Chapter 8

And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow Rose high enough to drive us from the reef; The fisher lads went home across the sand; We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more, Talking and looking down. It was not talk Of much significance, except for this-- That we had more in common than of old, For both were tired, I with overwork. He with inaction; I was glad at heart To rest, and he was glad to have an ear That he could grumble to, and half in jest Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs, And the misfortune of a good estate-- Misfortune that was sure to pull him down, Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man: Indeed he felt himself deteriorate Already. Thereupon he sent down showers Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words, And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily Into the seething wave. And as for me, I railed at him and at ingratitude, While rifling of the basket he had slung Across his shoulders; then with right good will We fell to work, and feasted like the gods, Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk At Yuletide dinner; or, to say the whole At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth, Until the meal being o'er, the tilted flask Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bread And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine-- This man, that never felt an ache or pain In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew The trouble of an unforgiven grudge, The sting of a regretted meanness, nor The desperate struggle of the unendowed For place and for possession--he began To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought; Sending it out with cogitative pause, As if the scene where he had shaped it first Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind Whether his dignity it well beseemed To sing of pretty maiden:

Goldilocks sat on the grass, Tying up of posies rare; Hardly could a sunbeam pass Through the cloud that was her hair. Purple orchis lasteth long, Primrose flowers are pale and clear; O the maiden sang a song It would do you good to hear!

Sad before her leaned the boy, "Goldilocks that I love well, Happy creature, fair and coy, Think o' me, sweet Amabel." Goldilocks she shook apart, Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes; Like a blossom in her heart, Opened out her first surprise.

As a gloriole sign o' grace, Goldilocks, ah fall and flow, On the blooming, childlike face, Dimple, dimple, come and go. Give her time; on grass and sky Let her gaze if she be fain: As they looked ere he drew nigh, They will never look again.

Ah! the playtime she has known, While her goldilocks grew long, Is it like a nestling flown, Childhood over like a song? Yes, the boy may clear his brow, Though she thinks to say him nay, When she sighs, "I cannot now-- Come again some other day."

"Hold! there," he cried, half angry with himself; "That ending goes amiss:" then turned again To the old argument that we had held-- "Now look you!" said my brother, "You may talk Till, weary of the talk, I answer 'Ay, There's reason in your words;' and you may talk Till I go on to say, 'This should be so;' And you may talk till I shall further own 'It _is_ so; yes, I am a lucky dog!' Yet not the less shall I next morning wake. And with a natural and fervent sigh, Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim 'What an unlucky dog I am!'" And here He broke into a laugh. "But as for you-- You! on all hands you have the best of me; Men have not robbed _you_ of your birthright--work, Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field, Nor wedded heiresses against their will, Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached, That you might drone a useless life away 'Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms And half a dozen bogs." "O rare!" I cried; "His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent: Now we behold how far bad actions reach! Because five hundred years ago a Knight Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin's yard Because three hundred years ago a squire-- Against her will, and for her fair estate-- Married a very ugly red-haired maid, The blest inheritor of all their pelf, While in the full enjoyment of the same, Sighs on his own confession every day. He cracks no egg without a moral sigh, Nor eats of beef, but thinking on that wrong; Then, yet the more to be revenged on them, And shame their ancient pride, if they should know, Works hard as any horse for his degree, And takes to writing verses." "Ay," he said, Half laughing at himself. "Yet you and I, But for those tresses which enrich us yet With somewhat of the hue that partial fame Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs, But when it flames round brows of younger sons, Just red--mere red; why, but for this, I say, And but for selfish getting of the land, And beggarly entailing it, we two, To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read, We might have been two horny-handed boors-- Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors-- Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme, Or soiling our dull souls and consciences With plans for pilfering a cottage roost.

"What, chorus! are you dumb? you should have cried, 'So good comes out of evil;'" and with that, As if all pauses it was natural To seize for songs, his voice broke out again:

Coo, dove, to thy married mate-- She has two warm eggs in her nest: Tell her the hours are few to wait Ere life shall dawn on their rest; And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate With a dream of her brooding breast.

Coo, dove, for she counts the hours, Her fair wings ache for flight: By day the apple has grown in the flowers, And the moon has grown by night, And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers, Yet they will not seek the light.

Coo, dove; but what of the sky? And what if the storm-wind swell, And the reeling branch come down from on high To the grass where daisies dwell, And the brood beloved should with them lie Or ever they break the shell?

Coo, dove; and yet black clouds lower, Like fate, on the far-off sea: Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower, As on wings of destiny. Ah, what if they break in an evil hour, As they broke over mine and me?

What next?--we started like to girls, for lo! The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane, Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud "Good lack! how sweet the gentleman does sing-- So loud and sweet, 'tis like to split his throat. Why, Mike's a child to him, a two years child-- Chrisom child." "Who's Mike?" my brother growled A little roughly. Quoth the fisherman-- "Mike, Sir? he's just a fisher lad, no more; But he can sing, when he takes on to sing, So loud there's not a sparrow in the spire But needs must hear. Sir, if I might make bold, I'd ask what song that was you sung. My mate, As we were shoving off the mackerel boats, Said he, 'I'll wager that's the sort o' song They kept their hearts up with in the Crimea,'"

"There, fisherman," quoth I, "he showed his wit, Your mate; he marked the sound of savage war-- Gunpowder, groans, hot-shot, and bursting shells, And 'murderous messages,' delivered by Spent balls that break the heads of dreaming men."

"Ay, ay, Sir!" quoth the fisherman. "Have done!" My brother. And I--"The gift belongs to few Of sending farther than the words can reach Their spirit and expression;" still--"Have done!" He cried; and then "I rolled the rubbish out More loudly than the meaning warranted, To air my lungs--I thought not on the words."

Then said the fisherman, who missed the point, "So Mike rolls out the psalm; you'll hear him, Sir, Please God you live till Sunday." "Even so: And you, too, fisherman; for here, they say, You are all church-goers." "Surely, Sir," quoth he, Took off his hat, and stroked his old white head And wrinkled face; then sitting by us said, As one that utters with a quiet mind Unchallenged truth--"'Tis lucky for the boats."

The boats! 'tis lucky for the boats! Our eyes Were drawn to him as either fain would say, What! do they send the psalm up in the spire, And pray because 'tis lucky for the boats?

But he, the brown old man, the wrinkled man, That all his life had been a church-goer, Familiar with celestial cadences, Informed of all he could receive, and sure Of all he understood--he sat content, And we kept silence. In his reverend face There was a simpleness we could not sound; Much truth had passed him overhead; some error He had trod under foot;--God comfort him! He could not learn of us, for we were young And he was old, and so we gave it up; And the sun went into the west, and down Upon the water stooped an orange cloud, And the pale milky reaches flushed, as glad To wear its colors; and the sultry air Went out to sea, and puffed the sails of ships With thymy wafts, the breath of trodden grass: It took moreover music, for across The heather belt and over pasture land Came the sweet monotone of one slow bell, And parted time into divisions rare, Whereof each morsel brought its own delight.

"They ring for service," quoth the fisherman; "Our parson preaches in the church to-night."

"And do the people go?" my brother asked.

"Ay, Sir; they count it mean to stay away, He takes it so to heart. He's a rare man, Our parson; half a head above us all"

"That's a great gift, and notable," said I.

"Ay, Sir; and when he was a younger man He went out in the lifeboat very oft, Before the 'Grace of Sunderland' was wrecked. He's never been his own man since that hour: For there were thirty men aboard of her, Anigh as close as you are now to me, And ne'er a one was saved. They're lying now, With two small children, in a row: the church And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few Have any names. She bumped upon the reef; Our parson, my young son, and several more Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, And crept along to her; their mates ashore Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, The sea was all a boiling seething froth, And God Almighty's guns were going off, And the land trembled.

"When she took the ground, She went to pieces like a lock of hay Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that, The captain reeled on deck with two small things, One in each arm--his little lad and lass. Their hair was long, and blew before his face, Or else we thought he had been saved; he fell, But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls! The breakers licked them off; and some were crushed, Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, The dear breath beaten out of them: not one Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back With eyes wide open. But the captain lay And clung--the only man alive. They prayed-- 'For God's sake, captain, throw the children here!' 'Throw them!' our parson cried; and then she struck And he threw one, a pretty two years child; But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge, And down he went. They say they heard him cry.

"Then he rose up and took the other one, And all our men reached out their hungry arms, And cried out, 'Throw her! throw her!' and he did: He threw her right against the parson's breast, And all at once a sea broke over them, And they that saw it from the shore have said It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, Just as a woman might the lump of salt That 'twixt her hands into the kneading pan She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread.

"We hauled our men in: two of them were dead-- The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down; Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb; We often see him stand beside her grave: But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his.

"I ask your pardon, Sirs, I prate and prate, And never have I said what brought me here. Sirs, if you want a boat to-morrow morn, I'm bold to say there's ne'er a boat like mine."

"Ay, that was what we wanted," we replied; "A boat, his boat;" and off he went, well pleased.

We, too, rose up (the crimson in the sky Flushing our faces), and went sauntering on, And thought to reach our lodging, by the cliff. And up and down among the heather beds, And up and down between the sheaves we sped, Doubling and winding; for a long ravine Ran up into the land and cut us off, Pushing out slippery ledges for the birds. And rent with many a crevice, where the wind Had laid up drifts of empty eggshells, swept From the bare berths of gulls and guillemots.

So as it chanced we lighted on a path That led into a nutwood; and our talk Was louder than beseemed, if we had known, With argument and laughter; for the path, As we sped onward, took a sudden turn Abrupt, and we came out on churchyard grass, And close upon a porch, and face to face With those within, and with the thirty graves. We heard the voice of one who preached within, And stopped. "Come on," my brother whispered me; "It were more decent that we enter now; Come on! we'll hear this rare old demigod: I like strong men and large; I like gray heads, And grand gruff voices, hoarse though this may be With shouting in the storm." It was not hoarse, The voice that preached to those few fishermen And women, nursing mothers with the babes Hushed on their breasts; and yet it held them not: Their drowsy eyes were drawn to look at us, Till, having leaned our rods against the wall, And left the dogs at watch, we entered, sat, And were apprised that, though he saw us not, The parson knew that he had lost the eyes And ears of those before him, for he made A pause--a long dead pause, and dropped his arms, And stood awaiting, till I felt the red Mount to my brow. And a soft fluttering stir Passed over all, and every mother hushed The babe beneath her shawl, and he turned round And met our eyes, unused to diffidence, But diffident of his; then with a sigh Fronted the folk, lifted his grand gray head, And said, as one that pondered now the words He had been preaching on with new surprise, And found fresh marvel in their sound, "Behold! Behold!" saith He, "I stand at the door and knock."

Then said the parson: "What! and shall He wait, And must He wait, not only till we say, 'Good Lord, the house is clean, the hearth is swept. The children sleep, the mackerel-boats are in, And all the nets are mended; therefore I Will slowly to the door and open it:' But must He also wait where still, behold! He stands and knocks, while we do say, 'Good Lord. The gentlefolk are come to worship here, And I will up and open to Thee soon; But first I pray a little longer wait, For I am taken up with them; my eyes Must needs regard the fashion of their clothes, And count the gains I think to make by them; Forsooth, they are of much account, good Lord! Therefore have patience with me--wait, dear Lord Or come again?' What! must He wait for THIS-- For this? Ay, He doth wait for this, and still, Waiting for this, He, patient, raileth not; Waiting for this, e'en this He saith, 'Behold! I stand at the door and knock,' O patient hand! Knocking and waiting--knocking in the night When work is done! I charge you, by the sea Whereby you fill your children's mouths, and by The might of Him that made it--fishermen! I charge you, mothers! by the mother's milk He drew, and by His Father, God over all. Blessed forever, that ye answer Him! Open the door with shame, if ye have sinned; If ye be sorry, open it with sighs. Albeit the place be bare for poverty, And comfortless for lack of plenishing, Be not abashed for that, but open it, And take Him in that comes to sup with thee; 'Behold!' He saith, 'I stand at the door and knock.'

"Now, hear me: there be troubles in this world That no man can escape, and there is one That lieth hard and heavy on my soul, Concerning that which is to come:-- I say As a man that knows what earthly trouble means, I will not bear this ONE--I cannot bear This ONE--I cannot bear the weight of you-- You--every one of you, body and soul; You, with the care you suffer, and the loss That you sustain; you, with the growing up To peril, maybe with the growing old To want, unless before I stand with you At the great white throne, I may be free of all, And utter to the full what shall discharge Mine obligation: nay, I will not wait A day, for every time the black clouds rise, And the gale freshens, still I search my soul To find if there be aught that can persuade To good, or aught forsooth that can beguile From evil, that I (miserable man! If that be so) have left unsaid, undone.

"So that when any risen from sunken wrecks, Or rolled in by the billows to the edge Of the everlasting strand, what time the sea Gives up her dead, shall meet me, they may say Never, 'Old man, you told us not of this; You left us fisher lads that had to toil Ever in danger of the secret stab Of rocks, far deadlier than the dagger; winds Of breath more murderous than the cannon's; wave Mighty to rock us to our death; and gulfs, Ready beneath to suck and swallow us in: This crime be on your head; and as for us-- What shall we do? 'but rather--nay, not so, I will not think it; I will leave the dead, Appealing but to life: I am afraid Of you, but not so much if you have sinned As for the doubt if sin shall be forgiven. The day was, I have been afraid of pride-- Hard man's hard pride; but now I am afraid Of man's humility, I counsel you, By the great God's great humbleness, and by His pity, be not humble over-much. See! I will show at whose unopened doors He stands and knocks, that you may never says 'I am too mean, too ignorant, too lost; He knocks at other doors, but not at mine.'

"See here! it is the night! it is the night! And snow lies thickly, white untrodden snow, And the wan moon upon a casement shines-- A casement crusted o'er with frosty leaves, That make her ray less bright along the floor. A woman sits, with hands upon her knees, Poor tired soul! and she has nought to do, For there is neither fire nor candle-light: The driftwood ash lies cold upon her hearth, The rushlight flickered down an hour ago; Her children wail a little in their sleep For cold and hunger, and, as if that sound Was not enough, another comes to her, Over God's undefiled snow--a song-- Nay, never hang your heads--I say, a song. And doth she curse the alehouse, and the sots That drink the night out and their earnings there, And drink their manly strength and courage down, And drink away the little children's bread, And starve her, starving by the self-same act Her tender suckling, that with piteous eye Looks in her face, till scarcely she has heart To work, and earn the scanty bit and drop That feed the others? Does she curse the song? I think not, fishermen; I have not heard Such women curse. God's curse is curse enough. To-morrow she will say a bitter thing, Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show-- A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse-- 'My master is not worse than many men:' But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still; No food, no comfort, cold and poverty Bearing her down. My heart is sore for her; How long, how long? When troubles come of God, When men are frozen out of work, when wives Are sick, when working fathers fail and die, When boats go down at sea--then nought behoves Like patience; but for troubles wrought of men Patience is hard--I tell you it is hard.

"O thou poor soul! it is the night--the night; Against thy door drifts up the silent snow, Blocking thy threshold: 'Fall' thou sayest, 'fall, fall Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot. Am not I fallen? wake up and pipe, O wind, Dull wind, and heat and bluster at my door: Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song, For there is other music made to-night That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea, Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall. O, I could long like thy cold icicles Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift And not complain, so I might melt at last In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do!

"'But woe is me! I think there is no sun; My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark: None care for me. The children cry for bread, And I have none, and nought can comfort me; Even if the heavens were free to such as I, It were not much, for death is long to wait, And heaven is far to go!'

"And speak'st thou thus, Despairing of the sun that sets to thee, And of the earthly love that wanes to thee, And of the heaven that lieth far from thee? Peace, peace, fond fool! One draweth near thy door Whose footsteps leave no print across the snow; Thy sun has risen with comfort in his face, The smile of heaven, to warm thy frozen heart, And bless with saintly hand. What! is it long To wait, and far to go? Thou shalt not go; Behold, across the snow to thee He comes, Thy heaven descends, and is it long to wait? Thou shalt not wait: 'This night, this night,' he saith, 'I stand at the door and knock.'

"It is enough--can such an one be here-- Yea, here? O God forgive you, fishermen! One! is there only one? But do thou know, O woman pale for want, if thou art here, That on thy lot much thought is spent in heaven; And, coveting the heart a hard man broke, One standeth patient, watching in the night, And waiting in the daytime. What shall be If thou wilt answer? He will smile on thee, One smile of His shall be enough to heal The wound of man's neglect; and He will sigh, Pitying the trouble which that sigh shall cure; And He will speak--speak in the desolate nigh In the dark night: 'For me a thorny crown Men wove, and nails were driven in my hands And feet: there was an earthquake, and I died I died, and am alive for evermore.

"'I died for thee; for thee I am alive, And my humanity doth mourn for thee, For thou art mine; and all thy little ones, They, too, are mine, are mine. Behold, the house Is dark, but there is brightness where the sons Of God are singing, and, behold, the heart Is troubled: yet the nations walk in white; They have forgotten how to weep; and thou Shalt also come, and I will foster thee And satisfy thy soul; and thou shall warm Thy trembling life beneath the smile of God. A little while--it is a little while-- A little while, and I will comfort thee; I go away, but I will come again.'