Brand.
How?
The Mayor.
Do you take me? I can cure
A want, of long and bitter proof,
By building, for the Town’s behoof,
A Pest-house for the afflicted Poor.
Pest-house I call a thing projected
To rid us of the crime-infected.
And, I reflected, to the Pest-house
Might well be added an Arrest-house,
The cause with its effect confined
The selfsame bars and bolts behind,
And nothing but a wall between.
And, while my hand is in, I mean
In the same block to build withal
A wing for balls and ballotings,
Social and business gatherings,
With platform and Assembly-Hall;
In short, a half-political,
Half-social, smart and festive Guest-house.
Brand.
Sorely required; this most of all;
But yet there’s one thing needed more.
The Mayor.
You mean a Mad-house? Yes, indeed;
A very peremptory need;
That was my own idea before.
But now, by friendly counsel wrought,
I’ve utterly renounced the thought;
For who’s to furnish the supplies
For such a giant enterprise?
To put a Mad-house up would come,
Believe me, to a pretty sum,
If all whom need and merit fitted,
Should be within its walls admitted.
We must not build for our caprice,
But note Time’s current as it glides;—
The world moves on with giant strides,
Last year abundance, famine this;
You see to what a monstrous girth
The folks’ necessities have swell’d,
Talents for everything on earth,
Headlong by seven-league boots propell’d,
Are swarming madly to the birth.
Thus it would be too dear a jest
To build posterity a nest
And let self, wife, and children go;
This tooth, I say, we can’t afford:
Out with it therefore, by the Lord!
Brand.
And then, there’s the great Hall, you know,
For any madder than the rest.
The Mayor.
[Delighted.]
Yes, it would mostly be to spare!
Why, Brand, you’ve hit the nail-head there!
If fortunate our project’s fate is,
We get to boot—a Mad-house gratis;
Here, shelter’d by the selfsame roof,
And by the selfsame flag defended,
All the essential strands are blended
That tinge and tone our social woof.
Here in one haven disembogues
The flood of Paupers and of Rogues;
With Lunatics who roam’d at large,
Subject to no man’s check or charge;
Here too our Freedom’s highest reach,
The election-strife, the storm of speech;
And here our Council-Hall, for framing
Measures to meet each public pest;
And here our Feast-Hall, for proclaiming
How well we’ll guard the Past’s bequest.
You see, then, if our Project stand,
The Cragsman has at his command
All he in reason can demand,—
The right to live as he thinks best.
God knows, how slender our resources,
But once our enterprise in force is,
I trust we may be with impunity
Styled a well-organised community.
Brand.
But then the means—?
The Mayor.
Ay, there’s the knot,
As in all other things, in this.
Hardly to contributions wrought
Is Will, and if your help I miss,
I furl my flag without a thought:
But with your eloquent alliance
I’ll bid all obstacles defiance,
And when all’s done, your kind compliance,
Believe me, shall not be forgot.
Brand.
In short, you’d buy me.
The Mayor.
For my aim
I should prefer another name:
I seek, with general good in view,
That gulf of difference to cross
Which you from me and me from you
Has sever’d, to our common loss.
Brand.
In an ill-omen’d hour you came——
The Mayor.
Unfortunately yes, I own it:
Your recent loss,—I might have known it,
But your brave bearing re-assured me,
And need of public credit lured me.
Brand.
In grievous or in gladsome season
I render help where need is plain;
But, for another weighty reason,
This time your mission is in vain.
The Mayor.
And which, pray—?
Brand.
I am building too.
The Mayor.
You building? You adopt my view?
Brand.
Not altogether.
[Pointing out of the window.]
Do you see?
The Mayor.
Yonder
Brand.
Yes.
The Mayor.
That great ugly stall?—
Why, that’s the Parsonage granary.
Brand.
No, not that;—but the ugly, small——
The Mayor.
The Church?
Brand.
I mean to build it great.
The Mayor.
That, by the devil! you shall not!
No man shall alter it one jot!
My plan ’twould utterly frustrate.
Mine’s urgent, only waits the word,
By yours I’m absolutely floor’d;
Two weapons can’t at once be wielded,
Yield therefore—!
Brand.
I have never yielded.
The Mayor.
You must, man, here. Build my Arrest-house,
My Pest-house and my festive Guest-house,
Build all, the Mad-house comprehending,
And who’ll ask, where the Church wants mending?
And why condemn it now to fall?
’Twas well enough a while ago.
Brand.
Possibly; now it is too small.
The Mayor.
I never saw it full, I know.
Brand
Even a single soul is scanted,
And has not room therein to soar.soar.
The Mayor.
[Shaking his head in amazement.]
(Which single soul but proves the more
How sorely my Asylum’s wanted.)
[Changing his tone.]
Let the Church be, is my advice.
One may regard it, in some wise,
As a rich heirloom of our age;
In fact, a noble heritage,
Which we not lightly may remove.
Nay, if my building project crashes,
I, like a Phoenix from the ashes,
Will live again in public love,
As one chivalrously intent
To save our ancient monument!
Here stood a heathen fane of old,—
’Twas in King Belë’s reign, no doubt;
Then, later heroes more devout
Founded the Church with looted gold.
All-sacred in its antique dress,
Grand in its simple stateliness,
Till our own days it tower’d sublime——
Brand.
But all these glories of old time
Lie long since buried deep in mould,
Of all surviving sign bereft.
The Mayor.
Just so! They are so very old
That not a trace of them is left.
But in my late grandfather’s day
A wall-hole still defied decay!
Brand.
A wall-hole?
The Mayor.
Fit to hold a tun!
Brand.
But the wall’s self?
The Mayor.
Oh, that was gone.
In plain terms then, I am compell’d
To say, your scheme is out of court:—
A barbarous and unparallel’d
Horrible sacrilege, in short.
And then the money,—do you dream
These folks are so profuse in spending,
That they’ll contrive new cost by lending
Existence to a half-hatch’d scheme?
When with a little deftness they
May so far patch the crumbling wall
That in our time it will not fall?
But just go out!—the field survey,—
You’ll find, I’m winner after all.
Brand.
From no man will I wring a jot
To give my God house-harbourage:
With my own goods it shall be wrought;
In that one work my heritage
To the last penny shall be spent.—
Now, Mayor, are you still confident
That you can shake me from my thought?
The Mayor.
[With folded hands.]
I stand—as from the clouds dropp’d down
Such things are even in a Town
Scarce heard of,—and yet here, for us,
Who long to the necessitous
Have closed our purses and our doors,
You loose this flood of gifts unbounded
That ripples, flashes, foams and pours—.
—No, Brand, I’m utterly dumbfounded.dumbfounded.
Brand.
In thought I long ago resign’d
My wealth——
The Mayor.
Yes, whisper’d hints have flown
Pointing to something of the kind.
But I regarded them as wind.
How many men give all they own
Without a tangible return?
However, that’s your own concern.—
Go on! I’ll follow. You’re in feather,
You can act freely, work and sway.—
Brand, we will build the Church together.
Brand.
What, you are willing to give way?
The Mayor.
Dear God’s my witness, that I am!
And shall be while my wits are sound!
When one would fatten, pamper, cram,—
Another milk and shear and flay,—
Where, think you, will the flock be found?
Death and destruction, I’m your man!
I’m fire and fury for the plan!
Thrill’d, agitated, nay, affected!
Providence prompted the design
That led me to your door to-night,
For sure, without the hint of mine,
Your plan had scarcely been projected,
Or, at the least, scarce seen the light!
And thus the Church, conceived aright,
Will by my means have been erected!
Brand.
But, don’t forget, we must lay low
That towering relic of the past!
The Mayor.
[Looking out.]
Seen in the twofold glimmer cast
By the new moon and the fresh snow,
It seems a sort of—rubbish-heap.
Brand.
What, Mayor!
The Mayor.
It is too old to keep!
I fail entirely to explain it,
Till now it never struck my eye,—
The weathercock stands all awry;
It would be monstrous to retain it.
And where are architecture, style,
Rightly regarded, in the pile?
What terms can give that arch its due?
An architect would call it vile;—
And really I must share his view.
And then that roof with moss-tufts blowing,—
Bless me, they’re none of Belë’s growing.
No, we may overmuch assert
The reverence for ancient glories!
One fact, at least, there’s no o’erthrowing,
That this old rotten hut no more is
But just a very heap of dirt!
Brand.
But if the people’s voice should storm
At those who seek to lay it low—?
The Mayor.
I will it though they all cry No.
This Christmas with the least delay
I’ll put the thing in proper form,
And launch it smoothly on its way.
I’ll write, I’ll agitate, I’ll sway!
Ay, ay—you know the stuff I’m made of!
And if I cannot hire or hound
The foolish flock to help to end it,
With my own hands I’ll rive and rend it,
Timber by timber, to the ground.
Nay, though I had to call the aid of
My wife and all my girls as well,
Down it should come, by death and hell.hell.
Brand.
This language has another sound
Than that which earlier from you fell.
The Mayor.
To be humane is to repress
All manner of One-sidedness.
And sure, if truth the poet utters,
Precisely what is to be sought
In thinking is “the winged thought,”—
That is to say—the thought that flutters.
Farewell.
[Taking his hat.]
I have to see the band.
Brand.
The what?
The Mayor.
Just think, within our land
This morning two of us laid hand
On a foul-favour’d gipsy-horde,
So I got help with rope and cord,
And now they’re in your neighbour’s ward
Next to the North, but—devil clip me!—
If just a couple didn’t slip me——
Brand.
The bells are ringing: Peace to Men.
The Mayor.
Why came this hell-brood hither, then?
Yet in a sense, they are, ’tis true,
Kin to this parish,—
[Laughing.]
Nay to you.
Hark to a riddle; read it right,
If you have power and appetite.
There be, who in effect derive
From her, by whom you are alive,
But owe their actual origin
To coming of another kin.
Brand.
[Shaking his head.]
O God, so many riddles rise
Before our baffled, helpless eyes!
The Mayor.
But this one’s very lightly guess’d.
You must have often, heretofore,
Heard tell one story or another
Of that poor fellow here by West
Whose head four parsons’ learning bore;
He went a-wooing to your Mother.
BrandBrand.
What then?
The Mayor.
Conceive,—a girl of gold
She sent him to the right-about
Promptly, as might have been foretold.
And how d’ye think he took the flout?
Half mad with grief he wander’d out,
Mated at last another bride,
A gipsy,—and, before he died,
Enrich’d with issue this foul band
That sins and starves about the land.
Nay, on this parish he conferr’d
One bastard imp—as souvenir
Of his illustrious career.
Brand.
Namely—?
The Mayor.
The gipsy-urchin Gerd.
Brand.
[In muffled tones.]
Ah—so!
The Mayor.
[Gaily.]
Confess, the riddle’s good!
His issue in effect derive
From her by whom you are alive;
For the first cause of all the brood
Was, that he loved and she withstood.
Brand.
Advise me, Mayor; can you tell
Some means of giving them relief?
The Mayor.
Tut, clap them in a Bridewell cell.
They’re overhead in debt to hell;
To save them were to play the thief
With Satan, who will lose his trade
If earth restore not what he made.
Brand.
You plann’d to build a house, to better
This naked misery and dearth——
The Mayor.
That plan was, by its own begetter,
Slain in the moment of its birth.
Brand.
If after all though—it were well——
The Mayor.
[Smiling.]
This language has another sound
Than that which earlier from you fell.
[Clapping him on the shoulder.]
What’s buried, leave it in the ground
Man must not dash his deed with doubt.
Farewell, farewell, I can’t remain,
I must be off and scour the fell,
To seek this nest of truants out.
A merry Yule! We’ll meet again!
My greetings to your wife. Farewell!
[Goes.
Brand.
[After a meditative silence.]
O expiation without end!—
So wildly mingle, strangely blend
The threads that human fortune spin,—
Sin tangled with the fruit of sin,
Pouring its own pollution in,—
That he who eyes their mazy flight
Sees foulest Wrong grow one with Right.
[Goes to the window, and after a long look out.]
My little child, lamb without stain,
Thou for my mother’s deed wast slain;
A shatter’d spirit bore His voice
Whose throne the crested heavens sustain,
And bade me cast the die of choice.
And this distracted soul had birth
Because my mother’s clave to earth.
Thus the Lord, sowing fruit of crime,
Reaps retribution in His time,
And, reaching down from His high dome,
Strikes the third generation home.
[Starts back in horror from the window.]
Yes, God is above all things just,
And retribution is His goal;
Only by sacrifice the soul
Achieves redemption from the dust;
Hard truth, our age appall’d descries,
And, therefore, stubbornly denies.
[Walks up and down the room.]
To pray? Ah, pray—a word that slips
Easily over all men’s lips;
A coin by all men lightly paid.
What’s prayer? In storm and stress to shout
Unto the vague Unknown for aid.
Upon Christ’s shoulders beg a place,
And stretch both hands to Heaven for grace—
While knee-deep in the slough of doubt.
Ha! if there needed nothing more
I might like others dare to raise
My hand and batter at His door
Who still is “terrible in praise.”—
[Pauses and reflects.]
And yet in uttermost despair,
In shuddering sorrow’s deepest deep,
When Alf at last had sunk to sleep,
And all his mother’s kisses vain
Won not the lost smile back again—
What felt I—if it was not prayer?
Whence came that trance, that ecstasy,
That rushing music, like a blast,
That sang afar and hurried past,
Bore me aloft and set me free?
Was it the ecstasy of prayer?
Did I with God hold converse there?
My anguish—did it reach his ears?
Did he look down and see my tears?
I know not. Barr’d is now the door,
The darkness deeper than before,
And nowhere, nowhere any light!
Yes, She—who, darkling, yet hath sight—
[Calls in anguish.]
Light, Agnes—light, if light thou hast!

Agnes opens the door and enters with the lighted Christmas candles; a bright glow falls over the room.

Brand.
Light!
Agnes.
See, the Yule light, Brand, at last!
Brand.
[Softly.]
The Yule light! Ha!
Agnes.
[Putting them on the table.]
Have I been slow?
Brand.
No, no.
Agnes.
Thou must be cold, Brand!
Brand.
[Loudly.]
No!No!
Agnes.
[Smiling, fills the stove.]
How stern! It is thy pride of will,
That scorns the darkness and the chill.
Brand.
[Walking up and down.]
H’m, Will!
Agnes.
[To herself as she decks the room.]
Here must the candles stand.
Last year he stretch’d his tiny hand
After the glancing, dancing light:
He was so joyous and so bright;
He started from his little chair,
And ask’d me if a sun it were.
[Moves the candles a little.]
See! now the candle’s glow falls—there!
Now from his bed my boy can see
The window gleaming cheerily;
Now can he peer out of the gloom
Silently into our lit room—
But, ah! the glass is dim; stay, stay—
I’ll wipe the dew of tears away
And make it smile——
[Dries the pane.
Brand.
[Softly as he watches her.]