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Think me a fool and a madman, and no more worth her remembering.
Meantime all through the mountains I tramp and know not whither,
Tramp along here, and think, and know not what I should think.
Tell me then, why as I sleep amid hill tops high in the moorland,
Still in my dreams I am pacing the streets of the dissolute city,
Where dressy girls slithering—by upon pavements give sign for accosting,
Paint on their beautiless cheeks, and hunger and shame in their bosoms;
Hunger by drink and by that which they shudder yet burn for, appeasing,—
Hiding their shame—ah God, in the glare of the public gas lights?
Why while I feel my ears catching through slumber the run of the streamlet,
Still am I pacing the pavement, and seeing the sign for accosting,
Still am I passing those figures, nor daring to look in their faces?
Why when the chill, ere the light, of the daybreak uneasily wakes me,
Find I a cry in my heart crying up to the heaven of heavens,
No, Great Unjust Judge; she is purity; I am the lost one:
No, I defy Thee, strike not; crush me, if thou wilt, who deserve it.
You will not think that I soberly look for such things for sweet Katie,
Contemplate really, as possible even, a thing that would make one
Think death luxury, seek death, to get at damnation beyond it.
No, but the vision is on me; I now first see how it happens,
Feel how tender and soft is the heart of a girl; how passive
Fain would it be, how helpless; and helplessness leads to destruction.
Maiden reserve torn from off it, grows never again to reclothe it,
Modesty broken-through once to immodesty flies for protection,
Desperate, braving when weakest the greatest and direst of dangers;
Thinks to be bold and defiant at all times, cannot at all times,
Think by ignoring to fill-up that breach which ignoring but widens.
Oh, who saws through the trunk, though he leave the tree up in the forest,
When the next wind casts it down,—is his not the hand that smote it?
Yes, and who barketh the tree, is even as he that felleth.
This is the answer, the second, which, pondering long with emotion,
There by himself in the cottage the Tutor addressed to Philip.
I was severe in my last, my dear Philip, and hasty; forgive me;
Yes, I was fain to reply ere I duly had read through your letter;
But it was written in scraps with crossings and counter-crossings
Hard to connect with each other correctly, and hard to decipher;
Paper was scarce, I suppose: forgive me; I write to console you.
Grace is given of God, but knowledge is bought in the market;
Knowledge needful for all, yet cannot be had for the asking.
