Part 8

"That slew me: yes, in brief, I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped Thus,--how or when or why--I know not. Tell me, friends, All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends! Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof, Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you'd see the roof Which holds my three--my two--my one--not one?

"Life 's mixed With misery, yet we live--must live. The Satan fixed His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch, 'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing! Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling, Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears --What good they do! Life's sweet, and all its after-years, Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I! May God reward you, dear!"

Down she sank. Solemnly Ivàn rose, raised his axe,--for fitly as she knelt, Her head lay: well apart, each side, her arms hung,--dealt Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow--no need of more! Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound of core (Neighbors used to say)--cast-iron-kernelled--which Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.

The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be: I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'" Then stooping, peering round--what is it now he lacks? A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe, Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind. The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.

At length, still mute, all move: one lifts--from where it steeps Redder each ruddy rag of pine--the head: two more Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before, Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends Opposite to the church; where halting,--who suspends, By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife And mother, loved until this latest of her life. Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space Kept free before the porch of judgment: just the place!

Presently all the souls, man, woman, child which make The village up, are found assembling for the sake Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there: A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair, Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,--none breathes.

Anon from out the church totters the Pope--the priest-- Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least. With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too, Stàrosta, that's his style,--like Equity Judge with you,-- Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs, Pomeschik--Lord of the Land, who wields--and none demurs-- A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.

Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta--the thorpe's Sagaciousest old man--hears what you just have heard, From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word-- "God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"

Silence--the Pomeschik broke with "A wild wrong way Of righting wrong--if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse! Why was not law observed?

* * * * *

Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that's named Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"

All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old-- How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age, Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God. 'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I saw And paid obedience to man's visionary law: 'Your old men shall dream dreams.' And, in my age, a hand Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand Firm on its base,--know cause, who, before, knew effect.

* * * * *

I hold he saw The unexampled sin, ordained the novel law, Whereof first instrument was first intelligence Found loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense, The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to efface Humanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace. Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was found A man and man enough, head-sober and heart-sound Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey. Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day, No otherwise than did, in ages long ago, Moses when he made known the purport of that flow Of fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaim Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"

* * * * *

When the Amen grew dull And died away and left acquittal plain adjudged, "Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There's none shall say I grudged Escape from punishment in such a novel case. Deferring to old age and holy life,--be grace Granted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a sense Firmer than I boast mine. Law's law, and evidence Of breach therein lies plain,--blood-red-bright--all may see! Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!"

* * * * *

So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped Silently to the house: where halting, some one stooped, Listened beside the door; all there was silent too. Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through, Stood in the murderer's presence.

Ivàn Ivànovitch Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights. Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights, Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete. Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heat Of the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread. Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head, Was just in the act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,--each a dome, The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home Of Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch, --An acorn-cup--was ready: Ivàn Ivànovitch Turned with it in his mouth.

They told him he was free As air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.

ROBERT BROWNING.

A DAGGER OF THE MIND.

FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 1.

[MACBETH, before the murder of Duncan, meditating alone, sees the image of a dagger in the air, and thus soliloquizes:]

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:-- I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before.--There's no such thing: It is the bloody business, which informs Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder, Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear The very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives: Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. (_A bell rings._)

I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE MURDER.

FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 2.

SCENE _in the Castle. Enter_ LADY MACBETH.

LADY MACBETH.--That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold, What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark!--Peace! It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mark their charge with snores: I have drugged their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die.

MACBETH (_within_).--Who's there? What, ho!

LADY MACBETH.--Alack, I am afraid they have awaked And 't is not done:--the attempt and not the deed Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss them.--Had he not resembled My father, as he slept, I had done 't.--My husband!

(_Enter_ MACBETH.)

MACBETH.--I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?

LADY MACBETH.--I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. Did not you speak?

MACBETH.--When?

LADY MACBETH.--Now.

MACBETH.--As I descended?

LADY MACBETH.--Ay.

MACBETH.--Hark!-- Who lies i' the second chamber?

LADY MACBETH.--Donalbain.

MACBETH (_looking on his hands_).--This is a sorry sight.

LADY MACBETH.--A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

MACBETH.--There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!" That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: But they did say their prayers, and addressed them Again to sleep.

LADY MACBETH.--There are two lodged together.

MACBETH.--One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us."

LADY MACBETH.--Consider it not so deeply.

MACBETH.--But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat.

LADY MACBETH.--These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

MACBETH.--Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast,--

LADY MACBETH.--What do you mean?

MACBETH.--Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: "Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!"

LADY MACBETH.--Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brainsickly of things.--Go, get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand. Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear The sleepy grooms with blood.

MACBETH.--I'll go no more! I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on 't again, I dare not.

LADY MACBETH.--Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping, and the dead, Are but as pictures: 't is the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal; For it must seem their guilt. [_Exit. Knocking within._

MACBETH.--Whence is that knocking? How is 't with me, when every noise appalls me? What hands are here! Ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green--one red.

(_Re-enter_ LADY MACBETH.)

LADY MACBETH.--My hands are of your color; but I shame To wear a heart so white. (_Knocking._) I hear a knocking At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber: A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended. (_Knocking._) Hark, more knocking. Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, And show us to be watchers:--be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.

MACBETH.--To know my deed, 't were best not know myself. (_Knocking._) Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE TWA CORBIES.

As I was walking all alane, I heard two corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"

"In behint yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And nae body kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may make our dinner sweet.

"Ye 'll sit on his white hause bane, And I'll pike out his bonny blue een: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, We 'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

"Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken whare he is gane; O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair."

ANONYMOUS.

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

[Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up around a castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crews of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce, for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years later, he was convicted of the crime and executed. Baltimore never recovered from this.]

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles, The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles,-- Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard: The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play; The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray; And full of love and peace and rest,--its daily labor o'er,-- Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth or sea or air. The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barks round Dunashad that glide Must trust their oars--methinks not few--against the ebbing tide. O, some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore,-- They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet. A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! The roof is in a flame! From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid and sire and dame, And meet upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl. The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar-- O blessèd God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore! Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child. But see, yon pirate strangling lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel; Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There 's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore!

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing; They see not now the milking-maids, deserted is the spring! Midsummer day, this gallant rides from the distant Bandon's town, These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown. They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues before, The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

O, some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed,-- This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. O, some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles, And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey, She 's safe,--she 's dead,--she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai; And when to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore, She only smiled,--O'Driscoll's child,--she thought of Baltimore.

'T is two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearth a larger concourse stand, Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling wretch is seen,-- 'T is Hackett of Dungarvan,--he who steered the Algerine! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there: Some muttered of MacMorrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er, Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS.

THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET.

Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl: "I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl; Fly with me from this garden small And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall;

"Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure, Joys beyond thy fancy's measure; Here with my sword and horse I stand, To bear thee away to my distant land.

"Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose, A token of love that as ripely blows." With his glove of steel he plucked the token, But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken.

The maiden exclaimed, "Thou seest, sir knight, Thy fingers of iron can only smite; And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered, I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered."

She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell; But she turned from the knight, and said, "Farewell!" "Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize; I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes."

He lifted her up in his grasp of steel, And he mounted and spurred with furious heel; But her cry drew forth her hoary sire, Who snatched his bow from above the fire.

Swift from the valley the warrior fled, Swifter the bolt of the crossbow sped; And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horse Was the living man, and the woman's corse.

That morning the rose was bright of hue; That morning the maiden was fair to view; But the evening sun its beauty shed On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead.

JOHN STERLING.

THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.

Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,-- To silver over in a single day The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen! What must the sufferings of that night have been-- _That one_--that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er With time's untimely snow! But now no more, Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee-- I have to tell a humbler history; A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth (If any), will be sad and simple truth.

"Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,-- So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, "Father" and "Master" to himself applied, As life's grave duties matronize the bride,-- "Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth To his day labor, from the cottage door,-- "I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before, There 'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton[1] roar? It's brewing up, down westward; and look there, One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, As threats, the waters will be out anon. That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,-- Best let the young ones bide from school to-day."

"Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried; Two little lasses to the father's side Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy The answering language of the mother's eye. _There_ was denial, and she shook her head: "Nay, nay,--no harm will come to them," she said, "The mistress lets them off these short dark days An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says, May quite be trusted--and I know 't is true-- To take care of herself and Jenny too. And so she ought,--she's seven come first of May,-- Two years the oldest; and they give away The Christmas bounty at the school to-day."

The mother's will was law (alas, for her That hapless day, poor soul!)--_she_ could not err, Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane (Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again. When each had had her turn; she clinging so As if that day she could not let him go. But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty bliss In nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss, "God bless my little maids!" the father said, And cheerily went his way to win their bread. Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone, What looks demure the sister pair put on,-- Not of the mother as afraid, or shy, Or questioning the love that could deny; But simply, as their simple training taught, In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought (Submissively resigned the hope of play) Towards the serious business of the day.

To me there 's something touching, I confess, In the grave look of early thoughtfulness, Seen often in some little childish face Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace (Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!) The unnatural sufferings of the factory child. But a staid quietness, reflective, mild, Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes, Sense of life's cares, without its miseries. So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow, The docile Lizzy stood attentive now. Proud of her years and of the imputed sense, And prudence justifying confidence,-- And little Jenny, more demurely still, Beside her waited the maternal will. So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain Gainsborough ne'er painted: no--nor he of Spain, Glorious Murillo!--and by contrast shown More beautiful. The younger little one, With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair, By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair, Sable and glossy as the raven's wing, And lustrous eyes as dark. "Now, mind and bring Jenny safe home," the mother said,--"don't stay To pull a bough or berry by the way: And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast Your little sister's hand, till you 're quite past,-- That plank's so crazy, and so slippery (If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be. But you're good children--steady as old folk-- I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak, A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied, And ample little Jenny's lack supplied With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, "To wrap it round and knot it carefully (Like this), when you come home, just leaving free One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away-- Good will to school, and then good right to play."

Was there no sinking at the mother's heart When, all equipt, they turned them to depart? When down the lane she watched them as they went Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell: Such warnings _have been_ sent, we know full well And must believe--believing that they are-- In mercy then--to rouse, restrain, prepare.