Giant Hours with Poet Preachers Part 4

I could not turn from their revel in derision.

THEN I SAW THE CONGO CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK, CUTTING THROUGH THE FORESTS WITH A GOLDEN TRACK!"

The Congo.

Then follows as vital, vivid, and vigorous a description as ever was written by pen, inspired of G.o.d, tipped with fire, of the uplift and redemption of the Negro race, through Jesus Christ.

The "General William Booth" t.i.tle poem to the second Lindsay book shook the literary world awake with its perfect interpretation of The Salvation Army leader. It is a poem to be chanted at first with "Ba.s.s drums beaten loudly" and then "with banjos"; then softly with "sweet flute music," and finally, as the great General comes face to face with Christ, with a "Grand chorus of all instruments; tambourines to the foreground." Running through this poem is the refrain of "Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?" and the last lines catch the tender, yet absolutely unique spirit of the entire poem:

"And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer He saw his Master thro' the flag-filled air.

Christ came gently with a robe and crown For Booth the soldier, while the throng knealt down.

He saw King Jesus. They were face to face, And he knealt a-weeping in that holy place, Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?"

General William Booth.

But one could not get Lindsay to the hearts of folks, one could not make the picture complete, without putting Lincoln in, any more than he could make Lindsay complete without putting into these pages "The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit," or "General William Booth Enters Into Heaven," or "The Congo." Lincoln seems to be as much a part of Lindsay as he is a part of Springfield. Lindsay and Lincoln, to those who love both, mean Springfield, and Springfield means Lincoln and Lindsay. And what Lindsay is trying to do for city, for village, for town, for the Negro, for every human being, is voiced in his poem, "Lincoln."

"Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all, That which is gendered in the wilderness, From lonely prairies and G.o.d's tenderness."

General William Booth.

Let this poem "Heart of G.o.d" be the benediction of this chapter on Lindsay:

"O great heart of G.o.d, Once vague and lost to me, Why do I throb with your throb to-night, In this land, eternity?

"O, little heart of G.o.d, Sweet intruding stranger, You are laughing in my human breast, A Christ-child in a manger.

"Heart, dear heart of G.o.d, Beside you now I kneel, Strong heart of faith. O heart not mine, Where G.o.d has set His seal.

"Wild, thundering heart of G.o.d, Out of my doubt I come, And my foolish feet with prophets' feet March with the prophets' drum!"

General William Booth.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JOAQUIN MILLER]

III

JOAQUIN MILLER [Footnote: The quotations from the poems of Joaquin Miller appearing in this chapter are used by permission of the Harr Wagner Publis.h.i.+ng Company, owners of copyright.]

A STUDY OF HOME, FATHER LOVE, GREAT MOMENTS WITH JESUS CHRIST, HEAVEN, AND G.o.d

It was a warm, sunny May California day; and the day stands out, even above California days. A climb up the Piedmont hills back of Oakland, California, brought us to "The Heights," the unique home of Joaquin Miller, poet of the West and poet of the world.

A visit to the homes of the New England poets is always interesting because of historic and literary a.s.sociations, but none of them has the touch of the unique personality of Miller.

Most people interested in things literary know that Miller, with a great desire to emphasize the freedom of the individual, built a half dozen separate houses, one for himself, one for his wife, one for his daughter Juanita, several for guests from all over the world who were always visiting him, and a little chapel. Literary men from every nation on the planet visited Miller at "The Heights." Most people interested knew also that Miller, with his own hands, had built monuments of stone to Fremont, the explorer, to Moses, and to Browning.

There was also a granite funeral pyre for himself, within sight of the little "G.o.d's Acre," in which he had buried some eighteen or twenty outcasts and derelicts of earth who had no other plot to call their own in which to take their last long sleep.

We expected to find this strange group of buildings deserted, but after inspecting the chapel, which was modeled after Newstead Abbey, and after rambling through the old-fas.h.i.+oned garden that Miller himself had planted--a garden with a perfect riot of colors--suddenly a little woman with a sweet face walked up to us out of the bushes and said, "Are you lovers of the poet?"

I humbly replied that we were. Then she said: "I am Mrs. Miller, and you are welcome. When you have looked around, come into Mr. Miller's own room and be refreshed. After that I will read to you from his writings."

It sounded stagey at first, but the more we knew of this sweet-faced widow of the poet the less we found about her that was not simple and sweet and natural.

After wandering around, through the fascinating paths, under the great cross of a thousand pine trees, among the roses, and flowers that he had planted with his own hands, we came at last to the little house that Mrs. Miller had called "The poet's own room," and there were we refreshed with cool lemonade and cakes. In the littleness of my soul I wondered when we were to pay for these favors, but the longer we remained the more was I shamed as I saw that this hospitality was just the natural expression of a woman, and a beautiful daughter's desire to extend the hospitality of the dead poet himself, to any who loved his writings.

There was the bed on which Miller lay for months writing many of his greatest poems, including the famous "Columbus." There was his picturesque sombrero, still hanging where he had put it last on the post of the great bed. His pen was at hand; his writing pad, his chair, his great fur coat, his handkerchief of many colors which in life he always wore about his neck; his great heavy, high-topped boots. And it was sunset.

Then Mrs. Miller began to read. As the slanting rays of as crimson a sunset as G.o.d ever painted were falling through the great cross of pine trees, Mrs. Miller's dramatic, sweet, sympathetic voice interpreted his poems for us. I sat on the bed from which Miller had, just a few months previous to that, heard the great call. The others sat in his great rockers. Mrs. Miller stood as she read. I am sure that "Columbus" will never be lifted into the sublime as it was when she read it that late May afternoon, with its famous, and thrilling phrase "Sail on! Sail on!

And on! And on!"

A STUDY OF HOME

I had thought before hearing Mrs. Miller read "The Greatest Battle that Ever was Fought" that I had caught all the subtle meanings of it, but after her reading that great tribute to womanhood I knew that I had never dreamed the half of its inner meaning:

"The greatest battle that ever was fought--- Shall I tell you where and when?

On the maps of the world you will find it not: It was fought by the Mothers of Men.

"Not with cannon or battle shot, With sword or n.o.bler pen; Not with eloquent word or thought From the wonderful minds of men;

"But deep in a walled up woman's heart; A woman that would not yield; But bravely and patiently bore her part; Lo! there is that battlefield.

"No marshaling troops, no bivouac song, No banner to gleam and wave; But Oh these battles they last so long--From babyhood to the grave!

"But faithful still as a bridge of stars She fights in her walled up town; Fights on, and on, in the endless wars; Then silent, unseen goes down I

"Ho! ye with banners and battle shot, With soldiers to shout and praise, I tell you the kingliest victories fought Are fought in these silent ways."

Then, as if to give us another ill.u.s.tration of her great poet husband's home love, she read for us "Juanita":

"You will come, my bird, Bonita?

Come, for I by steep and stone, Have built such nest, for you, Juanita, As not eagle bird hath known.

All is finished! Roads of flowers Wait your loyal little feet.

All completed? Nay, the hours Till you come are incomplete!"

Who that hath the blessing of little children will not understand this waiting, yearning love of Miller for his ten-year-old girl, who was at that time in New York with her mother waiting until "The Heights"

should be finished? Who does not understand how incomplete the hours were until she came?

"You will come, my dearest, truest?

Come, my sovereign queen of ten: My blue sky will then be bluest; My white rose be whitest then."

GREAT MOMENTS WITH CHRIST