Chapter I: Love You, Kate (1)

Dreaming rapturously,
Dearest Kate,
Full elate
I seek your side to-night.
Long, weary hours I wait
Each day,
Each day,
To see the glorious light
Of your face,--
To me, earth’s rarest boon,
That makes my night
A summer’s day,
The summer’s day
A bright and vernal noon,
The noon eternity.
Oh, sitting beauteously
Upon Love’s throne aboon
With sceptered sway
O’er all my way,
Still of my night
Make one eternal sun
To shine thro’ space
With life and love and light
For aye
And aye;
Nor longer bid me wait,
But say me “yes” to-night;
Because, by fate
I love you, Kate!--
Oh will you marry me!

[In the above, first rhymes with last, second with second from
last, and so on.]

THE DEAD MAN’S LIFE.

(_That is, practically dead._)

Day after day have I secretly prayed
From the morn thro’ noon till night
That my life might discover some port in the west
Like the haven of sweet heaven’s Light.

Eve after eve as the sun has gone down,
With my eyes still turned to the west
I have prayed to the irised Pacific profound
For even its restful unrest.

Night after night in my bed full awake
I have dreamed myself weeping alone
In a silence as deep as the stars of the night
O’er a corse that I knew was my own.

Morn after morn have I risen from bed
With the fear and the hope of its truth,
Only to find that the death of the Dead
Is bought at the dream-god’s booth.

PITY THE POOR.

I pity the poor for I myself am poor,
Though I wear starched cuffs and collars;
But the brainless poor in rags I pity far more,
For they’ve neither _sense_ nor dollars.

I pity as much the hare-brained spendthrift wretch
With a wealth of only money;
The “sassiety” dude likewise whose droning speech
Smacks only of bumble-bee honey.

I pity all those at whom Poverty throws her dart
As they joust thro’ the world with each other;
But I pity the most of all the bankrupt heart
With no love for a human brother.

LIFE’S LOST SKIFF.

WRITTEN ON LAKE MICHIGAN.

_Prelude._

Green as emerald is Michigan;
And the waves,
Like ghosts from hungry graves,
Are tossing up my infant boat amain,
And kissing wild
The orphan ocean-child,
The rarest that has ever been,
The fairest that was ever seen.

_Morning._

Up drives the great red sun aslant,
The sea-gulls flap, and scream, and fly;
A score of sails the sun’s rays paint
Upon the burning western sky.

_Noon._

How silently and slow they steer!
Are the waves as wild out there the day,
And do the ships careen and veer
As she that drives so fast away?

_Night._

Dim shadows haunt the eastern steep,
The sun creeps up the glooming tower;
The sea-birds scream in winged sleep,
The ghostly billows wail the hour!

_Finale._

Green as emerald is Michigan;
And the waves,
Like ghosts in yawning graves,
Are tossing o’er my infant boat again,
Embracing wild
The orphan ocean-child,
The rarest that has ever been,
The fairest that was ever seen!

A CLOSE ATTACHMENT.

STRANGE STORY OF AMOS QUITO.

I have swept the airy heavens,
I have skimmed the rivers o’er;
I have slept upon the cloud-wing,
I have entered heaven’s door.
But in my peregrinations
Thro’ this world of ups and downs,
None have loved and none have sought me,
None have offered aught but frowns.

I have drunk the sweetest rain-drop
On its heaven-mission sent;
I have danced upon the rainbow
Where its colors fairest blent.
I have laughed and skipped and frolicked,
I have hummed my sweetest songs;
But I’ve never found the attachment
That I think to me belongs.

Ah, the world’s appreciation
Of my endless wealth and worth
Is a desiccated desert,
Is a sterile, arid dearth!
I’m the fairest of my fellows,
And the most affectionate;
Hence the world’s indifference to me
On my mighty soul doth grate.

I have kissed the blushing maiden,
I have lullabied to babies;
I have feasted on the features
Of a million lords and ladies.
’Tis the lover’s same old story--
Disappointment everywhere!
None have loved--except to hate me,
None have hated--save to spare!

Now at length my weary pinions,
Out of reach of mortal kind,
Rest from all men’s scorns and buffets,
And their first attachment find,
And I cannot choose but stay here
Where I’ll always stay to hum,
For I’ve reached life’s golden acme,--
I am stuck on chewing gum!

I am sleepy now, and happy,
Let profane hands not disturb;
Let none mar my wildest dreamings,
Nor ecstatic tumblings curb.
Since ’twas not in life permitted
That his blood I s-i-p,
May mankind write:

+--------------+
| AMOS QUITO! |
| LET HIM EVER |
| R.-I.-P. |
+--------------+

THE DEMONIAC.

Great God! and must I, must I live,
And can I never die,
I whom the press of sorrow’s hand
Hurled headlong from the sky?

How long, O Lord, must I thus wait,
How long in blasting blight,
Each idle day imploring death,
And dreaming death each night?

Each hour I fill some heart with woe,
And blast some heart with mine!
To me ’tis living death to know
My heart stills poisoned wine!

Ten million, million deaths I live
Each wasting, poisoned hour;
For, whom I love my presence damns--
I blight each blooming flower.

Oh that the grinning skeleton
This faithless flesh doth hold
Might lay its lying mantle off
To dream on downs of mould!

The leaf must fade, the sun must set,
The sweetest day must die;
But Death, Decay, and Woe must live,--
And so, and so must I!

Oh days to me are lengthened years,
The years like ages creep;
I’ve tossed ten million centuries
On life’s unfathomed deep!

I’ve seen the crawling sea-weed rot
In slime upon that sea,
And slimy things find birth therein
To live in death, like me.

I find no peace, I know no rest,
My very self I fly;--
Unfit to love, unfit to live,
And far less fit to die!

THE WEATHER FIEND.

Of the weather
Ask us whether
We enjoy it thus and thus;
If it suits us,
What it boots us,
If it matters much to us.

When it’s raining,
Come complaining
That “it’s muddy out today.”
It will please us
And will ease us
Of the thing we’d like to say.

When a blizzard
Like a lizard
Wriggles up and down your spine,
Don’t be fool-like,
Just keep cool, like
All green “pickles” on the vine.

If it’s cold out,
Don’t be sold out
When you tell somebody so
If he says he
’S melting as he
Gently mops his frigid brow.

If it’s snowing,
With a knowing
Wink within your “weather eye”
It is sound to
Say, “We’re bound to
Have some sleighing by and by.”

If we _shiver_
When your clever
Tongue remarks “_it’s hot as ’ile_,”
It’s because of
Those old _saws_ of
Weather that you always _file_.

We can stand it--
Yes, demand it,
That you be a weather bore,
For we never
Heard such clever
_Originality_ before.

WHO KNOWS!

Ah me!--
O’er the wide
Deep I glide
Where flows
For me
Either waters ’mid the plashes
Of the lacing star-light lashes,
Or a sea ’mid lightning gashes
With their booming cannon-crashes--
Who knows!
Ah me!

In the wide
River’s tide
Still flows
For me
Either waters bearing bubbles
From the waves that pelt the pebbles,
Or a muddy sea of troubles
With its melancholy trebles--
Who knows!
Ah me,
Ah me!

THE DEATH-HOWL.

I shall die to-night, dear mother, I have heard the long death-howl,
That long plaintive, mournful cry like the wail of some lost soul.

And it sounded like a spirit crying through a distant storm,
Moaning that another mortal should put on the brutish form!--

Wailing that a brother-spirit should exchange its form for that
Of the baying hound, or worse, of the death-rhymed Irish rat.

But my mother, darling mother! old Pythagoras was wrong,
For the death-howl dies away, and I hear the angel-song.

--Yet, I’ve heard that death-howl, mother, and I know I’ll die
to-night--
And the room is filling, filling with a strange, unearthly light!

Oh that glorious sight out yonder in the vast eternity
Where the light and song are leading--come! oh come and go with me!

Dearest mother, mother, mother! what a joyous, joyous sight!
Each glad soul as life has dreamed it clad in purest angel-white!

The death-howl’s died away, dear mother,--and I’m dying now
to-night!--
Good-night mother, earth’s dear angel, once more mother, sweet
good-night!

ON PLUCKING A CROCUS.

Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring,
Awake, with others sleeping,
How have I wrecked thy new-born life
And set thy parent weeping!

See! sad her weeping eyes upturning,
Adrip with love for thee,
And arms outstretched implore thy slayer
That thou’lt returnéd be.

Alas! in vain her tears must flow,
Her palms implore the youth
Who pluckéd thee from out her heart
And set in his such ruth.

I cannot give thee back--I would
I might! I’d send thee thither;
It grieveth me to see her weep,
To know that thou shalt wither.

My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked,
For thou not yet hadst won it,
How much I took, how little gave--
I would I had not done it.

Lift up thy drooping head again--
I would the word would do it!--
Make me not weep for plucking thee;
Thou know’st how much I rue it.

Thy pure and purple-tinted petals,
Thy open lily-lips,
Thy olden-golden anthered stamens
Thy saffron pistil-tips!--

Would I could here embalm them all
And wrap in verses meet
So that thou’dst be, when years should roll,
To others just as sweet!

_Envoy._

’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet,
The world shall greet thy song--
Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soul
To die amidst the throng.

And thus, O plucker of the crocus,
Shall Death come unto thee--
Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart,
Shall thy embalmer be.

So may’st thou live and do and be
That Death, with riches rife,
Shall be thy welcome harbinger,--
The crocus of thy life.

GRAVITY--LIFE!

(After Browning--several miles after.)

Gravity--what?
Attraction we call it,
Yet mind cannot thrall it--
Where is it not?
Life of world-stuff--truly it is!
--Life then of man?--His, and not his!
’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man;
’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span.
Matter, man! Gravity, life!
--Each fits to each; with the other at strife.
Life? It is--what?
Who can explain it?
Mind cannot chain it--
God! how ’tis wrought!

DEATH--LIFE.

Sadly o’er the moor I fare,
Lonely, lonely all the day;
Life nor leaf nor song is there;
Barren, barren all the way.

Sun and spring and hope are bright,
Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there;
Life will wake with love and light,
Joyous, joyous everywhere.

HOT?--WELL, RATHER!

The sun come peekin’ crost the hills
With round, red, shinin’, smilin’ face
That broadened to a grin from ear
To ear,--a most perdigeous space!

Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sides
An’ laughed an’ shook with all his might
To think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould be
Fer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night.

’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore
’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found
“Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot”
Before the minute-hand’s tenth round.

At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yet
No stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two;
All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”--
“The hottest day I ever knew!”

Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growed
Full two foot--ears pupo’tional;
An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripe
Like when you shuck it in the fall.

The steeples on the churches all
Was drawed to more’n three times their height,
An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wire
That melted off like wax ’fore night.

The weather-boardin’ all warped off
An’ shingles rolled in little tubes;
Big saw-logs doubled up in bows,
An’ water crystallized in cubes.

The hoops of barrels tumbled off
An’ wagon-tires follered suit;
The forests growed so awful fast
They all was pulled up by the root.

Men melted in the harvest-field
An’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff,
A-sizzlin’ in a way that made
Old Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh!

In one big city, folks all died
But Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took off
His flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones
(But it killed him;--caught cold, and died of a cough).

I can’t begin to tell how hot
It was--it can’t be even guessed.
It’s still so all-infernal hot
I can’t begin to try to rest.

A YEAR AGO.

A year ago
I held the fondest hopes
That ever touched the fondest heart,
Nor dreamed that I should ever part
From all that fancy opes,
A year ago.

A year ago!--
Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!--
A flower bloomed beneath my sill
And by its soft, enchanting smell
I lost all count of time
A year ago.

A year ago
I slept a bed of peace
Beneath the stars of summer skies
While dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyes
That this should never cease--
A year ago!

A year ago
My morning-glory vine,
Soft whispering with the wings of bees,
Foretold that whisperings like these
Should endlessly be mine--
A year ago!

A year ago
The sun light-kissed the moon,
Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung,
And mingled Life and Love and Song
Rode near their highest noon--
A year ago.

A year ago!--
Then, then each sister vine
Upon a brother sweetly leaned:
Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeaned
When Love had made you mine
A year ago.

A year ago
’Twas Love from sun to sun:
To-day I fold you to my heart
And know that nought but death can part
The love and life begun
A year ago.

THE SWEETEST OF ALL.

There are tears of pity and tears of woe,
And tears half of rapture and pain will fall;
And tears for excess of joy must flow,
But the tears of love are the sweetest of all.

There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife,
And the sorrow that knows no recall;
The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life,
But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all.

Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of pain
And the sighs of hope that the heart enthrall
May be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain,
But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all.

There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild,
The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall;
The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child,
But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all.

There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheer
And smiles that gladden wherever they fall;
There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear,
But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all.

There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips,
The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall;
There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips,
But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all.

There are songs that sing in a minor key,
And songs that the listening heart appall;
There are songs that sing like the constant sea,
But the songs of love are the sweetest of all.

THE LOVER’S COMPLAINT.

Sorrows live and pleasures dee,
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
And I’ll wear the willow-tree,
Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low.

For I loved a bonnie lass,
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas!
Willow-willow, whither did she go?

Here upon this willow-tree,
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
I will hang my harp, and dee,
Willow-willow, will she ever know?

On my heart I’ll place my hand
Willy-willy-waly wailing so!
On my head a green garland,
Willow-willow weeping sleeping so!

Then farewell, my bride and breath,
Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh!
Still I love you, tho’ my death,
Willow-willow wailing--will she know!

[The willow-tree is emblematical of death, or forsaken
love--which, to the lover, is, of course, all the same
thing. The custom of a disappointed lover’s hanging his
harp on a willow-tree and going off to the wars in utter
desperation--hoping to get killed, perhaps, and thus be
revenged on his false sweetheart by making her _sorry_!--;
also the custom of wearing a green-willow garland about the
hat, and leaning up against the tree (they had no fences) to
die, somewhat _à la_ Job’s turkey, I presume, as they used to
do before quicker, modern, new-fangled methods of a lover’s
getting out of the world came in; and the custom of doing
many other things that were done by the young ancient lovers,
is a custom that is dead. The preceding is the wail of one of
these youthful old dolorous fellows, in the English-Ballad
style of his day.]

BUZZ.

“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
In my ear the sound is drumming,
On my heart-chords ever strumming,
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”

Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion?
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Comes the sound from days of childhood
Thronging echoes thro’ the wildwood
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Youth has planted in profusion.

Thro’ the tangles wildly growing
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Crieth Hope, my lost companion,
Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon,
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
With the sap of manhood flowing.

“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Aged now I listen gladly
To the echoes that so sadly
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”

WASHINGTON.

_22 Feb._

Great Washington! Dear father of the land
Our glorious Lincoln died to save! thou who
Wast mightiest of men to beat the foe
In war; admired of every nation and
Of every hearth, yet more because thy hand
Was mightiest in peace; exalted thro’
The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue,
Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!--
For thee this day is made the nation’s day;
For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn,
And spangled blue of night are all unfurled,
Are all the emblems of our love for thee,
To liberty and home God’s greatest boon,
O noblest, grandest, best of all the world!

FREEDOM’S BATTLE SONG.

CANTUS FILIIS VETERANORUM.

We think the thoughts our fathers thought,
And sing the same old songs;
We fight the battles they have fought,
And right the same old wrongs.

CHORUS.

Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave,
Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free,
O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave,
O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty.

We breath, the air our fathers breathed,
Inspiring freedom still;
Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed,
And strike with dauntless will.

--_Chorus._

Behold the same old sun above,
The same old spangled dome
Forever shining out in love
On Freedom’s happy home.

--_Chorus._

We’ll guard the home our fathers won
And fight the latest foe;
We’ll stand by every loyal gun
Where Freedom’s streamers flow.

--_Chorus._

Beneath the stripes of red and white
And starry spangled blue,
Protected by the God of Right
We’ll fight the battle through.

--_Chorus._

We’ll bid defiance to the world
And make the welkin ring,
With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurled
And God above, our King.

--_Chorus._

’MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL.

My grief lies all within.--_Shakspere, Rich. II._

Tell me not that tears are sorrow,
Tell me not that grief must flow
Like sad drops of rain descending,
Or like streams in valleys low.

Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber,
In the heart that’s dumb with grief
There is eloquence, and mournful,
That doth shame all tear-relief.

From the heart of silent sorrow,
Clouds of woe can never rise,
And dissolve themselves with raining
To congeal in weeping eyes.

Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning,
And the soul may burst with grief;
Nought of weeping nor of moaning,
Nought of tears can give relief.

Deep among the soul’s great mountains,
Silent as the night doth come,
Clouds of grief may soft be raining,
Shrouding every hill in gloom.

Oh, along the channeled valleys,
Sad as Charon’s river’s roll,
Streams of grief may deep be flowing
’Mong the mountains of the soul.

HAL A-HUNTIN’.

Onct we went a-huntin’,
Pa ’n’ me, we did,
’N’ _I_ went ’long an’ tookt ol’
Rover.--’N’ we did
Have ist the mostest fun!--
’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun.

Rove ist _skeert_ the rabbits
Outen the grass,
’N’en Pa he shooted at ’em
When they runned pas’.
My landy! how they run!
Wushed _I’d_ a had a gun!

Pa ist shooted at ’em,
_Hard_, but couldn’t
Kill ’em, ’cause when _he’d_ shoot,
The _gun_--_w’y_--_wouldn’t_.
’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no fun
A-huntin’ wif _sich_ a gun.

My! but didn’t them rabbits
Go a scootin’!--
’N’ Rover after’m, ist a-
Skallyhootin’!
’N’ Pa said, “see what HE done”
(When he comed home) “_wif his gun!_”

’N’en the hired man ist
Laft an’ shook’n’
When he’d skun ’em all, he
Said, a-lookin’
Solemn-like (in fun),
“What a _dog-gone_ gun.”

’N’en when Ma she fried ’em
’N’ we was a-eatin’
Of ’em up, Ma said ’at
It was beatin’
How that dog could run!--
Guess he’s the goodest gun!

’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’
He scowled at me
_Awful_, ’n’ said, “You little
Young rascal, see
Here! what ’d you go’n’ haft
To tell for?” ’N’en they laft!

Wusht Pa’d take me wif him
Huntin’ again;
But he says ’at I’m too
Awful green--
Rabbits might eat me! I
Guess not! Wonder why?

WRITE FROM THE HEART.

Write from the heart straight outwards
When divinely the feelings glow,
Write for the soul’s satisfaction,
And you’ll fashion the best outward show.

Write as the June rose blossoms,
Always straight from the inside out
Slowly unfolding its petals
From the ports of its Power’s redoubt.

Then from the sweet breathing petals,
That I swear seem almost human to me,
Perfumes rush out thro’ the portals
In the drunkenest ecstasy.

So let your heart in your poem
Breathe its song like a living rose,
Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumes
As from soul unto soul it goes.

Write from the heart straight outwards,
Caring not for the glitter and show;--
Write as the showers from heaven,
Nor forget how the sweet roses blow.

WHITHER?

Whither this Highway, Child?
“To the Field of Flowers,--to the Flowers wild.”

Whither this Highway, Youth?
“Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.”

Whither this Highway, Man?
“Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.”

Whither this Highway, Sire?
“To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!”

Whither, oh whither, Tomb?--
But voiceless it points to the azure dome.

OUR ALMA MATER.

Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west!
Thou who hast taught our infant feet the way
Of light and truth! thou who hast been our stay
And prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zest
In strength’ning us would never let thee rest,
E’en in thy trials as in prosperity!
’Tis ours to-day in thy adversity

To aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test.
And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old,
Comest from forth thy ruined home, for aye
In broader fields to live and grow, from west
To east the lengthened shout is roll’d,
“’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee,
To us, of all the world the dearest, best!”

FATHER TIME.

I am the father of the river,
Of the sea, and of the mountain;
Of the sunlight that doth quiver
In the rainbow of the fountain.

I have raised up men and nations,
I have builded homes and cities;
I have given all their stations,
Him who scorns and him who pities.

I have forged the tears and sorrows
Of a Russia, broken-hearted,
Into chains of sad to-morrows
That but death of kings has parted.

I have woven joy and laughter,
Fairest of life’s flowers,
Into garlands that hereafter
Shall be worn in Eden’s bowers.

Oh the sorrows and the pleasures
Of the world in faultless rhyme
Blend the music of their measures
With the step of Father Time.

THUS LIFE’S TALE.

I.

Away out yonder on the great horizon
Sail, sail away;
Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen,
Sail, sail, nor stay.

II.

Away in the westward where the sun is dipping
Gold, gold from the sea,
Gold of a glorious El Dorado--
Sail, sail to-day.

III.

See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed:
Sail swift that way.
Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened,
Sail, sail nor stay.

IV.

The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis:
See, see my sail!
See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!--
Thus, thus life’s tale!

_Finale._

The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping:
Sailed, sailed away;
Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen,
Mourned, mourned the clay.

PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT.

ON THE KILLING OF SITTING BULL, 1891.

Sitting Bull and the other Sioux
Lived in the land where the blizzards blioux,
And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!--
Till one day they shot him thrioux
And kicked up an awful hullabalioux,--
Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux!
--_Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux._

ON KINGSLEY’S “FAREWELL.”

Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain;
Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throng
Upon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountain
Of moral song.

Oh listen to the music of the river
Along the channeled valleys of his soul
As its threnode-throbbing echoes on us ever
Their FAREWELL roll:--

“Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long,
And so make life, and death, and that vast forever
One grand, sweet song.”

THE TRANSFORMATION.

A PSYCHOLOGICAL MYSTERY.

I am not superstitious, not in the least. But that certain things which we cannot explain by any natural method may happen in the lives of us all, there is no longer a shadow of a doubt in my own mind.

I had gone to bed as usual and had been sleeping soundly one night, with only the faint glimmer of a sweet vision now and then flitting through my mind, when suddenly I was startled from my sleep into a lively consciousness of a strange presence, and weird, mournful sounds, as of a dirge, in my room. Moreover, there was a peculiar sensation in my head, a sensation that I have never before or since felt, a kind of pain, yet not a pain; for in some indefinable way it was mysteriously mingled with a peculiar, almost transporting rapture that seemed to permeate my whole being. Indeed, the pain, starting immediately between my brows and running back to my crown, seemed born of this pleasurable sensation, which had no local residence but was in every nerve and fibre, both together producing that indescribable exhilarating feeling that I imagine the truly happy in the next world possess. But, you say, surely the angels have no pain. I hope not; but this I have learned, that every pleasure of earth has its pain. And as I cannot say that this sensation was altogether that of a mortal, I cannot say from experience that there is a pleasure without a pain.

For a moment after awaking, I could not tell where I was or what was going on. But my senses being quickly roused to their fullest keenness, I soon saw I was in my own room. But the matter of the presence and the weird sound was not so easily solved.

I lay quietly for a time, trying to persuade myself that I had been dreaming and that my waking fancy was merely the hallucination of the dream that had not yet passed away. Have you never done the like? However, I soon realized that the presence and the sound, whoever or whatever they were, were not mere fancy. Still I tried to shake off the feeling that some one had entered my room; for, as is my custom, I had securely barred the front door, also my bed-room door, before retiring. Besides, no one could possibly have climbed in at my windows of the second story without my knowing it; for when I am so nervous as I was this night, the slightest sound will waken me. I turned over and looked out of the window. The moon was still shining, and the trees swayed with a soft murmur in answer to the light breeze that wantoned among the virgin May leaves just lately from the bud. There were the houses, the barns, the road, everything, in fact, just as it really was, and I knew I could not possibly be asleep.

Still, that consciousness of a presence in my room, stronger and stronger grown until it had reached conviction, I could not rid myself of; nor could I shut my ears to the mournful sounds that came from somewhere--everywhere, it seemed.

Suddenly--most wonderful to tell!--I saw the very faintest streak of light creep up the farther wall of my room.

All that I have related did not, perhaps, occupy more than a full minute, though I must confess it seemed much longer.

The thread of light, different from all lights I have ever before seen, moved toward the ceiling rapidly, and held me in breathless attention. What could it be!--A ray of the moon through a slit in the curtain that was gently moved by the breeze blowing through the window? Wait! It reached the ceiling. Then with such a delicate light that it was almost imperceptible, it crept along the ceiling diagonally toward me. When it got immediately above my head, it stopped. What in the world could it be!

I lay almost breathless, wondering. Wouldn’t you, my friend, if you should see such a thing in your room? You may not know what you would do in such case. Possibly you say you would investigate at once. So, too, had I said many a time,--I would investigate whatever was strange, doubtful, or inexplicable. But if your hands would not move, if your feet lay motionless, and if your whole being were thrilled with a thralling rapture and pain all at once, you would probably do just as I did,--lie there fascinated.

Suddenly, like a flash, something struck me on the forehead, and instantly I sat bolt upright in bed. As I rose, whatever it was that struck me bounded off on the bed, then down on the floor, that mysterious filmy thread of light following it, and at the same time clinging to my forehead. I put my hand up to brush it away. But when I touched it (if I really did touch it, which I doubt, for my hand seemed suddenly arrested), my whole body trembled as if shaken by some supernatural power. It was something more than a light,--it was a film, a thread; and at my touch upon it, that sensation of mingled pain and rapture was almost beyond my power to survive. I let my hand drop from it, and unable to resist doing what I did, I rose from my bed and started to follow up that thread of light and film; for somehow it seemed attached to my brain, and I involuntarily obeyed the will of whoever or whatever it was that controlled it. Though fully conscious of all I was doing, I could not resist. Great beads of sweat stood on my body, caused partly, I suppose, by extreme nervous excitement and partly by this influence upon me.

I would have hastened from the room, screamed for help, or cried “murder!” but it was impossible. Even the rapidity of my steps was under control, and I marched slowly, deliberately, and solemnly, as to martial music of the dead.

I passed from my sleeping-room to my study, obedient to the slightest inclination of the supernatural power that controlled the thread by which I was led.

When I reached my study-chair at my desk, I obediently sat down. Then for the first time I beheld the object that was exerting this power over me. I have seen many an object before and since very similar to it, but never at any time another just like it.

As I sat in my chair, my eyes riveted on the thread of light, suddenly that object appeared at the other end of the thread on a pile of blank writing paper that lay on my desk, and eyed me intently. I was horrified, and if possible, less capable of resisting than before. What I beheld, and what was exerting this supernatural influence over me was nothing more nor less than a horrible, ugly spider!--a supernatural spider, most certainly; different, I tell you, from any I have ever before or since seen.

As I sat watching the spider, it began moving up and down, back and forth, and round and round on the paper in the most irregular motions imaginable. Being rather large and clumsy-looking, his movements, so very irregular though really not ungraceful, made the spider at first look awkward.

Wonder upon wonder! As the spider began moving, another one, somewhat smaller than the first, and more dimly seen, with even a finer thread of light (attached, too, to the first spider’s thread), made its appearance on another pile of paper. Could it be that a whole army of spiders had convened to work my destruction, and that these two were only the picket-guards? Yet it did seem that this one was not present, but only the vision of a spider, existing somewhere in reality, but present only to my mind. This, too, I am persuaded to believe, was really the case. But the other one, the larger one, I swear was there moving on my paper; and I still have the paper in my possession as proof. As this one began to move, the visionary one also began to move; as if each, unconscious of the acts of the other, was nevertheless controlled by the action of the other, and the influence upon each other was mutual. As they both moved, I noticed they left their shining, filmy thread upon the paper. But I was so intent upon every motion that I paid no attention to the web left behind, until each spider, having almost reached the right-hand side of the paper, cut his thread, went to the left, and began again to go through similar motions.

What could be the meaning of this mystic spider-dance? Such, indeed, it now seemed to be; for my first impression of irregularity and clumsiness had now worn away, and their motions now seemed to be in perfect unison, and measured with the grace and harmony of rhythm. The room was but dimly lighted by the rays of moon that slipped in under the curtains, yet I could see the spiders and their work plainly. I glanced at the glowing web the first spider had left, and--wonderful to relate!--as true as the sun shines above us, there at the top of the page in writing that, had it been in ink, I would have sworn was my own, the glowing web had been woven in and out so as to read, _Happy Days of Yore!_

Could it be possible?--was I not dreaming? I looked and read and read and looked again and again. But there it was, plain as day, in a style of writing, too, I say, that I would have sworn was my own had it been in ink instead of woven in a glowing web. But why those words? Could there be something in my life, past or present, that those words were to taunt me about? My whole life’s history trailed before my eyes, a galaxy of pleasant memories. No, nothing there that these words could make regretful. Could it then portend something of a dark future? God alone knows!

Thus meditating, my eye caught the less distinct glow of the web of the other spider. Heavens! what next! There, as distinct as if written by the hand of my old chum, were the words, _Memories of the Past_. Here was a mystery growing deeper and deeper each moment. I would willingly have taken my oath, and will to this day, that the handwriting was that of my boyhood chum and present dear old friend.

_Happy Days of Yore_,--_Memories of the Past_. How was I to solve the mystery of the weaving of these words and fathom their intended meaning? Both suggested to my mind a similar train of thought. But why this mysterious writing?

As I sat thus meditating, I again became conscious of that weird sound of which I have previously spoken, but which (my mind being so preoccupied with what was before it) I had not again noticed until I fell into this meditation.

It sounded like the sweet, sad blending of mournful voices singing, or chanting, rather, to the deep tones of a distant organ. I recalled myself and looked at the large spider, when I discovered that--mystery of mysteries!--the echo-like organ voice and solemn chanting music came from the spider alone as he moved across the paper, weaving his golden web into rhythmic words! There, as the music went on, I read in illuminated characters of the weaving spider’s web.--

Oh those happy days of yore
Will come back to me no more!
Ah no more, no more for aye!--
They have fled with time away,
And my heart is sad and lone
As I dream forevermore,
With a heaving sigh and groan,
Of those happy days of yore.

Most wonderful!--wonderful not in the words so much, for they were simple, plain, and as they moved to the music, graceful withal, seeming to be words that might come from a sincere and true but untutored poetic heart; wonderful, therefore, rather, that they should be woven by a spider, and that, too, with a web of light.

As in eager wonder I leaned my ear closer, the vision of the second and more delicate spider, likewise weaving, passed before my eyes, and I caught the distant strains of a deeper, sadder, sweeter melody, with these words woven in the finer, more delicate thread of light.--

Oh how sweet those days of boyhood,
Oh how dear those happy hours
When I rambled through the forests
’Mong the birds and trees and flowers!
Life lay smiling all before me,
No regrets, no cares behind;
All the earth seemed bright with beauty,
Life was freedom unconfined.
I rejoiced whene’er the sunlight
Scattered wide its golden beams,
Thinking not that I should ever
Miss its light or prize its gleams.

Still more wonderful and remarkable than anything before was the similarity of music as well as of thought: more wonderful and more remarkable because neither spider seemed conscious of the other’s action or presence. Indeed, as I have already said, only one really was present; the other existing in another place, and only _psychologically_ present to me. This latter fact, shown in all that follows, I tell you, is the most remarkable psychological problem I have ever met--except one!--nor have I ever yet found sage or savant able to solve it. Many have tried it, wondered at it more and more as they got more and more into its depths and subtle intricacies, and finally in their weakness have given it up. Herbert Spencer, McCosh, and other lesser philosophers cannot satisfy themselves upon it.

My interest was now, if possible, even greater than before. Again I turned my attention to the present spider as in melody it wove.--

Oh those days of sweetest thought!
Oh those days with rapture fraught!
Had I known when but a child
What great blessings round me smiled,
With a wild, exulting leap
I’d have struck on wisdom’s door;
Piled up knowledge heap on heap
In those happy days of yore.

Both were weaving rapidly, as if their very lives were an ephemeral inspiration, and they were thus weaving it away in illuminated letters, that at least that inspiration might live, though the very weaving should cost both their lives. So I hastened again to look, and to listen to the other richer and deeper melody.--

Ah, those days are gone forever;
Time has wafted them away;
Happiness now seems a phantom
Of a joyous yesterday.
If I could but live them over,
All those careless, happy hours,
Start again in life’s fair morning
O’er life’s path of thorns and flowers,
Not a moment would be wasted
Chasing bubbles in the air--
I would seek the pearls of knowledge,
And the gems of wisdom wear.

Could it be that those two spiders were endowed with human faculties, and that those faculties were now working in unison, inspired by the same thought, the same feeling? I had little time to meditate this, for both wrote (I can’t help saying they _wrote_) as rapidly as slow music goes, or about as rapidly as I am writing this; and the first spider had already begun the third stanza.--

Could I live again those days
That I spent in idle plays
And could know of learning’s worth,
I’d not waste my time in mirth;--
I would climb the hill of fame
And on wisdom’s wings would soar
Till I caught the beacon flame
In those happy days of yore.

I then involuntarily turned to the other; but finding that it had completed a page, as indeed both had done, I removed the finished sheet of the visible one and at the same instant and by the same act removed that of the psychologically visible one; though how this latter was accomplished even psychologists are at their wits’ end to explain. Even to the close I continued thus to remove the finished sheets as soon as they were completed. And now from the second I heard.--

Had I known of wisdom’s power
In those days with pleasure fraught,
From the mines of truth and beauty
Golden trophies I’d have brought.
All the lore of bygone ages
From my books I would have learned;
O’er the bards I would have pondered
Tho’ my lamp till morning burned;
All the broad empire of Nature
With its wealth of laws divine
Should have shown to me the beauty
Of Omnipotent design.

While I listened to this, the first spider, apparently conscious of my abstraction, had waited; but on again bending my eyes in that direction, again the sad melody floated upwards and away to the heart-felt words.--

Oh, my heart grows weak and faint,
And it sighs in sad complaint
As it dreams its dreams of woe
Of the silent long ago.
And a pain is at my heart,
Not alone for wisdom’s lore,
For ’twas pierced by sorrow’s dart
In those happy days of yore.

What strange tale could this be I was listening to? I turned to the second weaver of words to mournful melody, and caught the same spirit in these similar words.--

I’d have read that revelation
Traced by our Creator’s hand
Over all our glorious planet,
In the sky and sea and land.
High and bright the lamp of knowledge
Shone for all who’d seek its light;
Ah, how oft I scorned to seek it
In the glare of pleasures bright!
Oft upon the dreary mountain
Have my weary footsteps strayed:--
But ’tis not for wisdom only
That my vain regrets are made.

So! what a train of unutterable sadness the last words of each called up, suggesting some strange sorrow that must force itself into expression of sorrowing strains of music, tuned to even sadder words. Ah yes! to the first, listen!--

_She_ was like a radiant rose
That with sweetness overflows.
Her bright eyes were darkest blue
And her hair a golden hue.
She was lovely as the day,
And within her breast she bore
Heart as light and bright and gay
As those happy days of yore.

Breathlessly I turned to the cadence of the other.--

In those days of idle dreaming,
Ere life’s toils I’d entered in,
Fancy framed for me an image
Of the one I’d woo and win.
It was in an idle romance
My ideal played a part;
But that image, framed in fancy,
Soon was graven on my heart,
And I said, “That maiden only
Of my ideal’s charms complete
Shall have power to lead me captive
And to bring me to her feet.”

Ah, ’tis the old, old story that ever sings itself in the human heart, the story of love. But can it be these spiders are human that they should thus weave their gold-enlighted words to silver chords of harmony?

Once more!--To the first rhythmic weaver, a pleasing recollection.--

We were playmates, she and I,
In that happy time gone by:
Oft we’d walk the meadows over
Hunting for the four-leaved clover
As we’d seen the lovers do;
We the woods would oft explore
Where the fragrant flowers grew
In those happy days of yore.

And then to the second, the same image, lifting upward and away, above the clover-blooms and forest-flowers of sweet memory, comes like the peace of a benediction; and the words weave to quicker though to still sad notes.--

Time passed on and boyish fancies
Were by youth’s bright hopes replaced;
Gay companions were around me,--
Every pleasure we embraced.
And among those friends and schoolmates,
There was one surpassing fair:
Light her heart and light her footstep,
Blue her eyes and gold her hair.
Then her pure and gentle spirit
Shone abroad like smiles from heaven.--
Ah, such divine gifts of beauty
Seldom are to mortals given.

The first one had now finished two pages; the second, three. How much more they would weave I neither knew nor thought. I was too much fascinated by the weirdness and reality of it all to think of anything but the two stories that were being thus wonderfully--thus psychologically though not supernaturally--revealed to me in beauty by ugly spiders that wrought together; each, I knew, unconscious of the other. This fact of each being unconscious of the words, thoughts, and music of the other, and the fact that the web of one was woven into characters to represent my handwriting, while that of the other was the illuminated work of my old chum, gave the two songs an interest that no one else can even approach. No, not even if the same situation should present itself to him, and the spiders should be actually before him, as their work, robbed of all these fascinating features, now is.

Both now wove more and more rapidly, and it was only when the first had woven the following whole page of manuscript that I turned to the other.--

Oft when twilight slowly crept
Over hill and vale that slept,
We would wander side by side
In the golden eventide
By the school-house on the hill
Where so oft we’d been before,
Or beside the water-mill
In those happy days of yore.

Oh those days,--sweet, happy days!
Ever round my mind there plays
Fitful Fancy’s dear delight,
Bringing back the time so bright
When we wandered hand in hand
To the little country store,
And the mystic future planned
In those happy days of yore.

New years came as old ones went;
Childhood’s years at last were spent;
We from friends to lovers grew
And nor pain nor sorrow knew.
Oh how fondly did I dream
Folding close my fond Lenore
As we sailed adown life’s stream
In those happy days of yore!

Here the sad-voiced dreamer paused a moment, then glided to the top of the page and waited for me to remove the leaf, while I read and half aloud chanted from the illuminated page of the other this master-melody:--

When she came, ’twas like the sunbeam
Shedding gladness o’er the lea;
When she’d gone, ’twas like the ceasing
Of enchanting melody.
Oft when daily tasks were over,
She and I together strolled
From the hamlet to the seaside
Where the restless billows rolled.
Hours and hours we’d wander, gathering
Treasures from the shifting sand
As each ebbing tide receding
Left its wonders on the strand.

Long we’d watch the stately vessels
Riding proudly o’er the foam,
Some for distant countries steering,
Some returning--bound for home.
Then we’d seek the peaceful harbor
Where our little sail-boat lay,
And while skimming o’er the waters
Laugh and sing the hours away.
Then at twilight, when all nature
Save the sea was hushed and still,
We would turn our footsteps homeward
To the hamlet on the hill.

So pleasing was this recollection that I could not yet turn away, but listened rather than read, as the musician continued on the next page; for he had finished this, and the harmony continued unbroken.

And that image framed in boyhood
Of the one I’d woo and win,
Ah, my ideal!--I had found her
In my darling Evylyn.
But the dim, uncertain future!--
Oh that we could raise the veil
And by gazing down the valley
Know what fortune would prevail;
Whether joy or blinding sorrow,
Gladness or unending woe,
Should forever be our portion
While we linger here below.

Two short summers I had known her,
Years that seemed like one bright day;
But at last the spell was broken,
And my gladness fled away:
Duty called me from that hamlet
Where youth’s happy days were spent
Out into the great, free, wide world,
And with brightest hopes I went.
Ah, that parting by the seaside
One bright evening in the spring
By the dear old friendly ocean--
There I gave the engagement ring.

Just here a sharp pain in my right forefinger interrupted the music, and reminded me that I had not removed the completed page of the first harmony-breathing minstrel. I immediately did so, and at once the billows of subdued music swept through the room to the perfect time of the weaver’s words in portentous minstrelsy.--

In the bright and merry spring,
Then I gave the engagement ring;
And in sweet and holy bliss
Sealed our vow with Love’s own kiss.
Heart and hope and thought were one
As we walked as heretofore
Where the brooklet used to run
In those happy days of yore.

But the future none can tell
And, or weal or woe, ’tis well;
For, if it were otherwise,
When the mystic veil should rise
And reveal what is to come,
Happiness would be no more;--
Hearts would call to hearts but dumb
In those happy days of yore.

Could we gaze on life’s emprise,
Frozen tears would dim our eyes;
Rippling laughs on lips would freeze
As the future’s death-cold breeze
Chilled the life of loving hearts;
Happy days would come no more,
And we’d sigh with fitful starts
For those happy days of yore.

Here I noticed the striking difference (the only difference throughout the two poems) between the wishes of the two, both passionately and beautifully put, and paused a moment to grasp the full meaning. But only a moment, for I was too interested in this enchanting symphony to wait longer. Already the poet in spider’s form that was the more delicate, beautiful, and pathetic was continuing.--

In a distant western city
Far away from that loved spot,
I began the strife in earnest,
Not complaining of my lot;
For in two years from our parting
I’d return and claim my own.
So I worked and dreamed and waited,
Cheered by that one thought alone.
Fortune smiled on my endeavors,
And each week a message brought
From that one beside the seashore
Who was ever in my thought.

But at last the darkness gathered,--
Clouds as dark as Ethiop’s land.
One dark day there came a letter
Written by a stranger’s hand.
Evylyn, it said, was drooping,
Drooping, fading very fast;
Though she would admit no danger,
Her short life would soon be past.
Many months, the message stated,
She had faded day by day;
Yet to me each cherished letter
Had been cheerful, bright, and gay.

I found myself so in sympathy with the two spiders--or poets and musicians, rather, in spider form--that I pitied them deeply, and--shall I say?--loved them. The first melodist continued more mournfully, and to slower, sad, and muffled music.--

All the spring and summer long
Did I list the seraph-song.
But when autumn came around
With a sighing, mournful sound,
My sweet blossom faded fast;
And my radiant, fond Lenore
Yielded to the chilling blast
In those autumn days of yore!

As the flowers fade and die
’Neath the cold and cloudless sky,
So my Darling drooped and died!
And my dear intended bride
With a long and last farewell
Crossed the silent waters o’er
While we tolled her funeral knell
In those parting days of yore!

In the deepest dearth of night
When the starry dome was bright,
Came the angels round her bed;
And they numbered with the dead
My angelic, radiant Love
Whom the seraphs named Lenore,
Wafting here away above,--
Saddest, saddest days of yore!

I am not a man who easily gives way to feeling; but the plaintiveness of the music and the mournfulness of the simple words made me forget the mysterious bard that was weaving this tale of pathos, and I bowed my head in sorrow, with my heart full of pity and love for both the afflicted and the noble-hearted sweet departed. As I did so, the threnodic notes, as if dying away in the echoing distance of the blue dome above, thus came from the heart of the other minne-singer.--