.

.

.

.
The reader paused,--the Teacups knew his ways,-- He, like the rest, was not averse to praise.
Voices and hands united; every one Joined in approval: "Number Three, well done!" "Now for the Exile's story; if my wits Are not at fault, his curious record fits Neatly as sequel to the tale we've heard; Not wholly wild the fancy, nor absurd That this our island hermit well might be That story's hero, fled from over sea.
Come, Number Seven, we would not have you strain The fertile powers of that inventive brain.
Read us 'The Exile's Secret'; there's enough Of dream-like fiction and fantastic stuff In the strange web of mystery that invests The lonely isle where sea birds build their nests." "Lies! naught but lies!" so Number Seven began,-- No harm was known of that secluded man.
He lived alone,--who would n't if he might, And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight?
A foolish story,--still, I'll do my best,-- The house was real,--don't believe the rest.
How could a ruined dwelling last so long Without its legends shaped in tale and song?
Who was this man of whom they tell the lies?
Perhaps--why not ?--NAPOLEON! in disguise,-- So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop, Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,-- Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place Played Nap.

and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace.
Such was one story; others used to say, "No,--not Napoleon,--it was Marshal Ney." "Shot ?" Yes, no doubt, but not with balls of lead, But balls of pith that never shoot folks dead.
He wandered round, lived South for many a year, At last came North and fixed his dwelling here.
Choose which you will of all the tales that pile Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle.
Who wrote this modest version I suppose That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows; Made up of various legends, it would seem, The sailor's yarn, the crazy poet's dream.
Such tales as this, by simple souls received, At first are stared at and at last believed; From threads like this the grave historians try To weave their webs, and never know they lie.
Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round The lonely home an exiled stranger found.
THE EXILE'S SECRET YE that have faced the billows and the spray Of good St.Botolph's island-studded bay, As from the gliding bark your eye has scanned The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills of sand, Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershadowed isle, Round as the dimple chased in beauty's smile,-- A stain of verdure on an azure field, Set like a jewel in a battered shield?
Fixed in the narrow gorge of Ocean's path, Peaceful it meets him in his hour of wrath; When the mailed Titan, scourged by hissing gales, Writhes in his glistening coat of clashing scales, The storm-beat island spreads its tranquil green, Calm as an emerald on an angry queen.
So fair when distant should be fairer near; A boat shall waft us from the outstretched pier.
The breeze blows fresh; we reach the island's edge, Our shallop rustling through the yielding sedge.
No welcome greets us on the desert isle; Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no stately pile Yet these green ridges mark an ancient road; And to! the traces of a fair abode; The long gray line that marks a garden-wall, And heaps of fallen beams,--fire-branded all.
Who sees unmoved, a ruin at his feet, The lowliest home where human hearts have beat?
Its hearthstone, shaded with the bistre stain A century's showery torrents wash in vain; Its starving orchard, where the thistle blows And mossy trunks still mark the broken rows; Its chimney-loving poplar, oftenest seen Next an old roof, or where a roof has been; Its knot-grass, plantain,--all the social weeds, Man's mute companions, following where he leads; Its dwarfed, pale flowers, that show their straggling heads, Sown by the wind from grass-choked garden-beds; Its woodbine, creeping where it used to climb; Its roses, breathing of the olden time; All the poor shows the curious idler sees, As life's thin shadows waste by slow degrees, Till naught remains, the saddening tale to tell, Save home's last wrecks,--the cellar and the well?
And whose the home that strews in black decay The one green-glowing island of the bay?
Some dark-browed pirate's, jealous of the fate That seized the strangled wretch of "Nix's Mate"?
Some forger's, skulking in a borrowed name, Whom Tyburn's dangling halter yet may claim?
Some wan-eyed exile's, wealth and sorrow's heir, Who sought a lone retreat for tears and prayer?
Some brooding poet's, sure of deathless fame, Had not his epic perished in the flame?
Or some gray wooer's, whom a girlish frown Chased from his solid friends and sober town?
Or some plain tradesman's, fond of shade and ease, Who sought them both beneath these quiet trees?
Why question mutes no question can unlock, Dumb as the legend on the Dighton rock?
One thing at least these ruined heaps declare,-- They were a shelter once; a man lived there.
But where the charred and crumbling records fail, Some breathing lips may piece the half-told tale; No man may live with neighbors such as these, Though girt with walls of rock and angry seas, And shield his home, his children, or his wife, His ways, his means, his vote, his creed, his life, From the dread sovereignty of Ears and Eyes And the small member that beneath them lies.
They told strange things of that mysterious man; Believe who will, deny them such as can; Why should we fret if every passing sail Had its old seaman talking on the rail?
The deep-sunk schooner stuffed with Eastern lime, Slow wedging on, as if the waves were slime; The knife-edged clipper with her ruffled spars, The pawing steamer with her inane of stars, The bull-browed galliot butting through the stream, The wide-sailed yacht that slipped along her beam, The deck-piled sloops, the pinched chebacco-boats, The frigate, black with thunder-freighted throats, All had their talk about the lonely man; And thus, in varying phrase, the story ran.
His name had cost him little care to seek, Plain, honest, brief, a decent name to speak, Common, not vulgar, just the kind that slips With least suggestion from a stranger's lips.
His birthplace England, as his speech might show, Or his hale cheek, that wore the red-streak's glow; His mouth sharp-moulded; in its mirth or scorn There came a flash as from the milky corn, When from the ear you rip the rustling sheath, And the white ridges show their even teeth.
His stature moderate, but his strength confessed, In spite of broadcloth, by his ample breast; Full-armed, thick-handed; one that had been strong, And might be dangerous still, if things went wrong.
He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees' shade, Did naught for gain, yet all his debts were paid; Rich, so 't was thought, but careful of his store; Had all he needed, claimed to have no more.
But some that lingered round the isle at night Spoke of strange stealthy doings in their sight; Of creeping lonely visits that he made To nooks and corners, with a torch and spade.
Some said they saw the hollow of a cave; One, given to fables, swore it was a grave; Whereat some shuddered, others boldly cried, Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew they lied.
They said his house was framed with curious cares, Lest some old friend might enter unawares; That on the platform at his chamber's door Hinged a loose square that opened through the floor; Touch the black silken tassel next the bell, Down, with a crash, the flapping trap-door fell; Three stories deep the falling wretch would strike, To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike.
By day armed always; double-armed at night, His tools lay round him; wake him such as might.
A carbine hung beside his India fan, His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan; Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and barrels gilt, Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled hilt; A slashing cutlass stretched along the bed;-- All this was what those lying boatmen said.
Then some were full of wondrous stories told Of great oak chests and cupboards full of gold; Of the wedged ingots and the silver bars That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars; How his laced wallet often would disgorge The fresh-faced guinea of an English George, Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of yore, Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore; And how his finger wore a rubied ring Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a king.
But these fine legends, told with staring eyes, Met with small credence from the old and wise.
Why tell each idle guess, each whisper vain?
Enough: the scorched and cindered beams remain.
He came, a silent pilgrim to the West, Some old-world mystery throbbing in his breast; Close to the thronging mart he dwelt alone; He lived; he died.