No More Learning

He turned and looked: there was no one in sight.
“He is coming sooner or later! she called.
She had retreated several yards off into the sunlight of the.
meadow.
The remembrance of the risk that he was causing her to run
checked him. He went over to her.
“When can I see you again — soon? ”
He had never spoken so seriously to her before. He had
never before been so serious. But within the last hour Nature
had been doing her work, and its effect was immediate. His
sincerity instantly conquered her. Her eyes fell.
“No one has any right to keep us from seeing each other! "
he insisted. “We must settle that for ourselves. »
>>


## p. 419 (#453) ############################################

JAMES LANE ALLEN
419
(
Daphne made no reply.
“But we can't meet here any more - with people passing
backward and forward! ” he continued rapidly and decisively.
“What has happened to-day mustn't happen again. ”
“No! ” she replied, in a voice barely to be heard. “It must
never happen again. We can't meet here. "
They were walking side by side now toward the meadow-
path. As they reached it he paused.
“Come to the back of the pasture — to-morrow! - at four
o'clock! ” he said, tentatively, recklessly.
Daphne did not answer as she moved away from him along
the path homeward.
“Will you come ? ” he called out to her.
She turned and shook her head. Whatever her own new
plans may have become, she was once more happy and laugh-
ing.
“Come, Daphne!
She walked several paces further and turned and shook her
head again.
“Come! ” he pleaded.
She laughed at him.
He wheeled round to his mare grazing near. As he put his
foot into the stirrup, he looked again: she was standing in the
same place, laughing still.
“You go," she cried, waving him good-by. « There'll not be
a soul to disturb you! To-morrow - at four o'clock ! »
“Will you be there? ” he said,
“Will you ? ” she answered.
« I'll be there to-morrow,” he said, “and every other day till
»
C
you come. »
By permission of the Macmillan Company, Publishers.
OLD KING SOLOMON'S CORONATION
From (Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances)
Copyright 1891, by Harper and Brothers
E
H
STOOD on the topmost of the court-house steps, and for a
moment looked down on the crowd with the usual air of
official severity.
"Gentlemen," he then cried out sharply, "by an ordah of the
cou't I now offah this man at public sale the highes' biddah.


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420
JAMES LANE ALLEN
He is able-bodied but lazy, without visible property or means of
suppoht, an' of dissolute habits. He is therefoh adjudged guilty
of high misdemeanahs, an' is to be sole into labah foh a twelve.
month. How much, then, am I offahed foh the vagrant? How
much am I offahed foh ole King Sol'mon ? »
Nothing was offered for old King Solomon. The spectators
formed themselves into a ring around the big vagrant, and settled
down to enjoy the performance.
Staht 'im, somebody. "
Somebody started a laugh, which rippled around the circle.
The sheriff looked on with an expression of unrelaxed severity,
but catching the eye of an acquaintance on the outskirts, he ex-
changed a lightning wink of secret appreciation. Then he lifted
off his tight beaver hat, wiped out of his eyes a little shower of
perspiration which rolled suddenly down from above, and warmed
a degree to his theme.
«Come, gentlemen,” he said more suasively, “it's too hot to
stan' heah all day. Make me an offah! You all know ole King
Sol'mon; don't wait to be interduced. How much, then, to staht
'im?
Say fifty dollahs! Twenty-five! Fifteen!
Ten! Why,
gentlemen! Not ten dollahs ? Remembah, this is the Blue-Grass
Region of Kentucky - the land of Boone an' Kenton, the home
of Henry Clay! ” he added, in an oratorical crescendo.
«He ain't wuth his victuals,” said an oily little tavern-keeper,
folding his arms restfully over his own stomach and cocking up
one piggish eye into his neighbor's face. “He ain't wuth his
'taters. ”
“Buy 'im foh 'is rags! ” cried a young law student, with a
Blackstone under his arm, to the town rag picker opposite, who
was unconsciously ogling the vagrant's apparel.
«I might buy 'im foh 'is scalp,” drawled a farmer, who had
taken part in all kinds of scalp contests, and was now known to
be busily engaged in collecting crow scalps for a match soon to
come off between two rival counties.
“I think I'll buy 'im foh a hat sign,” said a manufacturer of
ten-dollar Castor and Rhorum hats. This sally drew merry atten-
tion to the vagrant's hat, and the merchant felt rewarded.
“You'd bettah say the town ought to buy 'im an' put 'im up
on top of the cou't-house as a scarecrow foh the cholera,” said
some one else.
“What news of the cholera did the stage coach bring this
mohning ? » quickly inquired his neighbor in his ear; and the two


## p. 421 (#455) ############################################

JAMES LANE ALLEN
421
immediately fell into low, grave talk, forgot the auction, and
turned away
“Stop, gentlemen, stop! ” cried the sheriff, who had watched
the rising tide of good humor, and now saw his chance to float
in on it with spreading sails. "You're runnin' the price in the
wrong direction - down, not up. The law requires that he be
sole to the highes' biddah, not the lowes'. As loyal citizens,
uphole the constitution of the commonwealth of Kentucky an'
make me an offah; the man is really a great bargain. In the
first place, he would cos' his ownah little or nothin', because, as
you see, he keeps himself in cigahs an' clo'es; then, his main
article of diet is whisky-a supply of which he always has on
han'. He don't even need a bed, foh you know he sleeps jus'
as well on any doohstep; noh a chair, foh he prefers to sit roun'
on the curbstones. Remembah, too, gentlemen, that ole King
Sol'mon is a Virginian - from the same neighbohhood as Mr.
Clay. Remembah that he is well educated, that he is an awful
Whig, an' that he has smoked mo' of the stumps of Mr. Clay's
cigahs than any other man in existence. If you don't b'lieve me,
gentlemen, yondah goes Mr. Clay now; call him ovah an' ask
'im foh yo'se'ves. "
He paused, and pointed with his right forefinger towards
Main Street, along which the spectators, with a sudden craning
of necks, beheld the familiar figure of the passing statesman.
“But you don't need anybody to tell these fac's, gentlemen,"
he continued. “You merely need to be reminded that ole King
Sol'mon is no ohdinary man. Mo'ovah he has a kine heaht; he
nevah spoke a rough wohd to anybody in this worl', an' he is as
proud as Tecumseh of his good name an' charactah. An', gentle.
men,” he added, bridling with an air of mock gallantry and lay-
ing a hand on his heart, “if anythin' fu'thah is required in the
way of a puffect encomium, we all know that there isn't anothah
man among us who cuts as wide a swath among the ladies.
The'foh, if you have any appreciation of virtue, any magnanimity
of heaht; if you set a propah valuation upon the descendants of
Virginia, that mothah of Presidents; if you believe in the pure
laws of Kentucky as the pioneer bride of the Union; if you love
America an' love the worl'— make me a gen'rous, high-toned
offah foh ole King Sol'mon! ”
He ended his peroration amid a shout of laughter and ap-
plause, and feeling satisfied that it was a good time for returning


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422
JAMES LANE ALLEN
to a more practical treatment of his subject, proceeded in a sin-
cere tone:
“He can easily earn from one to two dollahs a day, an' from
three to six hundred a yeah. There's not anothah white man in
town capable of doin' as much work. There's not a niggah han'
in the hemp factories with such muscles an' such a chest. Look
at 'em! An', if you don't b'lieve me, step fo'ward and feel 'em.
How much, then, is bid foh 'im ? »
“One dollah! ” said the owner of a hemp factory, who had
walked forward and felt the vagrant's arm, laughing, but coloring
up also as the eyes of all were quickly turned upon him. In
those days it was not an unheard-of thing for the muscles of a
human being to be thus examined when being sold into servitude
to a new master,
« Thank you! » cried the sheriff, cheerily. «One precinc
heard from! One dollah! I am offahed one dollah foh ole King
Sol'mon. One dollah foh the king! Make it a half. One dollah
an' a half. Make it a half. One dol-dol-dol-dollah ! »
Two medical students, returning from lectures at the old Med.
ical Hall, now joined the group, and the sheriff explained:
“One dollah is bid foh the vagrant ole King Sol'mon, who is
to be sole into labah foh a twelvemonth. Is there any othah
bid ? Are you all done ? One dollah, once — "
“Dollah and a half,” said one of the students, and remarked
half jestingly under his breath to his companion, “I'll buy him
on the chance of his dying. We'll dissect him. ”
« Would you own his body if he should die ? »
“If he dies while bound to me, I'll arrange that. ”
«One dollah an' a half,” resumed the sheriff, and falling into
the tone of a facile auctioneer he rattled on:-
«One dollah an' a half foh ole Sol'mon - sol, sol, sol,- do, re,
mi, fa, sol,- do, re, mi, fa, sol! Why, gentlemen, you can set
the king to music!
All this time the vagrant had stood in the centre of that close
ring of jeering and humorous bystanders-a baffling text from
which to have preached a sermon on the infirmities of our imper-
fect humanity. Some years before, perhaps as a master-stroke of
derision, there had been given to him that title which could but
heighten the contrast of his personality and estate with every
suggestion of the ancient sacred magnificence; and never had the
mockery seemed so fine as at this moment, when he was led


## p. 423 (#457) ############################################

JAMES LANE ALLEN
423
forth into the streets to receive the lowest sentence of the law
upon his poverty and dissolute idleness. He was apparently in
the very prime of life - a striking figure, for nature at least had
truly done some royal work on him. Over six feet in height,
erect, with limbs well shaped and sinewy, with chest and neck full
of the lines of great power, a large head thickly covered with long,
reddish hair, eyes blue, face beardless, complexion fair but dis-
colored by low passions and excesses - such was old King Solo-
mon. He wore a stiff, high, black Castor hat of the period, with
the crown smashed in and the torn rim hanging down over one
ear; a black cloth coat in the old style, ragged and buttonless; a
white cotton shirt, with the broad collar crumpled wide open at
the neck and down his sunburnt bosom; blue jean pantaloons,
patched at the seat and the knees; and ragged cotton socks that
fell down over the tops of his dusty shoes, which were open at
the heels.
In one corner of his sensual mouth rested the stump of a
cigar. Once during the proceedings he had produced another,
lighted it, and continued quietly smoking. If he took to himself
any shame as the central figure of this ignoble performance, no
one knew it. There was something almost royal in his uncon-
cern. The humor, the badinage, the open contempt, of which he
was the public target, fell thick and fast upon him, but as harm-
lessly as would balls of pith upon a coat of mail. In truth, there
was that in his great, lazy, gentle, good-humored bulk and bear-
ing which made the gibes seem all but despicable. He shuffled
from one foot to the other as though he found it a trial to stand
up so long, but all the while looking the spectators full in the
eyes without the least impatience. He suffered the man of the
factory to walk round him and push and pinch his muscles as
calmly as though he had been the show bull at a country fair.
Once only, when the sheriff had pointed across the street at the
figure of Mr. Clay, he had looked quickly in that direction with
a kindling light in his eye and a passing flush on his face. For
the rest, he seemed like a man who has drained his cup of human
life and has nothing left him but to fill again and drink without
the least surprise or eagerness.
The bidding between the man of the factory and the student
had gone slowly on. The price had reached ten dollars. The
heat was intense, the sheriff tired. Then something occurred to
revivify the scene. Across the market place and toward the steps


## p. 424 (#458) ############################################

424
JAMES LANE ALLEN
of the court-house there suddenly came trundling along in breath-
less haste a huge old negress, carrying on one arm a large shal-
low basket containing apple-crab lanterns and fresh gingerbread.
With a series of half-articulate grunts and snorts she approached
the edge of the crowd and tried to force her way through. She
coaxed, she begged, she elbowed and pushed and scolded, now
laughing, and now with the passion of tears in her thick, excited
voice. All at once, catching sight of the sheriff, she lifted one
ponderous brown arm, naked to the elbow, and waved her hand
to him above the heads of those in front.
“Hole on marster! hole on! ” she cried in a tone of humorous
entreaty. “Don' knock 'im off till I come! Gim me a bid at 'im! ”
The sheriff paused and smiled. The crowd made way tumult-
uously, with broad laughter and comment.
“Stan' aside theah an' let Aun' Charlotte in! ”
"Now you'll see biddin'! ”
“Get out of the way foh Aun' Charlotte ! »
“Up, my free niggah! Hurrah foh Kentucky! ”
A moment more and she stood inside the ring of spectators,
her basket on the pavement at her feet, her hands plumped
akimbo into her fathomless sides, her head up, and her soft,
motherly eyes turned eagerly upon the sheriff. Of the crowd
she seemed unconscious, and on the vagrant before her she had
not cast a single glance.
She was dressed with perfect neatness. A red and yellow
Madras 'kerchief was bound about her head in a high coil, and
another over the bosom of her stiffly starched and smoothly
ironed blue cottonade dress. Rivulets of perspiration ran down
over her nose, her temples, and around her ears, and disappeared
mysteriously in the creases of her brown neck. A single drop
accidentally hung glistening like a diamond on the circlet of one
of her large brass earrings.
The sheriff looked at her a moment, smiling but a little dis-
concerted. The spectacle was unprecedented.
«What do you want heah, Aun' Charlotte ? ” he asked kindly.
“You can't sell yo' pies an' gingerbread heah. ”
"I don'wan' sell no pies en gingerbread," she replied, con-
temptuously. “I wan' bid on him," and she nodded sidewise at
the vagrant. “White folks allers sellin' niggahs to wuk fuh
dem; I gwine to buy a white man to wuk fuh me. En he
gwine t' git a mighty hard mistiss, you heah me! »


## p. 425 (#459) ############################################

JAMES LANE ALLEN
425
The eyes of the sheriff twinkled with delight.
«Ten dollahs is offahed foh ole King Sol'mon. Is theah any
othah bid. Are you all done? ”
"Leben,” she said.
Two young ragamuffins crawled among the legs of the crowd
up to her basket and filched pies and cake beneath her very
nose.
«Twelve! ” cried the student, laughing.
« Thirteen ! ” she laughed, too, but her eyes flashed.
« You are bidding against a niggah,” whispered the student's
companion in his ear.
«So I am; let's be off," answered the other, with a hot flush
on his proud face.
Thus the sale was ended, and the crowd variously dispersed.
In a distant corner of the courtyard the ragged urchins were
devouring their unexpected booty. The old negress drew a red
handkerchief out of her bosom, untied a knot in a corner of it,
and counted out the money to the sheriff. Only she and the
vagrant were now left on the spot.
« You have bought me. What do you want me to do? ” he
asked quietly.
“Lohd, honey! ” she answered, in a low tone of affectionate
chiding, "I don'wan' you to do nothin'! I wuzn' gwine t' 'low
dem white folks to buy you. Dey'd wuk you till you dropped
dead. You go 'long en do ez you please. ”
a cunning chuckle of triumph in thus setting at
naught the ends of justice, and in a voice rich and musical
with affection, she said, as she gave him a little push:-
“You bettah be gittin' out o' dis blazin' sun. G' on home! I
be 'long by-en-by. ”
He turned and moved slowly away in the direction of Water
Street, where she lived; and she, taking up her basket, shuffled
across the market place toward Cheapside, muttering to herself
the while:-
"I come mighty nigh gittin' dar too late, foolin' 'long wid
dese pies. Sellin' him 'ca'se he don' wuk! Umph! if all de men
in dis town dat don' wuk wuz to be tuk up en sole, d' wouldn'
be 'nough money in de town to buy em! Don' I see 'em settin'
'roun' dese taverns f'om mohnin' till night ? ”
She gave


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426
JAMES LANE ALLEN
Nature soon smiles upon her own ravages and strews our
graves with flowers, not as memories, but for other flowers when
the spring returns.
It was one cool, brilliant morning late in that autumn. The
air blew fresh and invigorating, as though on the earth there
were no corruption, no death. Far southward had flown the
plague. A spectator in the open court square might have seen
many signs of life returning to the town. Students hurried
along, talking eagerly. Merchants met for the first time and
spoke of the winter trade. An old negress, gayly and neatly
dressed, came into the market place, and sitting down on a side-
walk displayed her yellow and red apples and fragrant ginger-
bread. She hummed to herself an old cradle-song, and in
her soft, motherly black eyes shone a mild, happy radiance. A
group of young ragamuffins eyed her longingly from a distance.
Court was to open for the first time since the spring. The
hour was early, and one by one the lawyers passed slowly in.
On the steps of the court-house three men were standing:
Thomas Brown, the sheriff; old Peter Leuba, who had just
walked over from his music store on Main Street; and little
M. Giron, the French confectioner. Each wore mourning on his
hat, and their voices were low and grave.
«Gentlemen,” the sheriff was saying, “it was on this very
spot the day befoah the cholera broke out that I sole 'im as a
An' I did the meanes' thing a man can evah do. I
hel' 'im up to public ridicule foh his weakness an' made spoht
of 'is infirmities. I laughed at 'is povahty an' 'is ole clo'es. I
delivahed on 'im as complete an oration of sarcastic detraction
as I could prepare on the spot, out of my own meanness an'
with the vulgah sympathies of the crowd. Gentlemen, if I only
had that crowd heah now, an' ole King Sol'mon standin' in the
midst of it, that I might ask 'im to accept a humble public
apology, offahed from the heaht of one who feels himself un-
worthy to shake 'is han'! But gentlemen, that crowd will nevah
reassemble. Neahly ev'ry man of them is dead, an' ole King
Sol'mon buried them. ”
« He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi,” said François Giron,
touching his eyes with his handkerchief.
“There is a case of my best Jamaica rum for him whenever
he comes for it,” said old Leuba, clearing his throat.
“But, gentlemen, while we are speakin' of ole King Sol'mon
vagrant.


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JAMES LANE ALLEN
427
on
we ought not to forget who it is that has suppohted 'im. Yon-
dah she sits on the sidewalk, sellin' 'er apples an' gingerbread. ”
The three men looked in the direction indicated.
“Heah comes ole King Sol'mon now,” exclaimed the sheriff.
Across the open square the vagrant was seen walking slowly
along with his habitual air of quiet, unobtrusive preoccupation.
A minute more and he had come over and passed into the court-
house by a side door.
"Is Mr. Clay to be in court to-day? ”
“He is expected, I think. ”
“Then let's go in: there will be a crowd. ”
“I don't know: so many are dead. ”
They turned and entered and found seats as quietly as pos-
sible; for a strange and sorrowful hush brooded over the court-
room. Until the bar assembled, it had not been realized how
many were gone.
The silence was that of a common over-
whelming disaster. No one spoke with his neighbor; no one
observed the vagrant as he entered and made his way to a seat
one of the meanest benches, a little apart from the others.
He had not sat there since the day of his indictment for
vagrancy. The judge took his seat, and making a great effort
to control himself, passed his eyes slowly over the court-room.
All at once he caught sight of old King Solomon sitting against
the wall in an obscure corner; and before any one could know
what he was doing, he had hurried down and walked up to the
vagrant and grasped his hand. He tried to speak, but could not.
Old King Solomon had buried his wife and daughter, - buried
them one clouded midnight, with no one present but himself.
Then the oldest member of the bar started up and followed
the example; and then the other members, rising by a common
impulse, filed slowly back and one by one wrung that hard and
powerful hand. After them came the other persons in the court-
room. The vagrant, t12 gravedigger, had risen and stood
against the wall, at first with a white face and a dazed express-
ion, not knowing what it meant; afterwards, when he under-
stood it, his head dropped suddenly forward and his tears fell
thick and hot upon the hands that he could not see. And his
were not the only tears. Not a man in the long file but paid
his tribute of emotion as he stepped forward to honor that
image of sadly eclipsed but still effulgent humanity. It was not
grief, it was not gratitude, nor any sense of making reparation


## p. 428 (#462) ############################################

428
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
for the past. It was the softening influence of an act of hero-
ism, which makes every man feel himself a brother hand in
hand with every other;— such power has a single act of moral
greatness to reverse the relations of men, lifting up one, and
bringing all others to do him homage.
It was the coronation scene in the life of Ole King Solo-
mon of Kentucky.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
(1828-1889)
ACH form of verse has, in addition to its laws of structure, a
subtle quality as difficult to define as the perfume of a
flower. The poem, An Evening,' given below, may be
classified both as a song and as a lyric; yet it needs no music other
than its own rhythms, and the full close to each verse which falls
upon the ear like a soft and final chord ending a musical composi-
tion. A light touch and a feeling for shades of meaning are required
to execute such dainty verse. In (St. Margaret's Eve,' and in many
other ballads, Allingham expresses the broader, more dramatic sweep
of the ballad, and reveals his Celtic ancestry.
The lovable Irishman, William Allingham, worked hard to enter
the brotherhood of poets. When he was only fourteen his father
took him from school to become clerk in the town bank of which he
himself was manager. «The books which he had to keep for the
next seven years were not those on which his heart was set,” says
Mr. George Birkbeck Hill. But this fortune is almost an inevitable
part, and probably not the worst part, of the training for a literary
vocation; and he justified his ambitions by pluckily studying alone
till he had mastered Greek, Latin, French, and Germån.
Mr. Hill, in his Letters of D. G. Rossetti? (Atlantic Monthly,
May, 1896), thus quotes Allingham's own delightful description of his
early home at Ballyshannon, County Donegal:-
(The little old town where I was born has a voice of its own, low, solemn,
persistent, humming through the air day and night, summer and winter.
Whenever I think of that town I seem to hear the voice. The river which
makes it rolls over rocky ledges into the tide. Before spreads a great ocean in
sunshine or storm; behind stretches a many-islanded lake. On the south runs
a wavy line of blue mountains; and on the north, over green rocky hills rise
peaks of a more distant range. The trees hide in glens or cluster near the
river; gray rocks and bowlders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The


## p. 429 (#463) ############################################

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
429
sky arches wide over all, giving room to multitudes of stars by night, and
long processions of clouds blown from the sea; but also, in the childish mem-
ory where these pictures live, to deeps of celestial blue in the endless days of
summer. An odd, out-of-the-way little town, ours, on the extreme western
edge of Europe; our next neighbors, sunset way, being citizens of the great
new republic, which indeed, to our imagination, seemed little if at all farther
off than England in the opposite direction. ”
of the cottage in which he spent most of his childhood and
youth he writes:-
«Opposite the hall door a good-sized walnut-tree leaned its wrinkled stem
towards the house, and brushed some of the second-story panes with its
broad, fragrant leaves. To sit at that little upper window when it was open to
a summer twilight, and the great tree rustled gently, and sent one leafy spray
so far that it even touched my face, was an enchantment beyond all telling.
Killarney, Switzerland, Venice, could not, in later life, come near it. On three
sides the cottage looked on flowers and branches, which I count as one of the
fortunate chances of my childhood; the sense of natural beauty thus receiving
its due share of nourishment, and of a kind suitable to those early years. ”
At last a position in the Customs presented itself:-
«In the spring of 1846 I gladly took leave forever of discount ledgers
and current accounts, and went to Belfast for two months' instruction in the
duties of Principal Coast Officer of Customs; a tolerably well-sounding title,
but which carried' with it a salary of but £80 a year. I trudged daily about
the docks and timber-yards, learning to measure logs, piles of planks, and,
more troublesome, ships for tonnage; indoors, part of the time practiced cus-
toms book-keeping, and talked to the clerks about literature and poetry in a
way that excited some astonishment, but on the whole, as I found at parting,
a certain degree of curiosity and respect. I preached Tennyson to them.
My spare time was mostly spent in reading and haunting booksellers' shops
where, I venture to say, I laid out a good deal more than most people, in pro-
portion to my income, and managed to get glimpses of many books which I
could not afford or did not care to buy. I enjoyed my new position, on the
whole, without analysis, as a great improvement on the bank; and for the
rest, my inner mind was brimful of love and poetry, and usually all external
things appeared trivial save in their relation to it. ”
Of Allingham's early song-writing, his friend Arthur Hughes
says:-
« Rossetti, and I think Allingham himself, told me, in the early days of our
acquaintance, how in remote Ballyshannon, where he was a clerk in the Cus-
toms, in evening walks he would hear the Irish girls at their cottage doors
singing old ballads, which he would pick up. If they were broken or incom-
plete, he would add to them or finish them; if they were improper he would
refine them. He could not get them sung till he got the Dublin Catnach of
that day to print them, on long strips of blue paper, like old songs, and if
about the sea, with the old rough woodcut of a ship on the top. He either


## p. 430 (#464) ############################################

430
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
gave them away or they were sold in the neighborhood. Then, in his evening
walks, he had at last the pleasure of hearing some of his own ballads sung at
the cottage doors by the blooming lasses, who were quite unaware that it was
the author who was passing by. ”
In 1850 Allingham published a small volume of lyrics whose fresh-
ness and delicacy seemed to announce a new singer, and four years
later his Day and Night Songs' strengthened this impression.
Stationed as revenue officer in various parts of England, he wrote
much verse, and published also the “The Rambles of Patricius Walker,'
a collection of essays upon his walks through England; Lawrence
Bloomfield in Ireland, the tale of a young landlord's efforts to
improve the condition of his tenantry; an anthology, Nightingale
Valley' (1862), and an excellent collection of English ballads, "The
Ballad Book) (1865).
In 1870 he gladly embraced an opportunity to leave the Customs
for the position of assistant editor of Fraser's Magazine under Froude,
whom he afterward succeeded as editor. He was now a member of
a brilliant literary circle, knew Tennyson, Ruskin, and Carlyle, and
was admitted into the warm friendship of the Pre-Raphaelites. But
in no way does he reflect the Pre-Raphaelite spirit by which he was
surrounded; nor does he write his lyrics in the metres and rhythms
of mediæval France. He is as oblivious of rondeaux, ballades, and
roundels, as he is of fair damosels with cygnet necks and full pome-
granate lips. He is a child of nature, whose verse is free from all
artificial inspiration or expression, and seems to flow easily, clearly,
and tenderly from his pen. Some of it errs in being too fanciful.
In the Flower-Songs, indeed, he sometimes becomes trivial in his
comparison of each English poet to a special flower; but his poetry
is usually sincere with an undercurrent of pathos, as in “The Ruined
Chapel,' 'The Winter Pear, and the Song. ' For lightness of touch
and aerial grace, 'The Bubble) will bear comparison with any verse
of its own genre.
(Robin Redbreast has many delightful lines; and
in "The Fairies' one is taken into the realm of Celtic folklore, which
is Allingham's inheritance, where the Brownies, the Pixies, and the
Leprechauns trip over the dew-spangled meadows, or dance on the
yellow sands, and then vanish away in fantastic mists. Quite differ-
ent is Lovely Mary Donnelly, which is a sample of the popular songs
that made him a favorite in his own country.
After his death at Hampstead in 1889, his body was cremated
according to his wish, when these lines of his own were read:
Body to purifying flame,
Soul to the Great Deep whence it came,
Leaving a song on earth below,
An urn of ashes white as snow. ”


## p. 431 (#465) ############################################

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
431
THE RUINED CHAPEL
B ,
Y THE shore, a plot of ground
Clips a ruined chapel round,
Buttressed with a grassy mound;
Where Day and Night and Day go by
And bring no touch of human sound.
Washing of the lonely seas,
Shaking of the guardian trees,
Piping of the salted breeze;
Day and Night and Day go by
To the endless tune of these.
Or when, as winds and waters keep
A hush more dead than any sleep,
Still morns to stiller evenings creep,
And Day and Night and Day go by;
Here the silence is most deep.
The empty ruins, lapsed again
Into Nature's wide domain,
Sow themselves with seed and grain
As Day and Night and Day go by;
And hoard June's sun and April's rain.
Here fresh funeral tears were shed;
Now the graves are also dead;
And suckers from the ash-tree spread,
While Day and Night and Day go by;
And stars move calmly overhead.
From Day and Night Songs. "
THE WINTER PEAR
IS
S ALWAYS Age severe?
Is never Youth austere ?
Spring-fruits are sour to eat;
Autumn's the mellow time.
Nay, very late in the year,
Short day and frosty rime,
Thought, like a winter pear,
Stone-cold in summer's prime,
May turn from harsh to sweet.
From Ballads and Songs. .


## p. 432 (#466) ############################################

432
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
SONG
O
SPIRIT of the Summer-time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.
Bring back the friendship of the sun;
The gilded evenings calm and late,
When weary children homeward run,
And peeping stars bid lovers wait.
Bring back the singing; and the scent
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime;
Oh, bring again my heart's content,
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
From Day and Night Songs. >
THE BUBBLE
SEF
EE the pretty planet!
Floating sphere!
Faintest breeze will fan it
Far or near;
World as light as feather;
Moonshine rays,
Rainbow tints together,
As it plays.
Drooping, sinking, failing,
Nigh to earth,
Mounting, whirling, sailing,
Full of mirth;
Life there, welling, flowing,
Waving round;
Pictures coming, going,
Without sound.
Quick now, be this airy
Globe repelled!
Never can the fairy
Star be held.
Touched - it in a twinkle
Disappears!
Leaving but a sprinkle,
As of tears.
From (Ballads and Songs,


## p. 433 (#467) ############################################

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
433
ST. MARGARET'S EVE
I
BUILT my castle upon the seaside,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
Half on the land and half in the tide,
Love me true!
Within was silk, without was stone,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
It lacks a queen, and that alone,
Love me true!
The gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
«Beware of the Damsel of the Sea ! »
Love me true!
Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall,
The waves roll so gayly O,
The tide came creeping up the wall,
Love me true!
I opened my gate; who there should stand-
The waves roll so gayly 0,
But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand,
Love me true!
The cup was gold, and full of wine,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
“Drink,” said the lady, “and I will be thine,»
Love me true!
“Enter my castle, lady fair,”
The waves roll so gayly O,
« You shall be queen of all that's there,
Love me true!
A gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
« Beware of the Damsel of the Sea! ”
Love me true!
In hall he harpeth many a year,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
And we will sit his song to hear,
Love me true!
1-28


## p. 434 (#468) ############################################

434
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
“I love thee deep, I love thee true,"
The waves roll so gayly 0,
«But ah! I know not how to woo,”
Love me true!
Down dashed the cup, with a sudden shock,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
The wine like blood ran over the rock,
Love me true!
She said no word, but shrieked aloud,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
And vanished away from where she stood,
Love me true!
I locked and barred my castle door,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
Three summer days I grieved sore,
Love me true!
For myself a day, a night,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And two to moan that lady bright,
Love me true!
From (Ballads and Songs.
THE FAIRIES
(A CHILD'S SONG)
U
P THE airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men:
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some have made their home;
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow-tide foam.
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.


## p. 435 (#469) ############################################

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
435
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Sliveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay northern lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag leaves
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall feel their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men:
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
From "Ballads and Songs.


## p. 436 (#470) ############################################

436
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
ROBIN REDBREAST
(A Child's SONG)
G
OOD-BY, good-by, to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away -
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?