 
 Professed was she, but merely one 
 Of those proud high-bred English dames 
 Of families with ancient names 
 And great estates, who scorn to stoop 
 In marriage, but whose eyes look up 
 To some high union which time 
 Has in his hand for them, sublime 
 
A Summer Christmas. 133 
 
 In their ambitions. They are right; 
 Why should a girl, at first invite, 
 Haste to throw heart and hand away. 
 The one trump-card she has to play?" 
 " But who was Nellie ? Are all girls 
 Who don't aspire to dukes and earls 
 And premiers and millionaires 
 So easy in their love affairs 
 As Nell ! " asked Lil, who thought, if so. 
 That her wings were a little slow. 
 And England certainly must be 
 A country of the brave and free, 
 And recollecting how she had, 
 While they were still a child and lad, 
 Enjoyed a romp of kiss and pet 
 With Ted, Kit's brother, fancied yet 
 That if such romps were etiquette 
 They might sometimes be very nice. 
 He answered with this sage advice 
 For one in the near neighbourhood 
 Of a fair girl with southern blood 
 And rosy lips and yielding mien. 
 That " Nells could not be often seen 
 Even in England, where Mammas 
 And Mrs Grundy and papas 
 Shut off the naughty and the nice 
 From girls with barriers of ice. 
 That romps at home as well as school 
 Were the exception not the rule, 
 But there were boys who would be boys. 
 And girls who looked for other joys 
 
134 -^ Summer Christmas. 
 
 Than church and fancy work and tea, 
 That Nells there were and needs must be 
 In every age, in every clime, 
 As long as there is space or time, 
 Nells who rejoice to cull the flower 
 Which grows on every passing hour." 
 And then he pulled her on his knee 
 And kissed her, asking her if she 
 Had not been treated thus before, 
 And, she not struggling,, gave her more 
 And added in a whisper " Lil, 
 Will you ? " when she replied " I will " 
 And put her little hands in his 
 And held her lips up for a kiss. 
 
 Now mark the wit of womankind. 
 And learn that love is not so blind 
 As poets picture him to be. 
 For when Lil sought her bedroom she, 
 While still the gentlemen sat to 
 Their glass of water — and Lochdhu, 
 Called in her mother and confessed, 
 Entreating her to do her best 
 To win her father to her choice, 
 Pleading with that sweet gentle -voice 
 Which won all hearers to her part. 
 Now Helen had a tender heart, 
 And her ten yearning years of troth 
 Tended to make her very loath 
 Her children's longings to postpone 
 A single month : and Lil was one 
 
A Summer Christmas. 135 
 
 To give her much anxiety. 
 
 She was so pretty and so free 
 
 From guile as well as self-restraint, 
 
 And he would have to be a saint 
 
 Who scorned her gentle glowing charms 
 
 And shrank from her extended arms. 
 
 She had been wooed three times before, 
 And each' time thrown the wooer o'er 
 With much reluctance — souls of make 
 Like hers love Love for its own sake. 
 Her other lovers had been men 
 As much drawn by the hope of gain 
 In marrying the squatter's child 
 As by the face which on them smiled ; 
 But the Professor had a clear 
 Six or eight hundred pounds a year 
 Of salary, e'en suppose he had 
 
 No penny of his own to add, 
 
 A sum with which as bachelor 
 
 He certainly could do much more. 
 
 Than married with as much again. 
 
 That he was capable was plain 
 
 From his appointment : and his mind 
 
 Seemed honourable, broad, and kind : 
 
 He was nice-looking in the face, 
 
 And gentlemanly in his ways, 
 
 And ' Chesterfield ' had said that he 
 
 Came of a good old family. 
 
 Then Lily seemed so fond of him, 
 
 And, if it was no passing whim 
 
 But an absorbing love (and she 
 
136 A Summer Christmus. 
 
 Owned to a sensibility 
 Herself of the Professor's charm). 
 Nor was Lil kept in long alarm, 
 For, when her father came to bed, 
 The mother for the daughter pled 
 So winningly that his consent 
 Was granted her incontinent, 
 Subject to conversation due 
 Upon the morrow with the two. 
 Kind Helen, far too kind to keep 
 A darling daughter from her sleep 
 With doubt and trembling on a theme 
 So near her heart as this would seem, 
 Stole to her bedroom on tip-toe, 
 Her prayer's success to let her know. 
 * * * * 
 
 But reader, be it not supposed 
 That Lil and her Professor closed 
 Their interesting interview 
 So very briefly as I do. 
 Whatever at the time had been 
 Her satisfaction at fourteen 
 When Ted had petted her, she now 
 Felt to herself inclined to vow 
 That it was not a patch upon 
 That which she just had undergone. 
 And was prepared to undergo 
 Till further notice — in the glow 
 Of mutual love oblivious quite 
 Of the chill roughness of the night. 
 Which maybe, since it kept the rest 
 
A Summer Christmas. 137 
 
 Within the house, was for the best 
 
 Here Lil disclosed confidingly 
 
 (Still nestling on her lover's knee, 
 
 While her soft damask cheeks and lips 
 
 Frequently underwent eclipse), 
 
 What palpitations of dismay 
 
 The story of Nausicaa 
 
 Had wakened, how she'd nursed a dread 
 
 That he would turn out to be wed, 
 
 Though it did not at first occur 
 
 What difference it made to her ; 
 
 How she had shuddered at the day 
 
 When he would have to go away, 
 
 Although he, it was obvious. 
 
 Could not be always at their house ; 
 
 That truly she had never thought 
 
 Of marriage with him, but had sought 
 
 His company because she found 
 
 That days went far more blithely round 
 
 In his society, than when 
 
 She talked with ordinary men." 
 
 He said, when in due time his lips 
 
 Could spare the leisure from their sips, 
 
 " Your parents may think my demand 
 
 And your surrender of your hand 
 
 A trifle premature upon 
 
 A four days' introduction. 
 
 But four days are enough to show 
 
 How pleasantly my life will go 
 
 With you as help-mate, and you seam 
 
 To know enough of me, to deem 
 
138 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 That I shall fairly well fulfil 
 
 What you meant when you said ' I will.' 
 
 A stranger in a far-off land 
 
 Drifts till he finds a friendly strand 
 
 In some fair, gentle girl like you 
 
 To moor his wandering bark unto. 
 
 Had I the loneliness but known 
 
 Of living in strange lands alone, 
 
 I should have wedded ere I left 
 
 Rather than face it out, bereft 
 
 Of father's, brother's, sister's face, 
 
 Without a wife's to take their place. 
 
 This is my answer to the world. 
 
 If it with lip and nostril curled 
 
 Hints that my suit was rather short. 
 
 Your father's sanction I shall court 
 
 With the fair rank I hold in life 
 
 And proof that I can give a wife 
 
 A decent, comfortable home. 
 
 Though small enough to you who come 
 
 From one like this. My plea to you 
 
 Is that you represent my view 
 
 Of gentle, graceful womanhood, 
 
 Neither too clever nor too good. 
 
 To be caressing when one's tired 
 
 And like being petted and admired. 
 
 Intelligent enough to take 
 
 An interest in plans I make 
 
 And what I write and what I do 
 
 But not what Frenchmen call ' a blue.' 
 
 Women of genius and those 
 
A Summer Christmas. , 139 
 
 Who would their own impress impose 
 On everything a husband does 
 Should chose a husband like the wife 
 Whom I invite to share my life 
 Contented to appreciate, 
 And seeking not to mould, their fate. 
 There cannot in one household be 
 Two-in-command and harmony. 
 
 I have been candid with you, Lil, 
 And told you how you so fulfil 
 My beau-ideal of a wife. 
 You have the merry pride of life. 
 The beauty that allures the eye 
 The grace of form and gait, the shy 
 But never-failing sympathy, 
 The easy, gracious courtesy, 
 And tender girlish helplessness. 
 And more that I can ill express. " 
 
140 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 December 2<)th — Sunday. 
 
 Two persons we may feel quite .sure 
 Found that the morning air was pure, 
 And wondered why folks slept away 
 The nicest two hours in the day, ' 
 Lil and her lover. Lil was drest. 
 As suited the occasion best, 
 In the same gossamery white 
 Which first on Christmas-day saw light. 
 The morn was young and so was she 
 And both were fresh as fresh can be : 
 'Twas early summer in the year 
 And early summer too in her, 
 And nothing looks so apposite 
 To early summer as pure white. 
 
 He picked, some fresh forget-me-not 
 For her to wreath about her throat 
 And now, as then, her slender waist 
 With a broad pale blue sash was laced. 
 
 Unless to scepticism slave, 
 Behold an instance of brain-wave. 
 For ere their blithe good-night they bade 
 No word had Lil or Cobham said 
 Of early rising. Yet they both, 
 Though as a rule extremely loath 
 To quit their bed's society, 
 Were up in time^ to see the sky 
 
A Summer Chrisimas. 141 
 
 Grey with the promise of the dawn 
 And the dew sparkling on the lawn, 
 Each speculating on the chance 
 Of a praeprandial romance. 
 
 Had she been roguishly inclined 
 She might have tried her lover's mind 
 Being ' en rapport ' of the plot 
 And how t' would end, which he was not. 
 But Lil was open as the day 
 And rushed to him with glad " we may," 
 As soon as they were face to face 
 Lending herself to his embrace. 
 With some soft blushes as protest, 
 And toss of her dishevelled crest 
 When it was over. " Yes, we may," 
 Repeated she, nor drew away 
 Her waist from his endearing arm, 
 But yielded to the subtle charm. 
 Which gentle women oft confess. 
 Of feeling her own helplessness. 
 " Last night, when we good-night had said. 
 Before my father came to bed, 
 I called my mother and disclosed 
 The solemn fact that you'd proposed 
 And I'd accepted wedded bliss. 
 Subject to her consent and his. 
 And begged the question of her own 
 By confidently going on 
 And asking her to intercede 
 With Father and my cause to plead. 
 Which she so eloquently did 
 
142 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 That he consented, subject to 
 
 A satisfactory talk with you. 
 
 And— was not dear old mother kind ? — 
 
 She stole to me to ease my mind 
 
 With the good news before she turned 
 
 T' enjoy the sleep she'd so well earned. 
 
 " Father would like it, if you'd walk 
 With him to church, to have the talk. 
 He says that both of you will be 
 Just twice as easy and as free, 
 If you are in the open air. 
 As cooped up in his study there. 
 And that the motion will inspire 
 Your words with swing if not with fire. 
 I'm sure he will not be severe, 
 But if he is, be patient dear, 
 And talk him over — as you can 
 If you are as expert with man." 
 
 The upshot of the walk was this 
 That the dull sermon seemed like bliss 
 To the Professor, for he sate 
 To Lily most approximate 
 And whispered to her a kill-care 
 Before he breath'd his bidding pra/r. 
 And when the ' voluntary ' rose 
 From the harmonium to close 
 The service, kindly Mr Forte 
 Asked — sotto voce — if Lil thought 
 The walk would be too much for her 
 (To rest him since he had walked there 
 
A Summer Christmas. 143 
 
 Was the excuse, although lie went 
 Backwards and forwards quite content 
 On ev'ry Sunday of the year), 
 And when the waggonette was clear 
 Of greeting neighbours, he turned round 
 And told what fairly might astound 
 Miss Ridley, Madge, and Chesterfield, 
 And Maud and Ida, who appealed 
 For abnegation of the tale 
 To Mrs Forte without avail. 
 
 That Lil with Cobham walked alone 
 Had indeed struck Maud Morrison, 
 As rather odd, considering 
 What kind folks say of such a thing. 
 Nor could she the engagement eye 
 Without some pangs of jealousy, 
 Not that she envied Lil her lover 
 (She'd have refused him three times over 
 Had he addressed his suit to her), 
 But in that Lil without demur 
 The object of her choice had gained 
 And every consent obtained. 
 
 Maud was a pretty butterfly 
 Whom all admired as she flew by 
 But every man forbore to touch 
 Lest she should crumble in his clutch. 
 Besides to marry a poor belle. 
 Who hopes to dress and drive out well. 
 Need a long purse, and Midases 
 Are fond of bachelorial ease. 
 
 Ida was filled with pure delight, 
 
144 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 As she was ever, at the sight 
 
 Of fresh-begotten happiness. 
 
 Madge was too shy her thoughts t' express 
 
 But a soft radiance filled the skies 
 
 Of her magnificent blue eyes. 
 
 Like Maud, Miss Ridley felt a pang 
 
 From jealousy's envenomed fang 
 
 That true love's course should be so smooth 
 
 To some folks in their earliest youth. 
 
 While others had to wait and wait. 
 
 Poor suppliants at the feet of fate. 
 
 She'd had a lover of her own 
 
 Since dear old girlish days byegone, 
 
 And that suggestive word ' Engage ' 
 
 Recalled a towered parsonage 
 
 (Towered against the reiving hand 
 
 Of Scotsmen) in Northumberland, 
 
 Where a shy curate tried to tell 
 
 The tale which Lil had liked so well. 
 
 But soon the paroxysm passed 
 Before a joy that was to last, 
 That her pet pupil, whom she loved 
 More than her own kin, thus was moved 
 By one whom everyone approved. 
 And Chesterfield, a bachelor 
 Of forty-three or forty-four. 
 Seized the occasion to descant 
 On the advantages which haunt 
 An early marriage, and went on 
 In his own pleasing way to con 
 All the Professor's pleasing traits 
 
A Summer Chrisimas. 145 
 
 And say the utmost in his praise. 
 
 One good result did really come 
 Of these two lovers walking home, 
 That those, who had not been to church. 
 Were not left blindly in the lurch 
 But posted in the present state 
 Of matters, ere they reached the gate. 
 And doubtless they enjoyed the treat 
 Of trudging through the dust and heat 
 More than a comfortable seat 
 In the paternal waggonette 
 Where seven other persons met. 
 
 Dinner on Sunday being at two 
 Arose the question what to do 
 In the whole hour, which intervened 
 'Twixt front door reached and soup tureened. 
 Decided by a hint from Will 
 That there might be some ' cats ' to kill, 
 Who, hearing the Professor vent 
 Expressions of astonishment. 
 Said that the victim slaughtered thus 
 Was not the old domestic puss 
 But native cat of ferret shape 
 Which would not let one fowl escape, 
 If it were left at liberty 
 To ravage and to multiply. 
 The trap in which the cats were snared 
 Was a large wooden box prepared 
 With inward sloping sides and lid 
 Pierced with a drop, secured and hid 
 With a long tunhiel-fashioned top, 
 
140 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Baited with meat above the drop. 
 
 Will lifted off the lid and showed 
 
 Three slender, sharp-nosed creatures, cowed 
 
 And crouching to conceal themselves 
 
 Under the overhanging shelves, 
 
 And went to fetch his terriers. 
 
 But when he'd seen their spotted furs 
 Lil gave her lover's arm a pull ; 
 She was too soft and pitiful 
 To witness even beasts of prey 
 Being baited : Nor would Cobham stay 
 Although he would have liked no doubt 
 Xo see the rivals fight it out, 
 As cat and dog proverbially 
 Do when they meet in enmity. 
 
 Two cats they coursed, of which the one 
 Was caught and killed ere he had run 
 A dozen yards, the other, given 
 A longer start to make things even, 
 Escaped into a firewood-stack. 
 A ' pup ' was then put in t' attack 
 The third, a staunch fox-terrier 
 Who did not show one sign of fear. 
 Though he had not before this one 
 Been set to face a ' cat ' alone. 
 But boldly grappled with his foe 
 And would not whine or let it go, 
 Although it made its sharp teeth meet 
 Right through the skin of his forefeet. 
 
 Near sundown in the afternoon 
 They took the terriers for a run 
 
A Summer Christmas. 14.7 
 
 About the paddocks, — I should say 
 
 All but the two betrothed, for they 
 
 Wiled the delicious hours away 
 
 Upon a rustic garden seat 
 
 Secured from passing gaze and heat 
 
 By a huge Wellingtonia's boughs 
 
 Sloped downwards — a live summerhouse. 
 
 With branches six feet from the ground 
 
 Inside, and on the turf all round. 
 
 The others sat down while the dogs 
 
 Hunted or scratched at hollow logs 
 
 And holes beneath the gum-tree roots 
 
 For ' possums,' ' cats,' and bandicoots. 
 
 And here and there a rabbit who 
 
 Had not had time to get into 
 
 His proper burrow. Once they were 
 
 Attracted to a terrier 
 
 Whose hind paws only could be seen 
 
 His body being hidden in 
 
 A fallen tree, whence after close 
 
 And lengthy struggle, by the nose 
 
 He drew an old buck ' possum ' out 
 
 Instantly set on by the rout 
 
 And torn to pieces. — To resist 
 
 Impossible. — And once there hissed 
 
 An angry serpent from a log 
 
 Stirred by a stick because no dog 
 
 Would enter to drag out again 
 
 A rabbit which had refuge ta'en. 
 
 » ♦ * * 
 
 All vied in kindliness to Lil 
 
148 A Shimmer Christmas. 
 
 Her cup of ectasy to fill 
 To overflowing. . She had been 
 So warm and gentle in her mien 
 To everyone. The only chaff, 
 Tempered by a disarming laugh, 
 Was Kit's, who put it in this wise 
 " It's not fair to monopolize 
 The only safe man of them all 
 Who may not, if he wants to, fall 
 In love with us, with whom we can 
 Enjoy ourselves like man with man, 
 Without inspiring false alarms 
 Of being victims to their charms. 
 
 " Lil, you our benefactress are 
 For thus disabling for the war 
 Another of the skirmishers 
 Hovering to cut off stragglers 
 Who chance to fall out from the flanks 
 Of the firm Amazonian ranks. 
 
 " A woman can't be fair and free 
 
 Without men fancying that she 
 
 Acknowledges their kindling eye 
 
 And irresistibility." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 There was no story told that night, 
 
 Not because Lil's new found delight 
 
 Demanded leisure undisturbed, 
 
 For 'twould have any how been curbed 
 
 By Mr Forte's religiousness. 
 
 He did not his religion press 
 
 At point of bayonet down one's throat 
 
A Summer Christtnas. 149 
 
 And did not quit his path to note 
 
 Irregularities, which he, 
 
 Walking straight forward, would not see. 
 
 But when it came to yes or no 
 
 He never doubted what to do. 
 
 He was a man who served his Lord 
 
 In deed, in thought, in will, in word. 
 
 But held that ' practice ' and not 'preach ' 
 
 Was the true Christian way to teach. 
 
1 50 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 December- 7,0th. 
 
 Before they went to bed, they'd made 
 Arrangements for a fusillade 
 Of waterfowl upon a lake 
 Some six miles off and, for Lil's sake, 
 Will had proposed that she should ride 
 With the Professor by her side. 
 Saying that he would bring a gun 
 For him and bidding them ride on 
 Because the ' trap ' would overtake 
 The riders ere they reached the lake, 
 But if they reached it first to wait 
 Below the hill-crest at the gate 
 So that the ducks might not be scared 
 ^Before the ambush was prepared. 
 " * * * * 
 
 The dam was of a crescent shape 
 With broad lagoons at either cape : 
 But in the middle just a thread 
 Of water filmed its muddy bed : 
 And here the angle of a fence 
 Gave a slight line of cover, whence 
 Ah ambushed gun might be close to 
 The mobs of ducks and swans which flew 
 In terror towards the top lagoon 
 When started from the lower one. 
 And here Will posted Phil and Hall 
 
A Summer Christmas. 151 
 
 As really the 'best post of all, 
 Although he thought that visitors 
 Were likely to prefer the course 
 Which he himself proposed to take 
 Of stalking first the lower lake 
 And then the upper, where they could 
 See all the wildfowl-brotherhood 
 Wading or floating on the mere 
 And starting up as they drew near. 
 
 Will had arranged that Kit should go 
 With Phil and Hall knowing that so 
 She would have better sport, which she 
 Loved fully as devotedly 
 As any gaitered gentleman 
 Upon the Twelfth of August can. 
 But she refused to, from a fear 
 That Phil might prove sole cavalier. 
 
 The party, who were left to stalk, 
 After a minute's stealthy walk 
 Over the low ridge of a hill, 
 Burst on a spectacle to fiH 
 The least enthusiastic mind 
 With rapture. The whole dam was lined 
 With teal and divers, geese and swans 
 And avocets and pelicans, 
 With ducks of half the species known 
 To colonists, ' musk ' ' black ' and ' brown,' 
 Wood-ducks and mountain-ducks galore. 
 Blue-wings and full a dozen more, 
 With gulls and plovers on the shore 
 And snippets at the water-edge, 
 
152 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And bitterns rising from the sedge. 
 As soon as they had topped the crest 
 A swan, the sentry for the rest, 
 Gave the alarm wdth one long note, 
 Which still was ringing in his throat, 
 When swish in one immense efflux 
 Arose innumerable ducks 
 Leaving just stray ones here and there 
 For the gun-barrels brought to bear 
 With instant swiftness on the spot, 
 Where they had swam, with hail of shot. 
 Kit bagged a brace of black-duck. Will 
 Who hardly ever failed to kill 
 A leash, and the Professor, who 
 Missed with his firsts with number two 
 Brought down a swan so far that it 
 Seemed quite impossible to Kit, 
 While Chesterfield had the good-luck 
 To find a diplomatic duck, 
 Who'd rather take its chance and stay 
 Among the reeds than fly away. 
 
 But Phil and Hall, as Will had said, 
 Enjoyed best sport, for overhead, 
 Soon as the stalkers came in sight 
 Of one lagoon, arose a flight, 
 As thick as locusts, of huge flocks 
 Of swans and geese and teal and ducks, 
 One after other, steering for 
 The far lagoon's remotest shore. 
 Scarce noticing the ambush laid 
 Beneath the fence's treacherous shade. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 153 
 
 Both were good shots and, when the last 
 Of the migrating ' mobs ' had passed, 
 Some dozen dying birds and dead 
 Lay on the ground or with sunk head 
 Floated upon the shallow pool 
 Which linked the two lagoons — so cool 
 And calculating was the aim 
 With which they timed the passing game. 
 
 The stalkers, ' sneaking ' round to try 
 The far lake, found the ducks more shy 
 And only shot a brace or two 
 Of plover, while but few ' mobs ' flew 
 Over the ambush and those few 
 So high as to be out of range. 
 
 Then Will suggested as a change 
 (Because the ducks v»;ould be too wild 
 To be again that day beguiled, 
 And more were lying dead than could 
 Be eaten while their flesh kept good) 
 That they should drive across and kill 
 The rabbits swarming on the hill. 
 
 But Lil and the Professor found 
 Following plover round and round 
 (She on her horse and he on foot 
 In case he had a chance to shoot) 
 More to their taste ; nor did he find 
 That he lost sport to stay behind. 
 For several plover and a crane 
 Soon fell, and once Lil drew her rein 
 And pointed to a patch of grey 
 Down by the water far away. 
 
154 ^ Stimmej' Christmas. 
 
 And bade him draw his cartridges, 
 And put in ' eights ' instead of ' threes,' 
 And steal up to the snijDpet cloud 
 And fire both barrels and reload, 
 In case a bittern should be scared 
 Out of the reeds. He thus prepared, 
 Two dozen ' pipers ' bleeding lay 
 Upon the sand, an easy prey. 
 And, loading fast and aiming well, 
 A huge, soft, mottled bittern fell 
 Which rose up from the sedge as soon 
 As the shot rang o'er the lagoon. 
 He tried to stalk a pelican 
 But ever since the sentry swan 
 Had uttered his first warning note. 
 They had not ventured within shot 
 Or even sight. And half the while 
 He hung upon Lil's radiant smile 
 And fresh voice so attentively 
 That many a wary duck flew by 
 Unnoticed until out of reach, 
 While he was making some sweet speech. 
 
 Will, as he drove away, had cried 
 That if they piled the game beside 
 The fence 'neath which the ambush lay 
 He would drive back again that way 
 And bring it home — of course in jest. 
 Not dreaming that the sporting zest 
 Of the Professor would suffice 
 Even one minute to entice 
 His eyes from Lil's, when they were once 
 
A Slimmer Christmas. 155 
 
 Hidden behind a friendly sconce, 
 And giving it no second thought, 
 Though it was piled up to brought, 
 For Lil had seen enough to tell 
 How untrained horses hate the smell 
 Of wild game, but did not perceive 
 That Will was laughing in his sleeve. 
 
 However, after dinner, she 
 Turned the laugh on him guilelessly 
 By asking where the bittern was. 
 Which he'd brought home for them, because 
 They wished to have it skinned. " Bittern?" 
 He said not knowing where to turn 
 " What bittern ?" " Didn't you come back 
 As you said, by the morning's track 
 To pick the game up ?" " Game up ? No, 
 You never thought I would, did you?" 
 " Of course we did. We hung it up. 
 Just where you told us, on the top 
 Of the two fences, where they meet. 
 Where Phil and Albert had their seat." 
 
 " You see what comes of chaffing, Will," 
 Observed his mother, asking Lil 
 What they had left, and when she heard 
 Their bag, remarked that she preferred 
 Snippets on toast to any bird 
 They'd shot in the whole morning's sport. 
 Whether it was that Mrs Forte 
 Was so inordinately fond 
 Of snippets nicely trussed and browned 
 Or wished mild censure to convey 
 
156 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 To Will for Lil, is hard to say. 
 At any rate she was not wont 
 Her likes and dislikes to recount 
 At other times so forcibly. 
 
 He only smiled, but by and by 
 Went out and caught a horse, and drove 
 The buggy to their treasure-trove. 
 Which, just as they were off to bed, 
 He brought back with diminished head 
 Minus the bittern, which a ' cat ' 
 Had nibbled or a crow pecked at 
 Till it could scarce be recognised 
 For what poor Lil had so much prized. 
 The tale was over long ere this, 
 And Lil had had — well say one kiss 
 , In the large drawing-room, which all 
 Abandoned to their beck and call. 
 
 Lil was in raptures, she had not 
 Deemed that her lover spoke or wrote 
 So manfully as he had told 
 The story of the stormed stronghold. 
 She saw that like the Ithacan 
 Whenever in his story ran 
 Mention of " battles or of ships 
 The whole man changed " and from his lips 
 Poured such a stream of burning words 
 That he who heard beheld the swords 
 Dinted and red with their fierce play 
 And white sails bending o'er the bay. 
 The; three poor soldiers of West -Kentj 
 Men of the Fiftieth Regiment, 
 
A Summer Cki'istmas. 157 
 
 Standing upon the river-sands 
 Awaiting but the staff commands 
 To enter the Urumea, 
 The struggle in the riverway, 
 With ebbing tide and weedy rock, 
 And then the first tremendous shock 
 When they had gained the hostile banks 
 And down on their devoted ranks, 
 With not a stick of shelter nigh, 
 Poured the fierce hail of musketry 
 And canister and hand grenades. 
 And when, above the palisades, 
 They saw the glowing fire barrels 
 And gleaming piles of mortarshells 
 Upon the ramparts of the town, 
 And then the order to lie down 
 While the Trafalgar sixty-eights 
 Breached traverses and parapets, 
 And then that awful pause between 
 With its exploding magazine, 
 And then the ghastly, sickening glee 
 Which the survivor of the three 
 Showed in the storming, when he ran 
 His bayonet right through the man 
 Who'd killed his mate ; and then the'hell 
 Which on the conquered city fell. 
 
 Lil as he had his tale outpoured, 
 Pictured him with a waving sword 
 Urging his men into the breach 
 With manful deeds and manful speech, 
 And thought that he who thus could write 
 
158 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Would be high-hearted in the fight, 
 And yielded to his warm caress 
 With the old pleasing consciousness 
 Of helplessness when at his side 
 Deliciously intensified ; 
 There had been nine that night in all, 
 To hear the story ; Phil and Hall 
 Were playing billiards ; Lachlan Smith 
 Was marking, little pleased thei-ewith, 
 And Will had driven off to find 
 The game which he had left behind. 
 
 The barrister, who liked to hear 
 The stories, had stayed out to cheer 
 Maud Morrison, who need expect 
 Little from Phil except neglect. 
 But so Maud thought and chose to stay 
 Rather than throw herself away, 
 As she esteemed it, upon him 
 If she should fail to win Phil's whim. 
 
 Chesterfield had been chosen king. 
 The subject of the evening 
 Chosen by him was history, 
 A battlepiece of days gone by. 
 Accordingly the Oxford man 
 In a few minutes' time began 
 A lay of San Sebastian, 
 First telling them that he designed 
 The pieces that were shorter-lined 
 As speeches of the Rank and File, 
 And that the longer lines meanwhile 
 Were narrative to tell the tale 
 Where speeches only needs must fail. ' 
 
[^San Sebastia>i.~\ 159 
 
 SAN SEBASTIAN, JULY 31st, 1813. 
 
 A LAY OF THE RANK AND FILE. 
 
 The three Wg bg poor men, that Stand 
 Common ••,■,. , 
 
 Soldiers. Awaitmg the command 
 
 To march with bated breath 
 
 To glory or to death ; 
 
 Nor know we well wherefore 
 
 Our rulers went to war. 
 
 Save that the name of French 
 
 Has an unwholesome stench 
 
 To the true British nose. 
 
 We can well see our foes 
 
 And all that they have done 
 
 Against our coming on. 
 
 That morning, ere the clock struck half-past ten, 
 
 Down in the British trenches all the men 
 
 Were under arms, waiting the bugle call 
 
 To sound the storming-party to the wall. 
 
 And as the tide was going down they viewed 
 
 What well might daunt the sternest hardihood, 
 
 The curtain high of solid masonry, 
 
 With bastion and hornwork and glacis, 
 
 The rampart fronting the Urumea 
 
 And sweeping with its guns the riverway, 
 
i6o A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And the retrenchments the besieged had made 
 
 With gabion, fascine, and palisade 
 
 Against surprise, or storm, or escalade. 
 
 Long-sighted men could see the bayonets 
 
 Glance in the sun behind the parapets. 
 
 And cannon with their muzzles trained to bear 
 
 Upon the breach, and piled shells, and the glare 
 
 Of fire barrels along its summit ranged. 
 
 'Twere superhuman had no colour changed 
 
 E'en in the most undaunted of them all, 
 
 And had no brave men's knees begun to fall 
 
 One on the other as they waited there. 
 
 Anxiety unmans as much as fear. 
 
 And these men had to loiter till the tide 
 
 Of the Urumea should so subside 
 
 That they might pass and press to the assault. 
 
 And ev'ry moment of this enforced halt 
 
 Saw the alert, resolute garrison 
 
 Piling up gabion on gabion, 
 
 AH full of earth, and fascine on fascine, 
 
 And mounting fresh guns on the ravelin. 
 
 Time never seemed so sluggishly to move 
 
 To lover waiting for his lady love 
 
 As to these poor men, till they heard the " sound 
 
 For the advance " upon the bugle wound. 
 
 Although they knew not whether it was death 
 
 Or medalled breasts for them, and laurel wreath 
 
 For the commander that the call declared. 
 
\^San SedasHan.\ i6i 
 
 'Twas half-past ten when they drew up, prepared 
 
 To pass the river when the tide was low, 
 
 Some half hour later ; mercilessly slow 
 
 The minutes crawled, and as each one dragged by, 
 
 Watches by scores, pulled out impatiently, 
 
 Bore witness to the torture of suspense, 
 
 As did sweat drops incessant and immense 
 
 Upon the foreheads.: Some men laughed aloud 
 
 Like madmen : Others, many years too proud 
 
 To bend before their Maker, strove to pray 
 
 In infantile and incoherent way. 
 
 Not unlike one who makes his first essay 
 
 Upon the ice. The very elements 
 
 Seeming to probe and augur the events 
 
 That threatened, threatened too in sympathy. 
 
 Dense thunder clouds wreathed and rolled in the sky 
 
 I>ike cannon smoke, and now and then a flash 
 
 Of hghtning came before the general crash, 
 
 Like the chance shot that, fired by some vedette, 
 
 Brings on the action ; and large drops of wet 
 
 Fell as a spent shot on the rear guard falls. 
 
 Fired at an outpost.. Even animals 
 
 Sniffed something in the air : the horses' ears 
 
 Pricked and their nostrils quivered, and the steers 
 
 Reiv'd by foraging-parties from the pass 
 
 Ceased their contented munching of the grass. 
 
 At last the bugle blew, 
 
 And loud the clamour grew, 
 
 L 
 
1 62 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 As the head columns plunged into the stream, 
 And French and English saw their " barrels '' gleam. 
 They'd still well nigh a furlong more to go 
 Before they reached the outworks of the foe, 
 Part over rocks on which men scarce could stand 
 For slimy seaweed ; part o'er open sand, 
 Without a rise or scrub or pile of stones 
 To shield the storming-party from the guns, 
 Trained upon them from ev'ry embrasure 
 By gunners skilful and themselves secure. 
 
 Oiie of the Glad are we that at last 
 '^^. That standing still is past. 
 
 Counting the piles of shells 
 And guns and fire barrels. 
 " Waiting's Hke lead " say I ; 
 I think I'd rather die 
 Than stand an hour more 
 In rank upon that shore. 
 Feeling my courage ebb 
 As I made out the web 
 They weave for us up there. 
 Like spiders in their lair ; 
 Though the stream is too deep 
 And it's so hard to keep 
 One's footing to the bank. 
 Three file slipped and sank 
 Upon our right just now ; 
 
[San Sebastian.^ 163 
 
 But the tide's getting low. 
 How these jagged rocks do cut 
 Whene'er one slips one's foot, 
 If one has a bad shoe ; 
 My right sole came in two 
 As we marched down the glen 
 Back from Soraoreri. 
 Ah ! now it's sand we're on, 
 I'm glad those rocks are done, 
 They were so slippery 
 With green seaweed, that we 
 Could scarcely stand upright. 
 Let alone march or fight. 
 I wonder why the deuce • 
 They do not fire on us ; 
 We must be quite half way 
 And all this time have they 
 Not fired a single shot. 
 It cannot be — they've not 
 Retreated silently? 
 
 By God, they have not. See ! 
 Full half our men are lower 
 Beneath that with'ring shower 
 Of canister and grape. 
 Will none of us escape ? 
 Oh comrades, this is hell ! 
 Did you see that bombshell 
 
164 A Summer Christinas. 
 
 Blow half a company 
 
 Into eternity ? 
 
 This hail of musketry 
 
 Will kill each mother's son. 
 
 Unless we can press on 
 
 And make our escalades. 
 
 Why they've fixed up swordblades 
 
 Just where we should alight, 
 
 Jumping down from this height; 
 
 And we cannot stop here, 
 
 Picked off by grenadier 
 
 And marksman as we stand. 
 
 It's no good to command 
 
 Fresh men to our support, 
 
 While this infernal fort 
 
 Remains impregnable; 
 
 They're just so much fuel v 
 
 For gunpowder and shot. 
 
 The engineers should not 
 
 Have pronounced the breach good ; 
 
 They never understood 
 
 How strong these ramparts be. 
 
 I do not think that we 
 
 Can leave this place alive, 
 
 However much we strive. 
 
 That curtain is so high ; 
 
 But if we have to die. 
 
 We'll let the foe know why. 
 
[San Sebastian.^ 165 
 
 Although we have to go 
 Over the blades below 
 Up the face of that wall. 
 We know we can but fall, 
 Whether we stand or strike, 
 And I, for one, should like 
 To have the company 
 Of a foe when I die. 
 Come, messmates, don't despair, 
 We have yet time to dare ; 
 We are the forlorn-hope 
 And never should give up, 
 While life and legs are left ; 
 That was a big hole reft 
 In our ranks by that shell ; 
 'Twas close to me it fell, 
 And. killed my right hand man, 
 Poor Ben Ridge ; he began 
 Life with a better start : 
 'Twill break old Ridge's heart. 
 Farmer Ridge of the mill. 
 He's looking for him still 
 At Yalding bridge, I'll bet, 
 Hoping to see him yet 
 Come back safe home again. 
 He 's sisters, too, poor Ben, 
 Crying because he's roaming. 
 And watching for his coming. 
 
t66 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Well, he has ceased to roam 
 And gone to his long home. 
 It will be my turn next, 
 And nobody'll be vexed. 
 No one at Paddockwood 
 Thought I should come to good. 
 I don't mind the shot now, 
 I shall soon be laid low, 
 And the sooner to rest. 
 I never made a quest 
 Of what will follow after 
 Pain, lying still,, or laughter. 
 Hullo ! there goes poor Shann, 
 He was my left-hand man. 
 And yet they don't take me, 
 The worst man of the three. 
 Well, he died best of all. 
 He was right on the wall 
 When he was bayoneted ; 
 I'll swear he wasn't dead 
 When the brute tossed him down 
 Upon the sword blades prone ; 
 And he'd a fair young wife, 
 The star of my dark life, 
 Pretty Marion Gill, 
 The pride of Hunton Hill — 
 Aye, and two little ones. 
 To mourn his far-off bones. 
 
\_San Sebastian. \ 167 
 
 Bleached by Biscayan suns. 
 Well ! this Hell cannot last 
 Long : it must soon be past, 
 And we shall not know how. 
 
 What did that bugle blow ? 
 " Cease Firing." " Halt." "Lie down." 
 The end will now be known. 
 No, mates, be daunted not, 
 All is not over yet ; 
 Did you see that roundshot 
 Shiver the parapet ? 
 That was a Sixty-eight, 
 I know it by the jar ; 
 And those men will fire straight — 
 They fought at Trafalgar, 
 And shot down hundreds four, 
 And silenced ev'ry gun 
 On the great Bucentaure, 
 As they passed broadside on. 
 
 The men were falling at the greater breach 
 
 As fast as waves in winter on the beach ; 
 
 And at the lesser breach the Portuguese " 
 
 Fell thickly, as the suffocated bees 
 
 Before the deadly and sulphureous blast ; 
 
 And succours added corpses, till at last 
 
 Remained nought but to signal — "Halt," " Lie down," 
 
1 68 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And, when the forlorn hope was lying prone, 
 Over their heads to open fire once more, 
 At once from Chofre's bristling lines the roar 
 Of half a hundred great siege pieces burst, 
 And beat the ramparts down till no foe durst 
 Stay on the traverses that did command 
 Th' assaulted parapet on either hand. 
 And after no long time a mortar-shell. 
 Fired with uplifted muzzle, downward fell 
 Into the magazine of hand-grenades. 
 Fire-barrels, and bombshells, and such like aids 
 Wherewith the garrison had thought to hold 
 Their last retrenchments if the battle rolled 
 Over the breaches to the citadel. 
 And all of these, the moment the bomb fell, 
 Leapt up into the air in one bright flash, 
 And with it smoke, and after it a crash — 
 Just such a crash as when the Orient 
 High into air that August night was sent 
 When Nelson rode triumphant at the Nile ; 
 And now, as then, for full a minute's while 
 With friend or enemy no cannon raged. 
 But when the smoke and dust were part assuaged. 
 With the appalling and unearthly cry 
 The British ever raise when battle's high, 
 The stormers leapt upon the first traverse. 
 Yet even then the gallant tirailleurs 
 Rallied, and on the top of the glacis 
 
[San Sebastian.\ 169 
 
 The tide of conflict flowed as doubtfully 
 
 As at the time when ebb and flood converge 
 
 And neither gives nor gains, and the waves surge. 
 
 Yet not for long — out-numbered and assailed 
 
 With that mad stubbornness that has prevailed 
 
 Against incredible odds in every clime, 
 
 The French shrunk backward, and in no long time 
 
 Over the lesser breach upon their flanks 
 
 Fell the fierce Portuguese, and broke their ranks. 
 
 Tlie Soldier. I thought that Sixty-eight 
 
 Would let them feel its weight ; 
 See how the parapet 
 Is battered down by it. 
 It can't be many hours 
 Before the place is ours, 
 From keep' to waterline. 
 
 My God ! they've sprung a mine 
 
 I'm not afraid to die 
 
 But now — I don't know why — 
 
 It seems so hard to go 
 
 The moment that the foe 
 
 Is likely to give in. 
 
 I don't know what is sin. 
 
 And don't know how to pray, 
 
 And, if I knew the way. 
 
 Don't know what good 'twould lie. 
 
lyo A Slimmer Christmas. 
 
 It seems an age to me 
 Before we are blown up. 
 
 God that there were hope ! 
 
 No ! I've escaped this brew, 
 What was't the bugle blew ? 
 "Advance." "Double." "Charge !" now 
 We'll pay them blow for blow. 
 That was a rare old thrust 
 That made him bite the dust. 
 
 1 heard the bayonet squish 
 As it ripped through the flesh, 
 And felt my barrel prest 
 Right up against his chest : 
 That pays for poor young Ridge 
 Who lived by Yalding bridge. 
 This thirsty bayonet 
 
 Has Shann to pay for yet. 
 And pretty Marion — 
 Aye, and each little one. 
 How thick the Frenchmen fall ! 
 Our blood's, up, one and all, 
 With standing neath that wall 
 And being killed like sheep, 
 While they stood on the steep. 
 As safe as men in mail, 
 Just waiting to impale 
 Us as we strove to scale. 
 
[San Sebastian.] 171 
 
 'Twas my turn to assault 
 When the call sounded " Halt,'* 
 Or I should not be here. 
 
 Why here's the grenadier 
 That threw Shann's body down ; 
 I know him by the frown 
 Made by a sabre scar 
 Received in some old war. 
 Perhaps he's not quite dead, 
 He'd best be bayoneted ; 
 Take that, and that ! I'll swear 
 His eyes woke to a stare 
 When first I ran him through : 
 That's more than he will do 
 When he's run through again. 
 What is that ? Have the foe 
 Surrendered to our men ? 
 Then, comrades, to sack ho ! 
 
 O, surely ne'er shall phantasy recite, 
 
 A tragedy to emulate that night ; 
 
 Mid houses sacked and flaming to the sky. 
 
 Arose unintermittently the cry 
 
 Of wives and tender maidens suffering 
 
 The wrong of wrongs that poets blush to sing. 
 
 Age shielded not, nor rank, nor unripe youth 
 
 From lust of the outragers ; nor did ruth 
 
 Hinder from treading on a father's corse, 
 
i 72 A Summer Chris imas. 
 
 Or bayoneting a husband's breast, to force 
 The womanhood he strove from lust to shield. 
 And to and fro the brutal soldiers reeled 
 from drink to rape, and rape to drink again, 
 Like fiends let loose from Hell, rather than men. 
 As, mad with liquor and befouled with blood, 
 They hurled with frantic glee into the mud 
 Pictures and plate, and antique jewellery, 
 And rich apparel, and rare tapestry. 
 As they had been so many packs of wool, 
 And drank raw spirits by the bonnet-full 
 As they got up the kegs, and stove them in 
 With hideous triumph and more hideous din, 
 And mingled the fierce fluid with the gore 
 Of all who said them nay, or stood before 
 The drunkard or seducer at his work. 
 While with wan glare the frequent lightning-fork 
 Put the tall flames in shade and made the scene 
 Look trebly devihsh, and, in between, 
 The thunder crashes drowned the voice of crime. 
 In gentler times, it well might look sublime 
 To see the flashes point the Pyrenees 
 And multiply reflections on the seas ; 
 But now it seemed as if the Powers of air 
 Thundered in sympathy, and came to share 
 In the new Hell. In vain the officers. 
 In spite of mutinous and gnashing curse, 
 Strove to rein in the men, and form again 
 
[San Sebastian?^ 1 73 
 
 Into some order, and as much in vain 
 Spoke of the Castle, yet intact, where lay 
 With fresh battalions the undaunted Rey, 
 Waiting, perchance, to fall upon the foe. 
 And retribution wring for that day's woe. 
 The men, unmoved, murdered and pillaged on 
 And outraged, amid moan, and moan, and moan. 
 
 The Soldier. You, sir, pray where were you, 
 You with your epaulettes. 
 When from the parapets 
 The grape rained down and slew 
 Us poor chaps by the score ? 
 I daresay with the staff 
 Upon the further shore, 
 Having a sneering laugh 
 At some unfeeling jest. 
 While we poor devils, prest 
 Upon the open sand. 
 Went down hand over hand. 
 
 You call us savages — 
 So'd you be an' you please. 
 If you'd been penned all day 
 And shot and shot away 
 Without striking a blow, 
 And seen a bloody foe 
 Toss on the pikes below 
 The bodies of your friends 
 
174 ^ Summer Christmas. 
 
 Before they met their ends. 
 Don't talk to me of wives ! 
 Did they think of Shann's wife 
 When they tossed down poor Shann 
 On the pikes, a live man ? 
 Don't talk to me of lives, 
 Tell me ! wasn't Shann's life 
 Worth any enemy's? 
 Will she have dryer eyes 
 Than a Frenchwoman would ? 
 What'ud her womanhood 
 Have been worth if they'd won, 
 And then had fallen on 
 Her in a conquered town ? 
 Because her eyes are brown 
 Would they liave let her go ? 
 Would a bosom of snow 
 Have hindered them, forsooth. 
 From soiling her fair youth ? 
 Man, man, we are but men, 
 Though we wear a red coat 
 And march into a moat 
 Twenty feet deep and drown, 
 If we are ordered down 
 In battle's hour. But when 
 The battle's o'er and won, 
 A chap must have his run ; 
 And harkee, sir, I will. 
 
[_San Sebasiian.\ 175 
 
 Pull out your sword and kill 
 
 Me, an' you like, who stood 
 
 Against the French all day ; 
 
 I can't fight, an' I would. 
 
 I threw my piece away. 
 
 And can no weapon get 
 
 Except a bayonet. 
 
 " Drink " did you say ? Why not ? 
 
 I haven't had a pot 
 
 Of drink this long month's space. 
 
 " Drunk !" you know by my face ! 
 
 Well, and if I were worse, 
 
 I shouldn't care a curse. 
 
 I've done my work to-day. 
 
 And mean to have my play. 
 
 " Murder !" Didn't they kill 
 
 Poor Ridge, of Yalding Mill 
 
 With a bursting bombshell, 
 
 While we were in that hell 
 
 Under their parapet. 
 
 Before the Sixty-eight 
 
 Smashed up the traverses ? 
 
 Are their lives more than his ? 
 
 I ran through my first man 
 
 For throwing down poor Shann ; 
 
 The next for young Ben Ridge^ 
 
 And the next for old Ben 
 
 That lives by Yalding bridge. 
 
!•/§ A Summer Christmas. 
 
 One for each sister, and then 
 Two for Shann's bonny wife, 
 And took a Frenchman's life 
 For either little one. 
 I didn't stop to count 
 How many more went down 
 When first we stormed the town. 
 Lord ! how the blood does mount 
 When one gets a fair rush 
 And a bayonet push 
 After standing for hours 
 Riddled with steady showers 
 Of grape and canister. 
 No offence to you, sir. 
 But men will be men here : 
 And not to interfere 
 Is all that you can do, 
 And no disgrace to you. 
 Nothing will cure to-night 
 But the chill of daylight. 
 
 Will asked the two betrothed to stay 
 After the rest had gone away. 
 Wishing to make apologies 
 About the bittern's obsequies. 
 And after these were laughed off, all 
 Lingered awhile about the hall. 
 It seemed so odd to Will to think 
 
A Summer ChiHstmas. 177 
 
 That Lil, who yet was on the brink 
 
 Of girlhood and of womanhood, 
 
 Was soon to leave their home for good. 
 
 To him she still was just a child 
 
 As bright, ingenuous and wild. 
 
 And he was curious to see 
 
 Her with her lover quietly 
 
 To form his own conjectures of 
 
 Their future happiness and love. 
 
 Reader, observe the tender touch 
 Of nature which delights so much. 
 To Lil it was a luxury 
 To sit upon her lover's knee 
 Before her brother openly. 
 It showed her that the love she prized 
 Was regular and recognised. 
 She knew that if it did look bold 
 No human being would be told. 
 As far as Will's tongue was concerned, 
 And her soft heart within her burned 
 To symbolise in outward ways 
 The love which so fulfilled her days. 
 
 M 
 
1 78 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 December 2,1. st. 
 
 To-day they voted a battue 
 
 And hunt among the kangaroo. 
 
 Himself a horseman bold and good 
 
 As very fevy who ever rode, 
 
 Will on the hunt cold water threw. 
 
 " At all events it would not do 
 
 For the Professor, or indeed 
 
 For Chesterfield, to ride full speed 
 
 Through the thick scrub with fallen trees 
 
 And rabbit-burrows thick as bees. 
 
 And he would be much loath to lend 
 
 His worst horse to his dearest friend 
 
 For such a freak. Of course if Lil 
 
 And Kit and Margaret and Phil 
 
 Liked to ride their own nags they could, 
 
 Or lend them just as they thought good. 
 
 But in his judgment it was best — 
 
 At any rate he would suggest — 
 
 To get a shooting-party up. 
 
 And send some men ahead to stop 
 
 And some men back to drive the game 
 
 Right past. He knew the tracks they came 
 
 To drink and feed, and easily 
 
 Could post guns just where they passed by." 
 
 " Why not do both ? " asked Kit, who was 
 
 Ready upon the slightest cause 
 
A Summer Christmas. i J'g 
 
 To ride wherever there was risk 
 
 Of breaking neck or Umb, as brisk 
 
 In courting danger as her wit 
 
 Was ready in eluding it. 
 
 " Why not do both ? We might divide 
 
 Some post ourselves, and others ride 
 
 To help the men. I volunteer." 
 
 " And I," cried Phil just after her, 
 
 Fired with the possibilities 
 
 Which might from the rencontre rise 
 
 (And which shrewd Kit had duly weighed 
 
 But thought she could contrive t' evade 
 
 On plea of ' beating ' properly 
 
 Whenever he came too close by). 
 
 Phil lent the horse which Hall rode on, 
 
 First offered to Maud Morrison, 
 
 Who rode sometimes but " did not care,'' 
 
 So she said, meaning " did not dare " 
 
 To ride that day. The only one 
 
 Who did not go but would have gone 
 
 Was Lil, who as above was told 
 
 When upon horseback was as bold 
 
 As she was timid otherwise. 
 
 But she was met with pleading eyes 
 
 By the Professor, when- she glanced 
 
 In question, and discountenanced. 
 
 The bare idea of the ride 
 
 His active fancy terrified 
 
 With nightmare dreams of accidents, 
 
 JNor did he like experiments. 
 
i8o A Stcmmer Christmas. 
 
 Will, a good bushiiian, knew each track 
 
 The kangaroo would likely take 
 
 When beaten up, and spread his force 
 
 At vantage-points along the course. 
 
 He took the first point, that his gun 
 
 Might warn the others. Further on 
 
 Was Chesterfield, and Lachlan Smith 
 
 Still further. Lil was posted with 
 
 Her lover — one good reason was 
 
 That they enjoyed it, one because 
 
 Lil bred to country life had eyes 
 
 More open to its mysteries 
 
 Than the Professor, and the two 
 
 Were posted last, because Will knew 
 
 That folks so prepossessed as they 
 
 Might hear a gun go off all day 
 
 And hardly notice. While they lay 
 
 Crouched in the fern, they watched the life , 
 
 With which the forest depths are rife, — 
 
 The cold snake coiling in the sun 
 
 On any open space ; the dun 
 
 And drowsy ' native bear ' at ease, 
 
 Wedged in high forks of lofty trees; 
 
 The blue and scarlet lory sitting 
 
 Close by his much-loved mate, or flitting 
 
 With a discordant scream between 
 
 The ' lightwood's ' dense and sombre green. 
 
 Rivalled in his metallic blue 
 
 By ' warbler ' cock ' superb ' in hue. 
 
 But little as a common wren 
 
 With a most unpretentious hen ; 
 
A Summer Christmas. i8i 
 
 The jackass, perched upon a branch 
 Of a bare gum-tree, who would launch 
 From time to time unearthly peals 
 Of laughter, watching as it steals 
 And darts alternately, his prey. 
 The common lizard, while there lay 
 Seemingly sleeping in the heat, 
 A huge iguana 'neath his feet. 
 The insect-world was everywhere, — 
 Flies and mosquitoes in the air, 
 Tyrannical and trumpeting ; 
 Spiders of all kinds ravelling 
 In filmy threads each bush and tree ; 
 Ants all round far as one could see 
 Pursuing their eternal march. 
 Coming and going through an arch 
 Made by two pebbles in the ground, 
 Or crossing a ravine profound, 
 Nothing so little or so great 
 To baffle them — as stern as Fate. 
 
 But strange ! in all the hum of life 
 With which the forest-morn was rife, 
 No single note of song was heard 
 Like that the yellow-billed, black bird 
 Raises when cherries turn to red 
 In Kent : nor aught was heard instead 
 Save the deep-throated native thrush 
 Calling out from the leafy bush 
 Of some tree-top his ' who are you,' 
 Clear-toned but tuneless, and the new 
 Incomparable chant, bell-like 
 
1 82 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Resounded by the magpie-shrike. 
 
 At last they came, the kangaroo, 
 Not in a drove but one or two. 
 And these not the great ' foresters ' 
 But small ' brush-kangaroo,' with furs 
 Of reddish tinge, not that ther^ was 
 A dearth of them there but because 
 The riders, five of them in all, 
 Two men and Phil and Kit and Hall 
 Had failed to keep the proper line 
 Which constituted Will's design. 
 Phil was in fault : he was to ride 
 Upon the left on the outside 
 The shooters being on the right 
 And the ' stops ' posted opposite. 
 And this was how it came about : 
 Kit was next Phil and he fell out, 
 Attracted by her pretty face, 
 To be near her ; and thus a space 
 Was left uncovered on the left 
 By which the game with instinct deft 
 Broke sidewas's out of the cordon. 
 Only a few were hurried on, 
 In their blind flight unnoticing 
 The gap left open on the wing, 
 And Will had settled two of them, 
 And Chesterfield one after him, 
 Bringing them down to one or two. 
 Which scarcely as much leapt as flew, 
 So scared were they when they came up 
 To where the last gun had to stop. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 183 
 
 He fired two cartridges away 
 After the heltering-skeltering prey 
 Without result, and then crouched still 
 Until he heard a shout from Will 
 Calling to lunch, which he discussed 
 With pleasure, tempered by disgust 
 Attendant on his ill-success, — 
 Doomed to be transient none the less. 
 
 Lunch over, when the rest had gone 
 Partly to leave the two alone, 
 Partly to try the ground once more 
 In the same order as before 
 Beginning from the other side, 
 With Phil and Kit told off to ride 
 On the two flanks to quite prevent 
 Any such tender incident 
 As that which spoiled the morning's sport. 
 
 The morning had left Philip Forte 
 More hopelessly in love than e'er 
 With Kit. She looked so queenly fair 
 In her close-fitting habit made 
 Of light-grey tweed ; and in the glade 
 With her blood dancing as she rode 
 Full speed, no mortal woman could 
 Maintain an iciness of mien ; 
 The magic of the time and scene 
 And motion lured her back into 
 A mood that really was her true 
 And natural mood, and she received 
 Advances with what he believed 
 Was wakening love, but which in truth 
 
184 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Was just the heartiness of youth 
 Laid open with excitement's wand. 
 In course of time the lovers fond 
 The old adage did illustratfe, 
 That he who can afford to wait 
 Must win. For, as they sat at ease 
 Under the overhanging trees 
 On cushions from the waggonette, 
 Still lingering where lunch was set, 
 One of the horses tethered near 
 Began to snort and prick his ear. 
 Lil, a good bushman, noticed it. 
 And bade him load his gun and sit 
 As still as death, and soon the sound 
 Of a dull thud upon the ground 
 Confirmed suspicions, and there hopped 
 Almost to where they were, and stopped, 
 Looking about suspiciously 
 At the strange sights which met its eye, 
 A full-grown ' old man ' kangaroo. 
 " Shoot it," said Lil, and full and true 
 Into its head her lover poured 
 A charge of buckshot, on the sward 
 Dropping his prey, without a kick 
 As stiff and lifeless as a stick. 
 Lil first felt glad that it was shot, 
 And then she wished that it were not. 
 Glad that her lover had obtained 
 What he so much desired, and pained 
 For the poor beast, whose great dark eyes 
 Pled mutely for her sympathies. 
 
[5«////tf.] 185 
 
 At last she gave adherence to 
 Her lover, not the kangaroo. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Ida was queen that night, and made 
 Her choice of subject ' Love, ' and bade 
 The lover concentrate his tale 
 Not on the female but the male. 
 "You've given us a. picture of 
 A pretty English girl in love 
 In Ethel. Show us if you can 
 The feelings of an JEnglishman 
 In the same sweet predicament. " 
 " Bravo ! " exclaimed with one consent 
 Kit and the statesman, and the first 
 Whispered, " I did not think she durst, 
 Has not she splendid impudence 
 To sally thus at his expense ? " 
 
 Cobham took refuge in a smile. 
 And, thinking for a little while, 
 Gave them a tale half revery 
 And half of it reality. 
 
 SAPPHO. 
 
 (A REVERY.) 
 
 The full moon ghtters on the sand. 
 The North Sea ripples on the strand. 
 The low cliff's shadow from above 
 Falls on a little landlock'd cove, 
 Which, deep and dang'rous to the edge, 
 
1 86 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Mines underneath the chalky ledge, 
 
 Save where the bank, with gentle sink, 
 
 Slopes downward to the water's brink. 
 
 Here Harold stood : the night was clear, 
 
 And through the purple atmosphere 
 
 The stars shone brightly, and the sea 
 
 Sang chorus to his rhapsody : 
 
 A man whom all might happy deem. 
 
 And women love, and men esteem ; 
 
 Full broad of shoulder, strong of arm, 
 
 And deaf to anger or alarm, 
 
 But chivalrous in hastiness 
 
 To champion trouble or distress ; 
 
 As great in spirit as in frame. 
 
 In danger and distress the same, 
 
 With wild, dark, handsome, haunting face- 
 
 And strength in manhood serves for grace : 
 
 Able was he to hold his own. 
 
 And worthy admiration ; 
 
 Accustom'd since he scarce could stand 
 
 To the stern pastimes of his land : 
 
 At first to shoulder off the stool 
 
 The other little boys at school, 
 
 And then to wrestle and to fight 
 
 With ten-year rivals, his delight ; 
 
 Then competition took the place 
 
 Of stand-up fighting face to face ; 
 
 There were brave battles to be fought 
 
\Sappho.\ 187 
 
 In beating other boys at sport ; 
 
 And as the rolling years went on 
 
 Great glory in such sports he won ; 
 
 Fours to true leg, straight spanking drives 
 
 Snick'd twos and threes, clean cuts for fives, 
 
 Fast ripping balls, well on the wicket, 
 
 Made him renown'd in Rugby cricket. 
 
 Hot ' hacks ' exchanged, ' tries ' dearly bought ; 
 
 A hero in the sterner sport. 
 
 He'd stalk'd the red deer over Highland rocks ; 
 
 He'd ' taken' untried fences for the fox ; 
 
 In Kentish copses, 'neath an autumn sun, 
 
 The largest bag had fallen to his gun ; 
 
 In Norway rivers, waist-deep in the flood, 
 
 Salmon of weight had yielded to his rod : 
 
 Alone, afoot, on many a weary day. 
 
 O'er steep wet moor and featureless highway. 
 
 He strode to fields of unforgotten fights 
 
 Of Rupert's cavaliers and Clifford's knights ; 
 
 To storied castles shatter'd in the war 
 
 'Twixt Crown and Commons, minsters where of yore 
 
 Dunstan and Baeda fed the sacred light 
 
 Of learning in the long dark English night ; 
 
 To abbeys rich with knightly founders' bones, 
 
 And gifts of bygone heroes and kings' sons ; 
 
 To great cathedrals hallow'd by the pray'r 
 
 Of great dead men ; to cities famed and fair ; 
 
 To torrents foaming, fretting, falling fast. 
 
1 88 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And mighty rivers slowly sailing past 
 
 By stately halls and immemorial trees ; 
 
 To lonely wolds and humming village leas, 
 
 Green downs, and grey gaunt mountains, and broad 
 
 plains 
 Strewn with old chieftains' tombs and fallen fanes ; 
 To silent reed-fring'd lake and lone sea-shore, 
 As silent, save for surf and storm wind's roar. 
 He knew the names of all known stars in heaven — 
 The heralds of the morning and the even ; 
 He knew the names of all the birds that fly. 
 And beasts that range beneath the Northern sky. 
 And many fish that in the north seas ply ; 
 He knew the gauzy denizens of air. 
 And had a hoard wherein the rich and rare 
 Of daily butterfly and nightly moth 
 Were ranged together, and he knew in troth 
 The name of every flow'r that wood and field 
 From Cornwall to Northumberland do yield. 
 
 Ballads he knew, and many a legend old 
 In knightly Kent and daring Devon told, 
 And many a border-boast and roundelay 
 Sung in the good green wood : these he would say 
 Word by word, line by line, and verse by verse, 
 After the croonings of a fond old nurse. 
 Who had nought else to teach him : these he knew, 
 And sought out many other when he grew, 
 
[Sappho.l 189 
 
 In dingy quarto bought at fusty stall 
 Or 'neath old cottage prints fantastical. 
 
 Oft far into the night he converse held 
 With the great minds and noble hearts of eld — 
 Caedmon and Mallory, and old Geoffry, 
 The sire and sieur of English poesy ; 
 Spenser and More and Shakspere, England's voice, 
 In whom the ears of ages shall rejoice ; 
 Sweet Sidney, Beaumont, Fletcher, ' rare old Ben,' 
 And glorious Milton, brave John Bunyan, 
 Pepys, Evelyn, Clarendon, Addison, 
 Dick Steele, Defoe and Swift — these he would con, 
 And Keats and fairy Shelley, who could tell 
 The sadness of all happiness too well ; 
 And Landor, he to whom 'twas given to show 
 The longings and the life of long ago. 
 
 And often to these meetings at midnight 
 Came old school friends he'd studied with delight, 
 Not diligence : Homer the editor, 
 And Hesiod the old, and many more ; 
 Dear babbling, loosely-leam'd Herodotus, 
 Euripides, Sophocles, .^schylus, 
 Plato and Aristotle ; and the soft 
 Anacreon came with them ; nor less oft 
 Came sage Lucretius and Cicero, 
 Virgil and witty Horace, Gallio 
 And legendary Livy ; oft too came 
 The second sire of poetry — a flame 
 
190 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 From his own Hell was burning in that breast, 
 
 Whence the triunal vision was express'd — 
 
 Condemn'd, his love unknown and dead, to roam 
 
 In poor and painful exile from his home. 
 
 And with him came Messer Boccaccio, 
 
 Full of the loves and jests of long ago ; 
 
 And many a bard who'd listed to his tales, 
 
 And sung them o'er again, and one from Wales, 
 
 And one from Alcalk, and many more 
 
 Whose names were writ in fire, in days of yore. 
 
 And sometimes, when he heard the stirring hum 
 Of music or great shoutings, there would come 
 Heroes and hosts : Herman and Hannibal, 
 Etzel, the Cid, Roland of Roncesvalles, 
 Harold of Hastings, Richard Lion-heart 
 And Edward the Black Prince ; nor far apart, 
 Hawkins and Drake, Raleigh and Frobisher, 
 And the great Howard, Ironside Oliver 
 And his Ironsides, and Rupert, hand-on-sword. 
 And Buonaparte, and he who cross'd the ford 
 Against advice and conquer'd on that day 
 When he won Plassey and England India ; 
 And those Six Hundred heroes. And at times, 
 Releas'd by midnight's necromantic chimes, 
 Came the true lovers and wild souls of yore — 
 Dauntless Medea, one from Naxos' shore, 
 Helen and light-heart Paris, Psyche true, 
 
\Sappho.\ 1 9 1 
 
 Aspasia and the masterman who drew 
 
 More glory from her sweetness than the sway 
 
 Of Athens in her hour, and Thais gay, 
 
 Who ruled the world's commander : with these came 
 
 Dido and lone larbas, hearts of fame, 
 
 That lov'd at odds ; and some of later name — 
 
 Abelard, Heloise, and Rosamond, 
 
 And Castile's Eleanor, whose love was found 
 
 Proof against poison, and the Florentine 
 
 Who bore deep graven on his heart divine 
 
 The little maid twice seen through years of power 
 
 And years of pain : and many a rare hour 
 
 Came the white Queen of Scots. Here all who fell 
 
 Victims to service true, or lov'd too well, 
 
 Were welcome, for his wild heart long'd to know 
 
 Such love as beauty tender'd long ago. 
 
 Indeed, he ev'ry gift could boast 
 But the three gifts he valued most — 
 Wealth to pet beauty, beauty's self, 
 Won for his own sake, not for pelf, 
 And laurels of a poet : he 
 Enough had tasted of all three 
 To thirst for more. To many a maid 
 His fancy 'd for a moment stray'd ; 
 Blue eyes and hazel, grey and brown, 
 Had answer'd frankly to his own ; 
 Auburn and flaxen, black and gold, 
 
192 A Summej" Christmas. 
 
 Had mesh'd his heart in glossy fold ; 
 
 But ever came an undertone 
 
 Of something wanting in each one. 
 
 The lady of his choice should be 
 
 Sublime in her simplicity, 
 
 Of lowly mind and high estate, 
 
 And fairy-light in grace and gait ; 
 
 One who would try to understand 
 
 Whate'er he wrote, whate'er he plann'd ; 
 
 With fitful anger for defence 
 
 Against abus'd obedience, 
 
 And just sufficient patience 
 
 To obviate unjust offence ; 
 
 With beauty intellectual, 
 
 The rarest witchery of all, 
 
 And curly clustering wealth of hair 
 
 Indented by a forehead fair, 
 
 And broad and creamy ; thoughtful eyes, 
 
 Open in innocent surprise. 
 
 Melting in pity, fired in wrath, 
 
 Pouring the soul's whole secret forth 
 
 In love, not unacquaint with tears. 
 
 She must have tender girlish fears. 
 
 And a soft voice, with elfin mirth, 
 
 And presence equal to her birth ; 
 
 She must be coy — the more they cost 
 
 More dear they are, the dearest most7 
 
 But when she yields let her confess 
 
[Sappho.'] 1-93 
 
 With all the gentler tenderness, 
 And hungry kiss and hot caress. 
 Passion and love walk hand in hand : 
 Content is imitation bland 
 For widowers and second wives, 
 And men whose ledgers are their lives ; 
 Youth's passion-flow'r is delicate 
 And, blighted, blossoms not till late. 
 
 Sooth'd by the sweet salt soughing breeze, 
 He lingered over shapes like these, 
 Now peering from the ledge above 
 Into the clear depth of the cove, 
 Now gazing upward at a star, 
 And now across the sea afar, 
 To a lithe schooner-yacht that lay. 
 Nodding her slim masts, on the bay ; 
 When suddenly he heard the plash. 
 And saw the phosphorescent flash 
 Of dipping oars, and then a skiif. 
 Making the shore beneath the cliff. 
 A muffled lady and old man 
 Sat in the stern-sheets ; soon it ran 
 To where the coast with gradual sink 
 Sloped downwards to the water's brink. 
 
 The old man rose, and lightly sprung 
 Ashore, and safe. The shallop swung 
 Just as his daughter leapt, and she 
 
194 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Sank in the clear depth of the sea ; 
 She swerv'd and sank without a sound, 
 And as she fell the scarf unwound 
 That veil'd her features, and laid bare 
 A sweet fair face and gold of hair 
 Crowning it ; as she sank she smiled, 
 And shot a glance intense and wild 
 Up at the ledge where Harold stood. 
 He in a strange ecstatic mood 
 Was gazing downwards at the flood. 
 And the wet face, which seem'd to be 
 That of a goddess of the sea. 
 Then in he plung'd, she gripp'd his arms 
 And, in the terror that disarms 
 The mind of reason, dragg'd him down. 
 As Sirens in the legend drown 
 
 The victims of their song. 
 He thought in that short minute's space 
 Of his long start and ill-run race. 
 
 Of all the waste and wrong 
 That crowded in his misspent life. 
 Of all the soarings and the strife 
 
 Of his foreshorten'd day, 
 Of ev'ry uncompleted aim, 
 Of unachiev'd desire of fame. 
 
 And chances slipp'd away : 
 And ere his senses lost control- 
 He thought of his immortal soul, 
 
\Sapphoi\ 195 
 
 And felt he could not pray. 
 
 The Dream. 
 
 He, standing by the landlock'd cove, 
 
 Built airy palaces of love. 
 
 And, leaning over, strove to peer 
 
 Beneath the starlit waters clear, 
 
 When suddenly arose a maid 
 
 Out of the depth, and, unafraid, 
 
 Swam near him, and in sweet, soft voice 
 
 Bade Harold welcome, and rejoice. 
 
 " At last," she said, "my love, thou'rt come : 
 
 Thou hast been long away from home." 
 
 He look'd at her, but could not tell 
 
 What maid it was that lov'd him well, 
 
 And said, " Who are you, sweet ?" but she — 
 
 " Wilt thou renew thy cruelty. 
 
 Erst cruel Phaon ? know'st thou not 
 
 Thy bride, thy Sappho ? From my grot 
 
 Beneath the ocean oft have I 
 
 Gazed upward at the shore and sky 
 
 To see thee once again ; and now 
 
 Thou'rt come. I pray thee, dear heart, vow 
 
 That thou wilt ne'er forsake me more 
 
 For idle dalliance on the shore. 
 
 But seek in love's unfailing arms 
 
 A shelter from the world's alarms. 
 
.196 A Summei'- Christmas. 
 
 And pillow'd on a white warm breast 
 Lull thine o'er-labour'd head to rest." 
 
 He edg'd a step toward the cove, 
 Irresolute 'twixt life and love ; 
 She swam a stroke toward the shore, 
 Pleading and beckoning the more, 
 And said, " I loved those wilful curls 
 As none among the Lesbian girls : 
 No maid in Mitylene 'd prize 
 Gems, as I prized those glad brown eyes — 
 I, who the love of man defied. 
 Offered my beauty to your pride, 
 And you despised it ; then I wail'd 
 And all my joy in living fail'd. 
 And oft I sought a lonely rock 
 That quiver'd with the billows' shock. 
 And bore my burthen to the breeze, 
 And sang my sorrows to the seas ; 
 And last I plung'd, in hope to be 
 Reprieved by death from misery. 
 
 " But the mermen pined for the love of me, 
 
 As I sang to the sea and sky ; 
 And those who are loved by kings of the sea 
 
 May be drown'd, but cannot die. 
 
 "Their kisses I loath' d, and I loath'd their love. 
 The more as they prov'd more true ; 
 
[Sappho.^ i()7 
 
 And all the day long I would rove and rove, 
 Watching and waiting for you. 
 
 " Then lay down your weary head in my arras, 
 
 And you shall a merman be, 
 And reign as a king in the careless calms 
 
 Of the fathomless sapphire sea." 
 
 Harold. 
 " But I have joys I cannot leave : 
 The glow of morning and of eve, 
 
 The glory of the noon ; 
 The golden sun that shines on high. 
 The stars embroidefd on the sky, 
 
 The silver of the moon." 
 
 Sappho. 
 " But the sun shines through the breast of the blue. 
 
 And moon-finger'd waves are fair. 
 And the stars we view reflected anew 
 
 On the gold of mermaid hair." 
 
 Harold. 
 " But I have other joys than these : 
 The cliffs and mountains, and the breeze 
 
 That freshens round their tops ; 
 The valleys with their kirtles green, 
 The uplands with their shoulders sheen 
 
 And coronal of copse.'' 
 
igS A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Sappho. 
 
 " There are hills and valleys below the deep 
 
 Far fairer than any of earth ; 
 And the winds of your mountains wake and sleep, 
 
 In the ocean that gives them birth." 
 
 Harold. 
 
 " But I have fairy flow'rs that rise 
 Fresh from their winter obsequies 
 
 To decorate the spring ; 
 And others of a later day 
 To grace the summer, and delay 
 
 The autumn's taking wing." 
 
 SappAo. 
 
 " The sea-flowers are more glorious far, 
 
 And they never sleep or die ; 
 Our anemones wear the shape of a star, 
 
 And hue of a sunset sky." 
 
 flarold. 
 
 " And I have groves whose living shade 
 Is canopy and colonnade 
 
 Beneath an August sun ; 
 Choice garden trees with fruitage fine, 
 
\Sappho.\ 199 
 
 And evergreens that never pine 
 When August days are done." 
 
 Sappho. 
 
 " And under the sea there are gardens sweet, 
 And coral groves red and white ; 
 
 We know not the changes of cold and heat. 
 But love the sun for his light." 
 
 Harold. 
 
 " The birds I love so fleet and fair 
 That glitter through the sunny air, 
 
 And warble in the dawn ; 
 The insect-radiance of May, 
 Whose dotage closes with the day 
 
 That saw their brightness bom." 
 
 Sappho. 
 
 " We have beautiful shapes and tuneful shells 
 
 In our wondrous world below ; 
 But the glories of ocean no one tells, 
 
 And none but the mermen know." 
 
 Harold. 
 
 " But most of all I love to stand 
 On each grey castle of our land, 
 
206 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And nodding Norman keep, 
 Telling with scatter'd walls and scars 
 A rugged tale of great old wars 
 
 And warriors long asleep : 
 To muse on moss-hid arch and aisle 
 Of desecrate Cistercian pile 
 
 And fane of long ago ; 
 To wander through a village street 
 Trod by a great man's childish feet 
 
 While yet his lot was low ; 
 To gaze across a moor whereon 
 A famous victory was won 
 
 Or some stout hero fell ; 
 And often have I fondly roved 
 Where two wild lovers met and lov'd, 
 
 Not wisely, but too well." 
 
 Sappho. 
 
 " We have no castles in ruin revered, 
 
 No abbeys of long ago, 
 No villages where great men were rear'd 
 
 While yet their lot was low. 
 But we have some rare old battle-grounds 
 
 Where heroes were kill'd at bay. 
 And buried chiefs without burial mounds. 
 
 And trystings of lovers gay. 
 Then lay down your wearied head in my arms. 
 
 And you shall a merman be, 
 
\_Sappho.\ 20 1 
 
 And reign as a king in the careless calms 
 Of the fathomless sapphire sea." 
 
 Harold. 
 
 " But under the sea, love, under the sea, 
 What do you do for the clear blue sky ? " 
 
 Sappho. 
 
 " O ! the clear blue sea is a sky to me, 
 And our heaven is not too high." 
 
 Then in he plung'd : she drew him down, 
 As sirens in the legend drown 
 
 The victims of their melody. 
 The waters gurgled in his ears. 
 
 He deem'd that he must die ; 
 But Sappho sooth'd away his fears 
 
 With kisses wooingly. 
 Down, down they sank until they reach'd 
 A sapphire-vaulted cavern beach'd 
 With jet and shells of pearl ; the walls 
 Were cataracts and waterfalls. 
 Here they abode full lovingly, 
 And smoothly the quick days sped by. 
 Sometimes he sits upon the rocks, 
 Upgathering her elfin locks ; 
 Sometimes she sits upon his knee, 
 And sings him anthems of the sea ; 
 
202 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Sometimes upon the sand he lies, 
 Gazing at sea-blue steadfast eyes 
 
 That concentrate on him ; 
 And sometimes for an hour's space 
 He dallies with a fair, fond face 
 
 And body rounded slim. 
 She tells him legends of the deep, 
 And shows him where the mermen keep 
 
 Their fleet of founder'd ships, 
 And where their milliard army lies 
 Of skeletons with hollow eyes 
 
 And grinning jaws for lips. 
 But most of all she's used to tell 
 Of those old hours she lov'd so well, 
 
 The hours of Lesbian song ; 
 To call back some sad roundelay, 
 That wiled away an elderday 
 
 Whereon he linger'd long ; 
 To call back how it sooth'd to rove, 
 And tell the breezes of her love 
 
 And waters of her woes ; 
 To whisper consummated bliss, 
 And seal her whisper with a kiss. 
 
 And sink in sweet repose. 
 
 Thus sped they many a joyous day 
 In amorous and peaceful play. 
 Glad of a respite from the fears 
 
\Sappho.\ 203 
 
 Of eager and ambitious years. 
 But last it fell that Sappho's cheek 
 Grew hollow and her body weak : 
 He saw and griev'd until she broke 
 The silence, and the dull truth spoke : 
 
 " We have no souls, dear love. 
 For had we souls we could not live 
 Without the elements that give 
 
 The life they live above — 
 The daily drink, the daily fare. 
 The sweet and all-sustaining air." 
 
 " What matter," he cried, " though we have no soul 
 
 We shall live as long as the earth, 
 Without the millstone of care and control 
 
 Which hangs round the neck from birth. 
 
 " We have all the wonders of deep and bay, 
 
 And the heaven is ours above, 
 As much as the mortals who toil all day 
 
 And have only the night for love. 
 
 " And if no future in heaven be ours 
 When the earth is ended, we've this — 
 
 We can make a heaven of earthly hours. 
 And sweeten our end with a kiss." 
 
 Sappho. 
 " Though love is good and gracious ease. 
 
204 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Life is for nobler ends than these : 
 
 To build impregnably a name 
 
 And force unwilling grants from fame ; 
 
 To gain great victories, and give 
 
 A wise example how to live ; 
 
 To give your country liberty, 
 
 Or teach her patriots how to die ; 
 
 To chronicle your finest thought 
 
 For generations to be taught ; 
 
 With practice and with preaching win 
 
 A sinful people from their sin, 
 
 To point your tale and wing your song 
 
 As arrows against wrath and wrong." 
 
 Though he for love and ease was fain, 
 His nobler nature woke again : 
 " Teach me, my love," he said, " once more 
 To win the souls we had before. 
 What toils attain, what pains restore.'' 
 
 " It is writ in the Book of the Sea,'' she saith, 
 " That a merman a soul may gain 
 
 Who snatches the life of a man from death 
 Or a maiden's love can attain." 
 
 Then to the landlock'd cove they swam. 
 
 And when they to the inlet came 
 
 He saw a drowning maiden sink 
 
 In the clear depth beside the brink. 
 
 He seem'd to clasp her, as before, 
 
[Sappho.] 205 
 
 And bear her breathing to the shore, 
 And, lo ! the maid in his embrace 
 Wore Sappho's form and Sappho's face. 
 
 TAe End of the Dream, 
 
 He woke : beside his pillow stood 
 More perfect in her womanhood 
 
 The lady of his vision, 
 Her lips half parted for a smile 
 
 In sweetest indecision, 
 Whether to fly or bide the while 
 
 He ask'd of his position. 
 She stay'd : it needs no Chaldee seer 
 Or Arabic astrologer 
 
 To guess their conversation ; 
 The meaning of the mystery 
 
 Needs no interpretation ; 
 We leave the after-history 
 
 To your imagination. 
 
 The first time that they were alone 
 
 After this tale of his was done, 
 
 Lil questioned him if he were not 
 
 Himself the hero of the plot. 
 
 To which he answered, " No indeed 
 
 I am no hero, but I read 
 
 The kind of books I make him choose. 
 
2o6 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And like the same things as he does." 
 * * * * 
 
 That evening they had a dance. 
 Due chiefly to the circumstance 
 That Phil was so in love that he 
 Had come and listened patiently 
 Right through the tale to be with Kit, 
 And had, when Cobham finished it, 
 Suggested dancing in the hope 
 That she might be induced to stop 
 As a spectator, purposing 
 When he had "done the proper thing" 
 By waltzing a few rounds, to watch 
 His opportunity to catch 
 Her at some moment, when so placed 
 That she could hardly with good taste 
 Leave him, and then to make best use 
 Of what the parley might produce. 
 Kit saw the danger, yet scarce knew 
 What there remained for her to do, 
 The clicking of a billiard-ball 
 Told her that Lachlan Smith and Hall 
 Were playing billiards, so that she 
 Could not go thither decently. 
 She felt that Phil would follow her 
 And hang about her everywhere. 
 So, when she saw him pause, she went 
 Dnd much to Will's astonishment 
 Asked him if he would care to dance, 
 Believing this her only chance. 
 
 She knew that if she danced with Will 
 
A Summer Ckrisimas. 2o7 
 
 She might be forced to dance with Phil, 
 
 But then one need not hear a word 
 
 Excepting of one's own accord 
 
 When one is dancing, and she meant, 
 
 When it was over, to prevent 
 
 A confidential tete-k-tete 
 
 By asking him to take her straight 
 
 To the piano to express 
 
 Her overpowering thankfulness 
 
 To the musician — there to stay, 
 
 Chatting the interval away 
 
 Until another dance began, 
 
 As fixed as is Aldeboran. 
 
 The plan succeeded and did not, 
 
 Like many things which wise folks plot. 
 
 Phil could not have his tSte-k-tete 
 
 And Kit but hurried on her fate. 
 
 Of course as soon as she and Will 
 Their dance had finished, up came Phil 
 With Maud upon his arm to ask 
 That he might have the next — a task 
 Which Maud by no means liked, and Kit 
 As little liked the granting it. 
 
 Kit's dancing, as the reader knows. 
 Was perfect in its stately pose 
 And docile movement, light of tread 
 And true of step, with the fair head 
 Carried as though she were a queen 
 Although so gracious in its mien 
 
 Phil looked a thorough gentleman, 
 And danced so well as few men can. 
 
2o8 A Shimmer Christmas. 
 
 And Kit artistic pleasure drew 
 
 From dancing with her foe, so true 
 
 And perfect was the unison 
 
 With which they moved, that everyone 
 
 (Excepting poor Maud Morrison, 
 
 Who could not to herself deny 
 
 Her own inferiority) 
 
 Paused to look on with praise unfeigned, 
 
 Lil above all, who thought her friend 
 
 The autotype of elegance. 
 
 And bade her lover ask a dance, 
 
 Saying that Kit danced best of all 
 
 The girls she'd seen at school or ball, 
 
 Which seemed to him a reason why 
 
 He should not with her wish comply. 
 
 " She will not care to dance with me, 
 
 I can't do the new step, and she 
 
 Does it so irreproachably." 
 
 " Kit can dance all," was Lil's reply, 
 
 " And so could Maud if she would try, 
 
 And Kit is far too highly bred 
 
 To speak as rudely as Maud did." 
 
 So he asked Kit, who answered " yes " 
 With such a frank sweet graciousness, 
 Adapting her own step to his 
 So furtively and with such ease 
 That he was ready to endorse 
 Lil's eulogy with tenfold force. 
 
 Kit was a girl who if she chose 
 Might have led most men ' by the nose,' 
 And she. her safety found to-night 
 
A Summer Christmas. 209 
 
 In coming down from her cold height, 
 
 And being womanly to all, 
 
 Which gave her a brief interval 
 
 From present dread, but hurried on 
 
 The climax. Phil danced off and on 
 
 With her throughout the evening. 
 
 In every fibre quivering 
 
 With a new sense of fierce delight. 
 
 Interpreting the opposite 
 
 Of her intentions, and in fear 
 
 Lest he should not obtain her ear 
 
 While she was in this gentle mood. 
 
 Poor Kit ! Anticipations wooed 
 
 That which she strove to guard against. 
 
 Poor Phil ! who dreamed they evidenced 
 
 Surrender and not armament. 
 
 And yet both went to bed content. 
 
 She that she'd beaten off the foe, 
 
 He that he'd but to strike the blow 
 
 To find the fortress at his feet 
 
 On any terms which he thought meet. 
 
210 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 January \st. 
 
 In Melbourne the great " Champion " 
 Upon each New-Year's day is run, 
 And every little country town 
 Likes to have races of its own 
 Or sports or fairs upon that day. 
 Some half-a-dozen miles away 
 Was a small place to which the Fortes 
 Went every year to see the sports. 
 The sports were nothing much to see, 
 But it bred cordiality 
 Between them and the people round 
 If they were seen upon the ground. 
 And Will was judge, because he'd been 
 "> C. U. A. C. Blue." * The scene, 
 If not attractive to the eye, 
 Presented a variety : — 
 Merry-go-rounds, and galleries 
 For rifle shooting with a prize 
 Which no one ever won, potshots 
 A penny each at cocoa-nuts. 
 Aunt Sally, try-your-strength-machines, 
 And here and there, behind the scenes. 
 The ' three-card trick,' ' hat-trick,' ' roulette,' 
 
 * I.e., one of the representatives of Cambridge University in 
 the Inter-University Athletic Sports at Lillie Bridge. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 211 
 
 And other snares by sharpers set 
 
 The simple country folk to gull, 
 
 Though dupes were not too plentiful. 
 
 And then there were the usual shows — 
 
 Fat women, dwarfs, gigantic sows, 
 
 A six-legged calf, and mermaid stuffed, 
 
 The whole inordinately puffed. 
 
 The sports were mostly handicaps 
 
 Distinguished chiefly by the traps 
 
 Which runners from a distance set 
 
 Undue advantages to get. 
 
 In nearly every race some tried 
 
 To have some one disqualified 
 
 For false name, false performances. 
 
 Or other insincerities. 
 
 The handicap draws larger fields. 
 But in most other ways it yields 
 To open ppntests for the best. 
 Handicaps are no real test. 
 AU that they generally mean 
 Is that the handicapper 's been 
 Ill-posted, on the winner's form. 
 You could distinguish by the storm , 
 Of acclamations which outburst 
 When local runners came in first. 
 
 For educated lookers-on 
 There would pot have been any fun, 
 But for an aboriginal 
 Who started (without fees at all) ; 
 For every race — one of the wrecks 
 Whom white men's vices, without checks 
 
212 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Which white men have, were dragging down 
 
 Post-haste to his perdition, 
 
 A blear-eyed, whiskey-sodden wretch, 
 
 Often too tottering to fetch 
 
 A pail of water to a horse. 
 
 He almost reeled about the course — 
 
 A contrast to the crowd, who were 
 
 Far soberer and steadier 
 
 Than such a crowd oft is elsewhere. 
 
 The crowning merriment was when 
 
 This poor degraded specimen 
 
 Of the old rulers of the place 
 
 Had started in a hurdle race. 
 
 And, jumping too close, sat upon 
 
 The hurdle-rails as he came down. 
 * * * * 
 
 But only Will of all the Fortes 
 Paid much attention to the sports. 
 Phil was too busy with his suit. 
 Kit with contrivances astute 
 To fence it off. Lil and her lover 
 Wished to go ere it was half over. 
 And the rest scarce attended more 
 Than did the interested four. 
 
 The two old folks had stayed at home, 
 Thinking it better not to come. 
 The neighbours being quite content 
 If any of their party went. 
 
 Ida had grappled Chesterfield, 
 Who seemed agreeable to yield. 
 Indeed the cheerful little dame. 
 
A Summer Christmas. 2 1 3 
 
 Always so kind, always the same, 
 And always fashionably dressed 
 (In fashions that became her best), 
 Was calculated to engage 
 A politician of his age 
 And corrigible bachelor 
 No less, if not indeed much more. 
 Than a mere girl whose prettiness 
 Was her sole claim to his address. 
 And these two bandied chaff all day 
 In what Will called a reckless way, 
 When he came back to steal a munch 
 Of their drawn-out, luxurious lunch. 
 
 The barrister was trying on 
 Blandishments with Maud Morrison, 
 But found her less amenable 
 Than juries whom he handled well. 
 For firstly, Maud (who, if 'twere known. 
 Knew nought of her own race) looked down 
 Upon his humble origin ; 
 And secondly, she was not in 
 The best of tempers, seeing Phil, 
 Whom she thought so adorable. 
 Wasting attention upon Kit, 
 Who barely tolerated it. 
 
 Hall talked to Madge, or rather both 
 Sat by each other and seemed loath 
 To talk to others. Last of all, 
 Miss Ridley would have gone to wall 
 Had it not been for Kit, who was 
 The innocent but active cause 
 
2 14 -^ Summer Christmas i 
 
 Of Phil's ineffable disgust, 
 
 For he had meant to have discussed 
 
 Matters for Kit's own private ear, 
 
 Which she was anxious not to hear, 
 
 And, seeing that the governess 
 
 Was all alone, began to express 
 
 Her pity and invited her 
 
 To come and sit down where they were, 
 
 Contriving that the talk should be 
 
 On subjects to include all three. 
 
 Kit really had a gracious heart 
 
 And liked to act a friendly part : 
 
 But there was truly to confess 
 
 One unto whom her kindliness 
 
 Would have been much more grateful than 
 
 The govemess^the gentleman 
 
 Who sat on her right hand and gazed 
 
 Upon her face till well nigh dazed. 
 * * * * 
 
 Hall, the Professor, Will and Lil 
 
 Had ridden. Kit so dreaded Phil 
 
 That she had given up her horse 
 
 To Hall, and driven to the course 
 
 Lest any accident should force 
 
 The fatal tete-k-tete. Phil drove. 
 
 He was so visibly in love 
 
 That when he said he wished to drive 
 
 (Which was when he'd heard Kit arrive 
 
 At her decision). Will gave up 
 
 And rode. For neither cared to stoop 
 
 To th' other's driving which they thought 
 
A Summer Christmas^ 215 
 
 Uninteresting if not fraught 
 
 With ignominy positive, 
 
 Having for years been wont to live 
 
 Like independent potentates 
 
 Of equal, jealous, neighbouring states. 
 
 Kit would not ride upon the box 
 And play the goose beside the fox 
 For reasons obvious, and Maud, 
 For reasons just as plain and broad, 
 Could not, in justice to her pride. 
 Take a position by his side. 
 And Madge knew by experience 
 How Phil could illustrate his sense 
 Of being victimised, too well 
 To think the post desirable. 
 And Phil could hardly interfere 
 With Ida, whom the ex-minister 
 Made in a kind of way his own. 
 Although he gladly would have done, 
 For, failing Kit, he liked to be 
 With Ida, who dressed daintily, 
 And had the manners of the class 
 With whom he wished his days to pass. 
 He was not of a kind to press 
 Attentions on the governess. 
 And so he found himself left with 
 His pet aversion — Lachlan Smith. 
 To Phil's more educated eye 
 The barrister's gentility 
 Was shoddy and suggestive of 
 A " Monster Outfitting Alcove," 
 
2i6 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 With his frock-coat not fitting well, 
 And hat the converse of a bell, 
 And long shirt cuffs and large breast pin, 
 And collar forcing up his chin. 
 
 And his pretentious arguings 
 On races, stock and other things, 
 Of which he was quite ignorant. 
 With people who were conversant 
 Were calculated to confirm 
 And not remove suspicion's germ. 
 
 But Lachlan Smith talked glibly on 
 
 These topics dangerous upon, 
 
 The whole way there and whole way back 
 
 Without suspecting any lack 
 
 Of cordial responsiveness, 
 
 Although if he had chattered less 
 
 And pondered more he must have seen 
 
 Phil's ill-disguised contempt and spleen. 
 
 And was so well pleased in his mind 
 
 With his success that he inclined 
 
 To be almost familiar. 
 
 And might have gone a step too far 
 
 Had they not fortunately come, 
 
 Just as they verged upon it, home. 
 * * # * 
 
 That being the last night of all, 
 
 Even the unaesthetic Hall 
 
 Sat down to listen to the tale. 
 
 Madge was named Queen without avail, 
 
 Insisting that her governess 
 
 Was fitter, though when they did press 
 
\The Seven Fairies. \ 217 
 
 Miss Ridley she could testify 
 No more originality 
 Than timidly to give once more 
 The subject of the night before — 
 Love. 
 
 THE SEVEN FAIRIES. 
 
 I dreamed a dream of a lady fair, 
 
 A dream of a lady's birth. 
 There were six fairies assembled there 
 
 From the East and West and North, 
 
 All bidden to honour the christening 
 
 In hope of a fairy gift, 
 But when they answered the fair bidding 
 
 There was yet one fairy left. 
 
 Oh ! she lives down in the South, they said, 
 Oh, she lives down in the South, 
 
 Her face is fair and her cheeks are red. 
 But she hath a cruel mouth. 
 
 Oh ! she lives down in the South, they said, 
 
 In the halls of ice and snow, 
 And a breath of her chilling home is shed 
 
 Wherever her footsteps go. 
 
2i8 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Two fairies came from the golden East, 
 And wealth and affection brought, 
 
 They came from where jewels the costliest 
 Of Golconda's gems are wrought, 
 
 From where the sorrowing wife is fain 
 
 To share the funeral throne 
 With her dead lord rather than remain 
 
 In the lonely world alone. 
 
 And two there came from the western lands, 
 With brightness of sunny France, 
 
 And Tuscan genius in their hands. 
 With its tinge of wild romance. 
 
 And there were two from the sturdy North, 
 And their gifts were homely sense 
 
 And glowing health, with generous mirth 
 And freedom from false pretence. 
 
 And lastly came Envy from the South, 
 
 To offer her offerings. 
 With her fair cheeks and her cruel mouth, 
 
 And a chill draught from her wings. 
 
 But her cruel mouth was wreathed in smiles, 
 And soothly " I come," she said, 
 
 " From the frozen bounds of Antarctic isleg 
 My gift unbidden to add. 
 
[ The Seven Fairies. \ 219 
 
 " You gave her love and you gave her wealth 
 
 And brightness and genius, 
 You gave her wisdom and gave her health, 
 
 I give her the glorious, 
 
 " The peerless crown of beauty to wear 
 
 Her lifelong upon her brow. 
 And ever in her right hand to bear 
 
 The grace to which all men bow." 
 
 And then she opened her draughty wings 
 
 And fled to the realm of ice, 
 Leaving the child with her offerings 
 
 Of rich and dainty device. 
 
 And there rose a hum of glad relief 
 
 That Envy had come and gone 
 Without a word of anger or grief 
 
 For being the unasked one. 
 
 And a glow of transport through them thrilled 
 
 At Envy's glorious gift. 
 For Envy was vengeful when ill-willed. 
 
 And Envy's revenge was swift. 
 
 But amid the glow there came a chill, 
 
 And amid the hum a moan. 
 And her cold wings seemed to wave thfere still 
 
 Though she to her home had flown. 
 
220 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And e'en the good fays fell murmuring 
 
 That Envy had outgraced all 
 In the gift she brought without summoning 
 
 To the christening festival. 
 
 II. 
 
 The years fled onwards within my dream, 
 
 And with them Desirde grew 
 Into a form that might well beseem 
 
 The Fairy queen of the dew, 
 
 Loving and sensible, healthy, bright, 
 
 With clear intelligent eye 
 Reflecting the intellect's inward light. 
 
 Reared in all the luxury 
 
 Which wealth could pay for and art supply, 
 
 And with every wish fulfilled. 
 That kindly forethought could satisfy. 
 
 Almost as soon as 'twas willed. 
 
 But even the mates of her childish hours 
 
 Had always begrudged her less 
 Her wealth and health and mind's rare powers, 
 
 Her wisdom and happiness. 
 
 Than the crown of beauty that Envy set 
 Upon her brow as a gift. 
 
[The Seven Fairies.'] 221 
 
 Which seemed in sooth as though it had yet 
 Some taint of the giver left. 
 
 III. 
 
 The years flew onwards within my dream, 
 
 Once more Desir^e I saw, 
 A woman such as might well beseem 
 
 Apelles' pencil to draw ; 
 
 Bright as the morning, glowing with health, 
 Warm-hearted tho' worldly wise. 
 
 With each allurement added that wealth 
 And art and love could devise. 
 
 With a face as beautiful as the day, 
 
 And a body fairy light. 
 And upon her a winning grace alway 
 
 That conquered man's love at sight. 
 
 With genius stamped upon the brow 
 And speaking out from her eye, 
 
 A queen of love to whom all should bow 
 In homage reverently. 
 
 IV. 
 
 One day, but no longer in my dream. 
 Came there one his suit to plead, 
 
222 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Wealthy and held in high esteem, 
 Of an ancient house the head. 
 
 He cared not for wealth, for his own was great. 
 
 He cared not for happy ways. 
 He cared not for wisdom, nor sought a mate 
 
 For the love which sweetens days. 
 
 He loved not the light of genius, 
 
 Or the glowing cheek of health. 
 And her spirit high and generous 
 
 He valued no more than wealth. 
 
 But her peerless beauty grew on him. 
 And he hated each arm that stole 
 
 In dance or jest round her body slim 
 From the depths of his grim soul. 
 
 And when he asked her to be his wife, 
 And spoke of his wealth and state,- 
 
 And the gorgeous trappings of his life. 
 And his halls of ancient date, 
 
 Her mother was dazzled and bade her yield, 
 
 As many a mother before 
 Has betrayed a child who on fpughten field 
 
 Would have held her own in war. - 
 
\The Seven Fairies^ 223 
 
 She yielded. Envy triumphed again 
 
 With her insidious gift, 
 And on the marriage followed amain 
 
 With feet, relentless and swift. 
 
 And when any glance or word addressed 
 
 To his graceful, gifted wife, 
 A blast of envy would pierce his breast 
 
 Like the cutting of a knife. 
 
 But he was not the husband for her. 
 
 With her ready sympathy 
 And fanciful active character 
 
 And warmth of heart and eye. 
 
 For she could not but see, with her clear sense, 
 
 How base and poor was the clay 
 To which she had vowed obedience 
 
 Upon her marriage day. 
 
 And she could not dissemble her delight 
 When men, with the power of brain 
 
 And pride of life that were hers by right. 
 To linger by her were fain. 
 
 And she so hungered for sympathy 
 
 And appreciative praise, 
 That perhaps there was too much light in her eye, 
 
 And too much warmth in her ways, 
 
224 -^ Slimmer Christmas. 
 
 When she heard what she to hear was fain 
 From one whose body and mind 
 
 Seemed by nature for the praise of men 
 And love of women designed. 
 
 At last to her husband's Hall by chance 
 
 Came a poet and wanderer, 
 Rich with the learning of old Romance, 
 
 And a sailer round our sphere. 
 
 He spoke of the balmy western isles 
 Stretched off the Morocco coast. 
 
 And the wondrous glacier-scooped defiles 
 That are aye the Switzer's boast. 
 
 He spoke of the forests of Brazil, 
 
 And of Canadian woods 
 When autumn tints are on plain and hill, 
 
 And of mighty falls and floods. 
 
 He spoke of spice archipelagos 
 And palm-clustered coral reefs, 
 
 Round which the smiling Pacific flows, 
 And stupendous Austral clifis, 
 
 Of the feudal castles of Norman France. 
 The cities of Languedoc, 
 
\The Seven Fairies. '\ 225 
 
 Of the Vega's green luxuriance, 
 And Granada's haunted rock, 
 
 Of the fallen monuments of pride 
 
 Se,t up by the Romans' hand, 
 Of the grand old town at Arno's side, 
 
 And the burgs of Vaterland, 
 
 Of the deathless marbles of antique Greece, 
 
 And the Tajs of Hindustan, 
 And Egypt's monolith masterpiece. 
 
 And stone-marvels Mexican, 
 
 And the gracefullest women of earth, 
 
 The daughters of proud Castile, 
 Queen slaves of Circassian birth, 
 
 And Greeks with the old profile. 
 
 And he whispered that none were so fair 
 
 As she with the grace we so prize, 
 With the wave of her glittering hair, 
 
 And the gleam of her glorious eyes. 
 
 He told her legends of old Romance 
 
 In fable and history. 
 Of Mary Queen of Scotland and France, 
 
 And Frances of Rimini, 
 
2 26 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Of Guinevere, Grissel and Elaine, 
 
 And the Ysoldes fair and dark. 
 Sir Tristram's gentle wife-chatelaine, 
 
 And his love, the wife of Marc, 
 
 Of Dido the Carthaginian, 
 
 Who for her passion died, 
 And of the mighty Athenian 
 
 And his Ionian bride. 
 
 Of Frithjof and Ingebjorg the queen, 
 
 Of Brynhild and sad Gudrun, 
 And Sigurd and the last battle scene 
 
 In the palace of the Hun, 
 
 Of Henry and fair frail Rosamond, 
 
 And fair chaste Eleanor 
 Who sucked the venom from Edward's wound, 
 
 Though she should die therefore. 
 
 And he whispered that none were so fair 
 As she with the grace we so prize. 
 
 With the wave of her glittering hair, 
 And the gleam of her glorious eyes. 
 
 He was goodly enough for her love. 
 Had brain enough for her brain. 
 
\The Seven Fairies^ 227 
 
 And it seemed as if Heaven above 
 Had meant therti for one, not twain. 
 
 And with hearts they joined but not with hands, 
 
 Although his indeed were free, 
 For hers were Hnked in the fetter-bands 
 
 Of a marriage slavery. 
 
 Yet Env}' seemed to sleep for a while, 
 
 As if to entice them on 
 With a subtle cruelty and guile 
 
 For a deeper fall anon. 
 
 And her lord so jealous heretofore 
 
 Seemed to doze in apathy, 
 While she was carried out more and more 
 
 On to the enchanted sea 
 
 Of love for an object worthy of love, 
 
 Of love that would elevate, 
 If Fancy only were free to rove 
 
 In her original state. 
 
 And Envy slept until they should come 
 
 Into their fool's paradise 
 Of the intercourse which lights a home 
 
 With pure and rational joys. 
 
2 28 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And then she awoke and struck her dart 
 
 So deeply into the side 
 Of the jealous husband, that his heart 
 
 Was choked with the surging tide 
 Of passion and hatred, which did start. 
 
 And without one word he died. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Alas for Desiree, wooed and won 
 By the husband now of her choice, 
 
 For Envy's spite still made her its own, 
 And held her as in a vice. 
 
 For her tyrant's swift mysterious death 
 
 And her speedy union 
 Aroused Report's calumnious breath, 
 
 And estranged friends one by one. 
 
 Alas for Desirde, though she had wealth 
 
 And brightness and genius, 
 And mellow wisdom and glowing health. 
 
 Though she had the glorious, 
 
 The peerless crown of beauty to wear 
 Her lifelong upon her brow. 
 
 And ever in her right hand to bear 
 The grace to which all men bow. 
 
\The Seven Fairies.\ 229 
 
 Though she had the husband whom she chose, 
 Though her hands at length were free 
 
 From the fetter-bands so cruelly close 
 Of her marriage slavery, 
 
 She could not live in the land of her love, 
 The land of her broad estates. 
 
 But ever away from home must rove 
 Impelled by pitiless fates. 
 
 And so they came to a far-off isle 
 
 Oti the lone Pacific's breast, 
 And here they live in repose awhile, 
 
 Even Envy letting them rest. 
 
 And here this beautiful English dame 
 
 And brilliant Englishman, 
 With their broad estates and ancient name 
 
 Unsullied by real stain, 
 
 Live in soft exile, and never see 
 The face of their countrymen, 
 
 Save when a schooner from Sydney quay 
 Sails down with their stores, and then 
 
 Only some mariner rough and free 
 Who finds them beyond his ken — 
 
1 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 This delicate dame in soft attire, 
 With wondrous beauty of face, 
 
 And white wise forehead and glance of fire. 
 And unforgettable grace. 
 
 This lordly man of wealth without bound, 
 And rich in knowledge and worth. 
 
 Thus living as one might say beyond 
 The uttermost end of earth. 
 
 Adieu, Desir^e, living thus far, 
 
 A kind of enchanted queen 
 To mariners when they cross the bar 
 
 Of your harbour coraline ! 
 
 Mayhap it may prove a magic isle 
 
 Where Envy shall not prevail 
 To banish your pleasure with her guile 
 
 And peace with her icy gale. 
 
 Those whom the powers would have destroyed 
 
 They make of understanding void. 
 
 Phil, when at length the tale was o'er, 
 
 Proposed to have a dance once more. 
 
 And Kit, well pleased with her success 
 
 Of last night, was in readiness 
 
 To dance again, because she thought 
 
 This course with less of danger fraught, 
 
A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And one who danced so perfectly 
 
 Needs must enjoy Phil's mastery 
 
 Of step and poise : and so she danced 
 
 Dance after dance, herself entranced 
 
 With his facility, and he 
 
 With her new affability. 
 
 Not only did she thus deceive 
 
 Herself, but made them all believe 
 
 That she relented. She was fair 
 
 Enough to make a man despair, 
 
 And rosy-cheeked with golden curl 
 
 Cut short, not so much like a girl 
 
 As like a lovely, glowing boy 
 
 Ere manhood hastens to destroy 
 
 The silky smoothness of his face. 
 
 Only that they have scant of grace 
 
 And she so much. In height she stood 
 
 Above the mean of womanhood, 
 
 But not unduly. She was slim. 
 
 As Australs are, of waist, and limb 
 
 At wrist and ankle, but more full 
 
 Up higher. Lithe and powerful 
 
 As health and constant exercise 
 
 Could make her, with her clear grey eyes, 
 
 Symbolic of her proud, brave soul, 
 
 A woman taken as a whole. 
 
 In her sole self embodying 
 
 All which makes man creation's king. 
 
 And woman its chief ornament. 
 
 No wonder then that all eyes bent 
 
 On her as she waltzed lightly by 
 
232 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 With glowing cheek and sparkling eye 
 
 And ruffled curls, surrendering 
 
 Her motions to Phil's piloting 
 
 Without remonstrance, and thereby 
 
 Filling the grand deficiency 
 
 Which left her beauty incomplete, 
 
 That which makes maidenhood as sweet 
 
 As a moss-rose or violet, 
 
 Or the green grass of spring, ere yet 
 
 It feels the cruel searing stress 
 
 Of summer — maiden gentleness. 
 
 It is not easy to maintain 
 An attitude of cold disdain 
 When one is heated with a dance. 
 And Kit relaxed her vigilance 
 So far as to be cordial 
 To Phil's oft ineffectual 
 But still repeated courtesies, 
 So much so that he deemed his prize 
 Within his grasp, and suddenly 
 Waltzing her almost forcibly 
 Into the open boudoir, closed 
 The door behind him — and proposed. 
 
 Kit was so thunderstruck that he 
 Had kissed her twice triumphantly 
 Ere she gave her indignant ' no,' 
 And then fierce tears began to flow 
 At the humiliating state 
 In which she found herself — irate 
 First with herself for being caught 
 In her own trap, then with Phil Forte 
 
A Summer Christmas. 233 
 
 For having dared to offer her 
 Such ignominy, angrier 
 When she reflected how her mien 
 Must have encouraged him that e'en. 
 Yet did not hurry to the door 
 Now that the worst of it was o'er, 
 But stayed a little while to vent 
 Her anger and astonishment. 
 And to compose her countenance 
 Before she went back to the dance. 
 
 " How dare you, Phil?" she said at length, 
 When her mind had regained its strength, 
 " How dare you ? " but then, seeing how 
 He was prostrated by the blow,' 
 Her good heart triumphed and she said. 
 Lifting her gallant, graceful head 
 To look at him with firm, pained eyes, 
 " Phil, was it right or kind or wise 
 To take advantage of me thus ? 
 I thought you were more generous, 
 Than to abuse my confidence. 
 Knowing, as you well do, the sense 
 Of loathing for the marriage-bond 
 I entertain. Were you as fond 
 Of me as you pretend you are, 
 You'd banish all such thoughts afar 
 And treat me as a brother, Phil, 
 In fact just like your brother Will." 
 
 "You like him better. I have seen 
 Him kissing you — you . . ." " Why,'' we've been 
 Neighbours and friends this twenty years, 
 
234 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 And I'd do more than box his ears 
 Unless I knew that it was done 
 Merely to tease me — ^just his fun. 
 No, Phil. I do not love him more 
 But like him better, as before 
 You persecuted, I liked you, 
 And as I still should like you too 
 If you were fond enough of me 
 Not to tease me so cruelly." 
 , " Cruelly, Kit ? It's not unkind 
 To love with one's whole heart and mind." 
 "Love? what is there in me to love?" 
 " To love in you, who are above 
 All women in all graces which 
 The lot of womanhood enrich." 
 " There's hardly any girl you meet 
 Who's not more graceful and more sweet." 
 " O Kit, you cannot be so dull 
 As not to know how beautiful, 
 How graceful, how superb, how far 
 Above the common herd you are." 
 " Phil, this is flattery, don't try 
 Me with mere compliments to buy." 
 " Kit," he said so reproachfully. 
 That she went up with softened eye, 
 And putting her two hands in his, 
 Said, " Well then, Phil, give me a kiss, 
 And promise never to refer 
 To this unpleasant rencontre, 
 And not to speak to me again 
 Of marrias;e. Then we can remain 
 
A Slimmer Christmas. 235 
 
 Friends as before. I will not be 
 
 An atom different, and we 
 
 Can easily keep out of sight 
 
 All that has happened here to-night, 
 
 Otherwise I must go away 
 
 To-morrow early in the day.'' 
 
 He did not take the proffered kiss. 
 But shook his head. " I can't do this : 
 I can but love you all my life, 
 And pray you to become my wife 
 Whenever chance lets me intrude 
 Upon you in a generous mood." 
 
 " Well then, good-bye, Phil ! take me back, 
 
 I'll say that I feel an attack 
 
 Of headache coming over me 
 
 And bid them good-night hurriedly. 
 * * * * 
 
 Kit went to bed, and Phil went out 
 
 To walk with rapid stride about. 
 
 In hopes of working off his load 
 
 Of disappointed love, and strode 
 
 Till long past midnight. The next day 
 
 Kit packed her ' traps ' and drove away 
 
 Back to her father's place, which lay 
 
 Some twenty miles off. Phil went up, 
 
 Meaning, for the first time, to stop 
 
 Some months upon his Queensland run. 
 
 Chesterfield took Maud Morrison 
 
 And Ida Lewis back to town. 
 
 Hall, Phil Forte's partner, just stayed down 
 
 To do some station-business. 
 
236 A Summer Christmas. 
 
 Which Phil, who posted off express, 
 
 Left pending. Lachlan Smith ere long 
 
 Went, for assize-work, to Geelong. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 Two months were left ere term began. 
 And one of them like lightning ran 
 In wandering about with Lil, 
 And sometimes driving out with Will 
 All over pleasant Waratah 
 And stations that were not too far. 
 Then the Professor had to leave 
 To make his home fit to receive 
 Its pretty mistress (for the day 
 Was fixed, long ere he went away. 
 To be some three weeks' space before 
 The long vacation time was o'er). 
 And Lil, the day that he went back. 
 Went to their own house in Toorak 
 With Mrs Forte, to help to choose 
 ,The furniture she was to use. 
 Her father's wedding gift. He gave 
 Carte blanche to both of them to have 
 Whatever they thought requisite 
 To deck their house or furnish it. 
 Three weeks thus busy quickly passed, 
 Then Lil went back to spend her last 
 At home, while the Professor stayed. 
 And final preparations made 
 For their reception. For they meant 
 (And persevered in their intent) 
 To have their honeymoon at home 
 
A Summer Christmas. 237 
 
 In their own house, and not to roam 
 In boarding-houses and hotels 
 As they saw everybody else, 
 Affording people food for jest 
 Or food for pity at the best. 
 
 How much more sensible it is 
 In ordinary marriages 
 Where the bridegroom has not too much 
 Of time or money in his clutch, 
 To spend the little that he has 
 In adding those etceteras 
 Which go to make a little house 
 Dainty if not luxurious. 
 
 Much honeymoonshine in home life 
 Is not the lot of every wife, 
 And so the golden month should be 
 Economised most carefully 
 In gilding every room and nook, 
 A flower-bed here, and ther.e a book. 
 With one of the small sorceries 
 So magical in lovers' eyes. 
 
 Ah, pitiful ! there's many a home 
 To which no love-making has come. 
 Passion's brief transport being spent 
 Ere they into its portals went. 
 The man a business-machine, 
 The woman not her husband's queen 
 But his housekeeper — and here judge 
 If I speak truth or not — his drudge. 
 
 Newly-wed lovers should not roam. 
 But stay to beautify their home 
 
-o 
 
 8 y4 Summer Christinas. 
 
 With blossoms of the honeymoon, 
 ' So hard to mimic when it's gone. 
 The weary reader will not care 
 To go to the upholsterer 
 With Lil to see how the refined 
 And graceful tenour of her mind 
 Declared itself in ottomans, 
 Or took an airy flight in fans, 
 But be content to leave her here 
 In the enchanted atmosphere 
 Of trysting days, — a maiden fair 
 Without the shadow of a care 
 To keep back from her passion-flower 
 The full spring-sunshine of its hour. 
 
 Finished at Springwood, 
 
 Blue Mountains, 
 
 New South Wales. 
 
 1.7 A.M., September ITth, 1883. 
 
UPON THE S.S. " BALLAARAT," * 
 
 Off Ushant, May 25M, 1884. 
 
 (Dedicated to the Hon. J. B. Watt of Sydney.) 
 
 O Stately ship, fast-speeding to thy port, 
 
 Our home for six bright weeks of sunny weather, 
 We have had many pleasant hours together 
 Since we embarked — voyagers of either sort, 
 Old colonists returning to the land 
 They left long since to win an independence. 
 And young' folks, born Australians, in attendance, 
 Longing to see their Father's native strand. 
 We shall not leave our ship without a sigh. 
 In which were born so many loves, hopes, fears, 
 And friendships sure to last for many years. 
 Or the blithe officers who brought us by 
 Australia, Asia, Africa, to rest 
 Safe in our dear old island of the West. 
 
 * A P. and O. Steamer. 
 
©pinions of tbe press 
 
 ON WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 "FRITHJOF AND INGEBJORG," 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS." 
 BY AN AUSTRALIAN COLONIST. 
 
 London : C. ICegan Paul, Trench, & Co. 
 
 Of *' Frithjof and Ingebjorg" the Argus, writing in the fall of >88r, 
 says : — 
 
 " A further instalment of Mr Sladen's metrical version of a saga of 
 ' FrithjofF and Ingebjorg' confirms the favourable opinion we eXpr^sed of 
 the first part. It is so good both in form and substance as to justify the 
 expectation that the writer will hereafter make his mark in the poetical 
 literature of Australia." 
 
 Frovi the Age and Leader, October 1882. 
 The ode to Somnus reveals in form the influence of Keats, and, despite 
 its not unnatural prosiness, Wiltshire has a ring of the Wordsworthian 
 metal. In his epilogue, however^ Mr Sladen makes his confession of 
 poetical faith, and announces himself a disciple of Longfellow, whom he 
 certainly resembles in his range of subjects. His rendering of Virgil's 
 " Tenth Eclogue " has a flow that reminds one of " Evangeline." One of 
 the best of his lyrics is *' L'Ordre de Bel Eyse" — 
 
 *' First we love fair ladies, These are to divert us. 
 
 Then we love good books; Those are to entice us ; 
 
 Either have their virtues, Books outlive their pages. 
 
 Either have their vices ; Ladies their good looks." 
 
 But decidedly his best effort, and the only poem in which he has kept a 
 sustained level of excellence, is that from which his collection takes its 
 title, "Frithjof and Ingebjorg." The legend is treated with artistic feeling. 
 
and the verse flows smoothly and sweetly throughout. One might even 
 say that it proves its author to be a worthy scholar of the master who gave 
 us the "Tales of a Wayside Inn," and express a hope that he may never 
 fall below this achievement in future. 
 
 From the Federal Australian, October ig^A, 1B82. 
 
 Mr D. B. W. Sladen is already favourably known to Australian readers, 
 several of the poems in this handsome little volume having been previously 
 published in the "Victorian Review," and to many their reprint will be 
 welcome. We have read the volume with pleasure, and gladly bring it 
 under the notice of our readers, not only because it is the work of a 
 colonist, but also because it contains much that is really good, and holds 
 out the promise of some better work in the future. In his "epilogue" the 
 author writes thus modestly : — 
 
 " Australia sends this book of song 
 
 To England, not so much in hope 
 That it will take its place among 
 
 The brotherhood o'f wider scope. 
 But rather that it will be read 
 
 By those who take this volume up 
 Remembering where it was bred. 
 
 We cannot, in our youth, compare 
 With the full-grown and perfected 
 
 Poesy reared in English air." 
 
 And then, further on : — • 
 
 "Where this small sheaf of rhyme did grow, 
 
 We have not yet lived fifty years ; 
 But as the swift hours onward flow, 
 
 We too shall breed poetic peers 
 For Arnold and for Tennyson ; 
 
 And, without vanity or fears. 
 Not shrink from competition 
 
 With Bryant, Whittier, and the rest 
 Who've made their country's lyre known 
 
 To Anglo-Saxon, east and west." 
 
 Such are Mr Sladen's high hopes, and we doubt not their realization in 
 the not far distant future. 
 
 The poems in this volume are on a great variety of themes— grave and 
 gay. Most readers will probably consider the well-told story of " Frithjof 
 and Ingebjorg " the best in many respects ; but a considerable number of the 
 shorter poems are interesting, and contain many fine lines. We name 
 specially "St Paul at Athens," founded on the historic narrative in the 
 Book of the Acts of the Apostles, xvii. 16-34, " The Last of the Vikings," 
 which carries us back to the days of the Saxon Harold. Among the short 
 poems we may also name " The Dead Old Year," " The Voyage of Life," 
 and "On a New-bom Babe," all of which contain many beautiful thoughts. 
 
 The volume is beautifully printed, and, we hope, will} be favourably 
 received, and find a place in many a home library. 
 
 Q 
 
3 
 
 From the S. A. Register, aw^^ Adelaide Observer, October 1882. 
 Of these, " Frithjof and Ingebjorg," a Norwegian legend, written in an 
 attempt at the old rugged style of the saga, is perhaps the best. It is too 
 long to quote, but not too lengthy to read. There are some original ideas 
 in it, and the language in which it is clothed is poetical. The ** Squire's 
 Brother" is also a piece in which the author has shown originality of 
 thought, as well as skill in working out. 
 
 From the Queenslander, December "Z-^rd^ 1882. 
 The title of Mr Douglas B. W. Sladen s book is, to our Southern ears, the 
 least musical portion of it ; but before the poem ** Frithjof and Ingebjorg" 
 has been fully perused, the reader will probably have forgotten the title and 
 become absorbed in the romantic story cleverly woven into verse. Those 
 who have read occasionally-published lines by Mr Sladen will doubtless 
 look for good and scholarly work in his compilation. They will be by no 
 means disappointed, for the principal items have in them a true poetic ring, 
 and no suspicion of crudeness. The publication is not, however, what 
 might be termed even. In some of the lesser poems everything seems to 
 have been sacrificed to simplicity, and one or two of the pieces produced, 
 such as those commencing — 
 
 " Oft in the noon of even 
 When I am in my bed," 
 
 and the fourth verse of "Westward Ho !" seem scarcely worthy of Mr 
 Sladen's pen, unless, indeed, they were scribbled off in some moment of in- 
 spiration which could not find proper expression ; and, if that be so, they 
 would have been better not published in companionship with such lines as 
 "Waterloo," *' Sappho," "Roman Cirencester," and "the Last of the 
 Britons." 
 
 In " Waterloo " there is a facility of rhythm which we miss in almost 
 every other poem. It is written in a fine inspiriting strain, such so lifts the 
 reader up, until, to use Shelley's words — 
 
 *' The dead air seems alive 
 With the clash of clanging wheels 
 And the tramp of horses' heels." 
 
 The lines are pretty well known to those who take an interest in the new 
 literature of the colonies, and have passed from journal to journal in our 
 small literary world with almost the same universal publication as did 
 *' Hands all Round," but with far better appreciation. There is a joyous 
 ring in the lines— 
 
 '* On, on, 
 Life Guard and Dragoon, 
 ' An English charge and a red right hand 
 Will bring fair years to your fair old land. 
 With riven corslet and shivered lance 
 Is reft and shivered the pride of France." 
 
And, again, there is a charming expression in the concluding verse — 
 
 '* ' Ah I me, 
 Life is sad,' said she, 
 ' When the sun and sheen of it are gone,' 
 And ' One loving heart is very lone ; ' 
 And * Oh ! if I might lie by you 
 In your soldier grave at Waterloo.'" 
 
 The poetry of Mr Sladen, as judged by his book, seems well described in 
 the following from Thomson's '* Winter " — 
 
 "O'er the sanded valley floating spreads,_ 
 Calm, sluggish, silent till again constrained 
 Betwixt two meeting hills it bursts away." 
 
 The production of what we terra the uninteresting and uninterestingly told 
 personal emotions of the poet does not detract from his merit or claim to 
 be enrolled among those who are destined to reach the heights bf Olympus 
 and share the joys of the eternal spring. There are many who look with 
 astonishment on some of the published poetry of Tennyson, but who will 
 deny the possession of the Divine afflatus to the author- of "Enoch Arden," 
 the " Charge of the Light Brigade," and other verse which is known where- 
 ever the Anglo-Saxon tongue is spoken, or translations can bear their 
 beauty and vigour? In telling the story of "Frithjof and Ingebjorg," Mr 
 Sladen has followed, a course which characterises Moore's " Lalla Rookh." 
 He has given us a very improbable romance but so cunningly draped in 
 soft poetic expression as to be acceptable even to those who like hard 
 facts plainly told. If one could not hope for such a happy realisation of the 
 fates of the hero and heroine as the poem gives us, so well are the human 
 sympathies attacked that a wish at all events would accord with the 
 author's working out of the plot. " Sappho" is a better poem perhaps, and 
 in *' Ravenna" there is a scholarly fbrm of expression which seems to show 
 itself in all the writing of men who have given much study to the classic 
 literature of Rome. The book, on the whole, is an acquisition to Australian 
 poetic literature of which no colonist need feel ashamed — they may feel 
 proud of the purity of thought and expression which alone would recom- 
 mend it, and give it a place where more stirring and less pure works would 
 be denied. 
 
 From the Scotsman {Edinburgh)^ November lotk, 18S2. 
 
 A volume of simple, easy, flowing verse, so writ that all who run may 
 read and understand, is Mr Sladen's " Frithjof and Ingebjorg." Mr Sladen 
 announces himself on his title-page as '* an Australian colonist," and many 
 of his poems are on themes connected with his voluntary exile, its pleasures 
 and its penalties, loving recollections of the old country, hope and pride in 
 the new one. Then he has pleasant lyrics and ballads, songs of the affec- 
 tions, and fragments on subjects borrowed from classic story. All alike are 
 characterised by a satisfying mastery of form and metre, a clearness and 
 
5 
 
 directness of style in wholesome contrast to the morbid mysticism which 
 pervades so much the poetry of the day, breadth and elevation of thought, 
 and a genuine appreciation of the true and the beautiful. There is nothing 
 in the volume that the reader could readily spare ; there is much that will 
 be read again and again with hearty enjoyment. 
 
 The Graphic, Novejnbert 1882. 
 
 There is some good verse in " Frithjof and Ingebjorg, and other Poems," 
 by Douglas B. W, Sladen (Kegan Paul). The author, now resident in 
 Australia, and apparently an alumnus of Rugby, has something of the 
 true poetic feeling ; it seems a pity that he has not more fully developep 
 the vein of innate humour manifested in "My Aunt." In the principal 
 piece he probably depended upon translations — which are, without excep- 
 tion, as 'bad as they well could be — for there is nothing to show any real 
 knowledge of or sympathy with Scandinavian lore. "The Squire's Brother" 
 is good, with a natural pathos ; " The Last of the Britons " also has merit. 
 
 The Glasgow Herald, Decevther 2, 1882. 
 
 In the epilogue to this little collection of poems the author pleads thus 
 for a kindly hearing : — 
 
 " Australia sends this book of song 
 
 To Eng;land, not so much in hope 
 That it will take its place among 
 
 The Brotherhood of wider scope. 
 But rather that it will be read 
 
 By those who take this volume up. 
 Remembering where it was bred. 
 
 You must not judge this book of rhyme 
 
 By standard of the full-grown muse 
 Of our good Queen Victoria's time. 
 
 But first in dusty tomes peruse . 
 The rude verse of King Kdward's reign, 
 
 When English first came into use," - " 
 
 The pleading is so graceful that we are glad Mr Sladen has added it ; but 
 there is so much beauty both of thought and language in his poems that 
 they require no advocacy. The chief poem, which gives its name to the 
 collection, is founded upon an old Norse Saga, some passages of which have 
 been translated by Longfellow. But Mr Sladen is no translator. He has 
 taken the story, and, putting it into flowing and musical verse, has shown 
 us lovely pictures of crag and forest, ^blossom and bush. These are so 
 closely entwined, one with the other, that it is not pos^ble to separate them 
 for quotation. Still less can we pick out any of those passages which tell in 
 a very noble way of the struggles of the two lovers against almost over- 
 whelming temptation ; or of the unselfish love of the aged king for his fair 
 
young bride. Even in the rough hexameters of the American poet the 
 story is full of pathos and dignity ; but when wedded to Mr Sladen's tender 
 and musical words, it must charm all who read it. Eesides " Frithjof," 
 there are several other long poems, which contain many beautiful passages, 
 and there are a number of shorter pieces. Of these, "Waterloo" and 
 " Wiltshire " are pathetic and suggestive, but they are too long for quotation. 
 We prefer to give a few verses of "The Squire's Brother." The elder 
 brother is " squire," the younger goes to Australia where he works 
 
 " Harder than any labourer 
 Upon my brother's lands," 
 
 and wonders what ' Nell ' would think of him, did she see him, once the 
 ' Cupid ' forte of ' White's,* 
 
 *' Lolling in a linen blouse, 
 And bearded to the brow." 
 
 He then goes on— 
 
 ** Do you suppose that old Sir Hugh, 
 
 Who won your lands in mail, 
 Showed half the valour that I do 
 
 In sitting on this rail? 
 He tilted in his lordly way. 
 
 And stoutly, I confess, 
 But I stand sentry all the day 
 
 Against the wilderness. 
 There isn't much poetical 
 
 About an old tweed suit. 
 And nothing chivalrous at all 
 
 About a cowhide boot : 
 Yet often beneath a bushman's breast 
 
 There lurks a knightly soul. 
 And bushmen's feet have often pressed 
 
 Towards a gallant goal. 
 And so I slave and stay and save, 
 
 And squander nought but youth ; 
 And if Nell said that I was brave. 
 
 She only told the truth." 
 
 Front the Westminster Review, January 1883, 
 
 In his modest and not unpleasing epilogue to " Frithjof and Ingebjorg 
 
 and other Poems," Mr Douglas B. W. Sladen tells us that he writes from 
 
 Australia, that he desires to follow in the footsteps of Mr Longfellow, snd 
 
 would be judged by the humble if somewhat obscure standard of 
 
 " What the American 
 Could write two centuries ago." 
 
 We read with pleasure the tale of " Frithjof and Ingebjorg," and can re- 
 commend it to our readers. A good tale well told justifies publication. 
 
From the Cheltonian, November^ 1882. 
 
 We gladly welcome " Frithjof and Ingebjorg and other Poems," by a well- 
 known O.C, formerly Editor of the " Cheltonian," Captain of the Football 
 Team and of the Rifle Corps, now "an Australian Colonist" — D. B. W. 
 Sladen, B.A., late Scholar of Trinity College, Oxford. Several of the pieces 
 have appeared in the *' Australasian " and the " Queenslander" ; a few in 
 our own pages at various times. The longer poem that gives its name to 
 the volume has many striking passages, but we like some of the shorter 
 pieces better. The common sense of the following would have done 
 Kingsley's heart good : 
 
 *' But you cannot expect a man to speak 
 
 In the true poetic way 
 Of spots where he gets ten shillings a week 
 
 And works twelve hours a day." 
 
 We can heartily recommend the volume to our readers. It is published 
 by Messrs Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. 
 
AUSTRALIAN LYRICS. 
 
 London : Griffith & Farran, St Paurs Churchyard, E.G. 
 ; George Robertson, Sydney, Melbourne, and Adelaide. 
 
 From the Argus, March 5th, 1883. 
 In a brief preface to Australian Lyrics, Mr D. B. W. Sladen mentions that 
 "every poem in the book has passed the ordeal of editorial criticism into 
 one or other of the leading: metropolitan journals of Australia," so that it is 
 unnecessary to do more than call attention to the fact that they have been 
 collected into a handsomely printed brochure, with that breadth of margin, 
 clearness of type, and smoothness of paper, which are calculated to render 
 them still more acceptable to the reader. 
 
 From the Leader, March 3, 1882. 
 This collection of Australian Lyrics will be welcome to all who have read 
 Mr Sladen's Norwegian Saga. Although these later poems have been 
 written with unusual celerity, presuming that they have been all written 
 since the publication of his previous poetic efforts ; yet they show no falling 
 off in regard to poetic power, and are entitled to be received with no less 
 favour. A line here and there may be detected as wanting in smoothness, 
 but upon the whole, the verses show a mastery of form and metre, and a 
 sweetness of flow that is pleasant to the ear. A charming simplicity both 
 of expression and of idea, is their prominent characteristic, as might be 
 expected of one who can say of Longfellow — 
 
 *' Was not his simple song 
 Our sample of all song ? " 
 
 The collection is not without variety, although the writer has evidently a 
 predilection for certain themes, and in regard to these is apt to repeat him- 
 self. The themes to which he most frequently recurs are those which 
 enable him to sing of home and family affections, of fair women and love's 
 young dream, and to indulge in regrets for having left Old England even 
 for " the blue of Austral skies."' « 
 
 The divided feeling with which Mr Sladen regards his old home and the 
 new is fairly exhibited in " The Squire's Brother," the longest in the col- 
 lection, and, in our opinion, the best of the lot. In the first part the Squire's 
 Brother, who is a younger son and who has been sent out to Queensland to 
 push his fortune as a squatter, soliloquises as he sits on a three-rail fence — 
 *' Nell wouldn't know me, I suppose, were she to see me now 
 Thus lolling in a linen blouse and bearded to the brow ; 
 I didn't wear a flannel shirt when I was courting her, 
 Or buck-skin pants engrained with dirt and shiny as a spur. 
 
So here I am — a, pioneer, working with my own hands 
 Harder than any labourer upon my brother's lands. 
 Far from the haunts of gentlemen m this outlandish place ; 
 I wonder if I e'er again shall see a woman's face. 
 
 I couldn't stand it, but for this, that when I first came out, 
 I used to see the carriages in which men drove about, 
 Who tended sheep themselves of old 'neath Caledonia's rocts, 
 And now were lords of wealth untold, and half a hundred flocks. 
 
 I laid this unction to my heart, that, if a Scottish hind 
 
 Could play so manfully his part, I should not be behind: 
 
 And so I slave and stay and save, and squander nought but youth ; 
 
 Nell sometimes writes and calls me brave, and knows but half the truth." 
 
 Part second takes us to the old hall, where we see the returned squatter 
 gazing at the family portraits on the walls — 
 
 *' The photo in the frame is Nell— why I gave Dick that frame. 
 And doesn't the old pet look well ! I swear she's just the same 
 As when I left her years ago to cross the Southern foam, 
 I wonder if they've let her know that I'm expected home." 
 
 Part third introduces us to Nellie herself, standing " before a faded carte," 
 and thus soliloquising in her turn after having seen her old lover — 
 
 " But Charlie's ver^ different, he's seen the real world, 
 And where no white man ever went his lonely flag unfurled ; 
 He went to slave and stay and save and squander nothing but youth. 
 And when I said that he was brave I knew but half the truth. 
 
 For there in intermittent strife, with hostile natives waged 
 He spent the best years of his life in humdrum toil engaged, 
 Or galloping the live long day under a Queensland sun 
 After some bullocks gone astray or stolen off the run. 
 
 He's handsomer, I think, to-day, although he is so brown, 
 And though his hair is tinged with grey and thin upon the crown. 
 Than in the days when he was known at "White's" as Cupid Forte, 
 And in good looks could hold his own with any man at court. 
 
 Well, he has come and asked again that which he came to ask 
 The night before he crossed the main upon his uphill task. 
 I answer'd as I answer'd then but with a lighter heart. 
 Who knew if we should meet again the day we had to part!" 
 
 And then in the fourth and concluding part we have one of those dainty 
 pictures which Mr Sladen paints so .deftly with a few touches of his pen — a 
 picture of Charlie and Nellie in the first flush of married life — 
 
 *' 'Neath a verandah in Toorak I sit this summer morn. 
 While from the garden at the back, upon the breezes home. 
 There floats a subtle, faint perfume ot oleander bow'rs 
 And broad magnolias in bloom, and opening orange flow'rs, 
 
lO - 
 
 A lady 'mid the flowers I see, moving with, footsteps light, 
 And when she stoops she shows to me a slipper slim and bright, 
 An ankle stocking'd in black silk and rounded as a palm, 
 Her dress is of the hue of milk and making of madame. 
 
 I wonder is that garden hat intended to conceal 
 All but that heavy auburn plait, or merely to reveal 
 Enough to make one long to catch a glimpse of what is there, 
 To see if eye and feature match the glory of the hair." 
 
 Extract from a. Letter to ike Editor of the Otago Daily Times, 
 Dunedin, N,Z., published in that paper. 
 
 Now, Sir, I do not wish to imply that the critic who reviewed Mr 
 Sladen's book in your columns is not possessed of all the attributes which 
 go to form the character of a poetical analyst; but I maintain that the 
 element of fair play appears to be strange to him. He has picked out all 
 the weeds from the work, and has failed to exhibit to your readers any of 
 its flowers. I have not yet had the necessary time at my disposal to read 
 the book through, but from the fact that Mr Sladen is a contributor to the 
 " Victorian Review " and other leading periodicals, I am led to hope that 
 there area number of literary buds among his "Australian Lyrics," and 
 that your critic has only picked out the dead leaves. Opening the book at 
 random, my eyes fell on an effusion headed " Wiltshire," and as your 
 reviewer was pretty severe on it, I was induced to run it through. The 
 perusal of the poem confirms me in my belief that your critic has not dealt 
 fairly with Mr Sladen. The object of the verses is to prove that country 
 life is more suited to children .than city life. Your critic in quoting one 
 verse, and that the worst in the poem, observes — 
 
 In the poem called " Wiltshire " this imaginative verse occurs : — 
 
 '* But when they summoned up courage to speak, 
 
 * We hate the counry,' they said ; 
 ' Father used to get ten shillings a week, 
 
 And now gets thirty instead. 
 He used to come back in the evening late, 
 ' And go off" so very soon ; 
 And now his work doesn't begin till eight, 
 
 And stops in the afternoon.' " 
 
 Beyond rhyme, we venture to say that there are no elements of poetry 
 about this verse, and it would be much better if Mr Sladen expressed his 
 views in prose. 
 
 May I enquire why he did not quote the following lines from the same 
 poem — 
 
 " The hedges are surely the place for buds, 
 The meadows for open flowers ; 
 Little birds should sing away in the woods, 
 In the merry morning hours ; 
 
II 
 
 Little children should grow, as the young trees grow. 
 
 Under the sun and the sky, 
 And their songs should go up, as birds' songs go. 
 
 That hover and sing on high." 
 
 In conclusion, sir, allow me to express an opinion that while newspaper 
 critics should discourage the publication of volumes of verse which betray 
 a sterility of imagination and an "impotence of articulation," they should 
 do their utmost to foster colonial literature by bestowing encouragement on 
 young writers who give evidence of the possession of talent which only re- 
 quires to be matured by time and experience. lam, etc., 
 
 Thomas Bracken. 
 
 From the Federal Australian, March zgih, 1883." 
 Mr Sladen's new volume in its parchment binding is about as pretty a 
 specimen of an edition de luxe as has ever yet issued from the Australian 
 press. The poems collected in it have been, for the most part, printed 
 already in the pages of Australian journals, and they are all in lyrical form. 
 In some cases the author rises to a high level of sustained conception and 
 expression; but it must be added, this is rather the exception than the rule. 
 Mr Sladen has the fault natural to all young poets of too great facility and 
 redundancy. He does not follow the wise Voltarian rule to take time that 
 he may be shorter. Were he to use "the labour of the file" more freely his 
 verses would doubtless show a very great improvement in point of thought 
 and language. There are gleams and flashes of the higher faculty observ- 
 able in them here and therfe, but the excess of verbiage obscures the bright 
 play of fancy, and — unpardonable in poetry — the verse is spoiled by an 
 unutterably bad rhyme. Thus to rhyme "train her" with "Diana," is 
 totally out of all poetical license. On this point Tennyson has always been 
 exquisitely perfect. There is not now a defective, or faulty, or cockney 
 rhyme to be found in all his works, although his first volume contained some 
 slips of this kind, which were mercilessly dealt with by the critics. When 
 Mr Sladen comes to republish his early eflTusions, he must, like his master, 
 omit a great deal and amend a great deal. We observe that be, too, has his 
 spiteful and ill-natured critics. He will turn their weapons against them- 
 selves by quietly accepting their unkindly comments, and turning them to 
 account. Most of the themes dealt with in the volumes are eminently 
 capable of poetical treatment ; but the suggestion continually recurs to thd 
 mind of the reader, that the poet could have done better if he had taken 
 greater pains. These suggestions we oifer with all good feeling to Mr 
 Sladen. He has it in him to become an Australian Longfellow ; but in order 
 to attain this pitch of eminence, he must become as painstaking and artistic 
 a worker as was the author of the "Voices of the Night." 
 
 From the Melbourne Review, Aprils 1883. 
 
 However in spite of the many, the very many blemishes, which mar the 
 
 book, there is here and there something to praise. The ode to Queen 
 
12 
 
 Victoria is distinctly good, and pleases the student of Horace by an agree- 
 able echo of that wonderful master. 
 
 J^ro77i the Graphic, fitly 2.0th, 1883. 
 A true note of song is sounded from the Antipodes in " Australian Lyrics '' 
 by Douglas B. W. Sladen (George Robertson, Melbourne, Sydney, and 
 Adelaide). The pieces have all, it seems, appeared in the columns of the 
 Colonial press, and we can only say that any editor was lucky who could 
 secure such a contributor of verse. The best thing in the volume— which, 
 by the bye is of a most uncomfortable shape — is undoubtedly " the Squire s 
 Brother," a tale of true love told in ringing measure, but there is much more 
 that will delight the lover of genuine poetry. ** Mrs Watson "is an excel- 
 lent tribute to the memory of a brave, good woman, and "Solomon's Prayer" 
 is terse and effective. Altogether Mr Sladen's muse is one worthy of being 
 cultivated. 
 
 From the Argonaut {San Fransisco), April zZth, 1883. 
 
 " Australian Lyrics " is a volume of verse by Douglas B. W- Sladen, B.A. 
 Oxon., of Melbourne, who has already attracted considerable attention by 
 " Frithjof and Ingebjorg," a Scandinavian legend, and is also a regular con- 
 tributor to the " Victorian Review" and other Australian periodicals. Mr 
 Sladen delights in odd rhymes, and endeavours to preserve as much as pos- 
 sible the natural element in his poems. 
 
 From the Cumberland Mercury, Saturday, April ith, 1883. 
 
 The task of the Australian lyrical poet is a difficult one. The sphere in 
 which he must work is naturally contracted. Where there is but a scant 
 stock of national associations — and as yet the purely Australian stock is 
 necessarily limited — there can be but few distinctly Australian songs (other 
 than those which treat either objectively or subjectively of Australian 
 scenery) since the song of a nation is the ultimate test of the national 
 popular spirit. In Australia yet awhile the popular spirit is still, as a rule, 
 British — often flecked and, marred by the sordid utilitarianism of the *' Man- 
 chester School " of thought ; hence the local situation is peculiarly adverse 
 to Art, whether the art of painter or sweet singer. 
 
 By a few members of a limited circle, Australian art-culture is sought 
 after and encouraged ; but, outside of that circle, the atmosphere, unfor- 
 tuiiately, is more favourable to the positive retardation than to any develop- 
 ment, however indirect, of ideality. In Kendall, in Charles Harpur, and 
 in Adam Lindsay Gordon, Australia found true and loyal interpreters of 
 many of her moods and conditions. Their best pieces are as essentially 
 Australian as Burns' best are Scotch or Campbell's British. And other 
 names might be mentioned, of men, ay ! and of women too, who have 
 occasionally offered at the shrine of the Muse of Australia a song worthy of 
 '* the sweet voice so full with the music of fountains." 
 
13 
 
 Of what weight and consistency are Mr Sladen's claims to be ranked as an 
 Australian lyrical poet ? We would say that Mr Sladen's claims rest on a 
 fairly firm basis. Hei has an Australian way of looking at things. Though 
 not as essentially Australian in his moods as was Kendall, he possesses the 
 power not only of painting local scenery with most graphic touch', but of 
 treating foreign subjects from a distinctly Australian standpoint. The 
 volume before us supplies many proofs of the truth of our assertion. The 
 lyrics it contains are not all of equal merit : indeed the difference between 
 the best and the *' least best " is very marked : yet they all reveal a sprightly 
 fancy and a healthy intelligence. There is no passage in them which 
 suggest indifference to pure morality. They have no flavour of morbidity 
 or cynicism: and each whispers a message "adequate to humanity at its 
 best." 
 
 Wordsworth-like Mr Sladen evidently believes that it is the singers 
 mission "to console the afflicted, and to add sunshine to daylight by 
 making the happy happier " ; and he has been dowered with the needful 
 powers to practise his belief with both graciousness and efficacy. Not that 
 there are no shortcomings in his work. Mr Sladen's worst fault is a care. 
 lessness with regard to final sounds. 
 
 On the other hand, the beauties of Mr Sladen's Lyrics, which brim over 
 with naturalness, are many and great. Here, for instance, is a delightful 
 piece, iL true poem — the last stanza whereof strikes us as being a most vivid 
 bit of word-painting : — 
 
 OUT WEST IN QUEENSLAND. 
 
 " Coifi, the priest of King Edwin, Jikened the life of man 
 To the coming of a sparrow, with snow and stormwind wan, 
 Out of the frost and the darkness into the warmth and light 
 Of the great hall of the King's house upon a wassail-night. 
 
 And after a moment's sojourn, type of the life of men, 
 
 Into the frost and darkness fluttering out again. 
 
 We sprang from the womb of darkness, and she takes back her own, 
 
 And who knoweth whence we issued, or whither we have gone ? 
 
 Like the brief flight of a sparrow upon a wintry night. 
 Out of the frost and the darkness into the warmth and light. 
 Is the advent of a stranger in the back blocks out west, 
 Here to-night and gone to-morrow, after food, roof, and rest. 
 
 Just riding up to the homestead upon a tired horse, 
 And asking for a night's lodging that's granted as of course : 
 A shaking of hands and supper, a smoke, a yarn, and bed — 
 Then saddle and ere the sun's up, the guest has gone, Godsped." 
 
 Or take the following "In Memoriam" lines; what a bright dash of 
 Australian colouring is thrown into the middle stanza (though perhaps the 
 word " m eadows " is not quite appropriate) — 
 
14 
 
 IN MEMORIAM : C. Le F. 
 
 Born at Grasmere, emigrated to Australia, killed in Afghanistan. 
 
 ** Wandering over the Cumbrian mountains, 
 Herding his flocks on Helvellyn's breast. 
 Watering sheep at the hill-side fountains, 
 The high young spirit could find no rest. 
 
 Galloping over Australian meadows 
 
 On the fierce steed that he loved the best, 
 Only the flickering gum-tree shadows 
 
 'Twixt him and the sun, yet he found no rest. 
 
 Under the sky on the Afghan mountains, 
 
 With a foeman's bullet in his breast, 
 Dead for a draught of the hill-side fountains 
 
 To quench his fever — he lies at rest." 
 
 *'The Squire's Brother," the longest flight in the volume, is really 
 chartning, somewhat Praed-like but thoroughly Australian : the hero 
 being one who in the heat and burden of Queensland's time of small things 
 had " stood sentry all the day against the wilderness," and thereby won 
 affluence and, what he prized more, the possession of the d*ar English 
 maiden whose heart he had won ere he dared the perils of the bush. 
 
 " A Moss Rose of Erin " might have been written by Dante G. Rossetti, 
 in one of whose many, styles it is unmistakably cast. 
 
 '* To the Australian Eleven " is an example of the writer's skill in fun and 
 punning, good enough in its way, yet hardly worthy of a place beside his 
 •'Ambition" and his "Nellie," the latter of which piecesi a specimen of the 
 tender way in which Mr Sladen can touch the minor key of sympathy with 
 sorrow, we subjoin as the last of our extracts from his "Australian 
 Lyrics " : — 
 
 NELLIE (aged Nine). 
 *' Weep not I 
 
 Call her not dead. She was only nine years old ; 
 Her hair was like a cataract all of gold; . 
 Faced was she like the cherubim from the first, 
 Perchance as a foretoken that she would burst 
 
 The bonds that held her down from heaven ere long. 
 She left off singing in her life's matin-song. 
 Weep not ! 
 
 Weep not ! 
 
 She passed from one to another happy home ; 
 Her little feet had not the leisure to roam 
 Off the footpath into the brambles of life; 
 She had no time to taste the sorrow and strife 
 That damp and mildew and rust a woman's years, 
 With schoolgirl's and lover's, wife's and mother's tears. 
 Weep not 1 
 
IS 
 
 Weep not ! 
 
 She it not dead, but asleep. Who Vould not sleep 
 Rather than work and weary and waste and weep 
 Here in life's fever, faction, fear, and fret? 
 Her cheeks and lashes will never more be wet : 
 He called her back ere her heart had learned to ache ; 
 He loved her much^ and took her for her own sake. 
 
 Weep not! 
 
 After a careful examination of the contents of this volume we do not 
 hesitate to award to Mr Sladen the title of an Australian poet. That he 
 may justify our conclusion in more ambitious, more definitely Australian 
 work is our sincere hope. He has evidently the requisite capacity. 
 
 A POETRY OF EXILES. 
 
 London : Griffith & Farran, St Paul's Churchyard, E.G. 
 C. E. Fuller & Co., Sydney, N.S.W. 
 
 Published almost simultaneously, and therefore only one critique has 
 come to hat^d in time for Publication. 
 
 From ike Federal Australian, Melbourne., May -^xst^ 1884. 
 
 Many of the Short Pieces are very complete, and indicate what Mr 
 Sladen is capable of achieving. We are greatly pleased with such little 
 poems as the "Plaint of the Prodigal Son," "Winter," and "The Poet's 
 Message." From the last named we give one verse : — 
 
 *' God had been good to him, and he endeavoured 
 
 To render God due thankfulness and meed. 
 By putting down the obstacles that severed 
 
 Man from his fellow-man, in fact or creed ; 
 By singing of the goodness and the gladness 
 
 Of all creation, till impaired by man, 
 And pointing out the soothing side of sadness. 
 
 The harmony of the Creator's Plan." 
 
A CATALOGUE OF 
 
 KKW AKD STAKDARD BOOKS 
 
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 Devotional and Religious Books, 
 
 AND 
 
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 *'°*"coii to NowM^'^ 
 
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 GRIFFITH & FARRAN, 
 
 WEST CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, LONDON. 
 
 E. P, DuTTON & Co., Nkw York. 
 
 lOM. 3/84. D 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
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 Popular Lectures on Plain and High-class 
 
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 Hillsland as it was Seventy Years ago. A 
 
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New Devotional and Religious Books. 13 
 
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 Sermons for Children. By A. Decoppet, Pastor 
 
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14 New Devotional and Religious Books. 
 
 Devotional and Religious Books — {continuea). 
 
 The Churchman's Altar Manual and Guide 
 
 to Holy Communion, together with the Collects, Epistles, an 
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 Rubrics in red. 
 Three Editions of this Manual are now issued. The following 
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 For the Use of Newly-Confirmed and others. 
 
 The Young Communicant's Manual. Con- 
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 Bishop Ken's Approach to the Holy Altar. 
 
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 A Lent Manual for Busy People and for the 
 
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 price 6d. 
 
 The Song of Solomon, rendered in English Verse, 
 
 in accordance with the most approved translation from the 
 Hebrew and Septuagint. By the Rev. James Pratt, D.D. 
 With 7 Illustrations. Crown 8vo., cloth, 3^. iid. 
 
 An Epitome of Anglican Church History 
 
 ii-om the Earliest Ages to the Present Time. Compiled from 
 various sources by Ellen Webley- Parry. Demy 8vo., cloth 
 boards, 5j. 
 
New Devotional and Religious Books. 15 
 
 Devotional and Religious Books — {continued). 
 
 The Life Militant. Plain Sermons for Cottage 
 Homes. By Ellell. Crown 8vo., price 6j. 
 
 The Way of Prayer ; a Book of Devotions, for 
 use in Church and at Home. Compiled by Rev. H. W. Millar 
 M.A. Cloth, red edges, is. 
 
 Bogatsky's Golden Treasury for the Children of 
 
 God, consisting of devotional and practical observations for 
 every day in the year. Fcap. l6mo, vrith purple border lines, 
 price One Shilling. 
 
 Also kept in various leather bindings. 
 A new and elegantly-'printed edition of this well-known 'work. 
 
 Foreign Churches in relating to the Anglican ; an 
 Essay towards Re-Union. By W. J. E. Bennett, M.A., 
 Priest of the English Church, Vicar of Frome, Selwood, 
 Somerset. Demy 8vo., price 5^. 
 
 The Churchman's Manual of Family and Private 
 Devotion, compiled from the writings of English Divines, with 
 Graces and Devotions for the Seasons, Litanies, and an entirely 
 new selectioii of Hymns. Super royal 32mo., price \s. 6d. 
 
 Also kept in various leather bindings. 
 
 Miniature Series of Devotional Books. Small square 
 
 32mo, 6d. each. 
 
 Whispers of Love and Wisdom. By Annie 
 Cazenove. 
 
 Fragments in Prose and Verse. By Annie 
 Cazenove. 
 
 Cut Diamonds. By Ellen Gubbins. 
 
 These three books may be had in a cloth case, price 2s. ; or 
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 Traveller's Joy by the Wayside of Life. By 
 
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l6 New Devotional and Religious Books, 
 
 * Devotional and Religious Books — {continued). 
 The Children's Daily Help for the Christian Year. 
 
 Taken from the Psalms and Lessons. Selected by E. G. 
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 Now publishing in Monthly Parts, p^e One Shilling each. 
 
 Sermons for the Church's Year. Original and 
 
 Selected. By the Rev. W. Benham, B.D., Rector of St. 
 Edmund the King, London, and one of the six preachers in 
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 "We cordially appreciate the necessity for a revival of interest in the best 
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 Confirmation ; or, Called and Chosen and Faithful. 
 By the Author of " The Gospel in the Church's Seasons Series." 
 With Preface by the Very Rev. the Dean OF CHESTER. Fcap. 
 8vo., cloth limp, gd. ; cloth boards, red edges, I.f. 
 
 A Cheaper Edition for Distribution, price 2,d. 
 
 Dr. Lee's Altar Services. Edited by the Rev. 
 
 Dr. F. G. Lee, D.C.L., F.S.A. Containing the complete 
 Altar Services of the. Church, beautifully printed in red and 
 black at the Chisvi-ick Press, enriched with Ornamental Capitals, 
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New Devotional and Religious Books. 1 7 
 
 Devotional and Religious Books — {continued). 
 
 The Preacher's Promptuary of Anecdote. 
 
 Stories New and Old. Arranged, indexed, and classified by 
 Rev. W. Frank Shaw, Author of " Tlie Mourner's Manual," 
 "Sermon Sketches," &c. One hundred short and pithy stories, 
 suitable for the pulpit, evening classes, &c., each pointing a 
 moral or illustrating some doctrine. Cloth boards, price 
 
 Lazarus. By the Very Rev. The Dean of Wells. 
 New Edition. 
 
 The Churchman's Text Book. For every day in 
 
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 recorded. An elegantly printed and daintily bound little 
 volume in diamond 48mo. 3I by 2^ inches, cloth, limp, red 
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 The Seven Words from the Cross, Printed 
 
 in red and black upon best hand-made paper, and bound in 
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 On the Wings of a Dove ; or, the Life of a Soul : 
 An Allegory. Illustrated by Sister E.— C. S. J. B. CLEV\fER. 
 Demy i6mo., with eight Illustrations. Cloth is. 6d. 
 
 Emblems of Christian Life. Illustrated by 
 
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 * * A reduction made on taking a quantity of the above Cards, 
 
American Sermons and TTteological Books. 
 
 AMERICAN SERMONS 
 
 AND 
 
 THEOLOGICAL BOOKS. 
 
 .PUBLISHED BY 
 
 E. P. BUTTON and CO., New York, U.S. A., 
 
 AND SOLD IN ENGLAND fit' 
 
 GRIFFITH AND FARRAN. 
 
 Brooks, the Rev. Phillips, D.D., Rector of 
 
 Trinity Church, Boston. 
 Influence of Jesus. Being the Bohlen Lecture for 1879. 
 
 Eighth Thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth, price 3s. 6d. 
 Sermons. Thirteenth Thousand. Crown 8vo., cloth, price 
 
 Ss- 
 
 Chapman, Rev. Dr. 
 
 Sermons upon the Ministry, Worship, and Doctrine 
 
 of the Church. New Edition. Crown 8vo., price Ss. 
 
 Clergyman's Visiting List, in morocco, with tuck for the 
 
 pocket. Foolscap, price 7s. 6d. 
 
 Doane, Rt. Rev. Wm. Croswell, D.D., 
 
 Bishop of Albany. 
 Mosaics ; or, the Harmony of Collect, Epistle, and Gospel 
 for the Sundays of the Christian Year. Cr. 8vo., cloth, 6s. 
 
 Hallam, Rev. Robert A., D.D. 
 
 Lectures on the Morning Prayer, izmo., 5s. 
 Lectures on Moses. i2mo., cloth, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Handbook of Church Terms. 
 
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 employed in.Christian Art. Paper, gd. ; cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 Hobart, Rev. John Henry, D.D., formerly 
 
 Bishop of New York. 
 
 Festivals and Fasts. A Companion for the Festivals and 
 
 Fasts of the Protestant Episcopal Church, principally 
 
 selected and altered from Nelson's Companion. With 
 
 Forms of Devotion. Twenty-third Edition. i2mo., 5s. 
 
American Sermons and Theological Books. 19 
 
 Hodges, Rev. Wm., D.D. 
 
 Baptism : Tested by Scripture and History ; or, the 
 Teaching of the Holy Scriptures, and the Practice and 
 Teaching of the Christian Church in every age succeeding 
 the Apostolic, compared in relation to the Subjects and 
 Modes of Baptism. 6s. 
 
 Huntington, Rt. Rev. F- D., Bishop of 
 
 Central New York. 
 Christian Believing and Living. Sermons. Fifth 
 
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 Sermons for the People. Crown Svo., cloth, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Odenheimer, the Rt. Rev. Wm. H., D.D., 
 
 late Bishop of New Jersey. 
 Sermons, with Portrait and Memoir. Edited by his Wife. 
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 Staunton, Rev. WiUiam, D.D. 
 
 Ecclesiastical Dictionary, containing Definitions of 
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 746 pp., 7s. 6d. 
 
 Vinton, Rev. Alexander H. 
 
 Sermons. Fourth Edition. 330 pages, 3s. 6d. 
 
 Vinton, Francis, S.T.D., D.C.L. 
 
 Manual Commentary on the General Canon Law 
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 Williams, Right Rev. John, D.D., Bishop 
 
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 Wilson, Rev. Wm. D., D.D. 
 
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New Educational Books. 
 
 EDUCATIONAL WORKS, 
 
 GOOD HANDWEITING. 
 
 George Darnell's Copy-Books, 
 
 After over a quarter of a century of public favour, are every- 
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 I. It is the production of an experienced Schoolmaster. 
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 III. The assistance given in the Primal lesson is reduced as the 
 
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 IV. The number and variety of the copies secure attention, and 
 
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 A SIMPLE STROKE TO A SUPERIOR SMALL HAND. 
 
 STANDARD I. 
 
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 2. Single and Double Letters. 
 
 3. Large Text (Short Words). 
 
 STANDARD II. 
 
 3. Large Text (Short Words). 
 
 4. Large Text (Short Words). 
 
 5. Text, Large Text, and Figures. 
 
 STANDARD III. 
 
 6. Text, Round, Capitals & Figure. 
 
 7. Text, Round and Small. 
 
 8. Text, Round, Small & Figures, 
 
 STANDARD IV. 
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 10. Text, Round, Small & Figures. 
 XI. Round, Small and Figures. 
 
 STANDARD V. 
 
 12. Round, Small and Figures. 
 
 13. Round and Small. 
 
 14. Round and Small. 
 
 STANDARD VI. 
 
 15. Small Hand. 
 
 16. Small Hand. 
 
New Edtuational Books. 
 
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 HISTORY. 
 Britannia ; a Collection of the Principal Passages in 
 
 Latin Authors that refer to this Island, with Vocabulary and 
 Notes. By T. S. Cayzer. Illustrated with a Map and 29 
 Woodcuts. Crown 8vo., cloth, y. 6d. 
 
 True Stories from Ancient History, chrono- 
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 of Charlemagne. Twelfth Edition. i2mo., ^s. cloth. 
 
 Mrs. Trimmer's Concise History of England, 
 
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 Historical Reading Books. By Oscar Browning, 
 
 M.A., King's College, Cambridge. Fully illustrated. They 
 consist of four volumes of about 150 or 200 pages each. The 
 object is to give a knowledge of general English History. The 
 First Reader contains easy episodes from the whole course of 
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 inconvenience of confining the lowest Standards to the earlier 
 part of English History is avoided. The Readers are copiously 
 illustrated, and printed in conspicuous type. 
 
 Book I, ... about 150 pages ... price I/- 
 
 „ 11. ... „ 180 „ ... „ 1/3 
 
 „ III. ... „ 200 „ ... „ 1/6 
 
 ,, IV 280 „ ... „ 1/6 
 
New Educatwnal Books. 
 
 GRIFFITH & FARRAN'S 
 NEW GEOGRAPHICAL READERS. 
 
 To meet the requirements of Circular 228. 
 
 By J. R. Blakiston, M.A., 
 Trinity College, Cambridge, Author of " The Teacher.' 
 
 Book I., for Standard I. 
 
 With a Map and many Illustrations. Fcap. 8vo., cloth 
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 With a Map of England and numerous Illustrations. 
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 With 13 Maps and 18 Illustrations. Fcap. 8vo., cloth 
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 The other Volumes will be Ready Shortly. 
 
 Each Volume contains the right number of chapters and of pages 
 to satisfy all the requirements of the Code and the recent 
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 J* Specimen copies post free on receipt of half the published 
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New Educational Books. 
 
 GEOGRAPHY. 
 
 Pictorial Geography, for the Instruction of 
 
 Children. Illustrates at a glance the Various Geographical 
 Terms in such a manner as to at once impart clear and definite 
 ideas respecting them. On a Sheet 30 by 22 inches, printed 
 in colours, is. td. ; Mounted on Rollers and Varnished, y. 6d. 
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 Chronicle-. 
 
 Gaultier's FamiHar Geography, with a concise 
 
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 illustrative of the principal Geographical Terms. Cloth, 3^. 
 
 Butler's Outline Maps, and Key, or Geo- 
 graphical and Biographical Exercises : with a Set of Coloured 
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 the late William Butlek. Enlarged by the Author's Son, 
 J. O. Butler. Price 4J-. 
 
 GRAMMAR, &c. 
 
 A Compendious Grammar, and Philological 
 
 Handbook of the English Language, for the Use of Schools 
 and Candidates for the Army and Civil Service Examinations. 
 By J. G. Colquhoun, Esq., Barrister- at-Law. Cloth, 2s. dd. 
 
 Darnell, G. Grammar made Intelligible to 
 
 Children. Being a Series of short and simple Rules, with 
 ample Explanations of Every Difficulty, and copious Exercises 
 for Parsing; in Language adapted to the comprehension of very 
 young Students. New and Revised Edition. Cloth, u. 
 
 Darnell, G. Introduction to English Gram- 
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Cornell University Library 
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 H summer Christmas, and A sonnet upon th 
 
 3 1924 013 551 647 
 
."^'wn