-gg:^^^ffwmrWWr'~r"' 
 
Class Jr^£j5 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT . 
 
t 
 
Musings and Pastels 
 
 ^By Bert' Finck, author of 
 **Webs" and 'Tlays" 
 
 JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY 
 
 LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY 
 
 C 3 
 
LIBRARY of OONQSESS 
 Two Copies fiecervad 
 
 DEC 12 1904 
 
 Q Copynsrni tntry 
 
 CUSS CL^ XXC. Noi 
 COPY 
 
 
 ■r53 \ 
 
 Copyrighted by BERT FINCK 
 1904 
 
MUSINGS AND PASTELS. 
 
 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS. 
 
 It is not thought that harms our brain, not all 
 the worlds of thought; 'tis the weight of self- 
 consciousness that stunts our minds and hearts. 
 Think of your work, think of your friends, think 
 of your dog, if it needs must be ; think of every- 
 thing but of yourself, if you would be sane and 
 true. 
 
 THE INVARIABLE MEMBER. 
 
 In every church, in every club, or lodge of secret 
 order, there is a member who delights in orna- 
 menting self, and who opposes every aim that 
 does not feed his vanity. His food is flattery, 
 which, as too much sweets will surely make dys- 
 peptic, upsets the healthy reasoning of his brain. 
 
 THE JUDGMENT HOUR. 
 
 As for the judgment hour — it will be glorious to 
 pay our debts, and have debts paid to us; for if 
 we owe, by folly and mistake, we are owed, too, 
 by trouble. 
 
 3 
 
)j]i^U5iTlg5 QTlb J^Qstels 
 
 DISCORD. 
 
 Apologies and explanations; efforts to please, 
 and aims to be correct; all insincerity and affecta- 
 tion lies to the heart, the maddest lies of all. 
 
 FREEDOM. 
 
 We may be so bound that we can not move one 
 step upon this earth, yet at the same time we may 
 be meeting with adventures in the worlds of space. 
 None but the unpoetic are fettered. 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 Shadows of cheated dreams within us stalk 
 .across the glitter of our fortunate days. All the 
 jeweled ribbons of praise heaped together can not 
 pay for a heart's broken ideals. 
 
 THE FIRST LESSON. 
 
 In this world, it is not what we want to do, but 
 what we are truly able to do, which makes us 
 worthy and successful. This is the first lesson of 
 intelligence. It is a hard and disagreeable lesson, 
 but after it has once been thoroughly learned and 
 digested, all the other lessons which are given to 
 US by life become easy and pleasant. 
 
 4 
 
)j]^U5ing5 Qnb pQstels 
 
 ORIGINALITY. 
 
 Let us never try to be original, for if we do, we 
 will be affected, and affectation is coarse and com- 
 monplace. Let us be perfectly natural, and we 
 will then be original, since it is natural for every 
 one of us to be original. What is often called 
 originality, is perversity. 
 
 SOCIABILITY. 
 
 Speak to every one; this is the creed of policy 
 and kindness. The sociable rascal is more be- 
 loved than the unsociable man of honor. The 
 greatest vice in the eyes of the populace is un- 
 sociability. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 A weird hope rustles in the leaves that shade 
 feverish exhaustion, along ambition's rocky way 
 where sensitiveness stumbles. Inspiration sings to 
 the fallen. 
 
 THE SUCCESSFUL. 
 
 It is not he that has gathered the most coin, it 
 is not he that has distributed the most coin, who 
 is rich and successful; but he who can smile in 
 the midst of his trouble, and see good in life, even 
 though it has wounded him. 
 
 5 
 
iD/^usings QTib J^Qstels 
 
 PURITY. 
 
 Purity is simply a more lyrical word for unself- 
 ishness — unselfishness in love, unselfishness in art, 
 unselfishness in friendship, unselfishness in truth. 
 The selfish are impure, though their morals be 
 white as the brow of chastity itself. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Many a man is dead, even though he is not 
 buried; many a man is living, with his ashes in 
 the tomb. Life is not always life; death is not 
 always death — nothing's immortal but sincerity. 
 
 FAILURE. 
 
 No one has failed in life but he that is untrue 
 to his ideals. Many, though seated on Fortune's 
 throne, feel pangs of utter loss. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 No flower that speaks its mood in subtle color, 
 no peak that lifts its powers to the sky, are half so 
 pleasing to the gods of beauty as the bearer of 
 true honor and true pride. The lofty scorn for 
 meanness and oppression, the frown of right on 
 smirking masks of wrong, are grander sights to 
 eyes of the immortals than are all of nature's 
 
)n/^U5ing5 Qnb pQstels 
 
 sweet or fearful charms. Great is the sun, with 
 its sympathy; great is the star with its prophecy; 
 but greatest of all is a word of the heart, outspoken 
 fearlessly. 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 How beautiful is thought, when graced by tender 
 sympathy ! but it is harsh and valueless when pity 
 is not there. No one is wise who can not pity; 
 the heart of wisdom's sympathy. 
 
 IF YOU WERE DEAD. 
 
 If you were dead, your troubles would be ended ; 
 your passions stilled, and pains forever gone ; your 
 debts would all be paid, for death owes none ; your 
 torturing aspirations would be stifled in the grave. 
 If you were dead, none would misunderstand you, 
 for there could be no doubt, then, as to what you 
 really are; all ghosts would cease to stare — ghosts 
 of neglected duty — for death relieves us from re- 
 sponsibility. If you were dead, you would have 
 no more fears of what the future might unfold to 
 you; if you were dead, you would have peace, 
 sweet peace, but not the faces that are dear to 
 you; and therefore life, with all its sharp ills, is 
 precious, till those faces fade away. 
 
 7 
 
)J]i?u5ing5 QTib pQstels 
 
 THE GHOST. 
 (Mingled Whisperings of Affrighted Human Beings.) 
 
 Speak to it, Paul; you are the wisest. 
 
 No, Edward, you — you have more sense than I. 
 
 Oh, no, no, no ! my tongue is very foolish — it 
 would surely make a blunder, and bring woe upon 
 us all ! 
 
 The Ghost, (aside) If I should speak to them, 
 they all would run away; but could I only play 
 with them again their game of quarreling, politics, 
 or trade, of fashion, sin — O, any of the games that 
 make life interesting ! 
 
 SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS, THE JAIL OF SENSE. 
 Think not, am I clever? Am I foolish? or dull? 
 Am I great? Am I little? Do I dazzle, or bore? 
 Am I light? Am I awkward? Deep, shallow, or 
 queer? Am I tall? Am I small? Fat, heavy, or 
 lean? Am I bold? Am I modest? Fresh, mouldy, 
 or green? Do I talk like a poet, a parrot, or clown? 
 Think, whatever I am, there are others like me. 
 Let this crush my conceit, and weaken my fears. 
 My companions are legion in folly or worth, in 
 lack of adornment, in power of gifts. For none 
 but the angels are alone in this world, and they 
 hide their wings for company's sake. Think but 
 "I am one with mankind." 
 
)]]/^U5iTlg5 QTlb f>Q5tel5 
 
 THE LEAVES. 
 
 The leaves are falling thick and fast upon his 
 white, uncovered head; they fall, at times, on the 
 page of his book, held close to his tired eyes ; and 
 his frail hand brushes them away down into the 
 stream at his side. Is the hand growing frailer all 
 the time, that it moves the leaves with lessening 
 haste, until, at last, it does not move, but presses 
 one against the page? What thought has the 
 lingering contact brought from the depth of sleep 
 in the reader's brain? that he should turn his eyes 
 away from the book, toward the stream? To see 
 the leaves that worried him, meeting each other 
 in harmony, as though they have a story to tell of 
 why they are floating there. Does the leaf, under- 
 neath the thin, pale hand, repeat the words of their 
 drifting tales? That it should be raised to the 
 tired eyes, and then to the old man's lips. "Can 
 you forgive a fool," they ask, "and give him back 
 what books took away? the wisdom of simplicity, 
 lost by mad search and doubt?" 
 
 The leaves are falling faster still, upon his white, 
 uncovered head; they hide from his brightened 
 eyes the book, dropped down from his hand to the 
 ground. 
 
)Jlfiusings QTib j^Qstels 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 He looked for happiness in books, but found 
 more unrest. He looked for it in nature, but 
 found nothing there to soothe. He looked for it 
 in social life, but met with glittering vacancy. He 
 looked for it in solitude, but maddening visions 
 came. 
 
 Then as he sank upon the ground, helpless, ex- 
 hausted with despair, invisible arms uplifted him 
 to heights above the hills. The atmosphere was 
 soft and pure, bright flowery dreams saluted him, 
 and music floated on the winds in drifting phantasy. 
 
 "Why, this is happiness!" he cried; "who are 
 you, friend, that brings me here, after my hopes 
 began to fail, and searches all seemed vain?" 
 
 "Through me alone you enter here," a rich, 
 sonorous voice replied. "All search is idle with- 
 out me; 'tis but feverish anxiety; and only when 
 that fades away, you find me — Independence." 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 Over the hills, a woman comes, with patches of 
 blue in a gown of red wool; with a faded shawl 
 tied over her head, and a sprig of holly in her rough, 
 knotted hand. Down the steep path to the nar- 
 row way that leads to a plot of burying-ground, 
 
 10 
 
)J)i^U5iTig5 Qnb pastels 
 
 guarded by tragic philosophers— the never- smihng 
 pines. Up the three steps with her heavy, coarse 
 boots, and a weight in her breast that is heavier 
 still ; down the three steps on the other side, and 
 a quick walk toward an unmarked grave. A look 
 of wild fear cast back on the way shows the face, 
 which gives it a hunted soul's; but the look in a 
 moment has vanished again, and triumph has 
 taken its place. "It is all that I have, but it is 
 the all that is living to me, which I give to you, on 
 this day of Love that can never die, in spite of 
 Crucifixions." She lays the sprig of holly down 
 on the green mound, and murmurs again, with a 
 laugh and a sob, "As though words of bondage 
 could stifle the truth— that we are united forever." 
 What is it that gradually spreads over her frame? 
 Has the grave, in gratitude, cast a spell of mystical 
 warmth and dignity, that she stands, like a queen, 
 robed in ermine ? ' ' Poor souls ! they do not under- 
 stand. That I could ever hate them !" 
 
 Over the hills, a woman goes, with patches of 
 blue in a gown of red wool; with a faded shawl 
 tied over her head— but in her rough hands, invis- 
 ible lilies of Peace. 
 
 11 
 
}J]|^U5ing5 Qnb J^Qstels 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 How much many often do that they care nothing 
 for at all, just to be left in peace! how they snap 
 and snarl to protect their gentleness! how they 
 play parts to remain true! Hosts of uniformed 
 soldiers are always battling with imps in their 
 breasts; tragedies are sacredly guarded by men 
 and women from morning till night; prisoners are 
 rattling invisible chains with each harrowing stroke 
 of the clock — and these never -resting efforts to 
 escape or subdue form careers that are not rarely 
 censured for being eccentric and aimless. Pessim- 
 ism may be the weariness of struggling intellect; 
 indifference, the exhaustion of care; indolence, the 
 couch of broken energy; levity, the fever of 
 wounded hope. Man agitates trouble to strength- 
 en his weakness; he sometimes from loneliness, 
 sins. Sages have turned themselves into fools, to 
 gain experience; wisdom puts on the dunce-cap, 
 at times, from dread of isolation. The prayers of 
 not a few are their patience ; their resigning them- 
 selves to live is their litany and psalms ; the church 
 box contributions are their smiles in the midst of 
 rain in their hearts ; their holy- communion is their 
 forgiveness of wrongs natural to avenge. As far 
 back as many a one can remember, he sees little 
 
 12 
 
Jjl/^usings anb pastels 
 
 serpents wiggling themselves forward upon the 
 scenes of his life at most undesirable moments; 
 they come hissing and thrusting forth their tongues, 
 and turning bright expectancy into sickening chaos 
 and dread ; the powers he would use for a prepared 
 action must be wielded to conceal or endure. The 
 light of eternity shows some of them to have been 
 warriors who, on dark earth, were called drifting 
 slaves. 
 
 IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 Our impressions are greater than our thoughts, 
 for they are given to us by the seer-powers of our 
 hearts. Impressions are received only by the sensi- 
 tive; truth appears to them in a mystical flash. 
 
 CREED. 
 
 Be honest, be gentle, and kind; be true to your 
 ideals; obey the Ten Commandments, and press 
 the Sermon on the Mount to your heart. Wrong 
 neither beast nor man; woo the air, sky, water, 
 tree; dream of flowers, birds, and hills; let music 
 inhabit your brain. You then need have nothing 
 to fear; all demons flee from a bright mind. 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 There are mysteries none but the dead can ex- 
 plain; we know that they are, and that is enough. 
 
 13 
 
)])f^U5iTlg5 QTlb J>Qstel5 
 
 Some natures are lonely amidst kindred and 
 friends; though fortune smiles on them, they feel 
 cold and sad; and while they have voices, they 
 rarely can speak, for few understand the tongue of 
 their hearts. They seem to be sleeping, when wid- 
 est awake; they are often called idle, while they 
 invisibly toil ; they hearken to summons which they 
 alone hear. These are the strange children of 
 mystical light, who do things from what others 
 call genius, but from what they themselves may 
 call pain; perhaps from self-sacrifice — another 
 world knows. 
 
 POETS. 
 
 There are poets that neither write nor rhyme, 
 yet their natures sing, and they soar. We are all 
 poets who live from our hearts, for what comes 
 from the heart is a song. We are in chains only 
 when we can not sing; we die only when we can 
 not sing. Thus the atmosphere of sordidness chills 
 each true poet's soul, for it brings the clank of 
 fetters that mean death to melody. 
 
 CYNICS. 
 
 What is a dream but a far-away note of a bird 
 in the forest of longing? the bird of remembrance, 
 that chants of its home, the child-land of mystical 
 
 14 
 
}])/^u5ing5 QTib pastels 
 
 glory? We follow the strains which lead us across 
 the mountains of pure aspiration, the peaks of 
 which are Courage and Love, Art, Honor, and 
 Hope, the highest. But they whose wings of en- 
 thusiastic fancy are clipped by the scissors of scorn, 
 whose ears are deadened by the clatter of the 
 world, while they can no longer hear, or fly toward, 
 the bird, they are haunted almost all the time by 
 the consciousness of loss. So they move through 
 life with a grievance against it. These are the 
 cynics, the embittered destroyers of pedestals for 
 the worship of height. These are the corpses of 
 murdered poets, and their stench, which makes 
 society sick, is Retribution. Poets are killed every 
 hour of the day, and pessimism is the revel of their 
 spectres. As soon as the songs of a heart are 
 crushed, a poet dies, and earth is darkened by 
 another shadow. 
 
 PIETY. 
 
 Harm not a weed, except to save a flower; let 
 every thought be "God, I thank Thee for Thy 
 Love." Let every wish be for the welfare of all 
 people— the good to be protected, the evil to turn 
 good ; wound not the feelings even of a cur. 
 
 15 
 
)J)/^U5iTig5 QTib pQStels 
 
 POET'S RHAPSODY. 
 
 Just to hear the wild birds sing ! just to hear the 
 waters speak! just to hear the winds reply to the 
 whisperings of the leaves! just to hear the tem- 
 pest's laugh ! just to see the cloud ships roll ! just to 
 clasp a true friend's hand, is enough for me — for 
 me! 
 
 Just to see a child at play ! just to hear a melody ! 
 just to quaff a cup of wine with congenial company ! 
 just to hear a martial sound! just to hear an an- 
 them's peal! just to woo a gentle maid — is enough 
 for me — for me! 
 
 COURAGE. 
 
 Tell no tales on your companions; press the 
 blame upon yourself ; dare to listen to your heart's 
 call, though it leads across the seas. Memorize 
 heroic actions; dream of generous chivalry; turn 
 your dreams into realities for the helpless and the 
 lame. Learn to love the voice of music in the 
 forests, hills, and fields; with your arms about 
 your loved ones, sing away ignoble fear. 
 
 RAIN-DROPS AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 How few there are that have truth to bestow! 
 and if they have, they hide it miserly, lest it may 
 shake their ease. 
 
 16 
 
)D/^U5ing5 Qnb J^QStels 
 
 Art is, at times, the song of longing and atone- 
 ment — a duet between aspiration and regret. 
 
 We must seem credulous to learn — conceal our 
 knowledge, to increase its store. 
 
 All, all is nothing — nothing; all, all will pass 
 away; all but sincerity, the heart of the ideal. 
 
 Meditation is the bath of the brain ; but too 
 much bathing weakens. 
 
 Nothing escapes from bitterness to nourish its 
 dark fire. 
 
 Dreams keep warm, if only for a moment; the 
 world is always freezing from the lack of sunshine 
 sympathy; therefore so many of us dream. 
 
 How like a dirge the tempest sounds to him 
 whose hopes are dead forever! but to the one 
 whose moods are dancing, it whirls in glorious 
 ecstacy. 
 
 None look so cold and dignified as they that 
 fear detection. 
 
 Angels come to us and leave us ; but devils stay 
 forever. 
 
 Exhaustion is a favorite repast of the fiends; 
 discouragement makes it all the spicier for them. 
 
 17 
 
)j]/^USiTlg5 QTlb J^Qstels 
 
 The wind that presses against your cheek may 
 carry the last sigh of a broken heart, which you, 
 having suffered once in the same way, might have 
 mended, had you only known. 
 
 Gentle sadness is the light of thought; bitter- 
 ness is the disappointment of the flesh. 
 
 Those whom we like bring us peace; but those 
 whom we love and those whom we hate give us 
 trouble. 
 
 Whoever has sinned and suffered, has drunk of 
 the heart-wine of life. 
 
 There is music in the rain-drops, and regret. 
 
 What we condemn as idleness too often is de- 
 spair, which needs, instead of our abuse, our sym- 
 pathy and cheer. 
 
 Christ is the sympathy of eternal justice; to be 
 truly just, we must quiver with the tragedy of him 
 we necessarily condemn. 
 
 Go, seek nature, she is tuner of the soul. 
 
 Suffering flesh becomes cruel; suffering soul, 
 kind. 
 
 How many, while under a little roof together, 
 are worlds apart from one another! Should any 
 of them attempt to speak their native language, 
 they would not be understood by the others at all. 
 
 18 
 
)J)/^u5ing5 QTib Pastels 
 
 We must not force, but woo, our lost selves back 
 
 to us ; we win them best with melodies, and dream- 
 waves of repose. 
 
 Interest in trifles has been fostered as a cure for 
 morbid intensity; idle curiosity has been culti- 
 vated as a refuge from the sick devils of boredom. 
 
 How many, while in pauper's rags, are Caesars 
 in a world of dreams! 
 
 Let us reverently bow to one another — to haunts, 
 though sometimes ruins, of ethereal sovereignty. 
 
 What is insanity, the worst of ills? Hateful 
 suspicion, jealousy and spite; dark broodings upon 
 self, and morbid joy in seeing great hopes fall. 
 
 Conceit sees even nature nothing compared to 
 self, and all the world an audience watching its 
 every act. 
 
 Lack of appreciation is the banner of fools. 
 
 Those who have suffered are rarely conceited; 
 our sanitv blesses our sorrow. 
 
 Longing is the soul at prayer. 
 
 The man that commits a generous act and 
 grets it a moment afterward, is meaner tha 
 that never commits a generous act at all. 
 
 d re-\ 
 n he \ 
 
 19 
 
)Di^usings QTib f)Q5tel5 
 
 Thoughts that emanate from the mind only are 
 always a little artificial; they must have their 
 roots in the heart, to be strong. 
 
 Self-conceit stifles the currents of yearning — the 
 currents that waft us aloft. 
 
 Before the laugh of little children, the thoughts 
 of sages stalk like ghosts. 
 
 Keep out of domestic broils; for they are more 
 wearing than sickness. 
 
 True philosophy must not agitate, but soothe; 
 the world is already burning up with fever. 
 
 Cold and uncanny is the word faultless; death 
 alone is without error — death, perfectly still. 
 
 Wine and the dancing girl's song have been 
 sought to save burning brains from the fiends of 
 depression; the cynical jest may be a spiked wall 
 to protect tragic humor from invasion. 
 
 Even though we write verses from morning till 
 night, we still are not poets if they are not true; 
 and nothing is true that comes not from the heart, 
 for truth is the daughter of feeling. 
 
 There are those whose lightest presence warms 
 our natures; there are those whose far-off foot- 
 steps chill our bones. 
 
 20 
 
)]]^U5ing5 anb pastels 
 
 Poetry must come from within, not from with- 
 out; it is not born of circumstance. 
 
 We first seek adventures, we later seek refuge; 
 we cultivate unrest, then struggle for peace. 
 
 The poet is sympathy incarnate; his soul must 
 be often in tears. 
 
 Let us remember that it is wicked to be unhappy, 
 except from sympathy or remorse. 
 
 Wherever there is hope, there is a little unrest; 
 there is the wallowing peace of despair. 
 
 The coachman freezes at his mistress' door, be- 
 cause, though ready, she must appear to be slow. 
 
 The hours of our careers which were greatest in 
 anguish or in joy, were not noisy at all, but quiet. 
 
 The rake is rarely the villain. 
 
 The lounger is sometimes the thinker. 
 
 Our real selves are our longings. 
 
 What is sometimes called energy is fever. 
 
 When we are at all self-conscious, we are a little 
 artificial; and then our minds are fettered — only 
 then. 
 
 The ideal flees from question. 
 
 21 
 
)JKJu5iTigs QTib jDastels 
 
 Vines and genius must be trained, but in soft, 
 sympathetic manner. 
 
 Some talk and talk and try to please, and still 
 their presence bores us; while others need not say 
 a word, and yet be entertaining. 
 
 There is no mockery in truth ; it warns, it threat- 
 ens, wounds, and saves, but breathes forth spite to 
 none. 
 
 No evil can woo gentleness, for that is heaven's 
 mission; good spirits deck its shining form with 
 mystical protection. 
 
 More failures have been caused by worry than 
 by carelessness; for worry weakens strength. 
 
 We must preserve our thoughts from bitterness; 
 and they would stagnate in the pond of resignation, 
 were it not filled with the clear waters of phil- 
 osophy. 
 
 Young men in love are troubled by strange fears 
 — fears that have no foundation; as soon as one is 
 overthrown, another worry follows. 
 
 The mad dislike the mad. 
 
 Some lives are always rough, with very few 
 moments of calmness; but they at last grow used 
 to stormy weather and fall asleep, listening to the 
 waves of trouble. 
 
 2S 
 
^D^usings QT\b ^Qstels 
 
 Foolish wives are worse than foolish virgins; 
 their mischief reaches farther. 
 
 Our noblest thoughts are often those which float 
 upon the dream-waves of repose. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Scene. — A hard and rocky road. 
 
 An Old Man. (Falling upon his knees, surround- 
 ed by ghosts of trouble) Is there no one to pity me, 
 and soothe my bitter misery? 
 
 Ghosts of Trouble (Mockingly) Ha, ha! none, 
 none ! none, none ! 
 
 Echo. None, none! 
 
 Voices of the Air. The air does not say that; its 
 words are all kind. 
 
 Ghosts of Trouble. Away ! away ! for sympathy is 
 here! 
 
 {The Ghosts all vanish. In the midst of a brilliant 
 light, a radiant figure appears.) 
 
 The Radiant Figure. Pity is ever near for care; 
 it does not always come because prayers oft are 
 insincere. Name but your wish ; it will be granted 
 you. 
 
 The Old Man. (Imploringly) Peace, peace! O, 
 give me peace! 
 
 23 
 
)J]!|^ u 5 i n g s QTib J^Qstels 
 
 The Radiant Figure. Even as you speak, your 
 prayer is answered; behold, peace comes to you. 
 
 (The figure sits musingly upon a stone; the bril- 
 liant light fades into gray. Enter a gray-robed form, 
 with face of stern serenity, holding white flowers in 
 one hand, a little bell in the other.) 
 
 The Old Man. (Shivering) Ah me, I never felt 
 so cold! 
 
 The Gray-robed Form. Yes ; peace is cold. Un- 
 rest is always warm — unrest and trouble that have 
 fled from you. Accept the chilly gifts of peace; 
 their beauty does not agitate. 
 
 {Pressing the white flowers against the old man's 
 breast.) 
 
 The Old Man. (In alarm) I never felt so weak — 
 not even in my fears ! 
 
 The Gray-robed Form. You need no strength to 
 wear the gifts of peace, or to receive its sovereignty. 
 
 {Raising the old man's hand to its lips.) 
 
 The Old Man. (Wildly) I fall, and yet I seem to 
 rise! What spell is this? Protect me from this 
 form! 
 
 The Gray-robed Form. Peace does feel strange to 
 them that have known care; but it will soon be 
 sweet, when you forget the past. 
 
 {Ringing the little bell.) 
 
 Voice of the Bell. Rest — rest ! rest — rest for care ! 
 
 24 
 
}j)/^U5irig5 QTlb J^QStels 
 
 The Old Man. (Sinking to the ground) Why do 
 you mock me thus? You give me death instead 
 of peace. 
 
 {Looking reproachfully at the radiant figure on the 
 stone.) 
 
 The Radiant Figure. (Arising from the stone) Is 
 there no gratitude in man? You asked for peace, 
 and peace is death. 
 
 Voice of the Bell. Peace is death! peace is 
 death ! peace is death ! 
 
 {The gray light turns into darkness; all disappear 
 from the road hut the body of the old man.) 
 
 THE YOUNG IMMORTAL. 
 
 A Youth. (Picking up a bunch of violets that He 
 scattered about on the road, and laying them down 
 gently among their blooming kind) If a breath of 
 life is yet in you, among your sympathizing sisters, 
 die, and give them, O give them, a message of fare- 
 well. But if already dead, under their sheltering 
 leaves lie buried, "for all things with their own" 
 my heart's voice always says. 
 
 An Old Man. (Overhearing the words of the 
 youth) He is a dreamer. Earth is far from him. 
 
 A Group of Pitying Women. (Who see, but do 
 not hear) Alas, alas! he soon must be confined! 
 
 25 
 
)J]^u5ing5 QTib J^Qstels 
 
 The Living Violets. (Quivering with rhapsodic 
 agitation) The soul of the universe kissed us, and 
 sang us a story of love ! 
 
 THE TWO ARTISTS. 
 
 Scene. — The Market Place of Art. 
 
 Enter the Successful Artist. 
 
 Successful Artist. I've donned this shabby coat 
 to see if the old World would buy my work for its 
 own worth alone. A strange caprice, indeed, but 
 I am rather weary of selling all I paint on the 
 strength of my name. Could I but feel it is my 
 brush and not my clothes that brings me gold, my 
 greatness would be sure. 
 
 Enter the Unsuccessful Artist. 
 
 Unsuccessful Artist. Had I a finer coat, I might 
 attract the World; but this is all I have, which 
 hides my shirtless breast. But here's another in 
 a shabby coat; I've as much chance as he. 
 
 Enter the World. 
 
 The World. Your pictures are not very bad — 
 but this man's colors are the richest. 
 
 {Taking hold of the Unsuccessful Artist's picture.) 
 
 26 
 
)J]i^u5ing5 QTib pastels 
 
 The Successful Artist. (Aside) I wish I had not 
 worn the shabby coat ; caprices do not pay. 
 
 The Unsuccessful Artist. (Aside) At last I feel a 
 little hope, even in my shabby coat. 
 
 Enter the Wind, mischievously . 
 
 The Wind. Now just for a little fun ! see the old 
 World change its mind quicker than a bird can fly, 
 or a hope descend ! 
 
 {Unloosening the coats.) 
 
 The World. (Letting go of the Unsuccessful Ar- 
 tist's picture) Why, the colors in that man's hand 
 are the richest! How dare you trouble me with 
 your daubs! you, with your naked breast! 
 
 {Stalking away aggrieved with the Successful Ar- 
 tist's picture.) 
 
 The Successful Artist. (Throwing aside his coat) 
 I'm glad I wore my fine shirt underneath; this 
 might have been a very foolish trick; the wind 
 brought back my senses. 
 
 The Unsuccessful Artist. It was his shirt — it was 
 his shirt that won the World; but it chose my 
 work first. 
 
 The Wind. How I have changed their faces by 
 my trick ! 
 
 27 
 
Ijll^usings QTib JDastels 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF OCTAVIA HENSEL. 
 
 ALBRECHT. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Conrad, Duke of Rhineland. 
 Albrecht, his son. 
 Heinrich, his aged cousin. 
 The Mysterious One. 
 
 Scene. — The rocky precincts of a castle along the 
 
 Rhine. 
 
 Enter Heinrich, meditatively. 
 
 Heinrich. How will it end, this strange, unnat- 
 ural separation of a parent from his child? Now 
 eighteen gloomy years have passed away since the 
 mad hour when it first began to reign, and still it 
 does not lessen or decay. If I could only shake off 
 the depression which sympathy and memories 
 bring to me, and be indifferent as the swinish 
 servants, who do not feel this air of tragedy ! But 
 no one, I suppose, can change his nature — the 
 sheep is a sheep, the pig is always piggish — and I 
 am an old fool who sweats and shivers, simply 
 because my friends are hot or cold. For I love 
 both of them, hater and hated ; the one, still bleed- 
 ing with the wounds of pride, of trust, and deep 
 
 28 
 
)J)f^u5ing5 QTib Pastels 
 
 affection ; the other, starving for heart food to keep 
 his youth aHve. Yes, yes, I love the Duke, in 
 spite of his injustice to his son, who dreams the 
 livelong day. Why should the boy be cursed for 
 the guilt of his mother? The scene of horror 
 shakes my blood and bones again. The faithless- 
 ness of wife and supposed friend discovered— the 
 duel on the spot, and the foul betrayer punished; 
 while she who is the cause of all the shuddering 
 trouble, flees down the rocky path in wildest shame 
 and terror, and stumbling at a crooked turn, gives 
 her soul to the river. I do not think the Duke has 
 ever spoken, since that unhappy time, six words iA 
 all to his poor son, who suffers for his mother ; he 
 can not bear to have him in his sight. How will 
 it end— how will it end, for both so terribly es- 
 tranged? I'd gladly sacrifice my life, if that could 
 join their parted hearts. And here he comes, his 
 head bent low — so young, so woeful, and alone! 
 I'll move away, lest he suppose that my sharp 
 eyes are watching him; for he has nothing but 
 this joy — to sit upon these rocks and muse. 
 (Walking slowly away.) 
 
 Enter Albrecht. 
 Alhrecht. Weird revery— spirits of the tender 
 evening light, I welcome you ! You do not speak 
 the sorrows of the day, but filled with radiant mus- 
 
 29 
 
)J]|^U5iT1g5 (XT\b J^QStels 
 
 ings, ^'^ou soothe away its pain. The restful agi- 
 tation of the knowing winds tells of a living hope 
 somewhere — somewhere — that all we pine for in 
 our troubled hearts will one hour meet their due. 
 (Seating himself on a rock.) To me the sun is far 
 more generous as its last smile salutes approach- 
 ing night, than when in the full glory of its sway — 
 mocking sad loneliness. No solitude is colder than 
 when the sun is brightest; there seems to be no 
 pity then in nature for our mood. But now — but 
 now our longings are not frozen; the air, the sky, 
 and water all conjure off despair. What spell is 
 there in evening's meditation? the sullen shades of 
 morning disappear — the stinging recollections of 
 the meeting with my father accidentally near the 
 gate. Somehow, I do not feel the chilly distance 
 of his regard, and nearness of his frown ; in vision 
 I can almost see him smiling, instead of looking 
 bitterly at me. 
 
 (All the while that he is musing, a strange rattling 
 noise can be heard, ascending the rocky path of the 
 hill.) 
 
 Re-enter Heinrich, unperceived by Albrecht. 
 
 Heinrich. Yes, there he sits, looking both wise 
 and foolish; dreaming of what? The saints can 
 only know ! What rattling noise is that, like bones 
 knocking together? The air smells mouldy — it is 
 
 30 
 
]J|/|u5ing5 QTib Pastels 
 
 turning cold. Cold — cold — and damp ; he does not 
 seem, to feel it, but smiles and stares at a world of 
 his own. I'd think he was possessed of mad or 
 evil spirits, could I forget his many acts of tender- 
 ness and sense. I saw him snatch a little bird 
 away from a cat's cruelty, and pressing it against 
 his breast, let it die there in peace. I saw him 
 save that very cat, which had aroused his generous 
 wrath, from dogs that were pursuing it with terror 
 and with death. I heard him reprimand old Karl 
 for speaking harshly to a hound, and lecture better 
 than the priest on sharp and quarrelsome tongues. 
 He is no fool, that's sure, and there's no evil in 
 him, but from those looks, one could believe he's 
 simple and uncanny. That noise — that noise ! It's 
 coming up the hill; up — up — the path which she 
 went down to wash her guilty nature. Why do I 
 think of her so much just now? Why do I 
 think of that calamity? I almost see her in the 
 yellow gown she wore that awful day. What 
 makes the light so greenish? Whence do these 
 vapors flow? Reminding one of incense wafted 
 about the dead. Those sounds — those sounds of 
 rattling bones — O, Mother of Heaven, protect my 
 soul! 
 
 (Enter from up the rocky path, the skeleton form of 
 a woman, struggling to hold together, with fieshless 
 
 31 
 
)J)/)u5iTig5 QTib Pastels 
 
 hand, her garments falling to pieces from decay. 
 Heinrich stares, fascinated with wonder and horror, 
 at the mysterious figure, as it slowly moves toward 
 Albrecht.) 
 
 Albrecht. That I could ever have thought harsh- 
 ly of him, even for a moment, seems now very 
 strange; that I could ever have denied him en- 
 trance into my heart, I can not understand — O 
 powers of evening, you both cool and warm with 
 height that feels but pity for us all ! Pity for him, 
 whose living is all gloom ; pity for her, whose quiet 
 is the tomb — my father, with no love to give his 
 child; my mother, with no life to nourish it. Pity 
 for them that mourn from day to day; pity for 
 them that laugh, for joy must pass away; pity for 
 things both sad and gay, since all are frail and 
 changeable. Pity for them that toil without hope 
 of reward ; pity for them that rule, feared, fearing, 
 and unloved; pity for servant, pity for lord; for 
 the breast of each is filled with care. 
 
 (The figure moves slowly toward him.) 
 
 Heinrich. It moves toward him — he does not 
 even see it. Those looks! Those looks! his face 
 is shriveling up with age ! 
 
 Albrecht. Pity for falsehood, struggling to stand; 
 pity for truth, which stands alone; pity for aims, 
 that can never be reached; pity for triumphs, with 
 
 32 
 
Irt/Jusings QTtb JDastels 
 
 its wreath of defeat. Pity for the weed, uprooted 
 and scorned; pity for the flower, never left in 
 peace; pity for the brute, that can not tell its 
 woe; pity for man whose tongue leads him to woe. 
 Pity for passion, that ends in a fall ; pity for hate 
 with its worms of remorse; pity for thought, that 
 can never find rest — pity for pity, that sees only 
 tears. 
 
 (The figure stands immediately at his side.) 
 
 Heinrich. It stretches forth its arms toward him ! 
 The air is cold as death ! O God, protect him ! 
 
 Albrecht. The air is moist with weeping sympa- 
 thy; the winds heave with the sighs of breaking 
 hearts; the shadowy forms extend toward me 
 their stores of sorrowful, hidden things. (The 
 figure touches him,.) What misery are you? 
 Whence do you come? And wherefore are you 
 here? Whatever you may be, you have my pity, 
 together with the evening's, for everything that is. 
 
 The Mysterious One. So cold — so cold — so cold. 
 
 Heinrich. It speaks — it speaks to him! his soul 
 is lost forever. 
 
 Albrecht. The little that I have can help you, 
 then; come underneath my cloak. (The figure 
 sits down beside him; he shares his cloak with it.) 
 I've often picked up frozen birds, and warmed 
 them back to life again, by pressing them against 
 my breast; so you'll be warm soon, too. 
 
 33 
 
)J)/^U5iTlg5 QTlb j^QStels 
 
 (He draws the figure closely to his side.) 
 
 Heinrich. And so this is the end of his mysteri- 
 ous dreamings — he is in league with spirits and 
 with hideous sorcery! My sympathy has been 
 wasted upon an imp of Satan, the true child of the 
 woman that darkened the Duke's life. The shad- 
 ows of her influence haunted this spot all day ; old 
 deviltry can trouble earth even beyond the grave. 
 'Tis she — 'tis she — who is doing this — using her 
 son for crime — luring him to unholy love for 
 creatures dead and damned! There's nothing 
 else that I can do, but add to the Duke's woe — 
 admit his hate is justified — perdition is in the boy ! 
 
 {Exit hurriedly.) 
 
 Albrecht. "So cold — so cold — so cold!" — this is 
 the cry of everything that lives; of saint and sin- 
 ner, fool and sage; of prince and subject, master, 
 slave ; of soldier, drinking for the battle ; of monk, 
 at prayer in ghostly chapel ; of beggar, shivering in 
 his tatters, of lady frozen by her gems. "So 
 cold — so cold — so cold — " this is the moan of 
 unrewarded effort; of song lost in the clatter 
 of the world; of hope subdued by narrow 
 reasoning. This is the sob of nature's priestly 
 spirits, whose words of guidance none will ever 
 understand, until it is too late — too late — to hear. 
 This is the wail of purity, on earth scorned and 
 
 34 
 
)j]i^using5 QTib Pastels 
 
 forsaken; "so cold — so cold — so cold! O God, 
 so cold — so cold!" 
 
 The Mysterious One. But warmer — warmer now. 
 
 Albrecht. Yes, warmer — warmer now; is it not 
 always so? — whenever I would lay the chilled 
 against my breast, not they alone, but I myself, 
 and all the neighboring atmosphere, soon felt a 
 soothing warmth ; as now — as now — as now ! The 
 cloak must be too heavy — I almost burn; the air 
 is bright again — the winds have changed their 
 melancholy tone; the waves below are whispering 
 like children in delight. The birds, too, have re- 
 turned ; how strangely I have dreamed ! that even- 
 ing's ever sad! that nature's ever sad! that every- 
 thing is sad ! when everything is glad ! when every- 
 thing is glad, and beautiful — as you — as you — as 
 you! 
 
 (He gazes radiantly into the face of the figure at his 
 side, which has sunk confidently into his arms — the 
 figure of a girl, rich in the glowing beauty of gentle- 
 ness and life.) 
 
 Re-enter Heinrich, with the Duke. 
 
 Duke. Nay, do not hinder me ; I am determined 
 to put an end to this accursed evil! Abomina- 
 tion's tree is dead, but while its shoot still lives, it 
 has not perished. You seem surprised that he has 
 
 35 
 
)j]l/^USiT1g5 QTib J^QStels 
 
 done this deed ; I am not so, for is he not her child? 
 and thus prepared for vice and horrid mischief? 
 
 Heinrich. His crime is awful, but think of his 
 youth! (aside) I did not know that I could love 
 him still, in spite of his depravity ! 
 
 Duke. Which makes it all the blacker. Youth 
 ought to be the cradle of bright and glorious dreams, 
 not the dark nest of serpents. The faults of youth 
 should be those we can love, not those we see with 
 horror; the fault of wandering from gentle home 
 to bloody war and death, for pride of country ; the 
 fault of striking at the insulter's heart — of dying 
 in defense of honest name; the fault of warm en- 
 thusiasm, that leads to error and to natural sin^ — 
 yes, better riot and wild revelry than sneaking 
 dreams of damned perversity! 
 
 Heinrich. But solitude can blight the purest 
 youth, and plant unholy thinking. 
 
 Duke. Speak not of solitude's depressing healthy 
 youth! it spreads the wings of noble aspirations — 
 provokes an itch for acts of lofty daring — spurs on 
 impatience, that through haste may stumble into 
 pardonable folly — but never lures to intercourse 
 with hell! There's no excuse for him, but that he 
 is a wanton's child, and born for vicious cunning ! 
 
 Heinrich. At least, then, do not kill, but banish 
 him! 
 
 36 
 
)J]^U5iT1g5 QTib J^Qstels 
 
 Duke. Banish an egg of Satan ? Have no regard 
 for other lands and other people? Though it were 
 cast among the weeds, why, it would hatch and 
 ruin a weed's flower! Since I'm unconsciously to 
 blame for having bred and nourished a young mon- 
 ster — all I can do, is, to destroy it — atone for my 
 unhappy error! 
 
 {Advancing toward Albrecht.) 
 
 Heinrich. That I have lived to see this day! O 
 God have mercy on us all! Vile as he is, I must 
 protect him from rage of honor and of justice ! 
 
 {Following the Duke.) 
 
 Duke. The light you cast to blind me is in vain — 
 no spell of witchcraft can conceal you from my 
 sight. I hold the shield of truth before my eyes — 
 stronger than all the flame-glare of the fiends! 
 You are the fitting offspring of dishonor, shameless 
 polluters of a noble name ! still, even she that bore 
 you is outshadowed in wickedness by your unholy 
 deed! Lewd dallier with spirits of perdition, your 
 arts are weak if they can not foresee that the re- 
 morseful cause of your foul being will crush you 
 and your infamy to death. Down the same path 
 that hurled your wretched mother into the shades 
 of judgment, meet your doom ! 
 
 Heinrich. (Grasping the Duke's arms) If I must 
 raise my arms against you, it is to save your sorrow 
 from despair. 
 
 37 
 
)j]i^U5iTig5 QTib ^Pastels 
 
 Duke. My sorrow ends in justice; touch not its 
 precious rage. 
 
 {He is about to seize Albrecht, to hurl him down the 
 path, when he is suddenly transfixed by the sight be- 
 fore him — beautiful purity in the arms of happiness.) 
 
 Albrecht. (Rapturously) See what I have, my 
 father ! see what the evening gave to me ! 
 
 Duke. (After a long silence, to Heinrich) You 
 have believed the boy ; if he communes with spirits, 
 they are not of hell, but heaven. 
 
 Heinrich. I did — I did, my lord ! my eyes are old, 
 and often they deceive me ! 
 
 Duke. (Aside) Just so I looked when I was 
 young and happy, when I believed that life was 
 good and true ; before I felt the stings of disappoint- 
 ment in human hearts, and saw my ideals fall! 
 When all the world was gloriously illumined by 
 light of faith in friendship and in love ; when heaven 
 seemed to be earth, earth to be heaven, God and 
 His Angels shining everywhere. I see my youth 
 again in simple sweetness ; I wake as from a night- 
 mare of the dead. Once more the two that blessed 
 and stirred my living are with me in the way they 
 used to be. No longer is my vision's sight tor- 
 mented by agonizing mockery and change. My 
 hand grasps his in strong trust and affection; I 
 clasp her closely to my rapturous breast, and I can 
 
 38 
 
)J)/^u5ing5 Qiib Pastels 
 
 ask of fortune nothing, nothing, for it has given 
 all it has to give ! What hideous imp of malice 
 turned bright morning into night? A night of 
 storms and chaos, of ghosts and tragedies? What 
 mood of grim perversity transformed my blooming 
 fate into a nest of scorpion thoughts and hatred 
 for mankind ? A dream ! a dream ! surely a dream ! 
 that I have warred with flesh and soul against my 
 love! against my friend! and even against my 
 child ! (Aloud) And you are happy ? happy ? 
 
 Albrecht. I have forgotten, father, that I was 
 not always so. 
 
 Duke. There is no night to you without its moon 
 and stars flashing forth light in shapes of flowers ! 
 there is no day to you that does not glisten with 
 soft, mysterious colors, reflecting divine gems ! 
 Each cloud is a ship filled with seraphic blessings, 
 and when they are dark it is to keep weak eyes of 
 erring hearts below from being dazzled by their 
 brilliancy! Is it not so? not so? 
 
 Albrecht. Yes — yes! Light everywhere! Hope 
 everywhere! Joy everywhere! With promise of 
 more — of ceaseless more! 
 
 Duke. You see no weed that is not in some man- 
 ner blooming; no creeping thing of earth without 
 its dignity! each insect is no other than the air's 
 wild winged fancy, and it only means to frolic when 
 it stings! 
 
 39 
 
)J)/^u5iTig5 anb J^Qstels 
 
 Albrecht. Yes, yes! Yes, yes! Yes, yes! There's 
 nothing mean or ugly anywhere ! 
 
 Duke. The leaves are whispering ! Waters speak ! 
 The winds tell of their escapades ! Storms are not 
 angry, only mad with glee at boundless liberty ! 
 
 Albrecht. Yes — yes! Speech! Speech! All na- 
 ture speaks ! There is no silence anywhere ! 
 
 Duke. Invisible hands stretch forth to you 
 strength and assistance to climb over peaks! to 
 glide through deep waters, and pierce through dark 
 woods, and to raise up your sword against giants ! 
 
 Albrecht. Yes, yes! Yes, yes! There's nothing 
 to fear ! There's nothing — no, nothing to fear ! 
 
 Heinrich. (Aside) I'm very glad — I am very 
 glad — that passion has not won its end ; but surely, 
 I have not been mad, and seen, instead of angel, 
 fiend! I thought too kindly of the boy to have a 
 vision of him damned; we dream of what we wish 
 to come, so had I dreamed, I'd have seen this. 
 Whatever she is, her powers are gentle, since she 
 has softened the Duke's wrath; I have no fear to 
 ask her questions, feeling she will not take them 
 amiss. {To the Mysterious One.) I have never 
 been so happy and so grateful as I am at this 
 moment, glorious maid ! To see my friends, father 
 and son, conversing in amicable tones, brings life 
 to me! No matter whence you come, your mis- 
 
 40 
 
)|]/^u5ing5 Qnb Pastels 
 
 sion's holy, since you have transformed sorrow 
 into joy ; but I can not refrain from being doubtful 
 of my old eyes, that never lied before. I can not — 
 no, I can not understand it — that I should have 
 beheld, instead of you — dispenser of the benefits 
 of heaven — a moment since just where you sit — a 
 fiend ! 
 
 The Mysterious One. Your eyes are honest as 
 your heart, old man, which knows not how to lie. 
 All that they saw, was true. All that they see, is 
 true. 
 
 Heinrich. You are his saving spirit, then? You 
 come to rescue him, while I was hastening to the 
 Duke, in terror and in grief? 
 
 The Mysterious One. Question nothing but mis- 
 ery, for question destroys. I am here. All is 
 well — at last — well. 
 
 Heinrich. (Aside) All is well, at last — well ! My 
 hopes have come true — my troubles are over, and 
 I'm still a fool ! Instead of embracing the bliss of 
 my soul, I waste time in questioning how it arrived ! 
 {To the Duke and his son, rapt in ecstatic conver- 
 sation.) There is no star in all the universe so glori- 
 ous as Love; I thank my guardian angel that she 
 gave me the privilege to see it shine amidst these 
 castle walls once more before I die. And may it 
 never cease to shine, will be my prayer each day. 
 
 41 
 
)])!/?U5iTlg5 Qnb J)Q5tel5 
 
 Duke. It will not cease to shine. I tell you, 
 Heinrich, there is a new-born life in me, I never 
 hoped to feel ! O God of tender mercy, forgive my 
 sin, I pray, of doubting in your goodness to send 
 me light again! 
 
 The Mysterious One. Love is light — love is light 
 — love is light. 
 
 Albrecht. Love is height — love is height — love 
 is height! Where pasts are forgotten, for they 
 are too small to be seen through joy's sky; where 
 spirits of peace and forgiveness are fluttering, and 
 nothing but music of hope can be heard. 
 
 Duke. Forgiveness! forgiveness! Heinrich, yes, 
 forgiveness ! The boy speaks my feelings — I have 
 no more wrongs! I see nothing else now but a 
 world of bright vision, with beauty and sweetness — 
 dark memories have gone ! 
 
 The Mysterious One. Forgiveness — forgiveness 
 from your soul's depths — forgiveness? 
 
 Albrecht. Forgiveness — forgiveness — on Heaven's 
 breast — forgiveness ! 
 
 Duke. Look — look — Heinrich — That radiance of 
 his face reflects my own heart's happiness. Come, 
 let us hasten toward the castle, where we will give 
 him welcome with his bride. {Grasping Heinrich's 
 arm, and hastening with him toward the castle.) 
 But see — but see — she seems to be ascending ! No 
 
 . 42 
 
)J]!|^U5ingS QTlb J)Q5tel5 
 
 — no — she must not leave him — she is his soul — 
 his soul — 'Tis well — he rises with her, their hands 
 are clasped together — Perhaps your eyes are 
 stronger? I can not see them now, my sight is 
 somewhat blighted by the glory of their joy — are 
 they coming — Heinrich — tell me are they coming? 
 
 Heinrich. They are covered by a cloud — a heavy 
 crimson cloud — it rolls away from them — I see the 
 stone again — but he sits there alone! 
 
 Duke. No, not alone — no, not alone! she must 
 come back to him — she must come back to us — 
 she has brought us light — she must not ever leave 
 us ! {Springing to Albrecht's side, and seizing his 
 hands.) She will return again, to never, never leave 
 us ! Heinrich ! Heinrich ! quick — quick ! It all has 
 been a dream ! Dead ! dead ! my son ! my son ! 
 
 43 
 
)J]|^u5ings QTib J)Q5tel5 
 
 TRISTRAM. 
 
 Characters. 
 
 Tristram, A solitary mortal. 
 Spirits of the Wood. 
 Daughter of the Rain- witch. 
 An Owl. 
 
 Voices. 
 
 Voice of the Sea. 
 
 Voice of the Rain- witch. 
 
 Voices of the Winds. 
 
 Scene 1. — Evening in the Woods. 
 Enter six Spirits of the Wood. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Hallo ! Hallo ! the Rain-witch 
 is calling! the dream-light is fading, and shadows 
 are near ! Eu-yu-eu ! eu-yu-eu ! the revels are com- 
 ing between the night-clouds and the ghosts of the 
 day! 
 
 Voice of the Rain-witch. Ou-oo! ou-oo! away 
 from my party, you graces of pity for what is no 
 more! 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. We sigh for the day with its 
 blessings unfinished; the weirdness of night has 
 its charms that betray. 
 
 44 
 
)J)/iu5ing5 Qnb J^Qstels 
 
 An Owl. But see, what thought-distracted face 
 casts flickering shapes of hope and wild despair? 
 it makes me bhnk — bUnk — bUnk. 
 
 Voices of the Winds. A soul — a soul — a self- 
 tormented soul! It can not understand us, so we 
 can not give it aid. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Then neither can we — can 
 we — can we! The tongues of the winds and the 
 wood are the same, they tell of mysterious rest. 
 
 Voice of the Rain-witch. What the sun can not 
 do, the rain may accomplish; rain and the night 
 sympathize with dark moods. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Aye — aye — aye — they lead 
 to destruction. 
 
 Owl. We will see — we will see — we will see! 
 
 Enter Tristram. 
 
 Tristram. Will you not speak to me? The stars 
 are hidden — the stars that always mock me when 
 I call for sympathy. Will you not speak to me, 
 you gray-green figures? Your lips show interest, 
 but no reply. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. He can not even hear our 
 quiverings of pity! Rain-witch, make good your 
 boasting! Help this unhappy soul! 
 
 Voice of the Rain-witch. As soon as my goblins 
 begin their mad gallop, you will see what the Rain- 
 witch can do. 
 
 45 
 
ID/Jusings QTib J^QStels 
 
 Oivl. I see a light of hope — of hope. — of hope — 
 of hope ! So good-bye, good-bye, good-bye ! 
 
 Voices of the Winds. The hope that an owl sees 
 is dark. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Still, light enough to dazzle 
 his eyes; plague of peace, we are glad you are gone. 
 
 Enter the Daughter of the Rain-witch with 
 troops of wild goblins and elves. 
 
 The Daughter of the Rain-witch. Just to hear him 
 speak once more, though he utters only pain ; then 
 I end his woe forever, and my dreams of happiness ! 
 Ah, my dream that somewhere, somewhere in the 
 wide expanse of longing, we could mingle sighs 
 together, and find peace in sympathy! But he 
 does not understand me, and my love is unrequited ; 
 I must take him to his heart's mate — to the sea — 
 the sea — the sea ! 
 
 Voices of the Winds. How we pity her complain- 
 ing ! Still, her sorrow is his refuge, for her streams 
 of hopeless yearning undulate with her sad arts. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. See, she takes her last fare- 
 well of the soul she'll save and lose. 
 
 Voice of the Rain-witch. My daughter, and gob- 
 lins, and powers are here; wait and see who can 
 satisfy need. 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. All pity me but her; 
 all know my heart but her; all understand my 
 
)J)i?u5iTig5 anb J^Qstels 
 
 sacrifice but her, my Rain-witch mother! And 
 now he speaks again ! 
 
 Tristram. How long have I been waiting to hear 
 a word I know ! How long have I been searching 
 for a language like my own ! 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. With all my love's 
 fidelity, my tongue's too weak for him; no voice 
 is wild and deep enough to match his but the sea's ! 
 
 Tristram. O, for once to understand! O, to be 
 once understood ! This has been my cry forever, 
 still that cry hears no response. 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. It has been heard 
 and answered by the depths of my despair ! 
 
 Tristram. The moon mocks me almost as much 
 as the stars; I hope she will never return. The 
 clouds of the day and the night pass me by, without 
 even a glance at my woe. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. All give you their pity;, they 
 can give you no more. 
 
 Voices of the Winds. All but one— all but one— 
 who gives more. Speak not of your pity; it is a 
 mere shade compared to the greatness of wounded 
 love's aid. 
 
 Tristram. And you do not reply to me — nor 
 you— nor you— nor you; though in the midst of 
 crowds, I am alone — alone! 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. No, not alone— no, 
 not alone ! In pain there is no one alone. 
 
 47 
 
Jjll^USiTlgS QTlb p(X5\e\5 
 
 Voices of the Winds. Disappointment, disap- 
 pointment ! all that hope know disappointment ! 
 
 Voice of the Rain-witch. Say, why do you loiter, 
 my daughter? The bells in the raindrops are read)^ 
 to ring. 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. Yea, they ring — ring 
 the birth of his rest — and they ring — ring the knell 
 of my dreams. I come, mother! Yes, I am com- 
 ing, with triumphant chorus and dirge. 
 Exit Daughter of the Rain-witch, with her 
 company of goblins and elves. 
 
 {The evening turns into night. The spirits of 
 the wood increase in number. Dark shapes glide 
 to and fro. The owl comes shrieking back.) 
 
 Owl. I thought I heard despair and so I returned, 
 but I see hope still is here, and so, good-bye, again. 
 Exit Owl. 
 
 Voices of the Winds. A spark of hope always 
 glimmers near self-sacrificing love. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Hope in death — hope in 
 death ! death — death — death ! 
 
 Voices of the Winds. Death is hope — death is 
 hope — death is hope. 
 
 Tristram. Could I but hear what they are say- 
 ing ! Their voices seem so far away ; even while I 
 know that they are near me, they sound as if from 
 other spheres. And one is gone whose looks were 
 
 48 
 
)]|/^using5 QTib J^QStels 
 
 tender, as though they had a word for me ; illusion ! 
 O, a mad illusion ! They were not even meant for 
 me. 
 
 Voices of the Winds. The same old story over 
 and over, that we have often seen and heard; the 
 words that love is pining for come after it is gone. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Return, despairing Rain- 
 witch daughter, receive the balm for your sad 
 plight; the bitterness of disappointment will be 
 transformed into sweet hope. 
 
 Voices of the Winds. Your cries are vain; she 
 can not hear you, the winds foresee the ways of 
 fate — the force of love's unselfish sorrow must 
 rescue this unhappy soul. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Too late, indeed, her work's 
 beginning; the rain-drop bells begin to ring; and 
 when they ring, we know our voices are lost in their 
 rhapsodic dirge. 
 
 Voices of the Winds. He speaks again; his pain 
 increases now to its height, then swells no more. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. The winds at times seem to 
 be callous, because they see the end of woe. 
 
 Tristram. I fled from mortals, for they deceived 
 me; their eyes were filled with mockery; they 
 seemed to say they understood me, yet when I 
 spoke, they turned away. I hastened then to hills 
 and forests, but while their looks were always kind, 
 
 49 
 
)]]i^u5ing5 QTib J^Qstels 
 
 they never would return my greeting or speak the 
 language of my sighs. I stretched my arms in vain 
 toward them ; I fell exhausted from my cries. My 
 longing's breath has all been wasted upon the un- 
 sympathizing air. 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. O cruel fate ! He does not 
 know that sympathy is watching him ! 
 
 Voices of the Winds. For if he did, his pain would 
 lessen, and he would never reach his goal. 
 
 Tristram. How many forms, of strange appear- 
 ance, arise before and flee from me, yet none of 
 them I can remember, but one that has just dis- 
 appeared; and that one now returns. 
 
 {Re-enter the Daughter of the Rain-witch with 
 her elves ringing the rain-drop hells, and her goblins 
 galloping behind.) 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. For once you were mistaken, 
 Winds ; our cries were not in vain. 
 
 Voices of the Winds. She makes her sacrifice 
 complete; she builds her own dream's tomb. 
 
 (The Daughter of the Rain-witch passes on 
 without looking at Tristram.) 
 
 Tristram. O, no — she does not even see me! 
 Again deceived — deceived — deceived ! 
 
 {The Daughter of the Rain-witch hears Tris- 
 tram's cry, and stands still.) 
 
 50 
 
)]]i^U5iTlg5 QTib pQStels 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Hear — hear! He calls you, 
 Rain-witch daughter! He yearns for your deep 
 sympathy. 
 
 Daughter of Rain-witch. (To her goblins and 
 elves) Cease — cease your din ; I may not need you. 
 (The elves cease ringing the rain-drop bells; the 
 goblins stop galloping behind, and all of her weird 
 attendants sit wonderingly upon the ground. She 
 eagerly looks at Tristram, and the new-born hope in 
 her breast illumines her form with a rainbow.) 
 You understand me? yes — you understand me? 
 My voice is not too weak for you? 
 
 Tristram. (Turning away his eyes) Her very 
 form has changed its aspect ! She mocks me as the 
 others do! Her voice seems farther away than 
 ever ! There is no hope at all for me ! 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. (The rainbow van- 
 ishes from her) It is not my love that he knows ! 
 It is my despair that he calls, to show him the way 
 to the breast that will soothe him forever from 
 woe and from me ! 
 
 Voice of the Rain-witch. O, what is the matter, 
 my daughter? The bells and the gallop have 
 ceased. 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. A crack in the bell 
 and a stumble; but all has been mended again. 
 {To the goblins and elves.) Whry do you sit and 
 
 51 
 
in/^usings QTib J^Qstels 
 
 stare, like frogs suspecting evil? Up to your work 
 of rescue, with gallop and with bell! {She looks 
 despairingly at Tristram ; the elves ring the rain-drop 
 hells again and the goblins gallop about her.) Un- 
 rest ! Unrest ! Rain- drops of unrest ! Unrest ! 
 Unrest! Unrest! {She moves slowly backwards, 
 in the midst of a tum,ultuous gallop and ringing of 
 bells; then gradually turns about, until completely 
 hidden from Tristram's view by a heavy veil of rain.) 
 Unrest ! Unrest ! Rain- drops of unrest ! Unrest ! 
 Unrest ! Unrest ! 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Hope and despair have 
 made her stronger; we never heard such tones 
 before. 
 
 Voices of the Winds. She strikes the splash mood 
 of the ocean, to lead him to his kindred soul. 
 
 Tristram. O, no — no — you have not deceived 
 me! I follow you where'er you go! I thought at 
 once your face was kindly; I realize my hopes are 
 true. Mock all you will — moon, stars, hill, forest ! 
 My triumph hour at last is here. My woes are all 
 forgotten in these welcome words I hear. Come — 
 come! 
 
 {Exit, following the voice of the Daughter of 
 THE Rain-witch.) 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. Where will she lead him, 
 winds? Where will she lead him? Go, follow 
 them, and tell us where she leads him. 
 
 52 
 
)J]!|^u5iTig5 QTib pastels 
 
 Voices of the Winds. We know already where 
 she'll lead him ; but we'll return, and tell you their 
 whole stor3^ 
 
 Voice of the Rain-witch. Did I not say my powers 
 were stronger than those of day and sunny 
 weather? 
 
 Spirits of the Wood. We remember the words of 
 the owl. We will see— we will see— we will see ! 
 
 Scene 2. — A Shore of the Sea. 
 
 Enter Daughter of the Rain-witch, with her 
 troops of goblins and elves. 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. Here is where his 
 sorrow ends, and here's my sweet dream's grave. 
 {To the goblins and elves.) I do not need you any 
 longer; you are at liberty— begone ! {The goblins 
 and elves flee from her.) I yearned for Hfe, and 
 death received my homage — death, clad in the 
 gray garb of duty. I longed for a flame of human 
 fire, but icy truth froze my desires. O, the cold 
 solitude of spirit— freedom ! The loneliness of 
 mortals is at least warm. 
 
 Tristram. (In the distance) At last I have 
 
 found you! Yes, at last I have found you! 
 
 How we will speak, and open our hearts together ! 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. He must not see me, 
 
 no— he must not see me! His gratitude would 
 
 53 
 
)j]|Ju5ings QTib Pastels 
 
 sting my wounds, yet not to hear it would sting 
 even more. {To the sea.) I bring you, sea, one that 
 belongs to you — the very notes that led him here 
 were borrowed from your mood. He has been 
 groping through dark misery to find you; yours 
 is the only voice that he can understand. Give 
 him the rest for which his soul is burning, give him 
 the words of hope he pants to hear ! 
 
 Voice of the Sea. The rest of ocean lies in unrest. 
 It is most passionate when calm. It's words of 
 hope are "Roll forever! There is no end to rest- 
 lessness." 
 
 Daughter of the Rain-witch. Roll — roll with him 
 to rest and hope forever, away from shadowy 
 memories and wrecked dreams. 
 
 {Exit Daughter of the Rain- witch.) 
 
 Enter Tristram, eagerly. 
 
 Tristram. I love you ! I love you ! I love you ! 
 We will never part, will we, my friend, my brother? 
 How gloriously we have come together, after my 
 agonizing search for you! {Leaping on the bosom 
 of the sea.) O, the bliss in understanding! O, the 
 bliss in being understood ! 
 
 Voice of the Sea. O, the bliss in rolling, rolling 
 the songs of unrest — Hope and Peace ! 
 
 Voices of the Winds. Yes, rolling hope and rolling 
 peace for him ; self-sacrifice must sufifer and be still. 
 
 54 
 
)J]/^u5ing5 Qnb pQStels 
 
 (Enter the Owl.) 
 You may return now to your woods ; the hope that 
 worried you has gone. 
 
 Owl. The winds are wise, but owls are even 
 wiser. Do you not see those Hghts amidst the 
 trees ? 
 
 Voices of the Winds. Along the path that the sad 
 Rain-witch daughter took after she completed her 
 great task? True — true, on every bough that 
 touched her as she passed, there is a little spark. 
 
 Owl. But they grow brighter all the time. I 
 leave those woods forever. (Exit.) 
 
 it s/. 
 
)j]!|^u5iTig5 anb j^Qstels 
 
 ELISE. 
 
 Along the shore of Mackinac Isle, where each 
 dashing wave tells wild tales, there stood, in 
 days of long ago, a poor hut, marked by fate 
 and time. A woman was its occupant, marked, 
 too, by fate and time: France gave her birth; 
 America gave her nothing at all but woe. 
 Morn and evening saw this woman — Suzanne 
 Galvois — washing, washing; yet while washing, 
 she was dreaming of both bright and troubled 
 pasts. As she washed, strong visions arose 
 within her, turning her wrinkles into minia- 
 ture canyons, and drawing her lips even closer 
 together than are the bosoms of hate and revenge. 
 A sweet French village home and humble peace 
 destroyed; love quickly changed to bitterness, 
 with ghosts of vanished joy. Brother Jean, star 
 of the family, seduced by the glitter of aristocracy, 
 fleeing with a titled butterfly, far from warmth and 
 sympathy. Father dying, cursing Jean; mother 
 following, not long after, to the grave's rest, crying 
 "Jean! Jean!" O, the lonely misery! Next, the 
 letter telling of Jean, in a land of disappointment ; 
 telling of the little Elise, come to earth amidst 
 sharp want. Suzanne then, in wild America, 
 marching East to West, North to South, all pov- 
 
 56 
 
)J]/^u5iTig5 QTib pasUls 
 
 erty's stings for company, with three, until with 
 but one. Here she rested with Jean's EHse. 
 EHse had passed seventeen winters. Never should 
 she wed aristocracy, cause of Jean's folly, Jean's 
 woe! Pierre, of the fishing trade, knew well how 
 to toil; honest, brave, a strong protector; he 
 yearned for EHse with breast aflame ; soon should 
 the two young hearts be one ! 
 
 Ah, but Elise all the time was dreaming of her 
 mother's briUiant people; an idle tongue had fired 
 her reveries; humbleness she could not love. No, 
 she never could wed Pierre! his soul could not 
 speak with her soul! Thus she mused, and fled 
 from the washing — always the more beautiful. 
 
 It was one evening, gray with warning. Elise 
 sought the lonely heights of the island. She was 
 near to nature's triumph, Arch Rock, when there 
 called a voice "Elise Galvois, leave these base 
 weeds ! come, live with your mother's people ! come, 
 and join the flowers of your kind, in the land which 
 is your home!" 
 
 Before Elise, stood her mother's sister; long was 
 she seeking Elise' s EHse; vain were her searches 
 until now, when she came to Mackinac. Elise stood 
 trembling before the lady, pride of aristocracy; 
 murmuring faintly, "Wait but tiH morn !" she fled, 
 burning with hope and fear. As she threw herself 
 
 57 
 
)j]/^U5iTig5 QTib Pastels 
 
 on a log, a deep voice, too well known to her, 
 sounded: "Elise Galvois, I have heard all; O ne'er 
 can I be far from you! Elise! Elise! you must 
 be mine ; my heart lives but to pant for you ; while 
 life is ours, ne'er can we part ; dead, it still must be 
 the same!" 
 
 On her knees before Pierre, Elise fell, stretching 
 her arms toward him : ' ' Pierre ! Pierre ! if you 
 truly love me, you can not wish me to die!" 
 
 But he drew her up toward him; spoke — each 
 word a funeral knell: "While life is ours, ne'er 
 can we part; dead, it still must be the same!" 
 Then strength of caged aspiration came to Elise; 
 she unloosened the grasp of her captor — darted 
 swiftly to the center of Arch Rock's bridge, o'er 
 the fearful chasm. "Ha-ha! Pierre! so this is 
 your love! Better to die than to live with your 
 kind!" A cry — it was ambition's death wail — to 
 pierce the heavens, and a fall. 
 
 The moon smiled heartlessly on Arch Rock's 
 chasm ; cruel moon ! she knows not pity ! She saw 
 two figures on the bridge gazing rigidly below. 
 "Elise!" cried a man's voice wildly. "Elise!" 
 cried a woman's, strangely. The moon smiled 
 more heartlessly than ever, as the woman moved 
 away. "Pierre," she said, "we can not be too 
 grateful- to death that saved her from the fate of 
 Jean!" 
 
 58 
 
)J]!/^U5ing5 QTib pQstels 
 
 SEA-FOAM. 
 
 Condemn not the dead, condemn not the living; 
 have pity for all, both the good and the evil. 
 Oppress not the weed, the wasp, or the serpent; 
 judge not, lest your harshness rebound and fall on 
 you. 
 
 We are all boys and dreamers still, though we 
 are fathers and gray-beards; it is only when we 
 can not dream, that we are old and broken. 
 
 It is youth alone that lives and is beloved; age 
 dies long before it enters the grave. We are young 
 as long as we Uve the truth of our hearts; we are 
 old when we stifle our heart's voices. 
 
 We are idlest when we worry; we are maddest 
 when we pretend; we are meanest when we are 
 untrue to our friends; we are most arrogant when 
 we judge. 
 
 No matter if you are bright or sad, no matter if 
 you are good or bad, no matter if you are sane or 
 mad, there are thousands of others like you. 
 
 Keep us strong in our adversity ! Keep us sane 
 in our success! Keep us kind amidst our pleas- 
 ures ! In our misery, keep us just ! 
 
 As long as nature has a word to say, there will 
 be love and romance. 
 
 59 
 
I ||||||Ji'|5{j{j?[,|j,| °^ CONGRESS 
 
 015 898 173 7 ^ 
 
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