Part 10 (1/2)

They are very neat and handsome, you'll agree.

Solid in sense as Dryden at his best, And smooth as Waller, but with something more,-- That touch of grace, that airier elegance Which only rank can give.

'Tis very sad That one so n.o.bly praised should--well, no matter!-- I am told, sir, that these troubles all began At Cambridge, when his ma.n.u.scripts were burned.

He had been working, in his curious way, All through the night; and, in the morning greyness Went down to chapel, leaving on his desk A lighted candle. You can imagine it,-- A sadly sloven altar to his Muse, Littered with papers, cups, and greasy plates Of untouched food. I am told that he would eat His Monday's breakfast, sir, on Tuesday morning, Such was his absent way!

When he returned, He found that Diamond (his little dog Named Diamond, for a black patch near his tail) Had overturned the candle. All his work Was burned to ashes.

It struck him to the quick, Though, when his terrier fawned about his feet, He showed no anger. He was heard to say, 'O Diamond, Diamond, little do you know...'

But, from that hour, ah well, we'll say no more.”

Halley was there that day, and spoke up sharply, ”Sir, there are hints and hints! Do you _mean_ more?”

--”I do, sir,” chirruped Samuel, mightily pleased To find all eyes, for once, on his fat face.

”I fear his intellects are disordered, sir.”

--”Good! That's an answer! I can deal with that.

But tell me first,” quoth Halley, ”why he wrote That letter, a week ago, to Mr. Pepys.”

--”Why, sir,” piped Samuel, innocent of the trap, ”I had an argument in this coffee-house Last week, with certain gentlemen, on the laws Of chance, and what fair hopes a man might have Of throwing six at dice. I happened to say That Mr. Isaac Newton was my friend, And promised I would sound him.”

”Sir,” said Halley, ”You'll pardon me, but I forgot to tell you I heard, a minute since, outside these doors, A very modish woman of the town, Or else a most delicious lady of fas.h.i.+on, A melting creature with a bold black eye, A bosom like twin doves; and, sir, a mouth Like a Turk's dream of Paradise. She cooed, 'Is Mr. Pepys within?' I greatly fear That they denied you to her!”

Off ran Pepys!

”A hint's a hint,” laughed Halley, ”and so to bed.

But, as for Isaac Newton, let me say, Whatever his embroilments were, he solved With just one hour of thought, not long ago The problem set by Leibnitz as a challenge To all of Europe. He published his result Anonymously, but Leibnitz, when he saw it, Cried out, at once, old enemy as he was, 'That's Newton, none but Newton! From this claw I know the old lion, in his midnight lair.'”

VI

(_Sir Isaac Newton writes to Mrs. Vincent at Woolthorpe._)

Your letter, on my eightieth birthday, wakes Memories, like violets, in this London gloom.

You have never failed, for more than three-score years To send these annual greetings from the haunts Where you and I were boy and girl together.

A day must come-it cannot now be far-- When I shall have no power to thank you for them, So let me tell you now that, all my life, They have come to me with healing in their wings Like birds from home, birds from the happy woods Above the Witham, where you walked with me When you and I were young.

Do you remember Old Barley--how he tried to teach us drawing?

He found some promise, I believe, in you, But quite despaired of me.

I treasure all Those little sketches that you sent to me Each Christmas, carrying each some glimpse of home.

There's one I love that shows the narrow lane Behind the schoolhouse, where I had that bout Of schoolboy fisticuffs. I have never known More pleasure, I believe, than when I beat That black-haired bully and won, for my reward, Those April smiles from you.

I see you still Standing among the fox-gloves in the hedge; And just behind you, in the field, I know There was a patch of aromatic flowers,-- Rest-harrow, was it? Yes; their tangled roots Pluck at the harrow; halt the sharp harrow of thought, Even in old age. I never breathe their scent But I am back in boyhood, dreaming there Over some book, among the diligent bees, Until you join me, and we dream together.

They called me lazy, then. Oddly enough It was that fight that stirred my mind to beat My bully at his books, and head the school; Blind rivalry, at first. By such fond tricks The invisible Power that shapes us--not ourselves-- Punishes, teaches, leads us gently on Like children, all our lives, until we grasp A sudden meaning and are born, through death Into full knowledge that our Guide was Love.

Another picture shows those woods of ours, Around whose warm dark edges in the spring Primroses, knots of living sunlight, woke; And, always, you, their radiant shepherdess From Elfland, lead them rambling back for me, The dew still clinging to their golden fleece, Through these grey memory-mists.

Another shows My old sun-dial. You say that it is known As ”Isaac's dial” still. I took great pains To set it rightly. If it has not s.h.i.+fted 'Twill mark the time long after I am gone; Not like those curious water-clocks I made.

Do you remember? They worked well at first; But the least particles in the water clogged The holes through which it dripped; and so, one day, We two came home so late that we were sent Supperless to our beds; and suffered much From the world's harshness, as we thought it then.

Would G.o.d that we might taste that harshness now.

I cannot send you what you've sent to me; And so I wish you'll never thank me more For those poor gifts I have sent from year to year.

I send another, and hope that you can use it To buy yourself those comforts which you need This Christmas-time.

How strange it is to wake And find that half a century has gone by, With all our endless youth.

They talk to me Of my discoveries, prate of undying fame Too late to help me. Anything I achieved Was done through work and patience; and the men Who sought quick roads to glory for themselves Were capable of neither. So I won Their hatred, and it often hampered me, Because it vexed my mind.

This world of ours Would give me all, now I have ceased to want it; For I sit here, alone, a sad old man, Sipping his orange-water, nodding to sleep, Not caring any more for aught they say, Not caring any more for praise or blame; But dreaming-things we dreamed of, long ago, In childhood.

You and I had laughed away That boy and girl affair. We were too poor For anything but laughter.

I am old; And you, twice wedded and twice widowed, still Retain, through all your nearer joys and griefs, The old affection. Vaguely our blind old hands Grope for each other in this growing dark And deepening loneliness,--to say ”good-bye.”