PS 11/6 By Lewis Worthington Smith Class "PS-^S-^? Book -1^0 61 4 7 Qmm' lyc CDFSIIGHT DEPOSm IN SUNDAY'S TENT By Lewis Worthington Smith THE ENGLISH TONGUE SHIPS IN PORT IN SUNDAY'S TENT BY LEWIS WORTHINGTON SMITH n Boston The Four Seas Company 1916 Copyright, ipi6, by THE FOUR SEAS COMPANY APR -5 1318 THE FOUR SEAS PRESS BOSTON MASS. U.S. A. ©CLA494460 FOREWORD TO REV. WILLIAM A. SUNDAY Compassion is, I take it, of the very essence of the religion of Jesus, the compassion of fellowship, not that of a pitying charity. It is this that constitutes its regenerative force, the coming to earth, not of God, but of the God-man. So deeply is the religious feeding rooted in our human limitations and our human needs that it can not reach its best expression apart from a warm flowering out of human sympathy. At its heart there glows an impulse to help the poor, the unfor- tunate, the fallen, to assume a generous responsibility, and so to reach the humanly divine. This is the justi- fication for the statement of Jesus that "joy is in hea- ven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repen- tance." It was in this spirit that he declared himself a "friend of publicans and sinners." I only hope that you may see in the following story the throb of that universal sympathy and tenderness for mortal failure and incompleteness that is the voice of the Master, calling men, even though their sins be as scarlet, in Sunday's tent. L. s. w. IN SUNDAY'S TENT "Love is the fulfilling of the law." Romans 13: 10. "Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it; and whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it." Luke 17: 33. IN SUNDAY'S TENT 'Twas Bess that took the fancy first And rolled the word out in a burst Of mocking laughter. "Why not go Down to Bill Sunday's gospel show? I'm sort of restless, and — it's strange — But why not hymn tunes for a change?" We jeered at first, but fun was slow, And Bess was sure we ought to go To hear *em shout and sing and pray, And down we went. The dying day Flung up red signals in the west. I cared as little as the rest. We got good seats in the second row And sat there sniggering. Fern and Joe [II] In Sunday's Tent Were bent to leave at the first good lick Of Sunday's brimstone-smeared hell-stick. But Bess's eyes were blazing bright. I knew she'd stay it through all right. The choir came in, a storm of sound. Young girls with faces ringlet-bound. Their elder sisters, blaze on blaze Of pure-eyed beauty voicing praise. Bess turned on me. *T wish I knew What thing I've done is peeving you." "I who have sinned and gone astray, I am thy sheep. To Thee I pray. Give me thy voice that I may know The narrow path that I must go." Pern leaned across. "Now, Dave," she said, ""Don't let this stuff go to your head." [12] In Sunday's Tent I laughed, and then a blazing tongue Out of the ver>' platform sprung. A pointing finger, and I heard, Not some one speaking, but the Word. A leaping passion, and I saw The flaming letters of God's law. Fern showed me once a white, scared face, And then a torture of grimace. Joe sat and tried to smile and seem Half weary of a fairy dream, But Bess drew tight her kiss-crushed lips ; I felt the hardening of her hips. Then by and by a trombone spoke. Upborne from hell's black-rolling smoke, As soft and sweet as if a child Were sleeping where his mother smiled And sang beneath an arch of trees Watching his curls lift in the breeze. 1 13] In Sunday's Tent A hush came down, so deep, so wide, My soul could find no place to hide, But stared for all the world to see. While all the devils danced with glee. I knew Bess clutched her hands, and then We heard the singing hearts of men. Out of the sins that have robed you in scarlet. Your God is calling you. Out of the toils that are spread by the harlot. Your God is calling you. Welcomes are greeting you. Friends will be meeting you; Their hearts are calling you. Faith is before you yet. Love shall restore you yet; The Christ is calling you. Come, come; take up your load. It is only a little. way home. Come, come; keep to the road. It is only a little way home. [14] In Sunday's Tent Out of the earth-murk that darkens about yon. Your God is calling you. Out of the license and laughter that flout you. Your God is calling you. Visions of portals bright Break on your mortal sights- Death's gates are calling you. God's pardon waits you yet, He reinstates you yet; His love is calling you. Come, come; take up your load. It is only a little way home. Come, come; keep to the road. It is only a little way home. The music died. I sat like one Who sees a hand across the sun And feels his very heart at grips With some wild terror of eclipse. I kept my seat while hundreds rose, One hand in Bess's till the close. [IS] In Sunday's Tent But after that, when back we went To take our pleasure, pay our rent For one night's housing more, it seemed Only a thing that I had dreamed. I paused uncertain. Joe went in, But we two trembled with our sin. I saw her burning eye and knew Bess wanted me the whole night through^ Not for the old-time panic joy Of passions that forever cloy. But in a need for some one near To shut her up against her fear. That was at first. I think next day I partly laughed it all away, But when again the great sun drew Her scarlet curtain from the blue, I stood and watched the people pour By hundreds through the big tent 4q9X- [i6] In Sunday's Tent At last I went inside, alone, One moment flame, another stone. "I who have sinned and gone astray, *I am Thy sheep,' " I dared to pray Once in my heart, and then, teeth clenched, No more that night I thrilled or blenched. Next morning as I went to work Fern met me with a mocking smirk. "I am Thy sheep," she laughed, and flung Her head, derisive as her tongue. "And Bess is some one's sheep, I think. Bill Sunday's put her on the blink." "Poor Bess," I thought, and all day long I saw her with a ribald song Twisting her lips, and then it seemed She was a girl again and dreamed Of simple household comradeships, A husband's arms, a baby's lips. [•7] In Sunday's Tent And all day long I said : No more Shall I pass through that cavernous door,- But Bess somehow was calling me. We tried the streets with all their free Bubble and din of light and sound. But even there God closed us round. She did not tell me, but I knew The place her thoughts were travelling to. I did not ask her, but we went Once more to Billy Sunday's tent. Fearful as children, down we sank Far in the sinners* outer rank. That moment as the trombone spoke A thousand throats in song outbroke. A childish treble near us soared Up to the throne where saints adored — A sound like waters loosed in spring And leaves and winds and birds a-wing. [i8] In Sunday's Tent / shall take to the road to glory When my sins are rolled away. Rolled away, rolled away. I shall tell the blessed story To the thirsting every day, Every day, every day. Take my hand and come with me. Drop your load and travel free. We shall wander through the meadows in the presence of the King. We shall join the triumph- chorus where the ransomed angels sing. We shall walk the streets of gold. Find our Father's palace-fold, In the day our sins fall from us, by and by. By and by. Saved and loved in God's forever, by and by. An hour we sat there, swayed and stung By lashings of a maddened tongue, Crying the wrath that peoples hell, [19] In Sunday's Tent Telling of love whose whispers swell To paeaned rapture where God's own Are gathered by his crystal throne. That night we fought the inner leap Of new-old promptings roused from sleep, And fought a woman and her prayers Who urged us toward the altar stairs. We kept ourselves, our sins, our pride, — And then God followed us outside. There on the street beyond the songs, "What shall we do?" I asked. "The wrongs You've suffered aren't the things I've done, But they're alike ; we'll call them one. Why should we not so much repair And take each other, foul or fair?" Bess turned on me a blinding flash, A flame that I had thought but aSh. [20] In Sunday's Tent *'You never flung me like a weed You thought a flower and plucked. I need Some one to show me how to kill — Not you — not you" "But some one still, *'And there are others who for me Are just the thing that you must be Always — perhaps — " "Find them," she said. "What in the devil ails your head? I'm no one's penance. I choose hell Rather than being tied, a bell "About your neck to ring and toll And cry out mercy for your soul. Find them, not me. Fm easy — near, You'd like to get your title clear Without a lot of taking care- Damned much you bother how I fare !" "Find them !" The burning taunt was this,- [21] In Sunday's Tent Day after day, my Judas kiss, The kiss with which I once betrayed, Not Bess, but others who had made My primrose path a flying flame Of wanton pleasure red with shame. Round, round I went in that mad track, Trying to put my wrong world back Into the right, and every turn Seeing how vainly I should bum With penitence. My sin was fixed In those lost lives with which it mixed. Round, round I went. My feet were mired. Like some poor bird whose wings are tired With beating over leagues of sea, I found no place for resting free. Jennie and Sue and Kate, — they came. Haggard and wild, and cried my name. I 22] In Sunday's Tent Night after night the same fierce moil Of baffled penance kept its coil About my feet. I felt the whips Of mad remorse, and yet my lips Refused the supplicating cry. My sins were mine and would not die. "Jennie," my heart cried and I clung To those dear tremblings of her tongue When twilight loosed her silver zone And made her hair a cloud-drift, blown Against that peace we call the sky, Within whose depths the star-flames lie. So deep, so far ! and she had passed Out to that deep so dark and vast. Gone, gone ! and could I never know How she had braved the undertow? Gone, gone ! and could I never tell What earth she walked, what heaven or hell? [23] In Sunday's Tent "Jennie/' my heart cried, "just once more To see the rose beside your door ! To feel you nestle close and warm Under its shaken petal storm As once — ah, God, if you could be Again a very part of me f "If I could kiss you till you smiled, My own once more, all tmdefiled, — " And then I stopped. My cheeks were caught In terror's dragnet. Others bought What I had flung their way, no doubt,— What I had dared to love and flout. God's pity on me ! Sweet, how sweet Had been one moment at her feet. Watching the river mist rise, slow. Beyond the silver-poplar row. Where once we walked before we knew The miry road we travelled to. [24] In Sunday's Tent God's pity on me ! Now no more To feel her hand-clasp, all her store Of gentle trust forever tossed Into the lake where burn the lost. Grod's pity now could never reach The length to bring us each to each. God could not make her mine, if still She lived and kept her path of ill. What help could be? What hope could come From lips that flamed, or trembled dumb ? Could any high forgiveness purge Her soul and body with its urge ? Night after night, more dull and spent, I took the road to Sunday's tent, That seemed at times a gate to hell ; And then I saw her. On the swell Of that miraculous leap of good, I rushed and found her where she stood. [25] In Sunday's Tent "Jennie," I said, — the workers ran From aisle to aisle as I began — "God answers prayer. My prayer was you, And here you are. Should not w^e two Be what we were and find life sweet, We two together at Christ's feet ?" I watched her face. At first a daize Clouded her eyes, and then amaze Became the scourging sense of wrong That must have been her morning song Day after day. She drove me back With eyes of lightning rolled in wrack. I watched and saw the thousands pour Out to the night. Then to her door I tracked her, made her let me in Against her will. I saw how thin Her cheeks were, how her eyes had sunk Out of the glow that made me drunk. [26] In Sunday's Tent "Jennie," I said at last, "I stand And beg God's mercy from your hand. My sins are torments night and day That only you can take away. Come with me now and let us go 1 he path our day-dreams used to know,' I waited, but her lips drew tight. "We lived one lie. To make it right Will living two suffice?" she asked. "W^ith saving you must I be tasked, Losing myself once more to make This mad world pleasant for your sake ?" I never begged a lover's kiss And felt what passion was till this. The madness that, in brain and soul. Knew now the good to make me whole, Her hand in mine, as once we went, Together proving love's intent. [27] In Sunday's Tent I could not know she heard, her eyes So pledged themselves to other skies Or other stars or other deeps Of madness where black memory weeps. My words were like blown chaff, and fell Where not a seed could burst or swell. T think it was the very strength Of her refusal that at length Made me forget myself in her, Seeeing how deep her miseries were. Then through my pity's yearning flush, The old, old love came in a rush. "Poor girl, poor girl," I cried, and warm I felt my blood leap. From the storm I burned to take her, shield her, make Some isle of peace in a great lake Where we might see the world and yet Care nothing for its noise and fret. [28] In Sunday^s Tent That night the sky blew istorm. I went And tried to find her in the tent. She was not there. An hour I turned Up this street and down that, and yearned To shut her up, despite her will, From all the world's great reek of ill. That was an hour of hours. I knew How Christ had loved, what love could do To lift the fallen, bring the sun Down to the nooks where fear crouched dun, Palsied, and dust-begrimed, — to spend Its strength for weakness, without end. The furies swept me, but at last. Seeking her door, I found it fast. I rang, but only silence came And then the echoes of her name. Because I called and called. No light Flashed from her window on the night. [29] In Sunday's Tent Long sleepless hours! And then I walked Madly a country highway, balked Of every hope. Beside a brook A boy sat dreaming with a book. A fresh young girl in white and blue Sang where her ferns and asters grew. The very innocence of earth Was my rebuke. My way of dearth Need not have been. I loved, that hour, The boy, the girl, the gathered flower; But I could only look and stand. An outcast near the promised land. Deep in the woods, I flung myself Down on a narrow rocky shelf And heard the water sing below, A tranquil, happy, loitering flow. Finding each moment as it went The tremor of a high content [30] In Sunday's Tent Just once to make the fancy real, The old truth back again, to feel The April wind that tossed her hair, To know her heart had no more care Than when our hands together drew The violet from its bed of dew ! I saw her so, a step that sprang Out of the grass, a voice that rang Bird-clear, — and then my old desire Felt the hot urging of new fire. Gone, gone, — her cheeks, her eyes, her lips,- Gone like the sails of sunken ships. God's pity on me ! Nothing now Could light her face or clear her brow. I rose and stumbled, slipped and fell, Blinded in all the murk of hell. And then I hurried, tired and spent, And came at last to Sunday's tent. f3i] In Sunday's Tent put of the sins that have robed you in scarlet. Your God is calling you. Out of the toils that are spread by the harlot. Your God is calling you. Welcomes are greeting you, Friends will be meeting you; Their hearts are calling you. Faith is before you yet; Love shall restore you yet; The Christ is calling you. Come, come; take up your load. It is only a little way home. Come, come; keep to the road. It is only a little way home. The song died down, and Sunday swept A last appeal to those that slept. The workers watched flushed cheeks grow pale And sought them for the sawdust trail. Now here, now there, a sinner rose And cried God's mercy on his woes. [ 32 ] In Sunday's Tent Again the choir was like one voice, Urging the wayward heart its choice. Come, come; take up your load. It is only a little way home. Come, come; keep to the road. It is only a little way home. And then — her face ! I stood, one flame. 'Twas Jennie calling on his name. Saved ! Was she saved ? The earth spun round And wrapped my soul in rings of sound. The pathway to God's mercy seat Was white-robed fire past Sunday's feet. The song was softened candle-light Cheering a dark and stormy night. Come, come; take up your load. It is only a little way home. Come, come; keep to the road. It is only a little way home. [33] In Sunday's Tent I rose to heaven and dropped to hell Before God drew her in the spell Of love's last triumph. Then I ran And stood beside her. God in man As I confessed and made her mine, Made me a burst of love divine. And now the chant rose loud and clear, Sweeping away all mortal fear : Come, come, keep to the road. It is only a little way home. Home, home, again! We kneeled to pray. And turned our faces to the Day ! [34]