some were sad and others sweet, and not a few shameful. Their
subject was not of high or serious import. They contained much that was
wilful and weak. In _Vinculis_, upon the other hand, is a book that
stirs one by its fine sincerity of purpose, its lofty and impassioned
thought, its depth and ardour of intense feeling. 'Imprisonment,' says
Mr. Blunt in his preface, 'is a reality of discipline most useful to the
modern soul, lapped as it is in physical sloth and self-indulgence. Like
a sickness or a spiritual retreat it purifies and ennobles; and the soul
emerges from it stronger and more self-contained.' To him, certainly, it
has been a mode of purification. The opening sonnets, composed in the
bleak cell of Galway Gaol, and written down on the flyleaves of the
prisoner's prayer-book, are full of things nobly conceived and nobly
uttered, and show that though Mr. Balfour may enforce 'plain living' by
his prison regulations, he cannot prevent 'high thinking' or in any way
limit or constrain the freedom of a man's soul. They are, of course,
intensely personal in expression. They could not fail to be so. But the
personality that they reveal has nothing petty or ignoble about it. The
petulant cry of the shallow egoist which was the chief characteristic of
the _Love Sonnets of Proteus_ is not to be found here. In its place we
have wild grief and terrible scorn, fierce rage and flame-like passion.
Such a sonnet as the following comes out of the very fire of heart and
brain:

God knows, 'twas not with a fore-reasoned plan
I left the easeful dwellings of my peace,
And sought this combat with ungodly Man,
And ceaseless still through years that do not cease
Have warred with Powers and Principalities.
My natural soul, ere yet these strifes began,
Was as a sister diligent to please
And loving all, and most the human clan.

God knows it. And He knows how the world's tears
Touched me. And He is witness of my wrath,
How it was kindled against murderers
Who slew for gold, and how upon their path
I met them. Since which day the World in arms
Strikes at my life with angers and alarms.

And this sonnet has all the strange strength of that despair which is but
the prelude to a larger hope:

I thought to do a deed of chivalry,
An act of worth, which haply in her sight
Who was my mistress should recorded be
And of the nation