Est Modus in Rebus. We sat and listened in the creeping gloom : There was no dearth of talk ; the older men Were deep in all the wiles of politics, Touching each question with an easy hand, Smiling the little wayward fancies down Of those who bordered on the newer thought. “ Those who would tear this fair land into shreds To clothe a people who love best their rags ; ” So said my father, and the vicar smiled A gentle acquiescence : the good man Cared not to argue, for it seemed to him That words were pitiless, yet we well knew How all his acts belied his ready smile. But Harry—who can brook no tameness—cried Against my father’s verdict ; he could prove How well the people loved the people’s land ; “ For it was theirs, not ours to parcel out In meagre portions, and with grudging hand.” And while my father stared, as well he might, For never son of his had dared to speak Such words of treason, the good vicar saw The coming storm, and tried his best to stem— With all the subtleties of ready speech— The torrent ; but in vain, for Harry’s words Had burst upon the old men when their hearts Were touched by news of an old comrade’s death, Shot in his own park by assassin’s hand, And they were wroth with Harry, for he seemed To shield this people who had done the deed. Therefore they fell upon him one and all, And smote as only strong old age can smite, Calling him fool and meddler, matching well That other madman who had promised each Three acres of the land he did not own. And waxing louder as the word-storm grew, They taxed poor Harry with these evil times, Nor would they hear one word in his defence, Till our old colonel called a cheery halt, Said he was tired of all this war of words Where men did naught but rave against their kind. “ Better,” he said, “the quicker shot and steel ; Few arguments can stand a bayonet-thrust ;” And, “ Men forget to hate when dying fast.” Somehow his rough words fell with greater force Among the heated circle than the long Dull platitudes our Member rained on us, Anxious to show how vain it was to speak, Save in the House, of matters of the State. And Harry laughed at him, so did we all, Though secretly, fearing so great a man ; One who could help to make or mar our laws. The colonel’s words had brought a welcome peace ; My father laughed, and said he did not hate, But only sought to tame a foolish boy. Then Harry spoke : I need not tell you all He touched on, toiling back through many years, Pausing awhile before some mighty giant Such as great Montfort, who had not one thought Beyond the people ; and the steadfast monk Bacon, who laid his fortune with his life At the cold feet of Knowledge, caring not For priestly opposition—always calm, A man who dared not swerve from duty’s path ; And many others standing like bright stars In a chaotic firmament of crime. Thus wandered Harry in an aimless maze Through the dark centuries where passion reigned, And cruel men seized and held fast the land, Crushing the people when they tried to rise In feeble bands to claim their own again. Then tiring of the dead, with one quick bound He leapt our century, and landed far Into that misty time where unknown men Will laugh at us, and all our little ways. And with prophetic zeal he poured on us The horror of the day that is to come : “ You know not of the time, you see it not— For Tory pride forbids that you should raise The slender veil which hides from careless eyes The hideous ruin ; but the day must come, Is not far off, when Want, roused from her lair By her foul daughter Crime, shall rend this veil, And show the skeleton which lies behind. Too late to wring the hands and look aghast, Too late to promise help, and seek to clothe The naked ribs ; for Anarchy shall rise, And seize proud England by the very roots— Ay, though her fibres stretch through many lands— Till with one final wrench that shakes the world, Weakened by endless factions, England falls, Crushed into atoms on a pile of bones.” He ceased. The vicar cried, “ Ah Harry, boy ! You wrestle with an eagle in a cage, And gather rosebuds with a glove of steel. Think you to make a better by a worse ? For worse it is to throw the parent’s blame On to the children. Keep to your own time——” Then Harry interrupted with the words, “ Not easy, when your Tory eagle sulks There in his cage ; but only let him out, And I will wrestle with him, though he use Both beak and talons. As for your rosebuds, Let them be plucked ere all their freshness goes ; Perchance the fragrance of their dying leaves May wake some sympathy for your dead cause.” The vicar shook his head, and called to us Who had not spoken—“ Come and help me, boys, For youth should answer youth.” Then from our group Went Ernest ; ever first in field and hall, The strongest of us—strong in head and limb— And he had come but lately from the schools Of thought and reason, where men couch their words In syllogistic language, tearing down The flimsy judgments of untutored minds. And he had seen trite problems cast aside, And science. grasped and handled like a toy. Yet simple were his words and from the heart :— “ Is the cause dead, and must Old England fall ? Have you no remedy for this disease Which fills the air with blood and violence ? Are all the wise heads, turning grey with thought, Unwilling to devote one little hour To this most vital question ? Crude and weak I call the prophecy which only springs From party rancour ; therefore, let all men Cling to one cause, forsaking childhood’s creeds, Seek with one brain to think the matter out, With one hand to shake off the fatal grasp Of many-fingered Famine ; for the land Is burdened with its weight of poverty. The children cry for bread, while idle men Dream of some feeble cure, and others scream Land for the people—land ! as though God’s earth Began and ended in one little isle. Why talk of breaking up these paltry fields In fragments scarce enough to feed the cow Which one grave statesman portioned out for each ? Why let grotesque and futile fancy sway The minds, and blind the eyes of honest men, Till they forget their honesty, and strive To gather in the seed they have not sown ? Enough of this—leave to the sower’s hand The binding of the sheaves ; nor be content To glean from their poor harvests. Rouse yourselves, Break off the parent ties, and seek for land There in the West ; where countless acres lie In their primeval grandeur, with the strength Of an eternal spring that only waits The touch of man to change to autumn’s wealth. We hear sad tales of those who tried and failed— Oh noble failures, that have taught the world The lesson it is ever slow to learn !— That God, who sows the earth with many fields, Commands they should be tilled by many hands. No Ahab yearnings for one little spot, Or fruitless digging of one little spade, The much requires the many, and the few, Who strive to win the greater for the less, Find that God’s manna only lasts one day. I ask you, is it right that men should die Here in our streets, when yonder lies a cure ? Were it not well they should be forced to leave The reeking alley for the sunny plain ? And then you throw the answer back, ‘ Too late,’ This earth-worn answer, smelling of defeat. Too late to touch the hearts of hardened men ; Ay, but the children, must the little ones Grow to this dwarfish stature like the rest ? Schools you have raised, and there the tender brains Learn all the hateful acts of savage men. And thus you think to nerve them for life’s fray ; Better they had been left in ignorance, Than reared within an atmosphere of lies ; For habit grows with hearing, and the child, Sipping the thoughts of this one and of that, May drink too deep of Anarchy ; for those Who tell the tales of long dead men forget To tell them simply, glazing over facts To show a reason for their party spite. And so our babies prate of politics, When they should only dream of daisy-chains. With germs of this life-fever in their blood, How can we wonder that they turn their steps From the broad acre’to the crowded street ? And all this time a simple remedy Lies near at hand ; for if in these same schools Men were to teach the use of spade and hoe, The time to sow, the time to gather in, Surely the children, bound by habit’s law, Would yearn to drive the plough in wider fields. I hear the cries of men : ‘ What means this fool ? Have we not schemes ? Do we not send abroad Those who have shown a wish for larger fields ? ’ And I would answer, you have sent the tares ; Let all your seed be sifted ere you send : Young land requires young blood, not the weak hearts Of men who sicken when they strive, and fail. In all our schools let farming’s law be taught, And the rank smell of blood must then give place To sweeter scent of clover ; for green fields Breathe more of peace than slaughter—Nature’s voice Cries ever in the ear of man, ‘ Be still’— And hushed must grow the voice of discontent, When laugh of merry workers fills the air. No room for crime or want in Plenty’s lap. The skeleton which Harry raised shall find Those who can clothe its ribs. Is there no God To breathe into its nostrils and give life ? However hard men beat their little fists Against the face of Heaven, still the sun Warms the poor rebels, and refreshing rain Cools the dry fevered lips of blasphemy. So in our lesser way we too must give Of our own substance, even though the hands Strike as they take—what wonder if they strike, For what they have waited long, poor empty hands !— Yet better than all giving is the gift Of knowledge, the great ‘ can do’ of our time ; Possessed of this, men may go forth and win Field after field, until another land Is built from the first ploughshare, one more child Is born to the old mother in the east ; The chain which binds her safely to the world Is lengthened by a new and stronger link, That will not snap though strained by Anarchy. Heed not the idle tongues that croak in mud, The bat-like seers who fly in dusk and gloom, Sending their shadows where they dare not go. Rest not beneath the shade cast by their wings, For danger lies in darkness. Seek the light, And it will follow you, who knows how far ; Faintly, at first, perhaps, but gaining strength. Like to that streak of dawn the light myst come.” He pointed where the day shone through the night, Like gleam of dagger in a half-lit room, Then silence of the daybreak fell on all, The hush when Nature draws one long, deep breath Before she bursts into her myriad songs. And while we watched the shadows creep away, The spell was broken by the vicar’s voice :— “ Ernest, you answered well, but should have sent Your hands a little higher, till they thrust Beyond the earthly clouds that cling to us, Above the empty schemes, until they clasped The hand of God, and held fast, braving all.”