A STRANGE BOOK 363 Wilkinson. I quote the "W. M. W.," as very solemn and beautiful, especially for an improvisation : — '* Brownness of autumn is around thee, Brother, Darkness of life has fallen on thy path ; Sadness hath been unto thee as a mother. Sadness is not another name for wrath. God gave, God takes away : His hand is on thee : Heavy its print hath been upon thy brow. Yet even that stroke a second heart hath won thee, And warmer thoughts within thy bosom glow. Thy little Teddy, like a shaft of lightning. Shears through the gloom of worldliness around ; And from his early gloomy grave a brightening Shoots forth its pillar : pierces the profound. Thy night is dying, and thy day is nearing, Wrap round thee then the mantle of the light. Leave troubling, shun dull care and duller fearing : Thy day is strong : arise : assert thy might. The spirit, strong in love to thee and thine. Commits these verses to a brother's hand. They come to earth : mixed with her bitter wine, They glow with sparklings from the heavenly strand." We are here in the heart's holy of holies, the in- most sanctuary of love and sorrow, "sorrow more beautiful than beauty's self;" where criticism the most just and righteous bows its head and is silent, feeling that this is also the inviolable sanctuary, the inexpugnable fortress, of all the fond frail super- stitions that are born of love and grief and hope, feeling that here even spiritism is sacred, though it has been prostituted by the vilest of the vile.
