 | City legends |  |
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Second Chain.
Scene, the front parlor of a city residence. It is prettily and daintily furnished. Bows of ribbon adorn almost everything, except a young gentleman, who has called. Conspicuous among the pictures on the walls are those of a nice old lady and gentleman, who look as if they might be the grandfather and grandmother of some young lady. Enter a young lady, seats herself at friendly but respectful distance from the young gentleman, and gazes at him doubtingly.Ethel
(the young lady).
You say you love me; but how do I know
That all of the scattered words you send,
Bring truth with them? the tongue may glow
With thoughts that leap from a friend to a friend,
Or fly with Fancy's mottled wing;
But Love, dear friend, is a sacred thing.
Love is not tinsel, silver, or gold:
It is a fragment of Heaven's own gate,
Broken in halves by God's hand, Fate,
And given two kindred spirits bold,
Who would colonize in our Earth unknown:
'Tis whispered them, “You may be thrown
Far apart; be passion-whirled
To different sides of that dizzy world;
But search for each other, far and near,
With a painful hope, and a joyful fear.
Search, through fair or stormy weather,
Until the halves of this broken gem
Cling and clasp and weld together,
With the power that attracted them.
Then shall be bartered Love's true token;
Then shall The Heart's Password be spoken.
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That yours is the soul that is seeking mine,
Until the gems to each other glow—
Until you speak the words divine?
[The portrait of the young lady's grandmother upon the wall seems to smile approvingly at this speech; that of her grandfather has a somewhat puzzled look.
Fitz Clintonne
(the young man, bashfully, and somewhat awkwardly).
Yes, you are right: my tongue is dull—
Words step slowly, and far apart;
Fogs float my small intellect full—
Creeping between the head and heart.
Something thrusts from me, ever yet,
Things that I do not want to say;
Something makes my tongue forget
Gems I remember, when away.
Several times I have had The Speech
Close to my blind tongue's groping reach;
Several times, my foremost word
Stumbled against some small event,
Mean, and pitiful, and absurd,
As if by a mischief-bureau sent.
[The portrait of the young lady's grandmother on the wall seems to smile approvingly, with a half-triumphant expression; that of the grandfather appears to put on a sympathizing look.
Fitz Clintonne
(continuing).
That time in the shady, flower-breathed grove,
Your hand on my arm, we slowly walked,
My tongue of a sudden fell in love—
Cupid himself!—how I could have talked!
But ere the oration was half begun,
A cow broke through the confounded fences—
Charged on us, with a swinging run—
Ethel.
Scared me half-way out of my senses—
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And so the words my soul would say,
Were drowned in a loud inglorious “Whey!”
My word-supply-car jumped the track,
In shunting that wretched milk-train back.
One time we floated the marching lake
They call a river—the key was mine!
The billows of speech began to break—
They soon would have brought The Word divine!
But an envious fish crept round our way—
The only one that we caught that day—
And nabbed your hook—and my oration—
Ere it was half begun—was o'er.
Ethel
(animatedly).
One of the beauties of creation!
Weighed ten pounds and a half, or more!
Fitz Clintonne.
The fish, I suppose you mean. One eve,
Just as the twilight prepared to leave,
We sat and looked at a silver paring
Called the new moon—near a diamond-star
Which the sweet blue-eyed sky was wearing—
Words rushed straight to me, from afar;
Stopped at my heart, then sought the tongue;
Never such words were said or sung!
But o'er our veranda, just in time
To wed the ridiculous and sublime,
Crept a small mouse—bright-eyed and fleet—
Ethel.
And I screamed like a panthress, and jumped six feet!
[The face of the grandfather on the wall actually seems to grin; that of the grandmother lengthens in pictorial sympathetic fright, and her arms appear to stretch suddenly towards the lower folds of her dress.
Fitz Clintonne
(aside).
If I would not be left out of sight,
An answer to-day I must insist on;
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And he has a tongue like an engine-piston.
He will say so many soft words to 'er,
The Password will be amongst them, sure;
At least, she will think it is—O shade
Of every talker that e'er was made,
Of gossips, and lawyers, and auctioneers,
Of orators, poets, and talking seers,
Lend me your tongues—or my murderers be;
For I shall die, if she doesn't wed me!
[Aloud]
Ethel, I love you. Let it suffice
My words are earnest, if not o'er-nice.
'Mid all this century's arts and shams,
My love is as firm as
Huckster
(in the street).
Soft shell c-l-a-m-s!
Fitz Clintonne
(recovering).
Fie on the villain! Ethel, my heart
Is yours forever; we must not part.
Often my soul, in some lonely spot,
Reaches for yours, and finds it not;
And breaks into still, tumultuous sobs—
Longing—longing—for—
Huckster
(in the street).
Crabs an' l-o-b-s—
L-o-b-s-t-e-r-s!
Fitz Clintonne
(indignantly).
Fie on the sordid wretch,
Collapsing my speech, with his mouth astretch!
Ethel, I need, for my heart's repose—
Voice
(in the street).
Cash fur ol' clo's—ol' clo-'s ol' c-l-o-o-s—
Fitz Clintonne
(tenderly).
If you will be my life-heart-friend,
You shall have always
Voice
(in the street).
B-o-i-l-e-r-s to mend!
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(resolutely).
You shall have always love and rest,
Soothing you through life's varied scenes;
Safe in our Boston bright home-nest,
We will e'er live on
Female Huckster
(in street, shrilly, and in a tone of interrogation).
Pork an' b-e-a-n-s?
Fitz Clintonne
(despairingly).
Ever 'tis thus. You see I may
As well talk Greek, or Zulu, or Hindoo;
Chaos intrudes, whatever I say;
I will close my speech.
Ethel
(smiling).
Or perhaps, the window.
Fitz Clintonne
(after obeying with alacrity).
Ethel, I love you. My love is pure
And fresh from the soul, and must endure.
Its fountains shall never cease to flow!
Ethel
(positively).
Oh, but men's love is never so!
Fitz Clintonne
(solemnly).
Ethel, have you one case in view,
Where man to woman has proved untrue?
Ethel
(readily).
Thousands and thousands and thousands! no man
Has walked the world since the world began,
As true to the woman who loved him truly,
As she to him.
Fitz Clintonne.
You speak unduly.
But list while I tell you, second-hand,
What a young man in Austria-land
Stood for the girl he loved. 'Tis fit
To say that he stood, as you'll admit.
[Draws a magazine from his pocket, and prepares to read. The young lady arranges a series of furtive yawns; the faces on the wall assume a look of stoical endurance.
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reads:
THE HERO OF THE TOWER.
Long time ago, when Austria was young,There came a herald to Vienna's gates,
Bidding the city fling them open wide
Upon a certain day; for then the king
Would enter, with his shining retinue.
Forthwith the busy streets were pleasure paths;
And that which seemed but now a field of toil,
With weeds of turbulence and tricky greed,
Flashed into gardens blooming full of flowers.
Beauty blushed deeper, now the rising sun
Of royalty upon it was to shine;
Wealth cast its nets of tinsel and of gold
To catch the kingly eye; and wisdom merged
Itself into the terms of an address,
Which the old mayor sat up nights to learn.
No maiden fluttered through the narrow streets
That pondered not what ribbons she should wear;
No window on the long procession's route
But had its tenants long engaged ahead.
And that which seemed but now a field of toil,
With weeds of turbulence and tricky greed,
Flashed into gardens blooming full of flowers.
Beauty blushed deeper, now the rising sun
Of royalty upon it was to shine;
Wealth cast its nets of tinsel and of gold
To catch the kingly eye; and wisdom merged
Itself into the terms of an address,
Which the old mayor sat up nights to learn.
No maiden fluttered through the narrow streets
That pondered not what ribbons she should wear;
No window on the long procession's route
But had its tenants long engaged ahead.
But the old sexton of St. Joseph's Church
Moped dull and sulky through the smiling crowd,
A blot upon the city's pleasure-page.
“What runs wrong with you, uncle?” was the cry;
“You, who have been the very youngest boy
Of all the old men that the city had;
Who loved processions more than perquisites,
And rolled a gala-day beneath your tongue:
What rheumatism has turned that temper lame?
Speak up, and make your inward burden ours.”
Moped dull and sulky through the smiling crowd,
A blot upon the city's pleasure-page.
“What runs wrong with you, uncle?” was the cry;
“You, who have been the very youngest boy
Of all the old men that the city had;
Who loved processions more than perquisites,
And rolled a gala-day beneath your tongue:
What rheumatism has turned that temper lame?
Speak up, and make your inward burden ours.”
The old man slowly walked until he came
Unto the market-place; then feebly stopped,
As if to talk; and a crowd gathered soon,
As men will, when a man has things to say.
And thus he spoke: “For fifty years and more,
I have been sexton of St. Joseph's Church;
St. Joseph's would have fared ill but for me.
And though my friend the priest may smile at this,
And wink at you an unbelieving eye,
My office shines in heaven as well as his.
Although it was not mine to make the church
Godly, I kept it clean; and that stands next.
If I have broke one circle of my sphere,
Let some one with straight finger trace it out.
Unto the market-place; then feebly stopped,
As if to talk; and a crowd gathered soon,
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And thus he spoke: “For fifty years and more,
I have been sexton of St. Joseph's Church;
St. Joseph's would have fared ill but for me.
And though my friend the priest may smile at this,
And wink at you an unbelieving eye,
My office shines in heaven as well as his.
Although it was not mine to make the church
Godly, I kept it clean; and that stands next.
If I have broke one circle of my sphere,
Let some one with straight finger trace it out.
“And no procession, in these fifty years,
Has marched the streets with aught like kingly tread,
But on the summit of St. Joseph's spire
I stood erect and waved a welcome-flag,
With scanty resting-place beneath my feet,
And the wild breezes clutching at my beard.
It took some nerve to stand so near to heaven
And fling abroad its colors. Try it, priest.
Has marched the streets with aught like kingly tread,
But on the summit of St. Joseph's spire
I stood erect and waved a welcome-flag,
With scanty resting-place beneath my feet,
And the wild breezes clutching at my beard.
It took some nerve to stand so near to heaven
And fling abroad its colors. Try it, priest.
“But I am old; most of my manhood's fire
Is choked in cold white ashes; and my nerves
Tremble in every zephyr like the leaves.
What can I do?—the flag must not be missed
From the cathedral's summit! I've no son,
Or he should bear the banner, or my curse.
I have a daughter; she shall wave the flag!
Is choked in cold white ashes; and my nerves
Tremble in every zephyr like the leaves.
What can I do?—the flag must not be missed
From the cathedral's summit! I've no son,
Or he should bear the banner, or my curse.
I have a daughter; she shall wave the flag!
“And this is how my child shall wave the flag:
Ten suitors has she; and the valiant one
Who, strong of heart and will, can climb that perch,
And do what I so many times have done,
Shall take her hand from mine at his descent.
Speak up, Vienna lads! and recollect
How much of loveliness faint heart e'er won.”
Ten suitors has she; and the valiant one
Who, strong of heart and will, can climb that perch,
And do what I so many times have done,
Shall take her hand from mine at his descent.
Speak up, Vienna lads! and recollect
How much of loveliness faint heart e'er won.”
Then there was clamor in the callow breasts
Of the Vienna youth; for she was far
The sweetest blossom of that city's vines.
Many a youngster's eye climbed furtively
Where the frail spire-tip trembled in the breeze,
Then wandered to the cot wherein she dwelt;
But none spoke up, till Gabriel Petersheim,
Whose ear this proclamation strange had reached,
Came rushing through the crowd, and boldly said:
Of the Vienna youth; for she was far
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Many a youngster's eye climbed furtively
Where the frail spire-tip trembled in the breeze,
Then wandered to the cot wherein she dwelt;
But none spoke up, till Gabriel Petersheim,
Whose ear this proclamation strange had reached,
Came rushing through the crowd, and boldly said:
“I am your daughter's suitor, and the one
She truly loves; but scarce can gain a smile
Until I win her father's heart as well;
And you, old man, have frowned on me, and said
I was too young, too frivolous, too wild,
And had not manhood worthy of her hand.
Mark me to-morrow as I mount yon spire,
And mention, when I bring the flag to you,
Whether 'twas ever waved more gloriously.”
She truly loves; but scarce can gain a smile
Until I win her father's heart as well;
And you, old man, have frowned on me, and said
I was too young, too frivolous, too wild,
And had not manhood worthy of her hand.
Mark me to-morrow as I mount yon spire,
And mention, when I bring the flag to you,
Whether 'twas ever waved more gloriously.”
And thus the old man answered: “Climb your way;
And if a senseful breeze should push you off,
And break that raw and somewhat worthless neck,
I could not greatly mourn; but climb your way,
And you shall have the girl if you succeed.”
And if a senseful breeze should push you off,
And break that raw and somewhat worthless neck,
I could not greatly mourn; but climb your way,
And you shall have the girl if you succeed.”
High on the giddy pinnacle, next day
Waited the youth; but not till evening's sun
Marched from the western gates, that tardy king
Rode past the church. And though young Gabriel's nerves
Were weakened by fatigue and want of food,
He pleased the people's and the monarch's eye,
And flashed a deeper thrill of love through one
Who turned her sweet face often up to him,
And whose true heart stood with him on the tower.
Waited the youth; but not till evening's sun
Marched from the western gates, that tardy king
Rode past the church. And though young Gabriel's nerves
Were weakened by fatigue and want of food,
He pleased the people's and the monarch's eye,
And flashed a deeper thrill of love through one
Who turned her sweet face often up to him,
And whose true heart stood with him on the tower.
Now, when the kingly pageant all had passed,
He folded up the flag, and with proud smiles
And prouder heart prepared him to descend.
But the small trap-door through which he had crept,
Had by some rival's hand been barred! and he,
With but a hand-breadth's space where he might cling,
Was left alone, to live there, or to die.
He folded up the flag, and with proud smiles
And prouder heart prepared him to descend.
But the small trap-door through which he had crept,
Had by some rival's hand been barred! and he,
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Was left alone, to live there, or to die.
Guessing the truth, or shadow of the truth,
He smiled, at first, and said: “Well, let them voice
Their jealousy by such a paltry trick!
They laugh an hour; my laugh will longer be!
Their joke will soon be dead, and I released.”
But an hour, and two others, slowly came,
And then he murmured, “This is no boy's sport:
It is a silent signal, which means ‘Death!’”
He smiled, at first, and said: “Well, let them voice
Their jealousy by such a paltry trick!
They laugh an hour; my laugh will longer be!
Their joke will soon be dead, and I released.”
But an hour, and two others, slowly came,
And then he murmured, “This is no boy's sport:
It is a silent signal, which means ‘Death!’”
He shouted, but no answer came to him;
Not even an echo, on that lofty perch.
He waved his hands in mute entreaty; but
The darkness crept between him and his friends.
Not even an echo, on that lofty perch.
He waved his hands in mute entreaty; but
The darkness crept between him and his friends.
A half-hour seemed an age, and still he clung.
He looked down at the myriad city lights,
Twinkling like stars upon a lowlier sky,
And prayed: “O blessèd city of my birth!
In which full many I love, and one o'er-well,
Or I should not be feebly clinging here,
Is there not 'mongst those thousands one kind heart
To help me? or must I come back to you
Crashing my way through grim, untimely death?”
Rich sounds of mirth came faintly—but no help.
He looked down at the myriad city lights,
Twinkling like stars upon a lowlier sky,
And prayed: “O blessèd city of my birth!
In which full many I love, and one o'er-well,
Or I should not be feebly clinging here,
Is there not 'mongst those thousands one kind heart
To help me? or must I come back to you
Crashing my way through grim, untimely death?”
Rich sounds of mirth came faintly—but no help.
Another hour went by, and still he clung.
He braced himself against the rising breeze,
And wrapped the flag around his shivering form,
And thus he prayed unto the merry winds:
He braced himself against the rising breeze,
And wrapped the flag around his shivering form,
And thus he prayed unto the merry winds:
“O breeze! you bear no tales of truer love
Than I can give you at this lonely height!
Tell but my danger to the heart I serve,
And she will never rest till I am free!”
The winds pressed hard against him as he clung,
And well nigh wrenched him from that scanty hold,
But made no answer to his piteous plea.
Hour after hour went by, and still he held—
Weak, dizzy, reeling—to his narrow perch.
It was a clear and queenly summer night;
And every star seemed hanging from the sky,
As if 'twere bending down to look at him.
And thus he prayed to the far-shining stars:
Than I can give you at this lonely height!
Tell but my danger to the heart I serve,
And she will never rest till I am free!”
The winds pressed hard against him as he clung,
And well nigh wrenched him from that scanty hold,
But made no answer to his piteous plea.
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Weak, dizzy, reeling—to his narrow perch.
It was a clear and queenly summer night;
And every star seemed hanging from the sky,
As if 'twere bending down to look at him.
And thus he prayed to the far-shining stars:
“O million worlds, peopled perhaps like this,
Can you not see me, clinging helpless here?
Can you not flash a message to some eye,
Or throw your influence on some friendly brain
To rescue me?”—A million sweet-eyed stars
Gave smiles to the beseecher, but no help.
Can you not see me, clinging helpless here?
Can you not flash a message to some eye,
Or throw your influence on some friendly brain
To rescue me?”—A million sweet-eyed stars
Gave smiles to the beseecher, but no help.
And so the long procession of the night
Marched slowly by, and each scarce hour was hailed
By the great clock beneath; and still he clung
Unto the frail preserver of his life,
And held, not for his life, but for his love.—
Held while the spiteful breezes wrenched at him;
Held while the chills of midnight crept through him;
While Hope and Fear made him their battle-ground,
And ravaged fiercely through his heart and brain.
He moaned, he wept, he prayed again; he prayed—
Grown desperate and half raving in his woe—
To everything in earth, or air, or sky:
To the fair streets, now still and silent grown;
To the cold roofs, now stretched 'twixt him and aid;
To the dumb, distant hills that heedless slept;
To the white clouds that slowly fluttered past;
To his lost mother in the sky above;
And then he prayed to God.
Marched slowly by, and each scarce hour was hailed
By the great clock beneath; and still he clung
Unto the frail preserver of his life,
And held, not for his life, but for his love.—
Held while the spiteful breezes wrenched at him;
Held while the chills of midnight crept through him;
While Hope and Fear made him their battle-ground,
And ravaged fiercely through his heart and brain.
He moaned, he wept, he prayed again; he prayed—
Grown desperate and half raving in his woe—
To everything in earth, or air, or sky:
To the fair streets, now still and silent grown;
To the cold roofs, now stretched 'twixt him and aid;
To the dumb, distant hills that heedless slept;
To the white clouds that slowly fluttered past;
To his lost mother in the sky above;
And then he prayed to God.
About that time,
The maiden, who, half anxious and half piqued
That her through all the evening he'd not sought,
Had sunk into a restless, thorn-strown sleep,
Dreamed that she saw her lover on the tower,
Clinging for life; and with a scream uprose,
And rushed to the old sexton's yielding door,
Granting no peace to him until he ran
To find the truth, and give the boy release.
The maiden, who, half anxious and half piqued
That her through all the evening he'd not sought,
Had sunk into a restless, thorn-strown sleep,
Dreamed that she saw her lover on the tower,
Clinging for life; and with a scream uprose,
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Granting no peace to him until he ran
To find the truth, and give the boy release.
An hour ere sunrise he crept feebly down,
Grasping the flag, and claiming his fair prize.
But what a wreck to win a blooming girl!
His cheeks were wrinkled, and of yellow hue;
His eyes were sunken; and his curling hair
Gleamed white as snow upon the distant Alps.
Grasping the flag, and claiming his fair prize.
But what a wreck to win a blooming girl!
His cheeks were wrinkled, and of yellow hue;
His eyes were sunken; and his curling hair
Gleamed white as snow upon the distant Alps.
But the young maiden clasped his weary head
In her white arms, and soothed him like a child;
And said, “You lived a life of woe for me
Up on the spire, and now look old enough
Even to please my father; but soon I
Will nurse you back into your youth again.”
In her white arms, and soothed him like a child;
And said, “You lived a life of woe for me
Up on the spire, and now look old enough
Even to please my father; but soon I
Will nurse you back into your youth again.”
And soon the tower bells sung his wedding song.
The old-young man was happy; and they both,
Cheered by the well-earned bounty of the king,
Lived many years within Vienna's gates.
The old-young man was happy; and they both,
Cheered by the well-earned bounty of the king,
Lived many years within Vienna's gates.
[A brief interval of silence follows. The portraits of the old people on the wall seem to have awakened; their forms have the appearance of stretching, after a nice little nap. Ethel looks dreamily out of the window, yawns in her eyes, at a flirtation going on across the street.
Fitz Clintonne.
Was he not faithful!—answer me!
Ethel.
Yes, I confess; 'tis only fair
To admit that a man will faithful be
If placed on a tower and locked up there.
Fitz Clintonne
(thoughtfully, and aside).
A turn of the story I didn't foresee.
[Aloud]
Ethel, I love you!—I am the youth
Upon that tower; and I wave, in truth,
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Who have much knowledge of you and me,
My unhid passion!—but far from reach
You are locked away by my lack of speech.
The walls of my reticence gloom about;—
Ethel, for Heaven's sake, let me out!
I WILL break through, with Love's strong arts,
And give you the password of our hearts!
The words are coming!
[An empty express wagon rushes like a peal of thunder along the street, shaking the house to its very foundations, and overwhelming all other sound. Fitz Clintonne sinks back in hopeless silence. Ethel laughs drearily. The portraits on the wall vibrate, and a sealed envelope drops from the grandmother's picture—almost as it might be from the venerable lady's pocket. Her face looks as if she were glad to get rid of it. Ethel picks it up.
Ethel.
Another poem, I do declare!—
From a cousin I will not name;
Placed (the poem) within the frame,
Just to help keep the canvas there.
A maiden lady of—certain age,
Thrilled with a mild poetic rage;
She sends us copies of every rhyme;
We do not open them, half the time. [Breaks the envelope.]
But this I will read. And you may know
By the title, why I do so.
Reads:
A WOMAN'S DEVOTION; OR, TRUE TO BROTHER SPEAR.
I can't decide why Brother Spear
Was never joined to me;
It wasn't because the good old dear
Hadn't every chance to be!
If Poetry remarked, one time,
That “Womanhood is true,”
It's more than probable that I'm
The one it had in view;
For search the city, low and high,
Inquire, both far and near—
There's none will say but what that I
Was true to Brother Spear!
Was never joined to me;
It wasn't because the good old dear
Hadn't every chance to be!
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That “Womanhood is true,”
It's more than probable that I'm
The one it had in view;
For search the city, low and high,
Inquire, both far and near—
There's none will say but what that I
Was true to Brother Spear!
I mothered all his daughters when
Their mamma's life cut short,
Although they didn't—now or then—
So much as thank me for't;
I laughed down my interior rage,
And said I didn't care,
When his young son, of spank'ble age,
Reduced my surplus hair;
I called and called and called there; why
He was not in, seemed queer;
The neighbors, even, owned that I
Was true to Brother Spear!
Their mamma's life cut short,
Although they didn't—now or then—
So much as thank me for't;
I laughed down my interior rage,
And said I didn't care,
When his young son, of spank'ble age,
Reduced my surplus hair;
I called and called and called there; why
He was not in, seemed queer;
The neighbors, even, owned that I
Was true to Brother Spear!
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I hired a sitting in the church,
Near him, but corner-wise,
So his emotions I could search,
With my devoted eyes;
And when the sermon used to play
On love, divine and free,
I nodded him, as if to say,
“It's hitting you and me!”
He went and took another pew—
Of “thousand tongues” in fear;
I also changed, and still was true
To good old Brother Spear!
Near him, but corner-wise,
So his emotions I could search,
With my devoted eyes;
And when the sermon used to play
On love, divine and free,
I nodded him, as if to say,
“It's hitting you and me!”
He went and took another pew—
Of “thousand tongues” in fear;
I also changed, and still was true
To good old Brother Spear!
Poor man!—I recollect he spoke,
One large prayer-meeting night,
And told how little we must look,
In Heaven's majestic sight;
He said, Unworthy he had been,
By Conscience e'er abhorred,
To be a door-keeper within
The temple of The Lord;
And that his place forevermore,
Undoubtedly and clear,
Was mainly back behind the door—
Poor humble Brother Spear!
One large prayer-meeting night,
And told how little we must look,
In Heaven's majestic sight;
He said, Unworthy he had been,
By Conscience e'er abhorred,
To be a door-keeper within
The temple of The Lord;
And that his place forevermore,
Undoubtedly and clear,
Was mainly back behind the door—
Poor humble Brother Spear!
And then I rose and made a speech,
Brimful of soul distress;
And told them how words could not reach
My own unworthiness;
Though orphanage I tried to soothe,
And helpless widowerhood,
To tell the incandescent truth,
I too felt far from good;
And that a trembling heart and mind
Compelled it to appear
That my place also was behind
The door, with Brother Spear!
Brimful of soul distress;
And told them how words could not reach
My own unworthiness;
Though orphanage I tried to soothe,
And helpless widowerhood,
To tell the incandescent truth,
I too felt far from good;
65
Compelled it to appear
That my place also was behind
The door, with Brother Spear!
Poor man! he ne'er was heard, they say,
Again to gladly speak;
He took down sick the following day,
And died within a week.
One prayer they often heard him give:
That, if his days were o'er,
I still upon the earth might live,
A hundred years or more.
As his betrothed I figure, now,
And drop the frequent tear;
And his relations all will vow
I'm true to Brother Spear!
Again to gladly speak;
He took down sick the following day,
And died within a week.
One prayer they often heard him give:
That, if his days were o'er,
I still upon the earth might live,
A hundred years or more.
As his betrothed I figure, now,
And drop the frequent tear;
And his relations all will vow
I'm true to Brother Spear!
[The portraits on the wall look quite interested and considerably amused. Ethel tears the paper into fragments.
66
(pouting).
Senseless creature! If I had known
What 'twas she wrote, I'd have not begun it!
Fitz Clintonne
(laughing).
But she was faithful, I will own;
Love so fervent—how could he shun it?
Ethel.
He couldn't, except through Death's design.
Fitz Clintonne.
No more, dear Ethel, than you can mine.
Perhaps, somewhere, she may woo and win
This scornful man, if she works and waits:
For passion is oft concealed within
A cloak that its object loathes and hates.
And true devotion and love, they say,
(“It's dogged as does it”) will win, some day.
Still, one must walk a hard road yet,
To always pursue, and ne'er be met;
But man is equal to that same task.
Hear of another faithful one— [Draws a newspaper.
Ethel
(in mild consternation).
Oh, it is more than I could ask!
Fitz Clintonne
(resolutely).
No, don't mention it!
Ethel.
Then don't you!
Fitz Clintonne
(resolutely).
Judge if I may not, when 'tis done;
Yes, you must hear it, without fail!
A man who waited his whole life through:
Hear the poor fellow's doleful tale.
Reads:
TWELVE O'CLOCK: A LEGEND OF BROOKLYN.
“‘Do I love you?’ Oh, but listen!”—And he saw her dark eyes glisten,
With a gentle joy that filled him—
With a passion-wave that thrilled him:
67
“‘Do I love you?’ ask the ages
Front of this life's blotted pages—
Cycles that our minds forget,
But our souls remember yet—
If the strands they saw us twine
In great moments half divine,
Can not stand against the cold
Voice and touch of senseless gold?
How can Wealth forbid the meeting
Of two hearts that blend in beating?
How can Thrift presume to fashion
Heaven's eternal love and passion?
Listen!—if 'tis not o'er-soon,
Come to-morrow-day at noon;—
On that glad—that mournful day
When my girlhood creeps away—
On that day—the understood
Birthday of my womanhood—
Come! and, joined in hand as heart,
We will walk no more apart.
Meet me—do not let me wait—
By this iron—this golden gate—
When, its mid-day hour to tell,
Rings the silvery court-house bell.
Front of this life's blotted pages—
Cycles that our minds forget,
But our souls remember yet—
If the strands they saw us twine
In great moments half divine,
Can not stand against the cold
Voice and touch of senseless gold?
How can Wealth forbid the meeting
Of two hearts that blend in beating?
How can Thrift presume to fashion
Heaven's eternal love and passion?
Listen!—if 'tis not o'er-soon,
Come to-morrow-day at noon;—
On that glad—that mournful day
When my girlhood creeps away—
On that day—the understood
Birthday of my womanhood—
Come! and, joined in hand as heart,
We will walk no more apart.
Meet me—do not let me wait—
By this iron—this golden gate—
When, its mid-day hour to tell,
Rings the silvery court-house bell.
“Should I fail you, dear, to-morrow,
Go away, but not in sorrow;
There be many ways may meet
Fetters round a maiden's feet.
There be watchers—there be spies—
There be jealous tongues and eyes;
Many hate my love for you,
And would cut our life in two.
Oh, they guard me all the time,
As if loving were a crime!
Go away, but not in sorrow;
There be many ways may meet
Fetters round a maiden's feet.
There be watchers—there be spies—
There be jealous tongues and eyes;
Many hate my love for you,
And would cut our life in two.
Oh, they guard me all the time,
As if loving were a crime!
“Should I fail the second morrow,
Hope from next day you must borrow;
If I fail you then—endure;
Hope and trust be still the cure.
Naught on earth has power—has art
Long to hold us two apart;
None but God were equal to it,
And I know He would not do it.
I will come to you, indeed;
You would wait, love, were there need?”
And he said, with brave endeavor,
“I will wait for you forever.
Each day I shall come to you,
Till you come, and find me true.
Each day hear the hopeful swell
Of the mid-day court-house bell.”
Hope from next day you must borrow;
If I fail you then—endure;
Hope and trust be still the cure.
68
Long to hold us two apart;
None but God were equal to it,
And I know He would not do it.
I will come to you, indeed;
You would wait, love, were there need?”
And he said, with brave endeavor,
“I will wait for you forever.
Each day I shall come to you,
Till you come, and find me true.
Each day hear the hopeful swell
Of the mid-day court-house bell.”
So, next day, he stood and waited
For the soul his soul had mated;
Saw the clock's black finger climb
To its topmost round of time—
Heard the mighty metal throat
Sing afar its mid-day note;
Listened, with a nervous thrill,
And his warm heart standing still,
Glanced about, with keen desire,
And his yearning soul afire;
Searched, and searched, with jealous care—
Searched—but saw no loved one there.
“‘Should I fail you, dear, to-morrow,
Go away, but not in sorrow;’
'Twas her word,” he softly said:
“Be she living, be she dead,
Still my heart is scant of fear;
She will some time meet me here.
My sad soul I will employ
With to-morrow's destined joy;
Here is happiness for me,
Living o'er what is to be.
She will come—her love to tell—
With to-morrow's mid-day bell.”
For the soul his soul had mated;
Saw the clock's black finger climb
To its topmost round of time—
Heard the mighty metal throat
Sing afar its mid-day note;
Listened, with a nervous thrill,
And his warm heart standing still,
Glanced about, with keen desire,
And his yearning soul afire;
Searched, and searched, with jealous care—
Searched—but saw no loved one there.
“‘Should I fail you, dear, to-morrow,
Go away, but not in sorrow;’
'Twas her word,” he softly said:
“Be she living, be she dead,
Still my heart is scant of fear;
She will some time meet me here.
My sad soul I will employ
With to-morrow's destined joy;
Here is happiness for me,
Living o'er what is to be.
She will come—her love to tell—
With to-morrow's mid-day bell.”
So, next day, he watched and waited,
With a heart by hope elated;
Peering—searching for a face
Full of love-exalted grace.
But his glance crept far and wide
With some fear it could not hide;
Crept across the grimy pavement,
Moaning in its dull enslavement;
Roamed the long streets, empty-seeming,
Though with lovely faces gleaming;
Shivered, as with landscape drear,
'Neath a blue sky, bright and clear;
For the bell, with sorrowing strain,
Called her to his side in vain.
“‘If I fail the second morrow,
Hope from next day you must borrow:’
'Twas her word,” he bravely said:
“Let to-morrow stand instead.”
Still upon his heart there fell
Shadows from the mid-day bell.
With a heart by hope elated;
69
Full of love-exalted grace.
But his glance crept far and wide
With some fear it could not hide;
Crept across the grimy pavement,
Moaning in its dull enslavement;
Roamed the long streets, empty-seeming,
Though with lovely faces gleaming;
Shivered, as with landscape drear,
'Neath a blue sky, bright and clear;
For the bell, with sorrowing strain,
Called her to his side in vain.
“‘If I fail the second morrow,
Hope from next day you must borrow:’
'Twas her word,” he bravely said:
“Let to-morrow stand instead.”
Still upon his heart there fell
Shadows from the mid-day bell.
Day by day he watched and waited,
By cold Disappointment fated;
Bit by bit his hoping ceased;
Hour by hour his faith increased.
Oft he strove to find her, then,
In her guardian's palace-den;
But the looks he met were bleak,
And the marble would not speak.
Would not show the poisoned thong
Of a dark and fiendish wrong;
Would not tell the woe and rage
Of a dreary mad-house cage,
Where the girl was kept by stealth,
Lest she claim her paltry wealth.
Could not hear her frantic prayer
That God's hand might reach her there;
Could not see her droop away
Hour by hour and day by day;
Could not feel her breath grow still
With the healing arts that kill;
Could not trace the greed that gave
Her a half-named marble grave.
Still he watched and waited well,
'Neath the weary noontide bell.
By cold Disappointment fated;
Bit by bit his hoping ceased;
Hour by hour his faith increased.
Oft he strove to find her, then,
In her guardian's palace-den;
But the looks he met were bleak,
And the marble would not speak.
Would not show the poisoned thong
Of a dark and fiendish wrong;
Would not tell the woe and rage
Of a dreary mad-house cage,
Where the girl was kept by stealth,
Lest she claim her paltry wealth.
Could not hear her frantic prayer
That God's hand might reach her there;
Could not see her droop away
Hour by hour and day by day;
Could not feel her breath grow still
With the healing arts that kill;
70
Her a half-named marble grave.
Still he watched and waited well,
'Neath the weary noontide bell.
Days and weeks and months and years
Coursed the face of time, like tears;
Spring's sweet-scented mid-day air—
Summer's fierce meridian glare,
Autumn's mingled lead and gold,
Winter's murder-thrusts of cold.
Patiently he braved each one
At its mid-day cloud or sun;
Silently he turned—was gone—
Sad, desponding, and alone.
Still his famished eyes crept round,
Still he thrilled at every sound:
“‘Naught on earth has power—has art
Long to hold us two apart;
None but God were equal to it,
And I know He would not do it.’
'Twas her word,” he grimly said:
“She will come, alive or dead.”
Pavement travellers passed him by,
Day by day, with curious eye;
Dreamers sought romance to trace
In his bronzed and fading face;
Questioners, though kind, were yet
With cold, patient silence met;
Still he watched and waited well,
By the lonely court-house bell.
Coursed the face of time, like tears;
Spring's sweet-scented mid-day air—
Summer's fierce meridian glare,
Autumn's mingled lead and gold,
Winter's murder-thrusts of cold.
Patiently he braved each one
At its mid-day cloud or sun;
Silently he turned—was gone—
Sad, desponding, and alone.
Still his famished eyes crept round,
Still he thrilled at every sound:
“‘Naught on earth has power—has art
Long to hold us two apart;
None but God were equal to it,
And I know He would not do it.’
'Twas her word,” he grimly said:
“She will come, alive or dead.”
Pavement travellers passed him by,
Day by day, with curious eye;
Dreamers sought romance to trace
In his bronzed and fading face;
Questioners, though kind, were yet
With cold, patient silence met;
Still he watched and waited well,
By the lonely court-house bell.
Yet he came—yet crept away;
And his dark brown hair grew gray—
And his manhood's power grew spent,
And his form was thin and bent.
Poorly clad, and rough to see;
Crushed by Sickness' stern decree;
For intense compassion fit,
But still grandly scorning it.
“He is crazed,” they said, aside:
“I am sane!” his heart replied.
“‘I will come to you, indeed;
You would wait, love, were there need?’
'Twas her word,” he faintly said:
“Hands will meet, if hearts are wed.”
Sometimes to him it would seem,
Half in earnest, half in dream,
He could view her loveliness—
He could feel her fond caress.
But some passing sound or sight
Sent the vision back to night;
And a dull and mournful knell
Seemed the leaden court-house bell.
And his dark brown hair grew gray—
And his manhood's power grew spent,
And his form was thin and bent.
Poorly clad, and rough to see;
Crushed by Sickness' stern decree;
For intense compassion fit,
But still grandly scorning it.
73
“I am sane!” his heart replied.
“‘I will come to you, indeed;
You would wait, love, were there need?’
'Twas her word,” he faintly said:
“Hands will meet, if hearts are wed.”
Sometimes to him it would seem,
Half in earnest, half in dream,
He could view her loveliness—
He could feel her fond caress.
But some passing sound or sight
Sent the vision back to night;
And a dull and mournful knell
Seemed the leaden court-house bell.
As, one day, his weakened form
Bent before a winter storm,
As he fell—Death's fear before him,
And a veil of darkness o'er him,
Soft a voice—or was it seeming?
Full a form—or was he dreaming?
Brought a rapture that repaid
All the debts that Grief had made.
“O my love!” the words came fast;
“Do you see me, then, at last?
Do you hear me—do you feel me—
Can the world no more conceal me?
‘Did I meet you?’ Oh, but listen!
When released from Pain's black prison,
Long through deserts and through meadows,
Long through Death's black silent shadows,
With my soul God's help entreating,
Sought I for our place of meeting.
Oh, I crushed my arms around you,
When I found you—when I found you—
Saw you sorrow's black net weaving—
Fondly suffering—bravely grieving—
Saw the truth you could not see—
Felt your loving faith in me.
How, each day, God's help entreating,
Came I to our place of meeting!
How I hailed each coming morrow!
How I strove to soothe your sorrow!
Times, the thought would come to cheer me—
‘He can see me! He can hear me!’
Then the mists of earth would screen us—
Then day's darkness stepped between us.
Yet your dear soul I could see,
Suffering still its way to me.
Pain at last has cut the tether;
Death will let us live together.
Darling, throw your arms around me!
You have found me—you have found me—
Naught on earth had power or art,
Long to hold us two apart.
None but God were equal to it,
And I knew He would not do it.
Listen! Hear the echoes swell
Of our merry wedding-bell!”
Bent before a winter storm,
As he fell—Death's fear before him,
And a veil of darkness o'er him,
Soft a voice—or was it seeming?
Full a form—or was he dreaming?
Brought a rapture that repaid
All the debts that Grief had made.
“O my love!” the words came fast;
“Do you see me, then, at last?
Do you hear me—do you feel me—
Can the world no more conceal me?
‘Did I meet you?’ Oh, but listen!
When released from Pain's black prison,
Long through deserts and through meadows,
Long through Death's black silent shadows,
With my soul God's help entreating,
Sought I for our place of meeting.
Oh, I crushed my arms around you,
When I found you—when I found you—
Saw you sorrow's black net weaving—
Fondly suffering—bravely grieving—
Saw the truth you could not see—
Felt your loving faith in me.
74
Came I to our place of meeting!
How I hailed each coming morrow!
How I strove to soothe your sorrow!
Times, the thought would come to cheer me—
‘He can see me! He can hear me!’
Then the mists of earth would screen us—
Then day's darkness stepped between us.
Yet your dear soul I could see,
Suffering still its way to me.
Pain at last has cut the tether;
Death will let us live together.
Darling, throw your arms around me!
You have found me—you have found me—
Naught on earth had power or art,
Long to hold us two apart.
None but God were equal to it,
And I knew He would not do it.
Listen! Hear the echoes swell
Of our merry wedding-bell!”
[A few moments of phenomenal silence ensue. Ethel absently toys with a musical album on the table near her; she touches the spring unconsciously, and there leaps forth in small diminutive tones an affecting little love ditty, thus, as it were, furnishing to the scene an appropriate dramatic accompaniment of soft music.
Fitz Clintonne
(suddenly).
Ethel, the bonds of speech are broken!
Now or ne'er shall the word be spoken—
[A terrific shock of earthquake interrupts him—the first known in that city for years. Furniture commences an impromptu dance. Portraits on the wall nearly knock their heads together. Ethel
75
Ethel
(slowly unclinging herself).
Who would have thought that—thrilled with bliss—
The Password was, after all—a kiss!
[Portraits opposite them seem to assume a “Bless you, my children,” look. The usual amount of serenity resumes its sway. Street traffic recommences its clamors, but is unheard within.
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