Chapter 2
Would I? Would I not! Oh, I have dreamed of it a thousand times, Sleeping and waking, since the torch of thought Flashed into flame at Revelation's touch, And filled my spirit with its quenchless fire. Most envious dreams of innocence and joy Have haunted me,--dreams that were born in sin, Yet swathed in stainless snow. I've dreamed, and dreamed, Of wondrous trees, crowned with perennial green, Whose soft still shadows gleamed with golden lamps Of pensile fruitage, or were flushed with life Radiant and tuneful when broad flocks of birds Swept in and out like sheets of living flame. I've dreamed of aisles tufted with velvet grass, And bordered with the strange intelligence Of myriad loving eyes among the flowers, That watched me with a curious, calm delight, As rows of wayside cherubim may watch A new soul, walking into Paradise. I've dreamed of sunsets when the sun supine Lay rocking on the ocean like a god, And threw his weary arms far up the sky, And with vermilion-tinted fingers toyed With the long tresses of the evening star. I've dreamed of dreams more beautiful than all-- Dreams that were music, perfume, vision, bliss,-- Blent and sublimed, till I have stood inwrapped In the thick essence of an atmosphere That made me tremble to unclose my eyes Lest I should look on God. And I have dreamed Of sinless men and maids, mated in heaven, Ere yet their souls had sought for beauteous forms To give them human sense and residence, Moving through all this realm of choice delights For ever and for aye; with hands and hearts Immaculate as light; without a thought Of evil, and without a name for fear. Oh, when I wake from happy dreams like these, To the old consciousness that I must die, To the old presence of a guilty heart, To the old fear that haunts me night and day, Why should I not deplore the graceless fall That makes me what I am, and shuts me out From a condition and society As much above a sinful maiden's dreams As Eden blest surpasses Eden curst?
_David_.
So you would be another Eve, and so-- Fall with the first temptation, like herself! God seeks for virtue; you for innocence. You'll find it in the cradle--nowhere else-- Save in your dreams, among the grown-up babes That dwelt in Eden--powerless, pulpy souls That showed a dimple for each touch of sin. God seeks for virtue, and, that it may live, It must resist, and that which it resists Must live. Believe me, God has other thought Than restoration of our fallen race To its primeval innocence and bliss. If Jesus Christ--as we are taught--was slain From the foundation of the world, it was Because our evil lived in essence then-- Coeval with the great, mysterious fact. And He was slain that we might be transformed,-- Not into Adam's sweet similitude-- But the more glorious image of Himself, A resolution of our destiny As high transcending Eden's life and lot As He surpasses Eden's fallen lord.
_Ruth_.
You're very bold, my brother, very bold. Did I not know you for an earnest man, When sacred themes move you to utterance, I'd chide you for those most irreverent words Which make essential to the Christian scheme That which the scheme was made to kill, or cure.
_David_.
Yet they do save some very awkward words, That limp to make apology for God, And, while they justify Him, half confess The adverse verdict of appearances. I am ashamed that in this Christian age The pious throng still hug the fallacy That this dear world of ours was not ordained The theater of evil; for no law Declared of God from all eternity Can live a moment save by lease of pain. Law cannot live, e'en in God's inmost thought, Save by the side of evil. What were law But a weak jest without its penalty? Never a law was born that did not fly Forth from the bosom of Omnipotence Matched, wing-and-wing, with evil and with good, Avenger and rewarder--both of God.
_Ruth_.
I face your thought and give it audience; But I cannot embrace it till it come With some of truth's credentials in its hands-- The fruits of gracious ministries.
_David_.
Does he Who, driven to labor by the threatening weeds, And forced to give his acres light and air And traps for dew and reservoirs for rain, Till, in the smoky light of harvest time, The ragged husks reveal the golden corn, Ask truth's credentials of the weeds? Does he Who prunes the orchard boughs, or tills the field, Or fells the forests, or pursues their prey, Until the gnarly muscles of his limbs And the free blood that thrills in all his veins Betray the health that toil alone secures, Ask truth's credentials at the hand of toil? Do you ask truth's credentials of the storm Which, while we entertain communion here, Makes better music for our huddling hearts Than choirs of stars can sing in fairest nights? Yet weeds are evils--evils toil and storm. We may suspect the fair, smooth face of good; But evil, that assails us undisguised, Bears evermore God's warrant in its hands.
_Israel_.
I fear these silver sophistries of yours. If my poor judgment gives them honest weight, Far less than thirty will betray your Lord. You call that evil which is good, and good That which is evil. You apologize For that which God must hate, and justify The life and perpetuity of that Which sets itself against His holiness, And sends its discords through the universe.
_David_.
I sorrow if I shock you, for I seek To comfort and inspire. I see around A silent company of doubtful souls; But I may challenge any one of them To quote the meanest blessing of its life, And prove that evil did not make the gift, Or bear it from the giver to its hands. The great salvation wrought by Jesus Christ-- That sank an Adam to reveal a God-- Had never come, but at the call of sin. No risen Lord could eat the feast of love Here on the earth, or yonder in the sky, Had He not lain within the sepulcher. 'Tis not the lightly laden heart of man That loves the best the hand that blesses all; But that which, groaning with its weight of sin, Meets with the mercy that forgiveth much. God never fails in an experiment, Nor tries experiment upon a race But to educe its highest style of life, And sublimate its issues. Thus to me Evil is not a mystery, but a means Selected from the infinite resource To make the most of me.
_Ruth_.
Thank God for light! These truths are slowly dawning on my soul, And take position in the firmament That spans my thought, like stars that know their place. Dear Lord! what visions crowd before my eyes-- Visions drawn forth from memory's mysteries By the sweet shining of these holy lights! I see a girl, once lightest in the dance, And maddest with the gayety of life, Grow pale and pulseless, wasting day by day, While death lies idly dreaming in her breast, Blighting her breath, and poisoning her blood. I see her frantic with a fearful thought That haunts and horrifies her shrinking soul, And bursts in sighs and sobs and feverish prayers; And now, at last, the awful struggle ends, A sweet smile sits upon her angel face, And peace, with downy bosom, nestles close Where her worn heart throbs faintly; closer still As the death shadows gather; closer still, As, on white wings, the outward-going soul Flies to a home it never would have sought, Had a great evil failed to point the way. I see a youth whom God has crowned with power, And cursed with poverty. With bravest heart He struggles with his lot, through toilsome years,-- Kept to his task by daily want of bread, And kept to virtue by his daily task,-- Till, gaining manhood in the manly strife,-- The fire that fills him smitten from a flint-- The strength that arms him wrested from a fiend-- He stands, at last, a master of himself, And, in that grace, a master of his kind.
_David_.
Familiar visions these, but ever full Of inspiration and significance. Now that your eyes are opened and you see, Your heart should take swift cognizance, and feel. How do these visions move you?
_Ruth_.
Like the hand Of a strong angel on my shoulder laid, Touching the secret of the spirit's wings. My heart grows brave. I'm ready now to work-- To work with God, and suffer with His Christ; Adopt His measures, and abide His means. If, in the law that spans the universe (The law its maker may not disobey), Virtue may only grow from innocence Through a great struggle with opposing ill; If I must win my way to perfectness In the sad path of suffering, like Him The over-flowing river of whose life Touches the flood-mark of humanity On the white pillars of the heavenly throne, Then welcome evil! Welcome sickness, toil, Sorrow and pain, the fear and fact of death.
_Israel_
And welcome sin?
_Ruth_.
Ah, David! welcome sin?
_David_.
The fact of sin--so much;--it must needs be Offenses come; if woe to him by whom, Then with good reason; but the fact of sin Unlocked the door to highest destiny, That Christ might enter in and lead the way. God loves not sin, nor I; but in the throng Of evils that assail us, there are none That yield their strength to Virtue's struggling arm With such munificent reward of power As great temptations. We may win by toil Endurance; saintly fortitude by pain; By sickness, patience; faith and trust by fear; But the great stimulus that spurs to life, And crowds to generous development Each chastened power and passion of the soul, Is the temptation of the soul to sin, Resisted, and re-conquered, evermore.
_Ruth_.
I am content; and now that I have caught Bright glimpses of the outlines of your scheme, As of a landscape, graded to the sky, And seen through trees while passing, I desire No vision further till I make survey In some good time when I may come alone, And drink its beauty and its blessedness. I've been forgetful in my earnestness, And wearied everyone with talk. These boys Are restive grown, or nodding in their chairs, And older heads are set, as if for sleep. I beg their pardon for my theft of time, And will offend no more.
_David_.
Ruth, is it right To leave a brother in such a plight as this-- Either to imitate your courtesy, Or by your act to be adjudged a boor?
_Ruth_.
Heaven grant you never note a sin of mine Save of your own construction!
_Israel_.
Let it pass! I see the spell of thoughtfulness is gone, Or going swiftly. I will not complain; But ere these lads are fastened to their games, And thoughts arise discordant with our theme, Let us with gratitude approach the throne And worship God. I wish once more to lead Your hearts in prayer, and follow with my own The leading of your song of thankfulness. Then will I lease and leave you for the night To such divertisement as suits the time, And meets your humor.
[_They all arise and the old man prays_.]
_Ruth_.
[_After a pause_.]
David, let us see Whether your memory prove as true as mine. Do you recall the promise made by you This night one year ago,--to write a hymn For this occasion?
_David_.
I recall, and keep. Here are the copies, written fairly out. Here,--father, Mary, Ruth, and all the rest; There's one for each. Now what shall be the tune?
_Israel_.
The old One Hundredth--noblest tune of tunes! Old tunes are precious to me as old paths In which I wandered when a happy boy. In truth, they are the old paths of my soul, Oft trod, well worn, familiar, up to God.
THE HYMN.
[_In which all unite to sing_.]
For Summer's bloom and Autumn's blight, For bending wheat and blasted maize, For health and sickness, Lord of light, And Lord of darkness, hear our praise!
We trace to Thee our joys and woes-- To Thee of causes still the cause,-- We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows; We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws.
We bring no sorrows to Thy throne; We come to Thee with no complaint; In Providence Thy will is done, And that is sacred to the saint
Here on this blest Thanksgiving Night; We raise to Thee our grateful voice; For what Thou doest, Lord, is right; And thus believing, we rejoice.
_Grace_.
A good old tune, indeed, and strongly sung; But, in my mind, the man who wrote the hymn Had seemed more modest, had he paused a while. Ere by a trick he furnished other tongues With words he only has the heart to sing.
_David_.
Oh, Grace! Dear Grace!
_Ruth_.
You may well cry for grace, If that's the company you have to keep.
_Grace_.
I thought you convert to his sophistry. It makes no difference to him, you know, Whether I plague or please.
_Ruth_.
It does to you.
_Israel_.
There, children! No more bitter words like those! I do not understand them; they awake A sad uneasiness within my heart. I found but Christian meaning in the hymn; Aye, I could say _amen_ to every line, As to the breathings of my own poor prayer. But let us talk no more. I'll to my bed. Good-night, my children! Happy thoughts be yours Till sleep arrive--then happy dreams till dawn!
_All_.
Father, good-night!
[ISRAEL _retires_.]
_Ruth_.
There, little boys and girls-- Off to the kitchen! Now there's fun for you. Play blind-man's-buff until you break your heads; And then sit down beside the roaring fire, And with wild stories scare yourselves to death. We'll all be out there, by and by. Meanwhile, I'll try the cellar; and if David, here, Will promise good behavior, he shall be My candle-bearer, basket-bearer, and-- But no! The pitcher I will bear myself. I'll never trust a pitcher to a man Under this house, and--seventy years of age.
[_The children rush out of the room with a shout, which wakes the baby_.]
That noisy little youngster on the floor Slept through theology but wakes with mirth-- Precocious little creature! He must go Up to his chamber. Come, Grace, take him off-- Basket and all. Mary will lend a hand, And keep you company until he sleeps.
[GRACE _and_ MARY _remove the cradle to the chamber, and_ DAVID _and_ RUTH retire to the cellar_.]
_John_.
[_Rising and yawning_]
Isn't she the strangest girl you ever saw?
_Prudence_.
Queer, rather, I should say. Grace, now, is strange. I think she treats her husband shamefully. I can't imagine what possesses her, Thus to toss taunts at him with every word. If in his doctrines there be truth enough, He'll be a saint.
_Patience_.
If he live long enough.
_John_.
Well, now I tell you, such wild men as he,-- Men who have crazy crotchets in their heads,-- Can't make a woman happy. Don't you see? He isn't settled. He has wandered off From the old landmarks, and has lost himself I may judge wrongly; but if truth were told There'd be excuse for Grace, I warrant ye. Grace is a right good girl, or was, before She married David.
_Patience_.
Everybody says He makes provision for his family, Like a good husband.
_Peter_.
We can hardly tell. When men get loose in their theology The screws are started up in everything. Of course, I don't apologize for Grace. I think she might have done more prudently Than introduce her troubles here to-night, But, after all, we do not know the cause That stirs her fretfulness.
Well, let it go! What does the evening's talk amount to? Who Is wiser for the wisdom of the hour? The good old paths are good enough for me. The fathers walked to heaven in them, and we, By following mekly where they trod, may reach The home they found. There will be mysteries; Let those who like, bother their heads with them. If Ruth and David seek to fathom all, I wish them patience in their bootless quest. For one, I'm glad the misty talk is done, And we, alone.
_Patience_.
And I.
_John_.
I, too.
_Prudence_.
And I.
FIRST EPISODE.
LOCALITY--_The cellar stair and the cellar_. PRESENT--DAVID _and_ RUTH.
THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY NATURE.
_Ruth_.
Look where you step, or you'll stumble! Care for your coat, or you'll crock it! Down with your crown, man! Be humble! Put your head into your pocket, Else something or other will knock it. Don't hit that jar of cucumbers Standing an the broad-stair! They have not waked from their slumbers Since they stood there.
_David_.
Yet they have lived in a constant jar! What remarkable sleepers they are!
_Ruth_.
Turn to the left--shun the wall-- One step more--that is all! Now we are safe on the ground, I will show you around.
Sixteen barrels of cider Ripening all in a row! Open the vent-channels wider! See the froth, drifted like snow. Blown by the tempest below! Those delectable juices Flowed through the sinuous sluices Of sweet springs under the orchard; Climbed into fountains that chained them; Dripped into cups that retained them, And swelled till they dropped, and we gained them. Then they were gathered and tortured By passage from hopper to vat, And fell-every apple crushed flat. Ah! how the bees gathered round them, And how delicious they found them! Oat-straw, as fragrant as clover, Was platted, and smoothly turned over, Weaving a neatly ribbed basket; And, as they built up the casket, In went the pulp by the scoop-full, Till the juice flowed by the stoup-full,-- Filling the half of a puncheon While the men swallowed their luncheon. Pure grew the stream with the stress Of the lever and screw, Till the last drops from the press Were as bright as the dew. There were these juices spilled; There were these barrels filled; Sixteen barrels of cider-- Ripening all in a row! Open the vent-channels wider! See the froth, drifted like snow, Blown by the tempest below!
_David_.
Hearts, like apples, are hard and sour, Till crushed by Pain's resistless power; And yield their juices rich and bland To none but Sorrow's heavy hand. The purest streams of human love Flow naturally never, But gush by pressure from above With God's hand on the lever. The first are turbidest and meanest; The last are sweetest and serenest.
_Ruth_.
Sermon quite short for the text! What shall we hit upon next? Lift up the lid of that cask; See if the brine be abundant; Easy for me were the task To make it redundant With tears for my beautiful Zephyr-- Pet of the pasture and stall-- Whitest and comeliest heifer, Gentlest of all! Oh, it seemed cruel to slay her! But they insulted my prayer For her careless and innocent life, And the creature was brought to the knife With gratitude in her eye; For they patted her back, and chafed her head, And coaxed her with softest words, as they led Her up to the ring to die. Do you blame me for crying When my Zephyr was dying? I shut my room and my ears, And opened my heart and my tears, And wept for the half of a day; And I could not go To the rooms below Till the butcher went away.
_David_.
Life evermore is fed by death, In earth and sea and sky; And, that a rose may breathe its breath, Something must die.
Earth is a sepulcher of flowers, Whose vitalizing mold Through boundless transmutation towers, In green and gold.
The oak tree, struggling with the blast, Devours its father tree, And sheds its leaves and drops its mast, That more may be.
The falcon preys upon the finch, The finch upon the fly, And nought will loose the hunger-pinch But death's wild cry.
The milk-haired heifer's life must pass That it may fill your own, As passed the sweet life of the grass She fed upon.
The power enslaved by yonder cask Shall many burdens bear; Shall nerve the toiler at his task, The soul at prayer.
From lowly woe springs lordly joy; From humbler good diviner; The greater life must aye destroy And drink the minor.
From hand to hand life's cup is passed Up Being's piled gradation, Till men to angels yield at last The rich collation.
_Ruth_.
Well, we are done with the brute; Now let us look at the fruit,-- Every barrel, I'm told, From grafts half a dozen years old. That is a barrel of russets; But we can hardly discuss its Spheres of frost and flint, Till, smitten by thoughts of Spring, And the old tree blossoming, Their bronze takes a yellower tint, And the pulp grows mellower in't. But oh! when they're sick with the savors Of sweets that they dream of, Sure, all the toothsomest flavors They hold the cream of! You will be begging in May, In your irresistible way, For a peck of the apples in gray.
Those are the pearmains, I think,-- Bland and insipid as eggs; They were too lazy to drink The light to its dregs, And left them upon the rind-- A delicate film of blue-- Leave them alone;--I can find Better apples for you.
Those are the Rhode Island greenings; Excellent apples for pies; There are no mystical meanings In fruit of that color and size. They are too coarse and too juiceful; They are too large and too useful. There are the Baldwins and Flyers, Wrapped in their beautiful fires! Color forks up from their stems As if painted by Flora, Or as out from the pole stream the flames Of the Northern Aurora.
Here shall our quest have a close; Fill up your basket with those; Bite through their vesture of flame, And then you will gather All that is meant by the name, "Seek-no-farther!"
_David_.
The native orchard's fairest trees, Wild springing on the hill, Bear no such precious fruits as these, And never will;
Till ax and saw and pruning knife Cut from them every bough, And they receive a gentler life Than crowns them now.
And Nature's children, evermore, Though grown to stately stature, Must bear the fruit their fathers bore-- The fruit of nature;
Till every thrifty vice is made The shoulder for a scion, Cut from the bending trees that shade The hills of Zion.
Sorrow must crop each passion-shoot, And pain each lust infernal, Or human life can bear no fruit To life eternal.
For angels wait on Providence; And mark the sundered places, To graft with gentlest instruments The heavenly graces.
_Ruth_.
Well, you're a curious creature! You should have been a preacher. But look at that bin of potatoes-- Grown in all singular shapes-- Red and in clusters, like grapes, Or more like tomatoes. Those are Merinoes, I guess; Very prolific and cheap; They make an excellent mess For a cow, or a sheep, And are good for the table, they say, When the winter has passed away.