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inner mind, when it was not musing in mediæval cloisters, was hedged about with tolerances, who was not shaken by the tempestuous prejudice and fierce resisting passions of which drama is made? Was she lax in a certain remote acceptance of mankind so long as it would, like Alexander, get out of the sun whereby she was regarding the Middle Ages or the soul? Not always: there was in her a sudden unexpected fierceness that amazed you, after you thought yourself used to her self-preservative withdrawals. On a delicate piece of literary work where a wife, hideously used, had suffered all things and forgiven all things, she commented tersely:

“Not right. It hinders justice.”

But as to the book of stories, she entered upon it with premonitory omen and probably did it under a stress of will. For tasks not native to her mind, as well as those remotely capable of being construed into pot boilers, she began “with a little aversion,”-indeed, with so much more than a little that the mere

suggestion of them was usually declined as soon as offered.

Like Henry James, she was an expatriate, though not even under the argument of our aloofness from Europe between 1914 and 1917 did she, like him, bear testimony to her love for England by becoming naturalized. Still an ardent American, her answering love flowed back to us as in 1898, when she dedicated one of the most breathlessly beautiful of her poems to The Outbound Republic. There had come the challenge to enter world counsels and world clashes. We heard, and she heard it with us :

"As the clear mid-channel wave,
That under a Lammas dawn
Her orient lanthorn held
Steady and beautiful
Through the trance of the sunken tide,
Sudden leaps up and spreads:
Her signal round the sea:
Time, time!
Time to awake; to arm;
To scale the difficult shore!

This was first published anonymously and one reader, at least, instantly detected her

hand. It took no special acumen. Lines were never written more intensely charged with personal quality.

And if we think her heart, in its love for England, ever grew alien to us, we may go back to the last of the twelve stately London Sonnets: In the Docks. What a banner she waved there of an implied creed, a passionate belief!

“Where the bales thunder till the day is done,
And the wild sounds with wilder odors cope;
Where over crouching sail and coiling rope,
Lascar and Moor along the gangway run;
Where stifled Thames spreads in the pallid

A hive of anarchy from slope to slope;
Flag of my birth, my liberty, my hope,

see thee at the masthead, joyous one!
O thou good guest! so oft as, young and warm,
To the home-wind thy hoisted colors bound,
Away, away from this too thoughtful ground
Sated with human trespass and despair,
Thee only, from the desert, from the storm,
A sick mind follows into Eden air."

Our inherited traditions were like wine to her, our lapses drained her soul; and as it was in 1890, when that sonnet was written, so it continued to be through the years when

our star sank, in 1914, to be so long in rising. In 1915, she wrote:

"I have been disappointed over our country's official attitude: there should be no 'neutrality' of opinion where rights and wrongs are as plain as the nose on one's face !"

And in February, 1917:

'Come, let your broadsides roar with ours !' as Tennyson says. Only I never shall get over the unexpected and staggering vision of my own idealistic land having behaved for nearly three solid years in this selfish, provincial way, with the masterly vision of a village schoolmaster who sees as far as his village pump, and not one inch beyond it.”

When she went to England for the second time, lights were burning, just lighted then: Lionel Johnson, soon to die, William Watson, Arthur Symons, Aubrey Beardsley, Nora Hopper, Katherine Tynan, Dora Sigerson, in her young beauty, (afterward married to Clement Shorter, another devoted friend of L. I. G.) and W. B. Yeats—their glittering names are many. And there was Herbert Clarke, tragic figure of non-fulfil


ment, without mention of whom no footnote to her life would be complete, because they were mirrors of kindred tastes and proud aloofness from the market-place. He died before he knew the heart-break of the War, and Louise Guiney wrote:

“And now his bright thwarted star is out, at least in this world where he never had his dues. ... Thinking of him gone away is to think of what Dickens calls in Bleak House 'the world which sets this world right.'"

Edmund Gosse, Richard Garnett, Mrs. Meynell,—the list of her friendships rivals in fulness that of her beginnings in America. And those of the first years were but the beginning. Today they are numbered "in battalions."

Though so ardent an American, England was her spirit's home. The odor of musty archives was as delicious in her nostrils as "hawthorn buds in May." Half effaced inscriptions were dearer to her than whole broadsides of modern pæans to success.

A crusader knight on his back in some im

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