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    Lascelles Abercrombie

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    The Sale of Saint Thomas

      A quay with vessels moored

      To India! Yea, here I may take ship;
      From here the courses go over the seas,
      Along which the intent prows wonderfully
      Nose like lean hounds, and tack their journeys out,
      Making for harbours as some sleuth was laid
      For them to follow on their shifting road.
      Again I front my appointed ministry. --
      But why the Indian lot to me? Why mine
      Such fearful gospelling? For the Lord knew
      What a frail soul He gave me, and a heart
      Lame and unlikely for the large events. --
      And this is worse than Baghdad! though that was
      A fearful brink of travel. But if the lots,
      That gave to me the Indian duty, were
      Shuffled by the unseen skill of Heaven, surely
      That fear of mine in Baghdad was the same
      Marvellous Hand working again, to guard
      The landward gate of India from me. There
      I stood, waiting in the weak early dawn
      To start my journey; the great caravan's
      Strange cattle with their snoring breaths made steam
      Upon the air, and (as I thought) sadly
      The beasts at market-booths and awnings gay
      Of shops, the city's comfortable trade,
      Lookt, and then into months of plodding lookt.
      And swiftly on my brain there came a wind
      Of vision; and I saw the road mapt out
      Along the desert with a chalk of bones;
      I saw a famine and the Afghan greed
      Waiting for us, spears at our throats, all we
      Made women by our hunger; and I saw
      Gigantic thirst grieving our mouths with dust,
      Scattering up against our breathing salt
      Of blown dried dung, till the taste eat like fires
      Of a wild vinegar into our sheathèd marrows;
      And a sudden decay thicken'd all our bloods
      As rotten leaves in fall will baulk a stream;
      Then my kill'd life the muncht food of jackals. --
      The wind of vision died in my brain; and lo,
      The jangling of the caravan's long gait
      Was small as the luting of a breeze in grass
      Upon my ears. Into the waiting thirst
      Camels and merchants all were gone, while I
      Had been in my amazement. Was this not
      A sign? God with a vision tript me, lest
      Those tall fiends that ken for my approach
      In middle Asia, Thirst and his grisly band
      Of plagues, should with their brigand fingers stop
      His message in my mouth. Therefore I said,
      If India is the place where I must preach,
      I am to go by ship, not overland.
      And here my ship is berthed. But worse, far worse
      Than Baghdad, is this roadstead, the brown sails,
      All the enginery of going on sea,
      The tackle and the rigging, tholes and sweeps,
      The prows built to put by the waves, the masts
      Stayed for a hurricane; and lo, that line
      Of gilded water there! the sun has drawn
      In a long narrow band of shining oil
      His light over the sea; how evilly move
      Ripples along that golden skin! -- the gleam
      Works like a muscular thing! like the half-gorged
      Sleepy swallowing of a serpent's neck.
      The sea lives, surely! My eyes swear to it;
      And, like a murderous smile that glimpses through
      A villain's courtesy, that twitching dazzle
      Parts the kind mood of weather to bewray
      The feasted waters of the sea, stretched out
      In lazy gluttony, expecting prey.
      How fearful is this trade of sailing! Worse
      Than all land-evils is the water-way
      Before me now. -- What, cowardice? Nay, why
      Trouble myself with ugly words? 'Tis prudence,
      And prudence is an admirable thing.
      Yet here's much cost -- these packages piled up,
      Ivory doubless, emeralds, gums, and silks,
      All these they trust on shipboard? Ah, but I,
      I who have seen God, I to put myself
      Amid the heathen outrage of the sea
      In a deal-wood box! It were plain folly.
      There is naught more precious in the world than I:
      I carry God in me, to give to men.
      And when has the sea been friendly unto man?
      Let it but guess my errand, it will call
      The dangers of the air to wreak upon me,
      Winds to juggle the puny boat and pinch
      The water into unbelievable creases.
      And shall my soul, and God in my soul, drown?
      Or venture drowning? -- But no, no; I am safe.
      Smooth as believing souls over their deaths
      And over agonies shall slide henceforth
      To God, so shall my way be blest amid
      The quiet crouching terrors of the sea,
      Like panthers when a fire weakens their hearts;
      Ay, this huge sin of nature, the salt sea,
      Shall be afraid of me, and of the mind
      Within me, that with gesture, speech and eyes
      Of the Messiah flames. What element
      Dare snarl against my going, what incubus dare
      Remember to be fiendish, when I light
      My whole being with memory of Him?
      The malice of the sea will slink from me,
      And the air be harmless as a muzzled wolf;
      For I am a torch, and the flame of me is God.

      A Ship's Captain
      You are my man, my passenger?

      Thomas                                I am.
      I go to India with you.

      Captain                         Well, I hope so.
      There's threatening in the weather. Have you a mind
      To hug your belly to the slanted deck,
      Like a louse on a whip-top, when the boat
      Spins on an axle in the hissing gales?

      Fear not. 'Tis likely indeed that storms are now
      Plotting against our voyage; ay, no doubt
      The very bottom of the sea prepares
      To stand up mountainous or reach a limb
      Out of his night of water and huge shingles,
      That he and the waves may break our keel. Fear not;
      Like those who manage horses, I've a word
      Will fasten up within their evil natures
      The meanings of the winds and waves and reefs.

      You have a talisman? I have one too;
      I know not if the storms think much of it.
      I may be shark's meat yet. And would your spell
      Be daunting to a cuttle, think you now?
      We had a bout with one on our way here;
      It had green lidless eyes like lanterns, arms
      As many as the branches of a tree,
      But limber, and each one of them wise as a snake.
      It laid hold of our bulwarks, and with three
      Long knowing arms, slimy, and of a flesh
      So tough they'ld fool a hatchet, searcht the ship,
      And stole out of the midst of us all a man;
      Yes, and he the proudest man upon the seas
      For the rare powerful talisman he'd got.
      And would yours have done better?

      Thomas                             I am one
      Not easily frightened. I'm for India.
      You will not put me from my way with talk.

      My heart, I never thought of frightening you. --
      Well, here's both tide and wind, and we may not start.

      Not start? I pray you, do.

      Captain                    It's no use praying;
      I dare not. I've not half my cargo yet.

      What do you wait for, then?

      Captain                          A carpenter.

      You are talking strangely.

      Captain                          But not idly.
      I might as well broach all my blood at once,
      Here as I stand, as sail to India back
      Without a carpenter on board; -- O strangely
      Wise are our kings in the killing of men!

      But does your king then need a carpenter?
      Yes, for he dreamed a dream; and like a man
      Who, having eaten poison, and with all
      Force of his life turned out the crazing drug,
      Has only a weak and wrestled nature left
      That gives in foolishly to some bad desire
      A healthy man would laught at; so our king
      Is left desiring by his venomous dream.
      But, being a king, the whole land aches with him.
      What dream was that?

      Captain                    A palace made of souls; --
      Ay, there's a folly for a man to dream!
      He saw a palace covering all the land,
      Big as the day itself, made of a stone
      That answered with a better gleam than glass
      To the sun's greeting, fashioned like the sound
      Of laughter copied into shining shape:
      So the king said. And with him in the dream
      There was a voice that fleered upon the king:
      'This is the man who makes much of himself
      For filling the common eyes with palaces
      Gorgeously bragging out his royalty:
      Whereas he hath not one that seemeth not
      In work, in height, in posture on the ground,
      A hut, a peasant's dingy shed, to mine.
      And all his excellent woods, metals, and stones,
      The things he's filched out of the earth's old pockets
      And hoisted up into walls and domes; the gold,
      Ebony, agate stairs, wainscots of jade,
      The windows of jargoon, and heavenly lofts
      Of marble, all the stuff he takes to be wealth,
      Reckons like savage mud and wattle against
      The matter of my building.' -- And the king,
      Gloating upon the white sheen of that palace,
      And weeping like a girl ashamed, inquired
      'What is that stone?' And the voice answered him,
      'Soul.' 'But in my palaces too,' said he,
      'There should be soul built: I have driven nations,
      What with quarrying, what with craning, down
      To death, and sure their souls stay in my work.'
      And 'Mud and wattle' sneered the voice again;
      But added, 'In the west there is a man,
      A slave, a carpenter, whose heart has been
      Apprenticed to the skill that built my reign,
      This beauty; and were he master of your gangs,
      He'ld build you a palace that would look like mine.' --
      So now no ship may sail from India,
      Since the king's scornful dream, unless it bring
      A carpenter among its homeward lading:
      And carpenters are getting hard to find.

      And have none made for the king his desire?

      Many have tried, with roasting living men
      In queer huge kilns, and other sleights, to found
      A glass of human souls; and others seek
      With marvellous stone to please our desperate king.
      Always at last their own tormented bodies
      Delight the cruelty of the king's heart.

      Well then, I hope you'll find your carpenter,
      And soon. I would not that we wait too long;
      I loathe a dallying journey. -- I should suppose
      We'ld have good sailing at this season, now?

      Why, you were looking, a few minutes gone,
      For rare wild storms: I hope we'll have them too;
      I want to see you work that talisman
      You boast about: I've a great love for spells.

      Let it be storm or calm, so we be sailing.
      I long have wished to voyage into mid sea,
      To give my senses rest from wondering
      On this preplexèd grammar of the land
      Written in men and women, the strange trees,
      Herbs, and those things so like to souls, the beasts.
      My wilful senses will keep perilously
      Employed with these my brain, and weary it
      Still to be asking. But on the high seas
      Such throng'd reality is left behind, --
      Only vast air and water, and the hue
      That always seems like special news of God.
      Surely 'tis half way to eternity
      To go where only size and colour live;
      And I could purify my mind from all
      Worldly amazement by imagining
      Beyond my senses into God's great Heaven,
      If I were in mid sea. I have dreamed of this.
      Wondrous too, I think, to sail at night
      While shoals of moonlight flickers dance beside,
      Like swimming glee of fishes scaled in gold,
      Curvetting in thwart bounds over the swell;
      The perceiving flesh, in bliss of such a beauty,
      Must sure feel fine as spiritual sight. --
      Moods have been on me, too, when I would be
      Sailing recklessly through wild darkness, where
      Gigantic whispers of a harassed sea
      Fill the whole world of air, and I stand up
      To breast the danger of the loosen'd sky,
      And feel my immortality like music, --
      Yea, I alone in the broken world, firm things
      All gone to monstrous flurry, knowing myself
      An indestructible word spoken by God. --
      This is a small, small boat?

      Captain                  Small is nothing,
      A bucket will do, so it know how to ride
      Top upward: cleverness is the thing in boats.
      And I wish this were cleverer: she goes crank
      At times just when she should go sober.
      But what? Boats are but girls for whimsies: men
      Must let them have their freaks.

      Thomas                      Have you good skill
      In seamanship?

      Captain            Well, I am not drowned yet,
      Though I'm a grey man and have been at sea
      Longer than you've been walking. My old sight
      Can tell Mizar from Alcor still.

      Thomas                            Ay, so;
      Doubtless you'll bring me safe to India.
      But being there -- tell me now of the land:
      How use they strangers there?

      Captain                      Queerly, sometimes
      If the king's moody, and tired of feeling nerves
      Mildly made happy with soft jewels of silk,
      Odours and wines and slim lascivious girls,
      And yearns for sharper thrills to pierce his brain,
      He often finds a stranger handy then.

      Why, what do you mean?

      Captain                There was a merchant came
      To Travancore, and could not speak our talk;
      And, it chanced, he was brought before the throne
      Just when the king was weary of sweet pleasures.
      So, to better his tongue, a rope was bent
      Beneath his oxters, up he was hauled, and fire
      Let singe the soles of his feet, until his legs
      Wriggled like frying eels; then the king's dogs
      Were set to hunt the hirpling man. The king
      Laught greatly and cried, 'But give the dogs words they know,
      And they'll be tame.' -- Have you the Indian speech?

      Not yet: it will be given me, I trust.

      You'd best make sure of the gift. Another stranger,
      Who swore he knew of better gods than ours,
      Seemed to the king troubled with fleas, and slaves
      Were told to groom him smartly, which they did
      Thoroughly with steel combs, until at last
      They curried the living flesh from his bones
      And stript his face of gristle, till he was
      Skull and half skeleton and yet alive.
      You're not for dealing in new gods?

      Thomas                            Not I.
      Was the man killed?

      Captain                  He lived a little while;
      But the flies killed him.

      Thomas                      Flies? I hope India
      Is not a fly-plagued land? I abhor flies.

      You will see strange ones, for our Indian life
      Hath wonderful fierce breeding. Common earth
      With us quickens to buzzing flights of wings
      As readily as a week-old carcase here
      Thrown in a sunny marsh. Why, we have wasps
      That make your hornets seem like pretty midges;
      And there be flies in India will drink
      Not only blood of bulls, tigers, and bears,
      But pierce the river-horses' creasy leather,
      Ay, worry crocodiles through their cuirasses
      And prick the metal fishes when they bask.
      You'll feel them soon, with beaks like sturdy pins,
      Treating their stinging thirsts with your best blood.
      A man can't walk a mile in India
      Without being the business of a throng'd
      And moving town of flies; they hawk at a man
      As bold as little eagles, and as wild.
      And, I suppose, only a fool will blame them.
      Flies have the right to sink wells in our skin
      All as men to bore parcht earth for water.
      But I must do a job on board, and then
      Search the town afresh for a carpenter.

      Thomas (alone)
      Ay, loose tongue, I know how thou art prompted.
      Satan's cunning device thou art, to sap
      My heart with chatter'd fears. How easy it is
      For a stiff mind to hold itself upright
      Against the cords of devilish suggestion
      Tackled about it, though kept downward strained
      With sly, masterful winches made of fear.
      Yea, when the mind is warned what engines mean
      To ply it into grovelling, and thought set firm,
      The tugging strings fail like a cobweb-stuff.
      Not as in Baghdad is it with me now;
      Nor canst thou, Satan, by a prating mouth,
      Fell my tall purpose to a flatlong scorn.
      I can divide the check of God's own hand
      From tempting such as this: India is mine! --
      Ay, fiend, and if thou utter thy storming heart
      Into the ocean sea, as into mob
      A rebel utters turbulence and rage,
      And raise before my path swelling barriers
      Of hatred soul'd in water, yet will I strike
      My purpose, and God's purpose, clean through all
      The ridges of thy power. And I will show
      This mask that the devil wears, this old shipman,
      A thing to make his proud heart of evil
      Writhe like a trodden snake; yea, he shall see
      How godly faith can go upon the huge Fury of forces bursting out of law,
      Easily as a boy goes on windy grass. --
      O marvel! that my little life of mind
      Can by mere thinking the unsizeable
      Creatures of sea enslave! I must believe it.
      The mind hath many powers beyond name
      Deep womb'd within it, and can shoot strange vigours:
      Men there have been who could so grimly look
      That soldiers' hearts went out like candle flames
      Before their eyes, and the blood perisht in them. --
      But I -- could I do that? Would I not feel
      The power in me if 'twas there? And yet
      'Twere a child's game to what I have to do,
      For days and days with sleepless faith oppress
      And terrorise the demon sea. I think
      A man might, as I saw my Master once,
      Pass unharmed through a storm of men, yet fail
      At this that lies before me: men are mind,
      And mind can conquer mind; but how can it quell
      The unappointed purpose of great waters? --
      Well, say the sea is past: why, then, I have
      My feet but on the threshold of my task,
      To gospel India, -- my single heart
      To seize into the order of its beat
      All the strange blood of India, my brain
      To lord the dark thought of that tann'd mankind! --
      O, horrible those sweltry places are,
      Where the sun comes so close, it makes the earth
      Burn in a frenzy of breeding, -- smoke and flame
      Of lives burning up from agoniz'd loam!
      Those monstrous sappy jungles of clutcht growth,
      What can such fearful increase have to do
      With prospering bounty? A rage works in the ground,
      Incurably, like frantic lechery,
      Pouring its passion out in crops and spawns.
      'Tis as the mighty spirit of life, that here
      Walketh beautifully praising, glad of God,
      Should, stepping on the poison'd Indian shore,
      Breathing the Indian air of fire and steams,
      Fling herself into a craze of hideous dancing,
      The green gown whipping her swift limbs, all her body
      Writhen to speak inutterable desire,
      Tormented by a glee of hating God.
      Nay, it must be, to visit India,
      That frantic pomp and hurrying forth of life,
      As if a man should enter at unawares
      The dreaming mind of Satan, gorgeously
      Imagining his eternal hell of lust. --

      They say the land is full of apes, which have
      Their own gods and worship: how ghastly, this! --
      That demons (for it must be so) should build,
      In mockery of man's upward faith, the souls
      Of monkeys, those lewd mammets of mankind,
      Into a dreadful farce of adoration!
      And flies! a land of flies! where the hot soil
      Foul with ceaseless decay steams into flies!
      So thick they pile themselves in the air above
      Their meal of filth, they seem like breathing heaps
      Of formless life mounded upon the earth;
      And buzzing always like the pipes and strings
      Of solemn music made for sorcerers. --
      I abhor flies, -- to see them stare upon me
      Out of their little faces of gibbous eyes;
      To feel the dry cool skin of their bodies alight
      Perching upon my lips! -- O yea, a dream,
      A dream of impious obscene Satan, this
      Monstrous frenzy of life, the Indian being!
      And there are men in the dream! What men are they?
      I've heard, naught relishes their brains so much
      As to tie down a man and tease his flesh
      Infamously, until a hundred pains
      Hound the desiring life out of his body,
      Filling his nerves with such a fearful zest
      That the soul overstrained shatters beneath it.
      Must I preach God to these murderous hearts?
      I would my lot had fallen to go and dare
      Death from the silent dealing of Northern cold! --

      O, but I would face all these Indian fears,
      The horror of the huge power of life,
      The beasts all fierce and venomous, the men
      With cruel souls, learned to invent pain,
      All these and more, if I had any hope
      That, braving them, Lord Christ prosper'd through me.
      If Christ desired India, He had sent
      The band of us, solder'd in one great purpose,
      To strike His message through those dark vast tribes.
      But one man! -- O surely it is folly,
      And we misread the lot! One man, to thrust,
      Even though in his soul the lamp was kindled
      At God's own hands, one man's lit soul to thrust
      The immense Indian darkness out of the world!
      For human flesh there breeds as furiously
      As the green things and the cattle; and it is all,
      All this enormity of measureless folk,
      Penn'd in a land so close to the devil's reign
      The very apes have faith in him. -- No, no;
      Impetuous brains mistake the signs of God
      Too easily. God would not have me waste
      My zeal for Him in this wild enterprise,
      Of going alone to swarming India; -- one man,
      One mortal voice, to charm those myriad ears
      Away from the fiendish clamour of Indian gods,
      One man preaching the truth against the huge
      Bray of the gongs and horns of the Indian priests!
      A cup of wine poured in the sea were not
      More surely lost in the green and brackish depths,
      Than the fire and fragrance of my doctrine poured
      Into that multitudinous pond of men,
      India. -- Shipman! Master of the ship! --
      I have thought better of this journey; now
      I find I am not meant to go.

      Captain                          Not meant?

      I would say, I had forgotten Indian air
      Is full of fevers; and my health is bad
      For holding out against fever.

      Captain                     As you please.
      I keep your fare, though.

      Thomas                O, 'tis yours. -- Good sailing!

      As he makes to depart, a Noble Stranger is seen approaching along the quay.

      Well, here's a marvel: 'Tis a king, for sure!
      'Twould take the taxes of a world to dress
      A man in that silken gold, and all those gems.
      What a flash the light makes of him, nay, he burns;
      And he's here on the quay all by himself,
      Not even a slave to fan him! -- Man, you're ailing!
      You look like death; is it the falling sickness?
      Or has the mere thought of the Indian journey
      Made your marrow quail with a cold fever?

      The Stranger (to the Captain)
      You are the master of this ship?

      Captain                           I am.

      This huddled man belongs to me: a slave
      Escaped my service.

      Captain                  Lord, I knew not that.
      But you are in good time.

      Stranger                    And was the slave
      For putting out with you? Where are your bound?

      To India. First he would sail, and then
      Again he would not. But, my Lord, I swear
      I never guesst he was a runaway.

      Well, he shall have his mind and go with you
      To India: a good slave he is, but bears
      A restless thought. He has slipt off before,
      And vexes me still to be watching him.
      We'll make a bargain of him.

      Captain                          I, my Lord?
      I have no need of slaves: I am too poor.

      For twenty silver pieces he is yours.

      That's cheap, if he has a skill. Yes, there might be
      Profit in him at that. Has he a trade?

      He is a carpenter.

      Captain                          A carpenter!
      Why, for a good one I'ld give all my purse.

      No, twenty silver pieces is the price;
      Though 'tis a slave a king might joy to own.
      I've taught him to imagine palaces
      So high, and tower'd so nobly, they might seem
      The marvelling of a God-delighted heart
      Escaping into ecstasy; he knows,
      Moreover, of a stuff so rare it makes
      Smaragdus and the dragon-stone despised;
      And yet the quarries whereof he is wise
      Would yield enough to house the tribes of the world
      In palaces of beautiful shining work.

      Lo there! why, that is it: the carpenter
      I am to bring is needed for to build
      The king's new palace.

      Stranger                      Yea? He is your man.

      Come on, my man. I'll put your cunning heels
      Where they'll not budge more than a shuffled inch.
      My lord, if you'll bide with the rascal here
      I'll get the irons ready. Here's your sum. --

      Now, Thomas, know thy sin. It was not fear;
      Easily may a man crouch down for fear,
      And yet rise up on firmer knees, and face
      The hailing storm of the world with graver courage.
      But prudence, prudence is the deadly sin,
      And one that groweth deep into a life,
      With hardening roots that clutch about the breast.
      For this refuses faith in the unknown powers
      Within man's nature; shrewdly bringeth all
      Their inspiration of strange eagerness
      To a judgment bought by safe experience;
      Narrows desire into the scope of thought.
      But it is written in the heart of man,
      Thou shalt no larger be than thy desire.
      Thou must not therefore stoop thy spirit's sight
      To pore only within the candle-gleam
      Of conscious wit and reasonable brain;
      But search into the sacred darkness lying
      Outside thy knowledge of thyself, the vast
      Measureless fate, full of the power of stars,
      The outer noiseless heavens of thy soul.
      Keep thy desire closed in the room of light
      The labouring fires of thy mind have made,
      And thou shalt find the vision of thy spirit
      Pitifully dazzled to so shrunk a ken,
      There are no spacious puissances about it.
      But send desire often forth to scan
      The immense night which is thy greater soul;
      Knowing the possible, see thou try beyond it
      Into impossible things, unlikely ends;
      And thou shalt find thy knowledgeable desire
      Grow large as all the regions of thy soul,
      Whose firmament doth cover the whole of Being,
      And of created purpose reach the ends.

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