Part 10

“Yet nature,” said I, “may be but corrupt. What is this instinct, that it should not lie? If one should feel the instinct of the lamb While skipping to welcome the butcher’s knife That waits to slaughter it, would he be wise To follow instinct?” “Why not?” answer’d he: “The lamb was made that it might die for man: It follows instinct and dies easily. The soul was made that it might live for God: It follows instinct and lives happily. The cases differ thus. May there not be Some depth, beyond the reach of mortal sight, Within whose grooves unseen our spirits glide Unconscious of the balancings of will? God’s touch may be too subtle to be sensed. May it not stir beneath all conscious powers, A spontaneity that moves the soul As instinct moves the body?—Ah, to me, Love seems an instinct that impels them both.”

“How so?” I ask’d, in hope to guide his thought Toward sacrifice. “You wish me then,” he said, “To turn philosopher for you?—I will. This love, in morals based on faith in man, And in religion on our faith in God, Seems, in its essence, an experience Not wholly feeling, yet not wholly thought,— Not all of body, yet not all of soul, Of what we are or what we are to be,— But more akin to marriage, within self, Of our two separate natures, form and spirit. God meant them to be join’d: when wedded thus, One rests content, the other waits in hope.”

“To rest, to wait,” I said to this; “and if Such ends displaced were, would there not remain The work that forms our earthly heritage?”

“And may not God,” rejoin’d he, “grant us more Than that which we inherit?” “He may grant His rest,” I said. “Yet rest, the Paradise Of work, is yet the Purgatory, too, Of indolence.” “The soul’s true Paradise Is nothing earn’d,” he said. “It is a gift. With Eden lost, insolvent made by sin, Work, as I view it, is a loan from Hope With which man pays the debt of Memory. But if I reckon right, a pauper still, He scarce can earn enough to pay them both. And so our rest, I take it, is a gift That crowns our strife, yet is not won by it; Which, as we live not conscious how ’tis earn’d, We live not conscious how it may be lost. Things out of consciousness are out of care. We rest not as in death that furthers naught; We rest as in a dream, in sleep,—a state Wherein God watches while the soul regales. We rest not from the healthful stir of work, But from the slavery proportioning Our pleasure to our pain—a law for serfs, But not for sons. Our rest is peaceful, hush’d, The very church of choice, as different From other joy as prayer may be from sport.”

“And does not choice,” I ask’d, “feel often moved To spurn a lesser for a greater good? For greater good, too, may not Love on high Unseat some idol of our ignorance?”—

L.

With this, I pictured for him brightest life; And, like a blot on every scene, myself; I claim’d my character was not the one That best could aid his own; show’d how my sire, The priest, Doretta, all agreed in this. And then, in contrast with myself, I sketch’d A nature all deem’d fitted for his moods. I may have sinn’d in it; but, grim as fate, My father’s face, recall’d, would urge me on; I noted all Doretta’s nobler traits; And when I thought he must my aim surmise, And while he held his gaze upon the floor, As though he gave assent, at last I spake Doretta’s name. And if the solid earth Had quaked, he had not started more. O God, Why did I not accept his instinct then! He look’d at me, first pale, then flush’d, then firm; And then with tremulous, painful breath, he said:— “And this device from you? from you, so pure? So free from guile? You should have spared me this. That Jesuit has train’d you well! Ah, now, I know how Adam grieved that Eve could fall; How Eve herself, when round her soul first crept The serpent’s cautious coils of smooth deceit, To strap her inch by inch! I read it now, That tale: ’tis all an allegory, ay;— That serpent means the world. The world steals round, Intent to seize and own each heir of heaven. Not long are souls allow’d ideal life, Not long unfetter’d sense or hearts unbound: Our smiles grow stiffer, till, some fatal day, The last is clutch’d and held, a hideous grin. Then, when the body stirs not with the soul, The last nerve wrested from the Spirit’s rule, Naught in us left of love, the world unwinds: Our capturer dissolves in mist or dust:— And we, for its embrace, have lost our God!”

LI.

His mood alarm’d me, yet could I protest: “Nay, Haydn, nay! I do not love the world: I long to leave it; yes, all thought of it.” “How much less worldliness is found,” he ask’d, “Within the Church than in your world so call’d?— The Prince of this World is not nice in choice Of equipages; where he cannot check, He mounts the car of truth and grasps the rein; And when the Devil drives, he drives for home. ‘The world,’ what means this, but the world alone,— The mass, devoid of mind, truth, spirit, love?— But holds no church the same?—A mass?—ay, ay. Devoid of mind?—Why not?—But show the place It crowds not reason out to edge in faith.— But ‘faith,’ say you, ‘is reasonable’?—Ay, When in it there is reason; when the thing In which it trusts is truth. But ah! too oft Just prick the forms, and back of them you find— What?—truth?—nay, nay, a priest—a man, forsooth, Who differs from the rest of men in clothes, In wearing worn-out habits, which the need And progress of our times have cast aside;— Ay, wearing them o’er body, mind, and soul; Though all who think know well that moods, whose range Is girt by customs past, (which could alone Prejudge thought’s present range) fit prejudice; And this is in behind your Church’s forms.

“You say, perhaps, ‘the Spirit formed the forms To fit the life’?—they fitted life that was; But life, if life, will grow; the life of love Has not yet fill’d the scope around, above, Of heavens that for it wait. What form’d the forms Can still be forming them.—If forms exist Wherein no Spirit works, no present life,— The things are hollow; and a hollow form The Devil flies for, like a flying squirrel For hollow tree-trunks; and when once within, But half disguised inside his robes of white, Loud chanting out mere ceremonious cant, He tempts toward his hypocrisy an age That knows too much of Christian life, at last, For heathen life to tempt it.

“Judge by fruits: Here you—God gave you beauty—to be seen! And grace to bless this dear, sweet home. What power Would snatch you from us? make a very hell Of what might else be heaven?—Think you ’tis love? Not so; it only hates love; plays the part— Not of the Christ who yielded up his life, But of the world that made him yield it up; It only trusts in force, in force that lies; And now that it can hold you with a vow Which but deceit could claim that God enjoin’d, It seizes you to plunge you down, down, down, To feel the full damnation of a faith That can believe the voice within the soul A lying guide which cannot be obey’d Without foul consciousness of inward sin,— To plunge you down, and hold you till the cells Of your pure, guileless heart, all stain’d and steep’d, Drip only dregs of stagnant viciousness!”

LII.

“You terrify me, Haydn!” I exclaim’d. “And you have done far more to me!” he cried. “You were—Ah me, what were you not?—so pure, Transparent as the mid-day atmosphere. Should some red thunderbolt from sunlight burst And burn all torturing blindness through my eyes, The night came less foretoken’d! I, who dream’d That here I gazed on truth, here bent these knees Upon the very battlements of heaven,— I to be tript thus from my dear proud trust, Sent reeling down by such foul-aim’d deceit!— Strange is it if my jolted brain should slip The grooves of reason?—if I rave or curse?— You, who had known my heart, and after that, And after I had warn’d you of the thing, And simulating all the while such love,— You, vowing to abjure me! more than this, To-day with such cold-blooded, soulless tact, Soft-stealing, through the door-ways left ajar, Within the inmost chambers of my heart, To snare,—as though the victim of a cat That could be play’d with, trick’d with, kill’d, cast off,— This heart of mine which, as you might have known, Was throbbing but to serve you!—Yes, once more, You gain your end! Once more, your wish is mine. How can I love?—God help me!—Go you free.”

LIII.

How fiercely then did Haydn’s music storm! And soon he would have left our home in haste: My father spoke to stay him. Long they spoke; And sometimes wrathful were the words they used. But then, at last, my father told him all,— Why I had vow’d, that I his life might save, And he broke down before it. Never more May God permit me to behold again A broken man! Alas, how pleaded he! And pray’d me for my pardon o’er and o’er, Till wellnigh I believed he heard me not; And in the end sigh’d out: “It might be so, My plan be wisest; nay, he would not yield His manlier judgment, to fulfil my wish, To make me happy, or my sire or me:— Doretta surely was a housewife wise: It seem’d the older custom, thus to wed: He young had been, had whims.—God bless us all.”

LIV.

Oft, after that, I urged him ne’er to wed One whom he could not love. He only sigh’d: “This heart of mine that once loved you, Pauline, How could it love again with love as true? Yet what, if not? My soul was immature, Romantic, young. It must be manly now. A man has breadth. I take it manly love Is love that yields most blessings to the most. And mine shall bless yourself, your father, her.”— And so he calm’d my doubt and cheer’d me much.

LV.

And oft I spoke with him about the Church. “Can I forget its holding you?” he ask’d.

“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “I remember once When young you were, when music scarce had lured Your soul, so thrill’d! to test its energies: Then Gluck your master was; you follow’d him, And far beyond your own, as then you deem’d, Flowed forth the full perfection of his chords. Now men see Gluck behind you. Yet, e’en now, Before you still, sweet chords allure you on. Ah, friend, Gluck only happen’d in the path That open’d then beyond you. But those chords?— Those you can reach not, Haydn, till you reach The choirs of heaven! “And thus, at times, I think That I too may have happen’d in your path; And this, your love, now looking toward myself, May gaze, when I am gone, on holier things, Ideal all.” “When you—alas,” he sigh’d, “When you are gone, then life will all become— I fear it much—one lonely wail for you.”

“And yet a lonely wail, breathed forth,” I said, “From one with spirit sweeten’d, sweet may seem To earth that hears it.” “Ah, I take the thought, You mean my music,” answer’d he. “O God, To save one’s art must love be sacrificed?— Redeem’d at that price, art would be too dear!”

LVI.

One thing he promis’d me. I urged it much. “In secret convent-prayers,” I said to him, “My soul must know if it should praise or plead. A year from now, we two must meet once more. We cannot talk, and yet we may commune While I stand silent at the cloister bars. Then if your wedded life afford you joy— I doubt it not,—bring with you fresh-pluck’d flowers; If else than this, bring but the wilted stems Of these I give you now.” Then soon had pass’d The last vague hours that saw me part from all. I stood before the shrine. I feel it yet:— The organ moaning sweetly far away; The people whispering low amid the aisles; My heart so loud, nor hush’d in sermon-time; The multitude with wide eyes fix’d on me; Doretta, and my father, still and sad; And Haydn’s face upon his pale, pale hands.

LVII.

And two months after that I saw them wed, My Haydn and Doretta, in the church. And, since then, I have pray’d for him long days, And longer nights; and I have oft had hopes That my faint life new strength would gain from God. But now so white, so thin, my body seems, With scarce enough of substance left in it To be a ghost;—ah, what if, like a ghost, It soon should vanish? So I thought, to-night, If I could tell you this, confess my fault, Unload my heart of all her sweet, sad love, That God might give me rest. I did not, nay, I did not mean it, to excite myself. They told me it might bring my death; but oh! Have I not borne enough to merit life? How had I counted all these weeks and days, Up to the hour we two should meet again, And I should find how all my prayers were heard, And heaven had made my Haydn blest!— He came, Last week: and what, what, think you, can it mean?— He brought the wilted stems.— I do not know. I only know that I can earn no rest: And all our household so much else have earn’d. And now how can I?—I can try no more; But all my pathway has been block’d for me. They say such words are infidelity,— O Christ!—yet I can try no more. Hark! hark!— Is not that Haydn’s hymn we hear again?— How faint it sounds!—or I, I faint may be. The window—move me. There—look out—those clouds— The sunset?—Ah, what comes on earth so bright, So beautiful as clouds?—There were no clouds Where one could always look and see the heaven. The music, hear it—hear how sweet!—Say, say, Did I sing then?—Not so?—and only dream’d?— I thought that music mine, and then myself; And Haydn’s heart, it beat here, beat in me,— Ah me, so tired!—Yes, let me rest on you. O God, for but one hour to live!—For what? Have I not loved then?—Yes, and tell him so, Tell Haydn; thank him.—God, praise Him for it. Life, life—I did not know it—has been sweet.— Hark! music!—Does it not come from above?

SKETCHES IN SONG.

_Third Edition, Revised._

SKETCHES IN SONG.

A FISH STORY

FOR THE LITTLE CRITICS.

A strange fish came from an inland home On a journey down to the sea. He split the ripples, and ript the foam, And danced and dived in glee. “Ho, ho!” cried the fry where the sea grew near, “Hurrah for a fresh-water fool! One gulp of our salt when he comes out here Will send him back to his pool.”

The fish was fleet, but the bar was high, And the low tide roil’d and dim; And he groped, as he slowly pass’d the fry, And to and fro would swim. “Ho, ho!” cried they, as they shook their scales, “The muddled one misses his way!” And they fann’d their fins, and slash’d their tails— “Aha, he here will stay!”

The fish paused not till the way grew clear; Then launch’d out under the spray; And shower’d his fins in a white-cap near That rivall’d the rays of the day. “Ho, ho, showing off to the sharks!” cried the fry; “And look—a gull on the shoal. Yon surface-shiner would better be shy; The bird will swallow him whole.”

The fish pass’d on, till the sea grew deep, Then, plunging down through the blue, A flash came back from a parting leap, As at last he sank from view. “Ho, ho,” cried the fry, “we can all do that, If we only go out with the tide.” But the tide had gone, so, left on the flat, They fried in the sun, and died.

UNVEILING THE MONUMENT.

I.

The monument stands, no longer the care Of mallet and chisel and plummet and square. With a flourish of trumpets and rolling of drums The glad hour comes When the statue above it will loom unveil’d. Lo, now the crowds that are under it sway; The bugles are sounding; and look!—away The veil is dropt!—and afar is hail’d, With wild huzzas and hands that fly, The form of the man that stands on high.

II.

How the crowd are cheering! but, ah, their cheer Recalls a day When few were here; And the most of them daintily shrank away, Afraid a foot or a frill to smear In the mire of this place, while deep in the clay The soil was dug for the monument here.

III.

And was there not, when his course began, While clearing the ground for the life he had plann’d, A time this crowd would have shrunk from the man Whose image is now enthroned by the land? Alas, how oft in youth’s chill morn Their tears alone are the dews that adorn The natures that wake To the light of a day beginning to break!

And oft how long, ere the light will burst, The mists of the valley surround them first! And oh, how many and many a tomb Of a dead hope, buried and left in gloom, Must mark the path of the man whose need Is taught through failure how to succeed! And oft how long, ere he knows of this, Will hard work doom His heart that in sympathy seeks for bliss To a life as lone as death in a tomb, Where sweetness and light Are all shut out, Nor a flower nor a bird Is heeded or heard, Nor often, if ever, there comes a sight Of a friend who cares what he cares about, Or is willing to soil A finger with even a touch of his toil! For our race are too ready to turn with a sneer From arms that are brawny, and hands that smear While a man is dependent, in need of a friend, The world is a snob, and shuns its own peer. When a man is a master, his need at an end, The world is a sycophant, cringing to cheer. Cheer on, wise world, but, oh! forget not, Whatever encouragement each man got When in gloom and doubt his course began, But little he heard from the lips of man.

IV.

But the monument knew a different day, When masons with mortar and mallet wrought here The firm and deep foundation to lay. Still few would turn from the well-trod way To climb the mounds of marble and clay Which hid the work; or, if some drew near, They only came with a stare of surprise, Or a shrug or sigh for its form or size.

V.

That man, too, now on the monument resting,— How long and hard life’s basis to lay, Strove he, while about him was nothing suggesting The meed that the present is proud to pay! When all sailing is over, the shouts of a state That hail a Columbus may name him great. Before it is over, that isle of the west, The goal of his quest, Is merely, for most, the point of a jest. Nor a few, the while he turns to his mission, Will deem him moved by a mean ambition. Ay, often indeed, the nobler the claims Inspiring his aims, The more earth deems They are selfish schemes Of a Joseph it hates for having strange dreams.

Alas, where hate Is a normal state, Who serves the world with a love that is great Is rated a foe by those who refuse it, Nor always a friend by those who use it; For he, forsooth, he knew of their need In the day they knew not how to succeed!— And thus this man in the marble wrought on, Life’s fruit fell off, and the fall frost froze, And the winter of life came, weary and wan, Ere words to welcome his worth arose. Wise world, the one who is now your boast Heard few of your cheers, when needing them most: The pride of his youth in his life or its plan, It came not then from the praise of man.

VI.

But the monument grew, anon to display Above its foundation, Those fair white sides that rose to their station All cunningly wrought into tablet and column. Then children, and others, as childlike as they, Would delight in its beauty; but, doubtful and solemn, The wise were all wary. “A man cannot rate A work till complete,” said they, “so we must wait.”

VII.

And thus the man grew, And thus did a few Find, thoughtfully plann’d for the wants they divined, His work that is now the pride of his kind. Who prized it at first?— Ah, those little verst In the codes that are current turn first from them all To the herald that comes to trump a new call. Those nearest their youth Live nearest the breasts that glow with the truth, And welcome it gratefully warm from the heart. Earth’s elders and sages, Far off from the place where the springs all start, Scarce ever can prize A stream that supplies A draft less far from its font than their age is. No deeds can course from as grand a source As the life of which they in their youth form’d a part. Naught sparkles as bright To them as the light Of an old, cold, frozen, and crystallized art. But, ah, if you ask them what was true When the words or the ways of their art were new, If you ask them what were the traits it would show Ere the form now frozen no longer could flow, Or how it differ’d in nature from those That spring in the present, when first it rose,— All this their critic cares not to know. He is nothing if not the dog of his day, Who barks or who licks As his master, the world, may make him obey By throwing him bones or swinging him kicks. Pray, what can he know till all the world know it! If currents in view Are to crystallize too Like things of the past, the winter will show it. The future must rate The fruit of the present: so shrewd men wait, And but of the dead Are their eulogies read.— Good souls, they never will let one rest Until he is borne to the land of the blest! No heart is aglow With the burning zeal of a holiest mission, But makes them fearful of heat below, And tremble in dread of a fiend’s apparition. For Satan has toils that, no matter whether Come evil or good, trap all men together. Whenever one spies Light coming, he cries, “’Tis naught but a will-o-the-wisp to the wise.” Half trust him, and half, not duped by his lies, Begin to dispute them; and then, at the quarrel, The seer of the light has thorns for his laurel.