'' ' , vo,V\V i' Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/christusmystery00long_0 I 1>- C H R I S T U S A MYSTERY. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. IN THREE PARTS. ' WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. V JKOSTON (TGLLEGE LIBRARY CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. BOSTON: JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 1873. O - ,'->5g ■P' Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 65v)'J5 University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., ? 1978 Cambridge. CONTENTS. Page Introitus • 9 PART ONE. — THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. THE FIRST PASSOVER. I. Vox Clamantis 15 II. Mount Quaran-tania 16 III. The Marriage in Cana 17 IV, In the Cornfields 19 V. Nazareth 20 VI. The Sea of Galilee VII. The Demoniac of Gadara 23 VIII. Talitha Cumi 24 IX. The Tower of Magdala 25 X. The House of Simon the Pharisee 26 THE SECOND PASSOVER. I, Before the Gates of Mach..erus 31 II. Herod’s Banquet-Hall 32 III. Under the Walls of Mach.erus 33 IV, Nicodemus at Night 34 CONTENTS. iv V. Blind Bartimeus 35 VI. Jacob’s Well 37 VII. The Coasts of C.«esarea Philippi 38 VIII. The Young Ruler 40 IX. At Bethany 41 X. Born Blind 42 XI. Simon Magus and Helen of Tyre *43 THE THIRD PASSOVER. I. The Entry into Jerusalem 49 II. Solomon’s Porch 50 III. Lord, is it I ? 52 IV. The Garden of Gethsemane 53 V. The Palace of Caiaphas 54 VI. Pontius Pilate 56 VII. Barabbas in Prison 57 VIII. Ecce Homo 58 IX. Aceldama 59 X. The Three Crosses 60 XI. The Two Maries 61 XII. The Sea of Galilee 61 Epilogue 64 First Interlude. The Abbot Joachim 65 PART TWO.— THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Prologue 71 I. I. The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine . . . • 73 II. Court-Yard of the Castle 76 CONTENTS. V II. I. A Farm in the Odenwald 78 II. A Room in the Farm-House 81 III. Elsie’s Chamber 82 IV. The Chamber of Gottlieb and Ursula .... 83 V. A Village Church 84 VI. A Room in the Farm-House 88 VII. In the Garden 88 III. I. A Street in Strasburg 89 II. Square in Front of the Cathedral 91 III. In the Cathedral 92 IV. The Nativity. A Miracle-Play 93 IV. I. The Road to Hirschau 98 II. The Convent of Hirschau 99 III. The Scriptorium 101 IV. The Cloisters 102 V. The Chapel 103 VI. The Refectory 104 VII. The Neighboring Nunnery 107 V. I. A Covered Bridge at Lucerne no II. The Devil’s Bridge III. The St. Gothard Pass IV. At the Foot of the Alps INTROITUS The Angel hearing the Prophet Habakkuk through the air. Prophet. Why dost thou bear me aloft, 0 Angel of God, on thy pinions O’er realms and dominions ? Softly I float as a cloud In air, for thy right hand upholds me. Thy garment enfolds me ! A ngel- Lo ! as I passed on my way In the harvest-field I beheld thee, When no man compelled thee. Bearing with thine own hands This food to the famishing reapers, A flock without keepers ! The fragrant sheaves of the wheat Made the air above them sweet ; Sweeter and more divine Was the scent of the scattered grain. That the reaper’s hand let fall To be gathered again By the hand of the gleaner I Sweetest, divinest of all. Was the humble deed of thine. And the meekness of thy demeanor I Prophet. Angel of Light, 1 cannot gainsay thee, I can but obey thee ! Angel. Beautiful was it in the Lord’s To behold his Prophet Feeding those that toil, The tillers of the soil. But why should the reapers eat of it And not the Prophet of Zion In the den of the lion ? The Prophet should feed the Prophet I Therefore I thee have uplifted. And bear thee aloft by the hair Of thy head, like a cloud that is drifted Through the vast unknown of the air 1 Five days hath the Prophet been lying In Babylon, in the den Of the lions, death-defying, Defying hunger and thirst ; But the worst Is the mockery of men I Alas ! how full of fear Is the fate of Prophet and Seer f Forevermore, forevermore. It shall be as it hath been heretofore ; The age in which they live Will not forgive The splendor of the everlasting light. That makes their foreheads bright. Nor the sublime Fore-running of their time 1 Prophet. O tell me, for thouknowest. Wherefore and by what grace. Have I, who am least and lowest. Been chosen to this place. To this exalted part? Angel. Because thou art The Struggler ; and from thy youth Thy humble and patient life Hath been a strife And battle for the Truth ; Nor hast thou paused nor halted. Nor ever in thy pride Turned from the poor aside. But with deed and word and pen Hast served thy fellow-men ; Therefore art thou exalted ! Prophet. By thine arrow’s light Thou goest onward through the night, And by the clear Sheen of thy glittering spear I When will our journey end? A ngel. Lo, it is ended 1 Yon silver gleam Is the Euphrates stream. Let us descend. Into the city splendid. Into the City of Gold ! Prophet. Behold ! INTROITUS, lO As if the stars had fallen from their places Into the firmament below, The streets, the gardens, and the va- cant spaces With light are all aglow ; And hark ! As we draw near. What sound is it I hear Ascending through the dark ? Angel. The tumultuous noise of the nations. Their rejoicings and lamentations, The pleadings of their prayer. The groans of their despair. The cry of their imprecations. Their wrath, their love, their hate ! Prophet. Surely the world doth wait The coming of its Redeemer ! Angel. Awake from thy sleep, O dreamer I The hour is near, though late ; Awake ! write the vision sublime. The vision, that is for a time. Though it tarry, wait ; it is nigh ; In the end it will speak and not lie. PART ONE. THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. THE FIRST PASSOVER. THE FIRST PASSOVER I. vox CLAMANTIS. John the Baptist. Repent 1 repent ! repent ! For the kingdom of God is at hand, And all the land Full of the knowledge of the Lord shall be As the waters cover the sea, And encircle the continent I Repent ! repent ! repent ! For lo, the hour appointed. The hour so long foretold By the Prophets of old, Of the corning of the Anointed, The Messiah, the Paraclete, The Desire of the Nations, is nigh 1 He shall not strive nor cry. Nor his voice be heard in the street ; Nor the bruised reed shall he break. Nor quench the smoking flax ; And many of them that sleep In the dust of earth shall awake. On that great and terrible day. And the wicked shall wail and weep. And be blown like a smoke away. And be melted away like wax. Repent ! repent 1 repent ! O Priest, and Pharisee, Who hath wariied you to flee From the wrath that is to be ? From the coming anguish and ire? The axe is laid at the root Of the trees, and every tree That bringeth not forth good fruit Is hewn down and cast into the fire ! Ye Scribes, why come ye hither? la the hour that is uncertain. In the day of anguish and trouble. He that stretcheth the heavens as a cur- tain And spreadeth them out as a tent. Shall blow upon you, and ye shall wither, And the whirlwind shall take you away as stubble ! Repent ! repent ! repent ! Priest. Who art thou, O man of prayer 1 In raiment of camel’s hair. Begirt with leathern thong. That here in the wilderness. With a cry as of one in distress, Preachest unto this throng ? Art thou the Christ ? John. Priest of Jerusalem, In meekness and humbleness, I deny not, I confess I am not the Christ ! Priest. What shall we say unto them That sent us here ? Reveal Thy name, and naught conceal I Art thou Elias? John. No ! Priest. Art thou that Prophet, then. Of lamentation and woe. Who, as a symbol and sign Of impending wrath divine Upon unbelieving men. Shattered the vessel of clay In the Valley of Slaughter? John. Nay. I am not he thou namest ! Priest. Who art thou, and what is the word That here thou proclaimest? John. I am the voice of one Crying in the wilderness alone : Prepare ye the way of the Lord ; THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. A rchitriclimis. How serene His aspect is ! manly yet womanly. Paranymphus. Most beautiful among the sons of men ! Oft known to weep, but never known to laugh. Architriclinus. And tell me, she with eyes of olive tint. And skin as fair as wheat, and pale brown hair. The woman at his side? Paranymphus. His mother, Mary. Architriclitms. And the tall figure standing close behind them. Clad all in white, with face and beard like ashes, As if he were Elias, the White Wit- ness, Come from his cave on Carmel to fore- tell The end of all things? Paranymphus. That is Manahem The Essenian, he who dwells among the palms Near the Dead Sea. Architricli7t^ls. He who foretold to Herod He should one day be King ? Paranymphus. The same. Architriclinus. Then why Doth he come here to sadden with his presence Our marriage feast, belonging to a sect Haters of women, and that taste not wine ? The Musicians. My undefiled is but one. The only one of her mother. The choice of her that bare her ; The daughters saw her and blessed her ; The queens and the concubines praised her. Saying : Lo ! who is this That looketh forth as the morning? Matiahem {aside). The Ruler of the Feast is gazing at me. As if he asked, why is that old man here Among the revellers ? And thou, the Anointed ! Why art thou here? I see as in a vision A figure clothed in purple, crowned with thorns ; I see a cross uplifted in the darkness. And hear a cry of agony, that shall echo Forever and forever through the world ! A rchitriclinus. Give us more wine. These goblets are all empty. Mary _ {to Christus). They have no wine ! Christus. O woman, what have I To do with thee ? Mine hour is not yet come. Mary {to the servants). Whatever he shall say to you, that do. Christus. Fill up these pots with water. The M usicians. Come, my beloved, Let us go forth into the field. Let us lodge in the villages ; Let us get up early to the vineyards. Let us see if the vine flourish. Whether the tender grape appear. And the pomegranates bud forth. Christus. Draw out now, And bear unto the Ruler of the Feast. Majiahem {aside). O thou, brought up among the Essenians, Nurtured in abstinence, taste not the wine ! It is the poison of dragons from the vineyards Of Sodom, and the taste of death is in it. A rchitriclinus {to the Bridegroom). All men set forth good wine at the beginning. And when men have well drunk, that which is worse ; But thou hast kept the good wine until now. Manahem {aside). The things that have been and shall be no more. The things that are, and that hereafter shall be. The things that might have been, and yet were not. The fading twilight of great joys de- parted. The daybreak of great truths as yet un- risen. The intuition and the expectation Of something, which, when come, is not the same, But only like its forecast in men’s dreams, THE FIRST PASSOVER. The longing, the delay, and the delight. Sweeter for the delay ; youth, hope, love, death. And disappointment which is also death. All these make up the sum of human life ; _ ■ A dream within a dream, a wind at night Howling across the desert in despair. Seeking for something lost, it cannot find. Fate or foreseeing, or whatever name Men call it, matters not ; what is to be Hath been fore-written in the thought divine From the beginning. None can hide from it. But it will find him out; nor run from it. But it o’ertaketh him ! The Lord hath said it. The Bridegroom {to the Bride, on the balcony). When Abraham went with Sarah into Egypt, The land was all illumined with her beauty ; But thou dost make the very night it- self Brighter than day ! Behold, in glad procession. Crowding the threshold of the sky above us. The stars come forth to meet thee with their lamps ; And the soft winds, the ambassadors of flowers. From neighboring gardens and from fields unseen. Come laden with odors unto thee, my Queen ! The Musicians. Awake, O north- wind. And cortie, thou wind of the South, Blow, blow upon my garden. That the spices thereof may flow out. IV. IN THE CORNFIELDS. Philip. Onward through leagues of sun-illumined corn. As if through parted seas, the pathway runs, 19 And crowned with sunshine as the Prince of Peace Walks the beloved Master, leading us. As Moses led our fathers in old times Out of the land of bondage ! We have found Him of whom Moses and the Prophets wrote, Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of Joseph. Nathatiael. Can any good come out of Nazareth? Can this be the Messiah ? Philip. Come and see. Nathanael. The summer sun grows hot ; I am anhungered- How cheerily the Sabbath-breaking quail Pipes in the corn, and bids us to his Feast Of Wheat Sheaves ! How the bearded, ripening ears Toss in the roofless temple of the air ; As if the unseen hand of some High- Priest Waved them before Mount Tabor as an altar ! It were no harm, if we should pluck and eat. Philip. How wonderful it is to walk abroad With the Good Master ! Since the miracle He wrought at Cana, at the marriage feast, His fame hath gone abroad through all the land. And when we come to Nazareth, thou shalt see How his own people will receive their Prophet, And hail him as Messiah ! See, he turns And looks at thee. Christus. Behold an Israelite In whom there is no guile. Nathanael. Whence knowest thou me ? Christus. Before that Philip called thee, when thou wast Under the fig-tree, I beheld thee. Nathanael. Rabbi ! Thou art the Son of God, thou art the King Of Israel ! THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Christus. Because I said I saw thee Under the fig-tree, before Philip called thee, Believest thou ? Thou shalt see great- er things. Hereafter thou shalt see the heavens unclosed. And angels of God ascending and descending Upon the Son of Man ! Pharisees {passing). Hail, Rabbi_ ! Christus. . Hail ! Pharisees. Behold how thy disciples do a thing Which is not lawful on the Sabbath- day, And thou forbiddest them not ! Christus. Have ye not read What David did when he anhungered was. And all they that were with him? How he entered Into the house of God, and ate the shewbread, Which was not lawful saving for the priests ? Have ye not read, how on the Sabbath- days The priests profane the Sabbath in the Temple, And yet are blameless? But I say to you. One in this place is greater than the Temple ! And had ye known the meaning of the words, I will have mercy and not sacrifice. The guiltless ye would not condemn. The Sabbath Was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath. {Passes on with the disciples.') Pharisees. This is, alas ! some poor demoniac Wandering about the fields, and utter- ing His unintelligible blasphemies Among the common people, who re- ceive As prophecies the words they compre- hend not ! Deluded folk ! The incomprehensible Alone excites their wonder. There is none So visionary, or so void of sense. But he will find a crowd to follow him 1 V. NAZARETH. Christus {reading in the Syria- gogue). The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me. He hath anointed me to preach good tidings Unto the poor ; to heal the broken- hearted ; To comfort those that mourn, and to throw open The prison doors of captives, and pro- claim The Year Acceptable of the Lord, our God! {He closes the hook and sits down.) A Pharisee. Who is this youth ? He hath taken the Teacher’s seat ! Will he instruct the Elders ? A Priest. Fifty years Have I been Priest here in the Syna- gogue, And never have I seen so young a man Sit in the Teacher’s seat ! Christus. Behold, to-day This scripture is fulfilled. One is ap- pointed ’ And hath been sent to them that mourn in Zion, To give them beauty for ashes, and the oil Of joy for mourning I They shall build again The old waste-places ; and again raise up The former desolations, and repair The cities that are wasted ! As a bridegroom Decketh himself with ornaments, as a bride Adorneth herself with jewels, so the Lord Hath clothed me with the robe of righteousness. A Priest. He speaks the Prophet’s words : but with an air As if himself had been foreshadowed in them 1 THE FIRST PASSOVER. Christus. For Zion’s sake I will not hold my peace, And for Jerusalem’s sake I will not rest Until its righteousness be as a bright- ness, And its salvation as a lamp that burn- eth ! Thou shalt be called no longer the Forsaken, Nor any more thy land, the Desolate. The Lord hath sworn, by his right hand hath sworn. And by his arm of strength : I will no more Give to thine enemies thy corn as meat ; The sons of strangers shall not drink thy wine. Go through, go through the gates ! Prepare a way Unto the people ! Gather out the stones ! Lift up a standard for the people ! A Priest. Ah ! These are seditious words ! Christus. And they shall call them The holy people ; the redeemed of God! And thou, Jerusalem, shalt be called Sought out, A city not forsaken ! A Pharisee Is not this The carpenter Joseph’s son? Is not his mother Called Mary? and his brethren and his sisters Are they not with us? Doth he make himself To be a Prophet? Christus. No man is a Prophet In his own country, and among his kin. In his own house no Prophet is accept- ed. I say to you, in the land of Israel Were many widows in Elijah’s day, When for three years and more the heavens were shut, And a great famine was throughout the land ; But unto no one was Elijah sent Save to Sarepta, to a city of Sidon, And to a woman there that was a wid- ow. 21 And many lepers were there in the land Of Israel, in the time of Eliseus The Prophet, and yet none of them was cleansed. Save Naaman the Syrian I A Priest. Say no more ! Thou comest here into our Synagogue And speakest to the Elders and the Priests, As if the very mantle of Elijah Had fallen upon thee ! Art thou not ashamed ? A Pharisee. We want no Prophets here I Let him be driven From Synagogue and city 1 Let him go And prophesy to the Samaritans 1 An Elder. The world is changed. We Elders are as nothing I We are but yesterdays, that have no part Or portion in to-day I Dry leaves that rustle. That make a little sound, and then are dust 1 A Pharisee. A carpenter’s appren- tice 1 a mechanic. Whom we have seen at work here in the town Day after day: a stripling without learning. Shall he pretend to unfold the Word of God To men grown old in study of the Law ? (Christus is thrust out.) VI. THE SEA OF GALILEE. Peter and Andrew, mending their nets. Peter. Never was such a marvellous draught of fishes Heard of in Galilee I The market- places Both of Bethsaida and Capernaum Are full of them ! Yet we had toiled all night And taken nothing, when the Master said : Launch out into the deep, and cast your nets ; THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. 22 And doing this, we caught such multi- tudes Our nets like spiders’ webs were snapped asunder. And with the draught we filled two ships so full That they began to sink. Then I knelt down Amazed, and said: O Lord, depart from me, I am a sinful man. And he made an- . swer : Simon, fear not ; henceforth thou shalt catch men ! What was the meaning of those words ? A^idrew. I know not. But here is Philip, come from Naza- reth. He hath been with the Master. Tell us, Philip, What tidings dost thou bring? Philip, Most wonderful ! As we drew near to Nain, out of the gate Upon a bier was carried the dead body Of a young man, his mother’s only son. And she a widow, who with lamentation Bewailed her loss, and the much people with her ; And when the Master saw her he was filled With pity ; and he said to her : Weep not ! And came and touched the bier, and they that bare it Stood still ; and then he said : Young man, arise ! And he that had been dead sat up, and soon Began to speak ; and he delivered him Unto his mother. And there came a fear On all the people, and they glorified The Lord, and said, rejoicing : A great Prophet Is risen up among us ! and the Lord Hath visited his people ! ■ Peter. A great Prophet ? Ay, greater than a Prophet : greater even Than John the Baptist ! Philip. _ Yet the Nazarenes Rejected him. Peter. The Nazarenes are dogs ! As natural brute beasts, they growl at things They do not understand; and they shall perish. Utterly perish in their own corruption. The Nazarenes are dogs ! Philip. They drave him forth Out of their Synagogue, out of their city. And would have cast him down a pre- cipice. But, passing through the midst of them, he vanished Out of their hands. Peter. Wells are they without water. Clouds carried with a tempest, unto whom The mist of darkness is reserved for- ever ! Philip. Behold he cometh. There is one man with him I am amazed to see ! A ndrew. What man is that ? Philip. Judas Iscariot ; he that cometh last. Girt with a leathern apron. No one knoweth His history ; but the rumor of him is He had an unclean spirit in his youth. It hath not left him yet. Christus (passing-). Come unto me. All ye that labor and are heavy laden. And I will give you rest ! Come unto me. And take my yoke upon you and learn of me. For I am meek, and I am lowly in heart. And ye shall all find rest unto your souls ! Philip. O, there is something in that voice that reaches The innermost recesses of my spirit ! I feel that it might say unto the blind : Receive your sight ! and straightway they would see ! I feel that it might say unto the dead. Arise ! and they would hear it and obey ! Behold he beckons to us ! Christus(toPeter and A ndrew). Fol- low me I Peter. Master, I will leave all and follow thee. THE FIRST PASSOVER. 23 VII. THE DEMONIAC OF GADARA. A Gadarene. He hath escaped, hath plucked his chains asunder, And broken his fetters ; always night and day Is in the mountains here, and in the tombs. Crying aloud, and cutting himself with stones. Exceeding fierce, so that no man can tame him ! The Dem07iiac {fro77i above, miseen). O Aschmedai ! O Aschmedai, have pity ! _ A Gadarene. Listen ! It is his voice ! Go warn the people Just landing from the lake I The Demoniac. O Aschmedai ! Thou angel of the bottomless pit,, have pity ! It was enough to hurl King Solomon, On whom be peace ! two hundred leagues away Into the country, and to make him scullion, In the kitchen of the King of Masch- kemen ! Why dost thou hurl me here among these rocks, And cut me with these stones ? A Gadarene. He raves and mutters He knows not what. The Demoniac {appearing from a toj7ib among the rocks). The wild cock Tarnegal Singeth to me, and bids me to the ban- quet. Where all the Jews shall come ; for they have slain Behemoth the great ox, who daily cropped A thousand hills for food, and at a draught Drank up the river Jordan, and have slain The huge Leviathan, and stretched his skin Upon the high walls of Jerusalem, And made them shine from one end of the world Unto the other ; and the fowl Barjuchne, Whose outspread wings eclipse the sun, and make Midnight at noon o’er all the conti- nents ! And we shall drink the wine of Paradise From Adam’s cellars. A Gadarene. O, thou unclean spirit ! The Demoniac {hurlmg down a stotie). 'I'his is the wonderful Barjuchne’s egg. That fell out of her nest, and broke to pieces. And swept away three hundred cedar- trees. And threescore villages ! — Rabbi Elie- zer. How thou didst sin there in that sea- port town. When thou hadst carried safe thy chest of silver Over the seven rivers for her sake ! I too have sinned beyond the reach oL pardon. Ye hills and mountains, pray for mercy on me ! Ye stars and planets, pray for mercy on me ! Ye sun and moon, O pray for mercy on me ! (Christus and his disciples pass.) A Gadarene. There is a man here of Decapolis, Who hath an unclean spirit ; so that none Can pass this way. He lives among the tombs Up there upon the cliffs, and hurls down stones On those who pass beneath. Christus. Come out of him. Thou unclean spirit ! The Demo7iiac. What have I to do With thee, thou Son of God? Do not torment us. Christus. What is thy name ? Demojiiac. Legion ; for we are many. Cain, the first murderer ; and the King Belshazzar, And Evil Merodach of Babylon, And Admatha, the death-cloud, prince of Persia : And Aschmedai, the angel of the pit. 24 THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. And many other devils. We are Legion. Send us not forth beyond Decnpolis : Command us not to go into the deep ! There is a herd of swine here in the pastures, Let us go into them. Christus. Come out of him, Thou unclean spirit ! A Gadare7ie. See, how stupefied. How motionless he stands ! He cries no more ; He seems bewildered and in silence stares As one who,' walking in his sleep, awakes And knows not where he is, and looks about him, And at his nakedness, and is ashamed. The De^noniac. Why am I here alone among the tombs ? What have they done to me, that I am naked ? Ah, woe is me ! Christus. Go home unto thy friends And tell them how great things the Lord hath done For thee, and how he had compassion on thee ! A Swineherd {running). The herds ! the herds ! O most un- lucky day ! They were all feeding quiet in the sun, When suddenly they started, and grew savage As the wild boars of Tabor, and to- gether Rushed down a precipice into the sea ! They are all drowned ! Peter. Thus righteously are punished The apostate Jews, that eat the flesh of swine, And broth of such abominable things ! Greeks of Gadara. We sacrifice a sow unto Demeter At the beginning of harvest, and another To Dionysus at the vintage-time. Therefore we prize our herds of swine, and count them Not as upclean, but as things consecrate To the immortal gods. O great magi- cian. Depart out of our coasts ; let us alone. We are afraid of thee ! Peter. _ Let us depart ; For they that sanctify and purify Themselves in gardens, eating flesh of swine. And the abomination, and the mouse, Shall be consumed together, saith the Lord ! VIII. TALITHA CUMI. fairus {at the feet of Christus). O Master! I entreat thee I I im- plore thee ! My daughter lieth at the point of death ; I pray thee come and lay thy hands upon her. And she shall live ! Christus. Who was it touched my garments? Simon Peter. Thou seest the multi- tude that throng and press thee. And sayest thou : Who touched me ? ’T was not 1. Christus. Some one hath touched my garments ; I perceive That virtue is gone out of me. A Wo7nan. O Master ! Forgive me ! For I said within myself. If I so much as touch his garment’s hem, I shall be whole. Christus. Be of good comfort, daughter ! Thy faith hath made the whole. De- part in peace. A Messenger from the house. Why troublest thou the Master? Hearest thou not The flute-players, and the voices of the women Singing their lamentation ? She is dead ! The Minstrels and Mourners. We have girded ourselves with sack-- cloth I We have covered our heads with ashes I For our young men die, and out maidens Swoon in the streets of the city ; And into their mother’s bosom I'hey pour out their souls like water I THE FIRST PASSOVER. 25 Christus {going in). Give place. Why make ye this ado, and weep? She is not dead, but sleepeth. The Mother [from within). Cruel death ! To take away from me this tender blossom ! To take away my dove, my lamb, my darling ! The Minstrels and Mourners. He hath led me and brought into darkness, Like the dead of old in dark places ! He hath bent his bow, and hath set Apart as a mark for his arrow ! ■ He hath covered himself with a cloud. That our prayer should not pass through and reach him ! The Crowd. He stands beside her bed ! He takes her hand ! Listen, he speaks to her ! Christus {within). Maiden, arise ! The Crowd. See, she obeys his voice ! She stirs ! She lives ! Her mother holds her folded in her arms ! O miracle of miracles ! O marvel ! IX. THE TOWER OF MAGDALA. Mary Magdalene. Companionless, unsatisfied, forlorn, • I sit here in this lonely tower, and look Upon the lake below me, and the hills That swoon with heat, and see as in a vision All my past life unroll itself before me. The princes and the merchants come to me. Merchants of Tyre and Princes of Damascus, And pass, and disappear, and are no more : But leave behind their merchandise and jewels, Their perfumes, and their gold, and their disgust. I loathe them, and the very memory of them Is unto me, as thought of food to one Cloyed with the luscious figs of Dal- manutha ! What if hereafter, in the long hereafter Of endless joy or pain, or joy in pain, It were my punishment to be with them Grown hideous and decrepit in their sins. And hear them say : Thou that hast brought us here. Be unto us as thou hast been of old ! I look upon this raiment that I wear, These silks, and these embroideries, and they seem Only as cerements wrapped about my limbs ! I look upon these rings thick set with pearls And emerald and amethyst and jasper. And they are burning coals upon my flesh ! This serpent on my wrist becomes alive ! Away, thou viper ! and away, ye gar- lands Whose odors bring the swift remem- brance back Of the unhallowed revels in these chambers ! But yesterday, — and yet it seems to me Something remote, like a pathetic song Sung long ago by minstrels in the street, — But yesterday, as from this tower I gazed. Over the olive and the walnut trees Upon the lake and the white ships, and wondered Whither and whence they steered, and who was in them, A fisher’s boat drew near the landing- place Under the oleanders, and the people Came up from it, and passed beneath the tower. Close under me. In front of them, as leader. Walked one of royal aspect, clothed in white. Who lifted up his eyes, and looked at me, 26 THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. And all at once the air seemed filled' and living With a mysterious power, that streamed from him, And overflowed me with an atmos- phere Of light and love. As one entranced I stood, And when I woke again, lo ! he was gone ; So that I said : Perhaps it is a dream. But from that very hour the seven demons That had their habitation in this body Which men call beautiful, departed from me ! This morning, when the first gleam of the dawn Made Lebanon a glory in the air, And all below was darkness, I beheld An angel, or a spirit glorified, With wind-tossed garments walking on the lake. The face I could not see, but I dis- tinguished The attitude and gesture, and I knew ’T was he that healed me. And the gusty wind Brought to mine ears a voice, which seemed to say : Be of good cheer ! ’T is I ! Be not afraid ! And from the darkness, scarcely heard, the answer : If it be thou, bid me come unto thee Upon the water ! And the voice said : Come ! And then I heard a cry of fear : Lord, save me ! As of a drowning man. And then the voice : Why didst thou doubt, O thou of little faith ! At this all vanished, and the wind was hushed. And the great sun came up above the hills, And the swift-flying vapors hid them- selves In caverns among the rocks ! O, I must find him And follow him, and be with him for- ever ! Thou box of alabaster, in whose walls The souls of flowers lie pent, the pre- . cious balm And spikenard of Arabian farms, the spirits Of aromatic herbs, ethereal natures Nursed by the sun and dew, not all unworthy To bathe his consecrated feet, whose step Makes every threshold holy that he crosses ; Let us go forth upon our pilgrimage, Thou and I only ! Let us search for him Until we find him, and pour out our souls Before his feet, till all that ’s left of us Shall be the broken caskets, that once held us ! X. THE HOUSE OF SIMON THE PHARISEE. A Gtiest {at table). Are ye deceived ? Have any of the Rulers Believed on him? or do they know in- deed This man to be the very Christ? How- beit We know whence thfs man is, but when the Christ Shall come, none knoweth whence he Chrishis. Whereunto shall I liken, then, the men Of this generation ? and what are they ■ They are like children sitting in the markets. And calling unto one another, say- ing : We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced ; We have mourned unto you, and ye have not wept ! This say I unto you, for John the Baptist Came neither eating bread nor drink- ing wine ; THE FIRST PASSOVER. 27 Ye say he hath a devil. The Son of Man Eating and drinking cometh, and ye say : Behold a gluttonous man, and a wine- bibber ; Behold a friend of publicans and sin- ners ! A Guest {aside to Simon). Who is that woman yonder, gliding in So silently behind him ? Simon. It is Mary, Who dwelleth in the Tower of Magdala. The Guest. See, how she kneels there weeping, and her tears Fall on his feet ; and her long, golden hair Waves to and fro and wipes them dry again. And now she kisses them, and from a box Of alabaster is anointing them With precious ointment, filling all the house With its sweet odor ! Simon (aside). O, this man, for- sooth Were he indeed a Prophet, would have known Who and what manner of woman this may be That toucheth him ! would know she is a sinner ! Christus. Simon, somewhat have I to say to thee. Simon. Master, say on. Christus. A certain creditor Had once two debtors ; and the one of them Owed him five hundred pence ; the other, fifty. They having naught to pay withal, he frankly Forgave them both. Now tell me which of them Will love him most? Simon. He, I suppose, to whom He most forgave. Christus. Yea, thou hast rightly judged. Seest thou this woman? When thine house I entered. Thou gavest me no water for my feet. But she hath washed them with her tears, and wiped them With her own hair ! Thou gavest me no kiss ; This woman hath not ceased, since I came in. To kiss my feet ! My head with oil •didst thou Anoint not ; but this woman hath anointed My feet with ointment. Hence I say to thee. Her sins, which have been many, are forgiven. For she loved much. The Guests. O, who, then, is this man That pardoneth also sins without atone- ment? Christus. Woman, thy faith hath saved thee ! Go in peace ! THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. THE SECOND PASSOVER. THE SECOND PASSOVER. BEFORE THE GATES OF MACHiERUS. Manahe^n. Welcome, O wilderness, and welcome, night And solitude, and ye swift-flying stars That drift with golden sands the barren heavens, Welcome once more ! The Angels of the Wind Hasten across the desert to receive me ; And sweeter than men’s voices are to me The voices of these solitudes ; the sound Of unseen rivulets, and the far-off cry Of bitterns in the reeds of water-pools. And lo ! above me, like the Prophet’s arrow Shot from the eastern window, high in air The clamorous cranes go singing through the night. 0 ye mysterious pilgrims of the air. Would I had wings that I might follow you ! 1 look forth from these mountains, and behold The omnipotent and omnipresent night. Mysterious as the future and the fate That hangs o’er all men’s lives ! I see beneath me The desert stretching to the Dead Sea shore. And westward, faint and far away, the glimmer Of torches on Mount Olivet, announ- cing The rising of the Moon of Passover. Like a great cross it seems, on which suspended. With head bowed down in agony, I see A human figure ! Hide, O merciful heaven. The awful apparition from my sight ! And thou, Machcerus, lifting high and black Thy dreadful walls against the rising moon. Haunted by demons and by apparitions, Lilith, and Jezerhara, and Bedargon, How grim thou showest in the uncer- tain light, A palace and a prison, where King Herod Feasts with Herodlas, while the Bap- tist John Fasts, and consumes his unavailing life 1 And in thy court-yard grows the un- tithed rue. Huge as the olives of Gethsemane, And ancient as the terebinth of Hebron, Coeval with the world. Would that its leaves Medicinal could purge thee of the de- mons. That now possess thee, and the cun- ning fox That burrovvs in thy walls, contriving mischief 1 {Music is heard from within^ Angels of God ! Sandalphon, thou that weavest The prayers of men into immortal gar- lands. And thou, Metatron, who dost gather up THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Their songs, and bear them to the gates of heaven, Now gather up together in your hands The prayers that fill this prison, and the songs That echo from the ceiling of this palace. And lay them side by side before God’s feet ! {He enters the castle.) II. HEROD’S BANQUET-HALL. Manahem. Thou hast sent for me, O King, and I am here. Herod. Who art thou ? Manahem. Manahem, the Essenian. Herod. I recognize thy features, but what mean These torn and faded garments? On thy road Have demons crowded thee, and rubbed against thee. And given thee weary knees ? A cup of wine ! Manahem. The Essenians drink no wine. Herod. What wilt thou, then? Manahejn. Nothing. Herod. N ot even a cup of water ? Manahem. Nothing. Why hast thou sent for me ? Herod. Dost thou remember One day when I, a school-boy in the streets Of the great city, met thee on my way To school, and thou didst say to me : Hereafter Thou shalt be King? Manahevt. _ Yea, I remember it. Herod. Thinking thou didst not know me, I replied : I am of humble birth ; whereat, thou, smiling. Didst smite me with thy hand, and saidst again : Thou shalt be King; and let the friendly blows That Manahem hath given thee on this day Remind thee of the fickleness of for- tune. Manahem. What more ? Herod. No more. Ma7iahem. Yea, for I said to thee : It shall be well with thee if thou love justice And clemency towards thy fellow-men. Hast thou done this, O King? Herod. Go, ask my people. Manahem. And then, foreseeing all thy life, I added : But these thou wilt forget ; and at the end Of life the Lord will punish thee. Herod. The end ! When will that come ? Forthisisent to thee. How long shall I still reign? Thou dost not answer ! Speak ! shall I reign ten years? Manahem. Thou shalt reign twenty. Nay, thirty years. I cannot name the end. Herod. Thirty ? I thank thee, good Essenian ! This is my birthday, and a happier one Was never mine. We hold a banquet here. See, yonder are Herodias and her daughter. Maftahem {aside). ’T is said that devils sometimes take the shape Of ministering angels, clothed with air. That they may be inhabitants of earth, And lead man to destruction. Such are these. Herod. Knowest thou John the . Baptist ? Manahem. Yea, I know him ; Who knows him not ? Herod. Know, then, this John the Baptist Said that it was not lawful I should ~ marry My brother Philip’s wife, and John the Baptist Is here in prison. In my father’s time Matthias Margaloth was put to death For tearing the golden eagle from its station THE SECOND PASSOVER. 33 Above the Temple Gate, — a slighter crime Than John is guilty of. These things are warnings To intermeddlers not to play with eagles, Living or dead. I think the Essenians Are wiser, or more wary, are they not? Manahem. The Essenians do not marry. Herod. Thou hast given My words a meaning foreign to my thought. Manahem. Let me go hence, O King ! Herod. Stay yet awhile. And see the daughter of Herodias dance. Cleopatra of Jerusalem, my mother, In her best days, was not more beau- tiful. (Music. The Daughter of Hero- dias dances.') Herod. O, what was Miriam dan- cing with her timbrel. Compared to this one ? Manahem (aside). O thou Angel of Death, Dancing at funerals among the women. When men bear out the dead ! The air is hot And stifles me ! O for a breath of air ! Bid me .depart, O King ! Herod. Not yet. Come hither, Salome, thou enchantress ! Ask of me Whate’er thou wilt ; and even unto the half Of all my kingdom, I will give it thee, As the Lord liveth ! Daughter of Herodias (kneeling). Give me here the head Of John the Baptist on this silver charger ! Herod. Not that, dear child ! I dare not ; for the people Regard John as a prophet. Dajighter of Herodias. Thou hast sworn it. Herod. F or mine oath’s sake, then. Send unto the prison : Let him die quickly. O accursed oath ! Manahem. Bid me depart, O King ! 3 Herod. Good Manahem Give me thy hand. I love the Esseni- ans. He ’s gone and hears me not ! The guests are dumb. Awaiting the pale face, the silent wit- ness. The lamps flare ; and the curtains of the doorways Wave to and fro as if a ghost were passing ! Strengthen my heart, red wine of Asca- lon ! III. UNDER THE WALLS OF MACHiERUS. Manahem (rushing out). Away from this Palace of sin ! The demons, the terrible powers Of the air, that haunt its towers And hide in its water-spouts. Deafen me with the din Of their laughter and Jheir shouts For the crimes that are done within ! Sink back into the earth, Or vanish into the air. Thou castle of despair ! Let it all be but a dream Of the things of monstrous birth, Of the things that only seem ! White Angel of the Moon, Onafiel ! be my guide Out of this hateful place Of sm and death, nor hide In yon black cloud too soon Thy pale and tranquil face ! (A trumpet is blown from the walls.) Hark ! hark ! It is the breath Of the trump of doom and death, From the battlements overhead Like a burden of sorrow cast On the midnight and the blast, A wailing for the dead. That the gusts drop and uplift ! O Herod, thy vengeance is swift 1 O Herodias, thou hast been The demon, the evil thing, That in place of Esther the Queen, In place of the lawful bride. 34 THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Hast lain at night by the side Of Ahasiierus the king ! {The trumpet again.') The Prophet of God is dead I At a drunken monarch’s call, At a dancing-woman’s beck, Tliey have severed that stubborn neck, And into the banquet-hall Are bearing the ghastly head ! {A body is thrown from the tower.) A torch of lurid red Lights the window with its glow ; And a white mass as of snow Is hurled into the abyss Of the black precipice. That yawns for it below ! O hand of the Most High, O hand of Adonai ! Bury it, hide it away From the birds and beasts of prey, And the eyes of the homicide, - More pitiless than they. As thou didst bury of yore The body of him that died On the mountain of Peor ! Even now I behold a sign, A threatening of wrath divine, A watery, wandering star. Through whose streaming hair, and the white Unfolding garments of light. That trail behind it afar. The constellations shine ! And the whiteness and brightness ap- pear Like the Angel bearing the Seer ^ By the hair of his head, in the might And rush of his vehement flight. And I listen until I hear From fathomless depths of the sky The voice of his prophecy Sounding louder and more near ! Malediction ! malediction ! May the lightnings of heaven fall On palace and prison wall. And their desolation be As the day of fear and affliction. As the day of anguish arid ire. With the burning and fuel of fire. In the Valley of the Sea ! IV. NICODEMUS AT NIGHT. Nicodemus. The streets are silent. The dark houses seem Like sepulchres, in which the sleepers lie Wrapped in their shrouds, and for the moment dead. The lamps are all extinguished ; only Burns steadily, and from the door its light Lies like a shining gate across the street. He waits for me. Ah, should this be at last The long-expected Christ ! I see him there Sitting alone, deep -buried in his thought. As if the weight of all the world were resting Upon him, and thus bowed him down. O Rabbi, We know thou art a Teacher come from God, For no man can perform the miracles Thou dost perform, except the Lord be with him. Thou art a Prophet, sent here to pro- claim The Kingdom of the Lord. Behold in me A Ruler of the Jews, who long have waited The coming of that kingdom. Tell me of it. Christus. Verily, verily I say unto thee. Except a man be born again, he cannot Behold the Kingdom of God ! Nicodemus. Be born again ? How can a man be born when he is old? Say, can he enter for a second time Into his mother’s womb, and so be born ? Christus. Verily I say unto thee, except A man be born of water and the spirit. He cannot enter into the Kingdom of God. THE SECOND PASSOVER. 35 For that which of the flesh is born, is flesh ; And that which of the spirit is born, is spirit. Nicodemus. We Israelites from the Primeval Man Adam Ahelion derive our bodies,; Our souls are breathings of the Holy Ghost. No more than this we know, or need to know. Christus. Then marvel not, that I said unto thee Ye must be born again. Nicodemus. The mystery Of birth and death we cannot compre- hend. Christus. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and we hear The sound thereof, but know not whence it cometh. Nor whither it goeth. So is every one Born of the spirit ! Nicodemus {aside). How can these things be ? He seems to speak of some vague realm of shadows, Some unsubstantial kingdom of the air ! It is not this the Jews are waiting for, N or can this be the Christ, the Son of David, Who shall deliver us ! Christus. Art thou a master Of Israel, and knowest not these things ? We speak that we do know, and testify That we have seen, and ye will not re- ceive Our witness. If I tell you earthly things. And ye believe not, how shall ye be- lieve. If I should tell you of things heavenly ? And no man hath ascended up to heav- en, But he alone that first came down from heaven, Even the Son of Man which is- in heaven ! Nicodemus {aside). This is a dreamer of dreams : a visionary. Whose brain is overtasked, until he deems The unseen world to be a thing sub- stantial. And this we live in an unreal vision ! And yet his presence fascinates and fills me With wonder, and I feel myself exalted Into a higher region, and become Myself in part a dreamer of his dreams A seer of his visions ! Christus. And as Moses Uplifted the serpent in the wilderness So must the Son of Man be lifted up : That whosoever shall believe in him Shall perish not, but have eternal life. He that believes in him is not con- demned ; He that believes not, is condemned already. Nicodemus {aside). He speaketh like a Prophet of the Lord ! Christus. This is the condemnation ; that the light Is come into the world, and men loved darkness Rather than light, because their deeds are evil ! Nicodemus {aside). Of me he speak- eth ! He reproveth me Because I come by night to question him ! Christus. F or every one that doeth evil deeds Hateth the light, nor cometh to the light. Lest he should be reproved. Nicodemtis {aside). Alas, how truly He readeth what is passing in my heart ! Christus. But he that doeth truth conies to the light. So that his deeds may be made mani- fest. That they are wrought in God. Nicodemus. Alas ! alas ! V. BLIND BARTIMEUS. Bartimeus. Be not impatient, Chil- ion ; it is pleasant To sit here in the shadow of the Vails 36 THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Under the palms, and hear the hum of bees, And rumor of voices passing to and fro, And drowsy bells of caravans on their way To Sidon or Damascus. This is still The City of Palms, and yet the walls thou seest Are not the old walls, not the walls where Rahab Hid the two spies, and let them down by cords Out of the window, when the gates were shut, And it was dark. Those walls were overthrown When Joshua’s army shouted, and the priests Blew with their seven trumpets. Chilion. When was that ? Bartimeus. O, my sweet rose of Jericho, I know not. Hundreds of years ago. And over there Beyond the river, the great prophet Elijah Was taken by a whirlwind up to heaven In chariot of fire, with fiery horses. That is the plain of Moab ; and beyond it Rise the blue summits of Mount Abarim, Nebo and Pisgahand Peor, where Mo- ses Died, whom the Lord knew face to face, and whom He buried in a valley, and no man Knows of his sepulchre unto this day. Chilion. Would thou couldst see these places, as I see them. Bartimetis. I have not seen a glim- mer of the light Since thou wast born. I never saw thy face, And yet I seem to see it ; and one day Perhaps shall see it ; for there is a Prophet In Galilee, the Messiah, the Son of David, Who heals the blind, if I could only find him. I hear the sound of many feet ap- •proaching And voices, like the murmur of a crowd ! What seest thou ? Chilion. A young man clad in white Is coming through the gateway, and a crowd Of people follow. Bartimeus. Can it be the Prophet ? 0 neighbors, tell me who it is that passes ! One of the Crowd. Jesus of Nazareth. BartimeTis {crying). O Son of Da- vid ! Have mercy on me ! Many of the Crowd. Peace, Blind Bartimeus ! Do not disturb the Master. Bartimeus {crying more vehement- ly). Son of David, Have mercy on me ! One of the Crowd. See, the Master Stops. Be of good comfort ; rise, he calleth thee ! Bartimeiis {casting away his cloak). Chilion ! good neighbors ! lead me on. Christus. What wilt thou That I should do to thee ? Bartimeus. Good Lord ! my sight — That I receive my sight ! Christus. Receive thy sight I Thy faith hath made thee whole ! The Crowd. He sees again ! (Christus passes on. The cro^vd gath- ers round Bartimeus.) Bartimeus. I see again ; but sight bewilders me ! Like a remembered dream, familiar things Comeback to me. I see the tender sky Above me, see the trees, the city walls. And the old gateway, through whose echoing arch 1 groped so many years ; and you, my neighbors ; But know you by your friendly voices only. How beautiful the world is ! and how wide ! O, I am miles away, if I but look ! Where art thou, Chilion? Chilion. Father, I am here. THE SECOND PASSOVER. 37 Bartimeus. O let me gaze upon thy face, dear child ! For I have only seen thee with my hands ! How beautiful thou art ! I should have known thee ; Thou hast her eyes whom we shall see hereafter ! O God of Abraham ! Elion ! Adonai ! Who art thyself a Father, pardon me If for a moment I have thee postponed To the affections and the thoughts of earth. Thee, and the adoration that I owe thee. When by thy power alone these dark- ened eyes Have been unsealed again to see thy light ! VI. JACOB’S WELL. A Samaritan W oman. The sun is hot : and the dry east-wind blow- ing Fills all the air with dust. The birds are silent ; Even the little fieldfares in the corn Nt longer twitter ; only the grasshop- pers Sing their incessant song of sun and summer. I wonder who those strangers were I met Going into the city ? Galileans They seemed to me in speaking, when they asked The short way to the market-place. Perhaps They are fishermen from the lake ; or travellers. Looking to find the inn. And here is some one Sitting beside the well ; another stran- ger : A Galilean also by his looks. What can so many Jews be doing here Together in Samaria.^ Are they going Up to Jerusalem to the Passover? Our Passover is better here at Sychem, For here is Ebal ; here is Gerizim, The mountain where our father Abra- ham Went up to offer Isaac ; here the tomb Of Joseph, — for they brought his bones from Egypt And buried them in this land, and it is holy. Christus. Give me to drink. Samaritan M^oman. How can it be that thou. Being a Jew, askest to drink of me Which am a woman of Samaria? You Jews despise us ; have no dealings with us ; Make us a by-word ; call us in derision The silly folk of Sychar. Sir, how is it Thou askest drink of me ? Christus. If thou hadst known The gift of God, and who it is that sayeth Give me to drink, thou wouldst have asked of him ; He would have given thee the living water. Samaritan Woman. Sir, thou hast naught to draw with, and the well Is deep ! Whence hast thou living water ? Say, art thou greater than our father Jacob, Which gave this well to us, and drank thereof Himself, and all his children, and his cattle? Christus. Ah, whosoever drinketh of this water Shall thirst again ; but whosoever drinketh The water I shall give him shall not thirst Forevermore, for it shall be within him A well of living water, springing up Into life everlasting. Samaritan Woman. Every day I must go to and fro, in heat and col«L And I am weary. Give me of this water, That I may thirst not, nor com.e here to draw. Christus. Go call thy husband, wo- man, and come hither. Samaritan Woman. I have no hus- band, Sir. THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Christus. Thou hast well said I have no husband. Thou hast had five husbands ; And he whom now thou hast is not thy husband. Samaritan Woman. Surely thou art a Prophet, for thou readest The hidden things of life ! Our fa- thers worshipped Upon this mountain Gerizim ; and ye say The only place in which men ought to worship Is at Jerusalem. Christus. Believe me, woman, The hour is coming, when ye neither shall Upon this mount, nor at Jerusalem^,, Worship the Father; for the hour is coming, And is now come, when the true wor- shippers Shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth ! The F ather seeketh such to worship him. God is a spirit ; and they that worship him Mu.st worship him in spirit and in truth. Sa?naritan Woman. Master, I know that the Messiah cometh. Which is called Christ ; and he will tell us all things. Christus. I that speak unto thee am he ! The Disciples {returning). Behold, The Master sitting by the well, and talking With a Samaritan woman ! With a woman Of Sychar, the silly people, always boasting Of their Mount Ebal, and Mount Geri- zim, Their Everlasting Mountain, which they think Higher and holier than our Mount Moriah ! Why, once upon the Feast of the New Moon, When our great Sanhedrim of Jerusa- lem Had all its watch-fires kindled on the hills To warn the distant villages, these people Lighted up others to mislead the Jews, And make a mockery of their festival ! See, she has left the Master; and is running Back to the city ! The Samaritan Woman. O, come see a man Who hath told me all things that I ever did ! Say, is not this the Christ ? The Disciples. Lo, Master, here Is food, that we have brought thee from the city. We pray thee eat it. Christus. I have food to eat Ye know not of. The Disciples {to each other). Hath any man been here. And brought him aught to eat, while we were gone ? Christus. The food I speak of is to do the will Of him that sent me, and to finish his work. Do ye not say, Lo ! there are yet four months And cometh harvest ? I say unto you. Lift up your eyes, and look upon the fields. For they are white already unto har- vest ! VII. THE COASTS OF CAESAREA • PHILIPPI. Christus {going up the mountain). Who do the people say lam? John. Some say That thou art John the Baptist ; some, Elias ; And others Jeremiah. James. Or that one Of the old Prophets is arisen again. Christus. But who say ye I am? Peter. Thou art the Christ ! Thou art the Son of God ! Christus. Blessed art thou, Simon Barjona ! Flesh and blood hath not Revealed it unto thee, but even my Father, THE SECOND PASSOVER. 39 Which is in Heaven. And I say unto thee That thou art Peter ; and upon this rock I build my Church, and all the gates of Shall not prevail against it. But take heed Ye tell to no man that I am the Christ. For I must go up to Jerusalem, And suffer many things, and be rejected Of the Chief Priests, and of the Scribes and Elders, And must be crucified, and the third day Shall rise again ! Peter. Be it far from thee. Lord ! This shall not be 1 Christus. Get thee behind me, Satan ! Thou savorest not the things that be of God, But those that be of men ! If any will Come after me, let him deny himself, And daily take his cross, and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it. And whosoever will lose his life shall find it. For wherein shall a man be profited If he shall gain the whole world, and shall lose Himself or be a castaway? James {after a long pause). Why doth The Master lead us up into this moun- tain ? Peter. He goeth up to pray. John. See, where he standeth Above us on the summit of the hill ! His face shines as the sun ! and all his raiment Exceeding white as snow, so as no fuller On earth can white them ! He is not alone ; There are two with him there ; two men of eld, Their white beards blowing on the mountain air. Are talking with him. James. I am sore afraid ! Peter. Who and whence are they ? John. Moses and Elias ! Peter. O Master ! it is good for us to be here ! If thou wilt, let us make three taberna- cles ; For thee one, and for Moses and Elias ! John. Behold a bright cloud sailing in the sun ! It overshadows us. A golden mist Now hides them from us, and envelops us And all the mountain in a luminous shadow ! I see no more. The nearest rocks are hidden. Voice from the cloud. Lo ! this is my beloved Son ! Hear him ! Peter. It is the voice of God. He ' speaketh to us. As from the burning bush he spake to Moses ! John. The cloud-wreaths roll away. The veil is lifted ; We see again. Behold ! he is alone. It was a vision that our eyes beheld. And it hath vanished into the un- seen. Christus [coming down from the mo7intain'). I charge ye, tell the vision unto no one, Till the Son of Man be risen from the dead ! Peter {aside). Again he speaks of it ! What can it mean. This rising from the dead? James. Why say the Scribes Elias must first come ? Christus. He cometh first, Restoring all things. But I say to you, That this Elias is already come. They knew him not, but have done unto him Whate’er they listed, as is written of him. Peter {aside). It is of John the Bap- tist he is speaking. James. As we descend, see, at the mountain’s foot, A crowd of people ; coming, going, thronging Round the disciples, that we left be- hind us, Seeming impatient that we stay so long. 40 THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Peter. It is some blind man, or some paralytic That waits the Master’s coming to be healed. yaffles. I see a boy, who struggles and demeans him As if an unclean spirit tormented him ! A certain Man (^running forward). Lord ! I beseech thee, look upon my son. He is mine only child ; a lunatic. And sorely vexed ; for oftentimes he falleth Into the fire and oft into the water. Wherever the dumb spirit taketh him He teareth him. He gnasheth with his teeth, And pines away. I spake to thy disciples That they should cast him out, and they could not. Christus. O faithless generation and perverse ! How long shall I be with you, and suf- fer you ? Bring thy son hither. Bystanders. How the unclean spirit Seizes the boy, and tortures him with pain ! He falleth to the ground and wallows, foaming ! He cannot live. Christus. How long is it ago Since this came unto him ? The Father. Even of a child. O have compassion on us. Lord, and help us. If thou canst help us. Christus. If thou canst believe 1 For unto him that verily believeth. All things are possible. The Father. Lord, I believe ! Help thou mine unbelief! Christus. Dumb and deaf spirit, Come out of him, I charge thee, and no more Enter thou into him 1 ( The boy utters a loud cry of pain, and then lies still. ) Bystanders. How motionless He lieth there. No life is left in him. His eyes are like a blind man’s, that see not. The boy is dead ! Others. Behold ! the Master stoops. And takes him by the hand, and lifts him up. He is not dead. Disciples. But one word from those lips. But one touch of that hand, and he is healed ! Ah, why could we not do it ? The Father. My poor child ! Now thou art mine again. The un- clean spirit Shall never more torment thee ! Look at me ! Speak unto me ! Say that thou know- est me ! Disciples to Christus {departing). Good Master, tell us, for what reason was it We could not cast him out? Christus. Because of your unbelief I VIII. THE YOUNG RULER. Christus. Two men went up into the temple to pray. The one was a self-righteous Pharisee, The other a Publican. And the Phar- isee Stood and prayed thus within himself : O God, I thank thee I am not as other men, Extortioners, unjust, adulterers. Or even as this Publican. I fast Twice in the week, and also I give tithes Of all that I possess ! The Publican, Standing afar off, would not lift so much Even as his eyes to heaven, but smote his breast. Saying : God be merciful to me a sin- ner ! I tell you that this man went to his house More justified than the other. Every one That doth exalt himself shall be abased. And he that humbleth himself shall be exalted ! Children [among themselves). Let us go nearer ! He is telling stories ! Let us go listen to them. THE SECOND PASSOVER. 41 A n old Jew. _ Children, children ! What are ye doing here? Why do ye crowd us ? It was such little vagabonds as you, That followed Elisha, mocking him and crying : Go up, thou bald-head ! But the bears — the bears Came out of the wood, and tare them ! A Mother. Speak not thus ! We brought them here, that he might lay his hands On them, and bless them. Christus. Suffer little children To come unto me, and forbid them not ; Of such is the kingdom of heaven ; and their angels Look always on my Father’s face. {Takes them in his arms and blesses them.) A Young Ruler {running). Good Master ! What good thing shall I do, that I may have Eternal life ? Christus. Why callest thou me good ? There is none good but one, and that is God. If thou wilt enter into life eternal. Keep the commandments. Young Ruler. Which of them ? Christus. Thou shalt not Commit adultery ; thou shalt not kill ; Thou shalt not steal ; thou shalt not bear false witness ; Honor thy father and thy mother ; and love Thy neighbor as thyself. "Young Rider. From my youth up All these things have I kept. What lack I yet? John. With what divine compassion in his eyes The Master looks upon this eager youth. As if he loved him ! Christus. Wouldst thou perfect be. Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor. And come, take up thy cross, and follow me, And thou shalt have thy treasure in the heavens. John. Behold, how sorrowful he turns away I Christus. Children ! how hard it is for them that trust In riches to enter into the kingdom of God ! ’T is easier for a camel to go through A needle’s eye, than for the rich to enter The kingdom of God ! John. Ah, who then can be saved ? Christus. With men this is indeed impossible. But unto God all things are possi- ble ! Peter. Behold, we have left all, and followed thee. What shall we have therefor ? Christus. Eternal life. IX. AT BETHANY. Martha busy about household affairs. Mary sitting at the feet of Chris- tus. Martha. She sitteth idly at the Mas- ter’s feet, And troubles not herself with house- hold cares. ’T is the old story. When a guest ar- rives She gives up all to be with him ; while I Must be the drudge, make ready the guest-chamber. Prepare the food, set everything in or- der, And see that naught is wanting in the house. She shows her love by words, and I by works. Mary. O Master ! when thou com- est, it is always A Sabbath in the house. I cannot work ; I must sit at thy feet ; must see thee, hear thee ! I have a feeble, wayward, doubting heart. Incapable of endurance or great thoughts, Striving for something that it cannot reach, 42 THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Baffled and disappointed, wounded, hungry ; And only when I hear thee am I happy, And only when I see thee am at peace! Stronger than I, and wiser, and far better In every manner, is my sister Martha. You see how well she orders everything To make thee welcome ; how she comes and goes, Careful and cumbered ever with much serving, While I but welcome thee with foolish words ! Whene’er thou speakest to me, I am happy ; When thou art silent, I am satisfied. Thy presence is enough. I ask no more. Only to be with thee, only to see thee, Sufficeth me. My heart is then at rest. I wonder I am worthy of so much. Martha. Lord, dost thou care not that my sister Mary Hath left me thus to wait on thee alone ? I pray thee, bid her help me. Ckristus. Martha, Martha, Careful and troubled about many things Art thou, and yet one thing alone is needful I Thy sister Mary hath chosen that good part. Which never shall be taken away from her 1 X. BORN BLIND. A yew. Who is this beggar blinking in the sun ? Is it not he who used to sit and beg By the Gate Beautiful ? A tiother. It is the same. A Third. It is not he, but like him, for that beggar Was blind from birth. It cannot be the same. The Beggar. Yea, I am he. A yew. How have thine eyes been opened ? The Beggar. A man that is called Jesus made a clay And put it on mine eyes, and said to me : Go to Siloam’s Pool and wash thyself. I went and washed, and I received my sight. A yew. Where is he ? The Beggar. I know not. Pharisees. What is this crowd Gathered about a beggar.^ What has happened ? A yew. Here is a man who hath been blind from birth. And now he sees. He says a man called Jesus Hath healed him. Pharisees. As Godliveth, the Naza- rene ! How was this done ? The Beggar. Rabboni, he put clay Upon mine eyes ; I washed, and now I see. Pharisees. When did he this ? ■ The Beggar. Rabboni, yesterday. Pharisees. The Sabbath-day. This man is not of God Because he keepeth not the Sabbath- day ! A yew. How can a man that is a sinner do Such miracles ? Pharisees. What dost thou say of him That hath restored thy sight ? The Beggar. He is a Prophet. A yew. This is a wonderful story, but not true. A beggar’s fiction. He was not born blind, And never has been blind ! Others. Here are his parents. Ask them. Pharisees. Is this your son ? The Parents. Rabboni, yea ; We know this is our son. Pharisees. Was he bom blind? The Parents. He was bom blind. Pharisees. Then how doth he now see? The Parents (aside). What answer shall we make ? If we confess It was the Christ, we shall be driven forth JHE SECOND PASSOVER. 43 Out of the Synagogue ! We know, Rabboni, This is our son, and that he was born blind ; But by what means he seeth, we know not, Or who his eyes hath opened, we know not. He is of age ; ask him ; we cannot say ; He shall speak for himself. Pharisees. Give God the praise ! We know the man that healed thee is a sinner ! The Beggar. Whether he be a sin- ner, 1 know not ; One thing I know ; that whereas I was blind, I now do see. Pharisees. How opened he thine eyes? What did he do? The Beggar. I have already told you. Ye did not hear; why would ye hear again ? Will ye be his disciples ? Pharisees. God of Moses ! Are we demoniacs, are we halt or blind. Or palsy-stricken, or lepers, or the like. That we should join the Synagogue of Satan, And follow jugglers? Thou art his disciple. But we are disciples of Mose« ; and w'e know That God spake unto Moses ; but this fellow. We know not whence he is ! The Beggar. Why, herein is A marvellous thing ! Ye know not whence he is, Yet he hath opened mine eyes ! We know that God Heareth not sinners ; but if any man Doeth God’s will, and is his worship- per. Him doth he hear. O, since the world began It was not heard that any man hath opened The eyes of one that was born blind. If he Were not of God, surely he could do nothing ! Pharisees. Thou, who wast alto- gether born in sins And in iniquities, dost thou teach us? Away with thee out of the holy places, Thou reprobate, thou beggar, thou . blasphemer ! (The Beggar is cast out.) XI. SIMON MAGUS AND HELEN OF TYRE. On the house-top at Endor. Night. A lighted lantern on a table. Simon. Swift are the blessed Im- mortals to the mortal That perseveres ! So doth it stand re- corded In the divine Chaldaean Oracles Of Zoroaster, once Ezekiel’s slave. Who in his native East betook himself To lonely meditation, and the writing On the dried skins of oxen the Twelve Books Of the Avesta and the Oracles ! Therefore I persevere ; and I have brought thee From the great city of Tyre, where men deride The things they comprehend not, to this plain Of Esdraelon, in the Hebrew tongue Called Armageddon, and this town of Endor, Where men believe ; where all the air is full Of marvellous traditions, and the En- chantress That summoned up the ghost of Samuel Is still remembered. Thou hast seen the land : Is it not fair to look on ? Helen. It is fair. Yet not so fair as Tyre. Simoh. Is not Mount Tabor As beautiful as Carmel by the Sea? Helen. It is too silent and too soli- tary ; I miss the tumult of the streets ; the sounds Of traffic, and the going to and fro 44 THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Of people in gay attire, with cloaks of purple, And gold and silver jewelry ! Simon. Inventions Of Ahriman, the spirit of the dark. The Evil Spirit ! Helen. I regret the gossip Of friends and neighbors at the open door On summer nights. Simon. An idle waste of time. HeTn. The singing and the dancing, the delight Of music and of motion. Woe is me. To give up all these pleasures, and to lead The life we lead ! Simon. Thou canst not raise thyself Up to the level of my higher thought. And though possessing thee, I still re- main Apart from thee, and with thee, am alone In my high dreams. Helen. Happier was I in Tyre. O, I remember how the gallant ships Came sailing in, with ivory, gold and silver. And apes and peacocks ; and the sing- ing sailors ; And the gay captains, with their silken dresses, Smelling of aloes, myrrh, and cinnamon ! Simon. But the dishonor, Helen ! Let the ships Of Tarshish howl for that ! Hele7i. And what dishonor ? Remember Rahab, and how she became The ancestress of the great Psalmist David ; And wherefore should not I, Helen of Tyre, Attain like honor? Simon. Thou art Helen of Tyre, And hast been Helen of Troy, and hast been Rahab, The Queen of Sheba, and Semiramis, And Sara of seven husbands, and Jezebel, And other women of the like allure- ments; And now thou art Minerva, the first .(Eon, The Mother of Angels ! Helen. And the concubine Of Simon the Magician ! Is it honor For one who has been all these noble dames, To tramp about the dirty villages And cities of Samaria with a juggler? A charmer of serpents? Simofi. He who knows himself. Knows all things in himself. I have charmed thee. Thou beautiful asp ; yet am I no magician. I am the Power of God, and the Beau- ty of God ! I am the Paraclete, the Comforter ! Helen Illusions ! Thou deceiver, self-deceived ! Thou dost usurp the titles of another ; Thou art not what thou sayest. Simon. Am I not? Then feel my power. Helen. Would I had ne’er left Tyre ! {He looks at her., and she sinks into a deei> sleep.) Simon. Go, seeTt in thy dreams, fair unbeliever ! And leave me unto mine, if they be dreams. That take such shapes before me, that I see them ; These effable and ineffable impressions Of the mysterious world, that come to me From the elements of Fire and Earth and Water, And the all-nourishing Ether ! It is written, Look not on Nature, for her name is fatal ! Yet there are Principles, that make apparent The images of unapparent things. And the impression of vague charac- ters And visions most divine appear in ether. So speak the Oracles ; then wherefore fatal ? I take this orange-bough, w'ith its five • leaves. Each equidistant on the upright stem ; And I project them on a plane below, THE SECOND PASSOVER. 45 In the circumference of a circle drawn About a centre where the stem is plant- ed. And each still equidistant from the oth- As if a thread of gossamer were drawn Down from each leaf, and fastened with a pin. Now if from these five points a line be traced To each alternate point, we shall obtain The Pentagram, or Solomon’s Pentan- sign. Which on the banner of Antiochus Drove back the fierce barbarians of the North, Demons esteemed, and gave the Syrian King The sacred name of Soter, or of Savior. Thus Nature works mysteriously with man ; And from the Eternal One, as from a centre. All things proceed, in fire, air, earth, and water. And all are subject to one law, which broken Even in a single point, is broken in all ; Demons rush in, and chaos comes again. By this will I compel the stubborn spir- its. That guard the treasures, hid in caverns deep On Gerizim, by Uzzi the High-Priest, The ark and holy vessels, to reveal Their secret unto me, and to restore These precious things to the Samari- tans. A mist is rising from the plain below me. And as I look, the vapors shape them- selves Into strange figures, as if unawares My lips had breathed the Tetragram- maton. And from their graves, o’er all the bat- tle-fields Of Armageddon, the long-buried cap- tains Had started, with their thousands, and ten thousands. And rushed together to renew their wars. Powerless, and weaponless, and with- out a sound ! Wake, Helen, from thy sleep ! The air grows cold ; Let us go down. Helen {awaking). O would I were at home ! Simon. Thou sayest that I usurp another’s titles. In youth I saw the Wise Men of the East, Magalath and Pangalath, and Saracen, Who followed the bright star, but home returned For fear of Herod by another way. O shining worlds above me ! in what deep Recesses of your realms of mystery Lies hidden now that star? and where are they That brought the gifts of frankincense and myrrh ! Helen. The Nazarene still liveth. Simon. We have heard His name in many towns, but have not seen him. He flits before us ; tarries not ; is gone When we approach, like something un- substantial. Made of the air, and fading into air. He is at Nazareth, he is at Nain, Or at the Lovely Village on the Lake, Or sailing on its waters. Helen. So say those Who do not wish to find him. Simon. Can this be The King of Israel, whom the Wise Men worshipped ? Or does he fear to meet me ? It would seem so. We should soon learn which of us twain usurps The titles of the other, as thou sayest. {They go down.) THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. THE THIRD PASSOVER. THE THIRD PASSOVER. THE ENTRY INTO JERUSA- LEM. The Syro-Phcenician Woman and her Daughter on the house-top at Jerusalem. The Darighter (singing). Blind Bar- timeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits ; He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath Say: It is Christ of Nazareth ! And calls, in tones of agony, ’Irjcrov, e\er]td Officers. Crucify Iiim 1 crucify him ! Pilate. Take ye him ; I find no fault in him. Chief Priests. We have a Law, And by our Law he ought to die; because He made himself to be the Son of Cod. Pilate {aside). Ah ! there are Sons of God, and demi-gods More than ye know, ye ignorant High- Priests I {To Christus.) Whence art thou ? THE THIRD PASSOVER. 59 Chief Priests. Crucify him ! crucify him ! Pilate {to Christns). Dost thou not an- swer me ? Dost thou not know That I have power enough to crucify thee ? That I have also power to set thee free? Chrishis. Thou couldest have no power at all against me Except that it were given thee from above : Therefore hath he that sent me unto thee The greater sin. Chief Priests. If thou let this man. go, Thou art not Caesar’s friend. For who- soever Maketh himself a King, speaks against Caesar. Pilate. Ye Jews, behold your King ! Chief Priests. Away with him ! Crucify him ! Pilate. Shall I crucify your. King ? Chief Priests. We have no King but Caesar ! Pilate- Take him, then. Take him, ye cruel and bloodthirsty Priests, More merciless than the plebeian mob, Who pity and spare the fainting gladia- tor Blood-stained in Roman amphithea- tres, — Take him, and crucify him if ye will ; But if the immortal Gods do ever min- gle With the affairs of mortals, which I . doubt not. And hold the attribute of justice dear, They will commission the Eumenides To scatter you to the four winds of heav- en, Exacting tear for tear, and blood for blood. Here, take ye this inscription, Priests, and nail it Upon the cross, above your victim’s head : Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. Chief Priests. Nay, we entreat! write not, the King of the Jews ; But that he said : I am the King of the Jews! Pilate. Enough. What I have writ- ten, I have written ! IX. ACELDAMA. Judas Iscariot. Lost ! lost ! forever lost ! I have betrayed The innocent blood ! O God ! if thou art love. Why didst thou leave me naked to the tempter ? Why didst thou not commission thy swift lightning To strike me dead? or why did I not perish With those by Herod slain, the inno- cent children Who went wdth playthings in their little hands Into the darkness of the other world. As if to bed? Or wherefore w'as I born, If thou in thy foreknowledge didst per- ceive All that I am, and all that I mu.stbe? I know I am not generous, am not gentle Like other men ; but I have tried to be. And I have failed. I thought by fol- lowing Him, I should grow like him ; but the un- clean spirit That from my childhood up hath tor- tured me Hath been too cunning and too strong for me. Am r to blame for this? Am I to blame Because I cannot love, and ne’er have known The love of woman or the love of chil- dren ? It is a curse and a fatality, A maik, that hath been set upon my forehead. That none shall slay me, for it were a mercy That I were dead, or never had been born. Too late ! too late ! I shall not see him more Among the living. That sweet, patient face Will never more rebuke me, nor those lips Repeat the words : One of you shall be- tray me 1 6o THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. It stung me into madness. How I loved, Yet bated him ! But in the other world ! I will be there before him, and will wait Until he comes and fall down on my knees And kiss his feet, imploring pardon, pardon ! I heard him say : All sins shall be for- given, _ Except the sin against the Holy Ghost. That shall not be forgiven in this world, Nor in the world to come. Is that my sin ? Have I offended so there is no hope Here nor hereafter? That I soon shall know. O God, have mercy ! Christ have mer- cy on me ! {Throws himself headlong from the cliff.) X. THE THREE CROSSES. Manahem, the Essenian. Three crosses in this noonday night up- lifted. Three human figures, that in mortal pain Gleam white against the supernatural darkness ; Two thieves, that writhe in torture, and between them The suffering Messiah, the Son of Jo- seph, Ay, the Messiah Triumphant, Son of David ! A crown of thorns on that dishonored head ! Those hands that healed the sick now pierced with nails, Those feet that wandered homeless through the world Now crossed and bleeding, and at rest forever ! . And the three faithful Maries, over- whelmed By this great sorrow, kneeling, praying, weeping ! O Joseph Caiaphas, thou great High- Priest, How wilt thou answer for this deed of blood ? Scribes and Elders. Thou that de- stroy est the Temple, and dost build it In three days, save thyself ; and if thou be The Son of God, come down now from the cross. Chief Priests. Others he saved, him- self he cannot save ! Let Christ the King of Israel descend, That we may see and believe ! Scribes and Elders. In God he trusted ; Let him deliver him, if he will have him, And we will then believe. Christus. Father ! forgive them ; They know not what they do. The Impenitent Thief. Iflhou be Christ, O save thyself and us ! The Penitent Thief Remember me. Lord, when thou comest into thine own kingdom. Christus. This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise. Manahem. Golgotha ! Golgotha ! O the pain and darkness ! 0 the uplifted cross, that shall forever Shine through the darkness, and shall conquer pain By the triumphant memory of thishour ! Simon Magus. O Nazarene ! I find thee here at last ! Thou art no more a phantom unto me ! This is the end of one who called him- self The Son of God ! Such is the fate of those Who preach new doctrines. ’T is not what he did. But what he said, hath brought him unto this. 1 will speak evil of no dignitaries. This is my hour of triumph, Nazarene ! The Young Rtder. This is the end of him who said to me : Sell that thou hast, and give unto the poor ! This is the treasure in heaven he prom- ised me 1 THE THIRD PASSOVER. Christus. Eloi, Eloi, lama sabac- thani ! A Soldier (.preparing the hjyssop). He calleth for Elias ! Another. Nay, let be ! See if Elias now will come to save him ! Christus. I thirst. A Soldier. Give him the wormwood ! Christus (with a loud cry, bowing his head). It is finished ! XI. THE TWO MARIES. Mary Magdalene- We have arisen early, yet the sun O’ertakes us ere we reach the sepul- chre, To wrap the body of our blessed Lord With our sweet spices. Mary, mother of James. Lo, this is the garden, And yonder is the sepulchre. But who Shall roll away the stone for us to enter ? Mary Magdalene. It hath been rolled away ! The sepulchre Is open ! Ah, who hath been here be- fore us, When we rose early, wishing to be first? Mary, mother of James. I am af- frighted ! Mary Magdalene. Hush 1 I will stoop down And look within. There is a young man sitting On the right side, clothed in a long white garment ! It is an angel ! The Angel. Fear not ; ye are seek- ing Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified. Why do ye seek the living among the dead ? He is no longer here ; he is arisen ! Come see the place where the Lord lay ! Remember How he spake unto you in Galilee, Saying : The Son of Man must be de- livered Into the hands of sinful men ; by them Be crucified, and the third day rise again 1 But go your way, and say to his disci- ples. He goeth before you into Galilee ; There shall ye see him as he said to you. Mary, mother of James. I will go swiftly for them. Mary Magdalene {alone, weeping). They have taken My Lord away from me, and now 1 know not Where they have laid him ! Who is _ there to tell me ? This is the gardener. Surely he must know. Christus. Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou ? Mary Magdalene. They have taken my Lord away ; I cannot find him. O Sir, if thou have borne him hence, I pray thee Tell me where thou hast laid him. Christus. Mary ! Mary Magdalene. Rabboni 1 XII. THE SEA OF GALILEE. Nathanael {in the ship). All is now ended. John. Nay, he is arisen. I ran unto the tomb, and stooping down ' Looked in, and saw the linen grave- clothes lying. Yet dared not enter. Peter. I went in, and saw The napkin that had been about his head. Not lying with the other linen clothes. But wrapped together in a separate place. Thomas. And I have seen him. I have seen the print Of nails upon his hands, and thrust my hands Into his side. I know he is arisen ; But where are now the kingdom and the glory He promised *unto us? We have all dreamed That we were princes, and we wake to find We are but fishermen. 62 THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. Peter. Who should have been Fishers of men ! John. We have come back again To the old life, the peaceful life, among The white towns of the Galilean lake. Peter. They seem to me like silent sepulchres In the gray light of morning ! The old life, Yea, the old life ! for we have toiled all night And have caught nothing. John. Do ye see a man Standing upon the beach and beckon- ? ’T is like an apparition. He hath kindled A fire of coals, and seems to wait for us. He calleth. Christ us {.from the shore'). Children, have ye any meat? Peter. Alas ! We have caught nothing. Christus. _ Cast the net On the right side of the ship, and ye shall find. Peter. How that reminds me of the days gone by, And one who said : Launch out into the deep. And cast your nets 1 Nathanael. We have but let them down And they are filled, so that we cannot draw them ! Johti. It is the Lord ! Peter {girding his fisher's coat about hun). He said ; When I am risen I will go before you into Galilee ! {He casts himself into the lake.) John- There is no fear in love ; for perfect love Casteth out fear. Now then, if ye are men. Put forth your strength ; we are not far from shore ; The net is heavy, but breaks not. All is safe. Peter {on the shore)- Dear Lord ! I heard thy voice and could not wait. Let me behold thy face, and kiss thy feet ! Thou art not dead, thou livest ! Again I see thee. Pardon! dear Lord 1 I am a sinful man ; I have denied thee thrice. Have mercy on me ! The Others {coming to land). Dear Lord ! stay with us ! cheer us ! comfort us ! Lo ! we again have found thee ! Leave us not ! Christus. Bring hither of the fish that ye have caught, And come and eat. John. Behold ! he break^th bread As he was wont. From his own bless- ed hands Again we take it. Christus. Simon, son of Jonas, Lovest thou me, more than these others? Peter. Yea, More, Lord, than all men ; even more than these. Thou knowest that I love thee. Christus. Feed my lambs. Tho77ias {aside). How more than we do? He remaineth ever Self-confident and boastful as before. Nothing will cure him. Christus. Simon, son of Jonas, Lovest thou me ? Peter. Yea, dearest Lord, I love thee. Thou knowest that I love thee. Christus. Feed my sheep. Thotnas {aside). Again, the self-same question, and the answer Repeated with more vehemence. Can the Master Doubt if we love him ? Christus. Simon, son of Jonas, Lovest thou me ? Peter {grieved). Dear Lord ! thou knowest all things. Thou knowest that I love thee. Christus. Feed my sheep. When thou wast young thou girdedst thyself, and walkedst Whither thou wouldst ; but when thou shalt be old. Thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and other men THE THIRD PASSOVER. Shall gird and carry thee whither thou wouldst not. Follow thou me! John {aside). It is a prophecy Of what death he shall die. Peter {pointing to John). Tell me, O Lord, And what shall this man do ? Christus. And if I will 63 He tarry till I come, what is it to thee ? Follow thou me ! Peter. Yea, I will follow thee, dear Lord and Master ! Will follow thee through fasting and temptation. Through all thine agony and bloody sweat, Thy cross and passion, even unto death! EPILOGUE. SYMBOLUM APOSTOLORUM. Peter. I believe in God the Father Almighty : yohn. Maker of Heaven and Earth ; James. And in Jesus Christ his only Son, our Lord ; Andrew. Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary ; Philip. Suffered under Pontius Pi- late, was crucified, dead and buried ; Thomas. And the third day he rose again from the dead ; Bartholomew. He ascended into Heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of God, the Father Al- mighty ; Matthew. From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead. James., the Son of Alpheus. I be- lieve in the Holy Ghost; the holy Catholic Church ; Simon Zelotes. The communion of Saints ; the forgiveness of sins ; Jude. The resurrection of the body ; Matthias. And the Life Everlast- ing. FIRST INTERLUDE. THE ABBOT JOACHIM. THE ABBOT JOACHIM. A room in the Convent of Flora in Calabria. Night. foachim. The wind is rising ; it seizes and shakes The doors and window-blinds, and makes Mysterious moanings in the halls ; The convent-chimneys seem almost The trumpets of some heavenly host, Setting its watch upon our walls ! Where it listeth, there it bloweth ; We hear the sound, but no man knoweth Whence it cometh or whither it goeth. And thus it is with the Holy Ghost. 0 breath of God ! O my delight In many a vigil of the night, Like the great voice in Patmos heard By John, the Evangelist of the Word, 1 hear thee behind me saying : Write In a book the things that thou hast seen. The things that are, and that have been. And the things that shall hereafter be ! This convent, on the rocky crest Of the Calabrian hills, to me A Patmos is wherein I rest ; While round about me like a sea The white mists roll, and overflow The world that lies unseen below In darkness and in mystery. Here in the Spirit, in the vast Embrace of God’s encircling arm, Am I uplifted from all harm ; The world seems something far away, Something belonging to the Past, A hostlery, a peasant’s farm. That lodged me for a night or day. In which I care not to remain. Nor, having left, to see again. Thus, in the hollow of God’s hand I dwelt on sacred Tabor’s height, When as a simple acolyte I journeyed to the Holy Land, A pilgrim for my Master’s sake, And saw the Galilean Lake, And walked through many a village street That once had echoed to his feet. There first I heard the great command. The voice behind me saying : Write ! And suddenly my soul became Illumined by a flash of flame, That left imprinted on my thought The image I in vain had sought. And which forever shall remain ; As sometimes from these windows high, Gazing at midnight on the sky Black with a storm of wind and rain, I have beheld a sudden glare Of lightning lay the landscape bare. With tower and town and hill and plain Distinct, and burnt into my brain. Never to be effaced again ! And I have written. These volumes three, The Apocalypse, the Harmony Of the Sacred Scriptures, new and old. And the Psalter with Ten Strings, en- {o\d Within their pages, all and each, The Eternal Gospel that I teach. Well I remember the Kingdom of Heaven Hath been likened to a little leaven 63 THE ABBOT JOACHIM. Hidden in two measures of meal, Until it leavened the whole mass ; So likewise will it come to pass With the doctrine that I here conceal Open and manifest to me The truth appear^ and must be told : All sacred mysteries are threefold ; Three Persons in the Trinit)-, Three Ages of Humanity, And Holy Scriptures likewise Three, Of Fear, of Wisdom, and of Love ; For Wisdom that begins in Fear Endeth in Love ; the atmosphere In which the soul delights to be. And finds that perfect liberty. Which Cometh only from above. In the first Age, the early prime And dawn of all historic time. The Father reigned ; and fece to face He spake with the primeval race. Bright Angels, on his errands sent. Sat with the patriarch in his tent ; His prophets thundered in the street ; His lightnings flashed, his hail-storms beat ; In tempest and in cloud he came. In earthquake and in flood and flame ! The fear of God is in his Book ; The pages of the Pentateuch Are full of the terror of his name. Then reigned the Son ; his Covenant Was peace on earth, good-will to man ; With him the reign of Law begm. He was the Wisdom and the Word, And sent his Angels Ministrant, L'nterrified and undeterred. To rescue souls forlorn and lost. The troubled, tempted, tempest-tost. To heal, to comfort, and to teach. The fiery tongues of Pentecost His symbols were, that they should preach In every form of human speech. From continent to continent. He is the Light Dirine, whose rays Across the thousand years unspent Shine through the darkness of our days, And touch with their celestial fires Our churches and our convent spires. His Book is the New Testament. These Ages now are of Ae Past ; And the Third Age b^ns at last. The coming of the Holy Ghost, The reign of Grace, the reign of Love, Brightens the mountain-tops above. And the dark outline of the coast. Already the whole land is white With convent walls, as if by night A snow- had fallen on hill and height : Already fi-om the streets and marts Of town and traffic, and low cares. Men climb the consecrated stairs With w eary feet, and bleeding hearts ; And leave the world, and its delights. Its passions, struggles, and despairs. For contemplation and for prayers In doister-cells of Coenobites. Eternal benedictions rest Upon thy name. Saint Benedict ! Founder of convents in the West, Who built on Mount Cassino’s crest, In the Land of Labor, thine eagle’s nest ! May I be found not derelict In aught of faith or godly fear. If I have w-ritten, in many a page. The Gospel of the coming age. The Eternal Gospel men shall hear. O may I live resembling thee. And ffie at last as thou hast died ; So that hereafter men may see. Within the choir, a form of air. Standing with arms outstretched in prayer. As one that hath been crucified ! My work is finished ; I am strong In faith and hop>e and charity ; For I have wvitten the things I see. The things that have been and shall be. Conscious of right, nor fearing wrong ; Because I am in love with Love, And the sole thing I hate is Hate ; For Hate is death ; and Love is life, A peace, a splendor from above ; And Hate, a never-ending strife, A smoke, a blackness from the abyss Where unclean serpents cod and hiss ! Love is the Holy Ghost wriihin ; Hate the unpardonable sin ! Who preaches otherwise than this, Betrays his Master with a kiss ! I PART TWO. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. PROLOGUE. THE SPIRE OF STRASBURG CATHEDRAL. Night and storm. Lucifer, with the Powers of the A ir, trying to tear down the Cross. Lucifer. Hasten ! hasten ! O ye spirits ! From its station drag the ponderous Cross of iron, that to mock us Is uplifted high in air ! Voices. O, we cannot ! For around it All the Saints and Guardian Angels Throng in legions to protect it ; They defeat us everywhere ! The Bells. Laudo Deum verum ! Plebem voco ! Congrego clerum ! Lucifer. Lower ! lower ? Hover downward ! Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and Clashing, clanging, to the pavement Hurl them from their windy tower ! Voices. All thy thunders Here are harmless ! For these bells have been anointed, And baptized with holy water ! They defy our utmost power. The Bells. Defunctos ploro ! Pestem fugo ! Festa decoro ! Lucifer. Shake the casements ! Break the tinted Panes, that flame with gold and crim- son ; Scatter them like leaves of Autumn, Swept away before the blast 1 Voices. O, we cannot I The Archangel Michael flames from every window, With the sword of fire that drove us Headlong, out of heaven, aghast ! The Bells. Funera plango ! Fulgura frango ! Sabbata pango 1 Lucifer. Aim your lightnings At the oaken. Massive, iron-studded portals ! Sack the house of God, and scatter Wide the ashes of the dead ! Voices. O, we cannot ! The Apostles And the Martyrs, wrapped in man- tles. Stand as warders at the entrance, Stand as sentinels o’erhead ! The Bells. Excito lentos ! Dissipo ventos ! Paco cruentos ! Lucifer. Baffled ! baffled I Inefficient, ^ Craven spirits ! leave this labor Unto Time, the great Destroyer ! Come away, ere night is gone ! Voices. Onward! onward! With the night-wind. Over field and farm and forest. Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet, Blighting all we breathe upon ! {They sweep away. Organ and Gre- gorian Chant.) Choir. Nocte surgentes Vigilemus omnes. % THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 1 . The castle of Vautsherg on the Rhine. A chamber in a tower. Prince Henry, sitting alone y ill and rest- less. Midnight. Prince Henry. I cannot sleep ! my fervid brain Calls up the vanished Past again, And throws its misty splendors deep Into the pallid realms of sleep ! A breath from that far-distant shore Comes freshening ever more and more And wafts o’er intervening seas Sweet odors from the Hesperides ! A wind, that through the corridor Just stirs the curtain, and no more, And, touching the aeolian strings. Faints with the burden that it brings I Come back ! ye friendships long de- parted ! That like o’erflovving streamlets started, And now are dwindled, one by one. To stony channels in the sun ! Come back ! ye friends, whose lives are ended. Come back, with all that light attended. Which seemed to darken and decay When ye arose and went away ! They come, the shapes of joy and woe. The airy crowds of long ago. The dreams and fancies known of yore, That have been, and shall be no more. They change the cloisters of the night Into a garden of delight ; They make the dark and dreary hours Open and blossom into flowers 1 I would not sleep ! I love to be Again in their fair company ; But ere my lips can bid them stay. They pass and vanish quite away ! Alas ! our memories may retrace Each circumstance of time and place. Season and scene come back again, _ And outward things unchanged remain j The rest we cannot reinstate ; Ourselves we cannot re-create. Nor set our souls to the same key Of the remembered harmony ! Rest ! rest ! O, give me rest and peace 1 The thought of life that ne’er shall cease Has something in it like despair, A weight I am too weak to bear 1 Sweeter to this afflicted breast The thought of never-ending rest ! Sweeter the undisturbed and deep Tranquillity of endless sleep ! (A flash of lightning, out of which Lucifer appears, in the garb of a travellmg Physician-') Lucifer. All hail, Prince Henry ! 74 THE GOLD EH LEGEND. Prince Henry {starting). Who is it speaks ? Who and what are you? Lucifer. One who seeks A moment’s audience with the Prince. Prmce Henry. When came you in ? Lucifer. A moment since. I found your study door unlocked, And thought you answered when I knocked. Prince Henry. I did not hear you. Lucifer. You heard the thunder ; It was loud enough to waken the dead. And it is not a matter of special wonder That, when God is walking overhead, You should not hear my feeble tread. Prince Henry. What may your wish or purpose be ? Lucifer. Nothing or everything, as it pleases Your Highness. You behold in me Only a travelling Physician ; One of the few who have a mission To cure incurable diseases. Or those that are called so. Prince Henry. Can you bring The dead to life ? Lucifer. Yes ; very nearly. And, what is a wiser and better thing, Can keep the living from ever needing Such an unnatural, strange proceeding. By showing conclusively and clearly That death is a stupid blunder merely. And not a necessity of our lives. My being here is accidental ; The storm, that against your casement drives. In the little village below waylaid me. And there I heard, with a secret delight. Of your rnaladies physical and mental, Which neither astonished nor dismayed And I hastened hither, though late in the night To proffer my aid ! Prince Henry {ironically). F or this you came ! Ah, how can I ever hope to requite This honor from one so erudite ? Lucifer. The honor is mine, or will be when I have cured your disease. Prince Henry. But not till then. Lucifer. What is your illness ? Prince Henry. It has no name. A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame. As in a kiln, burns in my veins. Sending up vapors to the head ; My heart has become a dull lagoon. Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains ; I am accounted as one who is dead. And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon. Lucifer. And has Gordonius the Di- vine, In his famous Lily of Medicine, — I see the book lies open before you, — No remedy potent enough to restore you ? Prince Henry. N one whatever ! Lucifer. The dead are dead. And their oracles dumb, when ques- tioned Of the new diseases that human life Evolves in its progress, rank and rife. Consult the dead upon things that were, But the living onl;^ on things that are. Have you done this, by the appliance And aid of doctors ? Prince Henry. Ay, whole schools Of doctors, with their learned rules ; But the case is quite beyond their sci- ence. Even the doctors of Salem Send me back word they can discern No cure for a malady like this. Save one which in its nature is Impossible, and cannot be ! Lucifer. That sounds oracular ! Prince Henry. Unendurable ! Lucifer. What is their remedy ? Prince Henry. You shall see ; Writ in this scroll is the mystery. L ucifer {reading). “ Not to be cured, yet not incurable ! The only remedy that remains Is the blood that flows from a maiden’s veins. Who of her own free will shall die. And give her life as the price of yours ! ” That is the strangest of all cures. And one, I think, you will never try ; The prescription you may well put by. As something impossible to find Before the world itself shall end ! And yet who knows ? One cannot py That into some maiden’s brain that kind THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Of madness will not find its way. Meanwhile permit me to recommend, As the matter admits of no delay, My wonderful Catholicon, Of very subtile and magical powers ! Prince Henry. Purge with your nos- trums and drugs infernal The spouts and gargoyles of these tow- ers. Not me. My faith is utterly gone In every power but the Power Supernal ! Pray tell me, of what school are you ? Lucifer. Both of the Old and of the New ! The school of Hermes Trismegistus, Who uttered his oracles sublime Before the Olympiads, in the dew Of the early dusk and dawn of Time, The reign of dateless old^ Hephaestus ! As northward, from its Nubian springs. The Nile, forever new and old. Among the living and the dead. Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled ; So, starting “from its fountain-head Under the lotus-leaves of Isis, From the dead demigods of eld. Through long, unbroken lines of kings Its course the sacred art has held. Unchecked, unchanged by man’s devi- ces. This art the Arabian Geber taught. And in alembics, finely wrought. Distilling herbs and flowers, discovered The secret that so long had hovered Upon the misty verge of Truth,* The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, Called Alcohol, in the Arab speech ! Like him, this wondrous lore I teach ! Prince Henry. What ! an adept ? Lucifer. Nor less, nor more ! Prince Henry. I am a reader of your books, A lover of that mystic lore ! With such a piercing glance it looks Into great Nature’s open eye, _ And sees within it trembling lie The portrait of the Deity ! And yet, alas ! with all my pains. The secret and the mystery Have baffled and eluded me, Unseen the grand result remains ! Lucifer {showing a flask). Behold It here ! this little flask Contains the wonderful quintessence. The perfect flower and efflorescence. Of all the knowledge man can ask ! Hold it up thus against the light ! Prince Henry. How limpid, pure, and crystalline. How quick, and tremulous, and bright The little wavelets dance and shine, As were it the Water of Life in sooth ! Lucifer. It is ! It assuages every pain. Cures all disease, and gives again To age the swift delights of youth. Inhale its fragrance. Prince Henry. It is sweet. A thousand different odors meet And mingle in its rare perfume. Such as the winds of summer waft At open windows through a room ! Lucifer. Will you not taste it ? Prince Heriry. Will one draught suffice ? Lucifer. If not, you can drink more. Prince Henry. Into this crystal gob- let pour So much as safely I may drink. Ltccfer {pouring). Let not the quan- tity alarm you ; Y ou may drink all ; it will not harm you. Prince Henry. I am as one who on the brink Of a dark river stands and sees The waters flow, the landscape dim Around him waver, wheel, and swim. And, ere he plunges, stops to think Into what whirlpools he may sink ; One moment pauses, and no more. Then madly plunges from the shore ! Headlong into the mysteries Of life and death I boldly leap. Nor fear the fateful current’s sweep. Nor what in ambush lurks below ! For death is better than disease I {A n Angel with an ceolian harp hovers in the air.) Angel. Woe ! woe ! eternal woe 1 Not only the whispered prayer Of love. But the imprecations of hate. Reverberate For ever and ever through the air Above ! This fearful curse Shakes the great universe ! THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 76 Lucifer {disappearing). Drink ! drink ! And thy soul shall sink Down into the dark abyss, Into the infinite abyss, From which no plummet nor rope Ever drew up the silver sand of hope ! Prince Henry {drinking). It is like a draught of fire ! Through every vein I feel again The fever of youth, the soft desire ; A rapture that is almost pain Throbs in my heart and fills my brain ! 0 joy ! O joy ! I feel The band of steel That so long and heavily has pressed Upon my breast Uplifted, and the malediction Of my affliction Is taken from me, and my weary breast At length finds rest. The Angel. It is but the rest of the fire, from which the air has been taken ! It is but the rest of the sand, when the hour-glass is not shaken ! It is but the rest of the tide between the ebb and the flow ! It is but the rest of the wind between the flaws that blow ! With fiendish laughter, Hereafter, This false physician Will mock thee in thy perdition. Prince Henry. Speak ! speak ! Who says that I am ill ? 1 amTiot ill ! I am not weak ! The trance, the swoon, the dream, is o’er ! I feel the chill of death no more ! At length, I stand renewed in all my strength ! Beneath me I can feel The great earth stagger and reel. As if the feet of a descending God Upon its surface trod. And like a pebble it rolled beneath his heel ! This, O brave physician ! this Is thy great Palingenesis ! {Drinks again.) The Angel. Touch the goblet no more I It will make thy heart sore To its very core ! Its perfume is the breath Gf the Angel of Death, And the light that within it lies Is the flash of his evil eyes. Beware ! O, beware ! F or sickness, sorrow, and care All are there ! Prince Henry {sinking hcucK). O thou voice within my breast ! Why entreat me, why upbraid me, When the steadfast tongues of truth And the flattering hopes of youth Have all deceived me and betrayed me ? Give me, give me rest, O rest ! Golden visions wave and hover. Golden vapors, ^yaters streaming. Landscapes moving, changing, gleam- ing ! I am like a happy lover Who illumines life with dreaming ! Brave physician ! Rare physician ! Well hast thou fulfilled thy mission ! {His head falls on his book.) The Angel {receding). Alas! alas! Like a vapor the golden vision Shall fade and pass. And thou wilt find in thy heart again Only the blight of painj And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition I Cotcrt-yard of the Castle. Hubert standitig by the gateway. Hubert. How sad the grand old cas- tle looks ! O’erhead, the unmolested rooks Upon the turret’s windy top Sit, talking of the farmer’s crop ; Here ip the court-yard springs the grass. So few are now the feet that pass ; The stately peacocks, bolder grown, Come hopping down the steps of stone. As if the castle were their own ; And I, the poor old seneschal. Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet-hall. Alas ! the merry guests no more Crowd through the hospitable door ; No eyes with youth and passion shine, No cheeks grow redder than the wine ; No song, no laugh, no jovial din Of drinking wassail to the pin ; THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 77 But all is silent, sad, and drear. And now the only sounds ,I hear Are the hoarse rooks upon the walls. And horses stamping in their stalls I horn sou7tds.) What ho ! that merry, sudden blast Reminds me of the days long past ! And, as of old resounding, grate The heavy hinges of the gate. And, clattering loud, with iron clank, Down goes the sounding bridge of plank,. As if it were in haste to greet The pressure of a traveller’s feet ! {Enter Walter the Minnesinger^ Walter. . How now, my friend ! This looks quite lonely ! No banner flying from the walls. No pages and no seneschals. No warders, and one porter only ! Is it you, Hubert ? Hubert. Ah ! Master Walter ! Walter. Alas ! how forms and faces alter ! I did not know you. You look older ! Your hair has grown much grayer and thinner. And you stoop a little in the shoulder ! Hubert. Alack ! I am a poor old sin- ner. And, like these towers, begin to mould- er ; And you have been absent many a year ! Walter. How is the Prince ? Hubert. He is not here ; He has been ill : and now has fled. Walter. Speak it out frankly; say he ’s dead ! Is it not so? Hubert. No ; if you please, A strange, mysterious disease Fell on him with a sudden blight. Whole hours together he would stand Upon the terrace, in a dream. Resting his head upon his hand. Best pleased when he was most alone, Like Saint John Nepomuck in stone, Looking down into a stream. In the Round Tower, night after night. He sat, and bleared his eyes with j books ; Until one morning we found him there Stretched on the floor, as if in a swoon He had fallen from his chair. We hardly recognized his sweet looks ! Walter. Poor Prince ! Hubert. I think he might have mended ; And he did mend ; but very soon The priests came flocking in, like rooks. With all their crosiers and their crooks. And so at last the matter ended. Walter. How did it end? Hubert. Why, in Saint Rochus They made him stand, and wait his doom ; And, as if he were condemned to the tomb. Began to mutter their hocus-pocus. First, the Mass for the Dead they chanted. Then three times laid upon his head A shovelful of churchyard clay. Saying to him, as he stood undaunted, “ This is a sign that thou art dead. So in thy heart be penitent ! ” And forth from the chapel door he went Into disgrace and banishment. Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray. And bearing a wallet, and a bell. Whose sound should be a perpetual knell To keep all travellers away. Walter. O, horrible fate ! Outcaft, rejected. As one with pestilence infected ! Hubert. Then was the family tomb unsealed. And broken helmet, sword, and shield. Buried together in common wreck, As is the custom, when the last Of any princely house has passed, And thrice, as with a trumpet-blast, A herald shouted down the stair The words of warning and despair, — “ O Hoheneck ! O Hoheneck ! ” Walter. Still in my soul that cry goes on, — Forever gone ! forever gone ! Ah, what a cruel sense of loss. Like a black shadow, would fall across The hearts of all, if he should die ! His gracious presence upon earth Was as a fire upon a hearth ; As pleasant songs, at morning sung. 78 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. The words that dropped from his sweet tongue Strengthened our hearts ; or, heard at night, Made all our slumbers soft and light. Where is he.^ Hubert. In the Odenwald. Some of his tenants, unappalled By fear of death, or priestly word, — A holy family, that make Each meal a Supper of the Lord, — Have him beneath their watch and ward. For love of him, and Jesus’ sake ! Pray you come in. P'or why should I With out-door hospitality My prince’s friend thus entertain? Walter. I would a moment here re- main. But you, good Hubert, go before, Fill me a goblet of May-drink, As aromatic as the May From which it steals the breath away. And which he loved so well of yore ; It is of him that I would think. You shall attend me, when I call, In the ancestral banquet-hall. Unseen companions, guests of air. You cannot wait on, will be there ; They taste not food, they drink not wine. But their soft eyes look into mine, And their lips speak to me, and all The vast and shadowy banquet-hall Is full of looks and words divine ! {Leaning over the parapeti) The day is done ; and slowly from the scene The stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts. And puts them back into his golden quiver ! Below me in the valley, deep and green As goblets are, from which in thirsty draughts We drink its wine, the swift and man- tling’ river Flows on triumphant through these lovely regions. Etched with the shadows of its sombre m argent. And soft, reflected clouds of gold and argent I Yes, there it flows, forever, broad and still. As when the vanguard of the Roman legions First saw it from the top of yonder hill ! How beautiful it is! Fresh fields of wheat. Vineyard, and town, and tower with fluttering flag. The consecrated chapel on the crag. And the white hamlet gathered round its base. Like Mary sitting at her Saviour’s feet. And looking up at his beloved face ! O friend 1 O best of friends ! Thy absence more Than the impending night darkens the • landscape o’er I « II. A farm in the Odenwald. A garden ; mornmg; Prince Henry seated, with a book. Elsie, at a distance, gathering fiowers. Prmce Henry {reading'). One mom- ' ing, all alone, Out of his convent of gray stone. Into the forest older, darker, grayer, His lips moving as if in prayer. His head sunken upon his breast As in a dream of rest, Walked the Monk Felix. All about The broad, sweet sunshine lay without. Filling the summer air ; And within the woodlands as he trod. The dusk was like the Truce of God With worldly woe and care ; Under him lay the golden moss; And above him the boughs of hoary trees Waved, and made the sign of the cross. And whispered their Benedicites ; And from the ground Rose an odor sweet and fragrant Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant Vines that wandered. Seeking the sunshine, round and round. These he heeded not, but pondered On the volume in his hand, A volume of Saint Augustine, Wherein he read of the unseen Splendors of God’s great town In the unknown land. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 79 And, with his eyes cast down In humility, he said : “ I believe, O God, What herein I have read. But, alas ! I do not understand ! ” And lo ! he heard The sudden singing of a bird, A snow-white biid, that from a cloud Dropped down. And among the branches brown Sat singing So sweet, and clear, and loud, It seemed a thousand harp-strings ring- ing. And the Monk Felix closed his book And long, long. With rapturous look. He listened to the song, And hardly breathed or stirred, Until he saw, as in a vision, The land Elysian, And in the heavenly city heard Angelic feet Fall on the golden flagging of the street. And he would fain Have caught the wondrous bird. But strove in vain ; F or it flew away, away. Far over hill and dell. And instead of its sweet singing He heard the convent bell Suddenly in the silence ringing For the service of noonday. And he retraced His pathway homeward sadly and In haste. In the convent there was a change ! He looked for each well-known face. But the faces were new and strange ; New figures sat in the oaken stalls. New voices chanted in the choir ; Yet the place was the same place. The same dusky walls Of cold, gray stone. The same cloisters and belfry and spire, A stranger and alone Among that brotherhood The Monk Felix stood. “ Forty years,” said a Friar, “ Have I been Prior Of this convent in the wood. But for that space N ever have I beheld thy face ! ” The heart of the Monk Felix fell ; And he answered, with submissive tone, “This morning, after the hour of Prime, I left my cell. And wandered forth alone, Listening all the time To the melodious singing Of a beautiful white bird. Until I heard The bells of the convent ringing Noon from their noisy towers. It was as if I dreamed ; For what to me had seemed Moments only, had been hours ! ” “Years ! ” said a voice close by. It was an aged monk who spoke, F rom a bench of oak Fastened against the wall ; — He was the oldest monk of all. For a whole century Had he been there. Serving God in prayer. The meekest and humblest of his crea- tures. He remembered well the features Of Felix, and he said, Speaking distinct and slow ; “One hundred years ago, When I was a novice in this place, There was here a monk, full of God’s grace. Who bore the name Of Felix, and this man must be the same.” And straightway They brought forth to the light of day, A volume old and brown, A huge tome, bound In brass and wild-boars hide. Wherein were written down The names of all who had died In the convent, since it was edified. And there they found. Just as the old monk said, That on a certain day and date, One hundred years before. Had gone forth from the convent gate, The Monk Felix, and never more Had entered that sacred door. He had been counted among the dead ! And they knew, at last, That, such had been the power Of that celestial and immortal song. 8o THE GOLDEN LEGEND. A hundred years had passed, And had not seemed so long As a single hour ! (Elsie comes in with flowers.') Elsie. Here are flowers for you, But they are not all for you. Some of them are for the Virgin And for Saint Cecilia. Prince Henry. As thou standest there. Thou seemest to rne like the angel That brought the immortal roses To Saint Cecilia’s bridal chamber. Elsie. But these will fade. Prince Henry. Themselves will fade. But not their memory. And memory has the power To re-create them from the dust. They remind me, too. Of martyred Dorothea, Who from celestial gardens sent Flowers as her witnesses To him who scoffed and doubted. Elsie. Do you know the story Of Christ and the Sultan’s daughter? That is the prettiest legend of them all. Prince Henry. Then tell it to me. But first come hither. Lay the flowers down beside me. And put both thy hands in mine. Now tell me the story. Elsie. Early in the morning The Sultan’s daughter Walked in her father’s garden. Gathering the bright flowers. All full of dew. Prince Henry. Just as thou hast been doing This morning, dearest Elsie. Elsie. And as she gathered them. She wondered more and more Who was the Master of the Flowers, And made them grow Out of the cold, dark earth. “ In my heart,” she said, “ I love him ; and for him Would leave my father’s palace. To labor in his garden.” Prince Henry. Dear, innocent child ! How sweetly thou recallest The long-forgotten legend. That in my early childhood My mother told me 1 Upon my brain It reappears once more. As a birth-mark on the forehead When a hand suddenly Is laid upon it, and removed ! Elsie. And at midnight. As she lay upon her bed. She heard a voice Call to her from the garden. And, looking forth from her window, She saw a beautiful youth Standing among the flowers. It was the Lord Jesus ; And she went down to him. And opened the door for him ; And he said to her, “ O maiden ! Thou hast thought of me with love. And for thy sake Out of my Father’s kingdom Have I come hither : I am the Master of the Flowers. My garden is in Paradise, And if thou wilt go with me. Thy bridal garland Shall be of bright red flowers.” And then he took from his finger A golden ring. And asked the Sultan’s daughter If she would be his bride. And when she answered him with love, His wounds began to bleed. And she said to him, “ O Love ! how red thy heart is. And thy hands are full of roses.” “For thy sake,” answered he, “For thy sake is my heart so red. For thee I bring these roses ; I gathered them at the cross Whereon I died for thee ! Come, for my Father calls. Thou art my elected bride ! ” And the Sultan’s daughter Followed him to his Father’s garden. Prince Henry. Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie ? Elsie. Yes, very gladly. Prince Henry. Then the Celestial Bridegroom Will come for thee also. Upon thy forehead he will place. Not his crown of thorns, But a crown of roses. In thy bridal chamber, Like Saint Cecilia, THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Thou shalt hear sweet music, And breathe the fragrance Of flowers immortal ! Go now and place these flowers Before her picture. A room in the farm-house. Twilight. Ursula spinning. Gottlieb asleep in his chair. Ursula. Darker and darker ! Hard- ly a glimmer Of light comes in at the window-pane ; Or is it my eyes are growing dim- mer ? I cannot disentangle this skein, Nor wind it rightly upon the reel. Elsie ! Gottlieb {starting). The stopping of thy wheel Has wakened me out of a pleasant dream. I thought I was sitting beside a stream, And heard the grinding of a mill, When suddenly the wheels stood still. And a voice cried “ Elsie ” in my ear ! It startled me, it seemed so near. Ursula. I was calling her : I want a light. I cannot see to spin my flax. Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou hear? Elsie {within). In a moment ! Gottlieb. Where are Bertha and Max? • Ursula. They are sitting with Elsie at the door. She is telling them stories of the wood. And the Wolf, and little Red Riding- hood. Gottlieb. And where is the Prince ? Ursula. In his room overhead ; I heard him walking across the floor. As he always does, with a heavy tread. {^i.siK comes in with a lamp. Max and Bertha follow her; arid they all sing the Evening Song on the light mg of the lamps.) EVENING SONG. O gladsome light Of the Father Immortal, And of the celestial Sacred and blessed Jesus, our Saviour ! 6 Now to the sunset Again hast thou brought us ; And, seeing the evening Twilight, we bless thee. Praise thee, adore thee ! Father omnipotent ! Son, the Life-giver ! Spirit, the Comforter ! Worthy at all times Of worship and wonder ! PHnce Henry {at the door). Amen ! Urstda. Who was it said Amen ? Elsie. It was the Prince : he stood at the door. And listened a moment, as we chanted The evening song. He is gone again. I have often seen him there before. Ursula. Poor Prince ! Gottlieb. I thought the house was haunted ! Poor Prince, alas ! and yet as mild And patient as the gentlest child ! Max. I love him because he is so good, And makes me such fine bows and ar- rows. To shoot at the robins and the spar- rows. And the red squirrels in the wood ! Bertha. I love him, too ! Gottlieb. Ah, yes ! we all Love him, from the bottom of our hearts ; He gave us the farm, the house, and the grange. He gave us the horses and the carts. And the great oxen in the stall. The vineyard, and the forest range ! We have nothing to give him but our love ! Bertha. Did he give us the beautiful stork above On the chimney-top, with its large, round nest ? Gottlieb. No, not the stork ; by God in heaven, As a blessing, the dear white stork was given. But the Prince has given lis all the rest. God bless him, and make him well again. Elsie. Would I could do something for his sake. Something to cure his sorrow and pain ! 82 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Gottlieb. That no one can ; neither thou nor I, Nor any one else. Elsie. And must he die ? Ursula. Yes ; if the dear God does not take Pity upon him, in his distress, And work a miracle ! Gottlieb. Or unless Some maiden, of her own accord. Offers her life for that of her lord, ' And is willing to die in his stead. Elsie. I will ! Ursula. Prithee, thou foolish child, be still ! Thou shouldst not say what thou dost not mean ! Elsie. I mean it truly ! Max. O father ! this morning, Down by the mill, in the ravine, Hans killed a wolf, the very same That in the night to the sheepfold came. And ate up my lamb, that was left out- side. Gottlieb. I am glad he is dead. It will be a warning To the wolves in the forest, far and wide. Max. And I am going to have his hide ! Bertha. I wonder if this is the wolf that ate Little Red Ridinghood ! Ursula. O no ! That wolf was killed a long while ago. Come, children, it is growing late. Max. Ah, how I wish I were a man. As stout as Hans is, and as strong ! I would do nothing else, the whole day long, But just kill wolves. Gottlieb. Then go to bed. And grow as fast as a little boy can. Bertha is half asleep already. See how she nods her heavy head. And her sleepy feet are so unsteady She will hardly be able to creep up stairs. Ursula. Good night, my children. Here ’s the light. And do not forget to say your prayers Before you sleep. Gottlieb. Good night ! Max and Bertha. Good night ! {They go out with Elsie.) Ursula {spinning'). She is a strange and wayward child. That Elsie of ours. She looks so old, And thoughts and fancies weird and wild Seem of late to have taken hold Of her heart, that was once so docile and mild ! Gottlieb. She is like all girls; U rsula. Ah no, forsooth ! Unlike all I have ever seen. For she has visions and strange dreamt. And in all her words and ways, she seems Much older than she is in truth. Who would think her but fifteen ? And there has been of late such a change ! My heart is heavy with fear and doubt That she may not live till the year is out. She is so strange, — so strange, — so strange ! Gottlieb. I am not troubled with any such fear ; She will live and thrive for many a year. Elsie’s chamber. Night. Elsie praying. Elsie. My Redeemer and my Lord, I beseech thee, I entreat thee. Guide me in each act and word. That hereafter I may meet thee. Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning. With my lamp well trimmed and burn- ing ! Interceding With these bleeding Wounds upon thy hands and side. For all who have lived and erred Thou hast suffered, thou hast died. Scourged, and mocked, and crucified. And in the grave hast thou been buried ! If my feeble prayer can reach thee, O my Saviour, I beseech thee. Even as thou hast died for me. More sincerely Let me follow where thou leadest. Let me, bleeding -as thou bleedest. Die, if dying I may give Life to one who asks to live, And more nearly, Dying thus, resemble thee ! THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 83 The chamber of Gottlieb and Ur- sula. Midnight. Elsie standing by their bedside, 'weeping. Gottlieb. The wind is roaring ; the rushing rain Is loud upon roof and window-pane, As if the Wild Huntsman of Rodenstein, Boding evil to me and mine, Were abroad to-night with his ghostly train ! In the brief lulls of the tempest wild. The dogs howl in the yard ; and hark ! Some one is sobbing in the dark. Here in the chamber ! Elsie. It is I. Ursula. Elsie ! what ails thee, my poor child ? ■Elsie. I am disturbed and much dis- tressed, In thinking our dear Prince must die ; I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest. Gottlieb. What wouldsi thou? In the Power Divine His healing lies, not in our own ; It is in the hand of God alone. Elsie. Nay, he has put it into mine. And into my heart ! Gottlieb. Thy words are wild ! Ursula. What dost thou mean? my child ! my child ! Elsie. That for our dear Prince Henry’s sake I will myself the offering make. And give my life to purchase his. Ursula. Am I still dreaming, or awake ? Thou speakest carelessly of death, _ And yet thou knowest not what it is. Elsie. ’T is the cessation of our breath. Silent and motionless we lie ; And no one knoweth more than this. I saw our little Gertrude die ; She left off breathing, and no more I smoothed the pillow beneath her head. She was more beautiful than before. Like violets faded were her eyes ; By this we knew that she was dead. Through the open window looked the skies Into the chamber where she lay. And the wind was like the sound of wings, As if angels came to bear her away. Ah ! when I saw and felt these things, I found it difficult to stay ; I longed to die, as she had died. And go forth with her, side by side. The Saints are dead, the Martyrs dead. And Mary, and our Lord ; and I Would follow in humility I'he way by them illumined ! Ursula. My child ! my child ! thou must not die ! Elsie. Why should I live? Do I not know The life of woman is full of woe ? Toiling on and on and on, With breaking heart, and tearful eyes. And silent lips, and in the soul The secret longings that arise. Which this world never satisfies ! Some more, some less, but of the whole Not one quite happy, no, not one ! Ursula. It is the malediction of Eve 1 Elsie. In place of it, let me receive The benediction of Mary, then. Gottlieb. Ah, woe is me ! Ah, woe is me ! Most wretched am I among men ! U rsula. Alas ! that I should live to see Thy death, beloved, and to stand Above thy grave ! Ah, woe the day ! Elsie. Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie Beneath the flowers of another land. For at Salerno, far away Over the mountains, over the sea. It is appointed me to die ! And it will seem no more to thee Than if at the village on market-day I should a little longer stay Than I am wont. Ursula. Even as thou sayest ! And how my heart beats, when thou stayest ! I cannot rest until my sight Is satisfied with seeing thee. What, then, if thou wert dead ? Gottlieb. Ah me ! Of our old eyes thou art the light ! The joy of our old hearts art thou ! And wilt thou die ? Ursula. Not now ! not now ! Elsie. Christ died for me, and shall not I 84 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Be willing for my Prince to die ? You both are silent ; you cannot speak. This said I at our Saviour’s feast After confession, to the priest, And even he made no reply. Does he not warn us all to seek The happier, better land on high. Where flowers immortal never wither ; And could he forbid me to go thither ? Gottlieb. In God’s own time, my heart’s delight ! When he shall call thee, not before ! Elsie. I heard him call. When Christ ascended Triumphantly, from star to star. He left the gates of heaven ajar. I had a vision in the night. And saw him standing at the door Of his F ather’s mansion, vast and splen- did. And beckoning to me from afar. I cannot stay ! Gottlieb. She speaks almost As if it were the Holy Ghost Spake through her lips, and in her stead ! What if this were of God ? Ursula. Ah, then Gainsay it dare we not. Gottlieb. Amen ! Elsie ! the words that thou hast said Are strange and new for us to hear. And fill our hearts with doubt and fear. Whether it be a dark temptation Of the Evil One, or God’s inspiration. We in our blindness cannot say. We must think upon it, and pray ; For evil and good it both resembles. If it be of God, his will be done ! May he guard us from the Evil One ! How hot thy hand is ! how it trembles ! Go to thy bed, and try to sleep. Ursula. Kiss me. Good night ; and do not w'eep 1 (Elsie goes out.) Ah, what an awful thing is this ! I almost shuddered at her kiss. As if a ghost had touched my cheek, I am so childish and so weak ! As soon as I see the earliest gray Of morning glimmer in the east, I will go over to the priest. And hear what the good man has to s^ ’ A village church. A tvoman kfieeling at the confessional. The Parish Priest {from within). Go, sin no more ! Thy penance A new and better life begin ! God maketh thee forever free From the dominion of thy sin ! Go, sin no more ! He will restore The peace that filled thy heart before, And pardon thine iniquity ! {The woman goes out. The Priest comes forth, and walks slowly up and down the churchi) 0 blessed Lord ! how much I need Thy light to guide me on my way ! So many hands, that, without heed. Still touch thy wounds, and make them bleed ! So many feet, that, day by day. Still wander from thy fold astray ! Unless thou fill me with thy light, 1 cannot lead thy flock aright ; Nor, w ithout thy support, can bear The burden of so great a care. But am myself a castaway ! (A pause.) The day is drawing to its close ; And what good deeds, since first it rose. Have I presented. Lord, to thee. As offerings of my ministry? What wTong repressed, what right main- tained. What struggle passed, w'hat victory gained. What good attempted and attained? Feeble, at best, is my endeavor ! I see, but cannot reach, the height That lies forever in the light. And yet forever and forever. When seeming just within my grasp, I feel my feeble hands unclasp. And sink discouraged into night ! For thine o\\m purpose, thou hast sent The strife and the discouragement ! (A pause.) Why stayestthou. Prince ofHoheneck? Why keep me pacing to and fro Amid these aisles of sacred gloom. Counting my footsteps as I go. And marking with each step a tomb ? THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Why should the world for thee make room, And wait thy leisure and thy beck? Thou comest in the hope to hear Some word of comfort and of cheer. What can I say? I cannot give The counsel to do this and live ; But rather, firmly to deny The tempter, though his power be strong. And, inaccessible to wrong, Still like a martyr live and die ! (A pause.) The evening air grows dusk and brown ; I must go forth into the town. To visit beds of pain and death. Of restless limbs, and quivering breath, And sorrowing hearts, and patient eyes That see, through tears, the sun go down. But nevermore shall see it rise. The poor in body and estate, The sick and the disconsolate. Must not on man’s convenience wait. (Goes out) (Enter Lucifer, as a Priest.) Lucifer (with a genuflexion, mock- ing). This is the Black Pater- noster. God was my foster. He fostered me Under the book of the Palm-tree ! St. Michael was my dame. He was born at Bethlehem, He was made of flesh and blood. God send me my right food. My right food, and shelter too. That I may to yon kirk go, To read upon yon sweet book Which the mighty God of heaven shook. Open, open, hell’s gates ! Shut, shut, heaven’s gates ! All the devils in the air The stronger be, that hear the Black Prayer ! (Looking round the church.) What a darksome and dismal place ! I wonder that any man has the face To call such a hole the House of the Lord, 85 And the Gate of Heaven, — yet such is the word. Ceiling, and walls, and windows old. Covered with cobwebs, blackened with mould ; " Dust on the pulpit, dust on the stairs, Dust on the benches, and stalls, and chairs ! The pulpit, from which such ponder- ous sermons Have fallen down on the brains of the Germans, With about as much real edification As if a great Bible, bound in lead, Had fallen, and struck them on the head ; And I ought to remember that sensa- tion ! Here stands the holy-water stoup ! Holy-water it may be to many. But to me, the veriest Liquor Ge- hennas ! It smells like a filthy fast-day soup ! Near it stands the box for the poor ; With its iron padlock, safe and sure. I and the priest of the parish know Whither all these charities go ; Therefore, to keep up the institution, I will add my little contribution ! (He puts in money.) Underneath this mouldering tomb, With statue of stone, and scutcheon of brass. Slumbers a great lord of the village. All his life was riot and pillage. But at length, to escape the threatened doom Of the everlasting, penal fire. He died in the dress of a mendicant friar, And bartered his wealth for a daily mass. But all that afterwards came to pass. And whether he finds it dull or pleas- ant. Is kept a secret for the present. At his own particular desire. And here, in a corner of the wall, Shadowy, silent, apart from all. With its awful portal open wide, And its latticed windows on either side. And its step well worn by the bended knees L 86 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Of one or two pious centuries, Stands the village confessional ! Within it, as an honored guest, I will sit me down awhile and rest ! i^Seats himself in the confessional.') Here sits the priest ; and faint and low. Like the sighing of an evening breeze. Comes through these painted lattices The ceaseless sound of human woe ; Here, while her bosom aches and throbs With deep and agonizing sobs. That half are passion, half contrition. The luckless daughter of perdition Slowly confesses her secret shame ! The time, the place, the lover’s name ! Here the grim murderer, with a groan. From his bruised conscience rolls the stone. Thinking that thus he can atone For ravages of sword and flame ! Indeed, I marvel, and marvel greatly. How a priest can sit here so sedately, Reading, the whole year out and in, Naught but the catalogue of sin. And still keep any faith whatever In human virtue ! Never ! never ! I cannot repeat a thousandth part, Of the horrors and crimes and sins and woes That arise, when with palpitating throes The graveyard in the human heart Gives up its dead, at the voice of the priest. As if he were an archangel, at least. It makes a peculiar atmosphere. This odor of earthly passions and crimes. Such as I like to breathe, at times. And such as often brings me here In the hottest and most pestilential season. To-day, I come for another reason ; To foster and ripen an evil thought In a heart that is almost to madness wrought. And to make a murderer out of a prince, A sleight of hand I learned long since ! He comes. In the twilight he will not see The difference between his priest and me ! In the same net was the mother caught ! Prhice Henry {entering and kiieel- ing at the confessional). Re- morseful, penitent, and lowly, I come to crave, O Father holy. Thy benediction on my head. Lucifer. The benediction shall be said After confession, not before ! ’T is a God-speed to the parting guest. Who stands already at the door. Sandalled with holiness, and dressed In garments pure from earthly stain. Meanwhile, hast thou searched well thy breast ? Does the same madness fill thy brain ? Or have thy passion and unrest Vanished forever from thy mind ? Prince Henry. By the same mad- ness still made blind. By the same passion still possessed, I come again to the house of prayer, A man afliicted and distressed ! As in a cloudy atmosphere. Through unseen sluices of the air, A sudden and impetuous wind Strikes the great forest white with fear. And every branch, and bough, and spray Points all its quivering leaves one way. And meadows of grass, and fields of grain. And the clouds above, and the slanting rain. And smoke from chimneys of the town, Yield themselves to it, and bow down. So does this dreadful purpose press Onward, with irresistible stress, And all my thoughts and faculties. Struck level by the strength of this. From their true inclination turn. And all stream forward to Salem ! Lucifer. Alas ! we are but eddies of dust. Uplifted by the blast, and whirled Along the highway of the world A moment only, then to fall Back to a common level all. At the subsiding of the gust ! Prince Henry. O holy F ather ! par. don in me The oscillation of a mind Unsteadfast, and that cannot find Its centre of rest and harmony ! Forevermore before mine eyes THE GOLDEN LEGEND. This ghastly phantom flits and flies, And as a madman through a crowd, With frantic gestures and wild cries, It hurries onward, and aloud Repeats its awful prophecies ! Weakness is wretchedness ! To be strong Is to be happy ! I am weak, And cannot find the good I seek. Because I feel and fear the wrong ! Lucifer. Be not alarmed ! The Church is kind, And in her mercy and her meekness She meets half-way her children’s weak- ness. Writes their transgressions in the dust ! Though in the Decalogue we find The mandate written, “ Thou shalt not kill ! ” Yet there are cases when we must. In war, for instance, or from scathe To guard and keep the one true Faith ! We must look at the Decalogue in the light Of an ancient statute, that was meant For a mild and general application. To be understood with the reservation. That, in certain instances, the Right Must yield to the Expedient ! Thou art a Prince. If thou shouldst die. What hearts and hopes would prostrate lie ! What noble deeds, what fair renown. Into the grave with thee go down 1 What acts of valor and courtesy Remain undone, and die with thee ! I hou art the last of all thy race ! With thee a noble name expires. And vanishes from the earth’s face The glorious memory of thy sires ! She is a peasant. In her veins Flows common and plebeian blood ; It is such as daily and hourly stains The dust and the turf of battle plains, By vassals shed, in a crimson flood. Without reserve, and without reward. At the slightest summons oftheirlord ! But thineis precious: thefore-appointed Blood of kings, of God’s anointed ! Moreover, what has the world in store For one like her, but tears and toil ? Daughter of sorrow, serf of the soil, A peasant’s child and a peasant’s wife. And her soul within her sick and sore With the roughness and barrenness of life ! I marvel not at the heart’s recoil From a fate like this, in one so tender. Nor at its eagerness to surrender All the wretchedness, want, and woe That await it in this world below. For the unutterable splendor Of the world of rest beyond the skies. So the Church sanctions the sacrifice : Therefore inhale this healing balm. And breathe this fresh life into thine; Accept the comfort and the calm She offers, as a gift divine ; Let her fall down and anoint thy feet With the ointment costly and most sweet Of her young blood, and thou shalt live. Prince Henry. And will the right- eous Heaven forgive? No action, whether foul or fair. Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere A record, written by fingers ghostly. As a blessing or a curse, and mostly In the greater weakness or greater strength Of the acts which follow it, till at length The wrongs of ages are redressed. And the justice of God made manifest ! Lucifer. In ancient records it is stated That, whenever an evil deed is done. Another devil is created To scourge and torment the offending But evil is only good perverted. And Lucifer, the Bearer of Light, But an angel fallen and deserted. Thrust from his Father’s house with a curse Into the black and endless night. Prince Henry. If justice rules, the universe. From the good actions of good men Angels of light should be begotten. And thus the balance restored again. Lucifer. Yes ; if the world were not so rotten. And so given over to the Devil ! Prince Henry. But this deed, is it good or evil ? Have I thine absolution free To do it, and without restriction ? Lucifer. Ay ; and from whatsoever sin THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Lieth around it and within, From all crimes in which it may involve thee, I now release thee and absolve thee ! Prince Henry. Give me thy holy benediction. Lucifer {stretching forth his hand and muttering). Maledictione perpetua Maledicat vos Pater etemus ! The A ngel {-with the ceolian harp). Take heed ! take heed ! Noble art thou in thy birth. By the good and the great of earth Hast thou been taught ! Be noble in every thought And in every deed ! Let not the illusion of thy senses Betray thee to deadly offences. Be strong ! be good ! be pure ! The right only shall endure. All things else are but false pretences. I entreat thee, I implore. Listen no more To the suggestions of an evil spirit. That even now is there. Making the foul seem fair. And selfishness itself a virtue and a merit ! A room in the farm-house. Gottlieb. It is decided ! For many days. And nights as many, we have had A nameless terror in our breast. Making us timid, and afraid Of God, and his mysterious ways ! We have been sorrowful and sad ; Much have we suffered, much have prayed That he would lead us as is best. And show us what his will required. It is decided ; and we give Our child, O Prince, that you may live ! Ursula. It is of God. He has in- spired This purpose in her ; and through pain. Out of a world of sin and woe. He takes her to himself again. The mother’s heart resists no longer ; With the Angel of the Lord in vain It wrestled, for he was the stronger. Gottlieb. As Abraham offered long ago His son unto the Lord, and even The Everlasting Father in heaven Gave his, as a lamb unto the slaughter, So do I offer up my daughter ! (Ursula hides her face.) Elsie. My life is little. Only a cup of water. But pure and limpid. Take it, O my Prince ! Let it refresh you, Let it restore you. It is given willingly. It is given freely ; May God bless the gift ! Prince Henry. And the giver ! Gottlieb. Amen ! Prince Henry. I accept it ! Gottlieb. Where are the children ? Ursula. They are already asleep. Gottlieb. What if they were dead ? In the garden. Elsie. I have one thing to ask of you. Prince He7try. What is it ? It is already granted. Elsie. Promise me. When we are gone from here, and on our way Are journeying to Salerno, you will not. By word or deed, endeavor to dissuade me And turn ' me from my purpose ; but remember That as a pilgrim to the Holy City Walks unmolested, and with thoughts of pardon Occupied wholly, so would I approach The gates of Heaven, in this great jubilee. With my petition, putting off from me All thoughts of earth, as shoes from oS my feet. _ Promise me this. Prince Henry. Thy words fall from thy lips Like roses from the lips of Angelo : and angels Might stoop to pick them up ! Elsie. Will you not promise? THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 89 Prince Henry. If ever we depart upon this journey. So long to one or both of us, I promise. Elsie. Shall we not go, then ? Have you lifted me Into the air, only to hurl me back Wounded upon the ground? and of- fered me The waters of eternal life, to bid me Drink the polluted puddlesof thisworld? Prince Henry. O Elsie ! what a lesson thou dost teach me ! The life which is, and that which is to come, Suspended hang in such nice equipoise A breath disturbs the balance ; and that scale In which we throw our hearts prepon- derates. And the other, likean empty one, flies up. And is accounted vanity and air ! To me the thought of death is terrible. Having such hold on life. To thee it is not So much even as the lifting of a latch ; Only a step into the open air Out of a tent already luminous With light that shines through its trans- parent walls ! O pure in heart ! from thy sweet dust shall grow Lilies, upon whose petals will be written “ Ave Maria” in characters of gold ! III. A street in Strasburg’. Night. Prince Henry wandering, alone, wrapped in a cloak. Prince Henry. Still is the night. The sound of feet Has died away from the empty street. And like an artisan, bending down His head on his anvil, the dark town Sleeps, with a slumber deep and sweet. Sleepless and restless, I alone. In the dusk and damp of these walls of stone. Wander and weep in my remorse ! Crier of the Dead {ringing a belt). W ake ! wake ! All ye that sleep ! Pray for the Dead ! Pray for the Dead ! Prince Henry. Hark ! with what accents loud and hoarse This warder on the walls of death Sends forth the challenge of his breath 1 I see the dead that sleep in the grave ! They rise up and their garments wave, Dimly and spectral, as they rise. With the light of another world in their eyes ! Crier of the Dead. Wake ! wake ! All ye that sleep ! Pray for the Dead ! Pray for the Dead ! Prince Henry. Why for the dead, who are at rest ? Pray for the living, in whose breast The struggle between right and wrong Is raging terrible and strong. As when good angels war with devils ! This is the Master of the Revels, Who, at Life’s flowing feast, proposes Thehealthofabsentfriends, and pledges, Not in bright gobl ets crowned with roses. And tinkling as we touch their edges. But with his dismal, tinkling bell. That mocks and mimics their funeral knell ! Crier of the Dead. Wake ! wake ! All ye that sleep ! Pray for the Dead ! Pray for the Dead ! Prince Henry. W ake not, beloved ! be thy sleep Silent as night is, and as deep ! There walks a sentinel at thy gate Whose heart is heavy and desolate. And the heavings of whose bosom number The respirations of thy slumber, As if some strange, mysterious fate _ Had linked two hearts in one, and mine Went madly wheeling about thine. Only with wider and wilder sweep ! Crier of the Dead {at a distance). Wake ! wake ! All ye that sleep ! Pray for the Dead ! Pray for the Dead 1 go THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Prince Henry Lo ! with what depth of blackness thrown Against the clouds, far up the skies The walls of the cathedral rise, Like a mysterious grove of stone, Withfitful lights and shadows blending, As from behind, the moon, ascending, Lightsits dim aisles and pathsunknown 1 The wind is rising ; but the boughs Rise not and fall not with the wind Tliatthro’ their foliage sobs and soughs; Only the cloudy rack behind, Drifting onward, wild and ragged. Gives to each spire and buttress jagged A seeming motion undefined. Below on the square, an armed knight, Still as a statue and as white, Sits on his steed, and the moonbeams quiver Upon the points of his armor bright As on the ripples of a river. He lifts the visor from his cheek. And beckons, and makes as he would speak. Walter the Min7tesinger. Friend ! can you tell me where alight Thuringia’s horsemen for the night? For I have lingered in the rear. And wander vainly up and down. Prince Henry. I am a stranger in the town, As thou art ; but the voice I hear Is not a stranger to mine ear. Thou art Walter of the Vogel weid ! Walter. Thou hast guessed rightly ; and thy name Is Henry of Hoheneck ! Prince Henry. Ay, the same. Walter {embracing him^. Come closer, closer to my side 1 What brings thee hither ? What potent charm Has drawn thee from thy German farm Into the old Alsatian city ? Prince Henry. A tale of wonder and of pity ! A wretched man, almost by stealth Dragging my body to Salem, In the vain hope and search for health. And destined never to return. Already thou hast heard the rest. But what brings thee, thus armed and dight In the equipments of a knight ? Walter. Dost thou not see upon my breast The cross of the Crusa iers shine ? My pathway leads to Palestine. Prince Hettry. Ah. vould that way were also mine ! 0 noble poet ! thou whose heart Is like a nest of singing birds Rocked on the topmost bough of life. Wilt thou, too, from ouj- sky depart, And in the clangor of the strife Mingle the music of thy words ? Walter. My hopes are high, my heart is proud. And like a trumpet long and loud. Thither jny thoughts all clang and ring ! My life is in my hand, and lo ! 1 grasp and bend it as a bow. And shoot forth from its trembling string An arrow, that shall be, perchance. Like the arrow of the Israelite king Shot from the window toward the east. That of the Lord’s deliverance ! Prince Henry. My life, alas ! is what thou seest ! 0 enviable fate ! to be Strong, beautiful, and armed like thee With lyre and sword, with song and steel ; A hand to smite, a heart to feel ! Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy sword. Thou givest all unto thy Lord ; While I, so mean and abject grown, Am thinking of myself alone. Walter. Be patient : Time will rein- state Thy health and fortunes. Prince Henry. ’T is too late ! 1 cannot strive against my fate ! Walter. Come with me ; for my steed is weary ; Our journey has been long and dreary. And, dreaming of his stall, he dints With his impatient hoofs the flints. Prince Henry {aside). I am ashamed, in my disgrace. To look into that noble face ! To-morrow, Walter, let it be. Walter. To-morrow, at the dawn of day, I shall again be on my way. Come with me to the hostelry. Fori have many things to say. Our journey into Italy THE GOLDEN- LEGEND. 91 Perchance together we may make ; Wilt thou not do it for my sake? Prince Henry. A sick man’s pace would but impede Thine eager and impatient speed. Besides, my pathway leads me round To Hirschau, in the forest’s bound, Where I assemble man and steed, And all things for my journey’s need. ( They go out.) Lucifer {flying over the city). Sleep, sleep, O city ! till the light Wake you to sin and crime again. Whilst on your dreams, like dismal rain, I scatter downward through the night My maledictions dark and deep. 1 have more martyrs in your walls Than God has ; and they cannot sleep ; They are my bondsmen and my thralls ; Their wretched lives are full of pain. Wild agonies of nerve and brain ; And every heart-beat, every breath, Is a convulsion worse than death ! Sleep, sleep, O city ! though within The circuit of your walls there be No habitation free from sin, And all its nameless misery ; The aching heart, the aching head. Grief for the living and the dead. And foul corruption of the time. Disease, distress, and want, and woe, And crimes, and passions that may grow Until they ripen into crime ! Square in front of the Cathedral. Easter Sunday. Friar Cuthbert preaching to the crowd from a pulpit hi the open air. Prince Henry and Elsie crossing the square. Prince Henry. This is the day, when from the dead Our Lord arose ; and everywhere. Out of their darkness and despair, Triumphant over fears and foes. The hearts of his disciples rose. When to the women, standing near. The Angel in shining vesture said, “The Lord is risen ; he is not here ! ” And, mindful that the dajr is come. On all the hearths in Christendom The fires are quenched, to be again Rekindled from the sun, that high Is dancing in the cloudless sky.. The churches are all decked with flow- ers. The salutations among men Are but the Angel’s words divine, “ Christ is arisen ! ” and the bells Catch the glad murmur, as it swells. And chant together in their towers. All hearts are glad ; and free from care The faces of the people shine. See what a crowd is in the square, Gayly and gallantly arrayed ! Elsie. Let us go back ; I am afraid ! Prince Henry. Nay, let us mount the church-steps here. Under the doorway’s sacred shadow ; We can see all things, and be freer From the crowd that madly heaves and presses ! Elsie. What a gay pageant ! what bright dresses ! It looks like a flower-besprinkled meadow. What is that yonder on the square ? Prince Henry. A pulpit in the open air. And a Friar, who is preaching to the crowd In a voice so deep and clear and loud, That, if we listen, and give heed. His lowest words will reach the ear. Friar Cuthbert {gesticulating and cracking a postilion's whip). What ho ! good people ! do you not hear? Dashing along at the top of his speed, Booted and spurred, on, his jaded steed, A courier comes with words of cheer. Courier ! what is the news, I pray ? “ Christ is arisen ! ” Whence come you? “From court.” Then I do not believe it ; you say it in sport. {Cracks his whip again.) Ah, here comes another, riding this way ; We soon shall know what he has to . Courier ! what are the tidings to-day? “Christ is arisen!” Whence come you? “ From town.” Then I do not believe it ; away with you, clown. {Cracks his whip more violently?) 92 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. And here comes a third, who is spur- ring amain ; What news do you bring, with your loose-hanging rein, Your spurs wet with blood, and your bridle with foam? “ Christ is arisen ! ” Whence come you? “ From Rome.” Ah, now I believe. He is risen, indeed. Ride on with the news, at the top of your speed ! {Great applause among the crawdl) To come back to my text ! When the news was first spread That Christ was arisen indeed from the dead. Very great was the joy of the angels in heaven ; And as great the dispute as to who should carry The tidings thereof to the Virgin Mary, Pierced to the heart with sorrows seven. Old F ather Adam was first to propose, As being the author of all our woes ; But he was refused, for fear, said they. He would stop to eat apples on the way ! Abel came next, but petitioned in vain, Because he might meet with his brother Cain ! Noah, too, was refused, lest his weak- ness for wine Should delay him at every tavern-sign ; And John the Baptist could not get a vote. On account of his old-fashioned camel’s- hair coat ; And the Penitent Thief, who died on the cross. Was reminded that all his bones were broken ! Till at last, when each in turn had spoken, The company being still at a loss. The Angel, who rolled away the stone. Was sent to the sepulchre, all alone, And filled with glory that gloomy prison. And said to the Virgin, “The Lord is arisen ! ” {The Cathedral hells ring.) But hark ! the bells are beginning to chime ; And I feel that I am growing hoarse. I will put an end to my discourse, And leave the rest for some other time. For the bells themselves are the best of preachers ; Their brazen lips are learned teachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the tipper air. Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw, Shriller than trumpets under the Law, Now a sermon and now a prayer. The clangorous hammer is the tongue, This way, that way, beaten and swung. That from mouth of brass, as from Mouth of Gold, May be taught the Testaments, New and Old. And above it the great cross-beam of wood Representeth the Holy Rood, Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. And the wheel wherewith It is swayed and rung Is the mind of man, that round and round Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound ! And the rope, with its twisted cordage three, Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity Of Morals, and Symbols, and History ; And the upward and downward mo- tions show That we touch upon matters high and low ; And the constant change and transmu- tation Of action and of contemplation, Downward, the Scripture brought from on high. Upward, exalted again to the sky ; Downward, the literal interpretation. Upward, the Vision and Mystery ! And now, my hearers, to make an end, I have only one word more to say ; In the church, in honor of Easter day, Will be represented a Miracle Play ; And I hope you will all have the grace to attend. Chirst bring us at last to his felicity 1 Pax vobiscum ! et Benedicite 1 In the Cathedral. Chant. Kyrie Eleison ! Christe Eleison I THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 93 Elsie. I am at home here in my Father’s house I These paintings of the Saints upon the walls Have all familiar and benignant faces. Prince Henry. The portraits of the family of God ! Thine own hereafter shall be placed among them. Elsie. How very grand it is and wonderful ! Never have I beheld a church so splen- did ! Such columns, and such arches, and such windows. So many tombs and statues in the chap- els. And under them so many confessionals. They must be for the rich. I should not like To tell my sins in such a church as this. Who built it ? Prmce Henry. A great master of his craft, Erwin von Steinbach ; but not he alone, F or many generations labored with him. Children that came to see these Saints in stone. As day by day out of the blocks they rose. Grew old and died, and still the work went on. And on, and on, and is not yetcompleted. The generation that succeeds our own Perhaps may finish it. The architect Built his great heart into these sculp- tured stones, And with him toiled his children, and their lives _ Were builded, with his own, into the walls. As offerings unto God. You see that statue Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes Upon the Pillar of the Angels yonder. That is the image of the master, carved By the fair hand ofhis own child, Sabina. Elsie. How beautiful is the column that he looks at ! Prince Henry. That, too, she sculp- tured. At the base of it Stand the* Evangelists ; above their heads Four Angels blowing upon marble trumpets. And over them the blessed Christ, sur- rounded By his attendant ministers, upholding The instruments of his passion. Elsie. O my Lord I Would I could leave behind me upon earth Some monument to thy glory, such as this ! Prince Henry. A greater monument _ than this thou leavest In thine own life, all purity and love ! See, too, the Rose, above the western portal Resplendent with a thousand gorgeous colors. The perfect flower of Gothic loveliness ! Elsie. And, in the gallery, the long line of statues, Christ with his twelve Apostles watch- ing us ! Bishop in armor, hooted and spurred, passes with his train.) Prmce Henry. But come away ; we have not time to look. The crowd already fills the church, and yonder Upon a stage, a herald with a trumpet. Clad like the Angel Gabriel, proclaims The Mystery that will now be repre- sented. THE NATIVITY. A MIRACLE-PLAY. INTROITUS. PrcECo. Come, good people, all and each. Come and listen to our speech ! In your presence here I stand, With a trumpet in my hand. To announce the Easter Play, Which we represent to-day ! First of all we shall rehearse. In our action and our verse. The Nativity of our Lord, As written in the old record Of the Protevangelion, So that he who reads may run ! {Blows his trumpet.) 94 THE GOLDEN LEGEND, I. HEAVEN. Mercy {at the feet of God). Have pity, Lord ! be not afraid To save mankind, whom thou hast made. Nor let the souls that were betrayed Perish eternally ! Justice. It cannot be, it must not be I When in the garden placed by thee, The fruit of the forbidden tree He ate, and he must die ! Mercy. Have pity. Lord ! let peni- tence Atone for disobedience, Nor let the fruit of man’s offence Be endless misery ! Justice. What penitence proportion- ate Can e’er be felt for sin so great ? Of the forbidden fruit he ate, And damned must he be ! God. He shall be saved, if that within The bounds of earth one free from sin Be found, who for his kith and kin Will suffer martyrdom. The Four Virtues. Lord ! we have searched the world around. From centre to the utmost bound. But no such mortal can be found ; Despairing, back we come. IVisdom. No mortal, but a God made man. Can ever carry out this plan. Achieving what none other can, Salvation unto all ! God. Go, then, O my beloved Son ! It can by thee alone be done ; By thee the victory shall be won O’er Satan and the Fall ! {Here the Angel Gabriel shall leave Paradise and fly towards the earth ; the jaws of Hell open below, and the Devils walk about, makmg a great noise.) II. MARY AT THE WELL. Mary. Along the garden walk, and thence Through the wicket in the garden fence, I steal with quiet pace. My pitcher at the well to fill. That lies so deep and cool and still In this sequestered place. These sycamores keep guard around ; I see no face, I hear no sound. Save bubblings of the spring. And my companions, who within The threads of gold and_ scarlet spin. And at their labor sing. The Angel Gabriel. Hail, Virgin Mary, full of grace ! {Here Mary looketh arojindher, trem- bling, and then saith ;) Mary. Who is it speaketh in this place. With such a gentle voice ? Gabriel. The Lord of heaven is with thee now ! Blessed among all women thou, Who art his holy choice ! Mary {setting down the pitcheV^. What can this mean? No one is near. And yet, such sacred words I hear, I almost fear to stay. {Here the Angel appearing to her, shall say ;) Gabriel. Fear not, O Mary ! but believe ! For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive A child this very day. Fear not, O Mary ! from the sky The majesty of the Most High Shall overshadow thee ! Mary. Behold the handmaid of the Lord ! According to thy holy word, So be it unto me ! {Here the Devils shall again make a great noise, under the stage.) III. THE ANGELS OF THE SEVEN PLAN- ETS, BEARING THE STAR OF BETH- ' LEHEM. The Angels. The Angels of the Planets Seven, Across the shining fields of heaven The natal star we bring ! Dropping our sevenfold virtues down, As priceless jewels in the crown Of Christ, our new-born King. Raphael. I am the Angel of the Sun, Whose flaming wheels began to run THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 95 When God’s almighty breath Said to the darkness and the Night, Let there be light ! and there was light ! I bring the gift of faith. Gabriel. I am the Angel of the Moon, Darkened, to be rekindled soon Beneath the azure cope ! Nearest to earth, it is my ray That best illumes the midnight way. I bring the gift of Hope ! Afiael. The Angel of the Star of Love, The Evening Star, that shines above The place where lovers be. Above all happy hearths and homes, On roofs of thatch, or golden domes, I give him Charity ! Zobiachel. The Planet Jupiter is mine ! The mightiest star of all that shine. Except the sun alone ! He is the High Priest of the Dove, And sends, from his great throne above. Justice, that shall atone ! Michael. The Planet Mercury, whose place Is nearest to the sun in space. Is my allotted sphere ! And with celestial ardor swift I bear upon my hands the gift Of heavenly Prudence here ! Uriel. I am the Minister of Mars, The strongest star among the stars ! My songs of power prelude The march and battle of man’s life, And for the suffering and the strife, I give him Fortitude ! Orifel. The Angel of the uttermost Of all the shining, heavenly host, From the far-off expanse Of the Saturnian, endless space I bring the last, the crowning grace, The gift of Temperance ! (A sudden light shines from the •win- dows of the stable in the village be- low.) IV. THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST. The stable of the Inn. The Virgin and Child. Three Gypsy Kings, Caspar, Melchior, Belshaz- zar, shall come in. Caspar. Hail to thee, Jesus of Naz- areth ! Though in a manger thou draw breath, "Jliou art greater than Life and Death, Greater than Joy or Woe ! This cross upon the line of life Portendeth struggle, toil, and strife. And through a region with peril rife In darkness shait thou go ! Melchior. Hail to thee. King of Jerusalem ! Though humbly born in Bethlehem, A sceptre and a diadem Await thy brow and hand ! The sceptre is a simple reed. The crown will make thy temples bleed. And in thy hour of greatest need. Abashed thy subjects stand ! Belshazzar. Hail to thee, Christ of Christendom ! O’er all the earth thy kingdom come ! From distant Trebizond to Rome Thy name shall men adore ! Peace and good-will among all men, The Virgin has returned again. Returned the old Saturnian reign And Golden Age once more. The Child Christ. Jesus, the Son of God, am I, Born here to suffer and to die According to the prophecy. That other men may live ! The Virgin. And now these clothes, that wrapped him, take And keep them precious, for his sake ; Our benediction thus we make. Naught else have we to give. {She gives them swaddling-clothes, and they depart.) V. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. {Here shall Joseph come in, leading an ass, on which are seated Mary and tM Child.) Mary. Here willwe rest us, underthese O’erhanging branches of the trees. Where robins chant their Litanies And canticles of joy. Joseph. My saddle-girths have given way With trudging through the heat to-day ; To you I think it is but play To ride and hold the boy. 96 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Mary. Hark ! how the robins shout and sing, As if to hail their infant King ! I will alight at yonder spring To wash his little coat. Joseph. And I will hobble well the Lest, being loose upon the grass, He should escape ; for, by the mass, He ’s nimble as a goat. {^Here Mary shall alight and go to the spring.) Mary. O Joseph ! I am much afraid, For men are sleeping in the shade ; I fear that we shall be waylaid. And robbed and beaten sore ! {_H ere a hand of robbers shall be seen sleeping, two of whom shall rise attd come forwardi) Dumachus. Cock’s soul ! deliver up your gold ! Joseph. I pray you, Sirs, let go your hold ! You see that I am weak and old. Of wealth I have no store. Dumachus. Give up your money ! T ihts. Prithee cease. Let these good people go in peace. Dumachus. First let them pay for , their release. And then go on their way. Titus. These forty groats I give in fee. If thou wilt only silent be. Mary. May God be merciful to thee. Upon the Judgment Day ! Jesus. When thirty years shall have gone by, I at Jerusalem shall die. By Jewish hands exalted high On the accursed tree. Then on my right and my left side. These thieves shall both be crucified. And Titus thenceforth shall abide In paradise with me. (Here a great mimor of trumpets and horses, like the noise of a king with his army, and the robbers shall take flight.) VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNO- CENTS. King Herod. Potz-tausend ! Him- mel-sacrament 1 Filled am I %vith great wonderment At this unwelcome news ! Am I not Herod? Who shall dare My crown to take, my sceptre bear, As king among the Jews ? (Here he shall stride up and down and flourish his sword.) What ho ! I fain would drink a can Of the strong wine of Canaan ! The wine of Helbon bring I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, As red as blood, as hot as fire. And fit for any king ! (He quaffs great goblets of wine.) Now at the window will I stand. While in the street the armed band The little children slay : The babe just born in Bethlehem Will surely slaughtered be with them. Nor live another day ! (Here a voice of lajjientation shall be heard hi the street.) Rachel. O wicked king ! O cruel speed ! To do this most unrighteous deed ! My children all are slain : Herod. Ho, seneschal ! another cup ! With wine of Sorek fill it up ! I would a bumper drain ! Rahab. May maledictions fall and blast Thyself and lineage, to the last Of all thy kith and kin ! Herod. Another goblet ! quick ! and stir Pomegranate juice and drops of myrrh And calamus therein ! Soldiers (in the street). Give up thy child into our hands ! It is King Herod who commands That he should thus be slain ! The Nurse Medusa. O monstrous men ! What have ye done 1 It is King Herod’s only son That ye have cleft in twain ! Herod. Ah, luckless day ! What words of fear Are these that smite upon my ear With such a doleful sound ! What torments rack my heart and head 1 Would I were dead ! would 1 were dead. And buried in the ground ! THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 97 {^He falls down and writhes as though eaten by worms. Hell opens, and Satan and Astaroth come forth, and drag him down.) VII. JESUS at play with his school- mates. Jesus. The shower is over. Let us play, And make some sparrows out of clay, Down by the river’s side. Judas. See, how the stream has over- flowed Its banks, and o’er the meadow road Is spreading far and wide ! ( They draw water otit of the river by channels, and form little pools. J E- sus makes twelve sparrows of clay, atid the other boys do the same.) Jesus. Look ! look ! how prettily I make These little sparrows by the lake Bend down their necks and drink ! Now will I make them sing and soar So far, they shall return no more Unto this river’s brink. Judas. That canst thou not ! They are but clay. They cannot sing, nor fly away Above the meadow lands ! Jeszts. Fly, fly ! ye sparrows ! you are free ! And while you live, remember me Who made you with my hands. {Here Jesus shall clap his hands, and the sparrows shall fly away, chir- ruping. ) Judas. Thou art a sorcerer, I know ; Oft has my mother told me so, I will not play with thee ! {He strikes Jesus on the right side.) Jesus. Ah, Judas ! thou hast smote my side, And when I shall be crucified, There shall I pierced be ! {Here Joseph shall come in, and say :) Joseph. Ye wicked boys ! why do ye play, And break the holy Sabbath day ? What, think ye, will your mothers say 7 To see you in such plight ! In such a sweat and such a heat, With all that mud upon your feet ! There ’s not a beggar in the street Makes such a sorry sight ! VIII. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. {The Rabbi Ben Israel, with a long beard, sitting on a high stool, with a rod in his hand.) Rabbi. I am the Rabbi Ben Israel, Throughout this village known full well, And, as my scholars all will tell. Learned in things divine ; The Cabala and Talmud hoar Than all the prophets prize I more, For water is all Bible lore. But Mishna is strong wine. My fame extends from West to East, And always, at the Purim feast, I am as drunk as any beast. That wallows in his sty : The wine it so elateth me. That I no difference can see Between “ Accursed Haman be ! ” And “ Blessed be Mordecai ! ” Come hither, Judas Iscariot ; Say, if thy lesson thou hast got From the Rabbinical Book or not. Why howl the dogs at night ? Judas. In the Rabbinical Book, it saith The dogs howl, when with icy breath Great Sammael, the Angel of Death, Takes through the town his flight ! •Rabbi. Well, boy ! now say, if thou art wise. When the Angel of Death, who is full of eyes. Comes where a sick man dying lies, What doth he to the wight? Judas. He stands beside him, dark and tall. Holding a sword, from which doth fall Into his mouth a drop of gall, And so he turneth white. Rabbi. And now, my Judas, say to me What the great Voices Four may be. That quite across the world do flee. And are not heard by men ? Judas. The Voice of the Sun in heaven’s dome, 98 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. The Voice of the Murmuring of Rome, The Voice of a Soul that goeth home, And the Angel of the Rain ! Rabbi. Right are thine answers ev- ery one ! Now little Jesus, the carpenter’s son. Let us see how thy task is done, Canst thou thy letters say ? Jesus. Aleph. Rabbi. What next ? Do not stop yet ! Go on with all the alphabet. Come, Aleph, Beth ; dost thou forget ? Cock’s soul ! thou ’dst rather play ! Jesus. What Aleph means I fain would know, Before I any further go ! Rabbi, O, by Saint Peter ! wouldst thou so? Come hither, boy, to me. As surely as the letter Jod Once cried aloud, and spake to God, So surely shalt thou feel this rod, And punished shalt thou be ! Here Rabbi Ben Israel shall lift up his rodto strike and his right arjn shall be pa?-alyzed.') IX. CROWNED WITH FLOWERS. (Jesus sitting among his playmates crowned with flowers as their King.') Boys. We spread our garments on the ground ! With fragrant flowers thy head is crowned. While like a guard we stand around. And hail thee as our King ! Thou art the new King of the Jews ! Nor let the passers-by refuse To bring that homage which men use To majesty to bring. {Here a traveller shall go by, and the boys shall lay hold of his garments atid say :) Boys. Come hither ! and all rever- ence pay Unto our monarch, crowned to-day ! Then go rejoicing on your way. In all prosperity ! Traveller. Hail to the King of Bethlehem, Who weareth in his diadem The yellow crocus for the gem Of his authority ! ' {He passes by ; and others come in, bearing on a litter a sick child.) Boys. Set down the litter and draw near ! The King of Bethlehem is here ! What ails the child, who seems to fear That we shall do him harm? The Bearers. He climbed up to the robin’s nest, And out there darted, from his rest, A serpent with a crimson crest. And stung him in the arm. Jesus. Bring him to me, and let me feel The wounded place ; my touch can heal The sting of serpents, and can steal The poison from the bite ! {He touches the wotind, and the boy begins to cry.) Cease to lament ! I can foresee That thou hereafter known shalt be Among the men who follow me. As Simon the Canaanite ! EPILOGUE. In the after part of the day Will be represented another play. Of the Passion of our Blessed Lord, Beginning directly after Nones ! At the close of which we shall accord, By way of benison and reward. The sight of a holy Martyr’s bones ! IV. The road to Hirschau. Prince Henry and Elsie, with their attendants, on horseback. , Elsie. Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently bearing Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and daring ! Prince Henry. This life of ours is a wild aeolian harp of many a joyous strain, But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 99 Elsie. Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleeds with the stigma Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend its dark enigma. Prince Henry. Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may betide ; _ Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an angel’s side ? Elsie. All the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog under the creak- ing wain Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the horses toil and strain. Prince Henry. Now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs with the landlord’s daughter, While out of the dripping trough the horses distend their leathern sides with water. Elsie. All through life there are wayside inns, where man may refresh his soul with love ; Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs from above. Prince Henry. Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey along the highway ends. And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green valley descends. Elsie. I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road with its dust and heat ; The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under our horses’ feet. {They turn down a green lane.) Elsie. Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lightest snow. Prince Henry. Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming against the distant hill ; We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner when winds are still. Elsie. Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the brook by our side ! What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land so wide? Prince Henry. It is the home of the Counts of Calva ; well have I known these scenes of old. Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the wood, and the wold. Elsie. Hark ! from the little village below us the bells of the church are ringing for rain ! Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on the arid plain. Prince Henry. They have not long to wait, for I see in the south uprising a little cloud. That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as with a shroud. {They pass on.) The Convent of Hirschau in the Black Forest. The Convent cellar. Friar Claus comes m with a light and a basket of empty flagons. Friar Claus. I always enter this sacred place With ^ thoughtful, solemn, and rever- _ ent pace. Pausing long enough on each stair To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, And a benediction on the vines lhat produce these various sorts of wines ! For my part, I am well content That we have got through with the tedious Lent ! foes ; But I am quite sure it does not agree With a quiet, peaceable man like me. Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind That are always distressed in body and mind ! And at times it really does me good lOO THE GOLDEN LEGEND. To come down among this brotherhood, Dwelling forever under ground, Silent, contemplative, round andsound; Each one old, and brown with mould. But filled to the lips with the ardor of youth. With the latent power and love of truth. And with virtues fervent and manifold. I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, When buds are swelling on every side, And the sap begins to move in the vine. Then in all cellars, far and wide. The oldest, as well as the newest, wine Begins to stir itself, and ferment. With a kind of revolt and discontent At being so long in darkness pent. And fain would burst from its sombre tun To bask on the hillside in the suni; As in the bosom of us poor friars. The tumult of half-subdued desires _ For the world that we have left behind Disturbs at times all peace of mind ! And now that we have lived through Lent, My duty it is, as often before. To open awhile the prison-door. And give these restless spirits vent. Now here is a cask that stands alone. And has stood a hundred years or more. Its beard of cobwebs, long and hoar. Trailing and sweeping along the floor, Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave. Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave. Till his beard has grown through the table of stone ! It is of the quick and not of the dead ! In its veins the blood is hot and red. And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak I'hat time may have tamed, but has not broke ! It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, Is one of the three best kinds of wine, And costs some hundred florins the ohm : But that I do not consider dear. When I remember that every year Four butts are sent to the Pope of Rome. And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, The old rhyme keeps running in my brain ; At Bacharach on the Rhine, At Hochheim on the Main, And at Wurzburg on the Stein, Grow the three best kinds of wine I They are all good wines, and better far Than those of the Neckar, or those of the Ahr. In particular, Wurzburg well may boast Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, Which of all wines I like the most. This I shall draw for the Abbot’s drinking, Who seems to be much of my way of thinking. {Fills a flagon.') Ah ! how the streamlet laughs and sings ! What a delicious fragrance springs F rom the deep flagon, while it fills. As of hyacinths and daffodils ! Between this cask and the Abbot’s lips Many have been the sips and slips ; Many have been the draughts of wine. On their way to his, that have stopped at mine ; And many a time my soul has hankered For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, When it should have been busy with other affairs,^ Less with its longings and more with its prayers. But now there is no such awkward con- dition, No danger of death and eternal perdi- tion ; So here ’s to the Abbot and Brothers -all. Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul ! {He drinks.) O cordial delicious ! O soother of pain ! It flashes like sunshine into my brain ! A benison rest on the Bishop who sends Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends 1 And now a flagon for such as may ask THE GOLDEN LEGEND. A draught from the noble Bacharach cask, And I will be gone, though I know full well The cellar’s a cheerfuller place than the cell. Behold where he stands, all sound and good. Brown and old in his oaken hood ; Silent he seems externally As any Carthusian monk may be ; But within, what a spirit of deep un- rest ! What a seething and simmering in his breast ! As if the heaving of his great heart Would burst his belt of oak apart ! Let me unloose this button of wood. And quiet a little his turbulent mood (^Sets it running.') See ! how its currents gleam and shine, As if they had caught the purple hues Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, Descending and mingling with the dews ; Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood Of the innocent boy, who, some years back. Was taken and crucified by the Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach ; Perdition upon those infidel Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach ! The beautiful town, that gives us wine With the fragrant odor of Muscadine ! I should deem it wrong to let this pass Without first touching my lips to the glass. For here in the midst of the current I stand. Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river. Taking toll upon either hand. And much more grateful to the giver. {He drinks i) Here, now, is a very inferior kind. Such as in any town you may find. Such as one might imagine would suit The rascal who drank wine out of a boot. And, after all, it was not a crime. For he won thereby Dorf Hiiffelsheim. A jolly old toper ! who at a pull Could drink a postilion’s jack-boot full. And ask with a laugh, when that was done. If the fellow had left the other one ! This wine is as good as we can afford To the friars, who sit at the lower board. And cannot distinguish bad from good. And are far better off than if they could. Being rather the rude disciples of beer Than of anything more refined and dear ! {Fills the other flagon and departs.) The Scriptorium. Friar Pacificus transcribing and illuminating. Friar Pacificus. 1 1 is growing dark ! Yet one line more. And then my work for to-day is o’er. I come again to the name of the Lord I Ere I that awful name record. That is spoken so lightly among men, Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen ; Pure from blemish and blot must it be When it writes that word of mystery ! Thus have I labored on and on. Nearly through the Gospel of John. Can it be that from the lips Of this same gentle Evangelist, That Christ himself perhaps has kissed. Came the dread Apocalypse ! It has a very awful look. As it stands there at the end of the book, Like the sun in an eclipse. Ah me ! when I think of that vision divine. Think of writing it, line by line, I stand in awe of the terrible curse. Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse ! God forgive me ! if ever I Take aught from the book of that Prophecy, Lest my part too should be taken away From the Book of Life on the Judg- ment Day. This is well written, though I sa}^ it ! I should not be afraid to display it. In open day, on the selfsame shelf With the writings of St. Theda herself Or of Theodosius, who of old Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold ! That goodly folio standing yonder. Without a single blot or blunder. 102 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Would not bear away the palm from mine, If we should compare them line for line. There, now, is an initial letter ! Saint Ulrichimselfnever made abetter ! Finished down to the leaf and the snail, Down to the eyes on the peacock’s tail ! And now, as I turn the volume over. And see what lies between cover and cover. What treasures of art these pages hold, All ablaze with crimson and gold, God forgive me ! I seem to feel A certain satisfaction steal Into my heart, and into my brain, As if my talent had not lain Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain. Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, Here is a copy of thy Word, Written out with much toil and pain ; Take it, O Lord, and let it be As something I have done for thee ! {He looks from the window.') How sweet the air is ! How fair the scene ! I wish I had as lovely a green To paint my landscapes and my leaves ! How the swallows twitter under the eaves ! There, now, there is one in her nest ; I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast. And will sketch her thus, in her quiet nook. For the margin of my Gospel book. (He makes a sketch.) I can see no more. Through the val- ley yonder A shower is passing ; I hear the thun- der Mutter its curses in the air. The Devil’s own and only prayer ! The dusty road is brown with rain. And, speeding on with might and main. Hitherward rides a gallant train. They do not parley, they cannot wait. But hurry in at the convent gate. What a fair lady ! and beside her What a handsome, graceful, noble rider ! Now she gives him her hand to alight ; They will beg a shelter for the night. I will go down to the corridor. And try to see that face once more ; It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint, Or for one of the Maries I shall paint. (Goes out.) The Cloisters. The Abbot Ernes- tos pacing to and fro. A bbot. Slowly, slowly up the wall Steals the sunshine, steals the shade Evening damps begin to fall. Evening shadows are displayed. Round me, o’er me, everywhere. All the sky is grand with clouds. And athwart the evening air . Wheel the swallows home in crowds. Shafts of sunshine from the west Paint the dusky windows red ; Darker shadows, deeper rest. Underneath and overhead. Darker, darker, and more wan. In my breast the shadows fall ; Upward steals the life of man. As the sunshine from the wall. From the wall into the sky, F rom the roof along the spire ; Ah, the souls of those that die Are but sunbeams lifted higher. (Enter Prince Henry.) Prince Henry. Christ is arisen ! A bbot. _ Amen ! he is arisen ! His peace be with you ! Prince Henry. Here it reigns for- ever ! The peace of God, that passeth under- standing. Reigns in these cloisters and these corridors. Are you Emestus, Abbot of the con- vent? Abbot. I am. Prince Henry. And I Prince Hen- ry of Hoheneck, Who crave your hospitality to-night. Abbot. You are thrice welcome to our humble walls. You do us honor ; and we shall requite it, I fear, but poorly, entertaining you With Paschal eggs, and our poor con- vent wine. The remnants of our Easter holidays. I THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Prince Henry. How fares it with the holy monks of Hirschau? Are all things well with them ? A bbot. All things are well. Prince Henry. A noble convent ! I have known it long By the report of travellers. I now see Their commendations lag behind the truth. You lie here in the valley of the Nagold As in a nest : and the still river, gliding Along its bed, is like an admonition How all things pass. Your lands are rich and ample. And your revenues large. God’s bene- diction Rests on your convent. Abbot. _ _ By our charities We strive to merit it. Our Lord and Master, When he departed, left us in his will. As our best legacy on earth, the poor ! These we have always with us ; had we not. Our hearts would grow as hard as are these stones. Prince Henry. If I remember right, the Counts of Calva Founded your convent. A bbot. Even as you say. Prmce Henry. And, if I err not, it is very old. A bbot. Within these cloisters lie al- ready buried Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath the flags On which we stand, the Abbot William lies, Of blessed memory. Prince Henry. And whose tomb is - that. Which bears the brass escutcheon ? Abbot. A benefactor’s, Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who stood Godfather to our bells. Prince Henry. Your monks are learned And holy men, I trust. A bbot. There are among them Learned and holy men. Yet in this age We need another Hildebrand, to shake And purify us like a mighty wind. The world is wicked, and sometimes I wonder 103 God does not lose his patience witli it wholly. And shatter it like glass ! Even here, at times. Within these walls, where all should be at peace, I have my trials. Time has laid his hand Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it. But as a harper lays his open palm Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. Ashes are on my head, and on my lips Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness And weariness of life, that makes me ready To say to the dead Abbots under us, “ Make room for me ! ” Only I see the dusk Of evening twilight coming, and have not Completed half my task ; and so at times The thought of my shortcomings in this life Falls like a shadow on the life to come. Prince Henry. W e must all die, and not the old alone ; The young have no exemption from that doom. A bbot. Ah, yes ! the young may die, but the old must ! That is the difference. Prince Henry. I have heard much laud Of your transcribers. Your Scriptorium Is famous among all ; your manuscripts Praised for their beauty and their ex- cellence. Abbot. That is indeed our boast. If you desire it. You shall behold these treasures. And meanwhile Shall the Refectorarius bestow Your horses and attendants for the night. {^They go in. The Vesper-bell rings.') The Chapel. Vespers; after which the monks retire, a chorister lead- ing an old monk who is blind. Prince Henry. They are all gone, save one who lingers. Absorbed in deep and silent prayer. As if his heart could find no rest. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 104 At times he beats his heaving breast With clenched and convulsive fingers, Then lifts them trembling in the air. A chorister, with golden hair, Guides hitherward his heavy pace. Can it be so ? Or does my sight Deceive me in the uncertain light ? Ah no ! I recognize that face. Though Time has touched it in his flight, And changed the auburn hair to white. It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, The deadliest foe of all our race. And hateful unto me and mine ! The Blind Monk. Who is it that doth stand so near His whispered words I almost hear? Prince Henry. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, And you. Count Hugo of the Rhine ! I know you, and I see the scar. The brand upon your forehead, shine And redden l.ke a baleful star ! The Blind Monk. Count Hugo once, but now the wreck Of what I was. O Hoheneck ! The passionate will, the pride, the wrath That bore me headlong on my path. Stumbled and staggered into fear. And failed me in my mad career. As a tired steed some evil-doer. Alone upon a desolate moor. Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind. And hearing loud and close behind The o’ertaking steps of his pursuer. Then suddenly from the dark there came A voice that called me by my name. And said to me, “ Kneel down and pray ! ” And so my terror passed away. Passed utterly away forever. Contrition, penitence, remorse, Came on me, with o’erwhelming force ; A hope, a longing, an endeavor. By days of penance and nights of prayer. To frustrate and defeat despair ! Calm, deep, and still is now my heart. With tranquil waters overflowed ; A lake whose unseen fountains start. Where once the hot volcano glowed. And you, O Prince of Hoheneck ! Have known me in that earlier time, A man of violence and crime. Whose passions brooked no curb nor check. Behold me now, in gentler mood. One of this holy brotherhood. Give me your hand ; here let me kneel ; Make your reproaches sharp as steel ; Spurn me, and smite me on each cheek ; No violence can harm the meek. There is no wound Christ cannot heal ! Yes ; lift your princely hand, and take Revenge, if ’t is revenge you seek ; Then pardon me, for Jesus’ sake ! Prince Henry. Arise, Count Hugo ! let there be No further strife nor enmity Between us twain ; we both have erred ! Too rash in act, too wroth in word. From the beginning have we stood In fierce, defiant attitude. Each thoughtless of the others right. And each reliant on his might. But now our souls are more subdued ; The hand of God, and not in vain. Has touched us with the fire of pain. Let us kneel down, and side by side Pray, till our souls are purified. And pardon will not be denied 1 {They kneel.~) The Refectory. Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. 'L.MZiv'E.Yi disguised as a Friar. Friar Paul {sings). Ave ! color vini clari, Dulcis potus, non amari, Tua nos inebriari Digneris potentia ! Friar Cuthbert. Not so much noise, my worthy freres. You ’ll disturb the Abbot at his prayers. Friar Paul {sings). O ! quam placens in colore ! O ! quam fragrans in odore ! O ! quam sapidum in ore ! Duke linguae vinculum ! Friar Cuthbert. I should think your tongue had broken its chain ! Friar Paid {sings). Felix venter quern intrabis ! Felix guttur quod rigabis 1 Felix os quod tu lavabis 1 Et beata labia 1 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Friar Cuthhert. Peace ! I say, peace ! Will you never cease ! You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell you again ! Friar John. No danger ! to-night he will let us alone. As I happen to know he has guests of his own. Friar Cuthbe'rt. Who are they ? Friar Joh?t. A German Prince and his train. Who arrived here just before the rain. There is with him a damsel fair to see. As slender and graceful as a reed ! When she alighted from her steed. It seemed like a blossom blown from a tree. Friar Ctithbert. None of your pale- faced girls for me ! None of your damsels of high degree ! Friar John. Come, old fellow, drink down to your peg ! But do not drink any farther, I beg ! Friar Paul {sings). In the days of gold, The days of old. Crosier of wood And bishop of gold ! Friar Cuthbert. What an infernal racket and riot ! Can you not drink your wine in quiet ? Why fill the convent with such scan- dals. As if we were so many drunken Van- dals? Friar Paul {continues). Now w'e have changed That law so good. To crosier of gold And bishop of wood ! Friar Cuthbert. Well, then, since you are in the mood To give your noisy humors vent, Sing and howl to your heart’s content ! Chorus of Monks. Funde vinum, funde ! Tanquam sint fluminis undae, Nec quasras unde, Sed fundas semper abunde ! Friar John. What is the name of yonder friar, 105 With an eye that glows like a coal of fire. And such a black mass of tangled hair? Friar Paul. He who is sitting there. With a rollicking. Devil may care. Free-and-easy look and air. As if he were used to such feasting and frolicking ? Friar John. The same. Friar Paul. He ’s a stranger. You had better ask his name, And where he is going, and w hence he came. Friar John. Hallo ! Sir Friar ! Friar Paul. You must raise your voice a little higher. He does not seem to hear what you say. Now, try again ! He is looking this way. Friar John. Hallo! Sir Friar, We wish to inquire Whence vou came, and where you are going. And anything else that is worth the knowing. So be so good as to open your head. Lucifer. I am a Frenchman bom and bred. Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. My home Is the convent of St. Gildas de Rhuys, Of which, very like, you never have heard. Monks. Never a word ! Lticifer. You must know, then, it is in the diocese Called the Diocese of Vannes, In the province of Brittany. From the gray rocks of Morbihan It overlooks the angry sea; The very sea-shore where. In his great despair. Abbot Abelard walked to and fro. Filling the night with woe. And wailing aloud to the merciless seas The name of his sweet Heloise I Whilst overhead The convent windows gleamed as red As the fiery eyes of the monks within. Who with jovial din Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin J [o6 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Ha! that is a convent ! that is an abbey ! Over the doors, None of your death-heads carved in wood, None of your Saints looking pious and good, None of your Patriarchs old and shabby I But the heads and tusks of boars, And the cells Hung all round with the fells Of the fallow-deer. And then what cheer ! What jolly, fat friars, Sitting round the great, roaring fires, Roaring louder than they. With their strong wines. And their concubines, And never a bell. With its swagger and swell, Calling you up with a start of affright In the dead of night. To send you grumbling down dark stairs. To mumble your prayers. But the cheery crov/ Of cocks in the yard below. After daybreak, an hour or so. And the barking of deep-mouthed hounds. These are the sounds That, instead of bells, salute the ear. And then all day Up and away Through the forest, hunting the deer 1 Ah, my friends ! I ’m afraid that here You are a little too pious, a little too tame. And the more is the shame. ’T is the greatest folly Not to be jolly ; That ’s what I think ! Come, drink, drink. Drink, and die game ! Monks. Andyour Abbot What ’s-his- name? Lucifer. Abelard ! Monks. Did he drink hard ? Lucifer. O no ! Not he ! He was a dry old fellow. Without juice enough to get thoroughly mellow. There he stood. Lowering at us in sullen mood. As if he had come into Brittany J ust to reform our brotherhood ! (A roar of laughter.') But you see It never would do 1 For some of us knew a thing or two. In the Abbey of St. Gildas de Rhuys 1 For instance, the great ado With old Fulbert’s niece, The young and lovely Heloise. Friar John. Stop there, if you please. Till we drink to the fair Heloise. All (drinking and shouting). He- loise ! Heloise I (The Chapel-bell tolls.) Lucifer (starting). What is that bell for? Are you such asses As to keep up the fashion of midnight masses? Friar Czithbert. It is only a poor, unfortunate brother, Who is gifted with most miraculous powers Of getting up at all sorts of hours. And, by way of penance and Christian meekness. Of creeping silently out of his cell To take a pull at that hideous bell ; So that all the monks who are lying awake May murmur some kind of prayer for his sake. And adapted to his peculiar weakness ! Friar John. F rom frailty and fall — All. Good Lord, deliver us all ! Friar Cuthbert. And before the bell for matins sounds, He takes his lantern, and goes the rounds. Flashing it into our sleepy eyes. Merely to say it is time to arise. But enough of that. Goon, if you please. With your story about St. Gildas de Rhuys. Lucifer. Well, it finally came to pass That, half in fun and half in malice. One Sunday at Mass We put some poison into the chalice. But, either by accident or design, Peter Abelard kept away From the chapel that day. And a poor, young friar, who in his stead Drank the sacramental wine. Fell on the steps of the altar, dead ! THE GOLDEN LEGEND. B ut look ! do you see at the window there That face, with a look of grief and de- spair. That ghastly face, as of one in pain ? Monks. Who? where? Lucifer. As I spoke, it vanished away again. Friar Cuthbert. It is that nefarious Siebald the Refectorarius. That fellow is always playing the scout. Creeping and peeping and prowling about ; And then he regales The Abbot with scandalous tales. Lucifer. A spy in the convent? One of the brothers Telling scandalous tales of the others ? Out upon him, the lazy loon ! I would put a stop to that pretty soon, In a way he should rue it. Monks. How shall we do it ? Lucifer. Do you, brother Paul, Creep under the window, close to the wall. And open it suddenly when I call. Then seize the villain by the hair, And hold him there. And punish him soundly, once for all. Friar Cuthbert. As St. Dunstan of old. We are told. Once caught the Devil by the nose ! Lucifer. Ha ! ha ! that story is very clever. But has no foundation whatsoever. Quick ! for I see his face again Glaring in at the window-pane ; N ow ! now ! and do not spare your blows. (Friar Paul opetis the window sud- denly, and seizes Siebald. They beat him.) Friar Siebald. Help ! help ! are you going to slay me ? Friar Paul. That will teach you again to betray me ! Friar Siebald. Mercy ! mercy ! Friar Paul {shouting and beating). Rumpas bellorum lorum, Vim confer amorum Morum verorum rorum Tu plena polorum ! Lttcifer. Who stands in the doorway yonder. 107 Stretching out his trembling hand. Just as Abelard used to stand. The flash of his keen, black eyes Forerunning the thunder? The Monks {in confusion). The Abbot ! the Abbot ! Friar Cuthbert. And what is the wonder ! He seems to have taken you by surprise. Friar Francis. Hide the great flagon From the eyes of the dragon ! Friar C%ithbert. Pull the brown hood over your face ! This will bring us into disgrace I Abbot. What means this revel and carouse ? Is this a tavern and drinking-house ? Are you Christian monks, or heathen devils, T o pollute this convent with your revels ? Were Peter Damian still upon earth. To be shocked by such ungodly mirth. He would write your names, with pen of gall. In his Book of Gomorrah, one and all ! Away, you drunkards ! to your cells. And pray till you hear the matin-bells ; You, Brother Francis, and you, Brother Paul ! And as a penance mark each prayer With the scourge upon your shoulders _ bare ; Nothing atones for such a sin But the blood that follows the discipline. And you. Brother Cuthbert, come with me Alone into the sacristy ; You, who should be a guide to your brothers. And are ten times worse than all the others. For you I’ve a draught that has long been brewing. You shall do a penance worth the doing ! Away to your prayers, then, one and all ! I wonder the very convent wall Does not crumble and crush you in its fall ! The neighboring Nunnery. The Ab- bess Irmingard sitting with Elsie in the moonlight. Irmingard. The night is silent, the wind is still, THE GOLDEN LEGEND. io8 The moon Is looking from yonder hill Down upon convent, and grove, and garden ; The clouds have passed away from her face, Leaving behind them no sorrowful trace, Only the tender and quiet grace Of one, whose heart has been healed with pardon ! And such am I. My soul within Was dark with passion and soiled with sin. But now its wounds are healed again ; Gone are the anguish, the terror, and pain ; For across that desolate land of woe. O’er whose burning sands I was forced to go, A wind from heaven began to blow ; And all my being trembled and shook. As the leaves of the tree, or the grass of the field. And I was healed, as the sick are healed. When fanned by the leaves of the Holy Book ! As thou sittest In the moonlight there. Its glory flooding thy golden hair, And the only darkness that which lies In the haunted chambers of thine eyes, I feel my soul drawn unto thee. Strangely, and strongly, and more and more, Asto one I haveknown and lovedbefore ; For every soul is akin to me That dwells in the land of mystery ! I am the Lady Irmingard, Born of a noble race and name ! Many a wandering Suabian bard. Whose life was dreary, and bleak, and hard. Has found through me the way to fame. Brief and bright were those days, and the night Which followed was full of a lurid light. Love, that of every woman's heart Will have the whole, and not a part, That is to her, in Nature’s plan. More than ambition is to man. Her light, her life, her very breath. With no alternative but. death. Found me a maiden soft and young. Just from the convent’s cloistered school. And seated on my lowly stool, Attentive while the minstrels sung. Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, Fairest, noblest, best of all. Was Walter of the Vogelweid ; And, whatsoever may betide. Still I think of him with pride ! His song was of the summer-time, The very birds sang in his rhyme ; The sunshine, the delicious air. The fragrance of the flowers, were there ; And I grew restless as I heard. Restless and buoyant as a bird, Down soft, aerial currents sailing. O’er blossomed orchards, and fields in bloom. And through the momentary gloom Of shadows o’er the landscape trailing, "yielding and borne I knew not where, But feeling resistance unavailing. And thus, unnoticed and apart. And more by accident than choice, I listened to that single voice Until the chambers of my heart Were filled with it by night and day. One night, — it was a night in May, — Within the garden, unawares. Under the blossoms in the gloom, I heard it utter my own name With protestations and wild prayers ; And it rang through me, and became Like the archangel’s trump of doom. Which the soul hears, and must obey ; And mine arose as from a tomb. My former life now seemed to me Such as hereafter death may be. When in the great Eternity We shall awake and find it day. It was a dream, and would not stay ; A dream, that in a single night Faded and vanished out of sight. My father’s anger followed fast This passion, as a freshening blast Seeks out and fans the fire, whose rage It may increase, but not assuage. And he exclaimed : “ No wandering bard Shall win thy hand, O Irmingard ! For which Prince Henry of Hoheneck By messenger and letter sues.” Gently, but firmly, I replied : “ Henry of Hoheneck I discard 1 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Never the hand of Irmingard Shall lie in his as the hand of a bride ! ” This said I, Walter, for thy sake ; This said I, for I could not choose. After a pause, my father spake In that cold and deliberate tone Which turns the hearer into stone, And seems itself the act to be That follows with such dread certainty ; “ This, or the cloister and the veil ! ” No other words than these he said. But they were like a funeral wail ; My life was ended, my heart was dead. That night from the castle-gate went down. With silent, slow, and stealthy pace. Two shadows, mounted on shadowy steeds. Taking the narrow path that leads Into the forest dense and brown. In the leafy darkness of the place. One could not distinguish form nor face. Only a bulk without a shape, A darker shadow in the shade ; One scarce could say it moved or stayed. Thus it was we made our escape ! A foaming brook, with many a bound. Followed us like a playful hound ; Then leaped before us, and in the hol- low Paused, and waited for us to follow. And seemed impatient, and afraid That our tardy flight should be betrayed By the sound our horses’ hoof-beats made. And when we reached the plain below. We paused a moment and drew rein To look back at the castle again ; And we saw the windows all aglow With lights, that were passing to and fro ; Our hearts with terror ceased to beat ; The brook crept silent to our feet ; We knew what most we feared to know. Then suddenly horns began to blow ; And we heard a shout, and a heavy tramp. And our horses snorted in the damp Night-air of the meadows green and wide. And in a moment, side by side, So close, they must have seemed but one. The shadows across the moonlight run. And another came, and swept behind. Like the shadow of clouds before the wind ! How I remember that breathless flight Across the moors, in the summer night ! How underour feet the long, white road Backward like a river flowed. Sweeping with it fences and hedges. Whilst farther away, and overhead. Paler than I, with fear and dread. The moon fled with us, as we fled Along the forest’s jagged edges ! All this I can remember well ; But of what afterwards befell I nothing further can recall Then a blind, desperate, headlong fall ; The rest is a blank and darkness all. When I awoke out of this swoon. The sun was shining, not the moon. Making a cross upon the wall With the bars of my windows narrow and tall ; And I prayed to it, as I had been wont to pray, F rom early childhood, day by day. Each morning, as in bed I lay ! I was lying again in my own room ! And I thanked God, inmy fever and pain. That those shadows on the midnight plain Were gone, and could not come again I I struggled no longer with my doom 1 This happened many years ago. I left my father’s home to come Like Catherine to her martyrdom. For blindly I esteemed it so. And when I heard the convent door Behind me close, to ope no more, I felt it smite me like a blow. Through all my limbs a shudder ran, And on my bruised spirit fell The dampness of my narrow cell As night-air on a wounded man. Giving intolerable pain. But now a better life began. I felt the agony decrease By slow degrees, then wholly cease. Ending in perfect rest and peace ! It was not apathy, nor dulness. That weighed and pressed upon my brain. But the same passion I had given To earth before, now turned to heaven With all its overflowing fulness. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. no Alas I the world is full of peril ! The path that runs through the fairest meads, On the sunniest side of the valley, leads Into a region bleak and sterile ! Alike in the high-born and the lowly, The will is feeble, and passion strong. We cannot sever right from wrong ; Some falsehood mingles with all truth ; N or is it strange the heart of youth Should waver and comprehend but slowly The things that are holy and unholy ! But in this sacred, calm retreat, We are all well and safely shielded F rom winds that blow, and waves that beat. From the cold, and rain, and blighting heat, To which the strongest hearts have yielded. Here we stand as the Virgins Seven, For our celestial bridegroom yearning; Our hearts are lamps forever burning. With a steady and unwavering flame, Pointing upward, forever the same. Steadily upward toward the heaven ! The moon is hidden behind a cloud ; A sudden darkness fills the room, And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom. Shine like jewels in a shroud. On the leaves is a sound of falling rain ; A bird, awakened in its nest. Gives a faint twitter of unrest. Then smooths its plumes and sleeps again. No other sounds than these I hear ; The hour of midnight must be near. Thou art o’erspent with the day’s fatigue Of riding many a dusty league ; Sink, then, gently to thy slumber ; Me so many cares encumber. So many ghosts, and forms of fright. Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away : I will go down to the chapel and pray. V. A covered bridge at Lucerne. Prince Henry. God’s blessing on the architects who build The bridges o’er swift rivers and abysses Before impassable to human feet. No less than on the builders of cathe- drals. Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across The dark and terrible abyss of Death. Well has the name of Pontifex been given Unto the Church’s head, as the chief builder And architect of the invisible bridge That leads from earth to heaven. Elsie. How dark it grows f What are these paintings on the walls around us ? Prince Henry. The Dance Macaber ! Elsie. What? Prince Henry. The Dance of Death ! All that go to and fro must look upon it. Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath. Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river Rushes, impetuous as the river of life. With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright. Save w'here the shadow of this bridge falls on it. Elsie. O yes ! I see it now ! Prince Henry. The 'grim musician Leads all men through the mazes of that dance. To different sounds in different meas- ures moving ; Sometimes he plays a lute, sometimes a drum. To tempt or terrify. Elsie. What is this picture ? Prince Henry. It is a young man singing to a nun. Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling Turns round to look at him ; and Death, meanwhile. Is putting out the candles on the altar ! Elsie. Ah, what a pity ’t is that she should listen Unto such songs, when in her orisons She might have heard in heaven the angels singing ! Prince Henry. Here he has stolen a jester’s cap and bells, And dances with the Queen. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Elsie. A foolish jest ! Prince Henry. And here the heart of the new-wedded wife, Coming from church with her beloved lord, He startles with the rattle of his drum. Elsie. Ah, that is sad ! And yet perhaps ’tis best That she should die, with all the sun- shine on her. And all the benedictions of the morn- ingj Before this affluence of golden light Shall fade into a cold and clouded gray, Then into darkness ! Prince Henry. Under it is written, “ Nothing but death shall separate thee and me ! ” Elsie. And what is this, that follows close upon it ? Prince Henry. Death, playing on a dulcimer. Behind him, A poor old woman, with a rosary, F ollows the sound, and seems to wish her feet Were swifter to o’ertake him. Under- neath, The inscription reads, “ Better is Death than Life.” Elsie. Better is Death than Life ! Ah yes ! to thousands Death plays upon a dulcimer, and sings That song of consolation, till the air Rings with it, and they cannot choose but follow Whither he leads. And not the old alone. But the young also hear it, and are still. Prince Henry. Yes, in their sadder moments. ’T is the sound Of their own hearts they hear, half full of tears. Which are like crystal cups, half filled with water. Responding to the pressure of a finger With music sweet and low and melan- choly. Let us go forward, and no longer stay In this great picture-gallery of Death ! I hate it ! ay, the very thought of it ! Elsie. Why is it hateful to you? Prince Henry. F or the reason That life, and all that speaks of life, is ' lovely, And death, and all that speaks of death, is hateful. Elsie. The grave itself is but a cpv- ered bridge. Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness ! Prince Henry {emerging from ike bridge'). I breathe again more freely ! Ah, how pleasant To come once more into the light of day. Out of that shadow of death ! To hear again The hoof-beats of our horses on firm ground. And not upon those hollow planks, re- soundi|i^ With a sepulchral echo, like the clods ‘ On coffins in a churchyard ! Yonder lies The Lake of the Four Forest-Towns, apparelled In light, and lingering, like a village maiden. Hid in the bosom of her native moun- tains. Then pouring all her life into another’s. Changing her name and being ! Over- head, Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air. Rises Pilatus, with his windy pines. {T hey f ass on.) The Devil's Bridge. Prince Henry attd Elsie crossing, with attetid- a?its. Guide. This bridge is called the Devil’s Bridge. With a single arch, from ridge to ridge. It leaps across the terrible chasm Yawning beneath us, black and deep. As if, in some convulsive spasm. The summits of the hills had cracked. And made a road for the cataract, That raves and rages down the steep ! Lucifer {under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! Guide. Never any bridge but this Could stand across the wild abyss ; All the rest, of wood or stone. By the Devil’s hand were overthrown. He toppled crags from the precipice. And whatsoe’er was built by day In the night was swept away ; None could stand but this alone. Lucifer{under the bridge). Ha! hal II2 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Guide. I showed you in the valley a boulder Marked with the imprint of his shoul- der ; As he was bearing it up this way, A peasant, passing, cried, “ Herr Je ! ” And the Devil dropped it in his fright, And vanished suddenly out of sight ! Lucifer {under the bridge). Ha! ha I Guide. Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, For pilgrims on their way to Rome, Built this at last, with a single arch. Under which, on its endless march. Runs the river, white with foam. Like a thread through the eye of a nee- dle. And the Devil promised to let it stand. Under compact and condition That the first living thing which crossed Should be surrendered into his hand, And be beyond redemption lost. Lucifer{under the bridge). Ha! ha! perdition ! Guide. At length, the bridge being all completed. The Abbot, standing at its head. Threw across it a loaf of bread. Which a hungry dog sprang after. And the rocks re-echoed with the peals of laughter To see the Devil thus defeated ! {They pass on.) Lucifer {under the bridge). Ha ! ha ! defeated ! For journeys and for crimes like this I let the bridge stand o’er the abyss ! The St. Gothard Pass. Prince Henry. This is the highest point. Two ways the rivers Leap down to different seas, and as they roll Grow deep and still, and their majestic presence Becomes a benefaction to the towns They visit, wandering silently among them. Like patriarchs old among their shining tents. Elsie. How bleak and bare it is ! Nothing but mosses Grow on these rocks. Prince Henry. Yet are they not for- gotten ; Beneficent Nature sends the mists to feed them. Elsie. See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by tbe wind, floats fast away Over tbe snowy peaks ! 1 1 seems to me The body of St. Catherine, borne by angels ! Prince Henry. Thou art St. Cath- erine, and invisible angels Bear thee across these chasms and precipices. Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet against a stone ! Elsie. Would I were borne unto my grave, as she was. Upon angelic shoulders ! Even now I seem uplifted by them, light as air ! What sound is that? Prince He^try. The tumbling ava- lanches ! Elsie. How awful, yet how beautiful ! Prince Henry. These are The voices of the mountains ! 'I'hus they ope Their snowy lips, and speak unto each other. In the primeval language, lost to man. Elsie. What land is this that spreads itself beneath us? Prince Henry. Italy! Italy! Elsie. Land of the Madonna ! How beautiful it is ! It seems a garden Of Paradise ! Prince Henry. Nay, of Gethsemane To thee and me, of passion and of prayer ! Yet once of Paradise. Long years ago I wandered as a youth among its bowers. And never from my heart has faded quite Its memory, that, like a summer sunset. Encircles with a ring of purple light All the horizon of my youth. _ ' Guide. O friends ! The days are short, the way before us long ; We must not linger, if we think to reach The inn at Belinzona before vespers ! {They pass on.) A t the foot of the A Ips. A halt un- der the trees at noon. Prince Henry. Here let us pause a moment in the trembling THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Shadow and sunshine of the roadside trees. And, our tired horses in a group as- sembling. Inhale long draughts of this delicious breeze. Our fleeter steeds have distanced our attendants ; They lag behind us with a slower pace ; We will await them under the green pendants Of the great willows in this shady place. Ho, Barbarossa ! how thy mottled haunches Sweat with this canter over hill and glade ! Stand still, and let these overhanging branches Fan thy hot sides and comfort thee with shade ! Elsie. What a delightful landscape spreads before us. Marked with a whitewashed cottage here and there ! And, in luxuriant garlands drooping o’er us. Blossoms of grape-vines scent the sun- ny air. Prince Henry. Hark ! what sweet sounds are those, whose accents holy Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet ! Elsie. It is a band of pilgrims, mov- ing slowly On their long journey, with uncovered feet. Pilgrims (ckaniing the Hymn of St. H ildeberf). Me receptet Sion ilia, Sion David, urbs tranquilla, Cujus faber auctor lucis, Cujus portse lignum crucis, Cujus claves lingua Petri, Cujus cives semper Ijeti, Cujus muri lapis vivus, Cujus custos Rex festivus ! Lucifer {as a Friar in the proces- sion). Here am I, too, in the pious band. In the garb of a barefooted Carmelite dressed I 8 1 1.3 The soles of my feet are as hard and tanned As the conscience of old Pope Hilde- brand, The Holy Satan, who made the wives Of the bishops lead such shameful lives. All day long I beat my breast. And chant with a most particular zest The Latin hymns, which I understand Quite as well, I think, as the rest. And at night such lodging in barns and sheds. Such a hurly-burly in country inns. Such a clatter oftongues in empty heads. Such a helter-skelter of prayers and sins ! Of all the contrivances of the time F or sowing broadcast the seeds of crime. There is none so pleasing to me and mine As a pilgrimage to some far-off shrine ! Prince Henry. If from the outward man we judge the inner. And cleanliness is godliness, I fear A hopeless reprobate, a hardened sin- ner, ' Must be that Carmelite now passing near. Lucifer. There is my German Prince again. Thus far on his journey to Salem, And the lovesick girl, whose heated brain Is sowing the cloud to reap the rain ; But it ’s a long road that has no turn ! Let them quietly hold their way, I have also a part in the play. But first I must act to my heart’s con- tent This mummery and this merriment. And drive this motley flock of sheep Into the fold, where drink and sleep The jolly old friars of Benevent. Of a truth, it often provokes me to laugh To see these beggars hobble along. Lamed and maimed, and fed upon chaff. Chanting their wonderful piff and pafl^ And, to make up for not understanding the song. Singing it fiercely, and wild, and strong ? Were it not for my magic garters and staff. And the goblets of goodly wine I quaff, THE GOLDEN LEGEND. And the mischief I make in the idle throng, I should not continue the business long. Pilgrims {chanting). In hac urbe, lux solenms, Ver aeternum, pax perennis ; In hac odor implens caslos, In hac semper festuin melos ! Prince Henry. Do you observe that monk among the train, Who pours from his great throat the roaring bass, As a cathedral spout pours out the rain, And this way turns his rubicund, round face? Elsie. It is the same who, on the Strasburg square, Preached to the people in the open air. Prhtce Henry. And he has crossed o’er mountain, field, and fell. On that good steed, that seems to bear him well. The hackney of the Friars of Orders Gray, His own stout legs ! He, too, was in the play. Both as King Herod and Ben Israel. Good morrow. Friar ! Friar Cidhbert. Good morrow, no- ble sir ! Prince Henry. I speak in German, for, unless I err. You are a German. Friar Czithbert. 1 cannot gainsay you. But by what instinct, or what secret sign. Meeting me here, do you straightway divine That northward of the Alps my coun- try lies ? Prince Henry. Your accent, like St. Peter’s, would betray you. Did not your yellow beard and your blue eyes. Moreover, we have seen your face be- fore. And heard you preach at the Cathedral door On Easter Sunday, in the Strasburg square. We were among the crowd that gath- ered there. And saw you play the Rabbi with great skill. As if, by leaning o’er so many years To walk with little children, your own will Had caught a childish attitude from theirs, A kind of stooping in its form and gait. And could no longer stand erect and straight. Whence come you now? Friar Cuthbert. From the old mon- astery Of Hirschau, in the forest ; being sent Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, To see the image of the Virgin Mary, That moves its holy eyes, and some- times speak.s. And lets the piteous tears run down its cheeks, To touch the hearts of the impenitent. Prince Henry. O, had I faith, as in the days gone by. That knew no doubt, and feared no mystery ! Lucifer {at a distance). Ho, Cuth- bert ! Friar Cuthbert ! Friar Cuthbert. Farewell, Prince ! I cannot stay to argue and convince. Prince Henry. This is indeed the blessed Mary’s land, Virgin and Mother of our dear Re- deemer ! All hearts are touched and softened 'at her name : Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand. The priest, the prince, the scholar, and the peasant. The man of deeds, the visionary dream- er, Pay homage to her as one ever present ! And even as children, who have much offended A too indulgent father, in great shame, Penitent, and yet not daring unattended To go into his presence, at the gate Speak with their sister, and confiding wait Till she goes in before and intercedes ; So men, repenting of their evil deeds. And yet not venturing rashly to draw near With their requests an angry father’s ear. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 115 Offer to her their prayers and their confession, And she for them in heaven makes in- tercession. And if our Faith had given us nothing more Than this example of all womanhood, So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good. So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure. This were enough to prove it higher and truer Than all the creeds the world had known before. Pilgrims {chanting afar ojff"). Urbs coelestis, urbs beata, Supra petram collocata, Urbs in portu satis tuto De longinquo te saluto, Te saluto, te suspiro, Te affecto, te require ! The Inti at Genoa. A terrace over- looking the sea. Night. Prince Henry. It is the sea, it is the sea, In all its vague immensity. Fading and darkening in the distance ! Silent, majestical, and slow. The white ships haunt it to and fro. With all their ghostly sails unfurled, As phantoms from another world Haunt the dim confines of existence ! But ah ! how few can comprehend Their signals, or to what good end From land to land they come and go ! Upon a sea more vast and dark The spirits of the dead embark. All voyaging to unknown coasts. We wave our farewells from the shore. And they depart, and come no more. Or come as phantoms and as ghosts. Above the darksome sea of death Looms the great life that is to be, A land of cloud and mystery, A dim mirage, with shapes of men Long dead, and passed beyond our ken. Awe-struck wegaze, and hold our breath Till the fair pageant vanish eth. Leaving us in perplexity. And doubtful whether it has been A vision of the world unseen. Or a bright image of our own Against the sky in vapors thrown. Lucifer {singing from the sea). Thou didst not make it, thou canst not mend it. But thou hast the power to end it ! The sea is silent, the sea is discreet. Deep it lies at thy very feet ; There is no confessor like unto Death ! Thou canst not see him, but he is near ; Thou needest not whisper above thy breath. And he will hear ; He will answer the questions. The vague surmises and suggestions, That fill thy soul with doubt and fear I Prince Henry. I’he fisherman, who lies afloat. With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, Is singing softlj' to the Night ! But do I comprehend aright The meaning of the words he sung So sweetly in his native tongue ? Ah yes ! the sea is still and deep. All things within its bosom sleep ! A single step, and all is o’er ; A plunge, a bubble, and no more; And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be free From martyrdom and agony. Elsie {coming from her chamber upon the terrace). The night is calm and cloudless. And still as still can^be. And the stars come forth to listen To the music of the sea. They gather, and gather, and gather, Until they crowd the sky. And listen, m breathless silence, To the solemn litany. It begins in rocky caverns. As a voice that chants alone To the pedals of the organ In monotonous undertone ; And anon from shelving beaches. And shallow sands beyond, In snow-white robes uprising The ghostly choirs respond. And sadly and unceasing The mournful voice sings on. And the snow-white choirs still answer Christe eleison ! Prince Henry Angel of God! thy finer sense perceives Celestial and perpetual harmonies! Thy purer soul, that trembles and be- lieves, THE GOLDEN LEGEND. ii6 Hears the archangel’s trumpet in the breeze, And where the forest rolls, or ocean heaves, Cecilia’s organ sounding in the seas. And tongues of prophets speaking in the leaves. But I hear discord only and despair. And whispers as of demons in the air ! At sea. II Padrone. The wind upon our quarter lies. And on before the freshening gale. That fills the snow-white lateen sail, Swiftly our light felucca flies. Around, the billows burst and foam ; They lift her o’er the sunken rock. They beat her sides with many a shock. And then upon their flowing dome They poise her, like a weathercock ! Between us and the western skies The hills of Corsica arise ; Eastward, in yonder long, blue line. The summits of the Apennine, And southward, and still far away, Salerno, on its sunny bay. You cannot see it, where it lies. Prince Henry, Ah, would that never- more mine eyes Might see its towers by night or day ! Elsie. Behind us, dark and awfully, There comes a cloud out of the sea. That bears the form of a hunted deer. With hide of brown, and hoofs of black. And antlers laid upon its back. And fleeing fast and wild with fear. As if the hounds were on its track ! Prince Henry. Lo ! while we gaze, it breaks and falls In shapeless masses, like the walls Of a burnt city. Broad and red The fires of the descending sun Glare through the windows, and o’er- head. Athwart the vapors, dense and dun, Long shafts of silvery light arise. Like rafters that support the skies ! Elsie. See! from its summit the lurid levin Flashes downward without warning, As Lucifer, son of the morning, Fell from the battlements of heaven 1 II Pa-drone. I must entreat you, friends, below ! The angry storm begins to blow. For the weather changes with the moon. All this morning, until noon, W e had baffling winds, and sudden flaws Struck the sea with their cat’s-paws. Only a little hour ago I was whistling to Saint Antonio For a capful of wind to fill our sail, And instead of a breeze he has sent a gale. Last night I saw Saint Elmo’s stars. With their glimmering lanterns, all at play On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars. And I knew we should have foul weather to-day. Cheerly, my hearties ! yo heave ho ! Brail up the mainsail, and let her go As the winds will and Saint Antonio ! Do you see that Livornese felucca. That vessel to the windward yonder, Running with her gunwale under ? I waslookingwhen thewindo’ertookher. She had all sail set, and the only wonder Is, that at once the strength of the blast Did not carry away her mast. She is a galley of the Gran Duca, That, through the fear of the Algerines, Convoys those lazy brigantines. Laden with wine and oil from Lucca. Now all is ready, high and low ; Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio ! Ha I that is the first dash of the rain, With a sprinkle of spfay above the rails. Just enough to moisten our sails. And make them ready for the strain. See how she leaps, as the blasts o’er- take her. And speeds away with a bone in her mouth I Now keep her head toward the south. And there is no danger of bank or breaker. With the breeze behind us, on'we go; Not too much, good Saint Antonio 1 VI. The School of Salerno. A travelling Scholastic affixing his Theses to the gate of the College. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. [17 Scholastic. There, that is rny gaunt- let, my banner, my shield. Hung up as a challenge to all the field ! One liundred and twenty-five proposi- tions. Which I will maintain with the sword of the tongue Against all disputants, old and young. Let us see if doctors or dialecticians Will dare to dispute my definitions, Or attack any one of my learned theses. Here stand I; the end shall be as God pleases- I think I have proved, by profound researches, The error of all those doctrines so vicious Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, That are making such terrible work in the churches. By Michael the Stammerer sent from the East, And done into Latin by that Scottish beast, Johannes Duns Scotus, who dares to maintain. In the face of the truth, the error in- fernal. That the universe is and must be eter- nal ; At first laying down, as a fact funda- mental. That nothing with God can be acci- dental ; Then asserting that God before the creation Could not have existed, because it is plain That, had he existed, he would have created ; Which is begging the question that should be debated. And moveth me less to anger than laughter. All nature, he holds, is a respiration Of the Spirit of God, who, in breathing, hereafter Will inhale it into his bosom again. So that nothing but God alone will remain. And therein he contradicteth hirnself ; For he opens the whole discussion by stating. That God can only exist in creating. That question I think I have laid on the shelf ! (Ho goes out. Two Doctors come in disputing., and followed by pupils.') Doctor Serafino. I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain. That a word which is only conceived in the brain Is a type of eternal Generation ; The spoken word is the Incarnation. Doctor Cherubino. What do I care for the Doctor Seraphic, With all hds wordy chaffer and traffic? Doctor Serafino. You make but a paltry show of resistance ; Universals have no real existence ! Doctor Cherubino. Your words are but idle and empty chatter ; Ideas are eternally joined to matter ! Doctor Serafino. May the Lord have mercy on your position, Youwretched, wrangling culler of herbs! Doctor Cherubino May he send your soul to eternal perdition. For yourTreatiseon the Irregular Verbs! {They rush out fighting. Two Schol- ars come in.) First Scholar. Monte Cassino, then, is your College. What think you of ours here at Salem ? Second Scholar. To tell the truth, I arrived so lately, I hardly yet have had time to discern. So much, at least, I am bound to ac- knowledge ; The air seems healthy, the buildings stately. And on the whole I like it greatly. First Scholar. Yes, the air is sweet ; the Calabrian hills Send us down puffs of mountain air ; And in summer-time the sea-breeze fills With its coolness cloister and court and square. Then at every season of the year There are crowds of guests and travel- lers here ; Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and traders From the Levant, with figs and wine. And bands of wounded and sick Cru- saders, Coming back from Palestine. THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Second Scholar. And what are the studies you pursue ? What is the course you here go through ? First Scholar. The first three years of the college course Are given to Logic alone, as the source Of all that is noble, and wise, and true. Second Scholar. That seems rather strange, I must confess. In a Medical School ; yet, neverthe- less. You doubtless have reasons for that. First Scholar, O yes I For none but a clever dialectician Can hope to become a great physician ; That has been settled long ago. Logic makes an important part Of the mystery of the healing art ; For without it how could you hope to show That nobody knows so much as you know ? After this there are five years more Devoted wholly to medicine. With lectures on chirurgical lore. And dissections of the bodies of swine, As likest the human form divine. Second Scholar. What are the books now most in vogue ? First Scholar. Quite an extensive catalogue ; Mostly, however, books of our own ; As Gariopontus’ Passionarius, And the writings of Matthew Platea- rius ; And a volume universally known As the Regimen of the School of Salem, F or Robert of Normandy written in terse And very elegant Latin verse. Each of these writings has its turn. And when at length we have finished these. Then comes the struggle for degrees, With all the olde^ and ablest critics ; The public thesis and disputation. Question, and answer, and explanation Of a passage out of Hippocrates, Or Aristotle’s Analytics. There the triumphant Magister stands ! A book is solemnly placed in his hands, On which he swears to follow the rule And ancient forms of the good old School ; To report if any confectionarius Mingles his drugs with matters various, And to visit his patients twice a day. And once in the night, if they live in town. And if they are poor, to take no pay. Having faithfully promised these. His head is crowned with a laurel crown ; A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand, The Magister Artium et Physices Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land. And now, as we have the whole morning before us. Let us go m, if you make no objection. And listen awhile to a learned prelection On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus. {'They go in. Enter Lucifer as a Doctor.) Lucifer. This is the great School of Salem ! A land of wrangling and of quarrels. Of brains that seethe, and hearts that burn. Where every emulous scholar hears, In every breath that comes to his ears. The rustling of another’s laurels ! The air of the place is called salubrious ; The neighborhood of Vesuvius lends it An odor volcanic, that rather mends it. And the buildings have an aspect lugu- brious. That inspires a feeling of awe and terror Into the heart of the beholder. And befits such an ancient homestead of error. Where the old falsehoods moulder and smoulder. And yearly by many hundred hands Are carried away, in the zeal of youth. And sown like tares in the field of truth, To blossom and ripen in other lands. What have we here, affixed to the gate ? The challenge of some scholastic wight, Who wishes to hold a public debate On sundry questions wrong or right ! Ah, now this is my great delight ! For I have often observed of late That such discussions end in a fight._ Let us see what the learned wag main- tains With such a prodigal waste of brains, {Reads. ) THE GOLDEN LEGEND 19 “ Whether angels in moving from place to place Pass through the intermediate space, Whether God himself is the author of evil, Or whether that is the work of the Devil When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell. And whether he now is chained in hell. ” I think I can answer that question well ! So long as the boastful human mind Consents in such mills as this to grind, I sit very firmly upon my throne ! Of a truth it almost makes me laugh. To see men leaving the golden grain To gather in piles the pitiful chaff That old Peter Lombard thrashed with his brain. To have it caught up and tossed again On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Co- logne ! But my guests approach ! there is in the air A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful Garden Of Paradise, in the days that were ! An odor of innocence, and of prayer. And of love, and faith that never fails, Such as the fresh young heart exhales Before it begins to wither and harden ! I cannot breathe such an atmosphere ! My soul is filled with a nameless fear. That, after all my trouble and pain. After all my restless endeavor, The youngest, fairest soul of the twain. The most ethereal, most divine. Will escape from my hands for ever and ever. But the other is already mine ! Let him live to corrupt his race. Breathing among them, with every bieath. Weakness, selfishness, and the base And pusillanimous fear of death. I know his nature, and I know That of all who in my ministry Wander the great earth to and fro. And on my errands come and go. The safest and subtlest are such as he. {Enter Prince Henry and Elsie, with attendants.) Prince Henry. Can you direct us to Friar Angelo? Lucifer. He stands before you. Prince Henry. Then you know our purpose. I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and this The maiden that I spake of in my letters. Lucifer. It is a very grave and sol- emn business ! We must not be precipitate Does she W ithout compulsion, of her own freewill, Consent to this ? Prince Henry. Against all opposi- tion. Against all prayers, entreaties, protes- tations. She will not be persuaded. Lticifer. That is strange ! Have you thought well of it ? Elsie. I come not here To argue, but to die. Your business is not To question, bufto kill me. I am ready. I am impatient to be gone from here Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again The spirit of tranquillity within me. Prince Henry. Would I had not come here ! Would I were dead. And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest. And hat^st not known me ! Why have I done this ? Let me go back and die. Elsie. It cannot be ; Not if these cold, flat stones on which we tread Were coulters heated white, and yonder gateway Flamed like a furnace with a seven-fold heat. I must fulfil my purpose. Prince Henry. I forbid it ! Not one step farther. For I only meant To put thus far thy courage to the proof. It is enough. I, too, have strength to die. For thou hast taught me ! Elsie. O my Prince ! remember Your promises. Let me fulfil my er- rand. You do not look on life and death as I do. There are two angels, that attend unseen Each one of us, and in great books record Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down THE GOLDEN LEGEND. The good ones, after every action closes His volume, and ascends with it to God. The other keeps his dreadful day-book open Till sunset, that we may repent ; which doing. The record of the action fades away. And leaves a line of white across the page. Now if my act be good, as I believe. It cannot be recalled. It is already Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished. The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready. her attendants.') Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me. I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone. And you will have another^ friend in . heaven. Then start not at the creaking of the door Through which I pass. I see what lies beyond it. {To Princb Henry.) And you, O Prince ! bear back my benison Unto my father’s house, and all within it. This morning in the church I prayed for them. After confession, after absolution. When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them. God will take care of them, they need me not. And in your life let my remembrance linger. As something not to trouble and dis- turb it. But to complete it, adding life to life. And if at times beside the evening fire You see my face among the other faces. Let it not be regarded as a ghost That haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you. Nay, even as one of your own family, Without whose presence there were something wanting. I have no more to say. Let us go in. Prince Henry. Friar Angelo I I charge you on your life. Believe not what she says, for she is mad, And comes here not to die, but to be healed. Elsie. Alas ! Prince Henry ! Lucifer. Come with me ; this way. (Elsie goes in with Lucifer, who thrusts Prince Henry back and closes the door.) Prince Henry. Gone ! and the light of all my life gone with her ! A sudden darkness falls upon the world ! O, what a vile and abject thing am I, That purchase length of days at such a cost I N ot by her death alone, but by the death Of all that ’s good and true and noble • in me I All manhood, excellence, and self-re- spect. All love, and faith, and hope, and heart are dead ! All my divine nobility of nature By this one act is forfeited forever. I am a Prince in nothing but in name I {To the attendants.) Why did you let this horrible deed be done ? Why did you not lay hold on her, and keep her From self-destruction? Angelo! mur- derer ! {Struggles at the door., hut cannot open it.) Elsie {within). F arewell, dear Prince I farewell ! Prince Henry. Unbar the door I Lucifer. It is too late ! Prince Henry. It shall not be toff late ! {They burst the door open and rush in.) The Cottage in the Odenwald. Ursu- la spinning. Summer afternoon. A table spread. Ursula. I have marked it well, — it must be true, — Death never takes one alone, but two I Whenever he enters in at a door. Under roof of gold or roof of thatch, THE GOLDEN LEGEND. 121 He always leaves it upon the latch, And comes again ere the year is o’er. Never one of a household only ! Perhaps it is a mercy of God, Lest the dead there under the sod. In the land of strangers, should be lonely ! Ah me ! I think I am lonelier here ! It is hard to go, — but harder to stay ! Were it not for the children, I should pray That Death would take me within the year ! And Gottlieb ! — he is at work all day. In the sunny field, or the forest murk. But I knowthat his thoughtsarefar away, I know that his heart is not in his work ! And when he comes home to me at night He is not cheery, but sits and sighs. And I see the great tears in his eyes. And try to be cheerful for his sake. Only the children’s hearts are light. Mine is weary, and ready to break. God help us ! I hope we have done right ; We thought we were acting for the best ! (^Looking through the open door.) Who is it coming under the trees ? A man, in the Prince’s livery dressed ! He looks about him with doubtful face, As if uncertain of the place. He stops at the beehives ; — now he sees The garden gate ; — he is going past ! Can he be afraid of the bees? No : he is coming in at last ! He fills my heart with strange alarm ! {^Enter a Forester.) Forester. Is this the tenant Gottlieb’s farm ? Ursula. This is his farm, and I his wife. Pray sit. What may your business be ? Forester. News from the Prince ! U rsula. Of death or life ? Forester. You put your questions eagerly ! Ursula. Answer me, then ! How is the Prince? Forester. I left him only two hours since Homeward returning down the river, As strong and well as if God, the Giver, Had given him back his youth again. Ursula {despairing). Then Elsie, my poor child, is dead ! Forester, l hat, my good woman, I have not said. Don’t cross the bridge till you come to it, Is a proverb old, and of excellent wit. Ursula. Keep me no longer in this pain ! Forester. It is true your daughter is no more ; — That is, the peasant she was before. Ursula. Alas ! I am simple and lowly bred, I am poor, distracted, and forlorn. And it is not well that you of the court Should mock me thus, and make a sport Of a joyless mother whose child is dead, F or you, too, were of mother born ! Forester. Your daughter lives, and the Prince is well ! You will learn erelong how it all befell. Her heart for a moment never failed ; But when they reached Salerno’s gate. The Prince’s nobler self prevailed, And saved her for a nobler fate. And he was healed, in his despair. By the touch of St. Matthew’s sacred bones ; Though I think the long ride in the open air. That pilgrimage over stocks and stones. In the miracle must come in fora share ! Ursula. Virgin ! who lovest the poor and lowly. If the loud cry of a mother’s heart Can ever ascend to where thou art, Into thy blessed hands and holy Receive my prayer of praise and thanks- giving ! Let the hands that bore our Saviour bear it Into the awful presence of God ; For thy feet with holiness are shod. And if thou bearest it he will hear it. Our child who was dead again is living I Forester. I did not tell you she was dead ; If you thought so ’t was no fault of mine ; At this very moment, while I speak. They are sailing homeward down the Rhine, In a splendid barge, with golden prow. And decked with banners white and red THE GOLDEN LEGEND. As the colors on your daughter’s cheek. They call her the Lady Alicia now ; For the Prince in Salerno made a vow That Elsie only would he wed. Ursula. J esu Maria ! what a change ! All seems to me so weird and strange ! Forester. I saw her standing on the deck, Beneath an awning cool and .shady ; Her cap of velvet could not hold The tresses of her hair of gold, That flowed and floated like the stream. And fell in masses down her neck. As fair and lovely did she seem As in a story or a dream Some beautiful and foreign lady. And the Prince looked so grand and proud, And waved his hand thus to the crowd That gazed and shouted from the shore. All down the river, long and loud. Ursula. We shall behold our child once more ; She is not dead ! She is not dead ! God, listening, must have overheard The prayers, that, without sound or word. Our hearts in secrecy have said ! O, bring me to her ; for mine eyes Are hungry to behold her face ; My very soul within me cries ; My very hands seem to caress her. To see her, gaze at her, and bless her; Dear Elsie, child of God and grace ! (Goes otit toward the garden.) Forester. There goes the good wo- man out of her head ; And Gottlieb’s supper is waiting here ; A very capacious flagon of beer. And a very portentous loaf of bread. One would say his grief did not much oppress him. Here ’s to the health of the Prince, God bless him ! (He drinks.) Ha ! it buzzes and stings like a hornet ! And what a scene there, through the door ! The forest behind and the garden be- fore. And midway an old man of threescore. With awife and children that caresshim. Let me try still further to cheer and adorn it With a merry, echoing blast of my cor- net ! (Goes out blowing his horni) The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine. Prince Henry and Elsie standing on the terrace at evening. The sou7id of bells heard from a distance. Prince Henry. We are alone. The wedding guests Ride down the hill, with plumes and cloaks. And the descending dark invests The Niederwald, and all the nests Among its hoar and haunted oaks. Elsie. What bells are those, that ring so slow. So mellow, musical, and low? Prince Henry. They are the bells of Geisenheim, That with their melancholy chime Ring out the curfew of the sun. Elsie. Listen, beloved. Prince Hetiry. They are done ! Dear Elsie ! many years ago Those same soft bells at eventide Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, As, seated by Fastrada’s side At Ingelheim, in all his pride He heard their sound with secret pain. Elsie. Their voices only speak to me Of peace and deep tranquillity. And endless confidence in thee. Prince He^iry. Thou knowest the story of her ring. How, when the court went back to Aix, Fastrada died ; and how the king Sat watching by her night and day, Till into one of the blue lakes. Which water that delicious land. They cast the ring, drawn from her hand ; And the great monarch sat serene And sad beside the fated shore. Nor left the land forevermore. Elsie. That was true love. Prhice Henry. For him the queen Ne’er did what thou hast done for me. Elsie. Wilt thou as fond and faith- ful be ? Wilt thou so love me after death ? THE GOLDEN LEGEND. Prince Henry. In life’s delight, in death’s dismay, In storm and sunshine, night and day, 'n, health, in sickness, in decay. Here and hereafter, I am thine ! Thou hast Fastrada’s ring. ^ Beneath The calm, blue waters of thine eyes Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, And, undisturbed by this world’s breath. With magic light its jewels shine ! This golden ring, which thou hast worn Upon thy finger since the morn, ts but a symbol and a semblance, An outward fashion, a remembrance, 9f wnat thou wearest within unseen, O my Fastrada, O my queen ! Behold ! the hill-tops all aglow With purple and with amethyst ; While the whole valley deep below Is filled, and seems to overflow, With a fast-rising tide of mist. The evening air grows damp and chill ; Let us go in. Elsie. Ah, not so soon. See yonder fire ! It is the moon Slow rising o’er the eastern hill. It glimmers on the forest tips. And through the dewy foliage drips In little rivulets of light. And makes the heart in love with night. Prince Henry. Oft on this terrace, when the day Was closing, have I stood and gazed. And seen the landscape fade away. And the white vapors rise and drown Hamlet and vineyard, tower and town. While far above the hill-tops blazed. But then another hand than thine Was gently held and clasped in mine ; Another head upon my breast Was laid, as thine is now, at rest. Why dost thou lift those tender eyes With so much sorrow and surprise ? A minstrel’s, not a maiden’s hand. Was that which in my own was pressed. A manly form usurped thy place, A beautiful, but bearded face. That now is in the Holy Land, Yet in my memory from afar Is shining on us like a star. But linger not. For while I speak, A sheeted spectre white and tall, The cold mist climbs the castle wall. And lays his hand upon thy cheek ! {J'hey go in. ) 123 EPILOGUE. THE TWO RECORDING ANGELS AS- ' CENDING. The Angel of Good Deeds {wilh closed book) God sent his mes- senger the rain. And said unto the mountain brook, “ Rise up, and from thy caverns look And leap, with naked, snow-white feet, From the cool hills into the heat Of the broad, arid plain.” God sent his messenger of faith. And whispered in the maiden’s heart, “ Rise up, and look from where thou art. And scatter with unselfish hands Thy freshness on the barren sands And solitudes of Death.” O beauty of holiness. Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness ! O power of meekness. Whose very gentleness and weakness Are like the yielding, but irresistible air ! Upon the pages Of the sealed volume that I bear. The deed divine Is written in characters of gold. That never shall grow old. But through all ages Burn and shine. With soft effulgence ! O God ! it is thy indulgence That fills the world with the bliss Of a good deed like this ! The A ngel of Evil Deeds {with open book). Not yet, not yet Is the red sun wholly set. But evermore recedes. While open still I bear The Book of Evil Deeds, To let the breathings of the upper air Visit its pages and erase The records from its face 1 Fainter and fainter as I gaze In the broad blaze The glimmering landscape shines, And below me the black river Is hidden by wreaths of vapor ! Fainter and fainter the black lines Begin to quiver Along the whitening surface of the paper ; Shade after shade 124 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. The terrible words grow faint and fade, And in their place Runs a white space ! Down goes the sun ! But the soul of one, Who by repentance Has escaped the dreadful sentence. Shines bright below me as I look. It is the end ! With closed Book To God do I ascend. Lo ! over the mountain steeps A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps Beneath my feet ; A blackness inwardly brightening With sullen heat. As a storm-cloud lurid with lightning. And a cry of lamentation. Repeated and again repeated. Deep and loud As the-reverberation Of cloud answering unto cloud. Swells and rolls away in the distance. As if the sheeted Lightning retreated. Baffled and thwarted by the wind’s resistance. It is Lucifer, The son of mystery ; And since God sufers him to be. He, too. is God’s minister. And labors for some good By us not understood 1 SECOND INTERLUDE. MARTIN LUTHER. MARTIN LUTHER. 4 Chamber in the War tburg. Morn- ing. Martin Luther, writing. Martin Luther. Our Gnd, a I'ower of Strength is he, A goodly wall and weapon ; From all our need he helps us free, That now to us doth happen. The old evil foe Doth in earnest grow, In grim armor dight. Much guile and great might ; On earth there is none like him. O yes : a tower of strength indeed, A present help'in all our need, A sword and buckler is our God. Innocent men have walked unshod O’er burning ploughshares, and have trod Unharmed on serpents in their path. And laughed to scorn the Devil’s wrath ! Safe in this Wartburg tower I stand Where God hath led me by the hand. And look down, with a heart at ease. Over the pleasant neighborhoods. Over the vast Thuringian Woods, With flash of river, and gloom of trees. With castles crowning the dizzy heights. And farms and pastoral delights. And the morning pouring everywhere Its golden glory on the air. Safe, yes, safe am I here at last, Safe from the overwhelming blast Of the mouths of Hell, that followed me fast. And the howling demons of despair That hunted me like a beast to his lair. Of our own might we nothing can ; We soon are unprotected ; There fighteth for us the right Man, Whom God himself elected. Who is he ; ye exclaim ? Christus is his name. Lord of Sabaoth, Very God in troth ; The field he holds forever. Nothing can vex the Devil more Than the name of Him whom we adore. Therefore doth it delight me best To stand in the choir among the rest. With the great organ trumpeting Through its metallic tubes, and sing : Et verbtim caro facUim est ! These words the Devil cannot endure. For he knoweth their meaning well ! Him they trouble and repel. Us they comfort and allure. And happy it were, if our delight Were as great as his affright ! Yea, music is the Prophets’ art ; Among the gifts that God hath sent. One of the most magnificent ! It calms the agitated heart ; Temptations, evil thoughts, and all The passions that disturb the soul. Are quelled by its divine control, As the Evil Spirit fled from Saul, And his distemper was allayed, When David took his harp and played. This world may full of Devils be. All ready to devour us ; Yet not so sore afraid are we. They shall not overpower us. ^ This World’s Prince, howe'er Fierce he may appear. MARTIN LUTHER. He can harm us not, He is doomed, God wot ! One little word can slay him ! Incredible it seems to some And to myself a mystery. That such weak flesh and blood as we. Armed with no other shield or sword. Or other weapon than the Word, Should combat and should overcome, A spirit powerful as he ! He summons forth the Pope of Rome With all his diabolic crew. His shorn and shaven retinue Of priests and children of the dark ; Kill ! kill ! they cry, the Heresiarch, Who rouseth up all Christendom Against us ; and at one fell blow Seeks the whole Church to overthrow ! Not yet ; my hour is not yet come. Yesterday in an idle mood. Hunting with others in the wood, T did not pass the hours in vain. For in the very heart of all The joyous tumult raised around. Shouting of men, and baying of hound. And the bugle’s blithe and cheery call. And echoes answering back again, From crags of the distant mountain chain, — In the very heart of this, I found A mystery of grief and pain. It was an image of the power Of Satan, hunting the world about. With his nets and traps and well- trained dogs. His bishops and priests and theo- logues. And all the rest of the rabble rout. Seeking whom he may devour ! Enough have I had of hunting hares. Enough of these hours of idle mirth. Enough of nets and traps and gins ! The only hunting of any worth Is where I can pierce with javelins The cunning foxes and wolves and bears. The whole iniquitous troop of beasts. The Roman Pope and the Roman priests That sorely infest and afflict the earth ! Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the air ! The fowler hath caught you in his snare. And keeps you safe in his gilded cage. Singing the song that never tires, To lure down others from their nests ; How ye flutter and beat your breasts. Warm and soft with young desires. Against the cruel pitiless wires. Reclaiming your lost heritage ! Behold ! a hand unbars the door. Ye shall be captives held no more. The Word they shall perforce let stand. And little thanks they merit ! For He is with us in the land. With gifts of his own Spirit ! Though they take our life. Goods, honors, child and wife, Let these pass away. Little gain have they ; The Kingdom still remaineth I Yea, it remaineth forevermore. However Satan may rage and roar. Though often he whispers in my ears : What if thy doctrines false should be? And wrings from me a bitter sweat. Then I put him to flight with jeers. Saying : Saint Satan ! pray for me ; If thou thinkest I am not saved yet 1 And my mortal foes that lie in wait In every avenue and gate ! As to that odious monk John Tetzel Hawking about his hollow wares lake a huckster at village fairs, And those mischievous fellows, W’etzel, Campanus, Carlstadt, Martin Cellarius, And all the busy, multifarious Heretics, and disciples of Arius, Half-learned, dunce-bold, dry and hard, They are not worthy of my regard, Poor and humble as I am. But ah ! Erasmus of Rotterdam, He is the vilest miscreant That ever walked this world below ! A Momus, making his mock and mow At papist and at protestant. Sneering at St. John and St. Paul, At God and Man, at one and all ; And yet as hollow and false and drear. As a cracked pitcher to the ear, And ever growing worse and worse 1 MARTIN LUTHER. 129 Whenever I pray, I pray for a curse On Erasmus, the Insincere ! Philip Melancthon ! thou alone Faithful among the faithless known. Thee I hail, and only thee ! Behold the record of us three ! Res et verba Philippus^ Res sine verbis Luthertis ; . Erasmus verba sine re I My Philip, prayest thou for me ? Lifted above all earthly care. From these high regions of the air. Among the birds that day and night Upon the branches of tall trees Sing their lauds and litanies, Praising God with all their might. My Philip, unto thee I write. My Philip ! thou who knowest best All that is passing in this breast ; The spiritual agonies. The inward deaths, the inward hell. And the divine new births as well. That surely follow after these. As after winter follows spring ; My Philip, in the night-time sing This song of the Lord I send to thee And I will sing it for thy sake. Until our answering voices make A glorious antiphony. And choral chant of victory I PART THREE. THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. I. JOHN ENDICOTT. DRAMATIS PERSONS. John Endicott . Governor, John Endicott . . his son Richard Bellingham . . Deputy Governor. John Norton . . Minister of the Gospel. Edward Butter . . Treasurer. Walter Merry . Tithing-nian. Nicholas Ups all . . an old citizen. Samuel Cole . Latidlord of the Three Mariners. Simon Kempthorn | Ralph Goldsmith ) Wenlock Christison \ , Sea-Captains Edith, hzs daughter > . Edward Wharton ’ . Quakers. Assistants, Halberdiers, Marshal, The Scene is in Boston in the year 1665. PROLOGUE. To-night we strive to read, as we may best, This city, like an ancient palimpsest ; And bring to light, upon the blotted page. The mournful record of an earlier age, That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away Beneath the fresher writing of to-day. Rise, then, O buried city that hast been ; Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene, And let our curious eyes behold once more The pointed gable and the pent-house door The Meeting-house with leaden-latticed panes. The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes ! Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of the Past, Rise from your long-forgotten graves at last ; Let us behold your faces, let us hear The words ye uttered in those days of fear ! Revisit your familiar haunts again, — The scenes of triumph, and the scenes of pain. And leave the footprints of your bleed- ing feet Once more upon the pavement of the street ! Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here. If he perchance misdate the day or year. And group events together, by his art. That in the Chronicles lie far apart : For as the double stars, though sun- dered far, Seem to the naked eye a single star. So facts of history, at a distance seen. Into one common point of light convene. “Why touch upon such themes?” perhaps some friend May ask, incredulous ; “ and to what good end? Why drag again into the light of day The errors of an age long passed away ? ” I answer: “ For the lesson that they teach ; The tolerance of opinion and of speech. Hope, Faith, and Charity remain, — these three ; And greatest of them all is Charity.” Let us remember, if these words be true. That unto all men Charity is due ; Give what we ask ; and pity, while we blame. Lest we become copartners in the shame. Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves partake. And persecute the dead for conscience’ sake. Therefore it is the author seeks and strives To represent the dead as in their lives. And lets at times his characters unfold Their thoughts in their own language, strong and bold ; He only asks of you to do the like ; To hear him first, and, if you will, then strike. JOHN ENDICOTT. ACT I. Scene I. — Sunday afternoon. The interior of the Meeting-house. On the pulpit, att hour-glass ; be- low, a box for contributions. John Norton in the pulpit. Governor Endicott in a canopied seat, at- tended by fotir halberdiers. The congregation, singing. The Lord descended from above, And bowed the heavens high ; And underneath his feet he cast The darkness of the sky. On Cherubim and Seraphim Right royally he rode, And on the wings of mighty winds Came flying all abroad. Norton {rising, and turning the hour-glass on the pulpit). I heard a great voice from the temple saying Unto the Seven Angels, Go your w'ays ; Pour out the vials of the wrath of God Upon the earth. And the First An- gel went And poured his vial on the earth ; and straight There fell a noisome and a grievous sore On them which had the birth-mark of the Beast, And them which worshipped and adored his image. On us hath fallen this grievous pesti- lence. There is a sense of horror in the air; And apparitions of things horrible Are seen by many. From the sky above us The stars fall ; and beneath us the earth quakes I The sound of drums at midnight in the air. The sound of horsemen riding to and fro. As if the gates of the invisible world Were opened, and the dead came forth to warn us, — All these are omens of some dire dis- aster Impending over us, and soon to fall. Moreover, in the language of the Prophet, Death is again come up into our win- dows. To cut off little children from without. And young men from the streets. And in the midst Of all these supernatural threats and W'arnings Doth Heresy uplift its horrid head ; A vision of Sin more awful and appall- ing Than any phantasm, ghost, or appari- tion. As arguing and portending some en- largement Of the mysterious Power of Darkness ! (Edith, barefooted, and clad in sack- cloth, with her hair hanging loose upon hei shotclders, walks slowly up the aisle, followed by W harton and other Quakers. The congregation starts up in confusion.) Edith {to Norton, raising her hand). Peace ! Norton. Anathema maranatha ! The Lord cometh ! Edith. Yea, verily he cometh, and shall judge The shepherds of Israel, who do feed themselves, THE NEIV-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. And leave their flocks to eat what they have trodden Beneath their feet. Norton. Be silent, babbling woman ! St. Paul commands all women to keep silence Within the churches. ' Edith. Yet the women prayed And prophesied at Corinth in his day ; And, among those on whom the fiery tongues Of Pentecost descended, some were women ! Norton. The Elders of the Church- es, by our law, Alone have power to open the doors of speech And silence in the Assembly. I com- mand you ! Edith. The law of God is greater than your laws ! Ye build your church with blood, your town with crime ; The heads thereof give judgment for reward ; The priests thereof teach only for their hire ; Your laws condemn the innocent to death ; And against this I bear my testimony ! Norton. What testimony ? Edith. That of the Holy Spirit, Which, as your Calvin says, surpasseth reason. Norton. The laborer is worthy of his hire. Edith. Yet our great Master did not teach for hire, And the Apostles without purse or scrip Went forth to do his work. Behold this box Beneath thy pulpit. Is it for the poor? Thou canst not answer. It is for the Priest ; And against this I bear my testimony. Norton. Away with all these Here- tics and Quakers ! Quakers, forsooth ! Because a quak- ing fell On Daniel, at beholding of the Vision, Must ye needs shake and quake ? Be- cause Isaiah Went stripped and barefoot, must ye wail and howl? Must ye go stripped and naked ? must ye make A wailing like the dragons, and a mourning As of the owls ? Ye verify the adage That Satan is God’s ape ! Away with them ! {Tumult. The Quakers are driven out with violence, Edith followhig slowly. The congregation retires in con/us ion.) Thus freely do the Reprobates com- mit Such measure of iniquity as fits them For the intended measure of God’s wrath. And even in violating God’s commands Are they fulfilling the divine decree ! The will of man is but an instrument Disposed and predetermined to its action According unto the decree of God, Being as much subordinate thereto As is the axe unto the hewer’s hand ! {He descends from the pulpit, and joins Governor Endicott, who comes forward to meet him.) The omens and the wonders of the time. Famine, and fire, and shipwreck, and disease. The blast of corn, the death of our young men. Our sufferings in all precious, pleasant things. Are manifestations of the wrath divine. Signs of God’s controversy with New England. These emissaries of the Evil One, These servants and ambassadors of Satan, Are but commissioned executioners Of God’s vindictive and deserved dis- pleasure. We must receive them as the Roman Bishop Once received Attila, saying, I rejoice You have come safe, whom I esteem to be The scourge of God, sent to chastise his people. This very heresy, perchance, may serve JOHN ENDICOTT. The purposes of God to some good eud. With you I leave it ; but do not neglect The holy tactics of the civil sword. Endicott. And what more can be done? Norton. The hand that cut The Red Cross from the colors of the king Can cut the red heart from this heresy. Fear not. All blasphemies immedi- ate And heresies turbulent must be sup- pressed By civil power. Endicott. But in what way sup- pressed ? Norton. The Book of Deuteronomy declares That if thy son, thy daughter, or thy wife. Ay, or the friend which is as thine own soul, Entice thee secretly, and say to thee, Let us serve other gods, then shall thine eye Not pity him, but thou shalt surely kill him. And thine own hand shall be the first upon him To slay him. Endicott. Four already have been slain ; And others banished upon pain of death. But they come back again to meet their doom. Bringing the linen for their winding- sheets. We must not go too far. In truth, I shrink From shedding of more blood. The people murmur At our severity. Norton. Then let them murmur ! Truth is relentless ! justice never wavers ; The greatest firmness is the greatest mercy ; The noble order of the Magistracy Cometh immediately from God, and yet This noble order of the Magistracy Is by these Heretics despised and out- raged. 141 Endicott. To-night they sleep in prison. If they die. They cannot say that we have caused their death. We do but guard the passage, with the sword Pointed towards them ; if they dash upon it. Their blood will be on their own heads, not ours. Norton. Enough, I ask no more. My predecessor Coped only with the milder heresies Of Antinomians and of Anabaptists. He was not born to wrestle with these fiends. Chrysostom in his pulpit : Augustine In disputation : Timothy in his house ! The lantern of St. Botolph’s ceased to burn When from the portals of that church he came To be a burning and a shining light Here in the wilderness. And, as he lay On his death-bed, he saw me in a vision Ride on a snow-white horse into this town. His vision was prophetic ; thus I came, A terror to the impenitent, and Death On the pale horse of the Apocalypse To all the accursed race of Heretics ! \_Exeunt. Scene II. — A street. On one side, Nicholas Upsall’s on the other, Walter Merry’s, with a flock of pigeons on the roof. Up- SALL seated in the porch of his house. Upsall. O day of rest ! How beau- tiful, how fair. How welcome to the weary and the old ! Day of the Lord ! and truce to earthly cares ! pay of the Lord, as all our days should be ! Ah, why will man by his austerities Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light. And make of thee a dungeon of de- spair ! 142 THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. Walter Merry {entering, and look- ing round him). All silent as a graveyard ! No one stirring ; No footfall in the street, no sound of voices ! By righteous punishment and persever- ance, And perseverance in that punishment. At last I ’ve brought this contumacious town To strict observance of the Sabbath day. Those wanton gospellers, the pigeons yonder, Are now the only Sabbath-breakers left. I cannot put them down. As if to taunt me, They gather every Sabbath afternoon In noisy congregation on my roof. Billing and cooing. Whir ! take that, ye Quakers. ( Throws a stone at the pigeons. Sees Upsall.) Ah ! Master Nicholas ! Upsall. Good afternoon. Dear neighbor Walter. • Merry. Master Nicholas, You have to-day withdrawn yourself from meeting. upsall. Yea, I have chosen rather to worship God Sitting in silence here at my own door. Merry. Worship the Devil ! You this day have broken Three of our strictest laws. First, by abstaining From public worship. Secondly, by walking Profanely on the Sabbath. Upsall. _ _ _ Not one step. I have been sitting still here, seeing the pigeons Feed in the street and fly about the roofs. Merry. You have been in the street with other intent Than going to and from the Meeting- house. And, thirdly, you are harboring Qua- kers here. I am amazed I Upsall. Men sometimes, it is said, Entertain angels unawares. Merry. Nice angels ! Angels in broad-brimmed hats and russet cloaks, The color of the Devil’s nutting-bag ! They came Into the Meeting-house this afternoon More in the shape of devils than of angels ; The women screamed and fainted ; and the boys Made such an uproar in the gallery I could not keep them quiet. Upsall. _ Neighbor Walter, Your persecution is of no avail. Merry. ’T is prosecution, as the Governor says. Not persecution. Upsall. Well, your prosecution ; Your hangings do no good. Merry. The reason is. We do not hang enough. But, mark my words. We’ll scour them ; yea, I warrant ye, we ’ll scour them ! And now go in and entertain your an- gels, And don’t be seen here in the street again Till after sundown ! — There they are again ! {Exit Upsall. Merry throws an- other stone at the pigeons, and then goes into his house.) Scene III. — A room in U psall’s house. Night. Edith, Wharton, and other Quakers, seated at a table. Upsall seated near them. Sev- eral books on the table. •Wharton. William and Marmaduke, our martyred brothers. Sleep in untimely graves, if aught un- timely Can find place in the providence of God, Where nothing comes too early or too late. I saw their noble death. They to the scaffold Walked hand in hand. Two hundred armed men yoHN ENDicorr. And many horsemen guarded them, for fear Of rescue by the crowd, whose hearts were stirred. Edith. O holy martyrs ! Wharton. When they tried to speak. Their voices by the roll of drums were drowned. When they were dead they still looked fresh and fair. The terror of death was not upon their faces. Our sister Mary, likewise, the meek woman. Has passed through martyrdom to her reward ; Exclaiming, as they led her to her death, “ These many days I ’ve been in Para- dise.” And, when she died. Priest Wilson threw the hangman His handkerchief, to cover the pale face He dared not look upon. Edith. As persecuted, Yet not forsaken ; as unknown, yet known ; As dying, and behold we are alive ; As sorrowful, and yet rejoicing alway ; As having nothing, yet possessing all ! Wharton. And Leddra, too, is dead. But from his prison, The day before his death, he sent these words Unto the little flock of Christ : “ What- ever May come upon the followers of the Light, — Distress, affliction, famine, nakedness. Or perils in the city or the sea. Or persecution, or even death itself, — I am persuaded that God’s armor of As it is loved and lived in, will pre- serve you. Yea, death itself; through which you will find entrance Into the pleasant pastures of the fold. Where you shall feed forever as the herds That roam at large in the low valleys of Achor. And as the flowing of the ocean fills M3 Each creek and branch thereof, and then retires. Leaving behind a sweet and whole- some savor : So doth the virtue and the life of God Flow evermore into the hearts of those Whom he hath made partakers of his nature ; And, when it but withdraws itself a little. Leaves a sweet savor after it, that many Can say they are made clean by every word That he hath spoken to them in their silence.” Edith {rising, and breakhig into a kind of chant). Truly we do but grope here in the dark. Near the partition-wall of Life and Death, At every moment dreading or desiring To lay our hands upon the unseen door ! Let us, then, labor for an inward still- ness, — An inward stillness and an inward heal- ing ; That perfect silence where the lips and heart Are still, and we no longer entertain ^ Our own imperfect thoughts and vain opinions. But God alone speaks in us, and we wait In singleness of heart, that we may know His will, and in the silence of our spirits. That we may do His will, and do that only ! (A long pause, interrupted by the sound of a drum approaching ; then shouts in the street, and a loud knocking at the door.) Marshal. Within there ! Open the door ! Merry. Will no one answer ? Marshal. In the King’s name ! Within there ! Merry. Open the door ! Upsctll {from the window). It is not barred. Come in. Nothing prevents you. 144 THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. The poor man’s door is ever on the latch. He needs no bolt nor bar to shut out thieves ; He fears no enemies, and has no friends Importunate enough to turn the key upon them ! {Enter ] o - aTi. And what is this placard ? Upsall. The Magistrates, To appease the people and prevent a tumult. Have put up these placards throughout the town. Declaring that the jailer shall be dealt with Impartially and sternly by the Court. Norton {tearing down the placard). Down with this weak and cow- ardly concession. This flag of truce with Satan and with Sin ! I fling it in his face ! I trample it Under my feet ! It is his cunning craft. The masterpiece of his diplomacy. To cry and plead for boundless tolera- tion. But toleration is the first-born child Of all abominations and deceits. There is no room in Christ’s trium- phant army For tolerationists. And if an Angel Preach any other gospel unto you Than that ye have received, God’s malediction Descend upon him ! Let him be ac- cursed ! [E.xit. Upsall. Now, go thy ways, John Norton ! go thy ways. Thou Orthodox Evangelist, as men call thee ! But even now there cometh out of England, Like an o’ertaking and accusing con- science. An outraged man, to call thee to ac- count For the unrighteous murder of his son ! [Exit. Scene V. — The Wilderness. Enter Edith. Edith. How beautiful are these autumnal woods ! THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 162 The wilderness doth blossom like the rose, And change into a garden of the Lord ! How silent everywhere ! Alone and lost Here in the forest, there comes over me An inward awfulness. I recall the words Of the Apostle Paul : “In journeyings often. Often in perils in the wilderness, In weariness, in painfulness, in wa‘ch- ings. In hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness ” ; And I forget my weariness and pain, My watchings, and my hunger and my thirst. The Lord hath said that he will seek his flock In cloudy and dark days, and they shall dwell Securely in the wilderness, and sleep Safe in the woods ! Whichever way I turn, I come back with my face towards the town. Dimly I see it, and the sea beyond it. 0 cruel town ! I know what waits me there. And yet I must go back ; forever louder 1 hear the inward calling of the .Spirit, And must obey the voice. O woods, that wear Your golden crown of martyrdom, blood-stained. From you I learn a lesson of submis- And am obedient even unto death. If God so wills it. . [Exit, yohn Endicott {within). Edith ! Edith ! Edith ! {He enters.) It is in vain ! I call, she answers not ! I follow, but I find no trace of her ! Blood ! blood ! The leaves above me and around me Are red with blood ! The pathways of the forest, The clouds that canopy the setting sun. And even the little river in the meadows. Are stained with it ! Where’er I look, I see it ! Away, thou horrible vision ! Leave me ! leave me ! Alas ! yon winding stream, that gropes its way Through mist and shadow, doubling on itselfi At length will find, by the unerring law Of nature, what it seeks. O soul of man. Groping through mist and shadow, and recoiling Back on thyself, are, too, thy devious ways Subject to law? and when thou seem- est to wander The farthest from thy goal, art thou still drawing Nearer and nearer to it, till at length Thou findest, like the river, what thou seekest? {Exit. ACT V. Scene I. — Daybreak. Street in front of house. A light in the window. Enter John Endicott. John Endicott. O silent, sombre, and deserted streets. To me ye ’re peopled with a sad pro- cession. And echo only to the voice of sor- row ! O houses full of peacefulness and sleep, Far better were it to awake no more Than wake to look upon such scenes again ! There is a light in Master Upsall’s win- dow. The good man is already risen, for sleep Deserts the couches of the old. {Knocks at Upsall’s door.) Upsall {at the window). Who ’s there ? John Endicott. Am I so changed you do not know my voice ? Upsall. I know you. Have you heard what things have happened ? John Endicott. I have heard noth- ing. Upsall. Stay ; I will come down. John Endicott. I am afraid some dreadful news awaits me ! JOHN END ICO TT. 163 I do not dare to ask, yet am impatient To know the worst. O, I am very weary With waiting and with watching and pursuing 1 {^Enter Upsall.) Upsall. Thank God, you have come back ! I ’ve much to tell you. Where have you been? John Rndicott. You know that I was seized, Fined, and released again. You know that Edith, After her scourging in three towns, was banished Into the wilderness, into the land That is not sown ; and there I followed her. But found her not. Where is she? Upsall. She is here. John Endicott. O, do not speak that word, for it means death ! Upsall. No, it means life. She sleeps in yonder chamber. Listen to me. When news of Leddra’s death Reached England, Edward Burroughs, having boldly Got access to the presence of the King, Told him there was a vein of innocent blood Opened in his dominions here, which threatened To overrun them all. The King replied, “But I will stop that vein!” and he forthwith Sent his Mandamus to our Magistrates, That they proceed no further in this business. So all are pardoned, and all set at large. John Endicott. Thank God ! This is a victory for truth ! Our thoughts are free. They cannot be shut up In prison walls, nor put to death on scaffolds 1 Upsall. Come in ; the morning air blows sharp and cold Through the damp streets. John Endicott. It is the dawn of day That chases the old darkness from our sky, And fills the land with liberty and light. \_Exeunt. Scene II. — The parlor of the Three Marmers. Kempthorn. Kempthorn. A dull life this, — a dull life anyway 1 Ready for sea ; the cargo all aboard. Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair wind blowing From nor’-nor’-west ; and I, an idle lubber. Laid neck and heels by that confounded bond ! I said to Ralph, says I, “ What ’s to be done ? ” Says he : “Just slip your hawser in the night ; Sheer off, and pay it with the topsail, .Simon.” But that won’f do ; because, you see, the owners So'mehow or other are mixed up with it. Here are King Charles’s Twelve Good Rules, that Cole Thinks as important as the Rule of Three. (Reads-) “ Make no comparisons ; make no long meals.” Those are good rules and golden for a landlord To hang in his best parlor, framed and glazed I “Maintain no ill opinions; urge no healths.” I drink the King’s, whatever he may Now of Ralph Goldsmith I ’ve a good opinion. And of the bilboes I ’ve an ill opinion ; And both of these opinions I ’ll main- tain As long as there ’s a shot left in the locker. (Enter Edward Butter with an ear- trnmpet . ) Butter. Good morning. Captain Kempthorn. Kempthorn. Sir, to you. You’ve the advantage of me. I don’t know you. What may I call your name? Butter. That ’s not your name ? Kempthorn. Yes, that’s my name. What ’s yours ? 164 THE NEIV-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. Butter. My name is Butter. I am the treasurer of the Common- wealth. Kempthorn. Will you be seated ? Blitter. What say? Who’s con- ceited ? Kempthorn< Will you sit down ? Butter. O, thank you. Kempthorn. Spread yourself Upon this chair, sweet Butter. Butter {sitting down). A fine morn- ing. Kempthorn. Nothing ’s the matter with it that I know of. I have seen better, and I have seen worse. The wind ’s nor’west. That ’s fair for them that sail. Butter. You need not speak so loud ; I understand you. You sail to-day. Kempthorn. No, I don’t sail to-day. So, be it fair or foul, it matters not. Say, will you smoke ? There ’s choice tobacco here. Butter. No, thank you. It’s against the law to smoke Kempthorn. Then, will you drink? There ’sgood ale at this inn. Butter. No. ithankyou. It’s against the law to drink. Keinpthorn. Well, almost every- _ thing ’s against the law In this good town. Give a wide berth to one thing. You ’re sure to fetch up soon on some- thing else. Butter. And so you sail to-day for dear Old England. I am not one of those who think a sup Of this New England air is better worth Than a whole draught of our Old Eng- land’s ale. Kempthorn. Nor I. Give me the ale and keep the air. But, as I said, I do not sail to-day. Butter. Ah yes ; you sail to-day. Kempthorn. I ’m under bonds To take some Quakers back to the Barbadoes ; And one of them is banished, and an- other Is sentenced to be hanged. Butter. No, all are pardoned, All are set free, by order of the Court ; But some of them would fain return to England. You must not take them. Upon that condition Your bond is cancelled. Kempthorn. Ah, the wind has shifted ! I pray you, do you speak officially ? Butter. I always speak officially. To prove it, Here is the bond. {Rising, and giving a paper!) Kempthorii. And here ’s my hand upon it. And, look you, when I say I ’ll do a thing The thing is done. Am I now free to go? Butter. What say? Kempthorn. I say, confound the tedious man With his strange speaking-trumpet I Can I go ? Butter. You ’re free to go, by order of the Court. Your servant, sir. {Exit. Kempthorn {shouting from the ivin~ dow). Swallow, ahoy ! Hallo ! I f ever a man was happy to leave Boston, That man is Simon Kempthorn of the Swallow ! {Re-enter Butter.) Butter. Pray, did you call? Kempthorn. Call? Yes, I hailed the Swallow. Butter. That ’s not my name. My name is Edward Butter. You need not speak so loud. Kempthorn {shaking hands). Good by ! Good by ! Butter. Your servant, sir. Kempthorn. And yours a thousand times ! {Exeunt. Scene III. — Governor Endicott’s private room. A n opeii window. Endicott seated in anarm-chair. Bellingham standing near. Endicott. O lost, O loved ! wilt thou return no more ? O loved and lost, and loved the more when lost I JOHN ENDICOTT. How many men are dragged into their graves By their rebellious children ! I now feel The agony of a father’s breaking heart In David’scry, “ O Absalom, my son ! ” Bellingham. Can you riot turn your thoughts a little while To public matters ? There are papers here That need attention. Endicott. Trouble me no more ! My business now is with another world. Ah, Richard Bellingham ! I greatly fear That in my righteous zeal I have been led To doing many things which, left un- done. My mind would now be easier. Did I dream it, Or has some person told me, that John Norton Is dead ? Bellmgham. You have not dreamed it. He is dead. And gone to his reward. It was no dream. Endicott. Then it was very sudden ; for I saw him Standing where you now stand not long ago. Bellingham. By his own fireside, in the afternoon, A faintness and a giddiness came o’er him : And, leaning on the chimney-piece, he cried, “ The hand of God is on me ! ” and fell dead. Endicott. And did not some one say, or have I dreamed it. That Humphrey Atherton is dead ? Bellmgham. Alas ! He too is gone, and by a death as sud- den. Returning home one evening, at the place Where usually the Quakers have been scourged, His horse took fright, and threw him to the ground. So that his brains were dashed about the street. i6s Endicott. I am not superstitious, Bellingham, And yet I tremble lest it may have been A judgment on him. Bellingham. So the people think. They say his horse saw standing in the way The ghost of William Leddra, and was frightened. And furthermore, brave Richard Da- venport, The captain of the Castle, in the storm Has been struck dead by lightning. Endicott. Speak no more. For as I listen to your voice it seems As if the Seven Thunders uttered their voices. And the dead bodies lay about the streets Of the disconsolate city ! Bellingham, I did not put those wretched men to death. I did but guard the passage with the sword Pointed towards them, and they rushed upon it ! Yet now I w'ould that I had taken no part In all that bloody work. Bellingham. The guilt of it Be on their heads, not ours. Endicott. Are all set free ? Bellingham. All are at large. Endicott. And none have been sent back To England to malign us with the King ? Bellingham. The ship that brought them sails this very hour. But carries no one back. {A distant cannon.) Endicott. What is that gun ? Bellingham. Her parting signal. Through the window there. Look, you can see her sails, above the roofs. Dropping Ijelow the Castle, outward bound. Endicott. O white, white, white I Would that my soul had wings As spotless as those shining sails to fly with ! Now lay this cushion straight. I thank you. Hark 1 [66 THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. I thought I heard the hall door open and shut ! I thought I heard the footsteps of my boy ! Bellingham. It was the wind. There ’s no one in the passage. Endicott. O Absalom, my son ! I feel the world Sinking beneath me, sinking, sinking, sinking ! Death knocks ! I go to meet him ! Welcome, Death ! {Rises., and sinks back dead ; his head falling aside upott his shoulder ) Bellingham. O ghastly sight ! Like one who has been hanged ! Endicott ! Endicott ! He makes no answer ! {Raises Endicott’s head.) He breathes no more ! How bright this signet-ring Glitters upon his hand, where he has worn it Through such long years of trouble, as if Death Had given him this memento of af- fection, And whispered in his ear, “Remember How placid and how quiet is his face. Now that. the struggle and the strife are ended ! Only the acrid spirit of the times Corroded this true steel. O, rest in peace, Courageous heart ! Forever rest in peace 1 II. GILES COREY SALEM FARMS. DRAMATIS PERSONAE. Gxles Corey John Hathorne .... Cotton Mather Jonathan Walcot .... Richard Gardner .... John Gloyd . . Magistrate. . . a youth. . . Sea-Captain. Martha Tituba Mary Walcot The Scene is in Salem i: n the year 1692. PROLOGUE. Delusions of the days that once have been, Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts, — These are our theme to-night ; and vaguely here. Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere. We draw the outlines of weird figures cast In shadow on the background of the Past. Who would believe that in the quiet town Of Salem, and amid the woods that crown The neighboring hillsides, and the sun- ny farms That fold it safe in their paternal arms, — Who would believe that in those peace- ful streets, Where the great elms shut out the sum- mer heats. Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast The benediction of unbroken rest, — Who would believe such deeds could find a place As these whose tragic history we re- trace ? ’T was but a village then : the good- man ploughed His ample acres under sun or cloud ; The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun. And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun ; The only men of dignity and state Were then the Minister and the Magis- trate Who ruled their little realm with iron rod. Less in the love than in the fear of God ; And who believed devoutly in the Powers Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread. And shrouded apparitions of the dead. Upon this simple folk “ with fire and flame,” Saith the old Chronicle, “ the Devil came ; Scattering his firebrands and his poi- sonous darts, To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts ! And ’t is no wonder; for, with all his host. There most he rages where he hateth most. And is most hated : so on us he brings All these stupendous and portentous things ! ” Something of this our scene to-night will show ; And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe, Be not too swift in casting the first stone, Nor think New England bears the guilt alone. This sudden burst of wickedness and crime Was but the common madness of the time. When in all lands, that lie within the sound Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned. GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. ACT I. Scene I. — The woods near Salem Village. Enter Tituba, with a basket of herbs, , Tituba. Here ’s monk’s-hood, that breeds fever in the blood ; And deadly nightshade, that makes men see ghosts ; And henbane, that will shake them with convulsions ; And meadow-saffron and black helle- bore, That rack the nerves, and puff the skin with dropsy ; And bitter-sweet, and briony, and eye- bright. That cause eruptions, nosebleed, rheu- matisms ; I know them, and the places where they hide In field and meadow ; and I know their secrets. And gather them because they give me power Over all men and women. Armed with these, I, Tituba, an Indian and a slave. Am stronger than the captain with his sword, Am richer than the merchant with his money, Am wiser than the scholar with his books, Mightier than Ministers and Magis- trates, With all the fear and reverence that at- tend them ! For I can fill their bones with aches and pains, Can make them cough with asthma, shake with palsy, Can make their daughters see and talk with ghosts, Or fall into delirium and convulsions. I have the Evil Eye, the Evil Hand ; A touch from me, and they are weak with pain, A look from me, and they consume and die. The death of cattle and the blight of corn. The shipwreck, the tornado, and the fire, — These are my doings, and they know it not. Thus I work vengeance on mine ene- mies. Who, while they call me slave, are slaves to me ! {Exit Tituba. Enter Mather, boot- ed and spurred, with a riding-whip in his hand.) Mather. Methinks that I have come by paths unknown Into the land and atmosphere of Witch- es ; For, meditating as I journeyed on, Lo ! I have lost my way ! If I remem- ber Rightly, it is Scribonius the learned That tells the story of a man who, pray- ing For one that was possessed by Evil Spirits, Was struck by Evil Spirits in the face ; I, journeying to circumvent the Witches, Surely by Witches have been led astray. I am persuaded there are few affairs '74 THE NEIV-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. In which the Devil doth not interfere. We cannot undertake a journey even, But Satan will be there to meddle with it By hindering or by furthering. He hath led me Into this thicket, struck me in the face With branches of the trees, and so en- tangled The fetlocks of my horse with vines and brambles, That I must needs dismount, and search on foot For the lost pathway leading to the village. {,Re-enter Tituba.) What shape is this? What monstrous apparition. Exceeding fierce, that none may pass that way ? Tell me, good woman, if you are a woman — Tituha. I am a woman, but I am not good. I am a Witch ! Mather. Then tell me. Witch and woman. For you must know the pathw'ays through this wood, Where lieth Salem Village? Tituba. _ Reverend sir. The village is near by. I ’m going there With these few- herbs. I ’ll lead you. Follow me. Mather. First say, who are you? I am loath to follow A stranger in this wilderness, for fear Of being misled, and left in some morass. Who are you? Tituba. I am Tituba the Witch, Wife of John Indian. Mather. You are Tituba? I know you then. You have renounced the Devil, And have become a penitent confessor. The Lord be praised ! Go on, I ’ll fol- low you. Wait only till I fetch my horse, that stands Tethered among the trees, not far from here. Tituba. Let me get up behind you, reverend sir. Mather. The Lord forbid ! What would the people think. If they should see the Reverend Cotton Mather Ride into Salem with a Witch behind him ? The Lord forbid I 'I ituba. I do not need a horse ; I can ride through the air upon a stick. Above the tree-tops and above the houses. And no one see me, no one overtake me I \_Exeunt. Scene II. — A room Justice H.a- ihorne’s. a clock tn the corner. Enter Hathorne and Mather. Hathorne. You are welcome, rever- end sir, thrice welcome here Beneath my humble roof. Mather. I thank your Worship. Hathorne. Pray you be seated. You must be fatigued With your long ride through unfre- quented woods. ( They sit down.) Mather. You know the purport of my visit here, — To be advised by you, and counsel with you. And with the Reverend Clergy of the village. Touching these witchcrafts that so much afflict you ; And see w’ith mine own eyes the won- ders told Of spectres and the shadows of the dead. That come back from their graves to speak with men.. Hathorne. Some men there are, I have known such, who think That the two w'orlds — the seen and the unseen. The world of matter and the world of spirit — Are like the hemispheres upon our maps. And touch each other only at a point. But these two w’orlds are not divided thus. Save for the purposes of common speech. GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 175 They form one globe, in which the parted seas All flow together and are intermingled, While the great continents remain dis- tinct. Mather. I doubt it not. The spirit- ual world Lies all about us, and its avenues Are open to the unseen feet of phan- toms That come and go, and we perceive them not Save by their influence, or when at times A most mysterious Providence permits them To manifest themselves to mortal eyes. Hathorne. You, who are always wel- come here among us. Are doubly welcome now. We need your wisdom, Your learning in these things, to be our guide. The Devil hath come down in wrath upon us. And ravages the land with all his hosts. Mather. The Unclean .Spirit said, “ My name is Legion ! ” Multitudes in the Valley of Destruction ! But when our fervent, well-directed prayers. Which are the great artillery of Heaven, Are brought into the field, I see them scattered And driven like Autumn leaves before the wind. Hathorne. You, as a Minister of God, can meet them With spiritual weapons ; but, alas ! I, as a Magistrate, must combat them With weapons from the armory of the flesh. Mather. _ These wonders of the world invisible, — These spectral shapes that haunt our habitations, — The multiplied and manifold afflictions With which the aged and the dying saints Have their death prefaced and their age imbittered, — Are but prophetic trumpets that pro- claim The Second Coming of our Lord on earth The evening wolves will be much more abroad. When we are near tjie evening of the world. Hathorne. When you shall see, as I have hourly seen. The sorceries and the witchcrafts that torment us. See children tortured by invisible spirits, And wasted and consumed by powers unseen. You will confess the half has not been told you. Mather. It must be so. The death- pangs of the Devil Will make him more a Devil than before, And Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace will be heated Seven times more hot before its putting out. Hathorne. Advise me, reverend sir. I look to you For counsel and for guidance in this matter. What further shall we do ? Mather. Remember this. That as a sparrow falls not to the ground Without the will of God, so not a Devil Can come down from the air without his leave. We must inquire. Hathorne. Dear sir, we have in- quired ; Sifted the matter thoroughly through and through. And then resifted it. Mather. _ If God permits These Evil Spirits from the unseen re- gions To visit us with surprising informations. We must inquire what cause there is for this. But not receive the testimony borne By spectres as conclusive proof of guilt In the accused. Hathorne. Upon such evidence We do not rest our case. The ways are many In which the guilty do betray them- selves. Mather. Be careful. Carry the knife with such exactness, That on one side no innocent blood be shed 176 THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. By too excessive zeal, and, on the other, No shelter given to any work of darkness. Hathortie. For one, I do not fear ex- cess of zeal. What do we gain by parleying with the Devil? You reason, but you hesitate to act ! Ah, reverend sir ! believe me, in such cases The only safety is in acting promptly. ’Tis not the part of wisdom to delay In things where not to do is still to do A deed more fatal than the deed we shrink from. You are a man of books and meditation, But I am one who acts. Mather. God give us wisdom In the directing of this thorny business. And guide us, lest New England should become ^ Of an unsavory and sulphurous odor In the opinion of the world abroad ! (The clock strikes-) I never hear the striking of a clock Without a warning and an admonition That time is on the wing, and we must quicken Our tardy pace in journeying Heaven- ward, As Israel did in journeying Canaan- ward ! (They rise.) Hathorne. Then let us make all haste ; and I will show yoti In what disguises and what fearful i-hapes The Unclean Spirits haunt this neigh- borhood, And you will pardon my excess of zeal. Mather. Ah, poor New England ! He who hurricanoed The house of Job is making now on thee One last assault, more deadly and more snarled With unintelligible circumstances Than any thou hast hitherto encoun- tered ! (Exeunt. Scene III. — A room in Walcot’s house. Mary Walcot seated m an arm-chair. Tituba with a mirror. Mary. Tell me another story, Tituba. A drowsiness is stealing over me Which is not sleep ; for, though I close mine eyes, I am awake, and in another world. Dim faces of the dead and of the absent Come floating up before me, — floating, fading. And disappearing. Tituba. Look into this glass. What see you ? Mary. Nothing but a golden vapor. Yes, something more. An island, with ^the sea Breaking all round it, like a blooming hedge. What land is this? Tituba, It is San Salvador, Where Tituba was born. What see you now ? Mary. A man all black and fierce. Tituba. That is my father. He was an Obi man, and taught me magic. Taught me the use of herbs and images. What is he doing ? Mary. Holding in his hand A waxen figure. He is melting it Slowly before a fire. Tituba. And now what see you ? Mary. A woman lying on a bed of leaves, Wasted and worn away. Ah, she is dying ! Tituba. That is the way the Obi men destroy The people they dislike ! That is the way Some one is wasting and consuming you. Mary. You terrify me, Tituba ! O, save me From those who make me pine and waste aw’ay ! Who are they? Tell me. Tituba. That I do not know. But you w’ill see them. They will come to you. Mary. No, do not let them come ! I cannot bear it ! I am too weak to bear it ! I am dying. (Falls into a trance.) Tituba. Hark ! there is some one coming ! (Enter Hathorne, Mather, and Walcot.) GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 177 Walcot. There she lies, Wasted and worn by devilish incanta- tions !_ 0 my poor sister ! Mather. Is she always thus ? Walcot. Nay, she is sometimes tor- tured by convulsions. Mather. Poor child ! How thin she is ! How wan and wasted ! Hathorne. Observe her. She is troubled in her sleep. Mather. Some fearful vision haunts her. Hathorne. You now see With your own eyes, and touch with your own hands, The mysteries of this Witchcraft. Mather. One would need The hands of Briareus and the eyes of Argus To see and touch them all. Hathorne. You now have entered The realm of ghosts and phantoms, — the vast realm Of the unknown and the invisible. Through whose wide-open gates there blows a wind From the dark valley of the shadow of Death, That freezes us with horror. Mary [starting). Take her hence ! Take her away from me. I see her there ! She ’s coming to torment me ! Walcot {taking her hand). O my sister ! What frightens you? She neither hears nor sees me. She ’s in a trance. Mary. Do you not see her there ? Tituba. My child, who is it ? Mary. Ah, I do not know. 1 cannot see her face. Tituba. How is she clad ? Mary. She wears a crimson bodice. In her hand She holds an image, and is pinching it Between her fingers. Ah, she tortures me ! I see her face now. It is Goodwife Bishop ! Why does she torture me? I never harmed her ! 12 And now she strikes me with an iron rod ! O, I am beaten ! Mather. _ ' This is wonderful ! I can see nothing ! Is this apparition Visibly there, and yet we cannot see it ? Hathorne. It is. The spectre is in- visible Unto our grosser senses, but she sees it. Mary. Look ! look ! there is another clad in gray ! She holds a spindle in her hand, and threatens To stab me with it 1 It is Goodwife Corey ! Keep her away! Now she is coming at me ! O mercy 1 mercy ! W alcot {thrusting with his sword). There is nothing there I Mather {to H athorne). Do you see anything? Hathorne. The laws that govern The spiritual world prevent our seeing Things palpable and visible to her. These spectres are to us as if they were not. Mark her, she wakes. (Titub.'V touches her, and she awakes.) Mary. Who are these gentlemen ? Walcot. They are our friends- Dear Mar 3 ^ are you better ? Mary. Weak, very weak. {Taking a spindle from her lap, a?id holding it up.) How came this spindle here ? Tihiba. You wrenched it from the hand of Goodwife Corey When she rushed at you. Hathorne. Mark that, reverend sir ! Mather. It is most marvellous, most inexplicable I Tituba {picking up a bit of gray cloth from the floor). And here, too, is a bit of her gray dress. That the sword cut away. Mather. Beholding this. It were indeed by far more credulous To be incredulous than to believe. Nonebut a Sadducee, who doubts of all Pertaining to the spiritual world. Could doubt such manifest and damn- ing proofs ! 178 THE NEIV-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. Hathorne. Are you convinced ? Mather {to Mary). Dear child, be comforted ! Only by prayer and fasting can you drive These Unclean Spirits Irom you. An old man Gives you his blessing. God be with you, Mary ! ACT II. Look there 1 What ails the cattle ? Are they all Le- witched ? They run like mad. Gloyd. They have been overlooked. Corey. The Evil Eye is on them sure enough. Call all the men. Be quick. Go after them ! {Exit Gloyd and enter Martha.) Scene I. — Giles Corey’s farm. Morning. Enter Corey, with a horseshoe and a hajnmer. Corey. The Lord hath prospered me. The rising sun Shines on my Hundred Acres and my woods As if he loved them. On a morn like this I can forgive mine enemies, and thank God For all his goodness unto me and mine. My orchard groans with russets and pearmains ; My ripening corn shines golden in the sun ; My barns are crammed with hay, my cattle thrive ; The birds sing blithely on the trees around me ! And blither than the birds my heart within me, But Satan still goes up and down the earth ; And to protect this house from his as- saults, And keep the powers of ilarkness from my door. This horseshoe will I nail upon the threshold. {Nails down the horseshoe!) There, ye night-hags and witches that torment The neighborhood, ye shall not enter here ! — What is the matter in the field? — John Gloyd ! The cattle are all running to the woods ! — John Gloyd ! Where is the man ? {Enter John Gloyd.) Martha. What is amiss ? Corey. The cattle are bewitched. They are broken loose and making for the woods. Martha. Why will you harbor such delusions, Giles? Bewit^ched? Well, then it was John Gloyd bewitched them ; I saw him even now take down the bars And turn them loose ! They ’re only frolicsome. Corey. The rascal ! Martha. I was standing in the road. Talking with Goodwife Proctor, and I saw him. Corey. With Proctor’s wife? And what says Goodwife Proctor ? Martha. Sad things indeed ; the saddest you can hear Of Bridget Bishop. She’s cried out upon ! Corey. Poor soul ! I ’ve known her forty year or more. She was the widow Wasselby ; and then She married Oliver, and Bishop next. She ’s had three husbands. I remem- ber well My games of shovel-board at Bishop’s tavern In the old merry days, and she so gay With her red paragon bodice and her - ribbons ! Ah, Bridget Bishop always was a Witch ! Martha. They ’ll little help her now, — her caps and ribbons And her red paragon bodice, and her plumes. With which she flaunted in the Meeting- house ! When next she goes there, it will be for trial. Corey. When will that be ? GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 179 Martha. This very day at ten. Corey. Then get you ready. We will go and see it. ■ Come ; you shall ride behind me on the pillion. Martha. Not I. You know I do not like such things. I wonder you should. I do not believe In Witches nor in Witchcraft. Corey. Well, I do. There ’s a strange fascination in it all, That draws me on and on. I know not why. Martha. What do we know of spirits good or ill. Or of their power to help us or to harm us ? Corey. Surely what ’s in the Bible must be true. Did not an Evil Spirit come on Saul ? Did not the Witch of Endor bring the ghost Of Samuel from his grave ? The Bible says so. Martha. That happened very long ago. Corey. With God There is no long ago. Martha. There is with us. Corey. And Mary Magdalene had seven devils, And he who dwelt among the tombs a legion ! Martha. God’s power is infinite. I do not doubt it. If in his providence he once permitted Such things to be among the Israelites, It does not follow he permits them now, And among us who are not Israelites. But we will not dispute about it, Giles. Go to the village, if you think it best. And leave me here ; I ’ll go about my work \_Exit into the house. Corey. And I will go and saddle the gray mare. The last word always. That is wo- man’s nature. If an old man will marry a young wife, He must make up his mind to many things. It ’s putting new cloth into an old gar- ment. When the strain comes, it is the old gives way. {Goes to the door.) 0 Martha ! I forgot to tell you some- thing. I ’ve had a letter from a friend of mine, A certain Richard Gardner of Nan- tucket, Master and owner of a whaling-vessel ; He writes that he is coming down to see us. 1 hope you ’ll like him. Martha. I will do my best. Corey. That ’s a good woman. Now I will be gone. I ’ve not seen Gardner for this twenty year ; But there is something of the sea about him, — Something so open, generous, large, and strong. It makes me love him better than a brother. {Exit. (Martha comes to the door.) Martha. O these old friends and cronies of my husband, These captains from Nantucket and the Cape, That come and turn my house into a tavern With their carousing ! Still, there ’s something frank In these seafaring men that makes me like them. Why, here ’s a horseshoe nailed upon the doorstep ! Giles has done this to keep away the Witches. I hope this Richard Gardner will bring with him A gale of good sound common-sense, to blow The fog of these delusions from his brain ! Corey (within). Ho ! Martha ! Mar- tha ! {Enter Corey.) Have you seen my saddle ? Martha. I saw it yesterday. Corey. Where did you see it? Martha. On a gray mare, that some- body was riding Along the village road. Corey. Who was it ^ Tell me- THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. i8o Martha. Some one who should have stayed at home. Corey {restraining himself). I see ! Don’t vex me, Martha. Tell me where it is. Martha. I ’ve hidden it away. Corey. Go fetch it me. Martha. Go find it. Corey. No. I ’ll ride down to the village Bare-back ; and when the people stare and say, “Giles Corey, where ’s your saddle?” I will answer, “A Witch has stolen it.” How shall you like that ? Martha. I shall not like it. Corey. Then go fetch the saddle. {Exit Martha. If an old man will marry a young wife, Why then — why then — why then — he must spell Baker ! * {Enter Martha with the saddle, which she throws down.) Martha. There ! There ’s the sad- dle. Corey. Take it up. Martha. I won’t ! Corey Then let it lie there. I ’ll ride to the village. And say you are a Witch. Martha. No, not that, Giles. {She takes up the saddle.) Corey. Now come with me, and sad- dle the gray mare With your .own hands'; and you shall see me ride Along the village road as is becoming Giles Corey of the Salem Farms, your husband ! [Exeunt. Scene II. — The Green in front of the Meeting-house in Salein Village- People coming and going. Enter Giles Corey. Corey. A melancholy end ! Who would have thought *A local expression for doing anything difficult. In the old spelling-books, Baker was the first word of two syll^les, and when a child came to it he thought he had a hard task before him. That Bridget Bishop e’er would come to this? Accused, convicted, and condemned to death For Witchcraft ! And so good a wo- man too ! A Farmer. Good morrow, neighbor Corey. Corey {not hearing hint). Who is safe ? How do I know but under my own roof I too may harbor Witches, and some Devil Be plotting and contriving against me ? Farmer. He does not hear. Good morrow, neighbor Corey ! Corey. Good morrow. Farmer. Have you seen John Proc- tor lately ? Corey. No, I have not. Farmer. Then do not see him, Corey. Corey. Why should I not ? Farmer. Because he ’s angry with you. So keep out of his way. Avoid a quar- rel. Corey. Why does he seek to fix a quarrel on me ? Farmer. He says you burned his house. Corey. I burn his house ? If he says that, John Proctor is a liar ! The night his house was burned I was in bed. And I can prove it ! Why, we are old friends ! He could not say that of me. Farmer. He did say it. I heard him say it. Corey. Then he shall unsay it. Fartner. He said you did it out of spite to him For taking part against you in the quarrel You had with your John Gloyd about his wages. He says you murdered Goodell ; that you trampled Upon his body till he breathed no more. And so beware of him ; that ’s my ad- vice 1 [Exit. GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. Corey. By Heaven ! this is too much ! I ’ll seek him out, And make him eat his words, or stran- gle him. I ’ll not be slandered at a time like this, When every word is made an accusa- tion. When every whisper kills, and every man Walks with a halter round his neck ! {E titer Gloyd in haste.) What now? Gloyd. I came to look for you. The L.orey. vveu. What of them ? Have you found them t Gloyd . They are dead. I followed them through the woods, across the meadows ; Then they all leaped into the Ipswich River, And swam across, but could not climb the bank. And so were drowned. Corey. You are to blame for this ; For you took down the bars, and let them loose. Gloyd. That I deny. They broke the fences down. You know they were bewitched. Corey. Ah, my poor cattle ! The Evil Eye was on them ; that is true. Day of disaster ! Most unlucky day ! Why did I leave my ploughing and my reaping To plough and reap this Sodom and Gomorrah ? O, I could drown myself for sheer vexa- tion ! \_Exit. Gloyd. He ’s going for his cattle. He won’t find them. By this time they have drifted out to sea. They will not break his fences any more. Though they may break his heart. And what care I ? \_Exit. Scene III. — kitchen- A table with supper. Martha knitting. Martha. He ’s come at last. I hear him in the passage. i8i Something has gone amiss with him to- day ; I know' it by his step, and by the sound The door made as he shut it. He is angry. (^Enter Corey with his riding-whip. As he speaks, he takes off his hat and gloves, and throws them down violently.) Corey. I say if Satan ever entered man He ’s in John Proctor ! Martha. Giles, what is the matter? You frighten me. Corey. I say if any man Can have a Devil in him, then that man Is Proctor, — is John Proctor, and no other ! Martha. Why, what has he been doing ? Corey. Everything ! What do you think I heard there in the village? Martha. I ’m sure I cannot guess. What did you hear? Corey. He says I burned his house ! Martha. Does he say that ? Corey. He says I burned his house. I was in bed And fast asleep that night ; and I can prove it. Martha. If he says that, I think the Father of Lies Is surely in the man. Corey. He does say that. And that I did it to wreak vengeance on him For taking sides against me in the quarrel I had with that John Gloyd about his w'ages. And God knows that I never bore him malice For that, as I have told him twenty times ! Martha. It is John Gloyd has stirred him up to this. I do not like that Gloyd. I think him crafty. Not tobe trusted, sullen, and untruthful. Come, have your supper. You are tired and hungry. i 82 THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. Corey. I ’m angry, and not hungry. Martha. Do eat something. You ’ll be the better for it. Corey {sitting down). I ’m not hun- gry- Martha. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath. Corey. It has gone down upon it, and will rise To-morrow, and go down again upon it. They have trumped up against me the old story Of causing Goodell’s death by tram- pling on him. Martha. O, that is false. I know it to be false. Corey. He has been dead these four- teen years or more. Why can’t they let him rest? Why must they drag him Out of his grave to give me a bad name? I did not kill him. In his bed he died, As most men die, because his hour had come. I have wronged no man. Why should Proctor say Such things about me ? I will not for- give him Till he confesses he has slandered me Then, I ’ve more trouble. All my cattle gone. Martha. They will come back again. Corey. Not in this world. Did I not tell you they were overlooked ? They ran down through the woods, into the meadows. And tried to swim the river, and were drowned. It is a heavy loss. Martha. I ’m sorry for it. Corey. All my dear oxen dead. I loved them, Martha, Next to yourself. I liked to look at them, And watch the breath come out of their wide nostrils. And see their patient eyes. Somehow I thought It gave me strength only to look at them. And how they strained their necks against the yoke If I but spoke, or touched them with the goad ! They were my friends ; and when Gloyd came and told me They were all drowned, I could have drowned myself From sheer vexation; and I said as much To Gloyd and others. Martha. Do not trust John Gloyd With anything you would not have re- peated. Corey. As I came through the woods this afternoon. Impatient at my loss, and much per- plexed With all that I had heard there in the village. The yellow leaves lit up the trees about me. Like an enchanted palace, and I wished I knew enough of magic or of Witch- craft To change them into gold. Then sud- denly A tree shook down some crimson leaves upon me. Like drops of blood, and in the path before me Stood Tituba the Indian, the old crone. Martha. Were you not frightened ? Corey. No, I do not think I know the meaning of that word. Why frightened ? I am not one of those who think the Lord Is waiting till he catches them some day In the back yard alone ! What should I fear? She started from the bushes by the path, And had a basket full of herbs and roots For some witch-broth or other, — the old hag ! Martha. She has been here to-day. Corey. With hand outstretched She said : “ Giles Corey, will you sign the Book?” “ Avaunt ! ” I cried : “ Get thee behind me, Satan ! ” At which she laughed and left me. But a voice Was whispering in my ear continually : “ Self-murder is no crime. The life of man Is his, to keep it or to throw away ! ” GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. Martha. ’T was a temptation of the Evil One ! Giles, Giles ! why will you harbor these dark thoughts ? Corey (rising). I am too tired to talk. 1 ’ll go to bed. Martha. First tell me something about Bridget Bishop. How did she look ? You saw her ? You were there ? Corey. I ’ll tell you that to-morrow, not to-night. I ’ll go to bed. Martha. First let us pray together. Corey. I cannot pray to-night. Martha. Say the Lord’s Prayer, And that will comfort you. Corey. I cannot say, “As we forgive those that have sinned against us,” When I do not forgive them. Martha (kneeling on the hearth) • God forgive you ! Corey. I will not make believe ! I say, to-night There’s something thwarts me when I wish to pray. And thrusts into my mind, instead of prayers. Hate and revenge, and things that are not prayers. Something of my old self, — my old, bad life, — And the old Adam in me, rises up, And will not let me pray. I am afraid The Devil hinders me. You know I say Just what I think, and nothing more nor less. And, when I pray, my heart is in my prayer. I cannot say one thing and mean another. If I can’t pray, I will not make believe ! (Exit Corey. Martha continues kneeling.) ACT III. Scene I. — Giles Corey’s kitchen. Morning. Corey and Martha sitting at the breakfast-table. Corey (rising). Well, now I ’ve told you all I saw and heard 183 Of Bridget Bishop ; and I must be gone. Martha. Don’t go into the village, Giles, to-day. Last night you came back tired and out of humor. Corey. Say, angry ; say, right angry. I was never In a more devilish temper in my life. All things went wrong with me. Martha. You were much vexed ; So don’t go to the village. Corey (going). No, I won’t. I won’t go near it. We are going to mow The Ipswich meadows for the after- math. The crop of sedge and rowens. Martha. Stay a moment. I want to tell you what I dreamed last night. Do you believe in dreams ? Corey. Why, yes and no. When they come true, then I believe in them ; When they come false, I don’t believe in them. But let me hear. What did you dream about? Martha. I dreamed that you and I were both in prison ; That we had fetters on our hands and feet ; That we were taken before the Magis- trates, And tried for Witchcraft, and con- demned to death ! I wished to pray ; they would not let me pray ; You tried to comfort me, and they for- bade it. But the most dreadful thing in all my dream Was that they made you testify against me ! And then there came a kind of mist be- tween us : I could not see you ; and I woke in ter- ror. I never was more thankful in my life Than when I found you sleeping at my side ! Corey (with tenderness). It was our talk last night that made you dream. 184 THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. I ’m sorry for it. I ’ll control myself Another time, and keep my temper down ! I do not like such dreams. — Remem- ber, Martha, I ’m going to mow the Ipswich River meadows ; If Gardner comes, you ’ll tell him where to find me. \_Exii. Martha. So this delusion grows from bad to worse. First, a forsaken and forlorn old woman, Ragged and wretched, and without a friend ; Then something higher. Now it ’s Bridget Bishop ; God only knows whose turn it will be next ! The Magistrates are blind, the people mad ! If they would only seize the Afflicted Children, And put them in the Workhouse, where they should be. There ’d be an end of all this wicked- ness. \_Exit. Scene II. — A street in Salem Village Enter Mather ajid Hathorne. Mather. Yet one thing troubles me. Hathorne. And what is that ? Alather. May not the Devil take the outward shape Of innocent persons ? Are we not in danger. Perhaps, of punishing some who are not guilty? Hathortie. As I have said, we do not trust alone To spectral evidence. Mather. And then again. If any shall be put to death for Witch- craft, We do but kill the body, not the soul. The Unclean Spirits that possessed them once Live still, to enter into other bodies. What have we gained ? Surely, there ’s nothing gained. Hathorne. Doth not the Scripture say, “ Thou shalt not suffer A Witch to live ” ? Mather. The Scripture sayeth it. But speaketh to the Jews ; and we are Christians. What say the laws of England ? Hathorne. They make Witchcraft Felony without the benefit of Clergy. Witches are burned in England. You have read — For you read all things, not a book escapes you — The famous Demonology of King James? Mather. A curious volume. I re- member also The plot of the Two Hundred, with one Fian, The Registrar of the Devil, at their head. To drown his Majesty on his return From Denmark; how they sailed in sieves or riddles Unto North Berwick Kirk in Lothian, And, landing there, danced hand in hand, and sang, “ Goodwife, go ye before ! goodwife, go ye ! If ye ’ll not go before, goodwife, let me ! ” While Geilis Duncan played the Witches’ Reel Upon a jews-harp. Hathorne. Then you know full well The English law, and that in England Witches, When lawfully convicted and attainted. Are put to death. Mather. When lawfully convicted ; That is the point. _ r Hathorne. You heard the evidence \ Produced before us yesterday at the , trial Of Bridget Bishop. Mather. One of the Afflicted, I know, bore witness to the apparition Of ghosts unto the spectre of this Bishop, Saying, “ You murdered us ! ” of the truth whereof There was in matter of fact too much suspicion. Hathorne. And when she cast her eyes on the Afflicted, They were struck down ; and this in such a manner There could be no collusion in the business. GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. And when the accused but laid her hand upon them, As they lay in their swoons, they straight revived. Although they stirred not when the others touched them. Mather. What most convinced me of the woman’s guilt Was finding hidden in her cellar wall Those poppets made of rags, with head- less pins Stuck into them point outwards, and whereof She could not give a reasonable account. Hathorne. When you shall read the testimony given Before the Court in all the other cases, I am persuaded you will find the proof No less conclusive than it was in this. Come, then, vyith me, and I will tax your patience With reading of the documents so far As may convince you that these sorcer- ers Are lawfully convicted and attainted. Like doubting Thomas, you shall lay your hand Upon these wounds, and you will doubt no more. [Exeunt. Scene III. — A room in Corey’s house. Martha and two Deacons of the church. Martha. Be seated. I am glad to see you here. I know what you are come for. You are come To question me, and learn from my own lips If I have any dealings with the Devil ; In short, if I ’m a Witch. Deacon {sitting down). Such is our purpose. How could you know beforehand why we came ? Martha. ’T was only a surmise. Deacon. We came to ask you. You being with us in church covenant. What part you have, if any, in these matters. Martha. And I make answer, No part whatsoever. I am a farmer’s wife, a working woman ; You see my spinning-wheel, you see my loom. You know the duties of a farmer’s wife. And are not ignorant that my life among you Has been without reproach until this day. Is it not true? Deacon. So much we ’re bound to own : And say it frankly, and without reserve. Martha. I ’ve heard the idle tales that are abroad ; I ’ve heard it whispered that I am a Witch ; I cannot help it. I do not believe In any Witchcraft. It is a delusion. Deacofi. How can you say that it is a delusion. When all our learned and good men believe it? — Our Ministers and worshipful Magis- trates? Martha. Their eyes are blinded, and see not the truth. Perhaps one day they will be open to it. Deacon. You answer boldly. The Afflicted Children Say you appeared to them. Martha. And did they say What clothes I came in? Deacon. No, they could not tell. They said that you foresaw our visit here, And blinded them, so that they could not see The clothes you wore. Martha. The cunning, crafty girls ! I say to you, in all sincerity, I never have appeared to any one In my own person. If the Devil takes My shape to hurt these children, or afflict them, I am not guilty of it. And I say It ’s all a mere delusion of the senses. Deacon. I greatly fear that you will find too late It is not so. Martha {rising). They do accuse me falsely. It is delusion, or it is deceit. There is a story in the ancient Scriptures Which much I wonder comes not to your minds. Let me repeat it to you. THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. 1 86 Deacon. We will hear it. Martha. It came to pass that Na- both had a vineyard Hard by the palace of the King called Ahab. And Ahab, King of Israel, spake to Naboth, And said to him, Give unto me thy vineyard. That I may have it for a garden of herbs. And I will give a better vineyard for it, Or, if it seenieth good to thee, its worth In money. And then Naboth said to Ahab, The Lord forbid it me that I should give The inheritance of my fathers unto thee. And Ahab came into his house dis- pleased And heavy at the words which Naboth spake. And laid him down upon his bed, and turned His face away ; and he would eat no bread. And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, came And said to him. Why is thy spirit sad? And he said unto her. Because I spake To Naboth, to the Jezreelite, and said. Give me thy vineyard ; and he an- swered, saying, I will not give my vineyard unto thee. And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, said. Dost thou not rule the realm of Israel ? Arise, eat bread, and let thy heart be merry ; I will give Naboth’s vineyard unto thee. So she wrote letters in King Ahab’s name. And sealed them with his seal, and sent the letters Unto the elders that were in his city Dwelling with Naboth, and unto the nobles ; And in the letters wrote, Proclaim a fast ; And set this Naboth high among the people. And set two men, the sons of Belial, Before him, to bear witness and to say. Thou didst blaspheme against God and the King ; And carry him out and stone him, that he die ! And the elders and the nobles of the city Did even as Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, Had sent to them and written in the letters. And then it came to pass, when Ahab heard Naboth was dead, that Ahab rose to go Down unto Naboth’s vineyard, and to take Possession of it. And the word of God Came to Elijah, saying to him. Arise, Go down to meet the King of Israel In Naboth’s vineyard, whither he hath gone To take possession. Thou shalt speak to him, Saying, Thus saith the Lord ! What ! hast thou killed And also taken possession? In the place Wherein the dogs have licked the blood of Naboth Shall the dogs lick thy blood, — ay, even thine ! {Both) o/ the Deacons start from their seats.) And Ahab then, the King of Israel, Said, Hast thou found me, O mine en- emy ? Elijah the Prophet answered, I have found thee ! So will it be with those who have stirred up The Sons of Belial here to bear false witness And swear away the lives of innocent people : Their enemy will find them out at last. The Prophet’s voice will thunder, I have found thee ! [Exeunt. Scene IV.— Meadows on Ipswich River. Corey and his tnen mow- ing ; Corey in advance. Corey. Well done, my men. You see, I lead the field ! I ’m an old man, but I can swing a scythe Better than most of you, though you be younger. [Hangs his scythe upon a tree!) GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. Gloyd {aside to the others). How strong he is ! It ’s supernatural. No man so old as he is has such strength. The Devil helps him ! Corey {wiping his forehead). Now we ’ll rest awhile, And take our nooning. What ’s the matter with you? You are not angry with me, — are you, Gloyd ? Come, come, we will not quarrel. Let ’s be friends. It ’s an old story, that the Raven said, “Read the Third of Colossians and fif- teenth.” Gloyd. You ’re handier at the scythe, but I can beat you At wrestling. Corey. Well, perhaps so. I don’t know. I never wrestled with you. Why, you ’re vexed ! Come, come, don’t bear a grudge. Gloyd. You are afraid. Corey. What should I be afraid of? All bear witness The challenge comes from him. Now, then, my man. {They wrestle, and Gloyd is thrown.) One of the Men. That ’s a fair fall. Another. ’T was nothing but a foil ! Others. You ’ve hurt him ! Corey {helping Gloyd rise). No; this meadow-land is soft. You ’re not hurt, — are you, Gloyd ? Gloyd {rising). No, not much hurt ! Corey. Well, then, shake hands ; and there ’s an end of it. How do you like that Cornish hug, my lad ? And now we’ll see what ’s in our basket here. Gloyd {aside). The Devil and all his imps are in that man ! The clutch of his ten fingers burns like fire ! Corey {reverentially taking off his hat). God bless the food he hath provided for us. And make us thankful for it, for Christ’s sake ! {He lifts up a keg of cider, and drinks from it.) 18/ Gloyd. Do you see that ? Don’t tell me it ’s not Witchcraft. Two of us could not lift that cask as he does ! ( Corey puts down the keg, and opens a basket. A voice is heard calling i) Voice. Ho ! Corey, Corey ! Corey. What is that ? I surely Heard some one calling me by name ! V oice. Giles Corey ! {Enter a hoy, running, and out of breath.) Boy. Is Master Corey here ? Corey. Yes, here I am. Boy. O Master Corey I Corey. _ Well ? Boy. Your wife — your wife — Corey. What’s happened to my wife? Boy. She ’s sent to prison ! Corey. The dream ! the dream ! O God, be merciful ! Boy. She sent me here to tell you. Corey {putting on his jacket). Where ’s my horse ? Don’t stand there staring, fellows. Where ’s my horse ? {Exit Corey. Gloyd- Under the trees there. Run, old man, run, run ! You ’ve got some one to wrestle with you now Who ’ll trip your heels up, with your Cornish hug. If there ’s a Devil, he has got you now. Ah, there he goes ! His horse is snort- ing fire ! One of the Men. John Gloyd, don’t talk so ! It ’s a shame to talk so ! He ’s a good master, though you quar- rel with him. Gloyd. If hard work and low wages make good masters. Then he is one. But I think otherwise. Come, let us have our dinner and be merry, And talk about the old man and the Witches. I know some stories that will make you laugh. {They sit down on the grass, and eat.) i88 THE NEIV-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. Now there are Goody Cloyse and Goody Good, Who have not got a decent tooth be- tween them, And yet these children — the Afflicted Children — Say that they bite them, and show marks of teeth Upon their arms ! 0?te of the Men. That makes the wonder greater. That’s Witchcraft. Why, if they had • teeth like yours, ’T would be no wonder if the girls were bitten ! Gloyd. And then those ghosts that come out of their graves And cry,“ You murdered us ! you mur- dered us ! ” One of the Men. And all those Appa- ritions that stick pins Into the flesh of the Afflicted Children ! Gloyd. O those Afflicted Children ! they know well Where the pins come from. I can tell you that. And there ’s old Corey, he has got a horseshoe Nailed on his doorstep to keep off the Witches, And all the same his wife has gone to prison. One of the Men. O, she ’s no Witch. I ’ll swear that Goodwife Corey Never did harm to any living creature. She ’s a good woman, if there ever was one. Gloyd. Well, we shall see. As for that Bridget Bishop, She has been tried before ; some years ago A negro testified he saw her shape Sitting upon the rafters in a barn. And holding in its hand an egg ; and while He went to fetch his pitchfork, she had vanished. And now be quiet, will you ? I am tired. And want to sleep here on the grass a little. (They stretch themselves on the grass ) One of the Men. There may be Witches riding through the air Over our heads on broomsticks at this moment. Bound for some Satan’s Sabbath in the woods To be baptized. Gloyd. I wish they ’d take you with them, And hold you under water, head and ears. Till you were drowned ; and that would stop your talking. If nothing else will. Let m e sleep, I say. ACT IV. Scene I. — The Green in front of the village Meetbig-hoiise. A n excited crowd gathering. Enter John Gloyd. A Farmer. Who will be tried to-day? A Second. ' I do not know. Here is John Gloyd. Ask him ; he knows. Farmer. John Gloyd, Whose turn is it to day? Gloyd. It ’s Goodwife Corey’s. Farmer. Giles Corey’s wife ? Gloyd. The same. She is not mine. It will go hard with her with all her praying. The hypocrite ! She ’s always on her knees ; But she prays to the Devil when she prays. Let us go in. (A trumpet blows.) Farmer. Here come the Magistrates. Second Far7ner. Who ’s the tall man in front ? Gloyd. O, that is Hathorne, A Justice of the Court, and Quarter- master In the Three County Troop. He’ll sift the matter. That ’s Corwin with him ; and the man in black Is Cotton Mather, Minister of Boston. (Enter Hathorne and other Magis- trates on horseback, followed by the Sheriff, constables, atid attendants on foot. The Magistrates disi7tou7it, a7td enter the Meeting-house, with the rest.) GILES COREY OF THE SALE II FARMS. Farmer. The Meeting-house I never saw So great a crowd before. Gloyd. No matter. Come. We shall find room enough by elbow- ing Our way among them. Put your shoulder to it. Farmer. There were not half so many at the trial Of Goodwife Bishop. / Gloyd. Keep close after me. I ’ll find a place for you. They ’ll want me there. I am a friend of Corey’s, as you know. And he can’t do without me just at pres- ent. {Exeufit. Scene II. — Interior of the Meeting- house. Mather and' the Magis- trates seated in front of the pulpit. Before them a raised platform. Martha in chains. Corey near her. Mary Walcot in a chair. A crowd of spectators, atnong them Gloyd. Confiision and mnrtrmrs during the scene. Hathorne. Call Martha Corey. Martha. I am here. Hathorne. Cbme forward. {She ascends the platformi) The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you Of having on the tenth of June last past. And divers other times before and after, Wickedly used and practised certain arts Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and In- cantations, Against one Mary Walcot, single wo- man, Of Salem Village ; by which wicked arts The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tor- mented. Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted, Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady 189 The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute Made and provided in that case. What say you ? Martha. Before I answer, give me leave to pray. Hcdhorne. W e have not sent for you, nor are we here. To hear you pray, but to examine you In whatsoever is alleged against you. Why do you hurt this person ? Martha. I do not. I am not guilty of the charge against me. Mary. Avoid, she-devil ! You tor- ment me now ! Avoid, avoid, Witch ! Martha. I am innocent. I never had to do with any Witchcraft Since I was born. I am a gospel wo- man. Mary. You are a gospel Witch ! Martha {clasping her hands). Ah me ! ah me ! O, give me leave to pray ! Mary {stretching otd her hands). She hurts me now. See, she has pinched my hands ! Hathorne. Who made these marks Upon her hands? Martha. I do not know. I stand Apart from her. I did not touch her hands. Hathorne. Who hurt her then? Martha. I know not. H athorne. Do you think She is bewitched ? Martha. Indeed I do not think so. I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches. Hathorne. Then answer me : When certain persons came To see you yesterday, how did you know Beforehand why they came ? Martha. I had had speech, The children said I hurt them, and I thought These people came to question me about it. Hathor7ie. How did you know the children had been told To note the clothes you wore ? Martha. My husband told me What others said about it. ;9° THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. Hathorne. Goodman Corey, Say, did you tell her ? Corey. I must speak the truth ; I did not tell her. It was some one else. Hathorne. Did you not say your husband told you so ? How dare you tell a He in this assembly ? Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth. (Martha hites her Ups, and is silent.) You bite your lips, but do not answer me ! Mary. Ah, she is biting me ! Avoid, avoid ! Hathorne. You said your husband told you. Martha. Yes, he told me The children said I troubled them. Hathor)ie. Then tell me, Why do you trouble them ? Martha. I have denied it. Mary. She threatened me ; stabbed at me with her spindle ; And, when my brother thrust her with his sword. He tore her gown, and cut a piece away. Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth. {Shows them.) Hathorne. And there are persons here who know the truth Of what has now been said. What ■ answer make you ? Martha. I make no answer. Give me leave to pray. Hathorne. Whom would you .pray to ? Martha. To my God and Father. Hathorne. Who is your God and Father ? Martha. The Almighty ! Hathorne. Doth he you pray to say that he is God ? It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God. Mary. There is a dark shape whis- pering in her ear. Hathorne. What does he say to you ? Martha. _ I see no shape. Hathorne. Did you not hear it whis- per ? Martha. I heard nothing. Mary. What torture ! Ah, what agony I suffer ! {Falls into a swoon.) Hathorne. You see this woman can- not stand before you. If you would look for mercy, you must look In God’s way, by confession of your guilt. Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person ? Martha. I do not know. He who appeared of old In Samuel’s shape, a saint and glorified. May come in whatsoever shape he chooses. I cannot help it. I am sick at heart ! Corey. O Martha, Martha ! let me hold your hand. Hathorne. No : stand aside, old man. Mary {starting up). Look there ! Look there ! I see a little bird, a yellow bird. Perched on her finger ; and it pecks at me. Ah, it will tear mine eyes out ! Martha. I see nothing. Hathorne. ’T is the Familiar Spirit that attends her. Mary. Now it has flown away. It sits up there Upon the rafters. It is gone ; is van- ished. Martha. Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes. Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint. {She leans against the railing.) Mary. O, she is crushing me with all her weight ! Hathorne. Did you not carry once the Devil’s Book To this young woman ? Martha. Never. Hathorne. Have you signed it. Or touched it? _ ^ .Martha. No ; I never saw it. < Hathorne. Did you not scourge her with an iron rod ? Martha. No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. igi Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds, I cannot help it. I am innocent. Hathorne. Did you not say the Magistrates were blind ? That you would open their eyes ? I Martha {with a scornful laugh). Yes, I said that ; If you call me a sorceress, you are blind ! If you accuse the innocent, you are blind ! Can the innocent be guilty ? Hathorne. Did you not On one occasion hide your husband’s saddle To hinder him from coming to the Ses- sions ? Martha. I thought it was a folly in a farmer To waste his time pursuing such illu- sions. Hathorne. What was the bird that this young woman saw Just now upon your hand ? Martha. I know no bird. Hathorne. Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit ? Martha. No, never, never ! Hathorne. What then was the Book You showed to this young woman, and besought her To write in it ? Martha. Where should I have a book ? I showed her none, nor have none. Mary. The next Sabbath Is the Communion-Day, but Martha Corey Will not be there ! Martha. Ah, you are all against me. What can I do or say ? Hathorne. You can confess. Martha. No, I cannot, for I am in- nocent. Hathorne. We have the proof of many witnesses That you are guilty. Martha. Give me leave to speak. Will you condemn me on such evi- dence, — You who have known me for so many years ? Will you condemn me in this house of God, Where I so long have worshipped with you all ? Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wine So many times at our Lord’s Table with you ? Bear witness, you that hear me ; you all know That I have led a blameless life among you, That never any whisper of suspicion Was breathed against me till this accu- sation. And shall this count for nothing ? Will you take My life away from me, because this girl, Who is distraught, and not in her right mind, Accuses me of things I blush to name ? Hathorne. What! is it not enough? Would you hear more? Giles Corey 1 Corey. I am here. Hathorne. Come forward, then. (Corey ascends the platformi) Is it not true, that on a certain night You were impeded strangely in your prayers? That something hindered you? and that you left This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone Upon the hearth ? Corey. Yes ; I cannot deny it. Hathorne. Did you not say the Devil hindered you ? Corey. I think I said some words to • that effect. Hathorne. Is it not true, that four- teen head of cattle. To you belonging, broke from their en- closure And leaped into the river, and were drowned ? Corey. It is most true. , Hathorne. And did you not then say That they were overlooked ? Corey. So much I said. I see ; they ’re drawing round me closer, closer, A net I cannot break, cannot escape from ! (Aside.) Hathorne. Who did these things ? 192 THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. Corey. T do not know who did them. Hathorne. Then I will tell you. It is some one near you ; You see her now ; this woman, your own wife. Corey. I call the heavensto witness, it is false ! She never harmed ine,neverhinderedme In anything but what I should not do. And I bear witness in the sight of heaven, And in God’s house here, that I never knew her As otherwise than patient, brave, and true, Faithful, forgiving, full of charity, A virtuous and industrious and good wife ! Hathorne. Tut, tut, man ; do not rant so in your speech ; You are a witness, not an advocate ! Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison. Martha. O Giles, this day you ’ve sworn away my life ! Mary. Go, go and join the Witches at the door. Do you not hear the drum ? Do you not see them ? Go quick. They *re waiting for you. You are late. t^Exit Marth.\ ; Co’R^'f following .) Corey. The dream ! the dream ! the dream ! Hathorne. What does he say ? Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery By many witnesses. Say.areyou guilty ? Corey. I know my death is foreor- dained by you, — Mine and my wife’s. Therefore I will not answer. {^During the rest of the scene he remains silent.') Hathorne. Do you refuse to plead? — ’ t were better for you To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty. — Do you not hear me ? — Answer, are you guilty? Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you, If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty ? Where is John Gloyd? Gloydifoming forward). Here am I. Hathortie. Tell the Court ; Have you not seen the supernatural power Of this old man ? Have you not seen him do Strange feats of strength ? Gloyd. I ’ve seen him lead the field. On a hot day, in mowing, and against Us younger men ; and I have wrestled with him. He threw me like a feather. I have seen him Lift up a barrel with his single hands, Which two strong men could hardly lift together. And, holding it above his head, drink from it. Hathorne. That is enough ; we need not question further. What answ er do you make to this, Giles Corey ? Mary. See there ! See there ! Hathorne. What is it ? I see nothing. Mary. Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell, Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder By stamping on his body ! In his shroud He comes here to bear witness to the crime ! ( The crowd shrinks back from Corey in horror.) Hathorne. Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die ! It might have been an easier death. Your doom Will be on your owm head, and not on ours. Twice more will you be questioned of these things ; Twice more have room to plead or to confess. If you are contumacious to the Court, And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer. Then by the Statute you will be con- demned GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 193 To the peine forte et dure t To have your body Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead ! And may the Lord have mercy on your soul ! ACT V. Scene I. — Corey’s farm as in A ct II. Scene i. Richard Gardner, looking round him. Gardner. Here stands the house as I remember it, The four tall poplar-trees before the door; The house, the barn, the orchard, and the well, With its moss-covered bucket and its trough ; The garden, with its hedge of currant- bushes ; The woods, the harvest-fields ; and, far beyond. The pleasant landscape stretching to the sea. But everything is silent and deserted ! No bleat of flocks, no bellowing of herds, No sound of flails, that should be beat- ing now ; Nor man nor beast astir. What can this mean ? {^Knocks at the door.) What ho ! Giles Corey ! Hillo-ho ! Giles Corey ! — No answer but the echo from the barn. And the ill-omened cawing of the crow, That yonder wings his flight across the fields. As if he scented carrion in the air. {Enter Tituba with a basket.) What woman ’s this, that, like an appa- rition. Haunts this deserted homestead in broad day? Woman, who are you? Tituba. I am Tituba. I am John Indian’s wife. I am a Witch. Gardner. What are you doing here? Tituba. I ’m gathering herbs, — Cinquefoil, and saxifrage, and penny- royal. Gardner {looking at the herbs) . This is not cinquefoil, it is deadly nightshade ! This is not saxifrage, but hellebore ! This is not pennyroyal, it is henbane ! Do you come here to poison these good people ? Tituba. I get these for the Doctor, in the Village. Beware of Tituba. I pinch the children ; Make little poppets and stick pins in them. And then the children cry out they are pricked. The Black Dog came to me, and said, “ Serve me ! ” I was afraid. He made me hurt the children. Gardner. Poor soul ! She ’s crazed, with all these Devil’s doings. Tituba. Will you, sir, sign the Book ? Gardner. No, I ’ll not sign it. Where is Giles Corey ? Do you know Giles Corey ? Tituba. He ’s safe enough. He ’s down there in the prison. Gardner. Corey in prison ? What is he accused of? Tituba. Giles Corey and Martha Co- rey are in prison Down there in Salem Village. Both are Witches. She came to me and whispered, “ Kill the children ! ” Both signed the Book ! Gardner. Begone, you imp of darkness ! You Devil’s dam I Tituba. Beware of Tituba ! [Exit. Gardner. How often out at sea on stormy nights. When the waves thundered round me, and the wind Bellowed, and beat the canvas, and my ship Clove through the solid darkness, like a wedge, I ’ve thought of him, upon his pleasant farm. Living in quiet with his thrifty house- wife. And envied him, and wished his fate were mine ! 194 THE NEW-ENGLAND TRAGEDIES. And now I find him shipwrecked ut- terly, Drifting upon this sea of sorceries, And lost, perhaps, beyond all aid of man ! [Exit. Scene II. — The prison. Giles Co- rey at a table on which are some papers. Corey. Now I have done with earth and all its cares ; I give my worldly goods to my dear children ; My body I bequeath to my tormentors. And my immortal soul to Him who made it. O God ! who in thy wisdom dost afflict me With an affliction greater than most men Have ever yet endured or shall endure, Suffer me not in this last bitter hour For any pains of death to fall from thee 1 (Martha is heard singing.) Arise, O righteous Lord 1 And disappoint my foes ; They are but thine avenging sword. Whose wounds are swift to close. Corey. Hark, hark ! it is her voice ! She is not dead ! She lives ! I am not utterly forsaken ! (Martha, singing.) By thine abounding grace And mercies multiplied, I shall awake, and see thy face ; I shall be satisfied. (Corey hides his face in his hands. Enter the ] ailkji, followed by Rich- ard Gardner.) Jailer. Here ’s a seafaring man, one Richard Gardner, A friend of yours, who asks to speak with you. (Corey They embrace.) Corey. I ’m glad to see you, ay, right glad to see you. Gardner. And I most sorely grieved to see you thus. Corey. Of all the friends I had in happier days. You are the first, ay, and the only one. That comes to seek me out in my dis- grace ! And you but come in time to say fare- well. They ’ve dug my grave already in the field. I thank you. There is something in your presence, I know not what it is, that gives me strength. Perhaps it is the bearing of a man Familiar with all dangers of the deep. Familiar with the cries of drowning men. With fire, and wreck, and foundering ships at sea ! Gardner. Ah, I have never know’n a wreck like yours ! Would I could save you ! Corey. Do not speak of that. It is too late. I am resolved to die. Gardner. Why would you die who have so much to live for ? — Your daughters, and — Corey. You cannot say the word. My daughters have gone from me. They are married ; They have their homes, their thoughts, apart from me ; I will not say their hearts, —that were too cruel. What would you have me do? Gardner. Confess and live. Corey. That’s what they said who came here yesterday To lay a heavy weight upon my con- science By telling me that I was driven forth As an unworthy member of their church. Gardner. It is an awful death. Corey. ’T is but to drown. And have the weight of all the seas upon you. Gardner. Say something: say enough to fend off death Till this tornado of fanactiism _ Blows itself out. Let me come in be- tween you And your severer self, with my plain sense ; Do not be obstinate. Corey. I will not plead. If I deny, T am condemned already. GILES COREY OF THE SALEM FARMS. 19s In courts where ghosts appear as wit- nesses, And swear men’s lives away. If I con- fess, Then I confess a lie, to buy a life Which is not life, but only death in life. I will not bear false witness against any, Not even against myself, whom I count least. Gardner {aside). Ah, what a noble character is this ! Corey. I pray you, do not urge me to do that You would not do yourself. I have already The bitter taste of death upon my lips ; I feel the pressure of the heavy weight That will crush out my life within this hour ; But if a word could save me, and that word Were not the Truth ; nay, if it did but swerve A hair’s-breadth from the Truth, I would not say it ! Gardner {aside). How mean I seem beside a man like this ! Corey. As for my wife, my Martha and my Martyr, — Whose virtues, like the stars, unseen by- day. Though numberless, do but await the dark To manifest themselves unto all eyes, — She who first won me from my evil ways. And taught me how to live by her ex- ample. By her example teaches me to die. And leads me onward to the better life ! Sheriff {without). Giles Corey ! Come ! The hour has struck ! Corey. I come ! Here is my body ; ye may torture it, But the immortal soul ye cannot crush ! \_Exeujit. Scene III. — A street in the Village. Enter Gloyd and others. Gloyd. Quick, or we shall be late ! A Man. That ’s not the way. Come here ; come up this lane. Gloyd. I wonder now If the old man will die, and will not speak ? H e’s obstinate enough and tough enough For anything on earth. (A bell tolls.) Hark ! What is thati A Man. The passing bell. He’^ dead ! Gloyd. We are too late. {Exeunt in haste. Scene IV. — A field near the grave- yard. Giles Cokey lying dead, with a great stone on his breast. The Sheriff at his head, Richard Gardner at his feet. A crowd behind. The bell tolling. Enter Hathorne arid Mather. Hathorne. Thisisthe Potter’s Field* Behold the fate Of those who deal in Witchcrafts, and, .rt'hen questioned, Rciuse to plead their guilt or innocence. And, stubbornly drag death upon them- selves. Mather. O sight most horrible ! In a land like this, Spafigled with Churches Evangelical, Inwrapped in our salvations, must we seek In mouldering statute-books of English Courts Some old forgotten Law, to do such deeds ? Those who lie buried in the Potter’s Field ^ Will rise again, as surely as ourselves That sleep in honored graves with epitaphs ; And this poor man, whom we have made a victim. Hereafter will be counted as a martyr ! FINALE. ST. JOHN. ST. JOHN. Saint John wandering over the face of the Earth. St. John. The Ages come and go, The Centuries pass as Years ; My hair is white as the snow, My feet are weary and slow, The earth is wet with my tears ! The kingdoms crumble, and fall Apart, like a ruined wall, Or a bank that is undermined By a river’s ceaseless flow, And leave no trace behind ! The world itself is old ; The portals of Time unfold On hinges of iron, that grate And groan with the rust and the weight, Like the hinges of a gate That hath fallen to decay ; But the evil doth not cease ; There is war instead of peace. Instead of love there is hate ; And still I must wander and wait. Still I must watch and pray, Not forgetting in whose sight, A thousand years in their flight Are as a single day. The life of man is a gleam Of light, that comes and goes Like the course of the Holy Stream, The cityless river, that flows From fountains no one knows. Through the Lake of Galilee, Through forests and level lands. Over rocks, and shallows, and sands Of a wilderness wild and vast. Till it findeth its rest at last In the desolate Dead Sea ! But alas ! alas for me. Not yet this rest shall be ! What, then ! doth Charity fail? Is Faith of no avail ? Is Hope blown out like a light By a gust of wind in the night ? The clashing of creeds, and the strife Of the many beliefs, that in vain Perplex man’s heart and brain. Are naught but the rustle of leaves. When the breath of God upheaves The boughs of the Tree of Life, And they subside again ! And I remember still The words, and from whom they came. Not he that repeateth the name. But he that doeth the will ! And Him evermore I behold Walking in Galilee, Through the cornfield’s waving gold. In hamlet, in wood, and in wold. By the shores of the Beautiful Sea. He toucheth the sightless eyes ; Before him the demons flee : To the dead he sayeth : Arise ! To the living : Follow me ! And that voice still soundeth on From the centuries that are gone. To the centuries that shall be I From all vain pomps and shows. From the pride that overflows. And the false conceits of men ; From all the narrow rules And subtleties of Schools, And the craft of tongue and pen ; Bewildered in its search. Bewildered with the cry : 200 ST. JOHN. Lo, here ! lo, there, the Church I Poor, sad Humanity Through all the dust and heat Turns back with bleeding feet, By the weary road it came, Unto the simple thought By the Great Master taught, And that remaineth still : Not he that repeateth the name. But he that doeth the will 1 NOTES. NOTES. Page 73. The Golden Legend. The old Legenda Attrea, or Golden Legend, was originally written in Latin, in the thirteenth centiir)'^, by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican friar, who afterwards became Archbishop of Genoa, and died in 1292. He called his book simply “ Legends of the Saints.” The epithet of Golden was given it by his admirers ; for, as Wynkin de Worde says, “ Like as pass- eth gold in value all other metals, so this Legend exceedeth all other books ” But Edward Leigh, in much distress of mind, calls it “ a book written by a man ofa leaden heart for the basenesse of the errours, that are without wit or reason, and of a brazen forehead, for his impu- dent boldnesse in reporting things so fabulous and incredible.” This work, the great text-book of the legendary lore of the Middle Ages, was translated into French in the fourteenth century by Jean de Vignay, and in the fifteenth into English by William Cax- ton. It has lately been made more ac- cessible by a new French translation: La Legende Dorie, traduite du Latin, far M. G. B. Paris, 1850. There is a copy of the original, with the Gesta Lo7igobardorum appended, in the Harvard College Library, Cambridge, printed at Strasburg, 1496. The title- page is wanting ; and the volume begins with the Tahida Legendorum I have called this poem the Golden Legend, because the story upon which it is founded seems to me to surpass all other legends in beauty and significance. It exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle Ages, the virtue of disinterest- edness and self-sacrifice, and the power of Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufficient for all the exigencies of life and death. The story is told, and perhaps invented, by Hartmann von der Aue, a Minne- singer of the twelfth century. The original may be found in Mailath’s Alt- deutsche Gedichte, with a modern Ger- man version. There is another in Mar- bach’s Volksbilcher, No. 32. Page 73. For these bells have been anointed, A nd baptized with holy water I The Consecration and Baptism of Bells is one of the most curious ceremo- nies of the Church in the Middle Ages. The Council of Cologne ordained as fol- lows : — “ Let the bells be blessed, as the trumpets of the Church militant, by which the people are assembled to hear the word of God ; the clergy to an- nounce his mercy by day, and his truth in their nocturnal vigils : that by their sound the faithful may be invited to prayers, and that the spirit of devotion in them may be increased. The fathers have also maintained that demons af- frighted by the sound of bells calling Christians to prayers, would flee away ; and when they fled, the persons of the faithful would be secure : that the destruction of lightnings and whirl- winds would be averted, and the spirits of the storm defeated.” — Edmburgh 204 NOTES. E^icyclopcedia, Art. Bells. See also Scheible’s Kloster, VI. 776. Page 83. It is the malediction 0/ Eve ! “Nec esses plus quam femina, quae nunc etiam viros transcendis, et qu$ maledictionem Evae in benedictionem vertisti Mariae.” — Epistola Abcelardi Heloissce. Page 92. T 0 come hack to my text ! In giving this sermon of Friar Cuth- bert as a specimen of the Risus Pas- chales^ or street-preaching of the monks at Easter, I have exaggerated nothing. This very anecdote, offensive as it is, comes from a discourse of Father Bar- letta, a Dominican friar of the fifteenth century, whose fame as a popular preacher was so great, that it gave rise to the proverb, Nescit predicare Qui ftescit Barlettare. “Among the abuses introduced in this century,” says Tiraboschi, “was that of exciting from the pulpit the laughter of the hearers ; as if that were the same thing as converting them. We have examples of this, not only in Italy, but also in France, where the sermons of Menot and Maillard, and of others, who would make a better ap- pearance on the stage than in the pul- pit, are still celebrated for such follies.” If the reader is curious to see how far the freedom of speech was carried in these popular sermons, he is referred to Scheible’s Kloster, Vol. I., where he will find extracts from Abraham a Sancta Clara, Sebastian Frank, and others ; and in particular an anonymous discourse called Der Grduel der Ver- ivushmg. The Abomination of Desola- tion, preached at Ottakring, a village west of Vienna, November 25, 1782, in which the license of language is carried to its utmost limit. See also Prcdicatoriana, ou Revela- tions singulibres et aimisantes S7ir les Pridicateurs ; par G. P. Philotmieste. (Menin.) This work contains extracts from the popular sermons of St. Vin- cent Ferrier, Barletta, Menot, Maillard, Marini, Raulin, Valladier, De Besse, Camus, Pere Andre, Bening, and the most eloquent of all, Jacques Brydaine. My authority for the spiritual inter- pretation of bell-ringing, w'hich follows, IS Durandus, Ration. Divin. Offic., Lib. I. cap. 4. Page 93. The Nativity : a Mir- acle-Play. A singular chapter in the history of the Middle Ages is that which gives account of the early Christian Drama, the Mysteries, Moralities, and Miracle- Plays, which were at first performed in churches, and afterwards in the streets, on fixed or movable stages. For the most part, the Mysteries were founded on the historic portions of the Old and New Testaments, and the Miracle- Plays on the lives of Saints ; a distinc- tion not always observed, however, for in Mr. Wright’s “ Early Mysteries and other Latin Poems of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries,” the Resur- rection of Lazarus is called a Miracle, and not a Mystery. The Moralities were plays, in which the Virtues and Vices were personified. The earliest religious play, which has been preserved, is the Christos Pas- chon of Gregory Nazianzen, written in Greek, in the fourth century. Next to this come the remarkable Latin plays of Roswitha, the Nun of Gandersheim, in the tenth century, which, though crude and wanting in artistic construc- tion, are marked by a good deal of dramatic power and interest. A hand- some edition of these plays, with a French translation, has been lately pub- lished, entitled Theatre de Rotsvitha, Religieuse allemande du Siecle. Par Charles Magnin. Paris, 1845. The most important collections of English Mysteries and Miracle-Plays are those known as the Townley, the Chester, and the Coventry Plays. The first of these collections has been pub- lished by the Surtees Society, and the other two by the Shakespeare Society. In his Introduction to the Coventry Mysteries, the editor, Mr. Halliwell, NOTES. 205 quotes the following passage from Dugdale’s Antiquities of Wcirwick- shire : — “ Before the suppression of the mon- asteries, this city was very famous for the pageants, that were played therein, upon Corpus-Christi day ; which, oc- casioning very great confluence of peo- ple thither, from far and near, was of no small benefit thereto ; which pa- geants being acted with mighty state and reverence by the friars of tliis house, had theaters for the severall scenes, very large and high, placed up- on wheels, and drawn to all the emi- nent parts of the city, for the better ad- vantage of spectators : and contain’d the story of the New Testament, com- posed into old English Rithme, as ap- peareth by an ancient MS. intituled Ludiis Corporis Christi, ox Ltidus Con- ventrice. 1 have been told by some old people, who in their younger years w'ere eyewitnesses of these- pageants so acted, that the yearly confluence of peo- ple to see that shew was extraordinary great, and yielded no small advantage to this city.” The representation of religious plays has not yet been wholly discontinued by the Roman Church. At Ober-Am- mergau, in the Tyrol, a grand spectacle of this kind is exhibited once in ten years. A very graphic description of that which took place in the year 1850 is given by Miss Anna Mary Howitt, in her “Art-Student in Munich,” Vol. I. Chap. IV. She says: — “We had come expecting to feel our souls revolt at so material a representa-. tion of Christ, as any representation of him we naturally imagined must be in a peasant’s Miracle- Play. Yet so far, strange to confess, neither horror, dis- gust, nor contempt was excited in our minds. Such an earnest solemnity and simplicity breathed throughout the whole of the performance, that to me, at least, anything like anger, or a per- ception of the ludicrous, would have seemed more irreverent on my part than was this simple, childlike render- ing of the sublime Christian tragedy. We felt at times as though the figures of Cimabue’s, Giotto’s, and Perugino’s pictures had become animated, and were moving before us ; there was the same simple arrangement and brilliant color of drapery, — the same earnest, quiet dignity about the heads, whilst the entire absence of all theatrical ef- fect wonderfully increased the illusion. There were scenes and groups so ex- traordinarily like the early Italian pic- tures, that you could have declared they were the works of Giotto and Perugino, and not living men and women, had not the figures moved and spoken, and the breeze stirred their richly colored dra- pery, and the sun cast long, moving shadows behind them on the stage. These effects of sunshine and shadow, and of drapery fluttered by the wind, were very striking and beautiful ; one could imagine how the Greeks must have availed themselves of such strik- ing effects in their theatres open to the sky.” Mr. Bayard Taylor, in his “ Eldora- do,” gives a description of a Mystery he saw performed at San Lionel, in Mexico. See Vol. II. Chap. XI. “Against the wing-wall of the Haci- enda del Mayo, which occupied one end of the plaza, was raised a platform, on which stood a table covered with scarlet cloth. A rude bower of cane- leaves, on one end of the platform, rep- resented the manger of Bethlehem ; while a cord, stretched from its top across the plaza to a hole in the front of the church, bore a large tinsel star, suspended by a hole in its centre. There was quite a crowd in the plaza, and very soon a procession appeared, coming up from the lower part of the village. The three kings took the lead ; the Virgin, mounted on an ass that gloried in a gilded saddle and rose-be- sprinkled mane and tail, followed them, led by the angel ; and several women, with curious masks of paper, brought up the rear. Two characters, of the harlequin sort — one with a dog’s head on his shoulders, and the other a bald- headed friar, with a huge hat hanging on his back — played all sorts of antics for the diversion of the crowd. After 2o6 NOTES. making the circuit of the plaza, the Vir- gin was taken to the platform, and en- tered the manger. King Herod took his seat at the scarlet table, wdth an at- tendant in blue coat and red sash, whom I took to be his Prime Minister. The three kings remained on their horses in front of the church ; but between them and the platform, under the string on which the star was to slide, walked two men in long white robes and blue hoods, with parchment folios in their hands. These were the Wise Men of the East, as one might readily know from their solemn air, and the mysteri- ous glances which they cast towards all quarters of the heavens. “ In a little while, a company of wo- men on the platform, concealed behind a curtain, sang an angelic chorus to the tune of ‘ O pescator dell’onda.’ At the proper moment, the Magi turned to- wards the platform, followed by the star, to which a string was conveniently attached, that it might be slid along the line. The three kings followed the star till it reached the manger, when they dismounted, and inquired for the sovereign whom it had led them to visit. They were invited upon the platform, and introduced to Herod, as the only king; this did not seem to satisfy them, and, after some conversa- tion, they retired. By this time the star had receded to the other end of the line, and commenced moving for- ward again, they following. The angel called them into the manger, where, upon their knees, they were shown a small wooden box, supposed to contain the sacred infant ; they then retired, and the star brought them back no more. After this departure, King Herod de- clared himself greatly confused by what he had witnessed, and was very much afraid this newly found king would weaken his power. Upon consultation with his Prime Minister, the Massacre of the Innocents was decided upon, as the only means of security. “ The angel, on hearing this, gave warning to the Virgin, who quickly got down from the platform', mounted her bespangled donkey, and hurried off. Herod’s Prime Minister directed all the children to be handed up for exe- cution. A boy, in a ragged sarape, was caught and thrust forward ; the Minister took him by the heels in spite of his kicking, and held his head on the table. The little brother and sister of the boy, thinking he was really to be decapitated, yelled at the top of their voices, in an agony of terror, which threw the crowd into a roar of laughter. King Herod brought down his sword with a whack on the table, and the Prime Minister, dipping his brush into a pot of white paint which stood before him, made a flaring cross on the boy’s face. Several other boys were caught and served likewise ; and, finally, the two harlequins, whose kicks and struggles nearly shook down the platform. The procession then went off up the hill, followed by the whole population of the village. All the evening there were fandangos in the meson, bonfires and rockets on the plaza, ringing of bells, and high mass in the church, with the accompaniment of two guitars, tinkling to lively pol- kas.” In 1852 there was a representation of this kind by Germans in Boston : and I have now before me the copy of a play-bill announcing the perform- ance, on June 10, 1852, in Cincinnati, of the “ Great Biblico-Historical Dra- ma, the Life of Jesus Christ,” with the characters and the names of the performers. Page loi. The Scriptorium. A most interesting volume might be written on the Calligraphers and Chry- sographers, the transcribers and illumi- nators of manuscripts in the Middle Ages. These men were for the most part monks, who labored, sometimes for pleasure and sometimes for penance, in multiplying copies of the classics and the Seriptures. “ Of all bodily labors, which are proper for us,” says Cassiodorus, the old Calabrian monk, “that of copying books has always been more to my taste than any other. The more so, as NOTES. 207 in this exercise the mind is instructed by the reading of the Holy Scriptures, and it is a kind of homily to the others, whom these books may reach. It is preaching with the hand, by converting the fingers into tongues ; it is publish- ing to men in silence the words of sal- vation ; in fine, it is fighting against the demon with pen and ink. As many w’ords as a transcriber writes, so many w'ounds the demon receives. In a word, a recluse, seated in his chair to copy books, travels into different prov- inces, without moving from the spot, and the labor of his hands is felt even where he is not.” Nearly every monastery was provided with its Scriptorium. Nicolas de Clairvaux, St. Bernard’s secretary, in one of his letters describes his cell, which he calls Scriptoriolum, where he copied books. And Mabillon, in his Etudes Monastiques, says that in his time were still to be seen at Citeanx “many of those little cells, where the transcribers and bookbinders worked.” Silvestre’s Paleographie Universelle contains a vast number of fac-similes of the most beautiful illuminated man- uscripts of all ages and all coun- tries ; and Montfaucon in his Palce- ographia Grceca gives the names of over three hundred calligraphers. He also gives an account of the books they copied, and the colophons, with which, as with a satisfactory flourish of the pen, they closed their long-continued labors. Many of these are very curi- ous : expressing joy, humility, remorse ; entreating the reader’s prayers and par- don for the writer’s sins ; and some- times pronouncing a malediction on any one who should steal the book. A few of these I subjoin : — “As pilgrims rejoice, beholding their native land, so are transcribers made glad, beholding the end of a book.” “ Sweet is it to write the end of any book.” “ Ye who read, pray for me, who have written this book, the humble and sinful Theodulus.” “As many therefore as shall read this book, pardon me, I beseech you, if aught I have erred in accent acute and grave, in apostrophe, in breathing soft or aspirate ; and may God save you all ! Amen.” “ If anything is well, praise the tran- scriber: ifill, pardon his unskilfulness.” “ Ye who read, pray for me, the most sinful of all men, for the Lord’s sake.” “The hand that has written this book shall decay, alas ! and become dust, and go down to the grave, the corrupter of all bodies. But all ye who are of the portion of Christ, pray that I may obtain the pardon of my sins. Again and again I beseech you with tears, brothers and fathers, accept my miserable supplication, O holy choir ! I am called John, woe is me ! I am called Hiereus, or Sacerdos, in name only, not in unction.” “Whoever shall carry away this book, without permission of the Pope, may he incur the malediction of the Holy Trinity, of the Holy Mother of God, of Saint John the Baptist, of the one hundred and eighteen holy Nicene Fathers, and of all the Saints ; the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah ; and the hal- ter of Judas ! Anathema, amen.” “Keep safe, O Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, my three fingers, with which I have written this book.” “ Mathusalas Machir transcribed this divinest book in toil, infirmity, and dangers many.” “ Bacchius Barbardorius and Mi- chael Sophianus wrote this book in sport and laughter, being the guests of their noble and common friend Vin- centius Pinellus, and Petrus Nunnius, a most learned man.” This last colophon, Montfaucon does not suffer to pass without reproof. “ Other calligraphers,” he remarks, “demand only the prayers of their readers, and the pardon of their sins ; but these glory in their wantonness.” Page 105. Drink downto your peg ! One of the canons of Archbishop Anselm, promulgated at the beginning of the twelfth century, ordains “that priests go not to drinking-bouts, nor drink to pegs.” In the times of the NOTES. hard-drinking Danes, King Edgar or- dained that “ pins or nails should be fastened into the drinking-cups or horns at stated distances, and whoso- ever should drink beyond those marks at one draught should be obnoxious to a severe punishment.” Sharpe, in his History of the Kings of England, says: “Our ancestors were formerly famous for compotation ; their liquor was ale, and one method of amusing themselves in this way was with the peg-tankard. I had lately one of them in my hand. It had on the inside a row of eight pins, one above another, from top to bottom. It held two quarts, and was a noble piece of plate, so that there was a gill of ale, half a pint Wincester measure, between each peg. The law was, that every person that drank was to empty the space between pin and pin, so that the pins were so many measures to make the company all drink alike, and to swal- low the same quantity of liquor. This was a pretty sure method of making all the company drunk, especially if it be considered that the rule was, that who- ever drank short of his pin, or beyond it, was obliged to drink again, and even as deep as to the next pin.” Page 105. The convent of St. Gil- das de Rhuys. Abelard, in a letter to his friend Philintus, gives a sad picture of this monastery. “ I live,” he says, “ in a barbarous country, the language of which I do not understand ; I have no conversation but with the rudest peo- ple. my walks are on the inaccessible shore of a sea, which is perpetually stormy, my monks are only known by their dissoluteness, and living without any rule or order, could you see the abby, Philintus, you would not call it one. the doors and walks are without any ornament, except the heads of wild boars and hinds feet, which are nailed up against them, and the hides of fright- ful animals, the cells are hung with the skins of deer, the monks have not so much as a bell to wake them, the cocks and dogs supply that defect, in short, they pass their whole days in hunting ; would to heaven that were their greatest fault ! or that their pleas- ures terminated there ! I endeavor in vain to recall them to their duty ; they all combine against me, and I only ex- pose myself to continual vexations and dangers. I imagine I see every mo- ment a naked sword hang over my head, sometimes they surround me, and load me with infinite abuses ; sometimes they abandon me, and I am left alone to my own tonnenting thoughts. I make it my endeavor to merit by my sufferings, and to appease an angry God. sometimes I grieve for the loss of the house of the Paraclete, and wish to see it again, ah Philintus, does not the love of Heloise still bum in my heart ? I have not yet triumphed over that unhappy passion, in the midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, I pine, I speak the dear name Heloise, and am pleased to hear the sound.” — Letters of the Celebrated Abelard and Heloise. Translated by Mr. John Hughes. Glasgow, 1751. Page 1 1 3. Were it not for my magic garters and staff. The method of making the Magic Garters and the Magic Staff is thus laid down in Les Secrets Merveilleux du Petit A Ibert, a F rench translation of Alberti Parvi Lucii Libellus de Mirabilibus Naturce A rcanis : — “Gather some of the herb called motherwort, when the sun is entering the first degree of the sign of Capri- corn ; let it dry a little in the shade, and make some garters of the skin of a young hare ; that is to say, having cut the skin of the hare into strips two indies wide, double them, sew the before-mentioned herb between, and wear them on your legs. No horse can long keep up with a man on foot, who is furnished with these garters.” — p. 128. “Gather, on the morrow of All- Saints, a strong branch of willow, of which you will make a staff, fashioned to your liking. Hollow it out, by re- moving the pith from within, after hav- NOTES. ing furnished the lower end with an iron ferule. Put into the bottom of the staff the two eyes of a young wolf, the tongue and heart of a dog, three green lizards, and the hearts of three swallows. These must .all be dried in the sun, between two papers, having been first sprinkled with finely pul- verized saltpetre. Besides all these, put into the staff seven leaves of ver- vain, gathered on the eve of St. John the Baptist, with a stone of divers colors, which you will find in the nest of the lapwing, and stop the end of the staff with a pomel of box, or of any other material you please, and be as- sured, that the staff will guarantee you from the perils and mishaps which too often befall travellers, either from rob- bers, wild beasts, mad dogs, or venom- ous animals. It will also procure you the good-will of those with whom you lodge.” — p. 130. Page 116. Saint Elmo's stars. So the Italian sailors call the phos- phorescent gleams that sometimes play about the masts and rigging of ships. Page 116. The School of Salerno. For a history of the celebrated schools of Salerno and Monte-Cassino, the reader is referred to Sir Alexander Croke’s Introduction to the Regimen Sanitatis Salernitanum i and to Kurt Sprengel’s Geschichte der A rzneikun- de, l. 463, or Jourdan’s French trans- lation of it, Histoire de la Medicine, II. 354- Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. PS LONGFELLOW. 2258 •A1 1873 Bapst Library Boston College Chestnut Hill, Mass. 02167