Chapter 12

How swiftly sped the hours in happy nightsWhen, after work, he rested there at home!Such winning ways he had to lure my trust!Such sweet pet names would call me, till I feltSo fondly small, he well might be my lord!Would tease me so, anon to comfort me!Or rouse my temper that he mild might seem;Or tell such tales, that in my dreams I laugh’dAt wit reflecting, though distorting, his;Or better still, would play for me,—such strains!The very thought of them would seem like sleep,While half the night I linger’d still awake,Half-conscious of the call of early birdsAnd sparkling spray of light dash’d o’er the dews.

How swiftly sped the hours in happy nights

When, after work, he rested there at home!

Such winning ways he had to lure my trust!

Such sweet pet names would call me, till I felt

So fondly small, he well might be my lord!

Would tease me so, anon to comfort me!

Or rouse my temper that he mild might seem;

Or tell such tales, that in my dreams I laugh’d

At wit reflecting, though distorting, his;

Or better still, would play for me,—such strains!

The very thought of them would seem like sleep,

While half the night I linger’d still awake,

Half-conscious of the call of early birds

And sparkling spray of light dash’d o’er the dews.

At last, one night, when no one else was by,Some new impatience moved him; and he spoke:“Pauline, my friend, allow me only once;—And say not, now, say not we still can wait:Have I not waited long? Pauline, my own,What forms the substance of this mysteryWhose dark shade rests about you? Surely, friend,The slightest will on your part would have powerTo bid it off.”“Not so,” I answer’d him(I felt that I should tell him all at last);“Not if the shade that so you speak of fallFrom something you and I could not remove.”“That cannot be,” he cried. “How can it be?Of old your father would not brook our love;But lately much has done to forward it.”“And know you then,” I asked, “what wrought his change?”“His wiser judgment,” answer’d he; “not so?”“Are there not times in life,” I asked, “and pathsWhere conscientiousness and love may cross?”“There,” he exclaim’d, “the same old plea again!—Your weakness is your wickedness. Why, friend,Does not our conscience come from consciousness?And when, then, are we conscious? When unwell:Hot, swollen blood frets limbs that feel inflamed:A sound man lives unconscious of its flow.And so a morbid train of foul ideasWill vex a soul diseased. But if in health,Its aims all true to God and self,—what callFor conscience, which we wear but as the curbWhereby God reins the thought that love reins not?—If right I be, then nothing needs to crossPure love. It may have freedom.—“Or at mostOur conscience is the leaven of character;And just enough of it may sweeten life,But too much keeps in ferment moods that work,Like brewings, flung to froth and sediment:The froth flies up and off to vex our friends;The rest sinks down in self, embitteringOur own experience.”“And yet,” I said,“Our conscience, in religion”—“There,” he cried,“This too much conscience, overbalancingAll wiser judgment, has wrought worse results,Made men crave heaven and fear for hell, so muchThat, in the gap betwixt the two, was leftNo charity with which to do good hereWhile on the earth.”“I hope that mine,” I said,“Will prompt to some small good in present life.What would you say, some day, were I a nun?”“‘Say!’” answer’d he—and scorn was in the tone,—“What say?—why this: that if those blooming looksHid wormy fruit like that, I ne’er would trustSound health again!“Pauline, I half believeThe conscience of a nun is consciousnessOf mere unrest—no more. In natures framedOf spirit, mind, and flesh, the cause may beSome sin that clogs the current of the soul;But, just as likely, thought that puzzles one;Yes, yes, or indigestion, nerves diseased—No trace of sin whatever;—moods cured bestBy sunshine, clean clothes, larders full, good cheer.”

At last, one night, when no one else was by,

Some new impatience moved him; and he spoke:

“Pauline, my friend, allow me only once;—

And say not, now, say not we still can wait:

Have I not waited long? Pauline, my own,

What forms the substance of this mystery

Whose dark shade rests about you? Surely, friend,

The slightest will on your part would have power

To bid it off.”

“Not so,” I answer’d him

(I felt that I should tell him all at last);

“Not if the shade that so you speak of fall

From something you and I could not remove.”

“That cannot be,” he cried. “How can it be?Of old your father would not brook our love;But lately much has done to forward it.”

“That cannot be,” he cried. “How can it be?

Of old your father would not brook our love;

But lately much has done to forward it.”

“And know you then,” I asked, “what wrought his change?”

“His wiser judgment,” answer’d he; “not so?”

“Are there not times in life,” I asked, “and pathsWhere conscientiousness and love may cross?”

“Are there not times in life,” I asked, “and paths

Where conscientiousness and love may cross?”

“There,” he exclaim’d, “the same old plea again!—Your weakness is your wickedness. Why, friend,Does not our conscience come from consciousness?And when, then, are we conscious? When unwell:Hot, swollen blood frets limbs that feel inflamed:A sound man lives unconscious of its flow.And so a morbid train of foul ideasWill vex a soul diseased. But if in health,Its aims all true to God and self,—what callFor conscience, which we wear but as the curbWhereby God reins the thought that love reins not?—If right I be, then nothing needs to crossPure love. It may have freedom.—“Or at mostOur conscience is the leaven of character;And just enough of it may sweeten life,But too much keeps in ferment moods that work,Like brewings, flung to froth and sediment:The froth flies up and off to vex our friends;The rest sinks down in self, embitteringOur own experience.”“And yet,” I said,“Our conscience, in religion”—“There,” he cried,“This too much conscience, overbalancingAll wiser judgment, has wrought worse results,Made men crave heaven and fear for hell, so muchThat, in the gap betwixt the two, was leftNo charity with which to do good hereWhile on the earth.”“I hope that mine,” I said,“Will prompt to some small good in present life.What would you say, some day, were I a nun?”

“There,” he exclaim’d, “the same old plea again!—

Your weakness is your wickedness. Why, friend,

Does not our conscience come from consciousness?

And when, then, are we conscious? When unwell:

Hot, swollen blood frets limbs that feel inflamed:

A sound man lives unconscious of its flow.

And so a morbid train of foul ideas

Will vex a soul diseased. But if in health,

Its aims all true to God and self,—what call

For conscience, which we wear but as the curb

Whereby God reins the thought that love reins not?—

If right I be, then nothing needs to cross

Pure love. It may have freedom.—

“Or at most

Our conscience is the leaven of character;

And just enough of it may sweeten life,

But too much keeps in ferment moods that work,

Like brewings, flung to froth and sediment:

The froth flies up and off to vex our friends;

The rest sinks down in self, embittering

Our own experience.”

“And yet,” I said,

“Our conscience, in religion”—

“There,” he cried,

“This too much conscience, overbalancing

All wiser judgment, has wrought worse results,

Made men crave heaven and fear for hell, so much

That, in the gap betwixt the two, was left

No charity with which to do good here

While on the earth.”

“I hope that mine,” I said,

“Will prompt to some small good in present life.

What would you say, some day, were I a nun?”

“‘Say!’” answer’d he—and scorn was in the tone,—“What say?—why this: that if those blooming looksHid wormy fruit like that, I ne’er would trustSound health again!“Pauline, I half believeThe conscience of a nun is consciousnessOf mere unrest—no more. In natures framedOf spirit, mind, and flesh, the cause may beSome sin that clogs the current of the soul;But, just as likely, thought that puzzles one;Yes, yes, or indigestion, nerves diseased—No trace of sin whatever;—moods cured bestBy sunshine, clean clothes, larders full, good cheer.”

“‘Say!’” answer’d he—and scorn was in the tone,—

“What say?—why this: that if those blooming looks

Hid wormy fruit like that, I ne’er would trust

Sound health again!

“Pauline, I half believe

The conscience of a nun is consciousness

Of mere unrest—no more. In natures framed

Of spirit, mind, and flesh, the cause may be

Some sin that clogs the current of the soul;

But, just as likely, thought that puzzles one;

Yes, yes, or indigestion, nerves diseased—

No trace of sin whatever;—moods cured best

By sunshine, clean clothes, larders full, good cheer.”

His words I styled “irreverent, unjust!”—“I might be both of these,” he said, “in caseI blamed the poor souls for the life they lead.But did I blame them? Nay, for in this world,Between youth’s immature credulity,That dares to think but what some guardian thinks,And manhood’s faith mature that thinks for itself,A realm there is where will must learn to actThrough doubt and danger; where the character,First wean’d from oversight, must learn to choose.Then, like a tottering child it yearns to clingTo one whose greater power can for it act.Its moods determine that to which they cling.Some girls are giddy:—they embrace a lover.And some are gloomy:—they beset a priest.He, like the first, may ply his own designs,May take advantage of their weaker state,And capture them for veils, if not for vice.”“But marriage is a capture, too,” I said.“If so,” he answer’d, “yet a natural state,Made statelier through authority of law,That, otherwise, might authorize the wrong;—A state to which, as not to convent life,All social instincts prompt; may prompt the moreThe more one’s years. Who then can it forswear?—Think you a maid, with half her moods unform’dAt twenty, can conceive what thoughts may comeTo turn or torture her at thirty-five?—“But what, Pauline, Pauline,—you turning pale!—In earnest, were you!—Had you really thought?—In God’s name, darling, this could never be!—Think only—Wherefore now?”“Because,” I said,“I hoped some good to do.”“And do you deem,”He ask’d, “that then the Virgin did no good,When nursing her sweet babe?—and was no saint?And what of Christ, who ate and drank with all,Call’d glutton and a bibber, yes, of wine?—Was He no saint?—What think you mortals need—To learn of life that never can be theirs?Nay, nay, to learn of life, inspired by love,Which all can live, made better by its power.If you a saint would be, oh, do not seekFor truth so sunder’d from the common thought,For love that knows no common sympathies.”

His words I styled “irreverent, unjust!”—

“I might be both of these,” he said, “in caseI blamed the poor souls for the life they lead.But did I blame them? Nay, for in this world,Between youth’s immature credulity,That dares to think but what some guardian thinks,And manhood’s faith mature that thinks for itself,A realm there is where will must learn to actThrough doubt and danger; where the character,First wean’d from oversight, must learn to choose.Then, like a tottering child it yearns to clingTo one whose greater power can for it act.Its moods determine that to which they cling.Some girls are giddy:—they embrace a lover.And some are gloomy:—they beset a priest.He, like the first, may ply his own designs,May take advantage of their weaker state,And capture them for veils, if not for vice.”

“I might be both of these,” he said, “in case

I blamed the poor souls for the life they lead.

But did I blame them? Nay, for in this world,

Between youth’s immature credulity,

That dares to think but what some guardian thinks,

And manhood’s faith mature that thinks for itself,

A realm there is where will must learn to act

Through doubt and danger; where the character,

First wean’d from oversight, must learn to choose.

Then, like a tottering child it yearns to cling

To one whose greater power can for it act.

Its moods determine that to which they cling.

Some girls are giddy:—they embrace a lover.

And some are gloomy:—they beset a priest.

He, like the first, may ply his own designs,

May take advantage of their weaker state,

And capture them for veils, if not for vice.”

“But marriage is a capture, too,” I said.

“If so,” he answer’d, “yet a natural state,Made statelier through authority of law,That, otherwise, might authorize the wrong;—A state to which, as not to convent life,All social instincts prompt; may prompt the moreThe more one’s years. Who then can it forswear?—Think you a maid, with half her moods unform’dAt twenty, can conceive what thoughts may comeTo turn or torture her at thirty-five?—

“If so,” he answer’d, “yet a natural state,

Made statelier through authority of law,

That, otherwise, might authorize the wrong;—

A state to which, as not to convent life,

All social instincts prompt; may prompt the more

The more one’s years. Who then can it forswear?—

Think you a maid, with half her moods unform’d

At twenty, can conceive what thoughts may come

To turn or torture her at thirty-five?—

“But what, Pauline, Pauline,—you turning pale!—In earnest, were you!—Had you really thought?—In God’s name, darling, this could never be!—Think only—Wherefore now?”“Because,” I said,“I hoped some good to do.”“And do you deem,”He ask’d, “that then the Virgin did no good,When nursing her sweet babe?—and was no saint?And what of Christ, who ate and drank with all,Call’d glutton and a bibber, yes, of wine?—Was He no saint?—What think you mortals need—To learn of life that never can be theirs?Nay, nay, to learn of life, inspired by love,Which all can live, made better by its power.If you a saint would be, oh, do not seekFor truth so sunder’d from the common thought,For love that knows no common sympathies.”

“But what, Pauline, Pauline,—you turning pale!—

In earnest, were you!—Had you really thought?—

In God’s name, darling, this could never be!—

Think only—Wherefore now?”

“Because,” I said,

“I hoped some good to do.”

“And do you deem,”

He ask’d, “that then the Virgin did no good,

When nursing her sweet babe?—and was no saint?

And what of Christ, who ate and drank with all,

Call’d glutton and a bibber, yes, of wine?—

Was He no saint?—What think you mortals need—

To learn of life that never can be theirs?

Nay, nay, to learn of life, inspired by love,

Which all can live, made better by its power.

If you a saint would be, oh, do not seek

For truth so sunder’d from the common thought,

For love that knows no common sympathies.”

“Are some,” I said, “not call’d in special waysTo nurse and tend the aged, sick, and poor?”“Are some not call’d,” he ask’d, “in special waysTo tend like this the men they love the best?—Whate’er old age may need, needs it the mostThe young who old have grown before their time?—Need sick men nurses pale?—or poor men, thoseWhose moods have never stored the rich resultsMined from a world the world’s heir should explore?—Nay, nay, these all would be more ably servedBy spirits free to live their own love’s life.Who gains aught where the spirit is not free?Think you the veil, too hastily assumed,May never change the hues and views of life,Perverting them?—or cause beclouded loveThat might have bloom’d in light, to fade in gloom?’Tis only when those knowing what they leaveTurn calmly from all else to convent wallsThat love should not dissuade them. Let them findLarge, sunny, healthful halls; and dwell therein:From thence deal forth that gentle charitySo potent coming from a woman’s hand.Not strange it were if sickness, tended thus,Enliven’d by her smiles of light, should flushOr blush to perfect health! if wickedness,Beneath incrusted woes of years of wrong,Should feel the earlier faith of childhood wakedBy woman’s voice, and thus be born again!—And find a life renew’d within the soulAs well as body. Let the convent thrive.But rid it of all circumscribing vows.”“Of all its vows?” I ask’d.“Why not?” he said:“No character, I think, grows wholly ripeSave that which grows as nature guides its growth;And nature made us pairs. I know some sayThe soul should conquer nature; but this meansThat spirits all should claim their rights,—be lordsOf forms that spring from earth. But are they soWhen by a vow they swear to serve a form,And don the life and livery of a slave?Would men look’d Godward more! ’Twould save their soulsFrom many a hell that their own hands have made.One time when young I stood before a tree,And vow’d that, till an hour had pass’d away,My eye should see it not. What came of it?—The vow in misery kept me through the hour.And had it been a maid and not a tree,The vow had caused me more of misery.Yet God’s laws never bade me turn my backOn tree or maid: nay, were my nature framedWith any touch of truth, these both were madeFor souls like mine to look at and enjoy.”

“Are some,” I said, “not call’d in special waysTo nurse and tend the aged, sick, and poor?”

“Are some,” I said, “not call’d in special ways

To nurse and tend the aged, sick, and poor?”

“Are some not call’d,” he ask’d, “in special waysTo tend like this the men they love the best?—Whate’er old age may need, needs it the mostThe young who old have grown before their time?—Need sick men nurses pale?—or poor men, thoseWhose moods have never stored the rich resultsMined from a world the world’s heir should explore?—Nay, nay, these all would be more ably servedBy spirits free to live their own love’s life.Who gains aught where the spirit is not free?Think you the veil, too hastily assumed,May never change the hues and views of life,Perverting them?—or cause beclouded loveThat might have bloom’d in light, to fade in gloom?’Tis only when those knowing what they leaveTurn calmly from all else to convent wallsThat love should not dissuade them. Let them findLarge, sunny, healthful halls; and dwell therein:From thence deal forth that gentle charitySo potent coming from a woman’s hand.Not strange it were if sickness, tended thus,Enliven’d by her smiles of light, should flushOr blush to perfect health! if wickedness,Beneath incrusted woes of years of wrong,Should feel the earlier faith of childhood wakedBy woman’s voice, and thus be born again!—And find a life renew’d within the soulAs well as body. Let the convent thrive.But rid it of all circumscribing vows.”

“Are some not call’d,” he ask’d, “in special ways

To tend like this the men they love the best?—

Whate’er old age may need, needs it the most

The young who old have grown before their time?—

Need sick men nurses pale?—or poor men, those

Whose moods have never stored the rich results

Mined from a world the world’s heir should explore?—

Nay, nay, these all would be more ably served

By spirits free to live their own love’s life.

Who gains aught where the spirit is not free?

Think you the veil, too hastily assumed,

May never change the hues and views of life,

Perverting them?—or cause beclouded love

That might have bloom’d in light, to fade in gloom?

’Tis only when those knowing what they leave

Turn calmly from all else to convent walls

That love should not dissuade them. Let them find

Large, sunny, healthful halls; and dwell therein:

From thence deal forth that gentle charity

So potent coming from a woman’s hand.

Not strange it were if sickness, tended thus,

Enliven’d by her smiles of light, should flush

Or blush to perfect health! if wickedness,

Beneath incrusted woes of years of wrong,

Should feel the earlier faith of childhood waked

By woman’s voice, and thus be born again!—

And find a life renew’d within the soul

As well as body. Let the convent thrive.

But rid it of all circumscribing vows.”

“Of all its vows?” I ask’d.“Why not?” he said:“No character, I think, grows wholly ripeSave that which grows as nature guides its growth;And nature made us pairs. I know some sayThe soul should conquer nature; but this meansThat spirits all should claim their rights,—be lordsOf forms that spring from earth. But are they soWhen by a vow they swear to serve a form,And don the life and livery of a slave?Would men look’d Godward more! ’Twould save their soulsFrom many a hell that their own hands have made.One time when young I stood before a tree,And vow’d that, till an hour had pass’d away,My eye should see it not. What came of it?—The vow in misery kept me through the hour.And had it been a maid and not a tree,The vow had caused me more of misery.Yet God’s laws never bade me turn my backOn tree or maid: nay, were my nature framedWith any touch of truth, these both were madeFor souls like mine to look at and enjoy.”

“Of all its vows?” I ask’d.

“Why not?” he said:

“No character, I think, grows wholly ripe

Save that which grows as nature guides its growth;

And nature made us pairs. I know some say

The soul should conquer nature; but this means

That spirits all should claim their rights,—be lords

Of forms that spring from earth. But are they so

When by a vow they swear to serve a form,

And don the life and livery of a slave?

Would men look’d Godward more! ’Twould save their souls

From many a hell that their own hands have made.

One time when young I stood before a tree,

And vow’d that, till an hour had pass’d away,

My eye should see it not. What came of it?—

The vow in misery kept me through the hour.

And had it been a maid and not a tree,

The vow had caused me more of misery.

Yet God’s laws never bade me turn my back

On tree or maid: nay, were my nature framed

With any touch of truth, these both were made

For souls like mine to look at and enjoy.”

“But, Haydn,” said I, “your strange convent, fill’dWith age and vowless maids—you banish thenceChrist’s life, self-sacrifice.”“And sacrificeBut sates the worst of vanity,” he said,“Unless our yielding yield to higher good.Christ’s work here glorified humanity—I must believe that souls, not when outsideThe world but in the world, though not of it,And in the body acting bodily,The lives transfiguring our common livesAnd common cares, the most resemble His.—The one who seeks to glorify herselfIn feigning burial to human cares,Humiliates rather her humanity.She hints—not so?—that truest womanhoodIs maidenhood?—By Eve and Mary, false!—The mother lives the model of her sex,And not the maid. And she who seeks to lowerThe mother’s rank that she may lift her own,Yields less than she bids others yield to her.”“But she serves God,” I said, “and others men.”“How serves one God in doing this?” he ask’d.“God made our nature. Who make way with it,Make way with manhood, turn to suicide.He made the world where works His ProvidenceTo train our life. Who leave the world, leave Him—May add but more damnation to their woe.”“But if men leave the world,” I said, “for this,—That they may serve the Church, how leave they God?—They rather go to him.”“What is the Church?”He ask’d.“The kingdom of the Lord,” I said.“Yes, yes,” he cried; “and add the Master’s words:‘The kingdom is within you.’—And, if so,I own some right to heed the voice within;And none can rightly bid my spirit bend,A passive slave to laws outside of me.”

“But, Haydn,” said I, “your strange convent, fill’d

With age and vowless maids—you banish thence

Christ’s life, self-sacrifice.”

“And sacrifice

But sates the worst of vanity,” he said,

“Unless our yielding yield to higher good.

Christ’s work here glorified humanity—

I must believe that souls, not when outside

The world but in the world, though not of it,

And in the body acting bodily,

The lives transfiguring our common lives

And common cares, the most resemble His.—

The one who seeks to glorify herself

In feigning burial to human cares,

Humiliates rather her humanity.

She hints—not so?—that truest womanhood

Is maidenhood?—By Eve and Mary, false!—

The mother lives the model of her sex,

And not the maid. And she who seeks to lower

The mother’s rank that she may lift her own,

Yields less than she bids others yield to her.”

“But she serves God,” I said, “and others men.”

“How serves one God in doing this?” he ask’d.“God made our nature. Who make way with it,Make way with manhood, turn to suicide.He made the world where works His ProvidenceTo train our life. Who leave the world, leave Him—May add but more damnation to their woe.”

“How serves one God in doing this?” he ask’d.

“God made our nature. Who make way with it,

Make way with manhood, turn to suicide.

He made the world where works His Providence

To train our life. Who leave the world, leave Him—

May add but more damnation to their woe.”

“But if men leave the world,” I said, “for this,—That they may serve the Church, how leave they God?—They rather go to him.”“What is the Church?”He ask’d.“The kingdom of the Lord,” I said.

“But if men leave the world,” I said, “for this,—

That they may serve the Church, how leave they God?—

They rather go to him.”

“What is the Church?”

He ask’d.

“The kingdom of the Lord,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” he cried; “and add the Master’s words:‘The kingdom is within you.’—And, if so,I own some right to heed the voice within;And none can rightly bid my spirit bend,A passive slave to laws outside of me.”

“Yes, yes,” he cried; “and add the Master’s words:

‘The kingdom is within you.’—And, if so,

I own some right to heed the voice within;

And none can rightly bid my spirit bend,

A passive slave to laws outside of me.”

“O Haydn,” begg’d I, “say not this. Here speaksThe same rebellion that was once my own.We must not judge for self, but reverenceThe words of men ordain’d to teach the world;The words of men so learnèd in the truth;The words of councils fill’d with just such men.—No reverence have you for authority?”“Mere common courtesy would teach me that,”He said. “And how could common piety,If awed before the Power above the sky,Deny a kindred awe to power on earth?The Church has power—and more. I reverence it.It may be God’s own storehouse of the truth.But ah, some truths have never yet been stored!Infinity is broad, and broad enoughFor truth to grow within me and without,In self as well as in the best about it.And I believe that all things God makes grow,Unfold in ways that work in harmony.And, when I love a soul as you I love,Did all the priests on earth assemble here,In front of them the pope, in front of himA shining form put forth by them as Christ,And tell me this pure love could lie to me,I would not”—“Haydn stop!—dare not!” I cried;—“And I have pray’d to God so much, so much,To make you more submissive.”“I submitTo God,” he said; “but with my love to God,How can I yield the godliest thing I own?”And there he sat, so firm and yet so kind,I could not help but sigh, “You make me doubt.”“Would God,” he said, “I could do that for you!Then might you have true faith. Where springs from willOne wise effect that does not follow doubt?One choice that does not weigh alternatives?Doubt comes with waverings of the balancesBefore the heavier motive settles down.Let those who feel so sure their views are right,Dissolve my doubt:—I dare to doubt if theyWalk not by knowledge rather than by faith.I read that Jesus answer’d him who pray’d,‘Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief’;That on the cross itself even He could cry:‘My God, O why hast thou forsaken me?’And so I think, at times, these doubts of oursMay only rise like minor preludes here,Ere that triumphant cadence, ‘It is finished.’But come, Pauline,” he added then with warmth,“And promise me that you will yield them up,These dark, sad thoughts. Why, they could make of meAn infidel outright! Could faith destroyOur love, what good then might it not destroy?”A wonder is it, that to moods like thisI could not say the thing I would?

“O Haydn,” begg’d I, “say not this. Here speaks

The same rebellion that was once my own.

We must not judge for self, but reverence

The words of men ordain’d to teach the world;

The words of men so learnèd in the truth;

The words of councils fill’d with just such men.—

No reverence have you for authority?”

“Mere common courtesy would teach me that,”He said. “And how could common piety,If awed before the Power above the sky,Deny a kindred awe to power on earth?The Church has power—and more. I reverence it.It may be God’s own storehouse of the truth.But ah, some truths have never yet been stored!Infinity is broad, and broad enoughFor truth to grow within me and without,In self as well as in the best about it.And I believe that all things God makes grow,Unfold in ways that work in harmony.And, when I love a soul as you I love,Did all the priests on earth assemble here,In front of them the pope, in front of himA shining form put forth by them as Christ,And tell me this pure love could lie to me,I would not”—“Haydn stop!—dare not!” I cried;—“And I have pray’d to God so much, so much,To make you more submissive.”“I submitTo God,” he said; “but with my love to God,How can I yield the godliest thing I own?”

“Mere common courtesy would teach me that,”

He said. “And how could common piety,

If awed before the Power above the sky,

Deny a kindred awe to power on earth?

The Church has power—and more. I reverence it.

It may be God’s own storehouse of the truth.

But ah, some truths have never yet been stored!

Infinity is broad, and broad enough

For truth to grow within me and without,

In self as well as in the best about it.

And I believe that all things God makes grow,

Unfold in ways that work in harmony.

And, when I love a soul as you I love,

Did all the priests on earth assemble here,

In front of them the pope, in front of him

A shining form put forth by them as Christ,

And tell me this pure love could lie to me,

I would not”—

“Haydn stop!—dare not!” I cried;—

“And I have pray’d to God so much, so much,

To make you more submissive.”

“I submit

To God,” he said; “but with my love to God,

How can I yield the godliest thing I own?”

And there he sat, so firm and yet so kind,I could not help but sigh, “You make me doubt.”

And there he sat, so firm and yet so kind,

I could not help but sigh, “You make me doubt.”

“Would God,” he said, “I could do that for you!Then might you have true faith. Where springs from willOne wise effect that does not follow doubt?One choice that does not weigh alternatives?Doubt comes with waverings of the balancesBefore the heavier motive settles down.Let those who feel so sure their views are right,Dissolve my doubt:—I dare to doubt if theyWalk not by knowledge rather than by faith.I read that Jesus answer’d him who pray’d,‘Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief’;That on the cross itself even He could cry:‘My God, O why hast thou forsaken me?’And so I think, at times, these doubts of oursMay only rise like minor preludes here,Ere that triumphant cadence, ‘It is finished.’But come, Pauline,” he added then with warmth,“And promise me that you will yield them up,These dark, sad thoughts. Why, they could make of meAn infidel outright! Could faith destroyOur love, what good then might it not destroy?”A wonder is it, that to moods like thisI could not say the thing I would?

“Would God,” he said, “I could do that for you!

Then might you have true faith. Where springs from will

One wise effect that does not follow doubt?

One choice that does not weigh alternatives?

Doubt comes with waverings of the balances

Before the heavier motive settles down.

Let those who feel so sure their views are right,

Dissolve my doubt:—I dare to doubt if they

Walk not by knowledge rather than by faith.

I read that Jesus answer’d him who pray’d,

‘Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief’;

That on the cross itself even He could cry:

‘My God, O why hast thou forsaken me?’

And so I think, at times, these doubts of ours

May only rise like minor preludes here,

Ere that triumphant cadence, ‘It is finished.’

But come, Pauline,” he added then with warmth,

“And promise me that you will yield them up,

These dark, sad thoughts. Why, they could make of me

An infidel outright! Could faith destroy

Our love, what good then might it not destroy?”

A wonder is it, that to moods like this

I could not say the thing I would?

Months pass’d.My time drew nigh. My vows must be fulfill’d.I told my father of it, and he wept.Poor man, he spent his hours alternately.At times he urged; at times he chided me;At times he kiss’d my cheek and look’d at me;At times he took me by the hand, and said:“My daughter, dear, we will defer the deed”;At times he moaned: “My daughter will do right.”

Months pass’d.

My time drew nigh. My vows must be fulfill’d.

I told my father of it, and he wept.

Poor man, he spent his hours alternately.

At times he urged; at times he chided me;

At times he kiss’d my cheek and look’d at me;

At times he took me by the hand, and said:

“My daughter, dear, we will defer the deed”;

At times he moaned: “My daughter will do right.”

Then slowly dawn’d on Haydn’s mind the fact,Though not, as yet, the reason of my vow.And all the household grew so mild with me,And all the neighbors gazed so piteously:If they had clothed my body in a shroud,And I had loiter’d round it there, a ghost,Life scarce had seem’d more lonely or more chill.But yet more sad than all it seem’d for meTo shun poor Haydn. To his attic driven,Who knew his grief? Alas, who knew it not?Did ever harpsichord so crave a voiceTo utter forth a cry of full despair?Did ever aught that human hands could touchSo tremble to reveal such agonyAs wrung the frame of him whose fingers wrought,Along the sympathetic key-board there,The counterpoint still pointing out his woe?

Then slowly dawn’d on Haydn’s mind the fact,

Though not, as yet, the reason of my vow.

And all the household grew so mild with me,

And all the neighbors gazed so piteously:

If they had clothed my body in a shroud,

And I had loiter’d round it there, a ghost,

Life scarce had seem’d more lonely or more chill.

But yet more sad than all it seem’d for meTo shun poor Haydn. To his attic driven,Who knew his grief? Alas, who knew it not?Did ever harpsichord so crave a voiceTo utter forth a cry of full despair?Did ever aught that human hands could touchSo tremble to reveal such agonyAs wrung the frame of him whose fingers wrought,Along the sympathetic key-board there,The counterpoint still pointing out his woe?

But yet more sad than all it seem’d for me

To shun poor Haydn. To his attic driven,

Who knew his grief? Alas, who knew it not?

Did ever harpsichord so crave a voice

To utter forth a cry of full despair?

Did ever aught that human hands could touch

So tremble to reveal such agony

As wrung the frame of him whose fingers wrought,

Along the sympathetic key-board there,

The counterpoint still pointing out his woe?

Through all those days how heeded I each sound,That broke the stillness in that room of his!Would hold my breath between the notes to feelHis own suspense before the impending strainWhen fell, anon, the spirit’s overflow.I never so had trembled at the pealsOf thunder as beneath the chords he struck;Nor felt my cheek so moist by rains as thereBy tears that flow’d as flow’d his melodies;While all the air about appear’d surchargedWith dangerous force electric, touch’d aloneTo flash keen suffering from his heart to mine.And yet, each day, his music sweeter swell’d.Ere that, it may have lack’d in undertone,The pleading pathos of half-utter’d grief:Since then, I never hear it but it seemsAs if the heavens had been bereaved of love,And pour’d their sad complaint on earth beneath;And I who listen to the sweetness of itCan never tell if I should smile or weepTo think that it has come so far below,Or feel that it has left so much above.

Through all those days how heeded I each sound,

That broke the stillness in that room of his!

Would hold my breath between the notes to feel

His own suspense before the impending strain

When fell, anon, the spirit’s overflow.

I never so had trembled at the peals

Of thunder as beneath the chords he struck;

Nor felt my cheek so moist by rains as there

By tears that flow’d as flow’d his melodies;

While all the air about appear’d surcharged

With dangerous force electric, touch’d alone

To flash keen suffering from his heart to mine.

And yet, each day, his music sweeter swell’d.

Ere that, it may have lack’d in undertone,

The pleading pathos of half-utter’d grief:

Since then, I never hear it but it seems

As if the heavens had been bereaved of love,

And pour’d their sad complaint on earth beneath;

And I who listen to the sweetness of it

Can never tell if I should smile or weep

To think that it has come so far below,

Or feel that it has left so much above.

One night I found my father still more sadThan was his wont. I knelt before him then,And “O my father, why is this?” I ask’d.But he said nothing. Then I question’d him:And found the cause out. Haydn was the cause.My father loved him so, as men love sons;And long had hoped he might a son become.But they had talk’d in confidence, and talk’dAbout Doretta. “Ah,” my father sigh’d;“My plans for all of you are vain!—“Why now?”He cried, “in this my old age, now, too lateTo be replaced again, should I have lostMy aims, my home, my hope, my happiness?—And who has brought it on? has done such wrongHis deeds deserve it?—Here am I, myself,—I loved you, loved you both, but plann’d your good:The priest loved (so he says) the Church and you:Doretta loved; sought only love’s full fruit:And Haydn loved; wish’d but to show his love:And you, child, loved, were but obedient:We all of us were loving, were we not?Yet working outward, wisely, as we deem’d,We all have done the thing to doom us all.Alas what power has wrought to thwart us thus?I do believe, though long I doubted it,There lives a Devil! Hell-scorch’d hands aloneCould weave such death-black shrouds from thread so bright,Drawn from sleek skeins of love. That spider-fiend,Feeding on our sweet plans, emits this web,To trip and trap us in like flies!—Ah me,It may be well that one should suffer hereUntil a wish bereaved shriek prayers for death;But through what fearful pangs earth peels awayThis withering flesh from off the worthier soul!The scales about my own grow thin, how thin!Pauline and Haydn gone, and home, and hope,—What further shred invests the love so stript!—Is this, then, being freed from earth?—Yet whereAre signs of heaven?—My God, I see them not.”“O father, rave not thus,” I cried. “O if—If Haydn,—if I had some power with him.”—“Nay, daughter, nay,” he said. Yet o’er his faceFlush’d hope like hues at dawn. I kiss’d his brow,Said, “Father, I will try,” and went my way.

One night I found my father still more sad

Than was his wont. I knelt before him then,

And “O my father, why is this?” I ask’d.

But he said nothing. Then I question’d him:

And found the cause out. Haydn was the cause.

My father loved him so, as men love sons;

And long had hoped he might a son become.

But they had talk’d in confidence, and talk’d

About Doretta. “Ah,” my father sigh’d;

“My plans for all of you are vain!—

“Why now?”

He cried, “in this my old age, now, too late

To be replaced again, should I have lost

My aims, my home, my hope, my happiness?—

And who has brought it on? has done such wrong

His deeds deserve it?—Here am I, myself,—

I loved you, loved you both, but plann’d your good:

The priest loved (so he says) the Church and you:

Doretta loved; sought only love’s full fruit:

And Haydn loved; wish’d but to show his love:

And you, child, loved, were but obedient:

We all of us were loving, were we not?

Yet working outward, wisely, as we deem’d,

We all have done the thing to doom us all.

Alas what power has wrought to thwart us thus?

I do believe, though long I doubted it,

There lives a Devil! Hell-scorch’d hands alone

Could weave such death-black shrouds from thread so bright,

Drawn from sleek skeins of love. That spider-fiend,

Feeding on our sweet plans, emits this web,

To trip and trap us in like flies!—Ah me,

It may be well that one should suffer here

Until a wish bereaved shriek prayers for death;

But through what fearful pangs earth peels away

This withering flesh from off the worthier soul!

The scales about my own grow thin, how thin!

Pauline and Haydn gone, and home, and hope,—

What further shred invests the love so stript!—

Is this, then, being freed from earth?—Yet where

Are signs of heaven?—My God, I see them not.”

“O father, rave not thus,” I cried. “O if—If Haydn,—if I had some power with him.”—

“O father, rave not thus,” I cried. “O if—

If Haydn,—if I had some power with him.”—

“Nay, daughter, nay,” he said. Yet o’er his faceFlush’d hope like hues at dawn. I kiss’d his brow,Said, “Father, I will try,” and went my way.

“Nay, daughter, nay,” he said. Yet o’er his face

Flush’d hope like hues at dawn. I kiss’d his brow,

Said, “Father, I will try,” and went my way.

And Haydn then, when found, appear’d so sad.“Ah,” sigh’d he, “we two souls were fitted soTo match each other. Here, where jars the world,And all goes contrary, where every sunThat ripes this, withers that; and every stormThat brings refreshment here, sends deluge there,We two, exceptions to the general rule,Like living miracles (is love fulfill’dA miracle indeed?), seem’d born to drawThe self-same tale of weal or woe from each.I saw but last night, darling, in my dreams,Our spirits journeying through this under gloom:And hand in hand they walk’d; and over them,As over limner’d seraphs, did there hangA halo, love reflected. By its glowThe gloom about grew brightness: while far off,In clearest lines, the path passed up and on.—Pauline, but heed me: once again, I pray(If ever once I pray’d to God above),Blot not this light from all my future life.”

And Haydn then, when found, appear’d so sad.

“Ah,” sigh’d he, “we two souls were fitted so

To match each other. Here, where jars the world,

And all goes contrary, where every sun

That ripes this, withers that; and every storm

That brings refreshment here, sends deluge there,

We two, exceptions to the general rule,

Like living miracles (is love fulfill’d

A miracle indeed?), seem’d born to draw

The self-same tale of weal or woe from each.

I saw but last night, darling, in my dreams,

Our spirits journeying through this under gloom:

And hand in hand they walk’d; and over them,

As over limner’d seraphs, did there hang

A halo, love reflected. By its glow

The gloom about grew brightness: while far off,

In clearest lines, the path passed up and on.—

Pauline, but heed me: once again, I pray

(If ever once I pray’d to God above),

Blot not this light from all my future life.”

“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “would you have me change?What soul shall dwell on God’s most holy hillBut he ‘that sweareth to his own hurt,’ yes,‘And changeth not’?”“But yet,” he said, “but yetIf you were wrong to swear? How can it beThat any project so against the soul—Each instinct of one’s nature—should be right?”“Yet nature,” said I, “may be but corrupt.What is this instinct, that it should not lie?If one should feel the instinct of the lambWhile skipping to welcome the butcher’s knifeThat waits to slaughter it, would he be wiseTo follow instinct?”“Why not?” answer’d he:“The lamb was made that it might die for man:It follows instinct and dies easily.The soul was made that it might live for God:It follows instinct and lives happily.The cases differ thus. May there not beSome depth, beyond the reach of mortal sight,Within whose grooves unseen our spirits glideUnconscious of the balancings of will?God’s touch may be too subtle to be sensed.May it not stir beneath all conscious powers,A spontaneity that moves the soulAs instinct moves the body?—Ah, to me,Love seems an instinct that impels them both.”“How so?” I ask’d, in hope to guide his thoughtToward sacrifice.“You wish me then,” he said,“To turn philosopher for you?—I will.This love, in morals based on faith in man,And in religion on our faith in God,Seems, in its essence, an experienceNot wholly feeling, yet not wholly thought,—Not all of body, yet not all of soul,Of what we are or what we are to be,—But more akin to marriage, within self,Of our two separate natures, form and spirit.God meant them to be join’d: when wedded thus,One rests content, the other waits in hope.”“To rest, to wait,” I said to this; “and ifSuch ends displaced were, would there not remainThe work that forms our earthly heritage?”“And may not God,” rejoin’d he, “grant us moreThan that which we inherit?”“He may grantHis rest,” I said. “Yet rest, the ParadiseOf work, is yet the Purgatory, too,Of indolence.”“The soul’s true ParadiseIs nothing earn’d,” he said. “It is a gift.With Eden lost, insolvent made by sin,Work, as I view it, is a loan from HopeWith which man pays the debt of Memory.But if I reckon right, a pauper still,He scarce can earn enough to pay them both.And so our rest, I take it, is a giftThat crowns our strife, yet is not won by it;Which, as we live not conscious how ’tis earn’d,We live not conscious how it may be lost.Things out of consciousness are out of care.We rest not as in death that furthers naught;We rest as in a dream, in sleep,—a stateWherein God watches while the soul regales.We rest not from the healthful stir of work,But from the slavery proportioningOur pleasure to our pain—a law for serfs,But not for sons. Our rest is peaceful, hush’d,The very church of choice, as differentFrom other joy as prayer may be from sport.”“And does not choice,” I ask’d, “feel often movedTo spurn a lesser for a greater good?For greater good, too, may not Love on highUnseat some idol of our ignorance?”—

“Ah, Haydn,” said I, “would you have me change?

What soul shall dwell on God’s most holy hill

But he ‘that sweareth to his own hurt,’ yes,

‘And changeth not’?”

“But yet,” he said, “but yet

If you were wrong to swear? How can it be

That any project so against the soul—

Each instinct of one’s nature—should be right?”

“Yet nature,” said I, “may be but corrupt.What is this instinct, that it should not lie?If one should feel the instinct of the lambWhile skipping to welcome the butcher’s knifeThat waits to slaughter it, would he be wiseTo follow instinct?”“Why not?” answer’d he:“The lamb was made that it might die for man:It follows instinct and dies easily.The soul was made that it might live for God:It follows instinct and lives happily.The cases differ thus. May there not beSome depth, beyond the reach of mortal sight,Within whose grooves unseen our spirits glideUnconscious of the balancings of will?God’s touch may be too subtle to be sensed.May it not stir beneath all conscious powers,A spontaneity that moves the soulAs instinct moves the body?—Ah, to me,Love seems an instinct that impels them both.”

“Yet nature,” said I, “may be but corrupt.

What is this instinct, that it should not lie?

If one should feel the instinct of the lamb

While skipping to welcome the butcher’s knife

That waits to slaughter it, would he be wise

To follow instinct?”

“Why not?” answer’d he:

“The lamb was made that it might die for man:

It follows instinct and dies easily.

The soul was made that it might live for God:

It follows instinct and lives happily.

The cases differ thus. May there not be

Some depth, beyond the reach of mortal sight,

Within whose grooves unseen our spirits glide

Unconscious of the balancings of will?

God’s touch may be too subtle to be sensed.

May it not stir beneath all conscious powers,

A spontaneity that moves the soul

As instinct moves the body?—Ah, to me,

Love seems an instinct that impels them both.”

“How so?” I ask’d, in hope to guide his thoughtToward sacrifice.“You wish me then,” he said,“To turn philosopher for you?—I will.This love, in morals based on faith in man,And in religion on our faith in God,Seems, in its essence, an experienceNot wholly feeling, yet not wholly thought,—Not all of body, yet not all of soul,Of what we are or what we are to be,—But more akin to marriage, within self,Of our two separate natures, form and spirit.God meant them to be join’d: when wedded thus,One rests content, the other waits in hope.”

“How so?” I ask’d, in hope to guide his thought

Toward sacrifice.

“You wish me then,” he said,

“To turn philosopher for you?—I will.

This love, in morals based on faith in man,

And in religion on our faith in God,

Seems, in its essence, an experience

Not wholly feeling, yet not wholly thought,—

Not all of body, yet not all of soul,

Of what we are or what we are to be,—

But more akin to marriage, within self,

Of our two separate natures, form and spirit.

God meant them to be join’d: when wedded thus,

One rests content, the other waits in hope.”

“To rest, to wait,” I said to this; “and ifSuch ends displaced were, would there not remainThe work that forms our earthly heritage?”

“To rest, to wait,” I said to this; “and if

Such ends displaced were, would there not remain

The work that forms our earthly heritage?”

“And may not God,” rejoin’d he, “grant us moreThan that which we inherit?”“He may grantHis rest,” I said. “Yet rest, the ParadiseOf work, is yet the Purgatory, too,Of indolence.”“The soul’s true ParadiseIs nothing earn’d,” he said. “It is a gift.With Eden lost, insolvent made by sin,Work, as I view it, is a loan from HopeWith which man pays the debt of Memory.But if I reckon right, a pauper still,He scarce can earn enough to pay them both.And so our rest, I take it, is a giftThat crowns our strife, yet is not won by it;Which, as we live not conscious how ’tis earn’d,We live not conscious how it may be lost.Things out of consciousness are out of care.We rest not as in death that furthers naught;We rest as in a dream, in sleep,—a stateWherein God watches while the soul regales.We rest not from the healthful stir of work,But from the slavery proportioningOur pleasure to our pain—a law for serfs,But not for sons. Our rest is peaceful, hush’d,The very church of choice, as differentFrom other joy as prayer may be from sport.”

“And may not God,” rejoin’d he, “grant us more

Than that which we inherit?”

“He may grant

His rest,” I said. “Yet rest, the Paradise

Of work, is yet the Purgatory, too,

Of indolence.”

“The soul’s true Paradise

Is nothing earn’d,” he said. “It is a gift.

With Eden lost, insolvent made by sin,

Work, as I view it, is a loan from Hope

With which man pays the debt of Memory.

But if I reckon right, a pauper still,

He scarce can earn enough to pay them both.

And so our rest, I take it, is a gift

That crowns our strife, yet is not won by it;

Which, as we live not conscious how ’tis earn’d,

We live not conscious how it may be lost.

Things out of consciousness are out of care.

We rest not as in death that furthers naught;

We rest as in a dream, in sleep,—a state

Wherein God watches while the soul regales.

We rest not from the healthful stir of work,

But from the slavery proportioning

Our pleasure to our pain—a law for serfs,

But not for sons. Our rest is peaceful, hush’d,

The very church of choice, as different

From other joy as prayer may be from sport.”

“And does not choice,” I ask’d, “feel often movedTo spurn a lesser for a greater good?For greater good, too, may not Love on highUnseat some idol of our ignorance?”—

“And does not choice,” I ask’d, “feel often moved

To spurn a lesser for a greater good?

For greater good, too, may not Love on high

Unseat some idol of our ignorance?”—

With this, I pictured for him brightest life;And, like a blot on every scene, myself;I claim’d my character was not the oneThat best could aid his own; show’d how my sire,The priest, Doretta, all agreed in this.And then, in contrast with myself, I sketch’dA nature all deem’d fitted for his moods.I may have sinn’d in it; but, grim as fate,My father’s face, recall’d, would urge me on;I noted all Doretta’s nobler traits;And when I thought he must my aim surmise,And while he held his gaze upon the floor,As though he gave assent, at last I spakeDoretta’s name.And if the solid earthHad quaked, he had not started more. O God,Why did I not accept his instinct then!He look’d at me, first pale, then flush’d, then firm;And then with tremulous, painful breath, he said:—“And this device from you? from you, so pure?So free from guile? You should have spared me this.That Jesuit has train’d you well! Ah, now,I know how Adam grieved that Eve could fall;How Eve herself, when round her soul first creptThe serpent’s cautious coils of smooth deceit,To strap her inch by inch! I read it now,That tale: ’tis all an allegory, ay;—That serpent means the world. The world steals round,Intent to seize and own each heir of heaven.Not long are souls allow’d ideal life,Not long unfetter’d sense or hearts unbound:Our smiles grow stiffer, till, some fatal day,The last is clutch’d and held, a hideous grin.Then, when the body stirs not with the soul,The last nerve wrested from the Spirit’s rule,Naught in us left of love, the world unwinds:Our capturer dissolves in mist or dust:—And we, for its embrace, have lost our God!”

With this, I pictured for him brightest life;

And, like a blot on every scene, myself;

I claim’d my character was not the one

That best could aid his own; show’d how my sire,

The priest, Doretta, all agreed in this.

And then, in contrast with myself, I sketch’d

A nature all deem’d fitted for his moods.

I may have sinn’d in it; but, grim as fate,

My father’s face, recall’d, would urge me on;

I noted all Doretta’s nobler traits;

And when I thought he must my aim surmise,

And while he held his gaze upon the floor,

As though he gave assent, at last I spake

Doretta’s name.

And if the solid earth

Had quaked, he had not started more. O God,

Why did I not accept his instinct then!

He look’d at me, first pale, then flush’d, then firm;

And then with tremulous, painful breath, he said:—

“And this device from you? from you, so pure?

So free from guile? You should have spared me this.

That Jesuit has train’d you well! Ah, now,

I know how Adam grieved that Eve could fall;

How Eve herself, when round her soul first crept

The serpent’s cautious coils of smooth deceit,

To strap her inch by inch! I read it now,

That tale: ’tis all an allegory, ay;—

That serpent means the world. The world steals round,

Intent to seize and own each heir of heaven.

Not long are souls allow’d ideal life,

Not long unfetter’d sense or hearts unbound:

Our smiles grow stiffer, till, some fatal day,

The last is clutch’d and held, a hideous grin.

Then, when the body stirs not with the soul,

The last nerve wrested from the Spirit’s rule,

Naught in us left of love, the world unwinds:

Our capturer dissolves in mist or dust:—

And we, for its embrace, have lost our God!”

His mood alarm’d me, yet could I protest:“Nay, Haydn, nay! I do not love the world:I long to leave it; yes, all thought of it.”“How much less worldliness is found,” he ask’d,“Within the Church than in your world so call’d?—The Prince of this World is not nice in choiceOf equipages; where he cannot check,He mounts the car of truth and grasps the rein;And when the Devil drives, he drives for home.‘The world,’ what means this, but the world alone,—The mass, devoid of mind, truth, spirit, love?—But holds no church the same?—A mass?—ay, ay.Devoid of mind?—Why not?—But show the placeIt crowds not reason out to edge in faith.—But ‘faith,’ say you, ‘is reasonable’?—Ay,When in it there is reason; when the thingIn which it trusts is truth. But ah! too oftJust prick the forms, and back of them you find—What?—truth?—nay, nay, a priest—a man, forsooth,Who differs from the rest of men in clothes,In wearing worn-out habits, which the needAnd progress of our times have cast aside;—Ay, wearing them o’er body, mind, and soul;Though all who think know well that moods, whose rangeIs girt by customs past, (which could alonePrejudge thought’s present range) fit prejudice;And this is in behind your Church’s forms.“You say, perhaps, ‘the Spirit formed the formsTo fit the life’?—they fitted life that was;But life, if life, will grow; the life of loveHas not yet fill’d the scope around, above,Of heavens that for it wait. What form’d the formsCan still be forming them.—If forms existWherein no Spirit works, no present life,—The things are hollow; and a hollow formThe Devil flies for, like a flying squirrelFor hollow tree-trunks; and when once within,But half disguised inside his robes of white,Loud chanting out mere ceremonious cant,He tempts toward his hypocrisy an ageThat knows too much of Christian life, at last,For heathen life to tempt it.“Judge by fruits:Here you—God gave you beauty—to be seen!And grace to bless this dear, sweet home. What powerWould snatch you from us? make a very hellOf what might else be heaven?—Think you ’tis love?Not so; it only hates love; plays the part—Not of the Christ who yielded up his life,But of the world that made him yield it up;It only trusts in force, in force that lies;And now that it can hold you with a vowWhich but deceit could claim that God enjoin’d,It seizes you to plunge you down, down, down,To feel the full damnation of a faithThat can believe the voice within the soulA lying guide which cannot be obey’dWithout foul consciousness of inward sin,—To plunge you down, and hold you till the cellsOf your pure, guileless heart, all stain’d and steep’d,Drip only dregs of stagnant viciousness!”

His mood alarm’d me, yet could I protest:

“Nay, Haydn, nay! I do not love the world:

I long to leave it; yes, all thought of it.”

“How much less worldliness is found,” he ask’d,

“Within the Church than in your world so call’d?—

The Prince of this World is not nice in choice

Of equipages; where he cannot check,

He mounts the car of truth and grasps the rein;

And when the Devil drives, he drives for home.

‘The world,’ what means this, but the world alone,—

The mass, devoid of mind, truth, spirit, love?—

But holds no church the same?—A mass?—ay, ay.

Devoid of mind?—Why not?—But show the place

It crowds not reason out to edge in faith.—

But ‘faith,’ say you, ‘is reasonable’?—Ay,

When in it there is reason; when the thing

In which it trusts is truth. But ah! too oft

Just prick the forms, and back of them you find—

What?—truth?—nay, nay, a priest—a man, forsooth,

Who differs from the rest of men in clothes,

In wearing worn-out habits, which the need

And progress of our times have cast aside;—

Ay, wearing them o’er body, mind, and soul;

Though all who think know well that moods, whose range

Is girt by customs past, (which could alone

Prejudge thought’s present range) fit prejudice;

And this is in behind your Church’s forms.

“You say, perhaps, ‘the Spirit formed the formsTo fit the life’?—they fitted life that was;But life, if life, will grow; the life of loveHas not yet fill’d the scope around, above,Of heavens that for it wait. What form’d the formsCan still be forming them.—If forms existWherein no Spirit works, no present life,—The things are hollow; and a hollow formThe Devil flies for, like a flying squirrelFor hollow tree-trunks; and when once within,But half disguised inside his robes of white,Loud chanting out mere ceremonious cant,He tempts toward his hypocrisy an ageThat knows too much of Christian life, at last,For heathen life to tempt it.

“You say, perhaps, ‘the Spirit formed the forms

To fit the life’?—they fitted life that was;

But life, if life, will grow; the life of love

Has not yet fill’d the scope around, above,

Of heavens that for it wait. What form’d the forms

Can still be forming them.—If forms exist

Wherein no Spirit works, no present life,—

The things are hollow; and a hollow form

The Devil flies for, like a flying squirrel

For hollow tree-trunks; and when once within,

But half disguised inside his robes of white,

Loud chanting out mere ceremonious cant,

He tempts toward his hypocrisy an age

That knows too much of Christian life, at last,

For heathen life to tempt it.

“Judge by fruits:Here you—God gave you beauty—to be seen!And grace to bless this dear, sweet home. What powerWould snatch you from us? make a very hellOf what might else be heaven?—Think you ’tis love?Not so; it only hates love; plays the part—Not of the Christ who yielded up his life,But of the world that made him yield it up;It only trusts in force, in force that lies;And now that it can hold you with a vowWhich but deceit could claim that God enjoin’d,It seizes you to plunge you down, down, down,To feel the full damnation of a faithThat can believe the voice within the soulA lying guide which cannot be obey’dWithout foul consciousness of inward sin,—To plunge you down, and hold you till the cellsOf your pure, guileless heart, all stain’d and steep’d,Drip only dregs of stagnant viciousness!”

“Judge by fruits:

Here you—God gave you beauty—to be seen!

And grace to bless this dear, sweet home. What power

Would snatch you from us? make a very hell

Of what might else be heaven?—Think you ’tis love?

Not so; it only hates love; plays the part—

Not of the Christ who yielded up his life,

But of the world that made him yield it up;

It only trusts in force, in force that lies;

And now that it can hold you with a vow

Which but deceit could claim that God enjoin’d,

It seizes you to plunge you down, down, down,

To feel the full damnation of a faith

That can believe the voice within the soul

A lying guide which cannot be obey’d

Without foul consciousness of inward sin,—

To plunge you down, and hold you till the cells

Of your pure, guileless heart, all stain’d and steep’d,

Drip only dregs of stagnant viciousness!”

“You terrify me, Haydn!” I exclaim’d.“And you have done far more to me!” he cried.“You were—Ah me, what were you not?—so pure,Transparent as the mid-day atmosphere.Should some red thunderbolt from sunlight burstAnd burn all torturing blindness through my eyes,The night came less foretoken’d! I, who dream’dThat here I gazed on truth, here bent these kneesUpon the very battlements of heaven,—I to be tript thus from my dear proud trust,Sent reeling down by such foul-aim’d deceit!—Strange is it if my jolted brain should slipThe grooves of reason?—if I rave or curse?—You, who had known my heart, and after that,And after I had warn’d you of the thing,And simulating all the while such love,—You, vowing to abjure me! more than this,To-day with such cold-blooded, soulless tact,Soft-stealing, through the door-ways left ajar,Within the inmost chambers of my heart,To snare,—as though the victim of a catThat could be play’d with, trick’d with, kill’d, cast off,—This heart of mine which, as you might have known,Was throbbing but to serve you!—Yes, once more,You gain your end! Once more, your wish is mine.How can I love?—God help me!—Go you free.”

“You terrify me, Haydn!” I exclaim’d.

“And you have done far more to me!” he cried.

“You were—Ah me, what were you not?—so pure,

Transparent as the mid-day atmosphere.

Should some red thunderbolt from sunlight burst

And burn all torturing blindness through my eyes,

The night came less foretoken’d! I, who dream’d

That here I gazed on truth, here bent these knees

Upon the very battlements of heaven,—

I to be tript thus from my dear proud trust,

Sent reeling down by such foul-aim’d deceit!—

Strange is it if my jolted brain should slip

The grooves of reason?—if I rave or curse?—

You, who had known my heart, and after that,

And after I had warn’d you of the thing,

And simulating all the while such love,—

You, vowing to abjure me! more than this,

To-day with such cold-blooded, soulless tact,

Soft-stealing, through the door-ways left ajar,

Within the inmost chambers of my heart,

To snare,—as though the victim of a cat

That could be play’d with, trick’d with, kill’d, cast off,—

This heart of mine which, as you might have known,

Was throbbing but to serve you!—Yes, once more,

You gain your end! Once more, your wish is mine.

How can I love?—God help me!—Go you free.”

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