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BITTER-SWEET

A Poem

By J. G. HOLLAND

CONTENTS.

* * * * *

PICTURE

PERSONS

PRELUDE

FIRST MOVEMENT—COLLOQUIAL.

The Question Stated and Argued

FIRST EPISODE.

The Question Illustrated by Nature

SECOND MOVEMENT—NARRATIVE.

The Question Illustrated by Experience

SECOND EPISODE.

The Question Illustrated by Story

THIRD MOVEMENT—DRAMATIC.

The Question Illustrated by the Denouement

L'ENVOY

PICTURE.

  Winter's wild birthnight! In the fretful East
  The uneasy wind moans with its sense of cold,
  And sends its sighs through gloomy mountain gorge,
  Along the valley, up the whitening hill,
  To tease the sighing spirits of the pines,
  And waste in dismal woods their chilly life.
  The sky is dark, and on the huddled leaves—
  The restless, rustling leaves—sifts down its sleet,
  Till the sharp crystals pin them to the earth,
  And they grow still beneath the rising storm.
  The roofless bullock hugs the sheltering stack,
  With cringing head and closely gathered feet,
  And waits with dumb endurance for the morn.
  Deep in a gusty cavern of the barn
  The witless calf stands blatant at his chain;
  While the brute mother, pent within her stall,
  With the wild stress of instinct goes distraught,
  And frets her horns, and bellows through the night.
  The stream runs black; and the far waterfall
  That sang so sweetly through the summer eyes,
  And swelled and swayed to Zephyr's softest breath,
  Leaps with a sullen roar the dark abyss,
  And howls its hoarse responses to the wind.
  The mill is still. The distant factory,
  That swarmed yestreen with many-fingered life,
  And bridged the river with a hundred bars
  Of molten light, is dark, and lifts its bulk,
  With dim, uncertain angles, to the sky.

* * * * *

  Yet lower bows the storm. The leafless trees
  Lash their lithe limbs, and, with majestic voice,
  Call to each other through the deepening gloom;
  And slender trunks that lean on burly boughs
  Shriek with the sharp abrasion; and the oak,
  Mellowed in fiber by unnumbered frosts,
  Yields to the shoulder of the Titan Blast,
  Forsakes its poise, and, with a booming crash,
  Sweeps a fierce passage to the smothered rocks,
  And lies a shattered ruin.

* * * * *

                                Other scene:—
  Across the swale, half up the pine-capped hill,
  Stands the old farmhouse with its clump of barns—
  The old red farmhouse—dim and dun to-night,
  Save where the ruddy firelights from the hearth
  Flap their bright wings against the window panes,—
  A billowy swarm that beat their slender bars,
  Or seek the night to leave their track of flame
  Upon the sleet, or sit, with shifting feet
  And restless plumes, among the poplar boughs—
  The spectral poplars, standing at the gate.

  And now a man, erect, and tall, and strong,
  Whose thin white hair, and cheeks of furrowed bronze,
  And ancient dress, betray the patriarch,
  Stands at the window, listening to the storm;
  And as the fire leaps with a wilder flame—
  Moved by the wind—it wraps and glorifies
  His stalwart frame, until it flares and glows
  Like the old prophets, in transfigured guise,
  That shape the sunset for cathedral aisles.
  And now it passes, and a sweeter shape
  Stands in its place. O blest maternity!
  Hushed on her bosom, in a light embrace,
  Her baby sleeps, wrapped in its long white robe;
  And as the flame, with soft, auroral sweeps,
  Illuminates the pair, how like they seem,
  O Virgin Mother! to thyself and thine!
  Now Samuel comes with curls of burning gold
  To hearken to the voice of God without:
  "Speak, mighty One! Thy little servant hears!"
  And Miriam, maiden, from her household cares
  Comes to the window in her loosened robe,—
  Comes with the blazing timbrels in her hand,—
  And, as the noise of winds and waters swells,
  It shapes the song of triumph to her lips:
  "The horse and he who rode are overthrown!"
  And now a man of noble port and brow,
  And aspect of benignant majesty,
  Assumes the vacant niche, while either side
  Press the fair forms of children, and I hear:
  "Suffer the little ones to come to me!"

PERSONS.

  Here dwells the good old farmer, Israel,
  In his ancestral home—a Puritan
  Who reads his Bible daily, loves his God,
  And lives serenely in the faith of Christ.
  For threescore years and ten his life has run
  Through varied scenes of happiness and woe;
  But, constant through the wide vicissitude,
  He has confessed the Giver of his joys,
  And kissed the hand that took them; and whene'er
  Bereavement has oppressed his soul with grief,
  Or sharp misfortune stung his heart with pain,
  He has bowed down in childlike faith, and said,
  "Thy will, O God—Thy will be done, not mine!"
  His gentle wife, a dozen summers since,
  Passed from his faithful arms and went to heaven;
  And her best gift—a maiden sweetly named—
  His daughter Ruth—orders the ancient house,
  And fills her mother's place beside the board,
  And cheers his life with songs and industry.
  But who are these who crowd the house to-night—
  A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgrims, who,
  Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours
  With the sweet jargon of a festival?
  Who are these fathers? who these mothers? who
  These pleasant children, rude with health and joy?

  It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve;
  And gathered home, from fresher homes around,
  The old man's children keep the holiday—
  In dear New England, since the fathers slept—
  The sweetest holiday of all the year.
  John comes with Prudence and her little girls,
  And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys—
  Fair boys and girls with good old Scripture names—
  Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel;
  And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house,
  Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day
  By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe
  And the tall poet David, at whose side
  She went away. And seated in the midst,
  Mary, a foster-daughter of the house,
  Of alien blood—self-aliened many a year—
  Whose chastened face and melancholy eyes
  Bring all the wondering children to her knee,
  Weeps with the strange excess of happiness,
  And sighs with joy.
                     What recks the driving storm
  Of such a scene as this? And what reck these
  Of such a storm? For every heavy gust
  That smites the windows with its cloud of sleet,
  And shakes the sashes with its ghostly hands,
  And rocks the mansion till the chimney's throat
  Through all its sooty caverns shrieks and howls,
  They give full bursts of careless merriment,
  Or songs that send it baffled on its way.

PRELUDE.

  Doubt takes to wings on such a night as this;
  And while the traveler hugs her fluttering cloak,
  And staggers o'er the weary waste alone,
  Beneath a pitiless heaven, they flap his face,
  And wheel above, or hunt his fainting soul,
  As, with relentless greed, a vulture throng,
  With their lank shadows mock the glazing eyes
  Of the last camel of the caravan.
  And Faith takes forms and wings on such a night.
  Where love burns brightly at the household hearth,
  And from the altar of each peaceful heart
  Ascends the fragrant incense of its thanks,
  And every pulse with sympathetic throb
  Tells the true rhythm of trustfulest content,
  They flutter in and out, and touch to smiles
  The sleeping lips of infancy; and fan
  The blush that lights the modest maiden's cheeks;
  And toss the locks of children at their play.

  Silence is vocal if we listen well;
  And Life and Being sing in dullest ears
  From morn to night, from night to morn again,
  With fine articulations; but when God
  Disturbs the soul with terror, or inspires
  With a great joy, the words of Doubt and Faith
  Sound quick and sharp like drops on forest leaves;
  And we look up to where the pleasant sky
  Kisses the thunder-caps, and drink the song.

A SONG OF DOUBT.

  The day is quenched, and the sun is fled;
    God has forgotten the world!
  The moon is gone, and the stars are dead;
    God has forgotten the world!

  Evil has won in the horrid feud
    Of ages with The Throne;
  Evil stands on the neck of Good,
    And rules the world alone.

  There is no good; there is no God;
    And Faith is a heartless cheat
  Who bares the back for the Devil's rod,
    And scatters thorns for the feet.

  What are prayers in the lips of death,
    Filling and chilling with hail?
  What are prayers but wasted breath
    Beaten back by the gale?

  The day is quenched, and the sun is fled;
    God has forgotten the world!
  The moon is gone and the stars are dead;
    God has forgotten the world!

A SONG OF FAITH.

  Day will return with a fresher boon;
    God will remember the world!
  Night will come with a newer moon;
    God will remember the world!

  Evil is only the slave of Good;
    Sorrow the servant of Joy;
  And the soul is mad that refuses food
    Of the meanest in God's employ.

  The fountain of joy is fed by tears,
    And love is lit by the breath of sighs;
  The deepest griefs and the wildest fears
    Have holiest ministries.

  Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm;
    Safely the flower sleeps under the snow;
  And the farmer's hearth is never warm
    Till the cold wind starts to blow.

  Day will return with a fresher boon;
    God will remember the world!
  Night will come with a newer moon;
    God will remember the world!

FIRST MOVEMENT.

LOCALITY—The square room of a New England farmhouse.

PRESENT—ISRAEL, head of the family; JOHN,
PETER, DAVID, PATIENCE, PRUDENCE, GRACE,
MARY, RUTH, and CHILDREN.

THE QUESTION STATED AND ARGUED.

Israel.

  Ruth, touch the cradle. Boys, you must be still!
  The baby cannot sleep in such a noise.
  Nay, Grace, stir not; she'll soothe him soon enough,
  And tell him more sweet stuff in half an hour
  Than you can dream, in dreaming half a year.

Ruth.
                       [Kneeling and rocking the cradle.]

  What is the little one thinking about?
  Very wonderful things, no doubt.
    Unwritten history!
    Unfathomed mystery!
  Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,
  And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks,
  As if his head were as full of kinks
  And curious riddles as any sphinx!
    Warped by colic, and wet by tears,
    Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears,
    Our little nephew will lose two years;
      And he'll never know
      Where the summers go;—
    He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!

  Who can tell what a baby thinks?
  Who can follow the gossamer links
    By which the manikin feels his way
  Out from the shore of the great unknown,
  Blind, and wailing, and alone,
    Into the light of day?—
  Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
  Tossing in pitiful agony,—
  Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
  Specked with the barks of little souls—
  Barks that were launched on the other side,
  And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide!
    What does he think of his mother's eyes?
  What does he think of his mother's hair?
    What of the cradle-roof that flies
  Forward and backward through the air?
    What does he thinks of his mother's breast—
  Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
  Seeking it ever with fresh delight—
    Cup of his life and couch of his rest?
  What does he think when her quick embrace
  Presses his hand and buries his face
  Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell
  With a tenderness she can never tell,
    Though she murmur the words
    Of all the birds—
  Words she has learned to murmur well?
    Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!
    I can see the shadow creep
    Over his eyes, in soft eclipse,
    Over his brow, and over his lips,
    Out to his little finger-tips!
    Softly sinking, down he goes!
    Down he goes! Down he goes!

[Rising and carefully retreating to her seat.]

See! He is hushed in sweet repose!

David. [Yawning.]

  Behold a miracle! Music transformed
  To morphine, and the drowsy god invoked
  By the poor prattle of a maiden's tongue!
  A moment more, and we should all have gone
  Down into dreamland with the babe! Ah, well!
  There is no end of wonders.

Ruth.
                             None, indeed!
  When lazy poets who have gorged themselves,
  And cannot keep awake, make the attempt
  To shift the burden of their drowsiness,
  And charge a girl with what they owe to greed.

David.

  At your old tricks again! No sleep induced
  By song of yours, or any other bird's,
  Can linger long when you begin to talk.
  Grace, box your sister's ears for me, and save
  The trouble of my rising.

Ruth.

[Advancing and kneeling by the side of Grace.]

                                  Sister mine.
  Now give the proof of your obedience
  To your imperious lord! Strike, if you dare!
  I'll wake your baby if you lift your hand.
  Ha! king; ha! poet; who is master now—
  Baby or husband? Pr'ythee, tell me that.
  Were I a man,—thank Heaven I am not!—
  And had a wife who cared not for my will
  More than your wife for yours, I'd hang myself,
  Or wear an [***]. See! she kisses me!

David.

  And answers to my will, though well she knows
  I'll spare to her so terrible a task,
  And take the awful burden on myself;
  Which I will do, in future, if she please!

Ruth.

  Now have you conquered! Look! I am your slave.
  Denounce me, scourge me, anything but kiss;
  For life is sweet, and I alone am left
  To comfort an old man.

Israel.
                    Ruth, that will do!
  Remember I'm a Justice of the Peace,
  And bide no quarrels; and if you and David
  Persist in strife, I'll place you under bonds
  For good behavior, or condemn you both
  To solitary durance for the night.

Ruth.

  Father, you fail to understand the case,
  And do me wrong. David has threatened me
  With an assault that proves intent to kill;
  And here's my sister Grace, his wedded wife,
  Who'll take her oath, that just a year ago
  He entered into bonds to keep the peace
  Toward me and womankind.

David.

I'm quite asleep.

Israel.

We'll all agree, then, to pronounce it quits.

Ruth.

  Till he awake again, of course. I trust
  I have sufficient gallantry to grant
  A nap between encounters, to a foe
  With odds against him.

Israel.

              Peace, my daughter, peace!
  You've had your full revenge, and we have had
  Enough of laughter since the day began.
  We must not squander all these precious hours
  In jest and merriment; for when the sun
  Shall rise to-morrow, we shall separate,
  Not knowing we shall ever meet again.
  Meetings like this are rare this side of Heaven,
  And seem to me the best mementoes left
  Of Eden's hours.

Grace.

                  Most certainly the best,
  And quite the rarest, but, unluckily,
  The weakest, as we know; for sin and pain
  And evils multiform, that swarm the earth,
  And poison all our joys and all our hearts,
  Remind us most of Eden's forfeit bliss.

David.

Forfeit through woman.

Grace.

                 Forfeit through her power;—
A power not lost, as most men know, I think,
Beyond the knowledge of their trustful wives.

Mary.

[Rising, and walking hurriedly to the window.]

'Tis a wild night without.

Ruth.

                        And getting wild
  Within. Now, Grace, I—all of us—protest
  Against a scene to-night. Look! You have driven
  One to the window blushing, and your lord,
  With lowering brow, is making stern essay
  To stare the fire-dogs out of countenance.
  These honest brothers, with their honest wives,
  Grow glum and solemn, too, as if they feared
  At the next gust to see the windows burst,
  Or a riven poplar crashing through the roof.
  And think of me!—a simple-hearted maid
  Who learned from Cowper only yesterday
  (Or a schoolmaster, with a handsome face,
  And a strange passion for the text), the fact,
  That wedded bliss alone survives the fall.
  I'm shocked; I'm frightened; and I'll never wed
  Unless I—change my mind!

Israel.

And I consent.

David.

  And the schoolmaster with the handsome face
  Propose.

Ruth.

         Your pardon, father, for the jest!
  But I have never patience with the ills
  That make intrusion on my happy hours.
  I know the world is full of evil things,
  And shudder with the consciousness. I know
  That care has iron crowns for many brows;
  That Calvaries are everywhere, whereon
  Virtue is crucified, and nails and spears
  Draw guiltless blood; that sorrow sits and drinks
  At sweetest hearts, till all their life is dry;
  That gentle spirits on the rack of pain
  Grow faint or fierce, and pray and curse by turns;
  That Hell's temptations, clad in Heavenly guise
  And armed with might, lie evermore in wait
  Along life's path, giving assault to all—
  Fatal to most; that Death stalks through the earth,
  Choosing his victims, sparing none at last;
  That in each shadow of a pleasant tree
  A grief sits sadly sobbing to its leaves;
  And that beside each fearful soul there walks
  The dim, gaunt phantom of uncertainty,
  Bidding it look before, where none may see,
  And all must go; but I forget it all—
  I thrust it from me always when I may;
  Else I should faint with fear, or drown myself
  In pity. God forgive me! but I've thought
  A thousand times that if I had His power.
  Or He my love, we'd have a different world
  From this we live in.

Israel.

                 Those are sinful thoughts,
  My daughter, and too surely indicate
  A willful soul, unreconciled to God.

Ruth.

  So you have told me often. You have said
  That God is just, and I have looked around
  To seek the proof in human lot, in vain.
  The rain falls kindly on the just man's fields,
  But on the unjust man's more kindly still;
  And I have never known the winter's blast,
  Or the quick lightning, or the pestilence,
  Make nice discriminations when let slip
  From God's right hand.

Israel.

                      'Tis a great mystery;
  Yet God is just, and,—blessed be His name!—
  Is loving too. I know that I am weak,
  And that the pathway of His Providence
  Is on the hills where I may never climb.
  Therefore my reason yields her hand to Faith,
  And follows meekly where the angel leads.
  I see the rich man have his portion here,
  And Lazarus, in glorified repose,
  Sleep like a jewel on the breast of Faith
  In Heaven's broad light. I see that whom God loves
  He chastens sorely, but I ask not why.
  I only know that God is just and good:
  All else is mystery. Why evil lives
  Within His universe, I may not know.
  I know it lives, and taints the vital air;
  And that in ways inscrutable to me—
  Yet compromising not His soundless love
  And boundless power—it lives against His will.

Ruth.

  I am not satisfied. If evil live
  Against God's will, evil is king of all,
  And they do well who worship Lucifer.
  I am not satisfied. My reason spurns
  Such prostitution to absurdities.
  I know that you are happy; but I shrink
  From your blind faith with loathing and with fear.
  And feel that I must win it, if I win,
  With the surrender, not of will alone,
  But of the noblest faculty that God
  Has crowned me with.

Israel.

                O blind and stubborn child!
  My light, my joy, my burden and my grief!
  How would I lead you to the wells of peace,
  And see you dip your fevered palms and drink!
  Gladly to purchase this would I lay down
  The precious remnant of my life, and sleep,
  Wrapped in the faith you spurn, till the archangel
  Sounds the last trump. But God's good will be done!
  I leave you with Him.

Ruth.

                   Father, talk not thus!
  Oh, do not blame me! I would do it all,
  If but to bless you with a single joy;
  But I am helpless.

Israel.

God will help you, Ruth.

Ruth.

  To quench my reason? Can I ask the boon?
  My lips would blister with the blasphemy.
  I cannot take your faith; and that is why
  I would forget that I am in a world
  Where evil lives, and why I guard my joys
  With such a jealous care.

David.

                    There, Ruth, sit down!
  'Tis the old question, with the old reply.
  You fly along the path, with bleeding feet,
  Where many feet have flown and bled before;
  And he who seeks to guide you to the goal
  Has (let me say it, father) stopped far short,
  And taken refuge at a wayside inn,
  Whose haunted halls and mazy passages
  Receive no light, save through the riddled roof,
  Pierced thick by pilgrim staves, that Faith may lie
  Upon its back, and only gaze on Heaven.
  I would not banish evil if I could;
  Nor would I be so deep in love with joy
  As to seek for it in forgetfulness,
  Through faith or fear.

Ruth.

                  Teach me the better way,
  And every expiration from my lips
  Shall be a grateful blessing on your head;
  And in the coming world I'll seek the side
  Of no more gracious angel than the man
  Who gives me brotherhood by leading me
  Home with himself to heaven.

Israel.

                                 My son,
  Be careful of your words! 'Tis no light thing
  To take the guidance of a straying soul.

David.

  I mark the burden well, and love it, too,
  Because I love the girl and love her Lord,
  And seek to vindicate His love to her
  And waken hers for Him. Be this my plea:
  God is almighty—all-benevolent;
  And naught exists save by His loving will.
  Evil, or what we reckon such, exists,
  And not against His will; else the Supreme
  Is subject, and we have in place of God
  A phantom nothing, with a phantom name.
  Therefore I care not whether He ordain
  That evil live, or whether He permit;
  Therefore I ask not why, in either case,
  As if He meant to curse me, but I ask
  What He would have this evil do for me?
  What is its mission? what its ministry?
  What golden fruit lies hidden in its husk?
  How shall it nurse my virtue, nerve my will,
  Chasten my passions, purify my love,
  And make me in some goodly sense like Him
  Who bore the cross of evil while He lived,
  Who hung and bled upon it when He died,
  And now, in glory, wears the victor's crown?

Israel.

  If evil, then, have privilege and part
  In the economy of holiness,
  Why came the Christ to save us from its power,
  And bring us restoration of the bliss
  Lost in the lapse of Eden?

David.
                             And would you
  Or Ruth 'have restoration of that bliss,
  And welcome transplantation to the state
  Associate with it?

Ruth.

                     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.

  Those are my beautiful Carters;
  Every one doomed to be martyrs
    To the eccentric desire
  Of Christian people to skin them,—
    Brought to the trial of fire
  For the good that is in them!
  Ivory tubers—divide one!
    Ivory all the way through!
  Never a hollow inside one;
    Never a core, black or blue!
  Ah, you should taste them when roasted!
    (Chestnuts are not half so good;)
  And you would find that I've boasted
     Less than I should.
  They make the meal for Sunday noon;
    And, if ever you eat one, let me beg
    You to manage it just as you do an egg.
  Take a pat of butter, a silver spoon,
  And wrap your napkin round the shell:
  Have you seen a humming-bird probe the bell
  Of a white-lipped morning-glory?
  Well, that's the rest of the story!
  But it's very singular, surely,
  They should produce so poorly.
  Father knows that I want them,
  So he continues to plant them;
  But, if I try to argue the question,
    He scoffs, as a thrifty farmer will;
  And puts me down with the stale suggestion—
    "Small potatoes, and few in a hill."

David.

  Thus is it over all the earth!
    That which we call the fairest,
  And prize for its surpassing worth,
          Is always rarest.

  Iron is heaped in mountain piles,
    And gluts the laggard forges;
  But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles
          And lonely gorges.

  The snowy marble flecks the land
    With heaped and rounded ledges,
  But diamonds hide within the sand
          Their starry edges.

  The finny armies clog the twine
    That sweeps the lazy river,
  But pearls come singly from the brine,
          With the pale diver.

  God gives no value unto men
    Unmatched by meed of labor;
  And Cost of Worth has ever been
          The closest neighbor.

  Wide is the gate and broad the way
    That opens to perdition,
  And countless multitudes are they
          Who seek admission.

  But strait the gate, the path unkind,
    That lead to life immortal,
  And few the careful feet that find
          The hidden portal.

  All common good has common price;
    Exceeding good, exceeding;
  Christ bought the keys of Paradise
          By cruel bleeding;

  And every soul that wins a place
    Upon its hills of pleasure,
  Must give its all, and beg for grace
          To fill the measure.

  Were every hill a precious mine,
    And golden all the mountains;
  Were all the rivers fed with wine
          By tireless fountains;

  Life would be ravished of its zest,
    And shorn of its ambition,
  And sinks into the dreamless rest
          Of inanition.

  Up the broad stairs that Value rears
    Stand motives beckoning earthward,
  To summon men to nobler spheres,
          And lead them worthward.

Ruth.

  I'm afraid to show you anything more;
    For parsnips and art are so very long,
  That the passage back to the cellar-door
    Would be through a mile of song.
  But Truth owns me for an honest teller;
    And, if the honest truth be told,
  I am indebted to you and the cellar
    For a lesson and a cold.
  And one or the other cheats my sight;
    (O silly girl! for shame!)
  Barrels are hooped with rings of light,
    And stopped with tongues of flame.
  Apples have conquered original sin,
    Manna is pickled in brine,
  Philosophy fills the potato bin,
    And cider will soon be wine.
  So crown the basket with mellow fruit,
    And brim the pitcher with pearls;
  And we'll see how the old-time dainties suit
    The old-time boys and girls.

[They ascend the stairs.]