until Mary Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-hole and was brought out, to our great amazement, by a picket of his companions in arms, who took him away handcuffed in a procession that covered our front garden with disgrace. "I am very sorry for all this, Doady. Will you call me a name I want you to call me?" "What is it, my dear?” "It's a stupid name, - Child-wife. When you are going to be angry with me, say to yourself, 'It's only my Child-wife.' When I am very disappointing, say, 'I knew a long time ago, that she would make but a Child-wife.' When you miss what you would like me to be, and what I think I never can be, say, 'Still my foolish Child-wife loves me.' For indeed I do." I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly loved to come out of the mists and shadows of the past, and to turn its gentle head toward me once again, and to bear witness that it was made happy by what I answered. COUNT GISMOND ROBERT BROWNING Christ God, who savest man, save most And doubtlessly ere he could draw All points to one, he must have schemed! Few half so happy as I seemed, While being dressed in queen's array I thought they loved me, did me grace If showing mine so caused to bleed They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen As I do. E'en when I was dressed, Had either of them spoke, instead But no: they let me laugh and sing My birthday song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs, And so descend the castle-stairs And come out on the morning-troop Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, That pierced it, of the outside sun, And they could let me take my state Of all come there to celebrate My queen's-day- Oh I think the cause Of much was, they forgot no crowd Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down; 'twas time I should present The victor's crown, but . . . there, 'twill last No long time. . . the old mist again See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk With his two boys: I can proceed. Well, at that moment, who should stalk Forth boldly to my face, indeed But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!" And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say! "Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet About her! Let her cleave to right, Or lay herself before our feet! Shall she who sinned so bold at night I? What I answered? As I live, What says the body when they spring Till out strode Gismond; then I knew His face before, but, at first view, I felt quite sure that God had set Himself to Satan; who would spend A minute's mistrust on the end? He strode to Gauthier, in his throat Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth With one back-handed blow that wrote In blood men's verdict there. North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, And damned, and truth stood up instead. This glads me most, that I enjoyed The heart of the joy, with my content In watching Gismond unalloyed By any doubt of the event: God took that on him I was bid Did I not watch him while he let His armorer just brace his greaves, Rivet his hauberk, on the fret The while! His foot . . . my memory leaves No least stamp out, nor how anon He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. And e'en before the trumpet's sound Was finished, prone lay the false knight, Prone as his lie, upon the ground: Gismond flew at him, used no sleight O' the sword, but open-breasted droye, Cleaving till out the truth he clove. Which done, he dragged him to my feet And said, "Here die, but end thy breath In full confession, lest thou fleet From my first, to God's second death! Say, hast thou lied?" And, “I have lied To God and her," he said, and died. Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked - What safe my heart holds, though no word Could I repeat now, if I tasked My powers forever, to a third Dear even as you are. Pass the rest Until I sank upon his breast. Over my head his arm he flung Against the world; and scarce I felt For he began to say the while So 'mid the shouting multitude We two walked forth to never more Our elder boy has got the clear Great brow; though when his brother's black Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here? And have you brought your tercel back? I just was telling Adela How many birds it struck since May. THE DEATH OF ARBACES EDWARD BULWER LYTTON In the eventful year of the eruption of Vesuvius, there lived in Pompeii a young Greek by the name of Glaucus. Heaven had given him every blessing but one; it had denied him the An adaptation by R. I. Fulton from the "Last Days of Pompeii." |