Part 13
I turned in silence upon my entertainer. There he sat on an old battered chest, in his old tattered gray coat, with patches at his knees and elbows, and a deplorably bunged hat. I glanced round the room. Bare rafters overhead, but solid junks of jerked beef hanging from them. Earth floor, but a heap of potatoes in one corner, and a sack of Indian meal in another. A blanket was strung across the apartment at the farther end, from which came a woman’s ailing voice and the voices of ailing children. But somehow in the ailing of these voices there seemed no complaint.
‘Mrs. Merrymusk and children?’
‘Yes.’
I looked at the cock. There he stood majestically in the middle of the room. He looked like a Spanish grandee caught in a shower, and standing under some peasant’s shed. There was a strange supernatural look of contrast about him. He irradiated the shanty; he glorified its meanness. He glorified the battered chest, and tattered gray coat, and the bunged hat. He glorified the very voices which came in ailing tones from behind the screen.
‘Oh, father,’ cried a little sickly voice, ‘let Trumpet sound again.’
‘Crow,’ cried Merrymusk.
The cock threw himself into a posture.
The roof jarred.
‘Does not this disturb Mrs. Merrymusk and the sick children?’
‘Crow again, Trumpet.’
The roof jarred.
‘It does not disturb them, then?’
‘Didn’t you hear ’em _ask_ for it?’
‘How is it, that your sick family like this crowing?’ said I. ‘The cock is a glorious cock, with a glorious voice, but not exactly the sort of thing for a sick-chamber, one would suppose. Do they really like it?’
‘Don’t _you_ like it? Don’t it do _you_ good? Ain’t it inspiring? Don’t it impart pluck? give stuff against despair?’
‘All true,’ said I, removing my hat with profound humility before the brave spirit disguised in the base coat.
‘But then,’ said I, still with some misgivings, ‘so loud, so wonderfully clamorous a crow, methinks might be amiss to invalids, and retard their convalescence.’
‘Crow your best now, Trumpet!’
I leaped from my chair. The cock frightened me, like some overpowering angel in the Apocalypse. He seemed crowing over the fall of wicked Babylon, or crowing over the triumph of righteous Joshua in the vale of Askalon. When I regained my composure somewhat, an inquisitive thought occurred to me. I resolved to gratify it.
‘Merrymusk, will you present me to your wife and children?’
‘Yes. Wife, the gentleman wants to step in.’
‘He is very welcome,’ replied a weak voice.
Going behind the curtain, there lay a wasted, but strangely cheerful human face; and that was pretty much all; the body, hid by the counterpane and an old coat, seemed too shrunken to reveal itself through such impediments. At the bedside sat a pale girl, ministering. In another bed lay three children, side by side: three more pale faces.
‘Oh, father, we don’t mislike the gentleman, but let us see Trumpet too.’
At a word, the cock strode behind the screen, and perched himself on the children’s bed. All their wasted eyes gazed at him with a wild and spiritual delight. They seemed to sun themselves in the radiant plumage of the cock.
‘Better than a ’pothecary, eh?’ said Merrymusk. ‘This is Dr. Cock himself.’
We retired from the sick ones, and I reseated myself again, lost in thought over this strange household.
‘You seem a glorious independent fellow!’ said I.
‘And I don’t think you a fool, and never did. Sir, you are a trump.’
‘Is there any hope of your wife’s recovery?’ said I, modestly seeking to turn the conversation.
‘Not the least.’
‘The children?’
‘Very little.’
‘It must be a doleful life, then, for all concerned. This lonely solitude--this shanty--hard work--hard times.’
‘Haven’t I Trumpet? He’s the cheerer. He crows through all; crows at the darkest: Glory to God in the highest! Continually he crows it.’
‘Just the import I first ascribed to his crow, Merrymusk, when first I heard it from my hill. I thought some rich nabob owned some costly Shanghai; little weening any such poor man as you owned this lusty cock of a domestic breed.’
‘_Poor_ man like _me_? Why call _me_ poor? Don’t the cock _I_ own glorify this otherwise inglorious, lean, lantern-jawed land? Didn’t _my_ cock encourage _you_? And _I_ give you all this glorification away gratis. I am a great philanthropist. I am a rich man--a very rich man, and a very happy one. Crow, Trumpet.’
The roof jarred.
I returned home in a deep mood. I was not wholly at rest concerning the soundness of Merrymusk’s views of things, though full of admiration for him. I was thinking on the matter before my door, when I heard the cock crow again. Enough. Merrymusk is right.
Oh, noble cock! oh, noble man!
I did not see Merrymusk for some weeks after this; but hearing the glorious and rejoicing crow, I supposed that all went as usual with him. My own frame of mind remained a rejoicing one. The cock still inspired me. I saw another mortgage piled on my plantation; but only bought another dozen of stout, and a dozen-dozen of Philadelphia porter. Some of my relatives died; I wore no mourning, but for three days drank stout in preference to porter, stout being of the darker colour. I heard the cock crow the instant I received the unwelcome tidings.
‘Your health in this stout, oh, noble cock!’
I thought I would call on Merrymusk again, not having seen or heard of him for some time now. Approaching the place, there were no signs of motion about the shanty. I felt a strange misgiving. But the cock crew from within doors, and the boding vanished. I knocked at the door. A feeble voice bade me enter. The curtain was no longer drawn; the whole house was a hospital now. Merrymusk lay on a heap of old clothes; wife and children were all in their beds. The cock was perched on an old hogshead hoop, swung from the ridge-pole in the middle of the shanty.
‘You are sick, Merrymusk,’ said I, mournfully.
‘No, I am well,’ he feebly answered. ‘Crow, Trumpet.’
I shrunk. The strong soul in the feeble body appalled me.
But the cock crew.
The roof jarred.
‘How is Mrs. Merrymusk?’
‘Well.’
‘And the children?’
‘Well. All well.’
The last two words he shouted forth in a kind of wild ecstasy of triumph over ill. It was too much. His head fell back. A white napkin seemed dropped upon his face. Merrymusk was dead.
An awful fear seized me.
But the cock crew.
The cock shook his plumage as if each feather were a banner. The cock hung from the shanty roof as erewhile the trophied flags from the dome of St. Paul’s. The cock terrified me with exceeding wonder.
I drew nigh the bedsides of the woman and children. They marked my look of strange affright; they knew what had happened.
‘My good man is just dead,’ breathed the woman lowly. ‘Tell me true?’
‘Dead,’ said I.
The cock crew.
She fell back, without a sigh, and through long-loving sympathy was dead.
The cock crew.
The cock shook sparkles from his golden plumage. The cock seemed in a rapture of benevolent delight. Leaping from the hoop, he strode up majestically to the pile of old clothes, where the wood-sawyer lay, and planted himself, like an armorial supporter, at his side. Then raised one long, musical, triumphant, and final sort of crow, with throat heaved far back, as if he meant the blast to waft the wood-sawyer’s soul sheer up to the seventh heaven. Then he strode, king-like, to the woman’s bed. Another upturned and exultant crow, mated to the former.
The pallor of the children was changed to radiance. Their faces shone celestially through grime and dirt. They seemed children of emperors and kings, disguised. The cock sprang upon their bed, shook himself, and crowed, and crowed again, and still and still again. He seemed bent upon crowing the souls of the children out of their wasted bodies. He seemed bent upon rejoining instanter this whole family in the upper air. The children seemed to second his endeavours. Far, deep, intense longings for release transfigured them into spirits before my eyes. I saw angels where they lay.
They were dead.
The cock shook his plumage over them. The cock crew. It was now like a Bravo! like a Hurrah! like a Three-times-three! hip! hip! He strode out of the shanty. I followed. He flew upon the apex of the dwelling, spread wide his wings, sounded one supernatural note, and dropped at my feet.
The cock was dead.
If now you visit that hilly region, you will see, nigh the railroad track, just beneath October Mountain, on the other side of the swamp--there you will see a gravestone, not with skull and cross-bones, but with a lusty cock in act of crowing, chiselled on it, with the words beneath:--
‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’
The wood-sawyer and his family, with the Signor Beneventano, lie in that spot; and I buried them, and planted the stone, which was a stone made to order; and never since then have I felt the doleful dumps, but under all circumstances crow late and early with a continual crow.
Cock-a-doodle-doo!--oo!--oo!--oo!--oo!
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THE TWO TEMPLES
(_Dedicated to Sheridan Knowles_)
[The following letter from the Editor of _Putnam’s Monthly_ was kept by Melville with the rejected MS. of the ‘Two Temples.’
It is now published together with the Essay to which it refers, both for its intrinsic interest and as evidence of the date at which the ‘Two Temples’ was written.]
OFFICE OF ‘PUTNAM’S MONTHLY,’ 10 PARK PLACE, NEW YORK, _May 12, 1854_.
DEAR SIR,--I am very loth to reject the ‘Two Temples’ as the article contains some exquisitely fine description, and some pungent satire, but my editorial experience compels me to be very careful in offending the religious sensibilities of the public, and the moral of the ‘Two Temples’ would sway against us the whole power of the pulpit, to say nothing of Brown, and the congregation of Grace Church.
I will take this opportunity to apologise to you for making a slight alteration in the ‘Encantadas,’ in the last paragraph of the ‘Chola Widow,’ which I thought would be improved by the omission of a few words. That I did not injure the idea, or mutilate the touching figure you introduced, by the slight excision I made, I received good evidence of, in a letter from James R. Lowell, who said that the figure of the cross in the ass’s neck, brought tears into his eyes, and he thought it the finest touch of genius he had seen in prose. The only complaint that I have heard about the ‘Encantadas’ was that it might have been longer.--Very truly, Your obedient, CHAS. F. BRIGGS. H. MELVILLE, Esq.
TEMPLE FIRST
‘This is too bad,’ said I, ‘here have I tramped this blessed Sunday morning, all the way from the Battery, three long miles, for this express purpose, prayer-book under arm; here I am, I say, and, after all, I can’t get in.
‘Too bad. And how disdainful the great, fat-paunched, beadle-faced man looked, when in answer to my humble petition, he said they had no galleries. Just the same as if he’d said, they didn’t entertain poor folks. But I’ll wager something that had my new coat been done last night, as the false tailor promised, and had I, arrayed therein this bright morning, tickled the fat-paunched, beadle-faced man’s palm with a bank-note, then, gallery or no gallery, I would have had a fine seat in this marble-buttressed, stained-glass, spick-and-span new temple.
‘Well, here I am in the porch, very politely bowed out of the nave. I suppose I’m excommunicated; excluded, anyway. That’s a noble string of flashing carriages drawn up along the curb; those champing horses, too, have a haughty curve to their floam-flecked necks. Property of those “miserable sinners” inside, I presume. I don’t a bit wonder they unreservedly confess to such misery as _that_. See the gold hat-bands too, and other gorgeous trimmings, on those glossy groups of low-voiced gossipers near by. If I were in England now, I should think those chaps a company of royal dukes, right honourable barons, etc. As it is, though, I guess they are only lackeys. By the way, here I dodge about, as if I wanted to get into their aristocratic circle. In fact, it looks a sort of lackeyish to be idly standing outside a fine temple, cooling your heels, during service. I had best move back to the Battery again, peeping into my prayer-book as I go. But hold; don’t I see a small door? Just in there, to one side, if I don’t mistake, is a very low and very narrow vaulted door. None seem to go that way. Ten to one, that identical door leads up into the tower. And now that I think of it, there is usually in these splendid, new-fashioned Gothic temples, a curious little window high over the orchestra and everything else, away up among the gilded clouds of the ceiling’s frescoes; and that little window, seems to me, if one could but get there, ought to command a glorious bird’s-eye view of the entire field of operations below. I guess I’ll try it. No one in the porch now. The beadle-faced man is smoothing down some ladies’ cushions, far up the broad aisle, I dare say. Softly now. If the small door ain’t locked, I shall have stolen a march upon the beadle-faced man, and secured a humble seat in the sanctuary, in spite of him. Good! Thanks for this! The door is not locked. Bell-ringer forgot to lock it, no doubt. Now, like any felt-footed grimalkin, up I steal among the leads.’
Ascending some fifty stone steps along a very narrow curving stairway, I found myself on a blank platform forming the second story of the huge square tower. I seemed inside some magic-lantern. On three sides, three gigantic Gothic windows of richly dyed glass, filled the otherwise meagre place with all sorts of sunrises and sunsets, lunar and solar rainbows, falling stars, and other flaming fireworks and pyrotechnics. But after all, it was but a gorgeous dungeon; for I couldn’t look out, any more than if I had been the occupant of a basement cell in ‘the Tombs.’ With some pains, and care not to do any serious harm, I contrived to scratch a minute opening in a great purple star forming the centre of the chief compartment of the middle window; when peeping through, as through goggles, I ducked my head in dismay. The beadle-faced man, with no hat on his head, was just in the act of driving three ragged little boys into the middle of the street; and how could I help trembling at the apprehension of his discovering a rebellious caitiff like me peering down on him from the tower? For, in stealing up here, I had set at naught his high authority. He whom he thought effectually ejected, had burglariously returned. For a moment I was almost ready to bide my chance, and get to the side-walk again with all dispatch. But another Jacob’s ladder of lofty steps--wooden ones, this time--allured me to another and still higher flight--in sole hopes of gaining that one secret window where I might, at distance, take part in the proceedings.
Presently I noticed something which, owing to the first marvellous effulgence of the place, had remained unseen till now. Two strong ropes, dropping through holes in the rude ceiling high overhead, fell a sheer length of sixty feet, right through the centre of the space, and dropped in coils upon the floor of the huge magic-lantern. Bell-ropes these, thought I, and quaked. For if the beadle-faced man should learn that a grimalkin was somewhere prowling about the edifice, how easy for him to ring the alarm. Hark!--ah, that’s only the organ--yes--it’s the ‘Venite, exultemus Domino.’ Though an insider in one respect, yet am I but an outsider in another. But for all that, I will not be defrauded of my natural rights. Uncovering my head, and taking out my book, I stood erect, midway up the tall Jacob’s ladder, as if standing among the congregation; and in spirit, if not in place, participated in those devout exultings. That over, I continued my upward path; and after crossing sundry minor platforms and irregular landings all the while on a general ascent, at last I was delighted by catching sight of a small round window in the otherwise dead-wall side of the tower, where the tower attached itself to the main building. In front of the window was a rude narrow gallery, used as a bridge to cross from the lower stairs on one side to the upper stairs on the opposite.
As I drew nigh the spot, I well knew from the added clearness with which the sound of worship came to me, that the window did indeed look down upon the entire interior. But I was hardly prepared to find that no pane of glass, stained or unstained, was to stand between me and the far-under aisles and altar. For the purpose of ventilation, doubtless, the opening has been left unsupplied with sash of any sort. But a sheet of fine-woven, gauzy wire-work was in place of that. When, all eagerness, and open book in hand, I first advanced to stand before the window, I involuntarily shrank, as from before the mouth of a furnace, upon suddenly feeling a forceful puff of strange, heated air, blown, as by a blacksmith’s bellows, full into my face and lungs. Yes, thought I, this window is doubtless for ventilation. Nor is it quite so comfortable as I fancied it might be. But beggars must not be choosers. The furnace which makes the people below there feel so snug and cosy in their padded pews, is to me, who stand here upon the naked gallery, cause of grievous trouble. Besides, though my face is scorched, my back is frozen. But I won’t complain. Thanks for this much, anyway, that by hollowing one hand to my ear, and standing a little sideways out of the more violent rush of the torrid current, I can at least hear the priest sufficiently to make my responses in the proper place. Little dream the good congregation away down there, that they have a faithful clerk away up here. Here, too, is a fitter place for sincere devotions, where, though I see, I remain unseen. Depend upon it, no Pharisee would have my pew. I like it, and admire it too, because it is so very high. Height, somehow, hath devotion in it. The arch-angelic anthems are raised in a lofty place. All the good shall go to such an one. Yes, heaven is high.
As thus I mused, the glorious organ burst, like an earthquake, almost beneath my feet; and I heard the invoking cry--‘Govern them and _lift_ them up forever!’ Then down I gazed upon the standing human mass, far, far below, whose heads, gleaming in the many-coloured window-stains, showed like beds of spangled pebbles flashing in a Cuban sun. So, at least, I knew they needs would look, if but the wire-woven screen were drawn aside. That wire-woven screen had the effect of casting crape upon all I saw. Only by making allowances for the crape, could I gain a right idea of the scene disclosed.
Surprising, most surprising, too, it was. As said before, the window was a circular one; the part of the tower where I stood was dusky-dark; its height above the congregation-floor could not have been less than ninety or a hundred feet; the whole interior temple was lit by naught but glass dimmed, yet glorified with all imaginable rich and russet hues; the approach to my strange look-out, through perfect solitude, and along rude and dusty ways, enhanced the theatric wonder of the populous spectacle of this sumptuous sanctuary. Book in hand, responses on my tongue, standing in the very posture of devotion, I could not rid my soul of the intrusive thought, that, through some necromancer’s glass, I looked down upon some sly enchanter’s show.
At length the lessons being read, the chants chanted, the white-robed priest, a noble-looking man, with a form like the incomparable Talma’s, gave out from the reading-desk the hymn before the sermon, and then through a side-door vanished from the scene. In good time I saw the same Talma-like and noble-looking man reappear through the same side-door, his white apparel wholly changed for black.
By the melodious tone and persuasive gesture of the speaker, and the all-approving attention of the throng, I knew the sermon must be eloquent and well adapted to an opulent auditory; but owing to the priest’s changed position from the reading-desk to the pulpit, I could not so distinctly hear him now as in the previous rites. The text, however, repeated at the outset, and often after quoted, I could not but plainly catch: ‘Ye are the salt of the earth.’
At length the benediction was pronounced over the mass of low-inclining foreheads; hushed silence, intense motionlessness followed for a moment, as if the congregation were one of buried, not of living men; when, suddenly, miraculously, like the general rising at the Resurrection, the whole host came to their feet, amid a simultaneous roll, like a great drum-beat, from the enrapturing, overpowering organ. Then, in three freshets--all gay, sprightly nods and becks--the gilded brooks poured down the gilded aisles.
Time for me, too, to go, thought I, as snatching one last look upon the imposing scene, I clasped my book and put it in my pocket. The best thing I can do just now is to slide out unperceived amid the general crowd. Hurrying down the great length of ladder, I soon found myself at the base of the last stone step of the final flight; but started aghast--the door was locked! The bell-ringer, or more probably that for ever prying, suspicious-looking, beadle-faced man has done this. He would not let me in at all at first, and now, with the greatest inconsistency, he will not let me out. But what is to be done? Shall I knock on the door? That will never do. It will only frighten the crowd streaming by, and no one can adequately respond to my summons, except the beadle-faced man; and if he sees me, he will recognise me, and perhaps roundly rate me--poor, humble worshipper--before the entire public. No, I won’t knock. But what then?
For a long time I thought and thought, till at last all was hushed again. Presently a clicking sound admonished me that the church was being closed. In sudden desperation, I gave a rap on the door. But too late. It was not heard. I was left alone and solitary in a temple which but a moment before was more populous than many villages.
A strange trepidation of gloom and loneliness gradually stole over me. Hardly conscious of what I did, I reascended the stone steps; higher and higher still, and only paused when once more I felt the hot-air blast from the wire-woven screen. Snatching another peep down into the vast arena, I started at its hushed desertness. The long ranges of grouped columns down the nave, the clusterings of them into copses about the corners of the transept; together with the subdued, dim-streaming light from the autumnal glasses; all assumed a secluded and deep-wooded air. I seemed gazing from Pisgah into the forests of old Canaan. A Puseyitish painting of a Madonna and Child, adorning a lower window, seemed showing to me the sole tenants of this painted wilderness--the true Hagar and her Ishmael.