List to a letter that came from Philip at Balloch to Adam. I am here, O my friend!—idle, but learning wisdom. Doing penance, you think; content, if so, in my penance. Often I find myself saying, while watching in dance or on horseback One that is here, in her freedom and grace, and imperial sweetness, Often I find myself saying, old faith and doctrine abjuring, Into the crucible casting philosophies, facts, convictions,— Were it not well that the stem should be naked of leaf and of tendril, Poverty-stricken, the barest, the dismallest stick of the garden; Flowerless, leafless, unlovely, for ninety-and-nine long summers, So in the hundredth, at last, were bloom for one day at the summit, So but that fleeting flower were lovely as Lady Maria. Often I find myself saying, and know not myself as I say it, What of the poor and the weary? their labour and pain is needed. Perish the poor and the weary! what can they better than perish, Perish in labour for her, who is worth the destruction of empires? What! for a mite, for a mote, an impalpable odour of honour, Armies shall bleed; cities burn; and the soldier red from the storming Carry hot rancour and lust into chambers of mothers and daughters: What! would ourselves for the cause of an hour encounter the battle, Slay and be slain; lie rotting in hospital, hulk, and prison: Die as a dog dies; die mistaken perhaps, and dishonoured. Yea,—and shall hodmen in beer-shops complain of a glory denied them, Which could not ever be theirs more than now it is theirs as spectators? Which could not be, in all earth, if it were not for labour of hodmen? And I find myself saying, and what I am saying, discern not, Dig in thy deep dark prison, O miner! and finding be thankful; Though unpolished by thee, unto thee unseen in perfection, While thou art eating black bread in the poisonous air of thy cavern, Far away glitters the gem on the peerless neck of a Princess. Dig, and starve, and be thankful; it is so, and thou hast been aiding. Often I find myself saying, in irony is it, or earnest? Yea, what is more, be rich, O ye rich! be sublime in great houses, Purple and delicate linen endure; be of Burgundy patient; Suffer that service be done you, permit of the page and the valet, Vex not your souls with annoyance of charity schools or of districts, Cast not to swine of the stye the pearls that should gleam in your foreheads. Live, be lovely, forget them, be beautiful even to proudness, Even for their poor sakes whose happiness is to behold you; Live, be uncaring, be joyous, be sumptuous; only be lovely,— Sumptuous not for display, and joyous, not for enjoyment; Not for enjoyment truly; for Beauty and God’s great glory! Yes, and I say, and it seems inspiration—of Good or of Evil! Is it not He that hath done it, and who shall dare gainsay it? Is it not even of Him, who hath made us?—Yea, _for the lions,_