And the sun was shining clearer, and my heart was high and proud, As nearer, nearer, nearer rang the kirk bells sweet and loud, And we saw the kirk before us, as we trotted down the fells, And nearer, clearer, o'er us, rang the welcome of the bells. Ring, sing! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells! ROMOLA AND SAVONAROLA. By the early morning light, a woman in the dress of a nun was seen walking along a road which led from Florence. She passed the gate, paused under a cypress-tree, lifted up the hanging roof of her cowl, and looked before her. It was Romola hurrying away from the breath of soft hated lips warm upon her cheek, the breath of an odious mind stifling her own. All things conspired to give her the sense of freedom and solitude; her escape from the accustomed walls and streets, the widening distance from her husband, the morning stillness, the great dip of ground on the roadside making a gulf between her and the somber calm of the mountains. She was alone in the presence of the earth and sky, with no human presence interposing and making law for her. Suddenly a voice close to her said "You are Romola de Bardi, the wife of Tito Melema." She knew the voice; it had vibrated through her more than once before; and because she knew it, she did not turn round or look up. She sat shaken by awe, and yet inwardly rebelling against the awe. It was one of those black-skirted monks who was daring to speak to her, that was all. And yet she was shaken, as if that destiny which men thought of as a sceptered deity had come to her and grasped her with fingers of flesh. "What right have you to speak to me, or to hinder me?" "The right of a messenger. You have put on a religious garb, and you have no religious purpose. You have sought the garb as a disguise. But you were not suffered to pass me without being discerned. It was declared to me who you were; it is declared to me that you are seeking to escape from the lot God has laid upon you. You wish your true name and your true place in life to be hidden, that you may choose for yourself a new name and a new place, and have no rule but your own will. And I have a command to call you back. My daughter, you must return to your place. "I will not return. I acknowledge no right of priest or monk to interfere with my actions. You have no power over me." "But it is not the poor monk who claims to interfere with you; it is the truth that commands you. And you cannot escape it. Either you must obey it, and it will lead you; or you must disobey it, and it will hang on you with the weight of a chain which you will drag forever. Romola turned with anger in her eyes and faced the speaker, Savonarola. She was nearly as tall as he was, and their faces were almost on a level. At the look on his face, the defiant words fell back without utterance, and she was constrained to plead: "My father, you cannot know the reasons which compel me to go. None can know them but myself. None can judge for me. I have been driven by a great sorrow. I am resolved to go. "I know enough, my daughter! You are not happy in your married life; you were warned by a message from heaven, delivered in my presence-you were warned before marriage, when you might still have lawfully chosen to be free from the marriage bond. But you chose the bond; and in willfully breaking it, you are breaking a pledge. Of what wrongs will you complain when you yourself are breaking the simplest law that lies at the foundation of the trust which binds man to man-faithfulness to the spoken word? And to break that pledge you fly from Florence; Florence, where there are the only men and women in the world to whom you owe the debt of fellow-citizen. I have a divine warrant to stop you!" "I was not going away to ease and self-indulgence. I was going away to hardship. I expect no joy; it is gone from my life." You "You are seeking your own will, my daughter. are seeking some good other than the law you are bound to obey. But how will you find good? It is not a thing of choice; it is a river that flows from the Invisible Throne, and flows in the path of obedience. I say again, man cannot choose his duties. You may choose to forsake your duties, and choose not to have the sorrow they bring. But you will go forth; and what will you find, my daughter? Sorrow without duty-bitter herbs, and no bread with them." "But if you knew, if you knew what it is to me-how impossible it seemed to me to bear it!" "My daughter, you carry something within your mantle; draw it forth and look at it." She drew forth the crucifix. Still pointing toward it, he said: "There, my daughter, is the image of a supreme offering, made by a supreme love, because the need of man was great. Conform your life to that image. If you forsake your place, who will fill it? Ask your conscience, my daughter. You are a wife. You seek to break ties in self-will and anger, not because the higher life calls upon you to renounce them. The higher life begins for us when we renounce our own will to bow before a Divine Law. If there is wickedness in the streets, your steps should shine with the light of purity; if there is a cry of anguish, you, because you know the meaning of the cry, should be there to still it. My beloved daughter, sorrow has come to teach you a new worship; the sign of it hangs before you.' "My husband-he is not-my love is gone!" "My daughter, there is the bond of higher love. If the cross comes to you as a wife, you must carry it as a wife. You may say, 'I will forsake my husband,' but you cannot cease to be a wife. Live for Florence-for your own people. Bear the anguish and the smart. The iron is sharp-I know, I know-it rends the tender flesh. The draught is bitterness on the lips. But there is rapture in the cup-there is the vision which makes all life below it lost forever. Come, my daughter, come back to your place!" "Father, I will be guided. Teach me! I will go back." Almost unconsciously she sank on her knees. Savonarola stretched out his hands over her; but feeling would no longer pass through the channel of speech, and he was silent. George Eliot. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now: The billows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright,-O Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright, the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show, The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow Sinks on the anvil,-all about the faces fiery grow; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; strew The ground around; at every bound the sweltering foun tains flow; And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!" Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load! The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high, Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing, -here am I!" Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime! But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we; Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red! Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go far, far from love and home, And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last. |