ACT FIFTH.

A year and a half later. The new Church stands complete, and adorned for consecration. The river runs close beside it. A misty morning, early.

TheSextonis busy hanging garlands outside the Church; shortly after comes theSchoolmaster.

The Schoolmaster.

At work already?

The Sexton.

None too soon.Lend me a hand; I must festoonThe path, to keep the march in trim.

None too soon.

Lend me a hand; I must festoon

The path, to keep the march in trim.

The Schoolmaster.

Before the Manse I see ascendingSomething that rears a rounded rim—

Before the Manse I see ascending

Something that rears a rounded rim—

The Sexton.

Ay, surely, surely!

The Schoolmaster.

What is pending?

The Sexton.

Why, it is what they call a shieldWith Parson’s name in a goldfield.field.

Why, it is what they call a shield

With Parson’s name in a goldfield.field.

The Schoolmaster.

To-day the valley’s in high feather.From far and wide they’re flocking hither,The fjord with sails is all agleam.

To-day the valley’s in high feather.

From far and wide they’re flocking hither,

The fjord with sails is all agleam.

The Sexton.

Yes; they’ve awaken’d from their dream.In the late Pastor’s day, no breastWith bitterness and strife was cumber’d,Each slumber’d as his neighbour slumber’d,—I’m not quite certain which is best.

Yes; they’ve awaken’d from their dream.

In the late Pastor’s day, no breast

With bitterness and strife was cumber’d,

Each slumber’d as his neighbour slumber’d,

—I’m not quite certain which is best.

The Schoolmaster.

Life, Sexton, life!

The Sexton.

Yet you and IPass this “life” unregarding by;How comes it?

Yet you and I

Pass this “life” unregarding by;

How comes it?

The Schoolmaster.

Why, before, the folkSlumber’d, and nowise toil’d, as we did;We fell asleep when they awoke,Because we were no longer needed.

Why, before, the folk

Slumber’d, and nowise toil’d, as we did;

We fell asleep when they awoke,

Because we were no longer needed.

The Sexton.

But yet you said that life was best?

The Schoolmaster.

By Dean and deacon that’s profess’d.And I too say so, like the rest,—Provided, mind, the “life” in viewIs that of the great Residue.But we two serve another lawThan that which holds the mass in awe;Set by the State to guard and guide,—Look, we must stand against the tide,Cherish the Church and Education,And keep aloof from agitation.Briefly, in nothing take a side.

By Dean and deacon that’s profess’d.

And I too say so, like the rest,—

Provided, mind, the “life” in view

Is that of the great Residue.

But we two serve another law

Than that which holds the mass in awe;

Set by the State to guard and guide,—

Look, we must stand against the tide,

Cherish the Church and Education,

And keep aloof from agitation.

Briefly, in nothing take a side.

The Sexton.

But Parson’s in it, heart and soul.

The Schoolmaster.

And just in that forgets his rôle.His own superiors, well I know,Look with displeasure on his action,And, dared they but offend his faction,Had thrown him over long ago.But he is fine; he smells a rat;He’s got a recipe for that.He builds the Church. Here you may glueAll eyes up, if you will butdo.What’sdone none has a thought to spare for;Thedoingof it’s all they care for.So they who follow, and we who lead,All equally are men of deed.

And just in that forgets his rôle.

His own superiors, well I know,

Look with displeasure on his action,

And, dared they but offend his faction,

Had thrown him over long ago.

But he is fine; he smells a rat;

He’s got a recipe for that.

He builds the Church. Here you may glue

All eyes up, if you will butdo.

What’sdone none has a thought to spare for;

Thedoingof it’s all they care for.

So they who follow, and we who lead,

All equally are men of deed.

The Sexton.

Well, you have sat in the great Thing,And ought to know the Land and Folk;But one who travell’d through the glenA little after we awokeSaid, we’d been sleeping folks till then,But, having waked,—werepromising.

Well, you have sat in the great Thing,

And ought to know the Land and Folk;

But one who travell’d through the glen

A little after we awoke

Said, we’d been sleeping folks till then,

But, having waked,—werepromising.

The Schoolmaster.

Yes; we’re a promising folk, of course,—And mighty promises we’re giving,—So fast we stride, we’ll soon be livingElucidations of their force.

Yes; we’re a promising folk, of course,—

And mighty promises we’re giving,—

So fast we stride, we’ll soon be living

Elucidations of their force.

The Sexton.

One thing I’ve ponder’d many a day;You’ve studied,—what do folks intendBy that same “People’s Promise,” pray?

One thing I’ve ponder’d many a day;

You’ve studied,—what do folks intend

By that same “People’s Promise,” pray?

The Schoolmaster.

A People’s Promise, my good friend?That were a long investigation;But ’tis a thing that is pursuedBy force of sheer anticipation;A grand Idea they must make goodInfuture, be it understood.

A People’s Promise, my good friend?

That were a long investigation;

But ’tis a thing that is pursued

By force of sheer anticipation;

A grand Idea they must make good

Infuture, be it understood.

The Sexton.

Thanks; I see that at any rate;But there’s another point I’d fainBeg of you briefly to explain.

Thanks; I see that at any rate;

But there’s another point I’d fain

Beg of you briefly to explain.

The Schoolmaster.

Speak freely.

The Sexton.

Tell me, at what dateComes, what is call’d the future?

Tell me, at what date

Comes, what is call’d the future?

The Schoolmaster.

Why,It never does come!

Why,

It never does come!

The Sexton.

Never!Never!

The Schoolmaster.

No,And only follows Nature so.For when it comes, you see, ’tis grownThe Present, and the Future’s flown.

No,

And only follows Nature so.

For when it comes, you see, ’tis grown

The Present, and the Future’s flown.

The Sexton.

Why, yes, to that there’s no reply;That logic one must needs accept.But—when then is the promise kept?

Why, yes, to that there’s no reply;

That logic one must needs accept.

But—when then is the promise kept?

The Schoolmaster.

A Promise is a future-datedPact, as I have already stated;’Tis kept in Future.

A Promise is a future-dated

Pact, as I have already stated;

’Tis kept in Future.

The Sexton.

That is clear.When will the Future, though, be here!

That is clear.

When will the Future, though, be here!

The Schoolmaster.[Aside.]

The Schoolmaster.

[Aside.]

You blessed Sexton![Aloud.]Worthy friend,Must I the argument recall?The Future cannot come at all,Because its coming is its end.

You blessed Sexton!

[Aloud.]

Worthy friend,

Must I the argument recall?

The Future cannot come at all,

Because its coming is its end.

The Sexton

Thank you.

The Schoolmaster.

In all conceptions liesSomething that looks like artifice,But yet is quite direct and plain,—That is to say, for any brainAble to reckon up to ten.To make a promise means, at last,Tobreakit, spite of best intent;Truth to one’s word has always pass’dFor hard; but you may just as wellProve it purely impossible,—If you’ve an eye for argument.—There, let this Promise-question be!Come tell me——!

In all conceptions lies

Something that looks like artifice,

But yet is quite direct and plain,—

That is to say, for any brain

Able to reckon up to ten.

To make a promise means, at last,

Tobreakit, spite of best intent;

Truth to one’s word has always pass’d

For hard; but you may just as well

Prove it purely impossible,—

If you’ve an eye for argument.—

There, let this Promise-question be!

Come tell me——!

The Sexton.

Hist!

The Schoolmaster.

What is it?

The Sexton.

Hark!Hark!

The Schoolmaster.

I hear the organ play!

The Sexton.

’Tis he.

The Schoolmaster.

The Pastor?

The Sexton.

Even so.

The Schoolmaster.

Save the markBut he is out betimes!

Save the mark

But he is out betimes!

The Sexton.

I guessHe stirr’d no pillow yesternight.

I guess

He stirr’d no pillow yesternight.

The Schoolmaster.

What do you say?

The Sexton.

All is not right.He’s felt the pang of lonelinessSince first his widowhood began.He hides his sorrow all he can;But, whiles, it may not be controll’d;His heart’s a jar that will not hold,And overflows by base and brim;—So then he plays. ’Tis like a wildWeeping for buried wife and child.

All is not right.

He’s felt the pang of loneliness

Since first his widowhood began.

He hides his sorrow all he can;

But, whiles, it may not be controll’d;

His heart’s a jar that will not hold,

And overflows by base and brim;—

So then he plays. ’Tis like a wild

Weeping for buried wife and child.

The Schoolmaster.

It is as if they talk’d with him——

The Sexton.

As ifonesuffered,oneconsoled——

The Schoolmaster.

H’m—if one dared to be affected!

The Sexton.

Ah,—if one did not serve the State

The Schoolmaster.

Ah,—if one bore no leaden weightOf forms that have to be respected

Ah,—if one bore no leaden weight

Of forms that have to be respected

The Sexton.

Ah,—if one dared toss tape and sealAnd ledger to the deuce for ever!

Ah,—if one dared toss tape and seal

And ledger to the deuce for ever!

The Schoolmaster.

And leave off striving to be clever;And, Sexton, if one dared tofeel!

And leave off striving to be clever;

And, Sexton, if one dared tofeel!

The Sexton.

No one is near,—let’s feel, my friend!

The Schoolmaster.

We cannot fitly condescendTo smirch ourselves in human slime.Let no man, says the Parson, dareTo be two things at the same time;And, with the best will, no one canBe an official and a man;Our part in all things is, to swearBy our great exemplar—the Mayor.

We cannot fitly condescend

To smirch ourselves in human slime.

Let no man, says the Parson, dare

To be two things at the same time;

And, with the best will, no one can

Be an official and a man;

Our part in all things is, to swear

By our great exemplar—the Mayor.

The Sexton.

Why just by him?

The Schoolmaster.

Do you recallThe fire that wreck’d his house, and yetThe deeds were rescued, one and all?

Do you recall

The fire that wreck’d his house, and yet

The deeds were rescued, one and all?

The Sexton.

It was an evening——

The Schoolmaster.

Wild and wet,And like ten toiling men toiled he;But indoors stood the Devil in gleeGuffawing, and his wife shriek’d out:“O save your soul, sweet husband! See,Satan will have you!” Then a shoutRang backward through the surging vapours:“My soul may go to hell for me;Just lend a hand to save the papers!”Look, that’s a Mayor—without, within!From top to toe, from core to skin;He’ll win his way, I’m certain, yonder,Where his life’s toil shall have its price.

Wild and wet,

And like ten toiling men toiled he;

But indoors stood the Devil in glee

Guffawing, and his wife shriek’d out:

“O save your soul, sweet husband! See,

Satan will have you!” Then a shout

Rang backward through the surging vapours:

“My soul may go to hell for me;

Just lend a hand to save the papers!”

Look, that’s a Mayor—without, within!

From top to toe, from core to skin;

He’ll win his way, I’m certain, yonder,

Where his life’s toil shall have its price.

The Sexton.

And where may that be?

The Schoolmaster.

Where, I wonder,But in the good Mayors’ Paradise.

Where, I wonder,

But in the good Mayors’ Paradise.

The Sexton.

My learned friend!

The Schoolmaster.

What now?

The Sexton.

A tokenOf our fermenting age I hear,Methinks, in every word you’ve spoken;For that itdoesferment is clear.Witness the reverence all refuseTo old-established Wont and Use.

A token

Of our fermenting age I hear,

Methinks, in every word you’ve spoken;

For that itdoesferment is clear.

Witness the reverence all refuse

To old-established Wont and Use.

The Schoolmaster.

What moulders, in the mould’s its doom,What rots must nourish what is fresh;Their vitals canker and consume,Let them cough up the imposthume,Or to the grave with their dead flesh!There’s ferment, yes; past fear or hope,That’s plain without a telescope.The day our ancient Church lay low,Everything with it seem’d to goWherein our life struck root and foundIts home-soil and its native-ground.

What moulders, in the mould’s its doom,

What rots must nourish what is fresh;

Their vitals canker and consume,

Let them cough up the imposthume,

Or to the grave with their dead flesh!

There’s ferment, yes; past fear or hope,

That’s plain without a telescope.

The day our ancient Church lay low,

Everything with it seem’d to go

Wherein our life struck root and found

Its home-soil and its native-ground.

The Sexton.

Then on the throng a stillness came.“Down with it! Down with it!” they criedAt first; but soon that clamour died,And many felt their ears a-flame,And stole shy glances of distrust.When the ancestral House of PrayerWas to be levell’d—then and there,—By hands unhallow’d, in the dust.

Then on the throng a stillness came.

“Down with it! Down with it!” they cried

At first; but soon that clamour died,

And many felt their ears a-flame,

And stole shy glances of distrust.

When the ancestral House of Prayer

Was to be levell’d—then and there,—

By hands unhallow’d, in the dust.

The Schoolmaster.

But countless bonds, they fancied, knitThem ever to the ghost of it,So long as yonder Palace lack’dThe final seal of consecration;And so in anguish’d expectationThey watch’d it growing into fact,And blinked before the glorious End,When the old tatter should descendAnd the new colours flaunt the gale.But ever as the spire upclombThey grew more silent and more pale,And now,—well, now the End is come.

But countless bonds, they fancied, knit

Them ever to the ghost of it,

So long as yonder Palace lack’d

The final seal of consecration;

And so in anguish’d expectation

They watch’d it growing into fact,

And blinked before the glorious End,

When the old tatter should descend

And the new colours flaunt the gale.

But ever as the spire upclomb

They grew more silent and more pale,

And now,—well, now the End is come.

The Sexton.

Look at the throng. Both young and oldSwarm hither.

Look at the throng. Both young and old

Swarm hither.

The Schoolmaster.

And by thousands told.—How still they are!

And by thousands told.—

How still they are!

The Sexton.

And yet they moan,Like sea fore-feeling tempest’s fret.

And yet they moan,

Like sea fore-feeling tempest’s fret.

The Schoolmaster.

It is the People’s hearts that groan,As if, with piercing doubts beset,The great new age they did forebode,Or were in solemn sessions metTo nominate another God.Where, where’s the priest,—I stifle here.Would heaven that I could disappear!

It is the People’s hearts that groan,

As if, with piercing doubts beset,

The great new age they did forebode,

Or were in solemn sessions met

To nominate another God.

Where, where’s the priest,—I stifle here.

Would heaven that I could disappear!

The Sexton.

I too, I too!

The Schoolmaster.

In hours like thisNo man well knows how deep he is.Each depth a deeper depth revealing,We will, then will not, and then doubt——

In hours like this

No man well knows how deep he is.

Each depth a deeper depth revealing,

We will, then will not, and then doubt——

The Sexton.

My friend!

The Schoolmaster.

My friend!

The Sexton.

H’m!

The Schoolmaster.

Speak it out!

The Sexton.

I think, in very truth, we’re feeling!

The Schoolmaster.

Feeling? Not I!

The Sexton.

Nor I, take warning!A single witness I defy!

Nor I, take warning!

A single witness I defy!

The Schoolmaster.

We’re men, not school-girls, you and I.My youngsters wait for me. Good-morning.[Goes.

We’re men, not school-girls, you and I.

My youngsters wait for me. Good-morning.

[Goes.

The Sexton.

Just now I’d visions like a fool:Now I’m again collected, cool,And close as clasps! To work I’ll press!Here’s no more scope for hand or tool,And Satan’s couch is idleness.[Goes out at the other side.

Just now I’d visions like a fool:

Now I’m again collected, cool,

And close as clasps! To work I’ll press!

Here’s no more scope for hand or tool,

And Satan’s couch is idleness.

[Goes out at the other side.

The organ, which during what precedes has been heard in an undertone, suddenly peals forth, and ends with a discordant shriek. Shortly afterwardsBrandcomes out.

Brand.

No, I vainly, vainly seekTo unlock the heart of sound;All the song becomes a shriek.Walls and arches, vault and ground,Seem to stoop and crowd and throng,Seem to clasp with iron force,Seem to close around the song,As the coffin round the corse!Vain my effort, vain my suit,All the organ’s music’s mute,Fain a prayer I would have spoken,But my lifted voice fell broken,—Like the muffled moan it fellOf a riven and rusted bell.’Twas as if the Lord were seatedIn the chancel, and beheld,And in wrath, while I entreated,All my piteous prayer repell’d!—Great shall be the House of God;In my confidence I swore it;Fearless, smote and wreck’d and tore it,Swept it level with the sod.Now the finish’d work stands fast.As the people throng before it,Still they cry: “How vast! how vast!”Is it they see true or I,Who no vastness can descry?Is it great? The thing I will’d,Is it inthisHouse fulfill’d?Can the rushing fire of passionThat begot it,herebe still’d?Was the Temple of this fashionThat I dream’d should overspanAll the misery of Man?Ah, had Agnes stay’d with me,Not thus vainly had I striven!Small things greatly she could see,From doubt’s anguish set me free,Clasp together Earth and HeavenLike the green roof of the tree.[He observes the preparations for the festival.]All with wreaths and banners hung;Children practising their song;So the Manse they surge and throng,—Festal greetings they would bring me;—Yonder gleams my name in gold!—Give me light, O God, or fling meFathom-deep beneath this mould!In an hour begins the FeastEvery thought and every tongueWill be ringing with “thepriest”priest”All their thoughts I can discern;All their words I feel them burn;All their praise, on elf-wings sped,Rives me like an icy blast!Oh, to be enfolded fastIn oblivion, hide my headIn a wild beast’s hole at last!

No, I vainly, vainly seek

To unlock the heart of sound;

All the song becomes a shriek.

Walls and arches, vault and ground,

Seem to stoop and crowd and throng,

Seem to clasp with iron force,

Seem to close around the song,

As the coffin round the corse!

Vain my effort, vain my suit,

All the organ’s music’s mute,

Fain a prayer I would have spoken,

But my lifted voice fell broken,—

Like the muffled moan it fell

Of a riven and rusted bell.

’Twas as if the Lord were seated

In the chancel, and beheld,

And in wrath, while I entreated,

All my piteous prayer repell’d!—

Great shall be the House of God;

In my confidence I swore it;

Fearless, smote and wreck’d and tore it,

Swept it level with the sod.

Now the finish’d work stands fast.

As the people throng before it,

Still they cry: “How vast! how vast!”

Is it they see true or I,

Who no vastness can descry?

Is it great? The thing I will’d,

Is it inthisHouse fulfill’d?

Can the rushing fire of passion

That begot it,herebe still’d?

Was the Temple of this fashion

That I dream’d should overspan

All the misery of Man?

Ah, had Agnes stay’d with me,

Not thus vainly had I striven!

Small things greatly she could see,

From doubt’s anguish set me free,

Clasp together Earth and Heaven

Like the green roof of the tree.

[He observes the preparations for the festival.]

All with wreaths and banners hung;

Children practising their song;

So the Manse they surge and throng,—

Festal greetings they would bring me;—

Yonder gleams my name in gold!—

Give me light, O God, or fling me

Fathom-deep beneath this mould!

In an hour begins the Feast

Every thought and every tongue

Will be ringing with “thepriest”priest”

All their thoughts I can discern;

All their words I feel them burn;

All their praise, on elf-wings sped,

Rives me like an icy blast!

Oh, to be enfolded fast

In oblivion, hide my head

In a wild beast’s hole at last!

The Mayor.

[Enters in full uniform, radiant with satisfaction, and greets him.]

Here is the great day come at last,The Sabbath to the toiling six;Now we can strike our sail, and fixOur Sunday pennon to the mast,Glide softly with the gliding floodAnd find that all is very good.Bravo!—great, noble man, whose fameWill soon be far and wide related.Bravo!—I’m moved, yet all the sameMost inexpressibly elated!But you appear——?

Here is the great day come at last,

The Sabbath to the toiling six;

Now we can strike our sail, and fix

Our Sunday pennon to the mast,

Glide softly with the gliding flood

And find that all is very good.

Bravo!—great, noble man, whose fame

Will soon be far and wide related.

Bravo!—I’m moved, yet all the same

Most inexpressibly elated!

But you appear——?

Brand.

I’msuffocated.suffocated.

The Mayor.

Pooh, a mere momentary whim!Preach you now, till it roars again!—Fill the folks’ bushel to the brim.Not one his wonder can contain,The resonance is so full and plain.

Pooh, a mere momentary whim!

Preach you now, till it roars again!—

Fill the folks’ bushel to the brim.

Not one his wonder can contain,

The resonance is so full and plain.

Brand.

Indeed?

The Mayor.

The Dean himself is warmIn admiration and delight.And then, what elegance of form,And what a grandeur, what a heightIn every part——

The Dean himself is warm

In admiration and delight.

And then, what elegance of form,

And what a grandeur, what a height

In every part——

Brand.

You’ve noted this?

The Mayor.

What noted?

Brand.

It seems great to you?

The Mayor.

Why, it not onlyseems, butis,No matter what the point of view.

Why, it not onlyseems, butis,

No matter what the point of view.

Brand.

It is great? Really? That is true—?

The Mayor.

Great?—yes, God bless me,—and to spare—For folks so far to North. ElsewhereThey’ve higher standards, I’maware.aware.But among us who captive dwellAmid drear wastes and barren mounds,On the scant verge of fjord and fell,Its greatness ’mazes and confounds.

Great?—yes, God bless me,—and to spare—

For folks so far to North. Elsewhere

They’ve higher standards, I’maware.aware.

But among us who captive dwell

Amid drear wastes and barren mounds,

On the scant verge of fjord and fell,

Its greatness ’mazes and confounds.

Brand.

Yes, that is so, and all we doIs,—change an old lie for a new.

Yes, that is so, and all we do

Is,—change an old lie for a new.

The Mayor.

What?

Brand.

We have lured their hearts awayFrom the time-honour’d gloom and mouldTo soaring spire and open day.“How venerable!” they cried of old.“How vast!” in chorus now they roar—“The like was never seen before!”

We have lured their hearts away

From the time-honour’d gloom and mould

To soaring spire and open day.

“How venerable!” they cried of old.

“How vast!” in chorus now they roar—

“The like was never seen before!”

The Mayor.

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