And hath that early hope been blessed with truth?
Hath he fulfilled the promise of his youth?
And borne unscathed through danger's stormy field
Honour's white wreath and virtue's stainless shield?
_Harrow. A Prize Poem_.
The other day I was staying with Montagu. He has succeeded to his
father's estate, and is the best loved landlord for miles around. He
intends to stand for the county at the next general election, and I
haven't the shadow of a doubt that he will succeed. If he does,
Parliament will have gained a worthy addition. Montagu has the very
soul of honour, and he can set off the conclusions of his vigorous
judgment, and the treasures of his cultivated taste, with an eloquence
that rises to extraordinary grandeur when he is fulminating his scorn at
any species of tyranny or meanness.
It was very pleasant to talk with him about our old schooldays in his
charming home. We sate by the open window (which looks over his
grounds, and then across one of the richest plains in England) one long
summer evening, recalling all the vanished scenes and figures of the
past, until we almost felt ourselves boys again.
"I have just been staying at Trinity," said I, "and Owen, as I suppose
you know, is doing brilliantly. He has taken a high first class, and
they have already elected him fellow and assistant tutor."
"Is he liked?"
"Yes, very much. He always used to strike me at school as one of those
fellows who are much more likely to be happy and successful as men than
they had ever any chance of being as boys. I hope the _greatest_ things
of him; but have you heard anything of Duncan lately?"
"Yes, he's just been gazetted as lieutenant. I had a letter from him
the other day. He's met two old Roslyn fellows, Wildney and Upton, the
latter of whom is now Captain Upton; he says that there are not two
finer or manlier officers in the whole service, and Wildney, as you may
easily guess, is the favourite of the mess-room. You know, I suppose,
that Graham is making a great start at the bar."
"Is he? I'm delighted to hear it."
"Yes. He had a `mauvais sujet' to defend the other day, in the person
of our old enemy Brigson, who having been at last disowned by his
relations, is at present a policeman in London."
"On the principle, I suppose, of `Set a thief to catch a thief'" said
Montagu, with a smile.
"Yes; but he exemplifies the truth, `chassez le naturel, il revient an
galop;' for he was charged with abetting a street fight between two
boys, which very nearly ended fatally. However, he was penitent, and
Graham got him off with wonderful cleverness--"
"Ah!" said Montagu, sighing, "there was _one_ who would have been the
pride of Roslyn had he lived. Poor, poor Eric!"
We talked long of our loved friend; his bright face, his winning words,
his merry smile, came back to us with the memory of his melancholy fate,
and a deep sadness fell over us.
"Poor boy, he is at peace now," said Montagu; and he told me once more
the sorrowful particulars of his death. "Shall I read you some verses,"
he asked, "which he must have composed, poor fellow, on board the
_Stormy Petrel_ though he probably wrote them at Fairholm afterwards?"
"Yes, do."
And Montagu, in his pleasant musical voice, read me, with much feeling,
these lines, written in Eric's boyish hand, and signed with his name--
Alone, Yet Not Alone.
Alone, alone! ah, weary soul,
In all the world alone I stand,
With none to wed their hearts to mine,
Or link in mine a loving hand.
Ah! tell me not that I have those
Who own the ties of blood and name;
Or pitying friends who love me well,
And dear returns of friendship claim.
I have, I have! but none can heal,
And none shall see my inward woe,
And the deep thoughts within me veiled
No other heart but mine shall know.
And yet amid my sins and shames
The shield of God is o'er me thrown
And 'neath its awful shade I feel
Alone,--yet, ah, not all alone!
Not all alone! and though my life
Be dragged along the stained earth,
O God! I feel thee near me still,
And thank thee for my birth!