The Jury Deliberates

The jurymen are seated here and there         In Merival's great library. They smoke,         And drink a little beer or Scotch. Arise         At times to read the evidence taken down,         And typed for reference. Before them lie         Elenor Murray's letters, all the letters         Written to Merival - there's Alma Bell's,         And Miriam Fay's, letters anonymous.         The article of Roberts in the Dawn,         That one of Demos, Hogos; a daily file         Of Lowell's Times - Lowell has festered now         Some weeks, a felon-finger in a stall.         And where is Barrett Bays? In Kankakee         Where Elenor Murray's ancestor was kept.         The strain and shame had broken him; a fear         Fell on him of a consequence when the coroner         Still kept him with a deputy. He grew wild,         Attacked the deputy, began to wander         And show some several selves. A multiple         Spirit of devils had him. Dr. Burke         Went over him and found him mad.          And now         The jury meet amid a rapid shift         Of changes, mist and cloud. The man is sick         Who administers the country. Has come back         To laud the pact of peace; his auditors         Turn silently away, whole states assemble         To hear and turn away, sometimes to heckle.         And if a mattoid emperor caused the war,         And Elenor Murrays put the emperor down,         The emperor, could he laugh at all, can laugh         To see a country, bent to spend its last         Dollar, its blood to the last drop, having spent         Enough of these, go mad as Barrett Bays.         And like a headless man, seen in a dream,         Go capering in an ecstasy of doubt,         Regret and disillusion. He can laugh         To see the pact, which took the great estate,         Once his and God's, and wrapt it as with snakes         That stung and sucked, rejected in the land         That sent these Elenor Murrays to make free         The world from despotism. See that very land         Crop despotisms - so the jury sees         Convened to end the case of Elenor Murray....         And Rev. Maiworm, juryman, gives his thought         To conquest of the world for Christ, and says         The churches must unite to free the world         From war and sin. Result? Why less and less         Homes like the Murray home, where husband, wife,         Live in dissension. More and more of schools         For Elenor Murrays. Happy marriages         Will be the rule, our Elenors will find         Good husbands, quiet hearths, a competence.         And Isaac Newfeldt said: "You talk pish-posh.         You go about at snipping withered leaves,         And picking blasted petals - take the root,         Get at the soil - you cannot end these wars         Until you solve the feeding problem. Quit         Relying on your magic to make bread         With five loaves broken, raise a bigger crop         Of wheat, and get it to the mouths of men.         And as for sin - what is it? - All of sin         Lies in the customs, comes from how you view         The bread and butter matter; all your gods         And sons of God are guardians of the status         Of business and of money; sin a thing         Which contradicts, or threatens banks and wharves.         And as for that your churches now control         As much as human nature can digest         A dominance like that. And what's the state         Of things in Christendom? Why, wars, and want         And many Elenor Murrays. Tyrannies         Are like as pea and pea; you shall not drink,         Or read, or talk, or trade, are from one pod.         What would I do? Why, socialize the world,         Then leave men free to live or die, let nature         Go decimating as she will, and weed         The worthless with disease or alcohol -         You won't see much of that, however, if         You socialize the world."             And David Barrow         Spoke up and said: "No ism is enough.         The question is, Is life worth living, good         Or bad? If bad, I think that Elenor Murray had         As good a life as any. Here we've sat         These weeks and heard these stories - nothing new;         And as to waste, our time is wasted here,         If there were better things to do; and yet         Perhaps there is no better. I've enjoyed         This work, association. Well, you're told         To judge not, and that means to judge not man;         You are not told to judge not God. And so         I judge Him. And again your Elenor Murrays,         Your human being cannot will his way,         But God's omnipotent, and where He fails         He should be censured. Why does He allow         A world like this, and suffer earthquakes, storms,         The sinking of Titanics, cancers? Why         Suffer these wars, this war? - Talk of the riffles         That flowed from Elenor Murray - here's a wave         Of tidal power, stirred by a greedy coot         Who called himself an emperor! And look         Our land, America, is ruined, slopped         For good, or for our lives with filth and stench;         So that to live here takes what strength you have,         None left for living, as a man should live.         And this America once free and fair         Is now the hatefulest, commonest group of men,         Women and children in the Occident.         What's life here now? Why, boredom, nothing else....         Why pity Elenor Murray? Gottlieb Gerald         Told of her home life; it was good enough,         Average American, or better. Schools         She had in plenty, what would she have done         With courses to the end in music, art?         She was not happy. Elenor had a brain,         And brains and happiness are at enmity.         And if the world goes on some thousand years,         The race as much advanced beyond us now         In feeling, thought, as we are now beyond         Pinthecanthropus, say, why, all will see         What I see now; - 'twere better if the race         Had never risen. All analogies         Of nature show that death of man is death.         He plants his seed and dies, the resurrection         Is not the man, but is the child that grows         From sperm he sows. The grain of wheat that sprouts         Is not the stalk that bore it. Now suppose         We get the secret in a thousand years,         Can prove that death's the end, analogies         Put by with amber, frogs' legs - tell me then         What opiate will still the shrieks of men?         But some of us know now, and I am one.         There is no heaven for me; and as for those         Who make a heaven to get out of this -         You gentlemen who call life good, the world         The work of God's perfection; yet invent         A heaven to rest in from this world of woe -         You do not wish to go there; and resort         To cures and Christian Science to stay here!         Which shows you are not sure. And thus we have         Your Christian saying at heart that life is bad,         And heaven is good, but not so good and sure         That you will hurry to it. Why, I'll prove         The Christian pessimist, as well as I.         He says life is so bad it has no meaning,         Unless there be a future; and I say         Life's bad, and if no future, then is worse.         And as it has no future, is a hell.         This girl was soaked in opiates to the last.         Religion, love for Barrett Bays, believed         That God is love. Love is a word to me         That has no meaning but in terms of man.         And if a man cause war, or suffer war,         When he could stop it, do we say he loves?         Why call God love who can prevent a war?         To chasten us, to better, purge our sins?         Well, if it be then we are bettered, purged         When William Hohenzollern goes to war         And makes the whole world crazy."         "Understand         I do not mock, I pity man and life.         No man has sat here who has suffered more,         Seeing the life of Elenor Murray, through         Her life beholding life, our country's life.         I pity man and life. I curse the scheme         Which wakes the senseless clay to lips that bleed,         And eyes that weep, and hearts that agonize,         Then in an instant make them clay again!         And for it all no reason, that the reason         Can bring to light to stand the light."         "And yet         I'd make life better, food and shelter better         And wider happiness, and fuller love.         We're travelers on a ship that has no bourne         But rocks, for us. On such a ship 'twere wise         To have the daily comforts, foolish course         To neither eat, nor sleep, keep warm, nor sing.         But only walk the rainy deck and wait.         The little opiates of happiness         Would make the sailing better, though we know         The trip is nowhere and the rocks will sink         The portless steamer."         "Is it portless?" asked         Llewellyn George, "you're leaping to a thought,         And overlook a world of intimations,         And hints of truth. I grant you take this race         That lives to-day, and make the world a boat         There is no port for us as human lives         In this our life. But look, you see the race         Has climbed, a mountain trail, and looks below         From certain heights to-day at man the beast.         We scan a half a million years of man         From caves to temples, gestures, beacon fires         To wireless. Call that mechanical,         And power developed over tools. But here         Is mystery beyond these. - What of powers,         Devotions, aspirations, sacred flame         Which masters nature, worships life, defies         Death to obstruct it, hungers for the right,         The truth, hates wrong, and by that passion wills         All art, all beauty, goodness, and creates         Those living waters of increasing life         By which man lives, and has to-day the means         Of fuller living. Here's a realm of richness,         Beyond and separate from material things,         Your aeroplanes or conquests. Now I put         This question to you, David Barrow, what         But God who is and has some end for life,         And gives it meaning, though we see it not -         What is it in the heart of man which lifts,         Sustains him to the truth, the harmony,         The beauty say of loyalty, or truth         Or art, or science? lighting lamps for men         To walk by, men who hate the lamps, the hand         That lights? What is this spirit, but the spirit         Of Something which moves through us, to an end,         And by its constancy in man made constant         Proclaims an end? There's Bruno, Socrates,         There's Washington who might have lost his life,         Why do these men cling to the vision, hope?         When neither poverty, nor jeers, nor flames,         Nor cups of poison stay? Who say thereby         That death is nothing, but this life of ours,         Which can be shaped to truth and harmony,         And rising flame of spirit, giving light,         Is everything worth while, must be lived so         And if not lived so, then there's death indeed,         By turning from the voice that says that man         Must still aspire. And why aspire if death         Ends us, the scheme? And all this realm of spirit,         Of love for truth and beauty, is the play         Of shadows on the tomb?"         "Now take this girl:         She knew before she sailed to France, this man,         This Barrett Bays was mad about her - knew         She could stay here and have him, live with him,         And thus achieve a happiness. And she knew         To leave him was to make a chance to lose him.         But then you say she knew he'd tire of her,         And left for France. And still that happiness         Before he tired would be hers. You see         This spirit I'd delineate working here:         To sacrifice and by the sacrifice         Rise to a bigger spirit, make it truer;         Then bring that truer spirit to her love         For Barrett Bays, and not just loll and slop         In love to-day. Why does she wish to give         A finer spirit to this Barrett Bays?         And to that end take life in hand? It's this:         My Something, God at work. You say it's woman         In sublimate of passion - call it that.         Why sublimate a passion? All her life         This girl aspires - you think to win a man?         But win a man with what? With finest self         Make this her contribution to these riches,         Which Bruno and the others filled so full.         You see this Something going on, but races         Come up, express themselves and pass away;         But yet this Something manifests itself         Through souls like Elenor Murray's - fills her life         With fuller meanings, maybe at the last         This Something will reveal itself so clear         That men like David Barrow can perceive.         And Love, this spirit, twin of Death, you see         Love slays this girl, but Love remains to slay,         Lift up, drive on and slay. I call Death twin         Of Love, and why? Because two things alone         Make what we are and live, first Love the flame,         And Death the cap that snuffs it. Is it bread         That keeps us dancing, skating like these bugs         That play criss-cross on evening waters? - no!         It's bread to get more life to give more love,         Bring to some heart a fuller life, receive         A fuller life for having given life.         This force of love may look demonical.         It tears, destroys, and crushes, chokes and kills,         Is always stretching hands to Death its twin.         And yet it is creation and creates,         Feeds roses, jonquils, columbines, gardenias,         As well as thistles, cockle burrs and thorns.         This is the force to which the girl's alert,         And sensitive, is shaken by its power,         Driven, uplifted, purified; a doll         Of paper dancing on magnetic plates;         And by that passion lusts for Death himself,         For union with another, sacrifice,         Beauty, and she aspires and toils, and turns         To God, the symptom always of this nature.         My fellow-jurymen, you'll never see,         Or learn so well about another soul         That had this Love force deeper in her flesh,         Her spirit, suffered more. Why do we suffer?         What is this love force? 'Tis the child of blood         Of madness, as this Elenor is the seed         Of that old grandma, who was mad, and cousin         Of Taylor who did murder. What is this         But human spirit flamed and subtleized         Until it is a poison and a food;         A madness but a clearest sanity;         A vision and a blindness, all as if         When nature goes so far, refines so much         Her balance has been broken, if the Something         Makes not a genius or a giant soul.         And so we suffer. But why do we suffer?         Well, not as Barrow said, that life is bad;         A failure and a fraud. Not suffering         That points to dust, defeat, is painfulest;         But suffering that points to skies and realms         Above us, whence we came, or where we go,         That suffering is most poignant, as it is         Significant as well, and rapturous too.         The pain that thrills us for the singing Flame         Of Love, the force creative, that's the pain!         And those must suffer most to whom the sounds         Of music or of words, or scents, or scenes         Recall lost realms. No soul can understand         Music or words in whom there is not stirred         A recollection - that is genius too:         A memory, and reliving hours we lived         Before we looked upon this world of man."...         Then Winthrop Marion said: "I like your talk,         Llewellyn George, but still what killed the girl?         What was the cause of death of Elenor Murray?         She died from syncope, that's clear enough.         The doctors tell us that in syncope         The victim should be laid down, not held up.         And Barrett Bays, the bungler, held her up         When she was stricken - like the man, I think!         Well, Coroner, suppose we make a verdict,         And say we find that had this Barrett Bays         Sustained this Elenor Murray in the war,         And in her life, with friendship, and with faith         She had not died. Suppose we further find         That when he took her, held her in his arms         When she had syncope, he was dull or crazed,         And missed a chance to save her. We could find         That had he laid her down when she was stricken         She might have lived - I knew that much myself.         And we could find that had he never driven         This woman from his arms, but kept her there,         Before said day of August 7th, no doubt         She had not died on August 7th. In short,         He held her up, and should have laid her down,         And drove her from him when she needed arms         To hold her up. And so we find her death         Was due to Barrett Bays - we censure him,         Would hold him to the courts - that cannot be -         And so we hold him up for memory         Contemptuous, and say his bitter words         Brought on the syncope, so long prepared         By what he did. We write his course unfeeling,         Weak, selfish, petty, flowing from the craze         Of sexual jealousy, made worse by war,         And universal madness, erethism         Of hellish war. And, gentlemen, one thing:         Paul Robert's article in the Dawn suggests         Some things I credit, knowing them. We get         Our notions of uncleanness from the Jews,         The Pentateuch. There are no women here,         And I can talk; - you know the ancient Jews         Deemed sex unclean, and only to be touched         At sufferance of Jehovah; birth unclean,         A mother needing purification after         Her hour of giving birth. You know their laws         Concerning adultery. Well, they've tainted us         In spite of Greece. Now look at Elenor Murray:         What if she went with Gregory Wenner. Hell!         Did that contaminate her, change her flesh,         Or change her spirit? All this evidence         Shows that it did not. But it changed this man,         Because his mind was slime where snakes could breed.         But now what do we see? That woman is         Essential genius, man just mechanism         Of conscious thought and strength. This Elenor         Is wiser, being nature, than this man,         And lives a life that puts this Barrett Bays         To shame and laughter. Look at her: She's brave,         Devoted, loyal, true and dutiful,         She's will to life, and through it senses God,         And seeks to serve the cosmic soul. I think         This jury should start now to raise a fund         To erect a statue of her in the park         To keep her name and labors fresh in mind         To those who shall come after."         "And I'll sign         A verdict in these words, but understand         Such things are Coram non judice; still         We can chip in our money, start the fund         To build this monument."          Ritter interrupted.         The banker said: "I'll start it with a hundred,"         And so the fund was started.         Marion         Resumed to speak of riffles: "In Chicago         There's less than half the people speaking English,         The rest is Babel: Germans, Russians, Poles         And all the tongues, much rippling going on,         And if we couldn't trace the riffles out         From Elenor Murray, We must give this up.         One thing is sure: Look out for England, if         America shall grow a separate soul.         You may have congresses, and presidents,         These states, but if America is a realm.         Of tribute as to thought, America         Is just a province. And it's past the time         When we should be ourselves, we've wasted time,         And grafted alien things upon our bole.         A Domesday of the minds that think and know         In our America would give us hope,         We have them in abundance. What I hate         Is that crude Demos which shouts down the minds,         Outvotes them, takes these silly lies that move         The populace and makes them into laws,         And makes a village of a great republic."         And Merival listened as the jurymen         Philosophied the case of Elenor Murray,         And life at large. And having listened spoke:         "I like the words Llewellyn George has said.         Love is a sea which wrecks and sinks our craft,         But re-creates the hands that build again;         And like a tidal wave which sponges out         An island or a city, lifts and leaves         Fresh seeds and forms of beauty on the peaks.         The whinchat in the mud upon its claws,         Storm driven from its course to sea, brings life         Of animal and plant to virgin shores,         And islands strange and new. These happenings         Of Elenor Murray carry beauty forth,         Unhurt amid the storm-cloud, darkness, fire,         To lives and eras. And our country too,         So ruined and so weltering, like a ball         Of mud made in a missile by a god         May bear, no less, a pearl at core, a truth,         A liberty, a genius, beauty, - thrown         In mischief by the god, and staining walls         Of this our temple; in a day to be         Dried up, cracks open, and the pearl appears         To be set in a precious time beyond         Our time and vision. This is what I mean:         Call Elenor egoist, and make her work,         And life the means of rich return to her         In exaltation, pride; - a missile of mud,         It carries still the pearl of her, the seed         Of finer spirits. We must open eyes         To see inside the mud-ball. If it be         We conquered slavery of the negro through,         Because of economic forces, yet         We conquered it. Trade, cotton, were the mud         Upon the whinchat's claws containing seeds         Of liberties to be, and carried forth         In mid seas of the future to sunny isles,         More blest than ours. And as for this, you know         The English blotted slavery from their books         And left their books unbalanced in point of cash,         But balanced richly in a manhood gain.         I warn you, David Barrow, pessimist,         Against a general slur on life and man.         Deride the Christian ethic, if you choose,         You must retain its word of benevolence;         Or better, you must honor man, whose heart         Leaps up to its benevolence, from whose heart         The Christian doctrine of benevolence         Did issue to this world. If Christian doctrine         Be man-made, not a miracle, as it is         All man-made, still it's out of generous fire         Of human spirit; that's the thing divine....         Now how is Elenor Murray wonderful         To me viewed through this mass of evidence?         Why, as the soul maternal, out of which         All goodness, beauty, and benevolence,         All aspiration, sacrifice, all death         For truth and liberty blesses life of us.         This soul maternal, passion to create         New life and guide it into happiness,         Is Mother Mary of all tenderness,         All charity, all vision, rises up         From its obscurity and primal force         Of romance, passion and the child, to realms,         Democracies, republics; never flags         To make them brighter, freer, so to spread         Its ecstasy to all, and take in turn         Redoubled ecstasy! The tragedy         Is that this Elenor for her mother gift         Is cursed and tortured, sent a wanderer;         And in her death must find much clinging mud         Around the pearl of her. If that be mud,         Which we have heard, around her, is it mud         That weights the soul of America, the pure         Dream of our founders? Larger Athens, where         All things should be heard gladly and considered,         And men should grow, be forced to grow, because         Not driven or restrained by usages,         Or laws of mad majorities, but left         At their own peril to work out their lives....         Well, gentlemen, I'll tell you what I've learned.         What is a man or woman but a sperm         Accreted into largeness? Still a sperm         In likeness, being brain and spinal cord,         Fed by the glands, the thyroid and the rest,         Whose secrets we are ignorant of. We know         That when they fail our minds fail. But the glands         Are visible and clear: but in us whirl         Emotions; fear, disgust, murder or wrath,         Traced back to animals as moods of flight         Repulsion, curiosity, all the rest.         Now what are these but levers of our machine?         Elenor Murray teaches this to me:         Build up a science of these levers, learn         To handle fear, disgust, anger, wonder.         They teach us physiology; who teaches         The use of instincts and emotions, powers?         All learning may be that, but what is that?         Why just a spread of food, where after nibbling         You learn what you can eat, and what is good         For you to eat. You'll see a different world         When this philosophy of levers rules."...         Then Merival tacked round and said: "I'll show         The riffles in my life from Elenor Murray:         The politicians give me notice now         I cannot be the coroner again.         I didn't want to be, but I had planned         To go to Congress, and they say to that         We do not want you. So my circle turns,         And riffles back to breeding better hogs,         And finer cattle. Here's the verdict, sign         Your names, and I'll return it to the clerk.