Virginia
Brande is
here.
here.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v24 - Sta to Tal
”
“They won't keep us out,” said Mrs. Lecks, "for we can duck
under. I suppose whoever put 'em here didn't expect anybody
to arrive on life-preservers. ”
»
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ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
(1823-)
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>
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>
LIZABETH BARSTOW, the wife of Richard Henry Stoddard, was
born in Massachusetts, May 6th, 1823. She was married to
the poet in 1851; and a few years later began to write sto-
ries and poems so intense and individual, that though anonymous
they were recognized at once as the work of a new writer. The
Morgesons' appeared in 1862, “Two Men'in 1865, and Temple House'
in 1867, a new edition being issued in 1888.
In advance of her time by a generation, Mrs. Stoddard belongs
to the school of Maeterlinck and Ibsen rather than to the romantic
period of fiction of the day in which she wrote. Whether she records
humble life in a New England village, as in “Two Men'; or the story
of an ancestral mansion in an American seaport town, as in “Temple
House”; or the history of a “queer” family, as in “The Morgesons,'-
her work is metaphysical like Ibsen's. Her men and women repro-
duce types not infrequently found in forgotten New England towns.
They are strong self-centred characters, in whom an active intellect
and intense nervous energy, compressed by narrow surroundings, pro-
duce numberless idiosyncrasies. In their moral isolation, they are
still grim Puritans in everything but creed. Mrs. Stoddard draws
them with a wonderful comprehension of the hidden springs of their
action. Like Ibsen, she exemplifies life and illustrates her dramatic
force in breathless tragic episodes.
It is true, however, that before she is a dramatist, she is a psy-
chologist: a sphinx sitting on the stony way to the temple, and
looking with unquestioning eyes into life's problem. That method of
suggestion which is our latest fashion in literature, Mrs. Stoddard
used when it was not a fashion, but a form of reticence. There are
descriptions in her novels cut with a chisel; others in which nature
is used as a background to scenes of intense thought, in moments
of outward stillness. She was a realist before the word had been
defined. She dwells in shadows as grim as those of Wuthering
Heights,' in an atmosphere so dense that we see the movements of
her characters as through a thick glass screen; but each person, each
scene, is touched with a gleam of poetic light.
It is as a poet, perhaps, that she has gained her highest fame;
though no book of the time, according to the great English critic,
## p. 14014 (#200) ##########################################
14014
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
Mr. Leslie Stephen, is more remarkable than her (Temple House. '
Mrs. Stoddard has been writing and publishing poems since her girl-
hood, but they were not collected until 1896. In them is reflected
the spirit of her fiction, the tragic atmosphere with which her novels
are surcharged. Burning with intensity, if a spirit so hopeless may
be said to burn, these strange, reserved, yet passionately regretful
lyrics have for their theme the pain of quiet endurance, the disap-
pointment of an ardent fancy, and the sorrow of an unsatisfied heart.
Those written in early youth might have been penned by Maeterlinck,
— tragical, musical, introspective; Stoddard himself might have taught
her the ringing, forcible strains in The House by the Sea, or in
(Xanthos) and Achilles,' — poems in blank verse, sonorous, dignified,
individual. The highest expression of her poetic gift is found per-
haps in short poems, like Mercedes,' where passion, sullen, deep, and
pitiless, veils itself in tropical beauty.
In both her poems and her novels is reflected her sense of the
beauty and aloofness of nature; of the dusty answers to the clam-
ors of impetuous human souls.
-
)
THE GREAT GALE
M
From «Temple House. Copyright 1888, by 0. M. Dunham. Published by the
Cassell Publishing Company
AT SUTCLIFFE announced to Argus one morning that spring
had come. The ice on the shores and inside the bay was
giving way. And he asked Argus if gales were not to be
looked for? They compared notes about the weather, and con-
cluded to look for southerly storms.
The weather softened so that very day that Tempe threw
aside her shawl, and Roxalana made the tour of all the rooms,
and by way of a walk went up to the attic to look over the
fields and bay. She remarked to Argus, on coming down, that
she had never seen the White Flat so plainly: it appeared to be
stretching across the harbor's mouth.
« The ice made it look so, probably,” he replied.
The snow around the house began to melt, and in the still-
ness they heard the water trickling everywhere.
“Soon,” said Roxalana, the buds will begin to swell. ”
At sunset the atmosphere was spongy and rotten. Masses of
vapor rolled up from the south, extinguishing a pale brassy band
(
»
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ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14015
were
(
C
of light in the west; and a strange wind rose in the upper air,
and closed with night.
Early in the evening Argus shook the iron bars of the shut-
ters on the harbor side, and fastened them; he foresaw the storm,
and would have shut out its fury for Roxalana's sake, who ap-
peared perturbed and melancholy, as if disasters at sea
threatened.
“The wind must be rising,” she said, holding up her hand:
"I feel streams of air from everywhere. The candles flare; but
I don't hear the surf. ”
« You will hear it presently,” he replied.
“I don't care if it blows half the town down,” said Tempe.
« Don't spare the other half: let the whole go, and be damned,
if you wish so,” he answered.
A tremendous hiss passed through the crevices of the outer
doors, which was met by a roar in the chimney. An irruption
of white flaky ashes followed and covered the hearth. Next, the
roof and walls of the house were taken as a coign of vantage by
the shrieking wind to hang out its viewless banners, which shiv-
ered, flapped, and tore to tatters in raging impotence.
“We must put out this fire, Argus,” said Roxalana, or we
shall be on fire inside the house. "
“Better put yourselves in bed: I will take care of the fire. ”
Acting upon this suggestion, they left him alone. A short
time afterwards 'he went out on the lawn. The dull thunder of
the surf now broke so furiously on the bar 'that the ground be-
neath his feet reverberated.
« The bay is champing its jaws on that devilish White Flat,
and any sail coming this way is lost. ”
Looking overhead, he discovered in the milky darkness of the
obscured moon deep vague rifts in the sky, like the chasm in
Orion. The frenzied, overdriven spirits of the storm took refuge
in the piling, tumbling folds of the clouds, which hovered over
and fell into the abyss. While he stood there, the elms bowed
from bole to topmost bough, and brushed his face as if they paid
him homage. No sound came from the town side; he could not
see a single light. Opposite the lawn, King's Hill reared its black
summit; from thence, if he climbed, he could obtain a view of
the wailing, howling bay, and - perchance of some vessel seek-
ing harbor. He preferred to go back and shut himself up in the
house.
## p. 14016 (#202) ##########################################
14016
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
can be.
Though the storm raged the next morning as storm had not
raged for years, Argus remained in the green room, and pored
over the book of plays, so well remembered by Virginia. About
noon Mat Sutcliffe burst in, with his tarpaulin jammed over his
head, and carrying an immense spy-glass in a canvas case. His
tidings did not astonish Argus. A vessel putting into the bay
the night before had dragged her anchors and struck on the
White Flat; her flag was flying from the rigging, and there were
men there: it being low water when she struck, her quarter-deck
might afford temporary safety, provided the cold did not increase
and freeze the crew to death.
« What is the town doing, Mat ? ” asked Roxalana.
"A great many people are out doing nothing. They are
on the wharves, on the top of King's Hill, the hair blowing off
their heads; and I believe there's a gang along-shore some-
where,” he replied.
«No boat can live if put out,” said Argus. « How low down
the bar did the vessel drive on ? »
“As near to Bass Headland as
If the wind would
chop round, somebody might get out there. ”
"So the sailors must drown,” cried Tempe, notwithstanding
she had put her fingers in her ears, not to hear. “I'll shut my-
self up in the cellar till it is all over. ”
“I thought,” continued Mat, looking hard at Argus, it might
be best to look at the shingle below here: the ice is about gone
there. If we could start under the lee of Bass Headland, a boat
might slant -->
Argus gave such a shrug and grimace that Mat suddenly
stopped, and without another word abruptly left the room.
"Argus,” said Roxalana with great composure, “I shall not
get you a mouthful of dinner to-day. ”
“I trust you will consent to do your share in disposing of the
poor corpses,” added Tempe sharply.
For reply, Argus rose, book in hand, opened the shutter of
the window towards the quay, sat down by it, and went on with
his comedy.
Tempe telegraphed to her mother her opinion that he was a
beast of an uncle; and even Roxalana was moved to eye him with
a mild, doubting severity.
But he was on the alert. When he heard drops of rain splash
on the window ledge, he shut his fingers in his book, and looked
(C
## p. 14017 (#203) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14017
»
into the fire. A shower came down, which was neither hail nor
snow,
but warm rain. He started up, stretched his arms like
one who had long been cramped and weary, and sat down again
with an indifferent air, and opened his book.
Roxalana came in from the kitchen, and said that the vane
on the summer-house had veered slightly, and there was less
noise from the wind.
«The gale is moderating, luckily. ”
Something in his tone struck her. She raised her eyes to his,
and he smiled ironically; it made her feel like asking his pardon.
“Can I have any dinner ? ” he asked.
« I think so: what shall it be ? »
“Brandy and cigars. ”
She disappeared.
Mat came in late in the afternoon, with as little ceremony as
before, and said roughly to Argus, “You are wanted. ”
"I won't go. ”
Captain, if we don't get across within twelve hours, every
soul on board that vessel now will be in hell. ”
"I supposed so. ”
«She's bilged, and the White Flat begins to hug her. It's
flood tide, and the waves must be washing the main deck: a few
hours of that work will settle their hash. ”
«What's doing with the life-boat ? »
« The loons have tried to launch her; but there's something
wrong, and they are trying to tinker her up. The will of folks
is good enough, but they can't get out there, - that's the long
and short on't. Bill Bayley swore he'd go out alone: his cock-
boat swamped first thing, and they had to throw him a rope.
He swore at the man who threw it, - at the boat, at the bay,
the wreck, and the Almighty,- and then he cried. I never liked
Bill so well. ”
Mat spit into the fire furiously, and stumped round the room,
a shoe on one foot and a boot on the other, his trousers settling
over his hips in spite of his tight leather belt. He was growing
frantic with excitement.
Argus laughed.
Mat made an energetic, beseeching motion towards the door;
he would have put up his soul for sale for the sake of seeing
Argus move with the intention he wished to inspire him with.
XXIV—877
>
## p. 14018 (#204) ##########################################
14018
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
)
»
Argus turned back his sleeves, baring a snow-white wrist, and
abstractedly felt his pulse and the muscles of his arms.
“Push ahead," he said.
"Aye, aye, sir,” Mat shouted, turning very pale, and lurching
towards the door.
Stop: where is Roxalana ? »
« Roxalana! ” Mat shouted.
“What is it, Mat? ” she answered, coming with a bottle.
"Yes; give us a dram, old girl,"continued Mat, utterly
,
oblivious of the proprieties.
Argus laughed again, and asked for his mackintosh.
“Now then,” said Mat, having swallowed nearly a tumbler of
brandy. Argus drank a little, and poured the rest of the bottle
into a flask which he buttoned inside his coat. Tempe ran down
to the door as they passed out, and Argus looking back called
out:
“Where is your crape veil, Tempe ? ”
“Where the courage of Kent is,- shut up in a bandbox,”
she answered.
Roxalana, after gazing at her a moment, took her by the
arm and dragged her into the green room.
“I believe,” she said, in a breathless undertone, “that you
are possessed sometimes. Do you know that your uncle Argus
may have gone for his shroud ? »
« Was that why he inquired for the veil ? ”
« Could you choose no other moment to express your insensi-
bility? Are you never to be anything but a child ? »
“Mother, you must be crazy. You don't mean to say that
you are going to protest against the Gates character,- as I rep-
resent it ? »
Roxalana said no more, but went her way, feeling a painful
excitement. She replenished the fires, hung kettles of water
over them, collected blankets, cordials, and liquors, and then went
to the kitchen to bake bread.
Twilight brought Mary Sutcliffe and her youngest boys.
Dumping them in a corner of the kitchen as if they were sacks,
and threatening them with a whipping if they moved, she rolled
up her sleeves, and said that she thought the fathers of families
had better stay at home, instead of risking themselves to save
nobody knew who. Another boat had started since Mat had got
(
«
## p. 14019 (#205) ##########################################
· ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14019
under way, and she guessed the wreck would turn out to be
a great cry and little wool: she did not think there would be
much drowning this time. She wondered if the good folks in
Kent had stirred themselves,— your religious Drakes, and your
pious Brandes, and the rest of the church.
"Hold your tongue, Mary Sutcliffe,” ordered Tempe.
Then Mary whim pered, sobbed, and shrieked, declaring she
had known all along she should never set eyes on Mat Sutcliffe
again, who was well enough, considering what he was. And who
else would have done what he was doing ? and she gloried in his
spunk. Drying her eyes with her fat hands, and shaking out her
apron, she begged Roxalana to let her make the bread, and put
the house to rights,- in case there were bodies coming in.
"Do, Mrs. Gates,” she pleaded. "I feel as strong as a giant
to-night: I can wrestle with any amount of work. '
"If you will stop whining, Mary, I will accept your services:
for to tell the truth, my head is not very clear just now; I am
afraid I may spoil something. "
"Likely as not,” replied Mary: "go right into your sitting-
room, sit down in your own chair, and you'll come to. It won't
do for you, of all persons, to be upset, Mrs. Gates. "
Roxalana was quite ready to act upon Mary's suggestion.
Death was near, and she felt it. After dark Mary began to walk
about,- to the alley, and into the garden,- and report what she
saw and heard. She ran down to the quay once, but came back
scared and subdued at the sight of the angry solitude of the
hoarse black sea, though she shook her impotent fist at it with
indignation.
Roxalana felt a relief when Virginia Brande came down from
the Forge, enveloped in a great cloak. She ventured to come
by the path, the moment she heard that Captain Gates was
making an attempt to get to the wreck. Her mother was
frightened and ill about it that Chloe and herself were obliged
to make representations of the necessity for help in Kent from
every hand and heart, before she consented to spare her. The
Forge was deserted; her father had gone into town with the
intention of offering a reward to the man who should first reach
the wreck. Mary Sutcliffe, hearing this, cried :-
"And I suppose old Drake has offered as much again — hasn't
he? Wouldn't I like to see Mr. Mat Sutcliffe, Esquire, handling
SO
## p. 14020 (#206) ##########################################
14020
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
that reward! I wish somebody would pay me for doing iny duty.
I'd put the money right into the contribution box at Mr. Brande's
church. Oh yes, don't I see myself doing it! ”
"Mary,” said Virginia, "you are talking nonsense. Please find
some hairpins: mine must have dropped along the path. ”
She removed the cloak-hood, and her hair tumbled in a mass
down her shoulders: she could have hid herself in it.
«Goodness me! ” cried Mary, “what splendid hair you've got!
I never thought of it before. It is as black as the sky was just
now on the quay. ”
"Have you been to the quay, Mary? ” asked Roxalana.
content yourself within doors. Where is Tempe ? ”
“I saw her kiting up-stairs just now. If she does not take
care she'll keel over. It is as true as the gospel, that she has
got a look in her face as new as a drop of cream would be to
“Do
my cat. "
“Go and tell her that Virginia Brande is here, and she will
come back. »
"I have always thought,” Mary replied, sticking a pin between
her teeth, and allowing her eyes to take a reflective cast, that
it was as much as my life was worth to interfere with the way
of a Gates; but I may change my mind. I'll go right after
Tempe. O Lord-a-mercy, where do you think the two creatures
are by this time? Sho! I know they will be along soon: it is not
likely that Captain Argus Gates is going to be lost at sea, after
he has given up going to sea; and — it would be foolish to sup-
pose that Mat Sutcliffe will venture more than getting his boots
soaked through. ”
Hairpins, please,” said Virginia.
Roxalana asked again, Where is Tempe?
Virginia Brande is
here. ”
Tempe fell into a fit of weeping and laughing the moment
she saw Virginia, which was ended by a dead faint.
At last the boat was launched. Argus and Mat were afloat;
so much was gained, and Argus thought the danger was prefer-
able to the labor they had undergone in getting ready to risk
their lives. The gloomy twilight, spreading from the east,
dropped along the shore while they were dragging, pushing, and
lifting the boat over the shingle, slush, and into the opposing
((
sea,
## p. 14021 (#207) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14021
“Hell bent be it! ” said Mat, apostrophizing the waves, "if
you say so. You are not alone, my friends. ”
Mat seemed a part of the storm: his spirits were in a wild
commotion; his clothes were torn and soggy with brine, and his
hands were gashed and bloody. Argus had lost his cap, and
broken his oar; he bound his head with Mat's woolen comforter,
jammed his shoulder against the gunwale, and used the shortened
oar with much composure. They did not make much headway:
the boat was riding in all directions in the roar and foam of the
sea; darkness pressed upon them; they were shut between the
low-hanging sky and the shaking plain of water. In the midst
of his silent, measured, energetic action, the thoughts of Argus
drifted idly back to the trifling events of his life: a new and
surprising charm was added to them, as bright, quiet, and warm
as the golden dust of a summer sunset which touches everything
as it vanishes.
Mat swore at the top of his voice that the wind was more
nor'rard, and it would be an even chance about beating or not.
Argus looked up and saw a circular break in the clouds, but
said nothing
"By the crucifix,” cried Mat, throwing himself forward, “I
heard a yell. Where away are we? We are shoaling! ”
Argus plunged his hands into the water from the stern-sheets:
it felt like the wrinkled, hideous flesh of a monster, trying to
creep away.
“We are under lee or there is a lull, for the water don't
break,” he said. “If the moon was out, we should see the White
Flat. I reckon we are on the tongue of the bar, and the vessel
has struck below. Her hull must be sunk ten feet by this time,
and her shrouds and spars are washed off: that yell will not be
heard again. ”
“Damn 'em,” said Mat savagely, if they have drowned afore
ever we could reach 'em, I'll take 'em dead, carry every mother's
son of 'em to Kent, and bury 'em against their wills. ”
The endless, steady-going rockers which slid under them from
the bay outside tossed the boat no longer; the wind ceased to
smite their faces, but tore overhead and ripped the clouds apart.
The moon rolled out, and to the right they saw the ghastly, nar-
row crest of the White Flat. A mass of spume on their left
which hissed madly proved what Argus had said, - that they were
close to the end of the bar. Within the limits of the moonlight
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## p. 14022 (#208) ##########################################
14022
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
they saw nothing. In the bewildering, darkling illumination of
.
the shattering water around them they were alone.
“If she's parted,” continued Mat, “something might wash this
way,— her gear at least. I'd like to catch a cabin door, or an
article to that effect: it might come handy. ”
Argus did not hear him, for he was overboard. Missing him,
Mat gave way for a moment; he felt the keel shove resisting
sand, and remained passive, merely muttering, "I'm blasted, but
she may drive. ”
Argus had seen, or thought he had, to the right of the boat,
some object dipping in and out of the water and making toward
them. He met it coming sideways, where the water was just
below his breast; missed a hold of it, struggled for it, the shift-
ing bottom impeding his footway; and the water battled against
his head and arms, till, rearing itself up and stranding on the
beach, he stumbled and fell beside it exhausted.
Raising himself on his hands and knees, he brought his face
close to two persons
-a man and a woman fastened together
by the embrace of death. The woman's face was upturned; its
white oval, wet and glistening, shed a horrid light; the repeated
blows of the murderous waves had tangled and spread her long
hair over her. Tears of rage rushed into Argus's eyes when he
saw where it had been torn from its roots. Her arms were
round the man's head; her hands clutched his temples; his face
was so tightly pressed into her bosom that Argus instinctively
believed he was still alive in a stifled swoon. She was dead.
Take her lover away from that breast of stone, Argus; let him
not see those open lips, - no longer the crimson gates to the
fiery hours of his enjoyment,- nor let him feel those poor bruised
fingers clenching his brain; those delicate stems of the will
are powerless to creep round his heart! May Satan of the re-
morseless deep alone know and remember the last hour of this
woman's passion, despair, and sacrifice!
Argus rose to his feet, wondering why he saw so clearly; and
possessed with an idea which was a mad one, perhaps, but which
allied him, in greatness of soul, to the woman before him. He
was still confused, and had forgotten where Mat and the boat
were; but Mat had seen his dark figure rising against the sky,
and was plowing through the sand with the intention of remon-
strating with Argus on the impossibility of ever getting it off
again. But when he came up behind him, there was something
## p. 14023 (#209) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14023
(
>
(
»
(C
in his attitude - a familiar one - which imposed his respectful
-
attention. Mat bent over the bodies silently, and touched them
with his foot.
She is dead ? ” interrogated Argus.
“Never will be more so. ”
« This man is still alive. Lift his head. I am out of breath.
The wind is going down, and we can run back easy. "
"It may raly be called pleasant," muttered Mat, on his knees
in the sand. “There, now I have got you, safe enough from her.
God! she put on shirt and trousers to jump overboard with him;
swapping deaths, and getting nothing to boot. He is limber:
give me the brandy and let's warm up the boy. ”
"Here,” said Argus in a suppressed voice, "pour it down,
quick. Have you a lashing? I should like to put her out of his
sight: one of the ballast stones will do. Help me to carry her
to the other side of the bar: the deep water will cover her. ”
Mat pretended to be too busy to hear.
“Crazier than ever,” he muttered. "I might have known his
damned crankiness would bile out somewhere. "
Argus wrapped the poor girl in his mackintosh, and staggered
towards the boat carrying her; there was no help against it, and
Mat rose to his assistance. In a moment or two she was buried
in the grave she had so terribly resisted.
The gale was nearly spent, and Mat ventured to hoist the
sail. Argus tumbled the still insensible man into the boat by
the head and heels, and they ran across the harbor, landing at
the quay below the house. Mary was there before the boat was
tied to a spile.
“How are you off for elbow-grease ? ” cried Mat. « Put the
lantern down, and jump in: here's a bundle for you to take up
to the house. Cap'n and I are clean gone, I tell you. I've lost
the rims of my ears, and expect to leave a few toes in these 'ere
boots when I pull 'em off. Come, quick! ”
Without a word she lifted the man from the bottom of the
boat, and with Mat's help, clambered up the wharf and took
him into the house. Tempe ran shrieking when she saw him
stretched on the floor before the fire in the green room. Roxa-
lana sat rigid, nailed to her chair, incapable of motion at the
sight; Virginia and Mary were collected. Mat adroitly peeled
off a portion of his wet clothes, and told Mary to rub him like
damnation. It was a long time before he gave sign of life. At
the first choking breath Mat poured some brandy over his face
>
## p. 14024 (#210) ##########################################
14024
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
and neck; he rose galvanically to a sitting posture, and fell back
again, to all appearance dead. But Mat declared he was all
right, and presently went out to change his wet clothes for dry
ones. Virginia looked up at Argus, convinced herself that the
man was saved.
“Take care of me, if you please,” he said. «I want brandy,
and a dry shirt. How are you, Roxalana ? ”
At the sound of his voice she turned in her chair.
Mat re-
turned with his arms full of clothes for Argus, and asked her if
she would be good enough to step out with Virginia, and go to
bed. There wasn't any use in praying now, for they were back.
Not one of them thought of the unhappy crew, all lost except
one who lay before them.
“That 'ere Virginia,” said Mat, when she and Roxalana had
gone, and he was watching the man's eyelids, “is as mealy a gal
as I ever saw in my life. She's cool, and smooth, and soft. She
beat Moll in rubbing. Hullo! his eyes are open.
Look here,
Spaniard, you belong to us. Drink this, my lad, and let me
hold you up. So - all right, young un. Shut up, Gates: you are
drunk, and have reason to be. I reckon you are black and blue
from the bruises you got. I've had a pint of swipes myself, and
feel inwardly correct. Hark ye,- he's off in a reglar, natural
sleep, ain't he ? »
[The following poems are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of
Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers. )
A SUMMER NIGHT
I
FEEL the breath of the summer night,
Aromatic fire;
The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
With tender desire.
The white moths flutter about the lamp,
Enamored with light;
And a thousand creatures softly sing
A song to the night!
But I am alone; and how can I sing
Praises to thee?
Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul
That waiteth for me.
## p. 14025 (#211) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14025
EL MANALO
I
N THE still dark shade of the palace wall,
Where the peacocks strut,
Where the Queen may have heard my madrigal,
Together we sat.
My sombrero hid the fire in my eyes,
And shaded her own;
This serge cloak stifled her sweet little cries,
When I kissed her mouth.
The pale olive-trees on the distant plain,
The jagged blue rocks,
The vaporous sea — like mountain chain
Dropped into the night.
We saw the lights in the palace flare;
The musicians played;
The red guards slashed and sabred the stair
And cursed the old king.
In the long black shade of the palace wall,
We sat the night through;
Under my cloak— but I cannot tell all
The Queen may have seen!
MERCEDES
UP
NDER a sultry yellow sky
On the yellow sand I lie;
The crinkled vapors smite my brain,–
I smolder in a fiery pain.
-
Above the crags the condor flies,-
He knows where the red gold lies;
He knows where the diamonds shine:
If I knew, would she be mine?
Mercedes in her hammock swings;
In her court a palm-tree flings
Its slender shadow on the ground;
The fountain falls with silver sound.
## p. 14026 (#212) ##########################################
14026
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
ish it up;
Her lips are like this cactus cup;
With my hand I
I tear its flaming leaves apart. —
Would that I could tear her heart.
Last night a man was at her gate,–
In the hedge I lay in wait;
I saw Mercedes meet him there,
By the fireflies in her hair.
I waited till the break of day,
Then I rose and stole away;
But I left my dagger in the gate;-
Now she knows her lover's fate!
NAMELESS PAIN
1
SHOULD be happy with my lot:
A wife and mother,- is it not
Enough for me to be content?
What other blessing could be sent ?
A quiet house, and homely ways,
That make each day like other days;
I only see Time's shadow now
Darken the hair on baby's brow.
No world's work ever comes to me,
No beggar brings his misery;
I have no power, no healing art,
With bruised soul or broken heart.
I read the poets of the age, -
'Tis lotus-eating in a cage;
I study art, but art is dead
To one who clamors to be fed
With milk from Nature's rugged breast,
Who longs for Labor's lusty rest.
O foolish wish! I still should pine
If any other lot were mine.
## p. 14027 (#213) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14027
ON THE CAMPAGNA
S"
TOP on the Appian Way,
In the Roman Campagna, -
Stop at my tomb,
The tomb of Cecilia Metella!
To-day as you see it
Alaric saw it, ages ago,
When he, with his pale-visaged Goths,
Sat at the gates of Rome,
Reading his Runic shield.
Odin! thy curse remains!
Beneath these battlements
My bones were stirred with Roman pride,
Though centuries before my Romans died:
Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust.
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king;
My tomb remains.
When Rome commanded the earth,
Great were the Metelli:
I was Metellus's wife;
I loved him,- and I died.
Then with slow patience built he this memorial :
Each century marks his love.
Pass by on the Appian Way
The tomb of Cecilia Metella.
Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter,
Wild buffaloes tramp at its base,
Deep in its desolation,
Deep as the shadow of Rome!
ON MY BED OF A WINTER NIGHT
N of night,
,
What care I for the wild wind's scream ?
What to me is its crooked flight ?
O Deep in a sleep, and deep in a dream,
On the sea of a summer's day,
Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail,
## p. 14028 (#214) ##########################################
14028
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
What care I for the fitful gale,
Now in earnest, and now in play?
What care I for the fitful wind,
That groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree?
Groaning and sighing are nothing to me;
For I am a man of steadfast mind.
## p. 14029 (#215) ##########################################
14029
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
(1825-)
.
(
HE poems of Richard Henry Stoddard, one of America's truest
lyrical poets, were collected and published in a complete
edition in 1880. The Early Poems) form the first of the
periods into which, for convenience's sake, the book is divided; the
'Songs of Summer) with «The King's Bell’ the second; the “Songs
of the East) the third; and Later Poems' the fourth. They repre-
sent the work of thirty years. In 1890 he published The Lion's Cub
and Other Verses,' a book not unworthy of
his maturity.
Stoddard's early verses, too good to be
purely original, are perhaps the nearest
approach made by any youthful poet to the
tuneful phrases and overflowing melody of
Keats. But the poet of twenty had lighted
his fire with the divine torch. The song
«You know the old Hidalgo,”
the serenade
-
«But music has a golden key,” --
songs of the gay troubadour singing under R. H. STODDARD
the latticed window,- are true lyrics, show-
ing those peculiar traits of poetic power which are recognizable
through all the changes consequent upon nearly fifty years of study
and development. These traits are a passionate love of beauty,
affluence, virility, and imagination; and a minor but unusual quality,
that of childlike unselfconsciousness. He propounds no questions, he
seeks to solve no problems. He is a poet, not a metaphysician.
Stoddard learned to "find” his art, according to his own confes-
sion, in his early poems. 'The Songs of Summer' are made up of
short poems in which his warm imagination gives life to the simplest
themes. Among the best known of them are There are Gains for
all Our Losses,' (Two Brides,' Through the Night, and the songs
The Sky is a Drinking-Cup, and Birds are Singing Round my
Window. )
## p. 14030 (#216) ##########################################
14030
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
Beginning with a measure a little less regular than that of Keats,
Stoddard departed gradually from the even ten-syllabled rhyme, and
adopted freer movements for his varied themes. This is perceptible
in-
“The young child Jesus had a garden
Full of roses rich and rare,"
a poem which might be inscribed under one of Francia's pictures.
Few men have sung with so pure a spontaneity, preserving at the
same time the canons of art. There is infinite variety in 'The Book
of the East. Its versifications are made from translations by many
hands, and not translations at first hand. That love of beauty, that
“sensuous love of earth” which passionately possessed him, led Stod-
dard to use in maturer years the language of the Orient, as in
youth it had led him to echo 'Endymion. But through the caressing
measures of the Persian, the ringing rhythm of the Tartar, the sensu-
ous tenderness of the Arab songs, through the Chinese songs where
he runs the gamut of sweetness, sentiment, homely naturalism, and
savage passion, - through all these themes and quantities the poet
keeps himself always within the limits of accurate and organic com-
position.
His narrative poems, scattered through all four volumes, owe
much of their simplicity and strength to the vigor and purity of his
prose. In “The Fisher and Charon,' in Proserpine,' in 'The King's
Sentinel,' in “The Pearl of the Philippines, and in "Wratislaw,' his
imagination and his strength blending, find completest expression.
It was said of Browning that he was a woman's man. ” Stoddard
is essentially “a man's man. ” In his Book of the East,'. poems
which exhibit to the full his delicate sensuousness, he has the Ori-
ental view of woman, feeling her helplessness and her witchery. In
his Songs of the Mystic' he watches the passing of youth and love,
the approach of age and sorrow, with all of the poet's, of the man's,
regret; yet retains his strength and sweetness, his love of love and
warfare, to the end. The Later Poems) contain many of his noblest
efforts,- poems that express the highest flights and largest freedom
of his poetical genius.
Mr. Stoddard was born July 20, 1825, at Hingham, Massachusetts.
His father was a sea-captain, who died when his son was ten years
old. It was doubtless owing to this parentage, and to his early influ-
ences and associations, that the poet's songs of the sea are so appre-
ciative of its mystery and its charm. After his father's death he
came with his mother to New York, where he received a common-
school education, supplemented by independent study. He served for
some time in the New York Dock Department, and spent seventeen
(
## p. 14031 (#217) ##########################################
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
14031
years in the Custom House, in an employment dignified by the ex-
ample of Hawthorne at Salem, and of Lamb at the East India House.
During this time he did much scholarly prose work, generally as a
literary essayist and critic.
SONG
From “The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Yºu
ou know the old Hidalgo
(His box is next to ours)
Who threw the Prima Donna
The wreath of orange-flowers:
He owns the half of Aragon,
With mines beyond the main;
A very ancient nobleman
And gentleman of Spain.
They swear that I must wed him,
In spite of yea or nay,
Though uglier than the Scaramouch,
The spectre in the play;
But I will sooner die a maid
Than wear a gilded chain,
For all the ancient noblemen
And gentlemen of Spain !
A SERENADE
From "The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. ' Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
T""
HE moon is muffled in a cloud
That folds the lover's star,
But still beneath thy balcony
I touch my soft guitar.
If thou art waking, Lady dear,
The fairest in the land,
Unbar thy wreathèd lattice now,
And wave thy snowy hand.
She hears me not, her spirit lies
In trances mute and deep;
## p. 14032 (#218) ##########################################
14032
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
But Music has a golden key
That opes the gate of Sleep.
Then let her sleep; and if I fail
To set her spirit free,
My song will mingle in her dream,
And she will dream of me.
THE YELLOW MOON
From "The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard.
“They won't keep us out,” said Mrs. Lecks, "for we can duck
under. I suppose whoever put 'em here didn't expect anybody
to arrive on life-preservers. ”
»
C
»
## p. 14013 (#199) ##########################################
14013
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
(1823-)
E
>
(
>
LIZABETH BARSTOW, the wife of Richard Henry Stoddard, was
born in Massachusetts, May 6th, 1823. She was married to
the poet in 1851; and a few years later began to write sto-
ries and poems so intense and individual, that though anonymous
they were recognized at once as the work of a new writer. The
Morgesons' appeared in 1862, “Two Men'in 1865, and Temple House'
in 1867, a new edition being issued in 1888.
In advance of her time by a generation, Mrs. Stoddard belongs
to the school of Maeterlinck and Ibsen rather than to the romantic
period of fiction of the day in which she wrote. Whether she records
humble life in a New England village, as in “Two Men'; or the story
of an ancestral mansion in an American seaport town, as in “Temple
House”; or the history of a “queer” family, as in “The Morgesons,'-
her work is metaphysical like Ibsen's. Her men and women repro-
duce types not infrequently found in forgotten New England towns.
They are strong self-centred characters, in whom an active intellect
and intense nervous energy, compressed by narrow surroundings, pro-
duce numberless idiosyncrasies. In their moral isolation, they are
still grim Puritans in everything but creed. Mrs. Stoddard draws
them with a wonderful comprehension of the hidden springs of their
action. Like Ibsen, she exemplifies life and illustrates her dramatic
force in breathless tragic episodes.
It is true, however, that before she is a dramatist, she is a psy-
chologist: a sphinx sitting on the stony way to the temple, and
looking with unquestioning eyes into life's problem. That method of
suggestion which is our latest fashion in literature, Mrs. Stoddard
used when it was not a fashion, but a form of reticence. There are
descriptions in her novels cut with a chisel; others in which nature
is used as a background to scenes of intense thought, in moments
of outward stillness. She was a realist before the word had been
defined. She dwells in shadows as grim as those of Wuthering
Heights,' in an atmosphere so dense that we see the movements of
her characters as through a thick glass screen; but each person, each
scene, is touched with a gleam of poetic light.
It is as a poet, perhaps, that she has gained her highest fame;
though no book of the time, according to the great English critic,
## p. 14014 (#200) ##########################################
14014
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
Mr. Leslie Stephen, is more remarkable than her (Temple House. '
Mrs. Stoddard has been writing and publishing poems since her girl-
hood, but they were not collected until 1896. In them is reflected
the spirit of her fiction, the tragic atmosphere with which her novels
are surcharged. Burning with intensity, if a spirit so hopeless may
be said to burn, these strange, reserved, yet passionately regretful
lyrics have for their theme the pain of quiet endurance, the disap-
pointment of an ardent fancy, and the sorrow of an unsatisfied heart.
Those written in early youth might have been penned by Maeterlinck,
— tragical, musical, introspective; Stoddard himself might have taught
her the ringing, forcible strains in The House by the Sea, or in
(Xanthos) and Achilles,' — poems in blank verse, sonorous, dignified,
individual. The highest expression of her poetic gift is found per-
haps in short poems, like Mercedes,' where passion, sullen, deep, and
pitiless, veils itself in tropical beauty.
In both her poems and her novels is reflected her sense of the
beauty and aloofness of nature; of the dusty answers to the clam-
ors of impetuous human souls.
-
)
THE GREAT GALE
M
From «Temple House. Copyright 1888, by 0. M. Dunham. Published by the
Cassell Publishing Company
AT SUTCLIFFE announced to Argus one morning that spring
had come. The ice on the shores and inside the bay was
giving way. And he asked Argus if gales were not to be
looked for? They compared notes about the weather, and con-
cluded to look for southerly storms.
The weather softened so that very day that Tempe threw
aside her shawl, and Roxalana made the tour of all the rooms,
and by way of a walk went up to the attic to look over the
fields and bay. She remarked to Argus, on coming down, that
she had never seen the White Flat so plainly: it appeared to be
stretching across the harbor's mouth.
« The ice made it look so, probably,” he replied.
The snow around the house began to melt, and in the still-
ness they heard the water trickling everywhere.
“Soon,” said Roxalana, the buds will begin to swell. ”
At sunset the atmosphere was spongy and rotten. Masses of
vapor rolled up from the south, extinguishing a pale brassy band
(
»
## p. 14015 (#201) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14015
were
(
C
of light in the west; and a strange wind rose in the upper air,
and closed with night.
Early in the evening Argus shook the iron bars of the shut-
ters on the harbor side, and fastened them; he foresaw the storm,
and would have shut out its fury for Roxalana's sake, who ap-
peared perturbed and melancholy, as if disasters at sea
threatened.
“The wind must be rising,” she said, holding up her hand:
"I feel streams of air from everywhere. The candles flare; but
I don't hear the surf. ”
« You will hear it presently,” he replied.
“I don't care if it blows half the town down,” said Tempe.
« Don't spare the other half: let the whole go, and be damned,
if you wish so,” he answered.
A tremendous hiss passed through the crevices of the outer
doors, which was met by a roar in the chimney. An irruption
of white flaky ashes followed and covered the hearth. Next, the
roof and walls of the house were taken as a coign of vantage by
the shrieking wind to hang out its viewless banners, which shiv-
ered, flapped, and tore to tatters in raging impotence.
“We must put out this fire, Argus,” said Roxalana, or we
shall be on fire inside the house. "
“Better put yourselves in bed: I will take care of the fire. ”
Acting upon this suggestion, they left him alone. A short
time afterwards 'he went out on the lawn. The dull thunder of
the surf now broke so furiously on the bar 'that the ground be-
neath his feet reverberated.
« The bay is champing its jaws on that devilish White Flat,
and any sail coming this way is lost. ”
Looking overhead, he discovered in the milky darkness of the
obscured moon deep vague rifts in the sky, like the chasm in
Orion. The frenzied, overdriven spirits of the storm took refuge
in the piling, tumbling folds of the clouds, which hovered over
and fell into the abyss. While he stood there, the elms bowed
from bole to topmost bough, and brushed his face as if they paid
him homage. No sound came from the town side; he could not
see a single light. Opposite the lawn, King's Hill reared its black
summit; from thence, if he climbed, he could obtain a view of
the wailing, howling bay, and - perchance of some vessel seek-
ing harbor. He preferred to go back and shut himself up in the
house.
## p. 14016 (#202) ##########################################
14016
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
can be.
Though the storm raged the next morning as storm had not
raged for years, Argus remained in the green room, and pored
over the book of plays, so well remembered by Virginia. About
noon Mat Sutcliffe burst in, with his tarpaulin jammed over his
head, and carrying an immense spy-glass in a canvas case. His
tidings did not astonish Argus. A vessel putting into the bay
the night before had dragged her anchors and struck on the
White Flat; her flag was flying from the rigging, and there were
men there: it being low water when she struck, her quarter-deck
might afford temporary safety, provided the cold did not increase
and freeze the crew to death.
« What is the town doing, Mat ? ” asked Roxalana.
"A great many people are out doing nothing. They are
on the wharves, on the top of King's Hill, the hair blowing off
their heads; and I believe there's a gang along-shore some-
where,” he replied.
«No boat can live if put out,” said Argus. « How low down
the bar did the vessel drive on ? »
“As near to Bass Headland as
If the wind would
chop round, somebody might get out there. ”
"So the sailors must drown,” cried Tempe, notwithstanding
she had put her fingers in her ears, not to hear. “I'll shut my-
self up in the cellar till it is all over. ”
“I thought,” continued Mat, looking hard at Argus, it might
be best to look at the shingle below here: the ice is about gone
there. If we could start under the lee of Bass Headland, a boat
might slant -->
Argus gave such a shrug and grimace that Mat suddenly
stopped, and without another word abruptly left the room.
"Argus,” said Roxalana with great composure, “I shall not
get you a mouthful of dinner to-day. ”
“I trust you will consent to do your share in disposing of the
poor corpses,” added Tempe sharply.
For reply, Argus rose, book in hand, opened the shutter of
the window towards the quay, sat down by it, and went on with
his comedy.
Tempe telegraphed to her mother her opinion that he was a
beast of an uncle; and even Roxalana was moved to eye him with
a mild, doubting severity.
But he was on the alert. When he heard drops of rain splash
on the window ledge, he shut his fingers in his book, and looked
(C
## p. 14017 (#203) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14017
»
into the fire. A shower came down, which was neither hail nor
snow,
but warm rain. He started up, stretched his arms like
one who had long been cramped and weary, and sat down again
with an indifferent air, and opened his book.
Roxalana came in from the kitchen, and said that the vane
on the summer-house had veered slightly, and there was less
noise from the wind.
«The gale is moderating, luckily. ”
Something in his tone struck her. She raised her eyes to his,
and he smiled ironically; it made her feel like asking his pardon.
“Can I have any dinner ? ” he asked.
« I think so: what shall it be ? »
“Brandy and cigars. ”
She disappeared.
Mat came in late in the afternoon, with as little ceremony as
before, and said roughly to Argus, “You are wanted. ”
"I won't go. ”
Captain, if we don't get across within twelve hours, every
soul on board that vessel now will be in hell. ”
"I supposed so. ”
«She's bilged, and the White Flat begins to hug her. It's
flood tide, and the waves must be washing the main deck: a few
hours of that work will settle their hash. ”
«What's doing with the life-boat ? »
« The loons have tried to launch her; but there's something
wrong, and they are trying to tinker her up. The will of folks
is good enough, but they can't get out there, - that's the long
and short on't. Bill Bayley swore he'd go out alone: his cock-
boat swamped first thing, and they had to throw him a rope.
He swore at the man who threw it, - at the boat, at the bay,
the wreck, and the Almighty,- and then he cried. I never liked
Bill so well. ”
Mat spit into the fire furiously, and stumped round the room,
a shoe on one foot and a boot on the other, his trousers settling
over his hips in spite of his tight leather belt. He was growing
frantic with excitement.
Argus laughed.
Mat made an energetic, beseeching motion towards the door;
he would have put up his soul for sale for the sake of seeing
Argus move with the intention he wished to inspire him with.
XXIV—877
>
## p. 14018 (#204) ##########################################
14018
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
)
»
Argus turned back his sleeves, baring a snow-white wrist, and
abstractedly felt his pulse and the muscles of his arms.
“Push ahead," he said.
"Aye, aye, sir,” Mat shouted, turning very pale, and lurching
towards the door.
Stop: where is Roxalana ? »
« Roxalana! ” Mat shouted.
“What is it, Mat? ” she answered, coming with a bottle.
"Yes; give us a dram, old girl,"continued Mat, utterly
,
oblivious of the proprieties.
Argus laughed again, and asked for his mackintosh.
“Now then,” said Mat, having swallowed nearly a tumbler of
brandy. Argus drank a little, and poured the rest of the bottle
into a flask which he buttoned inside his coat. Tempe ran down
to the door as they passed out, and Argus looking back called
out:
“Where is your crape veil, Tempe ? ”
“Where the courage of Kent is,- shut up in a bandbox,”
she answered.
Roxalana, after gazing at her a moment, took her by the
arm and dragged her into the green room.
“I believe,” she said, in a breathless undertone, “that you
are possessed sometimes. Do you know that your uncle Argus
may have gone for his shroud ? »
« Was that why he inquired for the veil ? ”
« Could you choose no other moment to express your insensi-
bility? Are you never to be anything but a child ? »
“Mother, you must be crazy. You don't mean to say that
you are going to protest against the Gates character,- as I rep-
resent it ? »
Roxalana said no more, but went her way, feeling a painful
excitement. She replenished the fires, hung kettles of water
over them, collected blankets, cordials, and liquors, and then went
to the kitchen to bake bread.
Twilight brought Mary Sutcliffe and her youngest boys.
Dumping them in a corner of the kitchen as if they were sacks,
and threatening them with a whipping if they moved, she rolled
up her sleeves, and said that she thought the fathers of families
had better stay at home, instead of risking themselves to save
nobody knew who. Another boat had started since Mat had got
(
«
## p. 14019 (#205) ##########################################
· ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14019
under way, and she guessed the wreck would turn out to be
a great cry and little wool: she did not think there would be
much drowning this time. She wondered if the good folks in
Kent had stirred themselves,— your religious Drakes, and your
pious Brandes, and the rest of the church.
"Hold your tongue, Mary Sutcliffe,” ordered Tempe.
Then Mary whim pered, sobbed, and shrieked, declaring she
had known all along she should never set eyes on Mat Sutcliffe
again, who was well enough, considering what he was. And who
else would have done what he was doing ? and she gloried in his
spunk. Drying her eyes with her fat hands, and shaking out her
apron, she begged Roxalana to let her make the bread, and put
the house to rights,- in case there were bodies coming in.
"Do, Mrs. Gates,” she pleaded. "I feel as strong as a giant
to-night: I can wrestle with any amount of work. '
"If you will stop whining, Mary, I will accept your services:
for to tell the truth, my head is not very clear just now; I am
afraid I may spoil something. "
"Likely as not,” replied Mary: "go right into your sitting-
room, sit down in your own chair, and you'll come to. It won't
do for you, of all persons, to be upset, Mrs. Gates. "
Roxalana was quite ready to act upon Mary's suggestion.
Death was near, and she felt it. After dark Mary began to walk
about,- to the alley, and into the garden,- and report what she
saw and heard. She ran down to the quay once, but came back
scared and subdued at the sight of the angry solitude of the
hoarse black sea, though she shook her impotent fist at it with
indignation.
Roxalana felt a relief when Virginia Brande came down from
the Forge, enveloped in a great cloak. She ventured to come
by the path, the moment she heard that Captain Gates was
making an attempt to get to the wreck. Her mother was
frightened and ill about it that Chloe and herself were obliged
to make representations of the necessity for help in Kent from
every hand and heart, before she consented to spare her. The
Forge was deserted; her father had gone into town with the
intention of offering a reward to the man who should first reach
the wreck. Mary Sutcliffe, hearing this, cried :-
"And I suppose old Drake has offered as much again — hasn't
he? Wouldn't I like to see Mr. Mat Sutcliffe, Esquire, handling
SO
## p. 14020 (#206) ##########################################
14020
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
that reward! I wish somebody would pay me for doing iny duty.
I'd put the money right into the contribution box at Mr. Brande's
church. Oh yes, don't I see myself doing it! ”
"Mary,” said Virginia, "you are talking nonsense. Please find
some hairpins: mine must have dropped along the path. ”
She removed the cloak-hood, and her hair tumbled in a mass
down her shoulders: she could have hid herself in it.
«Goodness me! ” cried Mary, “what splendid hair you've got!
I never thought of it before. It is as black as the sky was just
now on the quay. ”
"Have you been to the quay, Mary? ” asked Roxalana.
content yourself within doors. Where is Tempe ? ”
“I saw her kiting up-stairs just now. If she does not take
care she'll keel over. It is as true as the gospel, that she has
got a look in her face as new as a drop of cream would be to
“Do
my cat. "
“Go and tell her that Virginia Brande is here, and she will
come back. »
"I have always thought,” Mary replied, sticking a pin between
her teeth, and allowing her eyes to take a reflective cast, that
it was as much as my life was worth to interfere with the way
of a Gates; but I may change my mind. I'll go right after
Tempe. O Lord-a-mercy, where do you think the two creatures
are by this time? Sho! I know they will be along soon: it is not
likely that Captain Argus Gates is going to be lost at sea, after
he has given up going to sea; and — it would be foolish to sup-
pose that Mat Sutcliffe will venture more than getting his boots
soaked through. ”
Hairpins, please,” said Virginia.
Roxalana asked again, Where is Tempe?
Virginia Brande is
here. ”
Tempe fell into a fit of weeping and laughing the moment
she saw Virginia, which was ended by a dead faint.
At last the boat was launched. Argus and Mat were afloat;
so much was gained, and Argus thought the danger was prefer-
able to the labor they had undergone in getting ready to risk
their lives. The gloomy twilight, spreading from the east,
dropped along the shore while they were dragging, pushing, and
lifting the boat over the shingle, slush, and into the opposing
((
sea,
## p. 14021 (#207) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14021
“Hell bent be it! ” said Mat, apostrophizing the waves, "if
you say so. You are not alone, my friends. ”
Mat seemed a part of the storm: his spirits were in a wild
commotion; his clothes were torn and soggy with brine, and his
hands were gashed and bloody. Argus had lost his cap, and
broken his oar; he bound his head with Mat's woolen comforter,
jammed his shoulder against the gunwale, and used the shortened
oar with much composure. They did not make much headway:
the boat was riding in all directions in the roar and foam of the
sea; darkness pressed upon them; they were shut between the
low-hanging sky and the shaking plain of water. In the midst
of his silent, measured, energetic action, the thoughts of Argus
drifted idly back to the trifling events of his life: a new and
surprising charm was added to them, as bright, quiet, and warm
as the golden dust of a summer sunset which touches everything
as it vanishes.
Mat swore at the top of his voice that the wind was more
nor'rard, and it would be an even chance about beating or not.
Argus looked up and saw a circular break in the clouds, but
said nothing
"By the crucifix,” cried Mat, throwing himself forward, “I
heard a yell. Where away are we? We are shoaling! ”
Argus plunged his hands into the water from the stern-sheets:
it felt like the wrinkled, hideous flesh of a monster, trying to
creep away.
“We are under lee or there is a lull, for the water don't
break,” he said. “If the moon was out, we should see the White
Flat. I reckon we are on the tongue of the bar, and the vessel
has struck below. Her hull must be sunk ten feet by this time,
and her shrouds and spars are washed off: that yell will not be
heard again. ”
“Damn 'em,” said Mat savagely, if they have drowned afore
ever we could reach 'em, I'll take 'em dead, carry every mother's
son of 'em to Kent, and bury 'em against their wills. ”
The endless, steady-going rockers which slid under them from
the bay outside tossed the boat no longer; the wind ceased to
smite their faces, but tore overhead and ripped the clouds apart.
The moon rolled out, and to the right they saw the ghastly, nar-
row crest of the White Flat. A mass of spume on their left
which hissed madly proved what Argus had said, - that they were
close to the end of the bar. Within the limits of the moonlight
C
## p. 14022 (#208) ##########################################
14022
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
they saw nothing. In the bewildering, darkling illumination of
.
the shattering water around them they were alone.
“If she's parted,” continued Mat, “something might wash this
way,— her gear at least. I'd like to catch a cabin door, or an
article to that effect: it might come handy. ”
Argus did not hear him, for he was overboard. Missing him,
Mat gave way for a moment; he felt the keel shove resisting
sand, and remained passive, merely muttering, "I'm blasted, but
she may drive. ”
Argus had seen, or thought he had, to the right of the boat,
some object dipping in and out of the water and making toward
them. He met it coming sideways, where the water was just
below his breast; missed a hold of it, struggled for it, the shift-
ing bottom impeding his footway; and the water battled against
his head and arms, till, rearing itself up and stranding on the
beach, he stumbled and fell beside it exhausted.
Raising himself on his hands and knees, he brought his face
close to two persons
-a man and a woman fastened together
by the embrace of death. The woman's face was upturned; its
white oval, wet and glistening, shed a horrid light; the repeated
blows of the murderous waves had tangled and spread her long
hair over her. Tears of rage rushed into Argus's eyes when he
saw where it had been torn from its roots. Her arms were
round the man's head; her hands clutched his temples; his face
was so tightly pressed into her bosom that Argus instinctively
believed he was still alive in a stifled swoon. She was dead.
Take her lover away from that breast of stone, Argus; let him
not see those open lips, - no longer the crimson gates to the
fiery hours of his enjoyment,- nor let him feel those poor bruised
fingers clenching his brain; those delicate stems of the will
are powerless to creep round his heart! May Satan of the re-
morseless deep alone know and remember the last hour of this
woman's passion, despair, and sacrifice!
Argus rose to his feet, wondering why he saw so clearly; and
possessed with an idea which was a mad one, perhaps, but which
allied him, in greatness of soul, to the woman before him. He
was still confused, and had forgotten where Mat and the boat
were; but Mat had seen his dark figure rising against the sky,
and was plowing through the sand with the intention of remon-
strating with Argus on the impossibility of ever getting it off
again. But when he came up behind him, there was something
## p. 14023 (#209) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14023
(
>
(
»
(C
in his attitude - a familiar one - which imposed his respectful
-
attention. Mat bent over the bodies silently, and touched them
with his foot.
She is dead ? ” interrogated Argus.
“Never will be more so. ”
« This man is still alive. Lift his head. I am out of breath.
The wind is going down, and we can run back easy. "
"It may raly be called pleasant," muttered Mat, on his knees
in the sand. “There, now I have got you, safe enough from her.
God! she put on shirt and trousers to jump overboard with him;
swapping deaths, and getting nothing to boot. He is limber:
give me the brandy and let's warm up the boy. ”
"Here,” said Argus in a suppressed voice, "pour it down,
quick. Have you a lashing? I should like to put her out of his
sight: one of the ballast stones will do. Help me to carry her
to the other side of the bar: the deep water will cover her. ”
Mat pretended to be too busy to hear.
“Crazier than ever,” he muttered. "I might have known his
damned crankiness would bile out somewhere. "
Argus wrapped the poor girl in his mackintosh, and staggered
towards the boat carrying her; there was no help against it, and
Mat rose to his assistance. In a moment or two she was buried
in the grave she had so terribly resisted.
The gale was nearly spent, and Mat ventured to hoist the
sail. Argus tumbled the still insensible man into the boat by
the head and heels, and they ran across the harbor, landing at
the quay below the house. Mary was there before the boat was
tied to a spile.
“How are you off for elbow-grease ? ” cried Mat. « Put the
lantern down, and jump in: here's a bundle for you to take up
to the house. Cap'n and I are clean gone, I tell you. I've lost
the rims of my ears, and expect to leave a few toes in these 'ere
boots when I pull 'em off. Come, quick! ”
Without a word she lifted the man from the bottom of the
boat, and with Mat's help, clambered up the wharf and took
him into the house. Tempe ran shrieking when she saw him
stretched on the floor before the fire in the green room. Roxa-
lana sat rigid, nailed to her chair, incapable of motion at the
sight; Virginia and Mary were collected. Mat adroitly peeled
off a portion of his wet clothes, and told Mary to rub him like
damnation. It was a long time before he gave sign of life. At
the first choking breath Mat poured some brandy over his face
>
## p. 14024 (#210) ##########################################
14024
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
and neck; he rose galvanically to a sitting posture, and fell back
again, to all appearance dead. But Mat declared he was all
right, and presently went out to change his wet clothes for dry
ones. Virginia looked up at Argus, convinced herself that the
man was saved.
“Take care of me, if you please,” he said. «I want brandy,
and a dry shirt. How are you, Roxalana ? ”
At the sound of his voice she turned in her chair.
Mat re-
turned with his arms full of clothes for Argus, and asked her if
she would be good enough to step out with Virginia, and go to
bed. There wasn't any use in praying now, for they were back.
Not one of them thought of the unhappy crew, all lost except
one who lay before them.
“That 'ere Virginia,” said Mat, when she and Roxalana had
gone, and he was watching the man's eyelids, “is as mealy a gal
as I ever saw in my life. She's cool, and smooth, and soft. She
beat Moll in rubbing. Hullo! his eyes are open.
Look here,
Spaniard, you belong to us. Drink this, my lad, and let me
hold you up. So - all right, young un. Shut up, Gates: you are
drunk, and have reason to be. I reckon you are black and blue
from the bruises you got. I've had a pint of swipes myself, and
feel inwardly correct. Hark ye,- he's off in a reglar, natural
sleep, ain't he ? »
[The following poems are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of
Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers. )
A SUMMER NIGHT
I
FEEL the breath of the summer night,
Aromatic fire;
The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
With tender desire.
The white moths flutter about the lamp,
Enamored with light;
And a thousand creatures softly sing
A song to the night!
But I am alone; and how can I sing
Praises to thee?
Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul
That waiteth for me.
## p. 14025 (#211) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14025
EL MANALO
I
N THE still dark shade of the palace wall,
Where the peacocks strut,
Where the Queen may have heard my madrigal,
Together we sat.
My sombrero hid the fire in my eyes,
And shaded her own;
This serge cloak stifled her sweet little cries,
When I kissed her mouth.
The pale olive-trees on the distant plain,
The jagged blue rocks,
The vaporous sea — like mountain chain
Dropped into the night.
We saw the lights in the palace flare;
The musicians played;
The red guards slashed and sabred the stair
And cursed the old king.
In the long black shade of the palace wall,
We sat the night through;
Under my cloak— but I cannot tell all
The Queen may have seen!
MERCEDES
UP
NDER a sultry yellow sky
On the yellow sand I lie;
The crinkled vapors smite my brain,–
I smolder in a fiery pain.
-
Above the crags the condor flies,-
He knows where the red gold lies;
He knows where the diamonds shine:
If I knew, would she be mine?
Mercedes in her hammock swings;
In her court a palm-tree flings
Its slender shadow on the ground;
The fountain falls with silver sound.
## p. 14026 (#212) ##########################################
14026
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
ish it up;
Her lips are like this cactus cup;
With my hand I
I tear its flaming leaves apart. —
Would that I could tear her heart.
Last night a man was at her gate,–
In the hedge I lay in wait;
I saw Mercedes meet him there,
By the fireflies in her hair.
I waited till the break of day,
Then I rose and stole away;
But I left my dagger in the gate;-
Now she knows her lover's fate!
NAMELESS PAIN
1
SHOULD be happy with my lot:
A wife and mother,- is it not
Enough for me to be content?
What other blessing could be sent ?
A quiet house, and homely ways,
That make each day like other days;
I only see Time's shadow now
Darken the hair on baby's brow.
No world's work ever comes to me,
No beggar brings his misery;
I have no power, no healing art,
With bruised soul or broken heart.
I read the poets of the age, -
'Tis lotus-eating in a cage;
I study art, but art is dead
To one who clamors to be fed
With milk from Nature's rugged breast,
Who longs for Labor's lusty rest.
O foolish wish! I still should pine
If any other lot were mine.
## p. 14027 (#213) ##########################################
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14027
ON THE CAMPAGNA
S"
TOP on the Appian Way,
In the Roman Campagna, -
Stop at my tomb,
The tomb of Cecilia Metella!
To-day as you see it
Alaric saw it, ages ago,
When he, with his pale-visaged Goths,
Sat at the gates of Rome,
Reading his Runic shield.
Odin! thy curse remains!
Beneath these battlements
My bones were stirred with Roman pride,
Though centuries before my Romans died:
Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust.
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king;
My tomb remains.
When Rome commanded the earth,
Great were the Metelli:
I was Metellus's wife;
I loved him,- and I died.
Then with slow patience built he this memorial :
Each century marks his love.
Pass by on the Appian Way
The tomb of Cecilia Metella.
Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter,
Wild buffaloes tramp at its base,
Deep in its desolation,
Deep as the shadow of Rome!
ON MY BED OF A WINTER NIGHT
N of night,
,
What care I for the wild wind's scream ?
What to me is its crooked flight ?
O Deep in a sleep, and deep in a dream,
On the sea of a summer's day,
Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail,
## p. 14028 (#214) ##########################################
14028
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
What care I for the fitful gale,
Now in earnest, and now in play?
What care I for the fitful wind,
That groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree?
Groaning and sighing are nothing to me;
For I am a man of steadfast mind.
## p. 14029 (#215) ##########################################
14029
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
(1825-)
.
(
HE poems of Richard Henry Stoddard, one of America's truest
lyrical poets, were collected and published in a complete
edition in 1880. The Early Poems) form the first of the
periods into which, for convenience's sake, the book is divided; the
'Songs of Summer) with «The King's Bell’ the second; the “Songs
of the East) the third; and Later Poems' the fourth. They repre-
sent the work of thirty years. In 1890 he published The Lion's Cub
and Other Verses,' a book not unworthy of
his maturity.
Stoddard's early verses, too good to be
purely original, are perhaps the nearest
approach made by any youthful poet to the
tuneful phrases and overflowing melody of
Keats. But the poet of twenty had lighted
his fire with the divine torch. The song
«You know the old Hidalgo,”
the serenade
-
«But music has a golden key,” --
songs of the gay troubadour singing under R. H. STODDARD
the latticed window,- are true lyrics, show-
ing those peculiar traits of poetic power which are recognizable
through all the changes consequent upon nearly fifty years of study
and development. These traits are a passionate love of beauty,
affluence, virility, and imagination; and a minor but unusual quality,
that of childlike unselfconsciousness. He propounds no questions, he
seeks to solve no problems. He is a poet, not a metaphysician.
Stoddard learned to "find” his art, according to his own confes-
sion, in his early poems. 'The Songs of Summer' are made up of
short poems in which his warm imagination gives life to the simplest
themes. Among the best known of them are There are Gains for
all Our Losses,' (Two Brides,' Through the Night, and the songs
The Sky is a Drinking-Cup, and Birds are Singing Round my
Window. )
## p. 14030 (#216) ##########################################
14030
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
Beginning with a measure a little less regular than that of Keats,
Stoddard departed gradually from the even ten-syllabled rhyme, and
adopted freer movements for his varied themes. This is perceptible
in-
“The young child Jesus had a garden
Full of roses rich and rare,"
a poem which might be inscribed under one of Francia's pictures.
Few men have sung with so pure a spontaneity, preserving at the
same time the canons of art. There is infinite variety in 'The Book
of the East. Its versifications are made from translations by many
hands, and not translations at first hand. That love of beauty, that
“sensuous love of earth” which passionately possessed him, led Stod-
dard to use in maturer years the language of the Orient, as in
youth it had led him to echo 'Endymion. But through the caressing
measures of the Persian, the ringing rhythm of the Tartar, the sensu-
ous tenderness of the Arab songs, through the Chinese songs where
he runs the gamut of sweetness, sentiment, homely naturalism, and
savage passion, - through all these themes and quantities the poet
keeps himself always within the limits of accurate and organic com-
position.
His narrative poems, scattered through all four volumes, owe
much of their simplicity and strength to the vigor and purity of his
prose. In “The Fisher and Charon,' in Proserpine,' in 'The King's
Sentinel,' in “The Pearl of the Philippines, and in "Wratislaw,' his
imagination and his strength blending, find completest expression.
It was said of Browning that he was a woman's man. ” Stoddard
is essentially “a man's man. ” In his Book of the East,'. poems
which exhibit to the full his delicate sensuousness, he has the Ori-
ental view of woman, feeling her helplessness and her witchery. In
his Songs of the Mystic' he watches the passing of youth and love,
the approach of age and sorrow, with all of the poet's, of the man's,
regret; yet retains his strength and sweetness, his love of love and
warfare, to the end. The Later Poems) contain many of his noblest
efforts,- poems that express the highest flights and largest freedom
of his poetical genius.
Mr. Stoddard was born July 20, 1825, at Hingham, Massachusetts.
His father was a sea-captain, who died when his son was ten years
old. It was doubtless owing to this parentage, and to his early influ-
ences and associations, that the poet's songs of the sea are so appre-
ciative of its mystery and its charm. After his father's death he
came with his mother to New York, where he received a common-
school education, supplemented by independent study. He served for
some time in the New York Dock Department, and spent seventeen
(
## p. 14031 (#217) ##########################################
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
14031
years in the Custom House, in an employment dignified by the ex-
ample of Hawthorne at Salem, and of Lamb at the East India House.
During this time he did much scholarly prose work, generally as a
literary essayist and critic.
SONG
From “The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Yºu
ou know the old Hidalgo
(His box is next to ours)
Who threw the Prima Donna
The wreath of orange-flowers:
He owns the half of Aragon,
With mines beyond the main;
A very ancient nobleman
And gentleman of Spain.
They swear that I must wed him,
In spite of yea or nay,
Though uglier than the Scaramouch,
The spectre in the play;
But I will sooner die a maid
Than wear a gilded chain,
For all the ancient noblemen
And gentlemen of Spain !
A SERENADE
From "The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. ' Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
T""
HE moon is muffled in a cloud
That folds the lover's star,
But still beneath thy balcony
I touch my soft guitar.
If thou art waking, Lady dear,
The fairest in the land,
Unbar thy wreathèd lattice now,
And wave thy snowy hand.
She hears me not, her spirit lies
In trances mute and deep;
## p. 14032 (#218) ##########################################
14032
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
But Music has a golden key
That opes the gate of Sleep.
Then let her sleep; and if I fail
To set her spirit free,
My song will mingle in her dream,
And she will dream of me.
THE YELLOW MOON
From "The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard.
