No More Learning

What am I to believe ?
Lucifer -
Thou mayest believe
But that thou art forced to.
Festus —
Then I feel, perforce,
That instinct of immortal life in me,
Which prompts me to provide for it.
Lucifer --
Perhaps.
Festus — Man hath a knowledge of a time to come —
His most important knowledge: the weight lies


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PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
1 247
Nearest the short end; and the world depends
Upon what is to be.
I would deny
The present, if the future. Oh! there is
A life to come, or all's a dream.
Lucifer -
And all
May be a dream. Thou seest in thine, men, deeds,
Clear, moving, full of speech and order; then
Why may not all this world be but a dream
Of God's? Fear not! Some morning God may waken.
Festus- I would it were. This life's a mystery.
The value of a thought cannot be told;
But it is clearly worth a thousand lives
Like many men's. And yet men love to live
As if mere life were worth their living for.
What but perdition will it be to most ?
Life's more than breath and the quick round of blood;
It is a great spirit and a busy heart.
The coward and the small in soul scarce do live.
One generous feeling —one great thought —one deed
Of good, ere night, would make life longer seem
Than if each year might number a thousand days,
Spent as is this by nations of mankind.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most — feels the noblest — acts the best.
Life's but a means unto an end that end
Beginning, mean, and end to all things — God.
The dead have all the glory of the world.
Why will we live and not be glorious ?
We never can be deathless till we die.
It is the dead win battles. And the breath
Of those who through the world drive like a wedge,
Tearing earth's empires up, nears Death so close
It dims his well-worn scythe. But no! the brave
Die never. Being deathless, they but change
Their country's arms for more their country's heart.
Give then the dead their due: it is they who saved us.
The rapid and the deep - the fall, the gulph,
Have likenesses in feeling and in life.
And life, so varied, hath more loveliness
In one day than a creeping century
Of sameness. But youth loves and lives on change,
Till the soul sighs for sameness; which at last


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1248
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
Becomes variety, and takes its place.
Yet some will last to die out, thought by thought,
And power by power, and limb of mind by limb,
Like lamps upon a gay device of glass,
Till all of soul that's left be dry and dark;
Till even the burden of some ninety years
Hath crashed into them like a rock; shattered
Their system as if ninety suns had rushed
To ruin earth — or heaven had rained its stars;
Till they become like scrolls, unreadable,
Through dust and mold. Can they be cleaned and read ?
Do human spirits wax and wane like moons ?
Lucifer — The eye dims, and the heart gets old and slow;
The lithe limbs stiffen, and the sun-hued locks
Thin themselves off, or whitely wither; still,
Ages not spirit, even in one point,
Immeasurably small; from orb to orb,
Rising in radiance ever like the sun
Shining upon the thousand lands of earth.
THE PASSING-BELL
LARA
C
True prophet mayst thou be. But list: that sound
The passing-bell the spirit should solemnize;
For, while on its emancipate path, the soul
Still waves its upward wings, and we still hear
The warning sound, it is known, we well may pray.
Festus — But pray for whom ?
Clara -
It means not. Pray for all.
Pray for the good man's soul:
He is leaving earth for heaven,
And it soothes us to feel that the best
May be forgiven.
Festus — Pray for the sinful soul:
It fleëth, we know not where;
But wherever it be let us hope;
For God is there.
Clara — Pray for the rich man's soul:
Not all be unjust, nor vain;
The wise he consoled; and he saved
The poor from pain.


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PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
I 249
Festus -- Pray for the poor man's soul:
The death of this life of ours
He hath shook from his feet; he is one
Of the heavenly powers.
Pray for the old man's soul:
He hath labored long; through life
It was battle or march. He hath ceased,
Serene, from strife.
Clara — Pray for the infant's soul:
With its spirit crown unsoiled,
He hath won, without war, a realm;
Gained all, nor toiled.
Festus - Pray for the struggling soul:
The mists of the straits of death
Clear off; in some bright star-isle
It anchoreth.
Pray for the soul assured:
Though it wrought in a gloomy mine,
Yet the gems it earned were its own,
That soul's divine.
Clara -- Pray for the simple soul:
For it loved, and therein was wise;
Though itself knew not, but with heaven
Confused the skies.
Festus - Pray for the sage's soul:
’Neath his welkin wide of mind
Lay the central thought of God,
Thought undefined.
Pray for the souls of all
To our God, that all may be
With forgiveness crowned, and joy
Eternally.
Clara - Hush! for the bell hath ceased;
And the spirit's fate is sealed;
To the angels known; to man
Best unrevealed.
II1–79


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1 250
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
THOUGHTS
- Well, farewell, Mr. Student. May you never
FRegret those hours which make the mind, if they
can
Unmake the body; for the sooner we
Are fit to be all mind, the better. Blessed
Is he whose heart is the home of the great dead,
And their great thoughts. Who mistake great
They seize upon the mind; arrest and search, [thoughts
And shake it; bow the tall soul as by wind;
Rush over it like a river over reeds,
Which quaver in the current; turn us cold,
And pale, and voiceless; leaving in the brain
A rocking and a ringing; glorious,
But momentary, madness might it last,
And close the soul with heaven as with a seal!
In lieu of all these things whose loss thou mournest,
If earnestly or not I know not, use
The great and good and true which ever live;
And are all common to pure eyes and true.
Upon the summit of each mountain-thought
Worship thou God, with heaven-uplifted head
And arms horizon-stretched; for deity is seen
From every elevation of the soul.
Study the light; attempt the high; seek out
The soul's bright path; and since the soul is fire,
Of heat intelligential, turn it aye
To the all-Fatherly source of light and life;
Piety purifies the soul to see
Visions, perpetually, of grace and power,
Which, to their sight who in ignorant sin abide,
Are now as e'er incognizable. Obey
Thy genius, for a minister it is
Unto the throne of Fate. Draw towards thy soul,
And centralize, the rays which are around
Of the divinity. Keep thy spirit pure
From worldly taint, by the repellent strength
Of virtue. Think on noble thoughts and deeds,
Ever. Count o'er the rosary of truth;
And practice precepts which are proven wise,
It matters not then what thou fearest. Walk
Boldly and wisely in that light thou hast;
There is a hand above will help thee on.
I am an omnist, and believe in all
Religions; fragments of one golden world
To be relit yet, and take its place in heaven,


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PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
1251
Where is the whole, sole truth, in deity.
Meanwhile, his word, his law, writ soulwise here,
Study; its truths love; practice its behests -
They will be with thee when all else have gone.
Mind, body, passion all wear out; not faith
Nor truth. Keep thy heart cool, or rule its heat
To fixed ends; waste it not upon itself.
Not all the agony maybe of the damned
Fused in one pang, vies with that earthquake throb
Which wakens soul from life-waste, to let see
The world rolled by for aye, and we must wait
For our next chance the nigh eternity;
Whether it be in heaven, or elsewhere.
DREAMS
ESTUS
F
The dead of night: earth seems but seeming;
The soul seems but a something dreaming.
The bird is dreaming in its nest,
Of song, and sky, and loved one's breast;
The lap-dog dreams, as round he lies,
In moonshine, of his mistress's eyes;
The steed is dreaming, in his stall,
Of one long breathless leap and fall;
The hawk hath dreamed him thrice of wings
Wide as the skies he may not cleave;
But waking, feels them clipped, and clings
Mad to the perch 'twere mad to leave:
The child is dreaming of its toys;
The murderer, of calm home joys;
The weak are dreaming endless fears;
The proud of how their pride appears;
The poor enthusiast who dies,
Of his life-dreams the sacrifice,
Sees, as enthusiast only can,
The truth that made him more than man;
And hears once more, in visioned trance,
That voice commanding to advance,
Where wealth is gained - love, wisdom won,
Or deeds of danger dared and done.
The mother dreameth of her child;
The maid of him who hath beguiled;
The youth of her he loves too well;
The good of God; the ill of hell;


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1 252
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
Who live of death; of life who die;
The dead of immortality.
The earth is dreaming back her youth;
Hell never dreains, for woe is truth;
And heaven is dreaming o'er her prime,
Long ere the morning stars of time;
And dream of heaven alone can I,
My lovely one, when thou art nigh.
CHORUS OF THE SAVED
From the Conclusion
F
ATHER of goodness,
Son of love,
Spirit of comfort,
Be with us!
God who hast made us,
God who hast saved,
God who hast judged us,
Thee we praise.
Heaven our spirits,
Hallow our hearts;
Let us have God-light
Endlessly.
Ours is the wide world,
Heaven on heaven;
What have we done, Lord,
Worthy this?
Oh! we have loved thee;
That alone
Maketh our glory,
Duty, meed.
Oh! we have loved thee!
Love we will
Ever, and every
Soul of us.
God of the saved,
God of the tried,
God of the lost ones,
Be with all!
Let us be near thee
Ever and aye;
Oh! let us love thee
Infinite!


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1 253
JOANNA BAILLIE
(1762-1851)
J
JOANNA Baillie's early childhood was passed at Bothwell, Scot-
land, where she was born in 1762. Of this time she drew
a picture in her well-known birthday lines to her sister:-
Dear Agnes, gleamed with joy and dashed with tears,
O'er us have glided almost sixty years
Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen,
By those whose eyes long closed in death have been:
Two tiny imps, who scarcely stooped to gather
The slender harebell, or the purple heather;
No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem,
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem.
Then every butterfly that crossed our view
With joyful shout was eted as it flew,
And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright
In sheeny gold were each a wondrous sight.
Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side,
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,
Minnows or spotted par with twinkling fin,
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within,
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent
Seen in the power of early wonderment. ”
JOANNA BAILLIE
When Joanna was six her father was appointed to the charge of
the kirk at Hamilton. Her early growth went on, not in books, but
in the fearlessness with which she ran upon the top of walls and
parapets of bridges and in all daring. «Look at Miss Jack,” said a
farmer, as she dashed by: “she sits her horse as if it were a bit of
herself. ” At eleven she could not read well. «'Twas thou,” she said
in lines to her sister —
(('Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look
Upon the page of printed book,
That thing by me abhorred, and with address
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness,
When all too old become with bootless haste
In fitful sports the precious time to waste.
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke
At which my dormant fancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain
Arose in sombre show, a motley train. ”


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1254
JOANNA BAILLIE
In 1776 Dr. James Baillie was made Professor of Divinity at Glas-
gow University. During the two years the family lived in the col-
lege atmosphere, Joanna first read Comus,' and, led by the delight
it awakened, the great epic of Milton. It was here that her vigor
and disputatious turn of mind “cast an awe” over her companions.
After her father's death she settled, in 1784, with her mother and
brother and sister in London.
She had made herself familiar with English literature, and above
all she had studied Shakespeare with enthusiasm. Circumscribed
now by the brick and mortar of London streets, in exchange for the
fair views and liberties of her native fruitlands, Joanna found her
first expression in a volume of Fugitive Verses, published in 1790.
The book caused so little comment that the words of but one friendly
hand are preserved: that the poems were “truly unsophisticated rep-
resentations of nature. ”
Joanna's walk was along calm and unhurried ways. She could
have had a considerable place in society and the world of “lions » if
she had cared. The wife of her uncle and name-father, the anato-
mist Dr. John Hunter, was no other than the famous Mrs. Anne
Hunter, a songwright of genius; her poem “The Son of Alknomook
Shall Never Complain' is one of the classics of English song, and
the best rendering of the Indian spirit ever condensed into so small
a space. She was also a woman of grace and dignity, a power in
London drawing-rooms, and Haydn set songs of hers to music. But
the reserved Joanna was tempted to no light triumphs. Eight years
later was published her first volume of Plays on the Passions. ' It
contained (Basil,' a tragedy on love; (The Trial,' a comedy on the
same subject; and De Montfort,' a tragedy on hatred.
The thought of essaying dramatic composition had burst' upon the
author one summer afternoon as she sat sewing with her mother.
She had a high moral purpose in her plan of composition, she said
in her preface, that purpose being the ultimate utterance of the
drama. Plot and incident she set little value upon, and she rejected
the presentation of the most splendid event if it did not appertain
to the development of the passion. In other words, what is and was
commonly of secondary consideration in the swift passage of dra-
matic action became in her hands the stated and paramount object.
Feeling and passion are not precipitated by incident in her drama as
in real life. The play De Montfort' was presented at Drury Lane
Theatre in 1800; but in spite of every effort and the acting of John
Kemble and Mrs. Siddons, it had a run of but eleven nights.
In 1802 Miss Baillie published her second volume of Plays on the
Passions. It contained a comedy on hatred; Ethwald,' a tragedy
on ambition; and a comedy on ambition. Her adherence to her old
1


## p. 1255 (#45) ############################################

JOANNA BAILLIE
I 255
plan brought upon her an attack from Jeffrey in the Edinburgh
Review. He claimed that the complexity of the moral nature of
man made Joanna's theory false and absurd, that a play was too nar-
row to show the complete growth of a passion, and that the end of
the drama is the entertainment of the audience. He asserted that
she imitated and plagiarized Shakespeare; while he admitted her
insight into human nature, her grasp of character, and her devotion
to her work.
About the time of the appearance of this volume, Joanna fixed
her residence with her mother and sister, among the lanes and fields
of Hampstead, where they continued throughout their lives. The
first volume of Miscellaneous Plays) came out in 1804. In the pref-
ace she stated that her opinions set forth in her first preface were
unchanged. But the plays had a freer construction. “Miss Baillie,”
wrote Jeffrey in his review, “cannot possibly write a tragedy, or an
act of a tragedy, without showing genius and exemplifying a more
dramatic conception and expression than any of her modern compet-
itors. ”
Constantine Palæologus,' which the volume contained, had
the liveliest commendation and popularity, and several times put
upon the stage with spectacular effect.
In the year of the publication of Joanna's Miscellaneous Plays,'
Sir Walter Scott came to London, and seeking an introduction
through a common friend, made the way for a lifelong friendship
between the two, He had just brought out “The Lay of the Last
Minstrel. ' Miss Baillie was already a famous writer, with fast friends
in Lucy Aikin, Mary Berry, Mrs. Siddons, and other workers in art
and literature; but the hearty commendation of her countryman,
which she is said to have come upon unexpectedly when reading
(Marmion' to a group of friends, she valued beyond other praise.
The legend is that she read through the passage firmly to the close,
and only lost self-control in her sympathy with the emotion of a
friend :-
(The wild harp that silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore
Till twice one hundred years rolled o'er,
When she the bold enchantress came,
From the pale willow snatched the treasure,
With fearless hand and heart in flame,
And swept it with a kindred measure;
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,
Deemed their own Shakespeare lived again. ”


## p. 1256 (#46) ############################################

1256
JOANNA BAILLIE
a
were
con-
The year 1810 saw (The Family Legend, a play founded on
tragic history of the Campbell clan. Scott wrote a prologue and
brought out the play in the Edinburgh Theatre. « You have only
to imagine,” he told the author, "all that you could wish to give
success to a play, and your conceptions will still fall short of the
complete and decided triumph of "The Family Legend. ) »
The attacks which Jeffrey had made upon her verse
tinued when she published, in 1812, her third volume of Plays on
the Passions. His voice, however, did not diminish the admiration
for the character-drawing with which the book was greeted, or for
the lyric outbursts occurring now and then in the dramas.
Joanna's quiet Hampstead life was broken in 1813 by a genial
meeting in London with the ambitious Madame de Staël, and again
with the vivacious little Irish woman, Maria Edgeworth.
She was
keeping her promise of not writing more; but during a visit to Sir
Walter in 1820 her imagination was touched by Scotch tales, and she
published Metrical Legends' the following year. In this vast Abbots-
ford she finally consented to meet Jeffrey. The plucky little writer
and the unshrinking critic at once became friends, and thenceforward
Jeffrey never went to London without visiting her in Hampstead.
Her moral courage throughout life recalls the physical courage
which characterized her youth. She never concealed her religious
convictions, and in 1831 she published her ideas in A View of the
General Tenor of the New Testament Regarding the Nature and
Dignity of Jesus Christ. In 1836, having finally given up the long
hope of seeing her plays become popular upon the stage, she pre-
pared a complete edition of her dramas with the addition of three
plays never before made public, — (Romiero,' a tragedy, "The Alien-
ated Manor,' a comedy on jealousy, and Henriquez, a tragedy on
remorse. The Edinburgh Review immediately put forth a eulogistic
notice of the collected edition, and at last admitted that the reviewer
had changed his judgment, and esteemed the author as a dramatist
above Byron and Scott.
“May God support both you and me, and give us comfort and
consolation when it is most wanted,” wrote Miss Baillie to Mary
Berry in 1837. “As for myself, I do not wish to be one year
younger than I am; and have no desire, were it possible, to begin
life again, even under the most honorable circumstances. I have
great cause for humble thankfulness, and I am thankful. ”
In 1840 Jeffrey wrote:-“I have been twice out to Hampstead,
and found Joanna Baillie as fresh, natural, and amiable as ever, and
as little like a tragic muse. ” And again in 1842: _“She is marvelous
in health and spirit; not a bit deaf, blind, or torpid. ” About this
time she published her last book, a volume of Fugitive Verses. '


## p. 1257 (#47) ############################################

JOANNA BAILLIE
1257
"A sweeter picture of old age was never seen,” wrote Harriet
Martineau. «Her figure was small, light, and active; her counte-
nance, in its expression of serenity, harmonized wonderfully with her
gay conversation and her cheerful voice. Her eyes were beautiful,
dark, bright, and penetrating, with the full innocent gaze of child-
hood. Her face was altogether comely, and her dress did justice
to it. She wore her own silvery hair and a mob cap, with its delicate
lace border fitting close around her face. She was well dressed, in
handsome dark silks, and her lace caps and collars looked always
new. No Quaker was ever neater, while she kept up with the times
in her dress as in her habit of mind, as far as became her years.
In her whole appearance there was always something for even the
passing stranger to admire, and never anything for the most familiar
friend to wish otherwise. ” She died, without suffering, in the full
possession of her faculties,” in her ninetieth year, 1851.
Her dramatic and poetical works are collected in one volume
(1843). Her Life, with selections from her songs, may be found in
(The Songstress of Scotland, by Sarah Tytler and J. L. Watson
(1871).
WOOD AND MARRIED AND A'
THE
HE bride she is winsome and bonny,
Her hair it is snooded sae sleek,
And faithfu' and kind is her Johnny,
Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek.
New pearlins are cause of her sorrow,
New pearlins and plenishing too:
The bride that has a' to borrow
Has e'en right mickle ado.
Woo'd and married and a'!
Woo'd and married and a'!
Isna she very weel aff
To be woo'd and married at a'?
Her mither then hastily spak:-
«The lassie is glaikit wi' pride;
In my pouch I had never a plack
On the day when I was a bride.
E'en tak’ to your wheel and be clever,
And draw out your thread in the sun;
The gear that is gifted, it never
Will last like the gear that is won.
Woo'd and married and a'!
Wi' havins and tocher sae sma'!


## p. 1258 (#48) ############################################

1258
JOANNA BAILLIE
I think ye are very weel aff
To be woo'd and married at a'! »
“Toot, toot! " quo' her gray-headed faither,
«She's less o' a bride than a bairn;
She's ta'en like a cout frae the heather,
Wi’ sense and discretion to learn.
Half husband, I trow, and half daddy,
As humor inconstantly leans,
The chiel maun be patient and steady
That yokes wi’ a mate in her teens.
A kerchief sae douce and sae neat,
O'er her locks that the wind used to blaw!
I'm baith like to laugh and to greet
When I think o' her married at a'. »
Then out spak' the wily bridegroom,
Weel waled were his wordies I ween:
“I'm rich, though my coffer be toom,
Wi’ the blinks o' your bonny blue e'en.
I'm prouder o' thee by my side,
Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few,
Than if Kate o' the Croft were my bride,
Wi' purfles and pearlins enow.
Dear and dearest of ony!
Ye're woo'd and buiket and a'!
And do ye think scorn o’ your Johnny,
And grieve to be married at a'? »
She turn'd, and she blush'd, and she smil'd,
And she looket sae bashfully down;
The pride o' her heart was beguil'd,
And she played wi’ the sleeves o' her gown;
She twirlet the tag o’her lace,
And she nippet her bodice sae blue,
Syne blinket sae sweet in his face,
And aff like a maukin she flew.
Woo'd and married and a'!
Wi' Johnny to roose her and a'!
She thinks hersel' very weel aff
To be woo'd and married at a'!


## p. 1259 (#49) ############################################

JOANNA BAILLIE
1259
IT WAS ON A MORN WHEN WE WERE THRANG
I
T WAS on a morn when we were thrang,
The kirn it croon'd, the cheese was making,
And bannocks on the girdle baking,
When ane at the door chapp't loud and lang.
Yet the auld gudewife, and her mays sae tight,
Of a' this bauld din took sma' notice I ween;
For a chap at the door in braid daylight
Is no like a chap that's heard at e'en.
But the docksy auld laird of the Warlock glen,
Wha waited without, half blate, half cheery,
And langed for a sight o' his winsome deary,
Raised up the latch and cam' crousely ben.
His coat it was new, and his o'erlay was white,
His mittens and hose were cozie and bien;
But a wooer that comes in braid daylight
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.
He greeted the carline and lasses sae braw,
And his bare lyart pow sae smoothly he straikit,
And he looket about, like a body half glaikit,
On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a'.
Ha, laird! ” quo' the carline, "and look ye that way?
Fye, let na' sic fancies bewilder you clean:
An elderlin man, in the noon o' the day,
Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en.
“Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife, “I trow
You'll no fash your head wi' a youthfu' gilly,
As wild and as skeig as a muirland filly:
Black Madge is far better and fitter for you. "
He hem'd and he haw'd, and he drew in his mouth,
And he squeezed the blue bannet his twa hands between;
For a wooer that comes when the sun's i' the south
Is mair landward than wooers that come at e'en.
« Black Madge is sae carefu) – “What's that to me ? ”
“She's sober and eydent, has sense in her noodle;
She's douce and respeckit ” — “I carena a bodle:
Love winna be guided, and fancy's free. ”
Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight,
And Nanny, loud laughing, ran out to the green;
For a wooer that comes when the sun shines bright
Is no like wooer that comes at e'en.


## p. 1260 (#50) ############################################

1260
JOANNA BAILLIE
Then away flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he,
«A' the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed 0!
Black or fair, young or auld, dame or damsel or widow,
May gang in their pride to the de'il for me! »
But the auld gudewife, and her mays sae tight,
Cared little for a' his stour banning, I ween;
For a wooer that comes in braid daylight
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.
FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING
(An Auld Sang, New Buskit)
F
Y, LET us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggy,
The lass wi’ the gowden hair.
And there will be jibing and jeering,
And glancing of bonny dark een,
Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering
O’questions baith pawky and keen.
And there will be Bessy the beauty,
Wha raises her cockup sae hie,
And giggles at preachings and duty, -
Guid grant that she gang na' ajee!
And there will be auld Geordie Taunner,
Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd;
She'll flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her,
But wow! he looks dowie and cow'd.
And brown Tibbey Fouler the Heiress
Will perk at the tap o' the ha',
Encircled wi' suitors, wha's care is
To catch up her gloves when they fa',-
Repeat a' her jokes as they're cleckit,
And haver and glower in her face,
When tocherless mays are negleckit, -
A crying and scandalous case.
And Mysie, wha's clavering aunty
Wud match her wi' Laurie the Laird,
And learns the young fule to be vaunty,
But neither to spin nor to caird.


## p. 1261 (#51) ############################################

JOANNA BAILLIE
1261
And Andrew, wha's granny is yearning
To see him a clerical blade,
Was sent to the college for learning,
And cam' back a coof as he gaed.
And there will be auld Widow Martin,
That ca's hersel thritty and twa!
And thraw-gabbit Madge, wha for certain
Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.
And Elspy the sewster sae genty,
A pattern of havens and sense,
Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,
And crack wi' Mess John i' the spence.
And Angus, the seer o’ ferlies,
That sits on the stane at his door,
And tells about bogles, and mair lies
Than tongue ever utter'd before.
And there will be Bauldy the boaster
Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue;
Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,
Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young:
And Hugh the town-writer, I'm thinking,
That trades in his lawerly skill,
Will egg on the fighting and drinking
To bring after-grist to his mill;
And Maggy — na, na! we'll be civil,
And let the wee bridie a-be;
A vilipend tongue is the devil,
And ne'er was encouraged by me.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there
Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,
The fun and the feasting to share.
For they will get sheep's head, and haggis,
And browst o' the barley-mow;
E’en he that comes latest, and lag is,
May feast upon dainties enow.
Veal florentines in the o'en baken,
Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat;


## p. 1262 (#52) ############################################

1262
JOANNA BAILLIE
Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken
Het reeking frae spit and frae pat:
And glasses (I trow 'tis na' said ill),
To drink the young couple good luck,
Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle
Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.
And then will come dancing and daffing,
And reelin' and crossin' o' hans,
Till even auld Lucky is laughing,
As back by the aumry she stans.
Sic bobbing and flinging and whirling,
While fiddlers are making their din;
And pipers are droning and skirling
As loud as the roar o' the lin.
Then fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
For Jock's to be married to Maggy,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
THE WEARY PUND O'TOW
A
YOUNG gudewife is in my house,
And thrifty means to be,
But aye she's runnin' to the town
Some ferlie there to see.
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow,
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll wear a lyart pow.
And when she sets her to her wheel
To draw her threads wi’ care,
In comes the chapman wi' his gear,
And she can spin nae mair.
The weary pund, etc.
And she, like ony merry may,
At fairs maun still be seen,
At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
At dances on the green.
The weary pund, etc.
Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
A bagpipe's her delight,


## p. 1263 (#53) ############################################

JOANNA BAILLIE
1 263
But for the crooning o' her wheel
She disna care a mite.
The weary pund, etc.
You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs,
Made o' your linkum twine,
But, ah! I fear our bonny burn
Will ne'er lave web o' thine.
The weary pund, etc.
Nay, smile again, my winsome mate;
Sic jeering means nae ill;
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
I'll lo'e and bless thee still.
The weary pund, etc.
FROM DE MONTFORT): A TRAGEDY
ACT V - SCENE III
Moonlight. A wild path in a wood, shaded with trees. Enter De Mont-
fort, with a strong expression of disquiet, mixed with fear, upon his
face, looking behind him, and bending his ear to the ground, as if
he listened to something.
D
E MONTFORT — How hollow groans the earth beneath
my tread:
Is there an echo here? Methinks it sounds
As though some heavy footsteps followed me.
I will advance no farther.
Deep settled shadows rest across the path,
And thickly-tangled boughs o'erhang this spot.
O that a tenfold gloom did cover it,
That 'mid the murky darkness I might strike!
As in the wild confusion of a dream,
Things horrid, bloody, terrible do pass,
As though they passed not; nor impress the mind
With the fixed clearness of reality.
[An owl is heard screaming near him.
[Starting ] What sound is that?
[Listens, and the owl cries again.
It is the screech-owl's cry.
Foul bird of night! What spirit guides thee here?


## p. 1264 (#54) ############################################

1 264
JOANNA BAILLIE
Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror ?
I've heard of this.
[Pauses and listens.
How those fallen leaves so rustle on the path,
With whispering noise, as though the earth around me
Did utter secret things.
The distant river, too, bears to mine ear
A dismal wailing. O mysterious night!
Thou art not silent; many tongues hast thou.
A distant gathering blast sounds through the wood,
And dark clouds fleetly hasten o’er the sky;
Oh that a storm would rise, a raging storm;
Amidst the roar of warring elements
I'd lift my hand and strike! but this pale light,
The calm distinctness of each stilly thing,
Is terrible. - [Starting. ] Footsteps, and near me, too!
He comes! he comes! I'll watch him farther on
I cannot do it here.
[Exit.
Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his way slowly from the bottom of the
stage ; as he advances to the front, the owl screams, he stops and
listens, and the owl screams again.
Rezenvelt – Ha! does the night-bird greet me on my way?
How much his hooting is in harmony
With such a scene as this! I like it well.
Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour,
I've leant my back against some knotted oak,
And loudly mimicked him, till to my call
He answer would return, and through the gloom
We friendly converse held.
Between me and the star-bespangled sky,
Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave,
And through them looks the pale and placid moon.
How like a crocodile, or winged snake,
Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length!
And now transformed by the passing wind,
Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus.
Ay, but a shapeless band of blacker hue
Comes swiftly after. -
A hollow murm'ring wind sounds through the trees;
I hear it from afar; this bodes a storm.
I must not linger here -
1


## p. 1265 (#55) ############################################

JOANNA BAILLIE
1 265
[A bell heard at some distance. ] The convent bell.
'Tis distant still: it tells their hour of prayer.
It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze,
That, to a fearful, superstitious mind,
In such a scene,' would like a death-knell come.
[Exit.
TO MRS. SIDDONS
G
IFTED of heaven! who hast, in days gone by,
Moved every heart, delighted every eye;
While age and youth, of high and low degree,
In sympathy were joined, beholding thee,
As in the Drama's ever-changing scene
Thou heldst thy splendid state, our tragic queen!
No barriers there thy fair domains confined,
Thy sovereign sway was o'er the human mind;
And in the triumph of that witching hour,
Thy lofty bearing well became thy power.
The impassioned changes of thy beauteous face,
Thy stately form, and high imperial grace;
Thine arms impetuous tossed, thy robe's wide flow,
And the dark tempest gathered on thy brow;
What time thy flashing eye and lip of scorn
Down to the dust thy mimic foes have borne;
Remorseful musings, sunk to deep dejection,
The fixed and yearning looks of strong affection;
The active turmoil a wrought bosom rending,
When pity, love, and honor, are contending :-
They who beheld all this, right well, I ween,
A lovely, grand, and wondrous sight have seen.
Thy varied accents, rapid, fitful, slow,
Loud rage, and fear's snatched whisper, quick and low;
The burst of stifled love, the wail of grief,
And tones of high command, full, solemn, brief;
The change of voice, and emphasis that threw
Light on obscurity, and brought to view
Distinctions nice, when grave or comic mood,
Or mingled humors, terse and new, elude
Common perception, as earth's smallest things
To size and form the vesting hoar-frost brings,
That seemed as if some secret voice, to clear
The raveled meaning, whispered in thine ear,
111-80


## p. 1266 (#56) ############################################

I 266
JOANNA BAILLIE
And thou hadst e'en with him communion kept,
Who hath so long in Stratford's chancel slept;
Whose lines, where nature's brightest traces shine,
Alone were worthy deemed of powers like thine;
They who have heard all this, have proved full well
Of soul-exciting sound the mightiest spell.
But though time's lengthened shadows o'er thee glide,
And pomp of regal state is cast aside,
Think not the glory of thy course is spent,
There's moonlight radiance to thy evening lent,
That to the mental world can never fade,
Till all who saw thee, in the grave are laid.
Thy graceful form still moves in nightly dreams,
And what thou wast, to the lulled sleeper seems;
While feverish fancy oft doth fondly trace
Within her curtained couch thy wondrous face.
Yea; and to many a wight, bereft and lone,
In musing hours, though all to thee unknown,
Soothing his earthly course of good and ill,
With all thy potent charm, thou actest still.
And now in crowded room or rich saloon,
Thy stately presence recognized, how soon
On thee the glance of many an eye is cast,
In grateful memory of pleasures past!
Pleased to behold thee, with becoming grace,
Take, as befits thee well, an honored place;
Where blest by many a heart, long mayst thou stand,
Among the virtuous matrons of our land!
A SCOTCH SONG
THE
HE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's in the sky,
And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
Oh no! sad and slow
And lengthened on the ground,
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round!
1
1
My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna' hear.


## p. 1267 (#57) ############################################

JOANNA BAILLIE
1267
Oh no! sad and slow,
The shadow lingers still,
And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.
I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae her door,
To ca' the bairnies in.
Oh no! sad and slow,
These are na' sounds for me,
The shadow of our trysting bush,
It creeps sa drearily!
I coft yestreen, frae Chapman Tam,
A snood of bonny blue,
And promised when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.
Oh no! sad and slow,
The mark it winna' pass;
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tethered on the grass.
Oh, now I see her on the way,
She's past the witch's knowe,
She's climbing up the Browny's brae,
My heart is in a lowe!
Oh no! 'tis no' so,
'Tis glam'rie I have seen;
The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move na' mair till e'en.
My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conn'd wi' little skill,
When collie barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.
Oh no! sad and slow,
The time will ne'er be gane,
The shadow of the trysting bush
Is fixed like ony stane.


## p. 1268 (#58) ############################################

1268
JOANNA BAILLIE
SONG, POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY)
For an old Scotch Air
W
"HEN my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin,
And siller was chinkin my pouches within,
When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow and
brae,
As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay,
Kind was she, and my friends were free,
But poverty parts good company.
How swift passed the minutes and hours of delight,
When piper played cheerly, and crusie burned bright,
And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holyday gear!
Woe is me; and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic company?
We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk,
We met i’ the sunshine, we met i’ the mirk;
And the sound o' her voice, and the blinks o' her een,
The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been.
Leaves frae the tree at Martinmass flee,
And poverty parts sweet company.
At bridal and infare I braced me wi' pride,
The broose I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride;
And loud was the laughter good fellows among,
As I uttered my banter or chorused my song;
Dowie and dree are jestin and glee,
When poverty spoils good company.
Wherever I gaed, kindly lasses looked sweet,
And mithers and aunties were unco discreet;
While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board :
But now they pass by me, and never a word!
Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee
Wi' poverty keep nae company.
But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart,
And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart;
For, wi' my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost,
Though cruelly we may ilka day see
How poverty parts dear company.


## p. 1269 (#59) ############################################

JOANNA BAILLIE
1269
THE KITTEN
WAN
ANTON droll, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When, drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting until his supper cool,
And maid whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing fagot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight,-
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces!
Backward coiled and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread or straw that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then stealing onward, fiercely spring
Upon the tempting, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As still beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong veer'st with rump in air
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like madam in her tantrums high;
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.
Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell ?
Ah, no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap and toss and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted by the modern muse
Expression technical to use) –
These mock the deftest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.


## p. 1270 (#60) ############################################

1270
JOANNA BAILLIE
The featest tumbler, stage bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requite him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopped the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too thy pains repay:
For then, beneath some urchin's hand
With modest pride thou takest thy stand,
While many a stroke of kindness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly croons thy busy purr,
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose
Like prickles of an early rose,
While softly from thy whiskered cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer, mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire.
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or with unfettered fancy fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing smiles with altered air
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slippered toe.
The widowed dame or lonely maid,
Who, in the still but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a lettered page,
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch,
The ends of raveled skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her better skill.
E'en he whose mind, of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,


## p. 1271 (#61) ############################################

JOANNA BAILLIE
I 271
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways,
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Hath roused him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart of pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins it still to living kind.
Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss!
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it that in thy glaring eye
And rapid movements we descry
Whilst we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly fill —
A lion darting on his prey,
A tiger at his ruthless play?
Or is it that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem, viewed with kindred eye
Of tricky, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly sportive child,
Who hath like thee our wits beguiled,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
And so, poor kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom'st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chased roughly from the tempting board.
But yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favored playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove!
When time hath spoiled thee of our love,
Still be thou deemed by housewife fat
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenished oft with savory food,
Nor, when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dung-hill cast,
But, gently borne on goodman's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid;
And children show with glistening eyes
The place where poor old pussy lies.


## p. 1272 (#62) ############################################

1 272
HENRY MARTYN BAIRD
(1832-)
舞
​HAT stirring period of the history of France which in certain
of its features has been made so familiar by Dumas
through the Three Musketeers) series and others of his
fascinating novels, is that which has been the theme of Dr. Baird in
the substantial work to which so many years of his life have been
devoted. It is to the elucidation of one portion only of the history
of this period that he has given himself; but although in this, the
story of the Huguenots, nominally only a matter of religious belief
was involved, it in fact embraced almost
the entire internal politics of the nation,
and the struggles for supremacy of its
ambitious families, as well as the effort
to achieve religious freedom.
In these separate but related works the
incidents of the whole Protestant move-
ment have been treated. The first of
these, The History of the Rise of the Hu-
guenots in France) (1879), carries the story
to the time of Henry of Valois (1574), cov-
ering the massacre of St. Bartholomew;
HENRY M. BAIRD the second, The Huguenots and Henry
of Navarre (1886), covers the Protestant
ascendancy and the Edict of Nantes, and ends with the assassination
of Henry in 1610; and the third, "The Huguenots and the Revoca-
tion of the Edict of Nantes) (1895), completes the main story, and
indeed brings the narrative down to a date much later than the title
seems to imply.
It may be said, perhaps, that Dr. Baird holds a brief for the
plaintiff in the case; but his work does not produce the impression
of being that of a violently prejudiced, although an interested, writer.
He is cool and careful, writing with precision, and avoiding even the
effects which the historian may reasonably feel himself entitled to
produce, and of which the period naturally offers so many.
Henry Martyn Baird was born in Philadelphia, January 17th,
1832, and was educated at the University of the City of New York
and the University of Athens, and at Union and Princeton Theo-
logical Seminaries. In 1855 he became a tutor at Princeton; and in
the following year he published an interesting volume on Modern



## p. 1273 (#63) ############################################

HENRY MARTYN BAIRD
I 273
Greece, a Narrative of Residence and Travel. In 1859 he was ap-
pointed to the chair of Greek Language and Literature in the Uni-
versity of the City of New York.
In addition to the works heretofore named, he is the author of a
biography of his father, Robert Baird, D. D.
THE BATTLE OF IVRY
From "The Huguenots and Henry of Navarre)
HE battle began with a furious cannonade from the King's
,
before the enemy were ready to reply, so well directed that
great havoc was made in the opposing lines. Next, the light
horse of M. de Rosne, upon the extreme right of the Leaguers,
made a dash upon Marshal d'Aumont, but were valiantly received.