Part 19

_Hail, mighty Rimmon, ruler of the whirl-storm, Hail, shaker of mountains, breaker-down of forests, Hail, thou who roarest terribly in the darkness, Hail, thou whose arrows flame across the heavens! Hail, great destroyer, lord of flood and tempest, In thine anger almighty, in thy wrath eternal, Thou who delightest in ruin, maker of desolations, Immeru, Addu, Berku, Rimmon! See we tremble before thee, low we bow at thine altar, Have mercy upon us, be favourable unto us, Save us from our enemy, accept our sacrifice, Barku, Immeru, Addu, Rimmon!_

[Silence follows, all bowing down.]

REZON: O King, last night the counsel from above Was given in answer to our divination. Ambassadors must go forthwith to crave Assyria's pardon, and a second offer Of the same terms of peace we did reject Not long ago.

BENHADAD: Dishonour! Yet I see No other way! Assyria will refuse, Or make still harder terms. Disaster, shame For this gray head, and ruin for Damascus!

REZON: Yet may we trust Rimmon will favour us, If we adhere devoutly to his worship. He will incline his brother-god, the Bull, To spare us, if we supplicate him now With costly gifts. Therefore I have prepared A sacrifice: Rimmon shall be well pleased With the red blood that bathes his knees to-night!

BENHADAD: My mind is dark with doubt,--I do forebode Some horror! Let me go,--I am an old man,-- If Naaman my captain were alive! But he is dead,--the glory is departed!

[He rises, trembling, to leave the throne. Trumpet sounds,--NAAMAN'S call;--enter NAAMAN, followed by soldiers; he kneels at the foot of the throne.]

BENHADAD: [Half-whispering.] Art thou a ghost escaped from Allatu? How didst thou pass the seven doors of death? O noble ghost I am afraid of thee, And yet I love thee,--let me hear thy voice!

NAAMAN: No ghost, my King, but one who lives to serve Thee and Damascus with his heart and sword As in the former days. The only God Has healed my leprosy: my life is clean To offer to my country and my King.

BENHADAD: [Starting toward him.] O welcome to thy King! Thrice welcome!

REZON: [Leaving his seat and coming toward NAAMAN.] Stay! The leper must appear before the priest, The only one who can pronounce him clean.

[NAAMAN turns; they stand looking each other in the face.]

Yea,--thou art cleansed: Rimmon hath pardoned thee,-- In answer to the daily prayers of her Whom he restores to thine embrace,--thy wife.

[TSARPI comes slowly toward NAAMAN.]

NAAMAN: From him who rules this House will I receive Nothing! I seek no pardon from his priest, No wife of mine among his votaries!

TSARPI: [Holding out her hands.] Am I not yours? Will you renounce our vows?

NAAMAN: The vows were empty,--never made you mine In aught but name. A wife is one who shares Her husband's thought, incorporates his heart With hers by love, and crowns him with her trust. She is God's remedy for loneliness, And God's reward for all the toil of life. This you have never been to me,--and so I give you back again to Rimmon's House Where you belong. Claim what you will of mine,-- Not me! I do renounce you,--or release you,-- According to the law. If you demand A further cause than what I have declared, I will unfold it fully to the King.

REZON: [Interposing hurriedly.] No need of that! This duteous lady yields To your caprice as she has ever done: She stands a monument of loyalty And woman's meekness.

NAAMAN: Let her stand for that! Adorn your temple with her piety! But you in turn restore to me the treasure You stole at midnight from my tent.

REZON: What treasure! I have stolen none from you.

NAAMAN: The very jewel of my soul,--Ruahmah! My King, the captive maid of Israel, To whom thou didst commit my broken life With letters to Samaria,--my light, My guide, my saviour in this pilgrimage,-- Dost thou remember?

BENHADAD: I recall the maid,-- But dimly,--for my mind is old and weary, She was a fearless maid, I trusted her And gave thee to her charge. Where is she now?

NAAMAN: This robber fell upon my camp by night,-- While I was with Elisha at the Jordan,-- Slaughtered my soldiers, carried off the maid, And holds her somewhere in imprisonment. O give this jewel back to me, my King, And I will serve thee with a grateful heart For ever. I will fight for thee, and lead Thine armies on to glorious victory Over all foes! Thou shalt no longer fear The host of Asshur, for thy throne shall stand Encompassed with a wall of dauntless hearts, And founded on a mighty people's love, And guarded by the God of righteousness.

BENHADAD: I feel the flame of courage at thy breath Leap up among the ashes of despair. Thou hast returned to save us! Thou shalt have The maid; and thou shalt lead my host again! Priest, I command you give her back to him.

REZON: O master, I obey thy word as thou Hast ever been obedient to the voice Of Rimmon. Let thy fiery captain wait Until the sacrifice has been performed, And he shall have the jewel that he claims. Must we not first placate the city's god With due allegiance, keep the ancient faith, And pay our homage to the Lord of Wrath?

BENHADAD: [Sinking back upon his throne in fear.] I am the faithful son of Rimmon's House,-- And lo, these many years I worship him! My thoughts are troubled,--I am very old, But still a King! O Naaman, be patient! Priest, let the sacrifice be offered.

[The High Priest lifts his rod. Gongs and cymbals sound. The curtain is rolled back, disclosing the image of Rimmon; a gigantic and hideous idol, with a cruel human face, four horns, the mane of a lion, and huge paws stretched in front of him enclosing a low altar of black stone. RUAHMAH stands on the altar, chained, her arms are bare and folded on her breast. The people prostrate themselves in silence, with signs of astonishment and horror.]

REZON: Behold the sacrifice! Bow down, bow down!

NAAMAN: [Stabbing him.] Bow thou, black priest! Down,--down to hell! Ruahmah! do not die! I come to thee.

[NAAMAN rushes toward her, attacked by the priests, crying "Sacrilege! Kill him!" But the soldiers stand on the steps and beat them back. He springs upon the altar and clasps her by the hand. Tumult and confusion. The King rises and speaks with a loud voice, silence follows.]

BENHADAD: Peace, peace! The King commands all weapons down! O Naaman, what wouldst thou do? Beware Lest thou provoke the anger of a god.

NAAMAN: There is no God but one, the Merciful, Who gave this perfect woman to my soul That I might learn through her to worship Him, And know the meaning of immortal Love.

BENHADAD: [Agitated.] Yet she is consecrated, bound, and doomed To sacrificial death; but thou art sworn To live and lead my host,--Hast thou not sworn?

NAAMAN: Only if thou wilt keep thy word to me! Break with this idol of iniquity Whose shadow makes a darkness in the land; Give her to me who gave me back to thee; And I will lead thine army to renown And plant thy banners on the hill of triumph. But if she dies, I die with her, defying Rimmon.

[Cries of "Spare them! Release her! Give us back our Captain!" and "Sacrilege! Let them die!" Then silence, all turning toward the King.]

BENHADAD: Is this the choice? Must we destroy the bond Of ancient faith, or slay the city's living hope! I am an old, old man,--and yet the King! Must I decide?--O let me ponder it!

[His head sinks upon his breast. All stand eagerly looking at him.]

NAAMAN: Ruahmah, my Ruahmah! I have come To thee at last! And art thou satisfied?

RUAHMAH: [Looking into his face.] Belovéd, my belovéd, I am glad Of all, and glad for ever, come what may. Nothing can harm me,--since my lord is come!

APPENDIX

CARMINA FESTIVA

THE LITTLE-NECK CLAM

A modern verse-sequence, showing how a native American subject, strictly realistic, may be treated in various manners adapted to the requirements of different magazines, thus combining Art-for-Art's-Sake with Writing-for-the-Market. Read at the First Dinner of the American Periodical Publishers' Association, in Washington, April, 1904.

I

THE ANTI-TRUST CLAM

For _McClure's Magazine_

The clam that once, on Jersey's banks, Was like the man who dug it, free, Now slave-like thro' the market clanks In chains of corporate tyranny.

The Standard Fish-Trust of New York Holds every clam-bank in control; And like base Beef and menial Pork, The free-born Clam has lost its soul.

No more the bivalve treads the sands In freedom's rapture, free from guilt: It follows now the harsh commands Of Morgiman and Rockabilt.

Rise, freemen, rise! Your wrath is just! Call on the Sherman Act to dam The floods of this devouring Trust, And liberate the fettered Clam.

II

THE WHITMANIAC CLAM

For the _Bookman_

Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes of bonnie Ayr, Not even Shakspere on the shores of Avon,--ah, no! Not one of those great bards did taste true Poet's Fare.

But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and New Jersey, Found there the sustenance of mighty ode and psalm, And while his rude emotions swam around in verse, he Fed chiefly on the wild, impassioned, sea-born clam.

Thus in his work we feel the waves' bewildering motion, And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird and wild: His clam-filled bosom answered to the voice of ocean, And rose and fell responsively with every tide.

III

IL MERCATORE ITALIANO DELLA CLAMMA

For the _Century Magazine_

"Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet, The Dago's cry along the New York street! "Dago" we call him, like the thoughtless crowd; And yet this humble man may well be proud To hail from Petrarch's land, Boccaccio's home,-- Firenze, Gubbio, Venezia, Rome,-- From fair Italia, whose enchanted soil Transforms the lowly cotton-seed to olive-oil.

To me his chant, with alien accent sung, Brings back an echo of great Virgil's tongue: It seems to cry against the city's woe, In liquid Latin syllables,--_Clamo_! As thro' the crowded street his cart he jams And cries aloud, ah, think of more than clams! Receive his secret plaint with pity warm, And grant Italia's plea for Tenement-House Reform!

IV

THE SOCIAL CLAM

For the _Smart Set_

Fair Phyllis is another's bride: Therefore I like to sit beside Her at a very smart set dinner, And whisper love, and try to win her.

The little-necks,--in number six,-- That from their pearly shells she picks And swallows whole,--ah, is it selfish To wish my heart among those shell-fish?

"But Phyllis is another's wife; And if she should absorb thy life 'Twould leave thy bosom vacant."--Well, I'd keep at least the empty shell!

V

THE RECREANT CLAM

For the _Outlook_

Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze, Because thy slothful spirit doth refuse The bliss of battle and the strain of strife. Rise, craven clam, and lead the strenuous life!

A FAIRY TALE

For the Mark Twain Dinner, December 5, 1905

Some three-score years and ten ago A prince was born at Florida, Mo.; And though he came _incognito_, With just the usual yells of woe, The watchful fairies seemed to know Precisely what the row meant; For when he was but five days old, (December fifth as I've been told,) They pattered through the midnight cold, And came around his crib, to hold A "Council of Endowment."

"I give him Wit," the eldest said, And stooped above the little bed, To touch his forehead round and red. "Within this bald, unfurnished head, Where wild luxuriant locks shall spread And wave in years hereafter, I kindle now the lively spark, That still shall flash by day and dark, And everywhere he goes shall mark His way with light and laughter."

The fairies laughed to think of it That such a rosy, wrinkled bit Of flesh should be endowed with Wit! But something serious seemed to hit The mind of one, as if a fit Of fear had come upon her. "I give him Truth," she quickly cried, "That laughter may not lead aside To paths where scorn and falsehood hide,-- I give him Truth and Honour!"

"I give him Love," exclaimed the third; And as she breathed the mystic word, I know not if the baby heard, But softly in his dream he stirred, And twittered like a little bird, And stretched his hands above him. The fairy's gift was sealed and signed With kisses twain the deed to bind: "A heart of love to human-kind, And human-kind to love him!"

"Now stay your giving!" cried the Queen. "These gifts are passing rich I ween; And if reporters should be mean Enough to spy upon this scene, 'Twould make all other babies green With envy at the rumour. Yet since I love this child, forsooth, I'll mix your gifts, Wit, Love and Truth, With spirits of Immortal Youth, And call the mixture Humour!"

The fairies vanished with their glittering train; But here's the Prince with all their gifts,--_Mark Twain_.

THE BALLAD OF THE SOLEMN ASS

Recited at the Century Club, New York: Twelfth Night. 1906

Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times, You've made a Poet Laureate, now you must hear his rhymes. Extend your ears and I'll respond by shortening up my tale:-- Man cannot live by verse alone, he must have cakes and ale.

So while you wait for better things and muse on schnapps and salad, I'll try my Pegasus his wings and sing a little ballad: A legend of your ancestors, the Wise Men of the East, Who brought among their baggage train a quaint and curious beast.

Their horses were both swift and strong, and we should think it lucky If we could buy, by telephone, such horses from Kentucky; Their dromedaries paced along, magnificent and large, Their camels were as stately as if painted by La Farge.

But this amazing little ass was never satisfied, He made more trouble every day than all the rest beside: His ears were long, his legs were short, his eyes were bleared and dim, But nothing in the wide, wide world was good enough for him.

He did not like the way they went, but lifted up his voice And said that any other way would be a better choice. He braced his feet and stood his ground, and made the wise men wait, While with his heels at all around he did recalcitrate.

It mattered not how fair the land through which the road might run, He found new causes for complaint with every Morning Sun: And when the shades of twilight fell and all the world grew nappy, They tied him to his Evening Post, but still he was not happy.

He thought his load was far too large, he thought his food was bad, He thought the Star a poor affair, he thought the Wise Men mad: He did not like to hear them laugh,--'twas childish to be jolly; And if perchance they sang a hymn,--'twas sentimental folly!

So day by day this little beast performed his level best To make their life, in work and play, a burden to the rest: And when they laid them down at night, he would not let them sleep, But criticized the Universe with hee-haws loud and deep.

One evening, as the Wise Men sat before their fire-lit tent, And ate and drank and talked and sang, in grateful merriment, The solemn donkey butted in, in his most solemn way, And broke the happy meeting up with a portentous bray.

"Now by my head," Balthazar said (his real name was Choate), "We've had about enough of this! I'll put it to the vote. I move the donkey be dismissed; let's turn him out to grass, And travel on our cheerful way, without the solemn ass."

The vote was aye! and with a whack the Wise Men drove him out; But still he wanders up and down, and all the world about; You'll know him by his long, sad face and supercilious ways, And likewise by his morning kicks and by his evening brays.

But while we sit at Eagle Roost and make our Twelfth Night cheer, Full well we know the solemn ass will not disturb us here: For pleasure rules the roost to-night, by order of the King, And every one must play his part, and laugh, and likewise sing.

The road of life is long, we know, and often hard to find, And yet there's many a pleasant turn for men of cheerful mind: We've done our day's work honestly, we've earned the right to rest, We'll take a cup of friendship now and spice it with a jest.

A silent health to absent friends, their memories are bright! A hearty health to all who keep the feast with us to-night! A health to dear Centuria, oh, may she long abide! A health, a health to all the world,--and the solemn ass, _outside_!

A BALLAD OF SANTA CLAUS

For the St. Nicholas Society of New York

Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira, I find the one whose name we hold, St. Nicholas of Myra: The best-beloved name, I guess, in sacred nomenclature,-- The patron-saint of helpfulness, and friendship, and good-nature.

A bishop and a preacher too, a famous theologian, He stood against the Arian crew and fought them like a Trojan: But when a poor man told his need and begged an alms in trouble, He never asked about his creed, but quickly gave him double.

Three pretty maidens, so they say, were longing to be married; But they were paupers, lack-a-day, and so the suitors tarried. St. Nicholas gave each maid a purse of golden ducats chinking, And then, for better or for worse, they wedded quick as winking.

Once, as he sailed, a storm arose; wild waves the ship surrounded; The sailors wept and tore their clothes, and shrieked "We'll all be drownded!" St. Nicholas never turned a hair; serenely shone his halo; He simply said a little prayer, and all the billows lay low.

The wicked keeper of an inn had three small urchins taken, And cut them up in a pickle-bin, and salted them for bacon. St. Nicholas came and picked them out, and put their limbs together,-- They lived, they leaped, they gave a shout, "St. Nicholas forever!"

And thus it came to pass, you know, that maids without a nickel, And sailor-lads when tempest blow, and children in a pickle, And every man that's fatherly, and every kindly matron, In choosing saints would all agree to call St. Nicholas patron.

He comes again at Christmas-time and stirs us up to giving; He rings the merry bells that chime good-will to all the living; He blesses every friendly deed and every free donation; He sows the secret, golden seed of love through all creation.

Our fathers drank to Santa Claus, the sixth of each December, And still we keep his feast because his virtues we remember. Among the saintly ranks he stood, with smiling human features, And said, "_Be good! But not too good to love your fellow-creatures!_"

December 6, 1907.

ARS AGRICOLARIS

An Ode for the "Farmer's Dinner," University Club, New York, January 23, 1913

All hail, ye famous Farmers! Ye vegetable-charmers, Who know the art of making barren earth Smile with prolific mirth And bring forth twins or triplets at a birth! Ye scientific fertilizers of the soil, And horny-handed sons of toil! To-night from all your arduous cares released, With manly brows no longer sweat-impearled, Ye hold your annual feast, And like the Concord farmers long ago, Ye meet above the "Bridge" below, And draw the cork heard round the world!

What memories are yours! What tales Of triumph have your tongues rehearsed, Telling how ye have won your first Potatoes from the stubborn mead, (Almost as many as ye sowed for seed!) And how the luscious cabbages and kails Have bloomed before you in their bed At seven dollars a head! And how your onions took a prize For bringing tears into the eyes Of a hard-hearted cook! And how ye slew The Dragon Cut-worm at a stroke! And how ye broke, Routed, and put to flight the horrid crew Of vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies! And how ye did not quail Before th' invading armies of San José Scale, But met them bravely with your little pail Of poison, which ye put upon each tail O' the dreadful beasts and made their courage fail! And how ye did acquit yourselves like men In fields of agricultural strife, and then, Like generous warriors, sat you down at ease And gently to your gardener said, "Let us have _Pease_!"

But _were_ there Pease? Ah, no, dear Farmers, no! The course of Nature is not ordered so. For when we want a vegetable most, She holds it back; And when we boast To our week-endly friends Of what we'll give them on our farm, alack, Those things the old dam, Nature, never sends.

O Pease in bottles, Sparrow-grass in jars, How often have ye saved from scars Of shame, and deep embarrassment, The disingenuous farmer-gent, To whom some wondering guest has cried, "How _do_ you raise such Pease and Sparrow-grass?" Whereat the farmer-gent has not denied The compliment, but smiling has replied, "To raise such things you must have lots of glass."

From wiles like these, true Farmers, hold aloof; Accept no praise unless you have the proof. If niggard Nature should withhold the green And sugary Pea, welcome the humble Bean. Even the easy Radish, and the Beet, If grown by your own toil are extra sweet. Let malefactors of great wealth and banker-felons Rejoice in foreign artichokes, imported melons; But you, my Farmers, at your frugal board Spread forth the fare your Sabine Farms afford. Say to Mæcenas, when he is your guest, "No peaches! try this turnip, 'tis my best." Thus shall ye learn from labors in the field What honesty a farmer's life may yield, And like G. Washington in early youth, Though cherries fail, produce a crop of truth.

But think me not too strict, O followers of the plough; Some place for fiction in your lives I would allow. In January when the world is drear, And bills come in, and no results appear, And snow-storms veil the skies, And ice the streamlet clogs, Then may you warm your heart with pleasant lies And revel in the seedsmen's catalogues! What visions and what dreams are these Of cauliflower obese,-- Of giant celery, taller than a mast,-- Of strawberries Like red pincushions, round and vast,-- Of succulent and spicy gumbo,-- Of cantaloupes, as big as Jumbo,-- Of high-strung beans without the strings,-- And of a host of other wild, romantic things!

Why, then, should Doctor Starr declare That modern habits mental force impair? And why should H. Marquand complain That jokes as good as his will never come again? And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien About the lack of fiction for his Magazine? The seedsman's catalogue is all we need To stir our dull imaginations To new creations, And lead us, by the hand Of Hope, into a fairy-land.