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Of its vast size and its mysterious tongue。
How the floor trembled； and the dark boat swung
With a man in it； and a great wave fell
Within a stone's cast！ Words may never tell
The passion of the moment； when I flung
All childish records by； and felt arise
A thing that died no more！ An awful power
I claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes；
Mine； mine for ever； an immortal dower。
The noise of waters soundeth to this hour；
When I look seaward through the quiet skies。
ON THE SOURCE OF THE ARVE。
Hear'st thou the dash of water loud and hoarse
With its perpetual tidings upward climb；
Struggling against the wind？ Oh； how sublime！
For not in vain from its portentous source；
Thy heart； wild stream； hath yearned for its full force；
But from thine ice…toothed caverns dark as time
At last thou issuest； dancing to the rhyme
Of thy outvolleying freedom！ Lo； thy course
Lies straight before thee as the arrow flies；
Right to the ocean…plains。 Away； away！
Thy parent waits thee； and her sunset dyes
Are ruffled for thy coming； and the gray
Of all her glittering borders flashes high
Against the glittering rocks： oh； haste； and fly！
PART III。HIS MANHOOD。
CHAPTER I。
IN THE DESERT。
A life lay behind Robert Falconer； and a life lay before him。 He
stood on a shoal between。
The life behind him was in its grave。 He had covered it over and
turned away。 But he knew it would rise at night。
The life before him was not yet born； and what should issue from
that dull ghastly unrevealing fog on the horizon； he did not care。
Thither the tide setting eastward would carry him； and his future
must be born。 All he cared about was to leave the empty garments of
his dead behind himthe sky and the fields； the houses and the
gardens which those dead had made alive with their presence。
Travel； motion； ever on； ever away； was the sole impulse in his
heart。 Nor had the thought of finding his father any share in his
restlessness。
He told his grandmother that he was going back to Aberdeen。 She
looked in his face with surprise； but seeing trouble there； asked no
questions。 As if walking in a dream； he found himself at Dr。
Anderson's door。
'Why； Robert；' said the good man； 'what has brought you back？ Ah！
I see。 Poor Ericson！ I am very sorry； my boy。 What can I do for
you？'
'I can't go on with my studies now； sir；' answered Robert。 'I have
taken a great longing for travel。 Will you give me a little money
and let me go？'
'To be sure I will。 Where do you want to go？'
'I don't know。 Perhaps as I go I shall find myself wanting to go
somewhere。 You're not afraid to trust me； are you； sir？'
'Not in the least； Robert。 I trust you perfectly。 You shall do
just as you please。Have you any idea； how much money you will
want？'
'No。 Give me what you are willing I should spend： I will go by
that。'
'Come along to the bank then。 I will give you enough to start with。
Write at once when you want more。 Don't be too saving。 Enjoy
yourself as well as you can。 I shall not grudge it。'
Robert smiled a wan smile at the idea of enjoying himself。 His
friend saw it； but let it pass。 There was no good in persuading a
man whose grief was all he had left； that he must ere long part with
that too。 That would have been in lowest deeps of sorrow to open a
yet lower deep of horror。 But Robert would have refused； and would
have been right in refusing to believe with regard to himself what
might be true in regard to most men。 He might rise above his grief；
he might learn to contain his grief； but lose it； forget it？never。
He went to bid Shargar farewell。 As soon as he had a glimpse of
what his friend meant； he burst out in an agony of supplication。
'Tak me wi' ye； Robert；' he cried。 'Ye're a gentleman noo。 I'll be
yer man。 I'll put on a livery coat； an' gang wi' ye。 I'll awa' to
Dr。 Anderson。 He's sure to lat me gang。'
'No； Shargar；' said Robert； 'I can't have you with me。 I've come
into trouble； Shargar； and I must fight it out alone。'
'Ay； ay； I ken。 Puir Mr。 Ericson！'
'There's nothing the matter with Mr。 Ericson。 Don't ask me any
questions。 I've said more to you now than I've said to anybody
besides。'
'That is guid o' you； Robert。 But am I never to see ye again？'
'I don't know。 Perhaps we may meet some day。'
'Perhaps is nae muckle to say； Robert；' protested Shargar。
'It's more than can be said about everything； Shargar；' returned
Robert； sadly。
'Weel； I maun jist tak it as 't comes；' said Shargar； with a
despairing philosophy derived from the days when his mother thrashed
him。 'But； eh！ Robert； gin it had only pleased the Almichty to sen'
me into the warl' in a some respectable kin' o' a fashion！'
'Wi' a chance a' gaein' aboot the country like that curst villain
yer brither； I suppose？' retorted Robert； rousing himself for a
moment。
'Na； na；' responded Shargar。 'I'll stick to my ain mither。 She
never learned me sic tricks。'
'Do ye that。 Ye canna compleen o' God。 It's a' richt as far 's
ye're concerned。 Gin he dinna something o' ye yet； it'll be your
wyte； no his； I'm thinkin'。'
They walked to Dr。 Anderson's together； and spent the night there。
In the morning Robert got on the coach for Edinburgh。
I cannot； if I would； follow him on his travels。 Only at times；
when the conversation rose in the dead of night； by some Jacob's
ladder of blessed ascent； into regions where the heart of such a man
could open as in its own natural clime； would a few words cause the
clouds that enveloped this period of his history to dispart； and
grant me a peep into the phantasm of his past。 I suspect； however；
that much of it left upon his mind no recallable impressions。 I
suspect that much of it looked to himself in the retrospect like a
painful dream； with only certain objects and occurrences standing
prominent enough to clear the moonlight mist enwrapping the rest。
What the precise nature of his misery was I shall not even attempt
to conjecture。 That would be to intrude within the holy place of a
human heart。 One thing alone I will venture to affirmthat
bitterness against either of his friends； whose spirits rushed
together and left his outside； had no place in that noble nature。
His fate lay behind him； like the birth of Shargar； like the death
of Ericson； a decree。
I do not even know in what direction he first went。 That he had
seen many cities and many countries was apparent from glimpses of
ancient streets； of mountain…marvels； of strange constellations； of
things in heaven and earth which no one could have seen but himself；
called up by the magic of his words。 A silent man in company； he
talked much when his hour of speech arrived。 Seldom； however； did
he narrate any incident save in connection with some truth of human
nature； or fact of the universe。
I do know that the first thing he always did on reaching any new
place was to visit the church with the loftiest spire； but he never
looked into the church itself until he had left the earth behind him
as far as that church would afford him the possibility of ascent。
Breathing the air of its highest region； he found himself vaguely
strengthened； yes comforted。 One peculiar feeling he had； into
which I could enter only upon happy occasion； of the presence of God
in the wind。 He said the wind up there on the heights of human
aspiration always made him long and pray。 Asking him one day
something about his going to church so seldom； he answered thus：
'My dear boy； it does me ten times more good to get outside the
spire than to go inside the church。 The spire is the most
essential； and consequently the most neglected part of the building。
It symbolizes the aspiration without which no man's faith can hold
its own。 But the effort of too many of her priests goes to conceal
from the worshippers the fact that there is such a stair； with a
door to it out of the church。 It looks as if they feared their
people would desert them for heaven。 But I presume it arises
generally from the fact that they know of such an ascent themselves；
only by hearsay。 The knowledge of God is good； but the church is
better！'
'Could it be；' I ventured to suggest； 'that； in order to ascend；
they must put off the priests' garments？'
'Good； my boy！' he answered。 'All are priests up there； and must be
clothed in fine linen； clean and whitethe righteousness of
saintsnot the imputed righteousness of another；that is a lying
doctrinebut their own righteousness which God has wrought in them
by Christ。' I never knew a man in whom the inward was so constantly
clothed upon by the outward； whose ordinary habits were so symbolic
of his spiritual tastes； or whose enjoyment of the sight of his eyes
and the hearing of his ears was so much informed by