He professed himself utterly unable to account for this, and asked me what I thought was the cause of it. He furthermore suddenly decided that he would ask Gwen to propose his name for membership at the next meeting of the Young People's Club. I hastily indorsed this resolution, for I had a vague sort of feeling that it would please Gwen.
The "Antony and Cleopatra" night at length arrived. We all attended the meeting and listened to a very able paper upon the play. One of the most marked traits of Gwen's character is that whatever she does she does thoroughly, and this was fully exemplified on the night in question. Maitland was very much impressed by some verse Gwen had written for the occasion, and a copy of which he succeeded in procuring from her. I think, from certain remarks he made, that it was the broad and somewhat unfeminine charity expressed in the verse which most astonished and attracted him, but of this, after what I have said, you will, when you have perused it, be as good a judge as I: CLEOPATRA In Egypt, where the lotus sips the waters Of ever-fruitful Nile, and the huge Sphinx In awful silence,--mystic converse with The stars,--doth see the pale moon hang her crescent on The pyramid's sharp peak,--e'en there, well in The straits of Time's perspective, Went out, by Caesarean gusts from Rome, The low-burned candle of the Ptolemies: Went out without a flicker in full glare Of noon-day glory. When her flame lacked oil Too proud was Egypt's queen to be The snuff of Roman spirits; so she said, "Good-night," and closed the book of life half read And little understood; perchance misread The greater part,--yet, who shall say? Are we An ermined bench to call her culprit failings up And make them plead for mercy? Or can we, Upon whom soon shall fall the awful shadow of The Judgment Seat, stand in her light and throw Ourselves that shadow? Rather let fall upon Her memory the softening gauze of Time, As mantle of a charity which else We might not serve. She was a woman, And as a woman loved! What though the fierce Simoom blew ever hot within the sail Of her desire? What if it shifted with Direction of her breath? Or if the rudder of Her will did lean as many ways as trampled straws, And own as little worth? She was a woman still, And queen. They do best understand themselves Who trust themselves the least; as they are wisest Who, for their safety, thank more the open sea Than pilot will. Oh, Egypt's self-born Isis! Ought we to fasten in thy memory the fangs Of unalloyed distrust? We know how little Better is History's page than leaf whereat the ink Is thrown. Nor yet should we forget how much The nearer thou than we didst come to The rough-hewn corner-stone of Time. We know Thy practised love enfolded Antony; And that around the heart of Hercules' Descendant, threading through and through, Like the red rivers of its life, in tangled mesh No circumstance could e'er unravel, thou Didst coil,--the dreamy, dazzling "Serpent of The Nile!" Thy sins stick jagged out From history's page, and bleeding tear Fair Judgment from thy merits. We perchance Do wrong thee, Isis; for that coward, History, Who binds in death his object's jaw and then Besmuts her name, hath crossed his focus in Another age, and paled his spreading figment from Our sight. Thou art so far back toward The primal autocrat whose wish, hyena-like, Was his religion, that, appearing as thou dost On an horizon new flushed in the first Uncertain ray of Altruism, thou seem'st More ghost than human. Yet thou lovest, loving ghost, And thy fierce parent flame thyself snuffed out Scarce later than the dark'ning of the fire Thou gav'st to be eternal vestal of Thine Antony's spirit. Thou didst love and die Of love; let, therefore, no light tongue, brazen In censure, say that nothing in thy life Became thee like the leaving it. The cloth From which humanity is cut is woven of The warp and woof of circumstance, and all Are much alike. We spring from out the mantle, Earth, And hide at last beneath it; in the interim Our acts are less of us than it. We are No judge, then, of thy sins, thou ending link Of Ptolemy's chain. Forsooth, we are too much O'erfilled with wondering how like to thee We all had been, inclipt and dressed in thine Own age and circumstance.