University of Virginia Library

3. PART III.

SCENE I.

—A Tavern. Darkledge, Slinely, at a table. around them 1st Rabble, 2d Rabble, &c.
Dark.
I thought the fellow would have tweaked the nose
Of the court, with his familiar fingers.

1st Rab.
There's been, I'm sure, no bullying done, Judge,
In your court, equal to this, since Buckram,
In his soiled coat, called you ‘liar’ where you sat.

Dark.
Buckram!—ah, yes, and where is Buckram now?

1st Rab.
In his grave, I think, of a jail fever
Caught in a wet cell, whither contempt of court
Brought him to lie by the heels.

Sline.
A brazen front beyond example, sir—
In the court where you preside!—I know
This Calmstorm where he thinks I know him not.
On a late summer evening, a trusty friend of mine,
Who walks the world at times, spying out what he can,
Passed a raised window, and from within came forth
A voice railing upon the general press,
The Organ by name. Could he have known it,
The death-rattle fanged his throat, e'en as he spake;
And what to-day annexed, has built his bier.

Dark.
[To the Rabble.]
There hangs, my friends,
On yonder wall at the back of the room,
A painting on which the court would take your mind—
E'en here, you see its excellent; a buffalo
Of burly build, worried by wolves—look at it
Closely, point by point, and, half an hour from this,
Give us the advantage of your shrewd opinion.
[1st, 2d Rabble, &c., scramble away to the picture.
[To Slinely.]
Draw this way. This Calmstorm goes about, I'm told,
To undermine established courts of law—
Whether he aims at me or others, I know not.
General or special, he seeks to overset
The ordered tribunals, now standing:
To let them lie in the dust or build anew,
Who knows? I'm out for one, and this life-tenure
May be bought for an hour's purchase.

Sline.
He in his secret soul works 'neath your feet,
And cuts the props of your particular bench,
And this I know.

Dark.
How, how—tell me—how know you that?

Sline.
No matter; I know it.

Dark.
And how to reach him?
He owes nothing, has out no bond nor lease,
Nor obligation of man to man,
Of any name; self-poised lives much apart,
Whence can he not be drawn into a net of law;
No violence could touch him, worst of all,
His name's as white as the babe's sprinkled face.

Sline.
You see this sheet?

[Showing a paper.
Dark.
As white as newest snow.

Sline.
And now?

[Casts ink upon it.
Dark.
Black-spotted as the devil himself.

Sline.
E'en so plague-marked shall be the name of Calmstorm,
When a few days are past. To-night he sleeps in peace,
To-morrow a hundred tongues shall, through the city,
Whisper dreadful things: imagine them!
Men on the corners stopping, talk in wonder,
That yet the city holds him, and by degrees,
Slander shall climb or fly each round
Of the ladder, to the highest, and there flap its wings
In darkness, over his forever-perished name.

Dark.
Love him as we may, we'll neither stab him
Nor have him to be stabbed at night with knives,
Nor shot with pistols.

Sline.
The work is done, you see,
Without the waste of steel or powder. Stop, stop,
I hear a murmuring in the street, and some one names his name.

Dark.
We'll part as we go forth; yes—and after,
Should we think fit, this day's contempt of court
Shall rise to throttle him; brought to lie
A few days in prison, will break his spirit,
'Tis to be hoped, beyond all healing.

1st Rab.
[Cries out from the distance.]
Capital!
You see how the great black wolf steals round him,
And springs at his throat under the shadow
That the sun makes!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—A Street. Waning.
Wan.
Why, what a tumult everywhere he makes!
Rage-struck, he should not thus have matched himself
Against the wise-set customs of mankind!—
The eye-mark of the thousand vexing shafts
That bearded Use, Ulysses-like, lets slip
At him who doubts or dares antiquity!—
Is he the sole man that lives in nature,
Disfurnishing to make him up and feed his pride
The universal world?—Is there no other
Chamber but Calmstorm, where truth may dwell
And be at home? A strength majestic
As the pillared heavens, he needs, in truth—
And some something of it, too, perhaps he has—
To live in the deep flood and everlasting surge
That breaks against the single and unbannered man.
I would not take my cap from off my head,
To have the great world change its orbed course,
And run back from the West unto the East,
All the days 't has yet to come!—Fie, fie—
'T is better, I know, to keep a close-shut cell
Where comes a single ray, than rush into the sun,
And be burned up: he must not ask his friends
To come into the blaze with him, in sport,
When he is howling; no, that will not do.

[Exit Waning.
Enter First Citizen, Second Citizen, &c.
Third Cit.
I say,
That man from man, each by himself a world,
Is so by nature set apart, that each,
E'en by his shadow, may be known at once
From every other.

First Cit.
Now who is that, that sits
Within, whose image paints itself against
The curtain of the tavern window yonder?

Third Cit.
The bowed one with the broken hat?
Lifeless, I guess.

First Cit.
He rises and moves toward the door.

Third Cit.
It is; and see, no longer he lifts his head
With his old manner, nor has a word to speak!
Clerkless, and officeless, and houseless—loosed
Of every link that makes him man with men,
See how he droops and downward shambles
On his way, as if a hand invisible
Pushed him to the end.

First Cit.
He is in truth less than his shadow's shadow—
The lingering of himself: but where is Calmstorm?
This man's is special to himself, a hap particular,
But Calmstorm I seek, for that have I seen this day
Which will arouse his spirit to the depth,
And shake the fell hair of all his lion strength;
A firmamented wrong, within whose blaze
This pales to nothing!

Third Cit.
You'll find him, I think,
On the great square, near by the river
On the East; for this is the hour he's used
To walk there.

Second Cit.
You'll not disturb his walk;
'Tis there he listens for whatsoe'er of wrong
The wide world has to tell.

[Exeunt, severally, First Citizen, &c.
Enter First Politician, Second Politician, &c.
First Pol.
You're on your way to market, are you?
You'll soon be stopped in that—by this perfect honest man,
That seeks to rob us of our dear-won rights;
Who would that in its old order should no longer run
The round of office, the old good-will of people
And servant, officer and citizen. A comet he
That would disturb the harmony of the world:
Would have laws made at once, and once for all,
(So pure and elemental in their principle),
Who from men's arms would take the steadying chain
Of tax, restraint and guidance, whereby
'T is made to do its work neither too fast,
Nor yet too slow.

Second Pol.
'T is said, indeed, he would have no law,
But let each, by his self-kept conscience,
His neighbor and himself adjudge.

Third Pol.
And that all houses and lodgments should be
As like as beavers' huts or rabbits' burrows.

First Pol.
Remove but once, my friends, the wheel-pins
Which make society run even now,
And we shall all, you must perceive, tumble
In the mud together.

Second Pol.
Of course, of course,
And you would lose the trust that now you hold.

[To First Politician.
Third Pol.
And you ne'er gain the one you look for.

[To Second Politician.
First Pol.
And you no longer be the firm good friend
Of both, in farming out the public contracts.

[To Third Politician.
Third Pol.
This Calmstorm is a dangerous man,
To be put down speedily, fair means or foul,
The public good demands it: a perfect honest man's
Too great a monster for these difficult
Times in which we live.

First Pol.
Open to all men, on all sides,
He walks the streets, and sits in public halls,
Unclaimed by any, benched by himself,
And with himself communing, belongs
To neither faction; and in assemblies popular,
He stands apart, a moon-like power, to make
The baser world look coward in his light.

Second Pol.
And as in scorn he holds us nothing,
'T is just that we, in hate, hold him for all
That's rash and serviceless.

Third Pol.
A monstrous man, this no man's man,
Unnatural and strange, who has no party,
No rout of followers, and no creed to swear by!
We'll have him yet! The secret committees
Shall work like the sly otter in the dark!

[Exeunt First Politician, &c

SCENE III.

—A Public Square. Calmstorm.
Calm.
Help, help, through all the watches of the night,
Amid the arches of the calm, blue day,
In every name, in every tongue, I hear
A cry for help. What answers? and whence is't?
An answer or a mocking, who can say?—
Wide over every land I see—the new earth's sons—
Black engines swing their terrible arms
On every side, as if to beat the rounded globe
Into another shape than that it took from God!—
If these will do men's work, will rush with nostrils fiery,
Upon the sinew-cracking toil, seize and devour
All obstacle from the way, let men be free
And holiday making, in presence of their dark
And gloomy slaves, ever be lords unlabored and erect.
And yet to toil is not to die outright.
In its right aims, and rightly sought, I know,
And rightly served, 't is sacred as the sainted hand,
But work gone to by needy men, in herds, at noon,
Panniered with dull cold meals, homeward at night
To plod with weary steps, dim eyes, lost hours,
Disjointed faculties, doubles a curse
That nature meant!—
Down in the pent and gloomy mine to grope,
To stifle, 'neath the gabled and the sooty roof,
The childhood white and pure, a moment lit,
In the thick reek of cells and prisoned airs,
Cheaply to waste the great, red, mournful heart,
To be a screw, a rack, a hoisting-way,
A camel and a dog, a mere utensil
And a clod, insensible to what it works in,
To what end, unknowing of the beauty lapped
Deep down in every art, in every toil,
Born to grow up by man's caressing hand—
Arms withered in youth, and eyeballs seared
Darker than age, in the huge furnace-blaze:
Oh, better, curbless rush, in swift black speed,—
These horses dreadful of the land and sea,
Over the earth, and be alone, in see,
The children of her hollow-hearted breast,
Masters and ministers, unmenial in their acts.—
I would decree six hours of honest toil
From every faithful citizen—the rest
In sleep, in thought, in airy garden walks,
In the calm pleasures of an unploughed heart,
Where every best thing had its chance to grow;
And over the face of life a spirit should fly,
Whose wings would shake down blessings manifold—
And then—
Enter a Citizen.
Your cheek is pale with news your tongue dares not
Report. Speak! speak!

Cit.
The air still shakes and lives
In the echo of the deed! A stone's throw only hence—
In the thick of the city, 'neath this quick-eyed
Hour of noon, a citizen has struck a citizen
Unto the heart, upon the public way,
And there he gasps in the sun, even now,
A gentle woman only bending over him.
I must speed on to bring the officer.

[Exit Citizen.
Calm.
God save us now! for all affrighted beats
The general heart, by many pulses swifter;
And men, each by himself, steal home to-night,
Earlier by an hour: night by its own darkness
Black, and day with shadows of the brain.
The world seems drawing to its fated end,
And golden order is confounded.
All men fear all, and who is free, who bond
To murderous thoughts, the hour nor season knows:
The link that holds the balanced earth
To heaven, breaks in the sun, and wide away
The orbless world rides to its doom.

Enter another Citizen, passing.
Cit.
A murder, a dreadful, dreadful murder, sir!

[Exit Citizen.
Calm.
O, thou that strikest at a human life,
Think how the spot is blasted, how the street
Where gushed the bloody stream, is dimmed forever
With a ruddy cloud, rising and falling
'Twixt the earth and sun! How every foot is tainted,
And shakes with fear, that stood within
The mortal round! How from the dagger's point,
There spring to life the shapes of hate and fear,
In bosoms numberless, till the glad round earth
Shudders to think of thee, shudders in secret,
And gives back thy bloody act,
Populous to overwhelm thee in thy shame!

Enter in front Umena, Dorcas, meeting.
Umena.
Peace with you, Dorcas! For dark and sad a sight
This day has seen: is there no blood upon
My face, no wildness in mine eye, as one
Who has o'erbent a gasping man?

Dorcas.
Too little, not too much;
Your features paler than their use cut the hushed air,
And make it, chilly, creep about you.
A red and deadly message this whiteness
Doth denote.

Umena.
A little instant since,
I brushed the garments of a man who fell,
In a street westward, nearer to the city's heart,
Struck to the life—

Dorcas.
At noon, at this crowned hour?

Umena.
The clock, near by, spoke out at ‘twelve’
Upon the blow—there was a minute's pause
Between the stroke and the out-going life.
Believe, in tenderness and faith, believe
The sweet peace of Heaven stole down and filled it!

Dorcas.
For your sake, Umena, I will and must:
'T was in the garden at that very hour I was alone,
Tending the dewy musk-rose in her pride,
And counting, free, the crimson flecks of light
Under the yet unvanished dew, and when
Upon the ear the clanging summons struck,
There rose into the air, over the quarter
Of the west, a shape that drizzled blood
Upon the city's spires; up as it rose,
At each fresh flight it changed its baser form,
Cast swift away its earthy 'parelling,
And took a bright new robe, as for a feast;
And as it neared the blue and holy heaven,
It raised its arms in deep request, as if
Against its murderer then scudding in escape,
Along the earth below; over the wall
Afar, I saw the shadowy fugitive.

Umena.
'T was more a pleading for his own sad soul,
Sent up in haste O, let us hope he entered in!

Dorcas.
He did, he did! these eyes beheld him—
Beheld the happy light, from far beyond,
Over his new and shining shoulders flow,
A glory in his half-averted face,
Wonder and bliss subdued, and lost within
The inconceivable fire!

Umena.
Awake, you saw it,
Dorcas, or in a dream?

Dorcas.
Awake as is the river yonder—
The great, blue, shining, and triumphant stream,
Whose ever-present eye, watches the city
In its every street, and house, and spire,
In the sun's glimpses and the moon's,
Forever looking in!

Umena.
If on the instant thus, the murdered spirit
May ascend, who knows but he may plead
For him that sent it—who, in the dark of earth,
Lingers and frets upon his hapless act.

Dorcas.
Black must his shadow lie upon the earth,
While flies the other, shining, up to Heaven.

Umena.
O, let us seek Calmstorm; if he has known
Of this, it will new-rack his much-vexed soul,
And make him comfortless as nights of storm.

Enter First Citizen.
First Cit.
Heaven lets go its hold upon this dull,
Low-swinging sphere, and all 's at odds with God!

Calm.
[Advances.]
Why stand you, with your mouth agape,
As with a sense of pain? your whole aspect
Blighted, in memory of some dreadful thing.

First Cit.
Bring succor if you can, and speak for peace!

Calm.
Why halt you in this terrible revolt of silence,
'Gainst that which should be said if you would live?

First Cit.
There is an island near the city, sir,—
You know it, as do all who by its white walls sail,—
Where men, no longer men, in brutish sloth,
Or chattering talk, or gaping vacancy,
Wallow, and rougher grow than shaggy dogs,
Or the rough north wind, that in at the door
Of their sad pinfold, looks oftenest
Of all the winds, their rugged visitor:
Here lie the wanderers of mankind, the laggards
Who have fallen in the great march of men,
In kennels, lanes, or on the blustery square,
Trampled, forgot, and overborne by all.
You shiver as you stand within
The circle of their soulless eyes, and feel
That God, their Maker, has withdrawn himself,
And left them imageless of Him.

Calm.
Oh, God—that first forsook their tyrants,
Whosoe'er they be, thou smitest this heart
Beyond its power to bear. Lead me
To the pillar at the wall.

[They lead him asid
Umena.
O, blessed Christ!
It rather must be borne or ere it can be
Bettered.

[Aside.
Calm.
[Awakening.]
Almighty Master! strike through these hearts
That think thy realm is masterless, a fear
That with their blood shall live, and through
Each organ and each power creep, colder than death!
At night upon their eyelids move, in throngs
Of boding shapes, and let the day be night,
Blacker by reason of its angry light!

Umena.
How far is it, know you, to this island, sir?

First Cit.
To the ferry and the river that bears
You to it, three miles from where we stand.

[Exeunt, Umena, Dorcas.
Calm.
At whose door is it that sits,
This cross-legged and accursed sin?

First Cit.
The dull, deaf, stone-blind magistracy
Of this streeted city, is the spirit
That walks, in darkness, 'gainst the soul's peace
Of these poor men.

Calm.
Another mighty wheel of many, that crush
What they should lift from out the miry way.
I'll think of this—I'll think of this—watch thou
And learn all that thou canst that seals it.

First Cit.
A hundred souls wait, darkly, till your thought
Has taken shape—swiftness be in your brain!

[Exit First Citizen.
Calm.
Is this the globe I stand on? This mankind?
Or is 't a red dream of devils furious?
I recollect, when first I grew to be a man,
'T was said, an angel o'er the city passed
For many nights, and trumpets blowing, gave
City and citied to a stony doom—
Those wailing trumpets still I hear, and still
In dread lie down each night, and wake at morn,
To wonder at the living face of things,
Unshattered through the trials of the dark!

[Exit.