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' G 
 
POEMS 
 
 u^ 
 
 TOGETHER WITH 
 
 BROTHER JACOB and THE LIFTED VEIL 
 
 I'l 
 
 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGR 
 
 POEMS .,.,.. 1 
 
 BROTHER JACOB 259 
 
 THE LIFTED VEIL 319 
 
POEMS 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 TnE LEGEND OP JUBAL, .... 1 
 
 AGATHA, 16 
 
 ARMGART 24 
 
 now LISA LOVED THE KING, ro 
 
 A MIMOR PROPHET, - • . • C2 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER, . 08 
 
 STRADIVARIUS, 72 
 
 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 75 
 
 TWO LOVERS, 91 
 
 SELF AND LIFE, 92 
 
 THE DEATH OF MOSES, 94 
 
 "SWEET EVENINGS COME AND GO, LOVE,' 9G 
 
 ARION, 97 
 
 "O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE," 99 
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY 100 
 
POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 WuEN Cain was driven from Jehovah's hind 
 
 He wandered eastward, seeking some far strand 
 
 Ruled by kind gods who asked no offerings 
 
 Save pure field-fruits, as aromatic things, 
 
 To feed the snl)tler fense of frames divine 
 
 That lived on fragrance for their food and wine: 
 
 Wild joyous gods, who winked at faults and f dly. 
 
 And could be pitiful and melancholy. 
 
 lie neve:- had a doubt that such gods were ; 
 
 He looked within, and saw them mirrored there. 
 
 Same think he came at last to Tartary, 
 
 And some to Iiid ; but, howsoe'er it be, 
 
 His staff he planted where sweet waters ran, 
 
 And iu that home of Cain the Arts began. 
 
 Man's life was spacious in the early world : 
 
 It paused, like some slow ship with sail unfurled 
 
 Waiting in seas by scarce a wavelet curled; 
 
 Beheld the slow star-paces of the .skies, 
 
 And grew from strength to strength through centuries; 
 
 Saw infant trees fill out their giant limbs. 
 
 And heard a thousand times the sweet birds' marriage hymns. 
 
 In Cain's young city none had heard of Death 
 Save him, the founder; and it was his faith 
 That here, away from harsh Jehovah's law, 
 Man was immortal, since no halt or flaw 
 In Cain's own frame betrayed six hundred years, 
 But dark as i)ines that autumn uever sears 
 His locks thronged backward as he ran, his frame 
 Rose like the orbiid sun each morn the same, 
 Lake-mirrored to his gaze ; and that red brand. 
 The scorching impress of Jehovah's hand, 
 Was still clear-edged to his unwearied eye. 
 Its secret firm in tiuie-fraught memory. 
 He said, "My happy offspring shall not know 
 'i'iiat the red life from out a man may flow 
 15- A* 
 
THE LEGEND OF JTJBAL. 
 
 When smitten by liis brother." Tme, his rnce 
 Bore each one stamped upon his uew-born face 
 A copy of the brand no whit less clear ; 
 But every mother held that little copy dear. 
 
 Thns generations in glad idlesse throve, 
 
 Nor hunted prey, uor with each other strove ; 
 
 For clearest springs were plenteous in the land, 
 
 And gourds for cups; the ripe fruits sought the hand, 
 
 Bending the laden boughs with fragrant gold; 
 
 And for their roofs and garments wealth untold 
 
 Lay everywhere in grasses and broad leaves: 
 
 They labored gently, as a maid who weaves 
 
 Her hair in mimic mats, and pauses oft 
 
 And strokes across her palm the tresses soft, 
 
 Theu peeps to watch the poisOd butterfly, 
 
 Or little burdened ants that homeward hie. 
 
 Time was but leisure to their lingering thought, 
 
 There was no ueed for haste to finish aught; 
 
 But sweet beginnings were repeated still 
 
 Like infant babblings that no task fnlfll; 
 
 For love, that loved not chauge, constrained the simple wilL 
 
 Till, hurling stones in mere athletic joy. 
 
 Strong Lamech struck and killed his fairest boy, 
 
 And tried to wake him with the tenderest cries, 
 
 And fetched and held before the glazed eyes 
 
 The things they best had loved to look upon ; 
 
 But never glance or smile or sigh he won. 
 
 The generations stood around those twain 
 
 Helplessly gazing, till their father Cain 
 
 Parted the press, and said, "lie will not wake; 
 
 This is the endless sleep, and we must make 
 
 A bed deep down for him beneath the sod; 
 
 For know, my sons, there is a mighty God 
 
 Angry with all man's race, but most with me. 
 
 I fled from out Ills land in vain !— 'lis He 
 
 Who came and slew the lad, for lie has found 
 
 This home of ours, and we shall all be bound 
 
 By the harsh bauds of His most cruel will. 
 
 Which any moment may some dear one kill. 
 
 Nay, though we live for countless moons, at last 
 
 We and all ours shall die like summers past 
 
 This is Jehovah's will, and He is strong; 
 
 I thought the way I travelled was too long 
 
 For Him to follow me: my thought was vain! 
 
 He walks unseen, but leaves a track of pain, 
 
 Pale Death His footprint is, and He will corae again !" 
 
 And a new spirit from that hour came o'er 
 
 The race of Cain : soft idlesse was no more. 
 
 But even the sunshine had a heart of care. 
 
 Smiling with hidden dread— a mother fair 
 
 Who folding to her breast a dying child 
 
 Beams with feigned joy that but makes sadness mild. 
 
 Death was now lord of Life, and at his word 
 
 Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 With measuied wing uow audibly arose 
 
 ThrobbiDg tliroiigh all things to some unknown close. 
 
 Now glad Content by clutching Haste was torn. 
 
 And Work grew eager, and Device was born. 
 
 It seemed the light was never loved before, 
 
 Now each man said, '"Twill go and come no more." 
 
 No budding branch, no pebble from the brook, 
 
 No form, no shadow, but new dearness took 
 
 From the one thought that life must have an end; 
 
 And the last parting now began to send 
 
 Diffusive dread through love and wedded bliss. 
 
 Thrilling them into finer tenderness. 
 
 Then Memory disclosed her face divine. 
 
 That like the calm uocturnal lights doth shine 
 
 Within the soul, and shows the sacred graves, 
 
 And shows the presence that no sunlight craves, 
 
 No space, no warmth, but moves among them all; 
 
 Gone and yet here, and coming at each call. 
 
 With ready voice and eyes that understand. 
 
 And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand. 
 
 Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed 
 
 Of various life and action-shaping need. 
 
 But chief the sons of Lamech felt the stings 
 
 Of new ambition, and the force that springs 
 
 In passion beating on the shores of fate. 
 
 They said, "There comes a night when all too late 
 
 The mind shall long to promi)t the achieving hand, 
 
 The eager thought behind closed portals stand. 
 
 And the last wishes to the mute lips press 
 
 Buried ere death in silent helplessness. 
 
 Then while the soul its way with sound can cleave, 
 
 And while the arm is strong to strike and heave. 
 
 Let soul and arm give shape that will abide 
 
 And rule above our graves, and power divide 
 
 With that great god of day, whose rays must bend 
 
 As we shall make the moving shadows tend. 
 
 Come, let us fashion acts that are to bo, 
 
 When we shall lie in darkness silently. 
 
 As our young brother doth, whom yet we see 
 
 Fallen and slain, but reigning iu our will 
 
 By that one image of him jiale and still."' 
 
 For Laniech's sons were heroes of their race: 
 
 Jabal, the eldest, bore upou his face 
 
 The look of that calm river-god, the Nile, 
 
 Mildly secure iu power that needs not guile. 
 
 But Tubal-Cain was restless as the fire 
 
 That glows aud spreads and leaps from high to higher 
 
 Where'er is aught to seize or to subdue; 
 
 Strong as a storm he lifted or o'erthrew. 
 
 His urgent limbs like rounded granite grew, 
 
 Such granite as the plunging torrent wears 
 
 And roaring rolls around through countless years. 
 
 But strength that still ou movement must be fed, 
 
 Inspiring thought of change, devices bred. 
 
 And urged his mind through earth aud air to rove 
 
 For force that he conld conquer if he strove, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAI-. 
 
 For lurking forms that miglit new tasks fulfil 
 And yield iiiuvilling to his stronger will. 
 Such Tuhal-Cain. Bnt Jubal had a fnune 
 Fashioned to finer senses, which became 
 A yearning for some hidden soul of things, 
 Some outward touch complete on inner springs 
 That vaguely moving bred a lonely pain, 
 A want that did but stronger grow with gain 
 Of all good else, as spirits might be sad 
 For Jack of speech to tell ns they are glad'. 
 
 Now Jabal learned to tame the lowing kine. 
 
 And from their udders drew the snow-white wine 
 
 That stirs the innocent joy, and makes the stream 
 
 Of elemental life with fulness teem ; 
 
 The star-browed calves he nursed with feeding baud. 
 
 And sheltered them, till all the little band 
 
 Stood mustered gazing at the sunset way 
 
 Whence he would come with store at close of day. 
 
 He soothed the silly sheep with friendly tone 
 
 And reared their staggering lambs that, older growu. 
 
 Followed his steps with sense-taught memory r 
 
 Till he, their shepherd, could their leader be 
 
 And guide them thrcmgh the pastures as he would, 
 
 With sway that grew from ministry of good. 
 
 He spread his tents nyion the grassy plain 
 
 Which, eastward widening like the open main. 
 
 Showed the tirst whiteness 'neath the morning statr ; 
 
 Near him his sislci', deft, as women are. 
 
 Plied her quick skill in sequence to his thonght 
 
 Till the hid treasures of the milk she caught 
 
 Revealed like pollen 'mid the petals white, 
 
 The golden pollen, virgin to the light. 
 
 Even the she- wolf with yonng, on rapine b«]t. 
 
 He caught and tethered in his mat-walled tent. 
 
 And cherished all her little shnrp-nosed yonng- 
 
 Till the small race with ho])e and terror clung 
 
 About his footsteps, till each new-reared brood. 
 
 Remoter from the memories of the wood. 
 
 More glad discerned their common home with man. 
 
 This was the work of Jabal : he began 
 
 The pastoral life, and, sire of joys to be. 
 
 Spread the sweet ties that bind the family 
 
 O'er dear dumb souls that thrilled at man's caress. 
 
 And shared his pains with i>alieut hclpfuluesa 
 
 Bnt Tiibal-Cain had caught and yoked the fire. 
 Yoked it with stones that bent the flaming spire 
 And made it roar in priso?ied servitude 
 Within the furnace, till with force .subdued 
 It changed all forms he willed to work upon. 
 Till hard from soft, and soft from hard, he won. 
 The pliant clay he moulded as he would, 
 And laughed with joy when 'mid the heat it stood 
 Shaped as his hand had chosen, while the mass 
 That from his hold, dark, obstinate, would paes. 
 
THE I-E&END OP JITBAI,. 
 
 He drew all glowing from the busy bent, 
 
 All bi-e;Uhing as wiih life that he could beat 
 
 Willi thuudei-iug hammer, in.ikiiig it obey 
 
 His will creative, like ihe pale soft, clay. 
 
 Each day he wrought and better thau he planned, 
 
 Shape breeding shape beneath his restless hand. 
 
 (The soul without still helps the soul within, 
 
 And its deft magic ends what we begin.) 
 
 Nay, in his dieains his hammer he would wield 
 
 And seem to see a myriad types revealed. 
 
 Then spring with wondering triumphant cry. 
 
 And, lest the inspiring vision should go by, 
 
 Would rush to labor with that plastic zeal 
 
 Which all the passion of our life can steal 
 
 For force to work with. Each day saw the birth 
 
 Of various forms which, flung upon th" earth. 
 
 Seemed harmless toys to cheat the exacting hour, 
 
 ]'.ut weie as seeds instinct with hidden powei-. 
 
 The axe, the club, the spiked wheel, the chain, 
 
 Held silently the shrieks and moans of jiain ; 
 
 And near them latent lay in share and spade. 
 
 In the strong bar, the saw, and deep-curved blade, 
 
 Glad voices of the hearth and harvest-home, 
 
 'the social good, and all earth's joy to come. 
 
 Thus to mixed ends wrought Tubal; and they say. 
 
 Some things he made have lasted to this day. 
 
 As, thirty silver pieces that were found 
 
 By Noah's children buried in the ground. 
 
 He made them from mere hunger of device. 
 
 Those small white disks; but they became the price 
 
 The traitor Judaa sold his Master for; 
 
 And men still handling them in peace and war 
 
 Catch foul disease, that comes as appetite. 
 
 And lurks and clings as withering, damning blight. 
 
 But Tubal-Caiu wot not of treachery, 
 
 Nor greedy lust, nor any ill to be, 
 
 Save the one ill of sinking into nought. 
 
 Banished from actiim and act-shai)ing thought. 
 
 He was the sire of swift-transforming skill, 
 
 Which arms for conquest man's ambitious will ; 
 
 And round him gladly, as his hammer rung, 
 
 Gathered the elders and the growing young: 
 
 These handled vaguely and those i)lied the tools, 
 
 Till, happy chance begetting conscious rules. 
 
 The home of Cain with industry was rife. 
 
 And glimpses of a strong persistent life. 
 
 Panting throngh generations as one breath. 
 
 And filling with its soul the blank of death. 
 
 Jubal, too, watched the hammer, till his eyes, 
 
 No longer following its fall or rise, 
 
 Seemed glad with something that they could not see, 
 
 But only listened to— some melody, 
 
 Wherein dumb longings inward speech had found, 
 
 Won from the common store of struggling sound. 
 
 Then, as the metal shapes more various grew, 
 
 And, hurled upon each other, resonance drew, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 Each gave new tones, the revelations dim 
 
 Of some external soul that spoke for him: 
 
 The hollow vessel's clang, the clash, the boom, 
 
 Like light that makes wide spiritual room 
 
 And skyey spaces in the spaceless thought. 
 
 To Jubal such eulargdd passion brought 
 
 That love, hope, rage, and all experience, 
 
 Were fused in vaster being, fetching thence 
 
 Concords and discords, cadences and cries 
 
 That seemed from some world-shrouded soul to rise, 
 
 Some rapture more intense, some mightier rage. 
 
 Some living sea that burst the bounds of man's brief age. 
 
 Then with such blissful trouble and glad care 
 For growth within unborn as mothers bear, 
 Tt) the far woods he wandered, listening. 
 And heard the birds their little stories sing 
 In notes whose rise and fall seemed melted speech- 
 Melted with tears, smiles, glances — that can reach 
 More quickly through our frame's deep-winding night. 
 And without thought raise thought's best fruit, delight. 
 Pondering, he sought his home again and heard 
 The fluctuant changes of the spoken word: 
 The deep remonstrance and the argued want. 
 Insistent first in close monotonous chant, 
 Next leaping upward to defiant stand 
 Or downward beating like the resolute hand; 
 The mother's call, the children's answering cry. 
 The laugh's light cataract tumbling from on high ; 
 The suasive repetitions Jabal taught, 
 That timid browsing cattle homeward brought; 
 The clear-winged fugue of echoes vanishing; 
 And through them all the hammer's rhythmic ring. 
 Jubal sat lonely, all around was dim. 
 Yet his face glowed with light revealed to him: 
 lor as the delicate stream of odor wakes 
 The thought-wed sentience and some image makes 
 From out the mingled fragments of the past, 
 Finely compact in wholeness that will last. 
 So streamed as from the body of each sound 
 Subtler pulsations, swift as warmth, which found 
 All prisoned germs and all their powers unbound, 
 Till thought self-luminous flamed from memory. 
 And in creative vision wandered free. 
 Then Jubal, standing, rapturous arms upraised, 
 And on the dark with eager eyes he gazed. 
 As had some manifested god been there. 
 It was liis thought he saw: the jiresence fair 
 Of unachieved achievement, the high task, 
 The struggling unborn spirit that doth ask 
 With irresistible cry for blood and breath. 
 Till feeding its great life we sink in death. 
 
 He said, "Were now those mighty tones and cries 
 That from the giant soul of earth arise, 
 Those groans of some great travail heard from far, 
 Some power at wrestle with the things that are, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 Those soiiiuls which vary with the varying form 
 
 Of clay and metal, and in sightless swarm 
 
 Fill the wide space with tremors: were these wed 
 
 To human voices with such passion fed 
 
 As does but glimmer in onr common speech, 
 
 But might flame out in tunes whose changing reach, 
 
 Surpassing meagre need, informs the sense 
 
 With fuller union, flner diflerence — 
 
 Were this great vision, now obscurely bright 
 
 As morning hills that melt in new-poured light, 
 
 Wrought iuto solid form and living sound, 
 
 Moving with ordered throb and sure rebound, 
 
 Then — Nay, I, Jubal, will that work begin ! 
 
 The generations of our race shall win 
 
 New life, that grows from out the heart of this, 
 
 As sprin? from winter, or as lovers' bliss 
 
 From out the dull unknown of uuwaked energies." 
 
 Thus he resolved, and in the sonl-fed light 
 Of coming ages waited through the nigl.t, 
 Watching for that near dawn whose chiller ray 
 Showed but the unchanged world of yesterday; 
 Where all the order of his dream divine 
 Lay like Olympian forms within the mine ; 
 Where fervor that could fill the earthly round 
 With tlironged joys of form-begotten sound 
 Must shrink intense within the patient power 
 That lonely labors through the niggard hour. 
 Such patience have the heroes who begin, 
 Sailing the first to lauds which others win. 
 Jubal must dare as great beginners dare, 
 Strike form's first way in matter rude and bare, 
 And, yearning vaguely toward the plenteous quire 
 Of the world's harvest, make one poor small lyre. 
 He made it, and from out its measured fjame 
 Drew the harmonic soul, whose answers came 
 With guidance sweet and lessons of delight 
 Teaching to ear and hand the blissful Right, 
 Where strictest law is gladness to the sense 
 And all desire bends toward obedience. 
 
 Then Jubal poured his triumph in a song — 
 
 The rapturous word that rapturous notes prolong 
 
 As radiance streams from smallest things that burn, 
 
 Or thought of loving iuto love doth turn. 
 
 And still his lyre gave companionship 
 
 la sense-taught concert as of lip with lip. 
 
 Alone amid the hills at first he tried 
 
 His winged song; then with adoring pride 
 
 And bridegroom's joy at leading foith his bride. 
 
 He said, "This wonder which my soul hath found, 
 
 This heart of music in the might of sound, 
 
 Shall forthwith be the share of all our race 
 
 And like the morning gladden common space: 
 
 The song shall spread and swell as rivers do. 
 
 And I will teach oar youth with skill to woo 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAI,. 
 
 This living lyie, to kuow its secret will, 
 
 Its line division of tlie good and ill. 
 
 So sliall men call me sire of harmony, 
 
 And where great Sung is, llierc my life shall be." 
 
 Thus glorying as a god beneficent, 
 
 Forth from his solitary joy lie went 
 
 To bless mankind. It was at evening, 
 
 When shadows lengthen from each westward thing, 
 
 Wlieu imminence of change makes sense more fine 
 
 And light seems holier in its grand decline. 
 
 Tlic fruit-trees wore their studded coronal. 
 
 Earth and her children were at festival, 
 
 Glowing as with one heart and one ctmsent — 
 
 Thought, love, trees, rocks, in sweet warm radiance blent 
 
 The tribe of Cain was resting on the ground. 
 
 The various ages wreathed in one broad round. 
 
 Here lay, wliile children peeped o'er his huge thighs. 
 
 The sinewy man embrowned by centuries ; 
 
 Here the broad-bosoraed mother of the strong 
 
 Looked, like Demeter, placid o"er the throng 
 
 Of younsr lithe forms whose rest was movement too — 
 
 Tricks, prattle, nods, and laughs that lightly flew, 
 
 And swayings as of flower-beds where Love blew. 
 
 F(n- all had feasted well upon the fle.sh 
 
 Of juicy fruits, on nuts, and honey fresh. 
 
 And now their wine was health-bred merriment, 
 
 Whicli through the generations circling went. 
 
 Leaving none sad, for even father Cain 
 
 Smiled as a Titan might, despising pain. 
 
 Jab;il sat climbed on by a playfnl ring 
 
 Of children, lambs and whelps, whose gambolling, 
 
 With tiny hoofs, paws, hands, and dimpled feef. 
 
 Made barks, bleats, laughs, in pretty hubbub meet. 
 
 But Tubal's hammer rang from far away, 
 
 Tnbal alone would keep no holidaj'. 
 
 His furnace must not slack for any feast. 
 
 For of all hardship work he counted least ; 
 
 He scorned all rest but sleep, where every dream 
 
 Made his repose more potent action seem. 
 
 Yet with health's nectar some strange thirst was blent, 
 
 The fateful growth, the unnamed discontent. 
 
 The inward shaping toward some unborn power. 
 
 Some deeper-breathing act, the being's flower. 
 
 After all gestures, words, and speech of eyes. 
 
 The soul had more to tell, and broke in sighs. 
 
 Then from the east, with glory on his head 
 
 Such as low-slanting beams on corn-waves spread. 
 
 Came Jubal with his lyre : there 'mid the throng. 
 
 Whore the blank space was, poured a solemn song, 
 
 Touching his lyre to full harmonic throb 
 
 And measured pulse, with cadences that sob. 
 
 Exult and cry, and search the inmost deep 
 
 Where the dai Jc sources of new passion sleep. 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAI.. 
 
 Joy took the air, niul took each bveathiug soul, 
 
 Embracinj; them in one enti'aucid whole, 
 
 Yet thrilled each varying frame to various ends, 
 
 As Spring uew-waking through the creature sends 
 
 Or rage or tenderness ; more plenteous life 
 
 Here breeding dread, and there a fiercer strife. 
 
 He who had lived through twice three centuries. 
 
 Whose mouths monotonous, like trees on trees 
 
 In lioary forests, stretched a backward maze. 
 
 Dreamed himself dimly through the travelled days 
 
 Till in clear light he paused, and felt the suu 
 
 That warmed him when he was a little one ; 
 
 Felt that true heaven, the recovered past, 
 
 The dear small Known amid the Unknown vast, 
 
 And in that heaven wept. But younger limbs 
 
 Thrilled toward the future, that bright laud which Gwims 
 
 In western glory, isles and streams aud hays, 
 
 Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze. 
 
 Aud in all these the rhythmic influence. 
 
 Sweetly o'ercharging the delighted sense. 
 
 Flowed out in movements, little waves that spread 
 
 Enlarging, till in tidal union led 
 
 The yontiis and maidens both alike long-tressed, 
 
 By grace-inspiring melody possessed, 
 
 TJose in slow dance, with beauteous floating swerve 
 
 Of limbs aud hair, and many a melting curve 
 
 Of ringed feet swayed by each close-linked palm: 
 
 Then Jubal poured more rapture in his psalm, 
 
 The dance tired music, music fired the dance, 
 
 The glow diffusive lit each countenance, 
 
 Till all the gazing elders rose and stood 
 
 With glad yet awful shoclc of that mysterious good. 
 
 Even Tubal caught the sound, aud wondering came, 
 Urging his sooty bulk like smoke-wrapt flame 
 Till he could see his brother with the lyre. 
 The work for which he lent his furnace-fire 
 And diligent hammer, witting nought of this — 
 This power in metal shape which made strange bliss, 
 Entering «i;hiu him like a dream full-fraught 
 With new creations finished in a thought. 
 
 The sun had sunk, but music still was there. 
 
 And when this ceased, still triumph filled the air: 
 
 It seemed the stars were shining with delight 
 
 Aud that no night was ever like this night. 
 
 All clung with praise to Jubal : some besought 
 
 That he would teach them his new skill ; some caught, 
 
 Swiftly as smiles are caught in looks that meet. 
 
 The tone's melodic change and rhythmic beat: 
 
 'Twas easy following where invention trod — 
 
 All eyes can see when light flows cut from God. 
 
 And thus did Jubal to his race reveal 
 Music their larger soul, where woe and weal 
 Filling the resonant chords, the song, the dance. 
 Moved with a wider-winged utterance. 
 
10 THE LEGEND OF JUBAt,. 
 
 Now many n lyre was fashioned, many a song 
 
 Raised echoes new, old echoes to prolonj;, 
 
 Till things of Jnbal's makinn; were so rife, 
 
 "Hearing myself," he said, "hems in my life. 
 
 And I will get me to some far-off land. 
 
 Where higher mountains under heaven stand 
 
 And touch the blue at rising of the stars, 
 
 Whose song they hear where no rough mingling mars 
 
 The great clear voices. Such lands there must be, 
 
 Where varying forms make varying symphony— 
 
 Where other thunders roll amid the hills, 
 
 Some mightier wind a mightier forest tills 
 
 With other strains through other-shapen boughs: 
 
 Where bees and birds and beasts that hunt or browse 
 
 Will leach me songs I know not. Listening there, 
 
 My life shall grow like trees both tall and fair 
 
 That rise and spread and bloom toward fuller fruit each year,' 
 
 He took a raft, and travelled wiih the stream 
 
 Southward for many a league, till he might deem 
 
 He saw at last the pillars of the sky, 
 
 lieholdiug mountains whose white majesty 
 
 Rushed through him as new awe, and made new song 
 
 That swept with fuller wave the chords along. 
 
 Weighting his voice with deep religious chime, 
 
 The iteration of slow chant sublime. 
 
 It was the region long inhabited 
 
 By all the race of Seth ; and Jubal said : 
 
 *' Here have I found my thirsty soul's desire, 
 
 Eastward the hills touch heaven, and evening's fire 
 
 Flames through deep waters; I will take my rest, 
 
 And feed anew from my great mother's breast, 
 
 The sky-clasped Earth, whose voices nurture me 
 
 As the flowers' sweetness doth the honej'-bee. " 
 
 He lingered wandering for mauy an age. 
 
 And, sowing music, made high heritage 
 
 For generations far beyond the Flood — 
 
 For the poor late-begotten human brood 
 
 Bom to life's weary brevity and perilous good. 
 
 And ever as he travelled he would climb 
 
 The farthest mountain, yet the heavenly chime, 
 
 The mighty tolling of the far-oflf spheres 
 
 Beating their pathway, never touched his ears. 
 
 But wheresoe'er he rose the heavens rose, 
 
 And tlie far-gazing mountain could disclose 
 
 Nought but a wider earth; until one height 
 
 Showed him the oceau stretched in liquid light, 
 
 And he could hear its multitudinous roar. 
 
 Its plunge and hiss upon the pebbled shore: 
 
 Then Jubal silent sat, and touched his lyre no more. 
 
 lie thought, "The world is great, but I am weak, 
 And where the sky bends is no solid peak 
 To give me footing, but instead, this main — 
 Myriads of maddened horses thundering o'er the plain. 
 
THE LEGEND OF .TUBAL. 11 
 
 "New voices come to me where'er I roam, 
 My heart too widens with its wiilcuing' home: 
 But song grows weaker, and the heart must break 
 For lack of voice, or fliij^ers that can wake 
 The lyre's full answer; nay, its chords were all 
 Too few to meet the growing spirit's call. 
 The former songs seem little, yet no more 
 Can soul, hand, voice, with interchanging lore 
 Tell what the earth is saying unto me: 
 The secret is too great, I hear confusedly. 
 
 "No farther will I travel : once a<rain 
 
 My brethren I will see, and that fair plain 
 
 Where I and Song were born. There fresh-voiced yonth 
 
 Will pour my strains willi all the early tiuih 
 
 Which now abides not in my voice and hands. 
 
 But only lu the soul, the will that stand.s 
 
 Helpless to move. My tribe remembering 
 
 Will cry 'Tis he!' and run to greet me, welcoming." 
 
 The way was weary. Many a date-palm grew. 
 
 And shook out clustered gold against the blue, 
 
 While Jubal, guided by the steadfast spheres, 
 
 Sought the dear home of those first eager years, 
 
 When, with fresh vision fed, the fuller will 
 
 Took living outward shape in pliant skill ; 
 
 For still he hoped to fiud the former things, 
 
 And the warm gladness recognition brings. 
 
 His footsteps erred among the mazy woods 
 
 And long illusive sameness of the floods, 
 
 Winding and wandering. Through far regions, strange 
 
 With Gentile homes and faces, did he range. 
 
 And' left his music in their memory. 
 
 And left at last, when nought besides would fiee 
 
 His homeward steps from clinging hands and cries, 
 
 The aucient lyre. And now in ignorant eyes 
 
 No sign remained of Jnbal, Lamech's sou. 
 
 That mortal frame wherein was tirst begun 
 
 The immortal life of song. His withered brow 
 
 Pressed over eyes that held no lightning now, 
 
 His locks streamed whiteness on the hurrying air, 
 
 The unresting soul had worn itself quite bare 
 
 Of beauteous token, as the outworn might 
 
 Of oaks slow dying, gaunt in summer's light. 
 
 His full deep voice toward thinnest treble ran : 
 
 He was the rune-writ story of a man. 
 
 And so at last he ueared the well-known land. 
 Could see the hills in ancient order stand 
 With friendly faces whose familiar gaze 
 Looked through the suushiue of his childish days; 
 Knew the deep-shadowed folds of hanging woods, 
 And seemed to see the self-same insect broods 
 Whirling and quivering o'er the flowers— to hear 
 The self-same cuckoo making distance near. 
 Yea, the dear Earth, with mother's constancy. 
 Met and embraced him, and said, "Thou art he I 
 
12 THE LEGEND OF JUCAI-. 
 
 This was thy cradle, liere my breast was thine, 
 Where feeding, llioii didst all thy life entwine 
 With my sky-wedded life in heritage divine." 
 
 Bnt weuding ever through the watered plain, 
 
 Firm not to rest save in the home of Cain, 
 
 He saw dread Change, with dubious face and cold 
 
 That uevei' kept a welcome for the old. 
 
 Like some strange lieir upon the hearth, arise 
 
 Saying "This home is mine." lie thought liis eyes 
 
 Mocked all deep memories, as things new made. 
 
 Usurping sense, make old things slirink and fade 
 
 And seem ashamed to meet the staring day. 
 
 His memory saw a small foot-trodden way, 
 
 His eyes a broad far-stretching paven road 
 
 Bordered with many a tomb and fair abode; 
 
 The little city that once nestled low 
 
 As buzzing groups about some central glow, 
 
 Spread like a murmuring crowd o'er plain and steep, 
 
 Or monster huge in heavy-breathing sleep. 
 
 His heart grew faint, and tremblingly he sank 
 
 Close by the wayside on a weed-grown bank, 
 
 Not far from where a new-raised temple stood, 
 
 Sky-roofed, and fragrant with wrought cedar wood. 
 
 The morning sun was high; his rays fell hot 
 
 On this hap-chosen, dusty, common spot. 
 
 On the dry-withered grass and withered man : 
 
 That wondrous frame where melody began 
 
 Lay as a tomb defaced that no eye cared to scan. 
 
 But while he sank far music reached his ear. 
 
 He listened until wonder silenced fear 
 
 And gladness wonder; for the broadening stream 
 
 Of sound advancing was his early dream, 
 
 Brought like fulfilment of forgotten prayer; 
 
 As if his soul, breathed out ui)on the air. 
 
 Had lield the invisible seeds of harmony 
 
 Quick with the various strains of life to be. 
 
 He listened: the sweet mingled difference 
 
 With charm alternate took the meeting sense; 
 
 Then bursting like some shield-broad lily red. 
 
 Sudden and near the trumpet's notes out-spread. 
 
 And soon his eyes could see the metal flower, 
 
 Shining upturned, out on the mori'.ing pour 
 
 Its incense audible; could see a train 
 
 From out the street slow-winding on the plain 
 
 With lyres and cymbals, flutes and psalteries. 
 
 While men, youths, maids, in concert sang to these 
 
 With various throat, or in succession poured. 
 
 Or in full volume mingled. But one word 
 
 Knled each recurrent rise and answering fall, 
 
 As when the multitudes adoring call 
 
 On some great name divine, their common soul. 
 
 The common need, love, joy, that knits them in one whole. 
 
 The word was " Jnbal !" ..." Jubal " filled the air 
 And seemed to ride aloft, a spirit there, 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 13 
 
 Creator of the qniro, llie full-fi-anght strain 
 
 That grateful rolled itself to him again. 
 
 The aged man adust upon the bank — 
 
 Whom no ej-e saw — at first with raptnre drank 
 
 The bliss of music, then, with swelling heart, 
 
 Felt, this was his own being's greater part, 
 
 The universal joy once born in him. 
 
 But when the train, with living face and limb 
 
 And vocal breath, came nearer and more near, 
 
 The longing grew that they should hold him dear; 
 
 Him, Lamech's son, whom all their fathers knew. 
 
 The breathing Jubal — liim, to whom their love was due. 
 
 All was forgotten but the burning need 
 
 To claim his fuller self, to claim the deed 
 
 That lived away from him, and grew a))art, 
 
 While he as from a tomb, with lonely heart. 
 
 Warmed by no meeting glance, no hand that pressed. 
 
 Lay chill amid the life his life had blessed. 
 
 What though his song should spread from man's small race. 
 
 Out through the myriad worlds that people space 
 
 And make the heavens one joy-difl'using quire? — 
 
 Still 'mid that vast would throb the keen desire 
 
 Of this poor aged flesh, this eventide. 
 
 This twilight soon in darkness to subside. 
 
 This little pulse of self that, having glowed 
 
 'I'hrongh thrice thr€e centuries, and divinely strowed 
 
 The light of music through the vague of sound. 
 
 Ached with its smallness still in good that had no bound. 
 
 For no eye saw him, while with loving pride 
 Each voice with each in i)raise of Jubal vied. 
 Must he in conscions trance, dumb, helpless lie 
 While all that ardent kindred passed him by? 
 His flesh cried out to live with living men 
 And join that soul which to the -inward ken 
 Of all the hymning train was present there. 
 Strong passion's daring sees not aught to dare : 
 The frost-locked starkness of his frame low-bent, 
 His voice's penury of tones long spent, 
 He felt not ; all his being leaped in flame 
 To meet his kindred as they onward came 
 Slackening and wheeling toward the temple's face: 
 He rushed before them to the glittering space, 
 And, with a strength that was but strong desire, 
 Cried, "I am Jubal, !!...! made the lyre!" 
 
 'I'he tones amid a lake of silenge ft-ll 
 Broken and strained, as if a ft'el)Ie bell 
 Had tuneless pealed the triumph (jf a land 
 To listening crowds in expectation spanned.- 
 Sudden came showers of laughter on that lake; 
 They spread along the train from front to wake 
 In one great storm of merriment, while he 
 Shrank doubting whether he could Jubal be, 
 And not a dream of Jubal, whose rich vein 
 Of passionate music came with that dieani-pain 
 
14 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 Wherein the sense slips off from each loved thing 
 
 And all appeiunnce is mere vanishing. 
 
 But ere the langhter died from out the rear, 
 
 Anger in front saw profanation near; 
 
 Jubal was but a name in each man's faith 
 
 For glorious power untouched by that slow death 
 
 Which creeps with creeping time; tins too, the spot. 
 
 And this tlic day, it must be ciime to blot, 
 
 Even with scoffing at a madman's lie: 
 
 Jubal was not a name to wed with mockery. 
 
 Two rushed upon liim: two, the most devout 
 
 In honor of great Jubal, thrust him out, 
 
 And beat him with their flutes. Twas little need; 
 
 He strove not, cried not, but with tottering speed. 
 
 As If the scorn and howls were driving wind 
 
 That urged his body, serving so the mind 
 
 Which could but shrink and year)), he sought the screca 
 
 or thorny thickets, and there fell unseen. 
 
 The immortal name of Jubal filled the sky. 
 
 While Jubal lonely laid him down to die. 
 
 He said within his soul, "This is the end: 
 
 O'er all the earth to where the heavens bend 
 
 And hem men's travel, I have breathed my soul : 
 
 I lie here now the remnant of that whole. 
 
 The embers of a life, a lonely pain; 
 
 As far-off rivers to my thirst were vain. 
 
 So of my mighty years nought comes to me again. 
 
 "Is the day sinking? Softest coolness springs 
 
 Prom something round me: dewy shadowy wingH 
 
 Enclose me all around— no, not above — 
 
 Is moonlight there? I see a face of love. 
 
 Fair as sweet music when my heart was strong: 
 
 Yea— art thou come again to me, great Song V 
 
 The face bent over him like silver night 
 
 In long-rememliered summers; that calm light 
 
 Of days which shine in firmaments of thought, 
 
 That past unchangeable, from change still wrought. 
 
 And gentlest tones were with the vision blent: 
 
 He knew not if that gaze the music sent. 
 
 Or music that calm gaze: to hear, to see, 
 
 Was but one undivided ecstasy : 
 
 The raptured senses melted into one. 
 
 And parting life a moment's freedom won 
 
 From in and outer, as a little child 
 
 Sits on a bank and sees blue heavens mild 
 
 Down in the water, and forgets its limbs. 
 
 And knoweth nought save the blue heaven that swims. 
 
 "Jubal," the face said, "I am thy loved Past, 
 The soul that makes thee one from first to last. 
 I am the angel of thy life and death, 
 Thy outbreathed being drawing its last breath. 
 Am I not thine alone, a dear dead bride 
 Who blest thy lot above all men's beside? 
 
THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 15 
 
 Thy bride whom thou wonldst nevei- change, nor take 
 
 Any biide living, for that dead one's sake ? 
 
 Was I not all thy yearning and delight, 
 
 Thy chosen search, ihy senses' beauteous Right, 
 
 Which still had been tlie hunger of thy frame 
 
 In central heaven, hadst thou been still the same? 
 
 Wouldst thou have asked aught else from any god— 
 
 Whether with gleaming feet ou earth he trod 
 
 Or thundered through the skies— aught else for sh;'r« 
 
 Of mortal good, than in thy soul to bear 
 
 The growth of song, and feel the sweet unrest 
 
 Of the world's spring-tide in thy consci(nis breast? 
 
 No, thou hadst grasped thy lot with all its pain, 
 
 Nor loosed it any painless lot to gain 
 
 Where music's voice was silent; for tliy fate 
 
 Was human music's self incorporate : 
 
 Thy senses' keenness and thy passionate : trife 
 
 Were flesh of her flesh and her womb of life. 
 
 And greatly hast thou lived, for not alone 
 
 With hidden raptures were her secrets shown, 
 
 Buried within thee, as the purple light 
 
 Of gems may sleep in solitary night ; 
 
 But thy expanding joy was still to give, 
 
 And with the generous air in song to live, 
 
 Feeding the wave of ever-wideuing bliss 
 
 Where fellowship means equal perfectness. 
 
 And ou the mountains in thy wandering 
 
 Thy feet were beautiful as blossomed spring, 
 
 That turns the leafless wood to love's glad home, 
 
 For with thy coming Melody was come. 
 
 This was thy lot, to feel, create, bestow. 
 
 And that immeasurable life to know 
 
 From which the fleshly self falls shrivelled, dead, 
 
 A seed primeval that has forests l)red. 
 
 It is the glory of the heritage 
 
 Thy life has left, that makes thy outcast age : 
 
 Thy limbs shall lie dark, tombless on this sod. 
 
 Because thou shinest in man's soul, a god, 
 
 Who found and gave new passion and new joy 
 
 That nought but Earth's destruction can destroy. 
 
 Thy gifts to give was thine of men alone : 
 
 'Tvvas but in giving that thou couldst atone 
 
 For too mnch wealth amid their poverty." 
 
 The words seemed melting into symphony. 
 The wings upbore him, and the gazing song 
 Was floating him the heavenly space along. 
 Where mighty harmonies all gently fell 
 Through veiling vastnCfS, like the far-off bell, 
 Till, ever onward through the choral blue, 
 He heard more faintly and more faintly knew. 
 Quitting mortality, a quenched suu-wave. 
 The All-creating Presence fur his grave. 
 
 1S69. 
 
AG A THA. 
 
 Co'jIv, with nie to the monutain, not where rocki 
 Soar harsh above tlie troops of hurrying pines, 
 But where tlie earth spreads soft and rounded breasts 
 To feed her cliildren ; where the generous hills 
 Lift a green is'.e betwixt the sty and plain 
 To keep some Old World things aloof from change. 
 Here too 'tis hill and hollow: new-born streams 
 With sweet enforcement, joyously compelled 
 Like laughing children, hurry down the steeps, 
 And make a dimpled chase athwart the stones; 
 Pine woods are black upon the heights, the sloped 
 Are green with pasture, and the bearded coru 
 Fringes the blue above the sudden ridge: 
 A little world whose round horizon cuts 
 This isle of hills with heaven for a sea, 
 Save In clear moments when soulhwestward glo-inw 
 -J'rance by the Rhine, melting anon to haze. 
 The monks of old chose here their still retreat. 
 And called it by the Blessed Virgin's name, 
 Sancta Maria, whicli the peasant's tongue, 
 Speaking from out the parent's heart that ttirna 
 All loved things into little things, has made 
 Sanct Margen— Holy little Maiy, dear 
 As all the sweet home things she smiles upon, 
 The children and the cows, the apple-trees. 
 The cart, the plough, all named with that caresa 
 Which feigns them little, easy to be held. 
 Familiar to the eyes and hand and heart. 
 What though a Queen? She puts her crown away 
 And with her little Boy wears common clothes, 
 Caring for common wants, remembering 
 That day when good Saint Josei)h left his work 
 To marry her with humble trust sublime. 
 The monks are gone, their shadows fall no more 
 Tall-frocked and cowled athwart the evening fields 
 At milkiug-time; their silent corridors 
 Are turned to homes of bare-armed, aproned men. 
 Who toil for wife and children. But the bells, 
 Tealing on high from two quaint convent towers, 
 Still ring the Catholic signals, summoning 
 To grave remembrance of the larger life 
 That bears our own, like perishable fruit 
 Upon its heaven-wide branches. At their sound 
 The shepherd boy far off upon the hill. 
 The workers with the saw and at the forge, 
 The triple generation round the hearth— 
 
17 
 
 Grai;\l.inies and mothers aud the flute-voiced girls- 
 Fall on their knees aud send forth prayerful criea 
 To the kind Mother with the little Boj-, 
 Who plesds for helpless men against the storm, 
 Lightning and plagues all and terriflc shapes 
 Of power supreme. 
 
 Within the prettiest, hollow of these hills. 
 Just as j'ou enter it, upon the slope 
 Stands a low cottage neighbored cheerily 
 By running water, which, at farthest end 
 Of the same hollow, turns a heavy mill, 
 Aud feeds the pasture for the miller's cows, 
 Blunchi and Niigeli, Veilchen aud the rest. 
 Matrons with faces as Griselda mild, 
 Coming at call. And on the farthest height 
 A little tower looks out above the piues 
 Where mounting you will And a sanctuary 
 Open and still; without, the silent crowd 
 Of heaven-planted, incense-mingling flowers; 
 Within, the altar where the Mother sits 
 'Mid votive tablets hung from far-oflf years 
 By peasants succored in the peril of Are, 
 Fever, or flood, who thought that Mary's love, 
 WHling b;<t uot omnipotent, had stood 
 Between their lives and that dread i)ower which sl&W 
 Their neighbor at their side. The chapel bell 
 Will melt to gentlest music ere it reach 
 That cottage on the slope, whose garden gate 
 Has caught the rose-tree boughs and stands ajar; 
 So does the door, to let the sunbeams in ; 
 For in the slanting sunbeams angels come 
 And visit Agatha who dwells within — 
 Old Agatha, whose cousins Kate and Nell 
 Are housed by her iu Love and Duty's name, 
 They being feeble, with small withered wits. 
 And she believing that the higher gift 
 Was given to be shared. So Agatha 
 Shares her one room, all neat on afternoons, 
 As if gome memory weie sacred there 
 Aud everything within the four low walls 
 Au honored relic. 
 
 One long summer's day 
 An angel entered at the rose-hung gate. 
 With skirts pale blue, a brow to quench the pearl. 
 Hair soft aud blonde as infants", plenteous 
 As hers who made the wavy lengths once speak 
 The grateful worship of a rescued soul. 
 The angel paused before the open door 
 To give good-day. "Come in," said Agatha. 
 I followed close, and watched and listened there. 
 The angel was a lady, noble, young, 
 Taught in all seemliuess that fits a court, 
 All lore that shapes the mind to delicate use. 
 Yet quiet, lowly, as a meek white dove 
 That with its presence teaches gentleness. 
 Men called her Countess Linda; little girls 
 In Freiburg town, orphans whom she caressed, 
 16 B 
 
18 
 
 Said Mamma Liuda: yet her years were few, 
 Her outward beauties all in budding time, 
 Her virtues the aroma of the plant 
 That dwells in all its being, root, stem, leaf, 
 And waits not ripeness. 
 
 "Sit," said Agatha. 
 Her cousins were at work in neighboring homes, 
 Bnt yet she was not lonely ; all things round 
 Seemed filled with noiseless yet responsive life, 
 As of a child at breast that gently clings: 
 Not sunlight only or the breathing flowers 
 Or the swift shadows of the birds and bees, 
 Bnt all the household goods, which, polished fair 
 By hands that cherished them for s^ervice done. 
 Shone as with glad content. The wooden beams 
 Dark and yet friendly, easy to be reached. 
 Bore three white crosses for a speaking sign; 
 The walls had little pictures hung a-row, 
 TellinK the stories of Saint Ursula, 
 And Saint Elizabeth, the lowly queen ; 
 And on the bench that served for table too. 
 Skirting the wall to save the narrow space, 
 There lay the Catholic books, inherited 
 From those old times when printing still was young 
 With stout-liinbed promise, like a sturdy boy. 
 And in the farthest corner stood the bed 
 Where o'er tlie pillow hung two pictures wreathed 
 With fresh-plncked ivy: one the Virgin's death, 
 And one her flowering tomb, while high above 
 She smiling bends and lets her girdle down 
 For ladder to the soul that cannot trust 
 In life which outlasts burial. Agatha 
 Sat at her knitting, aged, upright, slim, 
 And spoke her welcome with mild diguity. 
 She kept the company of kings and queens 
 And mitred saints who sat below the feet 
 Of Francis with the ragged frock and wounds ; 
 And Rank for her meant Duty, various, 
 Yet equal in its worth, done worthily. 
 Command was service; humblest service done 
 By willing and discerning souls was glory. 
 Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench, 
 Close fronting the old knitter, and they talked 
 With sweet antiphony of young aud old. 
 
 Ag.vtua. 
 You like onr valley, lady? I am glad 
 You thought it well to come again. But rest — 
 The walk is long from Master Michael's inu. 
 
 COUNTKSS LlNPA. 
 
 Yes, but DO walk is prettier. 
 
 Agatua. 
 
 It is true : 
 There lacks uo blessing here, the waters all 
 Have virtues like the garments of the Lord, 
 
AGATHA. 19 
 
 And heal much sickness; then, the crops and cows 
 
 Ffourish past speaking, and the garden flowers, 
 
 Pink, bhie, and purple, 'lis a joy to see 
 
 How they yieUl honey for the singing bees. 
 
 I wonld the whole world were as good a home. 
 
 CocNTESS Linda. 
 And you are well off, Agatha? — your friends 
 Left you a certain bread : is it not so? 
 
 Agatua. 
 
 Not so at all, dear lady. I had nought, 
 
 Was a poor orphan ; but I came to tend 
 
 Here in iliis house, an old afflicted pair, 
 
 Who wore out slowly; and the last who died, 
 
 Full thirty years ago, left me this roof 
 
 And all the houseliold smff. It was great wealth ; 
 
 And so I had a home for Kate and Nell. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 But how, then, have you earned your daily bread 
 These thirty years? 
 
 Agatha. 
 O, that is easy earning. 
 We help the neighbors, and our bit and sup 
 Is never railing: they have woik for us 
 In house and field, all sorts of odds and ends. 
 Patching and mending, turning o'er the hay. 
 Holding sick children — there is always work; 
 And they are very good — the neighbors are: 
 Weigh not our bits of work with weight and scale, 
 But glad themselves with giving us good shares 
 Of meat and drink; and in the big farm-house 
 When cloth comes home from weaving, the good wife 
 Cuts me a ])iece— this very gown — and says: 
 "tHere, Agatha, you old maid, you have time 
 To pray for Hans who is gone soldiering: 
 The saints might help him, and they've much to do, 
 'Twere well they were besought to think of him." 
 She spoke half jesting, but I pray, I pray 
 For poor young Hans. 1 take it much to heart 
 That other people are worse off than I — 
 I ease my soul with praying for them all. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 That is your way of singing, Agatha; 
 Just as the nightingales pour forth sad songs, 
 And when they reach men's ears they make men's hearts 
 Feel the more kindly. 
 
 Agatua. 
 
 Nay, I cannot sing: 
 My voice is hoarse, and oft I think my prayers 
 Are foolish, feeble things; for Christ is good 
 Whether I pray or not— the Virgin's heart 
 Is kinder far than mine; and then I stop 
 
20 AGATUA. 
 
 Aud feci I can do n<)ii2;l)t towards lielpiufj men, 
 Till out it conies, like tears that will not hold, 
 And I must pray agaiu for all the world. 
 'Tis good to me — 1 mean the neighbors are: 
 To Kate and Nell too. I have money saved 
 To go ou pilgrimage the second time. 
 
 CouNTiiSS Linda. 
 And do yoii menu to go ou pilgrimage 
 With all your years to carry, Agatha ? 
 
 AOATIIA. 
 
 The years are light, dear lady: 'tis my siua 
 Are heavier than I would. And I shall go 
 All the way to Eiusiedehi with that load: 
 I need to work it off. 
 
 I CouNTicBS Linda. 
 
 What sort of sins. 
 Dear Agatha? I think they must be small. 
 
 Agatua. 
 
 Nay, but they may be greater than I know, 
 'Tis but dim light I see by. So I try 
 All ways I know of to be cleansed and pure. 
 I would not sink where evil spirits are. 
 There's perfect goodness somewhere : so I strive. 
 
 CoTNTFSS Linda. 
 You were the better for that jjilgrimage 
 You made before? The shrine is beautiful; 
 And then you saw fresh countiy all the way. 
 
 Agatua. 
 
 Yes, that is true. And ever since that time 
 
 The world seems greater, and the Holy Church 
 
 More wonderful. The blessed pictures all, 
 
 The heavenly images with books and wings. 
 
 Are company to me through the day and night. 
 
 The time! the time! It never seemed far back. 
 
 Only to father's father and his kin 
 
 That lived before him. But the time stretched out 
 
 After that pilgrimasie: I seemed to see 
 
 Far back, and yet I knew time lay behind. 
 
 As there are countries lying still behind 
 
 The highest mountains, there in Switzerland. 
 
 O, it is great to go on pilgrimage I 
 
 CouNTnss Linda. 
 Perhaps some neighbors will be pilgrims too, 
 Aud you can start together in a band. 
 
 AOATnA- 
 
 Not from these hills : people are busy here. 
 The beasts want tendance. One who is not missed 
 Cau go and pray for others who must work. 
 I owe it to all neighbors, young and old; 
 
21 
 
 For they are good past thinking -lads and girls 
 
 Given to mischief, merry uaiiglitiness, 
 
 Quiet it, as the hedgehogs smooth theii- spines, 
 
 For fear of hurting poor old Agatha. 
 
 'Tis pretty: why, the cherubs in the sky 
 
 Look young and merry, and the angels play 
 
 On citherns, lutes, and all sweet instruments. 
 
 1 would have young things merry. See the Lord I 
 
 A little baby playing with the birds; 
 
 And how the Blessed Mother smiles at him. 
 
 Countess Linpa. 
 
 I think you are too happy, Agatha, 
 
 To care for heaven. Earth coiiteuts you well. 
 
 Ag.\tu.\. 
 Nay, nay, I shall be called, and I shall go 
 Right willingly. I shall get helpless, blind, 
 Be'like an old stalk to be plucked away : 
 'J'he garden must be cleared for young spring plants. 
 Tis home beyond the grave, the most are there, 
 All those we pray to, all the Church's lights— 
 And poor old souls are welcome in their rags: 
 One sees it by the pictures. Good Saint Ann, 
 The Virgin's mother, she is very old, 
 And had her troubles with her husband too. 
 Poor Kate and Nell are younger far than I, 
 But they will have this roof to cover them. 
 I shall go willingly; and willingness 
 Makes the yoke easy aud the burden light. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 When you go southward in your pilgrimage, 
 Come to see me in Freiburg, Agatha. 
 Where you have friends you should not go to inns. 
 
 Agatii.v. 
 
 Yes, I will gladly come to see you, lady. 
 And you will give me sweet hay f)r a bed, 
 And in the morning I shall wake betimes 
 Aud start when all the birds begin to sing. 
 
 COUNTKSS LlNI).\. 
 
 You wear your smart clothes on the pilgrimage. 
 Such pretty clothes as all the women here 
 Keep by them for their best: a velvet cap 
 And collar golden-broidered ? They look well 
 On old and young alike. 
 
 Ag.vtu.v. 
 Nay, I have none— 
 Never had better clothes than these you see. 
 Good clothes are pretty, but one sees them best 
 When others wear them, and I somehow thought 
 'Twas not worth while. I had so many things 
 Slore than some neighbors, I was partly shy 
 
22 AGATHA. 
 
 Of weariug better clothes than they, and now 
 I am so old and custom is so strong 
 "I'woiild hurt me sore to put on fliieiy. 
 
 COUNTKSS LlNl>\. 
 
 Your gray hair is a crown, dear Agatha. 
 
 Shake hands; good-bye. The sun is going down, 
 
 And I must see the glory from the hill. 
 
 I stayed among those hills; and ofc heard more 
 Of Agatha. I liked to hear her name, 
 As that of one half grandame and half saint, 
 Uttered with reverent playfulness. The lads 
 And younger men all called her njother, aunt. 
 Or granny, with their pet diminutives, 
 Aud bade their lasses and their brides behave 
 Right well to one who surely made a link 
 'Twixt faulty folk and God by loving both : 
 Kot one but counted service done by her, 
 Asking no pay save just her daily bread. 
 At feasts and weddings, when they passed in groups 
 Along the vale, and the good country wine, 
 Being vocal in theui, made them quire along 
 lu quaintly mingled mirth and piety, 
 They fain must jest and play some friendly trick 
 Ou three old maids ; but when the moment came 
 Always they bated breath and made their sport 
 Gentle as feather-stroke, that Agatha 
 Might like the waking for the love it showed. 
 Their song made happy music 'mid the hills, 
 For nature tuned their race to liarmony. 
 And poet Hans, the tailor, wrote them songs 
 That grew from out their life, as crocuses 
 From out the meadow's moistuess. 'Twas his song 
 They often sang, wending homeward from a feast — 
 The song I give you. It brings in, yini see. 
 Their gentle jesting with the three old maids. 
 
 Midnight by the chapel bell ! 
 Homeward, homeward all, farewell ! 
 I with you, and you with me. 
 Miles are short with company. 
 
 Heart, of Mary, bleats the way. 
 
 Keep us all by night and day ! 
 
 Mo(ni and stars at feast with night 
 Now have drunk their flU of light. 
 Home they hurry, makiug time 
 Trot apace, like merry rhyme. 
 
 Heart of Mary, vvistic rose, 
 Send us all a sweet repose ! 
 
 Swiftly through the wood down hill, 
 Run till you can hear the mill. 
 Toni's ghost is wandering now, 
 Shaped just like a snow-white cow. 
 Heart of Mary, morning star, 
 Ward off danger, near or far I 
 
AGATHA. 23 
 
 Toni's wagon with its load 
 Fell and crushed him in the road 
 'Twixt these piue-treea. Never tear! 
 Give a neighbor's ghost good cheer. 
 IIoUj Babe, our God and Brother, 
 Bind us fast to one another ! 
 
 Hark! the mill is at its work, 
 
 Now we pass beyoud the murk 
 
 To the hollow, where the moon 
 
 Makes her silvery afternoon. 
 
 Good Saint Joseph, faithful spouse. 
 Help us all to keep our vows! 
 
 Here the three old maidens dwell, 
 
 Agatha and Kate and Nell ; 
 
 See, the moon shines on the thatch, 
 
 We will go and shake the latch. 
 Heart of Mary, ciq) of joy. 
 Give us viirth ivithout alloy! 
 
 Hush, 'tis here, no noise, sing low. 
 
 Rap with gentle knuckles— so! 
 
 Like the little tapping birds. 
 
 On the door ; then sing good words. 
 Meek Saint Anna, old and fair. 
 Hallow all tlie snow-white hair! 
 
 Little maidens old, sweet dreams! 
 
 Sleep one sleep till morning beams. 
 
 Mothers ye, who help us all. 
 
 Quick at hand, if ill befall. 
 
 Holy Gabriel, lily-laden, 
 
 Bless the aged mother-maiden ! 
 
 Forward, mount the broad hillside 
 Swift as soldiers when I hey ride. 
 See the two towers how they peep, 
 Round-capped giants', o'er the steep. 
 Heart of Mary, by thy sorrow. 
 Keep us upright through the morrow! 
 
 Now they rise quite suddenly 
 
 Like a man from bended knee, 
 
 Now Saint iMargeu is in sight. 
 
 Here the roads branch off^good-night ! 
 Heart of Mary, by thy grace. 
 Give US with the saints a place I 
 
 1863. 
 
ARMG A R T. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Salon lit tenth lanv2)s and ornmnentcd with green phtmts. An open piano, with 
 many scattered sJieets of music. Dimize busts of Beetho-veit and Ghick on pillam 
 opposite each other. A small iaMe spread with sirpper. To Feaulkin Wal- 
 PUBGA, who advances with a slight lameness of gait from an adjoining room, en- 
 tecs GuAF DoENBEitG at the opposite door in a travelling dress. 
 
 G::af. 
 Good-morning, Priinlein \ 
 
 Walpuega. 
 
 What, so soon retarned ? 
 I feared your mission kept you still at Prague. 
 
 GllAF. 
 
 But HOW arrived ! You see my travelling dress. 
 I hurried from the pantisig, roaring steam 
 Like any courier of embassy 
 Who hides the fiends of war wjthin bis bag. 
 
 Wa LPlrUGA. 
 
 You know that Armgart sings to-night? 
 
 Gkaf. 
 
 Has snug! 
 'Tis close on half-past nine. The Orpheus 
 Lasts not so long. Her spirits— were they high? 
 Was Leo confident? 
 
 Wai-pubga. 
 
 He only feared 
 Some tameness nt beginning. Let the hon.=e 
 Once ring, he said, with plaudits, she is safe. 
 
 Gp-ap. 
 
 And Armgart? 
 
 Walpueoa. 
 
 She was stiller than her wont. 
 But once, at some such trivial woid of mine, 
 As that the highest prize might yet be won 
 By her who took the second— she was roused. 
 "For me," she said, "1 triumph or I fail. 
 1 never strove for any second prixe." 
 
25 
 
 Gkaf. 
 Poor Imman-hearted singing-bird ! Slie bears 
 CsBSiir's ambition in her delicate breast, 
 And uonght to still it with but quivering song I 
 
 Wa LP PUG A. 
 
 I had not for the world been there to-night: 
 Unreasonable dread oft chills rae more 
 Thau any reasonable hope can warm. 
 
 GRAr. 
 
 You have a rare affection for your cousin ; 
 As tender as a sister's. 
 
 Walpukga. 
 
 Nay, I fear 
 My love is little more than what I felt 
 For happy stories when I was a child. 
 She fills my life that would be empty else, 
 And lifts my nought to value by her side. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 She is reason good enough, or seems to be, 
 Why all were born whose being ministers 
 To her completeness. Is it most her voice 
 Subdues us? or her instinct exquisite, 
 Informing each old strain with some new grace 
 Which takes our sense like any natural good? 
 Or most her spiritual energy 
 That sweeps us in the current of her song? 
 
 Wai.purga. 
 I know not. Lo.'ing either, we should lose 
 That whole we call our Armgart. For herself. 
 She often wonders what her life had been 
 Without that voice for channel to her soul. 
 She says, it must have leaped through all her limbs- 
 Made her a Mtenad — made her snatch a brand 
 And fire some forest, that her rage might mount 
 In crashing, roaring flames through half a land, 
 Leaving her still and patient for a while. 
 " Poor wretch !" she says, of any murderess — 
 "The world was cruel, and she could not sing: 
 I carry my revenges in my throat ; 
 I love in singing, and am loved again." 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Mere mood! I cannot yet believe it more. 
 Too much ambition has unwomaued her; 
 But only for a while. Her nature hides 
 One half its treasures by its very wealth, 
 Taxing the hours to show it. 
 
 Wai.pukga. 
 
 Hark ! she comes. 
 
 Ji* 
 
26 ARMGART. 
 
 Enter Lko with a icreath in his hand, holding the door open for Auiigaht, icho wears 
 a furred viantle and hood. She is followed by her maid, carrying an armful of 
 bouquets. 
 
 Lico. 
 
 Place for the queen of song ! 
 
 Geaf (advancing towards Akmqaet, who throws of her hood and mantle, and shows 
 a star of brilliants in her hair). 
 
 A triumph, then. 
 You will not be a niggard of your joy 
 And chide the eagerness that came to share it. 
 
 Aemoart. 
 
 kind I you hastened your return for me. 
 
 1 would you had been there to hear me sing I 
 Walpurga, kiss me: never tremble more 
 
 Lest Arnigart's wing should fail her. She has found 
 This night the region where her rapture breathes— 
 Pouring her passion on the air made live 
 With human heart-throbs. Tell them, Leo, tell them 
 How 1 outsaug your hope and made you cry 
 Because Gluck could not hear me. That was folly ! 
 He sang, not listened: every linked note 
 Was his immortal pulse that stirred in mine, 
 And all my gladness is but part of him. 
 Give me the wreath. 
 
 [She crowns the bust of Gluois 
 
 Leg (sardonically). 
 
 Ay, ay, but mark you this: 
 It was not part of him— that trill you made 
 lu spite of me and reason ! 
 
 AUMGAKT. 
 
 You were wrong — 
 Dear Leo, you were wrong: the house was held 
 As if a storm were listening with delight 
 And hushed its thunder. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Will you ask the house 
 To teach you singing? Quit your Orpheus theu, 
 And sing in farces grown to operas, 
 Where all the prurience of the full-fed mob 
 Is tickled with melodic impudence: 
 Jerk forth burlesque bravuras, square your arms 
 Akimbo with a tavern wench's grace, 
 And set the splendid compass of your voice 
 To lyric jigs. Go to ! I thought you meant 
 To be an artist— lift your auilieme 
 To see your vision, not trick forth a show 
 To please the grossest taste of grossest numbers. 
 
 AuMGAET (taking up Leo's hand, and kissing it). 
 
 Pardon, good Leo, I am penitent. 
 
 I will do penance: sing a hundred trills 
 
AKMGART. 27 
 
 Into a deep-dng grave, then burying them 
 
 As one did Midas' secret, rid myself 
 
 Of naughty exultation. O I trilled 
 
 At nature's prompting, like the nightingales. 
 
 Go scold them, dearest Leo. 
 
 Lko. 
 
 I stop my ears. 
 Nature iu Gluck inspiring Orpheus, 
 Has done with nightingales. Are bird-beaks lips? 
 
 Gkap. 
 Truce to rebukes ! Tell us— who were not there — 
 The double drama: how the expectant bouse 
 Took the first notes. 
 
 Walpckga (turning from her occupation of decking the room with the flower«). 
 Yes, tell us all, dear Armgart. 
 Did you feel tremors? Leo, how did she look? 
 Was there a cheer to greet her? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Not a sound. 
 She walked like Orpheus in his solitude, 
 And seemed to see nought but what no man saw. 
 'Twas famous. Not the Schroeder-Devrient 
 Had done it better. But yonr blessed public 
 Had never any judgment iu cold blood — 
 Thiulis all perhaps were better otherwise, 
 Till rapture brings a reason. 
 
 Ar-mgaut {scornfully). 
 
 I knew that ! 
 The women whispered, "Not a pretty face!" 
 The men, "Well, well, a goodly length of limb: 
 She bears the chiton." — It were all the same 
 Were I ihe Virgin Mother and my stage 
 The opening heavens at the Judgment-day: 
 Gossips would peep, jog elbows, rate the price 
 Of such a woman in the social mart. 
 What were the drama of the world to them, 
 Unless they felt the hell-prong? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Peace, now, peace ! 
 I hate my phrases to be smothered o'er 
 With sauce of paraphrase, my sober tuue 
 Made bass to rambling trebles, showering down 
 In endless demi-serai-quavers. 
 
 AuMaxBT (taking a bon-bon from the table, tiplifting it before putting it into her 
 mouth, and turning away). 
 
 Mum ! 
 
 Geaf. 
 
 Yes, tell us all the glory, leave the blame. 
 
28 ARMGART. 
 
 Walpcbga. 
 You first, dear Leo— what you saw and heard; 
 Then Armgart— she must tell us what she felt. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Well ! The first notes came clearl}', firmly forth, 
 
 And I was easy, for behind those rills 
 
 I knew there was a fountain. I could see 
 
 The houee was breathing gently, heads were still; 
 
 Parrot opinion was struck meekly mute. 
 
 And human hearts were swelling. Armgart stood 
 
 As if the had been new-created there 
 
 And found her voice which found a melody. 
 
 The minx! Gluck had not written, nor 1 taught: 
 
 Orpheus was Armgart, Armgart Orpheus. 
 
 Well, well, all through the sce)>a I could feel 
 
 The silence tremble now, now poise itself 
 
 With added weight of feeling, till at last 
 
 Delight o'er-toppled it. The final note 
 
 Had happy drowning in the unloosed roar 
 
 That surged and ebbed and ever surged again. 
 
 Till expectation kept it jient awhile 
 
 Ere Orpheus returned. Pfui '. He was changed: 
 
 My deuii-god was pale, had downcast eyes 
 
 That quivered like a bride's who fain would send 
 
 Backward the rising tear. 
 
 Abmoakt {adcancii}^, but then turning aicay, as if lo check her speech), 
 
 I was a bride, 
 As nuns are at their spousals. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Ay, my lady. 
 That moment will not come again : applause 
 May come and plenty; but the first, first draught! 
 
 (Snnjis his finrjers.) 
 Music has sounds for it — I know no words. 
 I felt it once myself when they performed 
 My overture to Sintram. Well ! 'tis strange. 
 We know not pain from pleasure in such joy. 
 
 Armgakt {turning qxiickly). 
 Oh, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our souls, 
 And when full Being comes must call on pain 
 To lend it liberal space. 
 
 WAI.rCEGA. 
 
 I hope the honse 
 Kept a reserve of plaudits: I am jealons 
 Lest they had dulled themselves for coming good 
 That should have seemed the better and the best. 
 
 Leo. 
 No, 'twas a revel where they had but quaffed 
 Their opening cup. I thank the ariist'.-i star, 
 
AEMGART. 
 
 His andience keeps not Bobei": once afire, 
 
 They flaine towards climax, tiioHgh his merit hold 
 
 But fairly even. 
 
 Abmgaet (her hand on Lko's arm). 
 
 Now, now, confess the ti'iith: 
 I sang still better to the very end— 
 All save the trill; I give that up to yon. 
 To bite and growl at. Why, you said yourself, 
 Each time I sang, it seemed new doors were oped 
 That you might hear heaven clearer. 
 
 Leo {shaking his finrfer). 
 
 I was raving. 
 
 Aemgabt. 
 I am not glad with that mean vanity 
 Which knows no good beycnid its appetite 
 Full feasting upon praise'. I am only glad, 
 Being praised for what I know is worth the praise; 
 Glad of the proof that I myself have part 
 In what I worship ! At the last applause- 
 Seeming a roar of tropic winds that tossed 
 The handkerchiefs and many-colored flowers. 
 Falling like shattered rainbows all around— 
 Think you I felt myself a prima donna t 
 No, but a happy spiritual star 
 Such as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose 
 Of light in Paradise, whose only self 
 Was consciousness of glory wide-diffused, 
 Music, life, power— I moving in the midst 
 Wiih a sublime necessity of good. 
 
 Leo {loith a shrug). 
 I thought it was a prima donna came 
 Within the side-scenes ; ay, and she was proud . 
 To find the bouquet from tlic royal box 
 Enclosed a jewel-case, and proud to wear 
 A star of brilliants, quite an earthly star, 
 Valued by thalers. Come, my lady, own 
 Ambition has five senses, and a self 
 That gives it good warm lotlging when it sinks 
 Plump down from ecstasy. 
 
 AnMOAItT. 
 
 Own it? why not? 
 Am 1 a sage whose words ninst fall like seed 
 Silently buried toward a far-oft' spring ? 
 I sing to living men, and my effect 
 Is like the summer's sun, that ripens corn 
 Or now or never. If the world brings me gifts, 
 Gwld, incense, myrrh— 'twill be the needful sigu 
 That I have stirred it as the high year stirs 
 Before I sink to iviuter. 
 
 GHAK. 
 
 Ecstasies 
 Are stiort— most happily ! We should but lose 
 
 29 
 
30 AKMGART. 
 
 Were Armgavt borne too commonly and long 
 Ont of the self that charms us. Conld I choose, 
 She were less apt to soar beyond the reach 
 Of woman's foibles, innocent vanities, 
 Fondness for trifles like that pretty star 
 Twinkling beside her cloud of ebou hair. 
 
 AcMGAUT {taking out the gem and looking at it). 
 
 This little star! I would it were the seed 
 
 Of a whole Milky Way, if such bright shimmer 
 
 AVere the sole speech men told their rapture with 
 
 At Armgart's mus^ic. Shall I turn aside 
 
 From splendors which flash out the glow I make. 
 
 And live to make, in all the chosen breasts 
 
 Of half a continent ? No, may it come, 
 
 Tliat splendor ! May the day be near when meu 
 
 Think much to let my horses draw me home, 
 
 And new lands welcome me upon their beach. 
 
 Loving me for my fame. That is the truth 
 
 Of what I wish, nay, yearn for. Shall I lie ? 
 
 Pretend to seek obscurity— to sing 
 
 In hope of disregard ? A vile pretence ! 
 
 And blasphemy besides. For what is fame 
 
 Hut the benignant strength of One, transformed 
 
 To joy of Many? Tribu',es, plaudits come 
 
 As necessary breathing of such ji>y; 
 
 And may they come to me ! 
 
 Gu.\r. 
 
 The augnries 
 Point clearly that way. Is it no offence 
 To wish the eagle's wing may find repose, 
 As feebler wings do, in a quiet nest? 
 Or has the taste of fame already turned 
 The Woman to a Muse. . . . 
 
 Lko {going to the table). 
 
 Who ueeds no supper. 
 I am her priest, ready to eat her share 
 Of good Walpurga's ofleriugs. 
 
 WAI,rUKQA. 
 
 Armgart, come. 
 Graf, will you come? 
 
 Gkaf. 
 Thanks, I play truant here, 
 And must retrieve my self-indulged delay. 
 But will the Muse leceive a votary 
 At any hour to-morrow? 
 
 AUMGAUT. 
 
 Any hour 
 After rehearsal, after twelve at noon. 
 
ARMGART. 31 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same Salo7i, morning. Ar.moart seated, in her bonnet and toalking dress. The 
 Gkaf standing near her against the piano. 
 
 Graf. 
 Armgart, to many minds the first success 
 Is reason for desisting. I have known 
 A man so vei'satile, he tried all arts, 
 But when in each by turns he had achieved 
 Just so much mastery as made men say, 
 "He could be liing here if he would," he threw 
 The lauded skill aside. "He hates," said one, 
 "The level of achieved pre-eminence. 
 He must be conquering still ;"' but others said— 
 
 AUMOART. 
 
 The truth, I hope : he had a meagre soul, 
 
 Holding no depth where love could root itself. 
 
 " Could if he would ?' True greatuess ever will«>— 
 
 It lives iu wholeness if it live at all. 
 
 And all Its strength is knit with constancy. 
 
 Graf. 
 He used to say himself he was too sane 
 To give his life away for excellence 
 Which yet must stand, an ivory statuette 
 AVrought to perfection through long lonely years. 
 Huddled iu the mart of mediocriiies. 
 He said, the very finest doing wins 
 The adn>iring only; but to have undone. 
 Promise and not fulfil, like buried youth, 
 Wins all the envious, makes them sigh your name 
 As that fair Absent, blameless Possible, 
 Which could alone impassion them ; and thus, 
 Serene negation has free gift of all. 
 Panting achievement struggles, is denied, 
 Or wins to lose again. What say you, Armgart? 
 Truth has rough flavors if we bite it through ; 
 I think this sarcasm came from out its core 
 Of bitter irony. 
 
 Ar.moart. 
 
 It is the truth 
 Mean souls select to feed upon. What then ? 
 Their meanness is a truth, which I will spurn. 
 The praise I seek lives not in envious breath 
 Using my name to blight another's deed. 
 1 sing for love of song and that renown 
 Which is the spreading act, the world-wide share, 
 Of good that I was born with. Had I failed — 
 Well, that had been a truth most pitiable. 
 I cannot bear to think what life would be 
 With high hope shrunk to endurance, stunted aims 
 Like broken lances ground to eating-knives, 
 A self sunk down to look with level eyes 
 At low achievement, doomed from day to day 
 To distaste of its consciousness. But I — 
 
32 
 
 GitAF. 
 
 Have wou,not lost, in your decisive tlirow, 
 
 Aud I too gloi y ill tliis issue ; yet, 
 
 Tlie public verdict has no poteucy 
 
 To sway my judgment of wliat Armgart is: 
 
 My jjuie deliglit in liei' would be but sullied, 
 
 If it o'eiflowed with mixture of men's pmise. 
 
 Aud bad she failed, I should have said, "The pearl 
 
 Eemains a pearl for me, reflects the light 
 
 With the same fitness that first charmed my gaze — 
 
 Is worth as flue a setting now as then." 
 
 Akmqart (risinff). 
 
 Oh, you are good ! But why will you rehearse 
 The talk of cynics, who with insect eyes 
 Explore the secrets of the rubbish-heap? 
 I hate your epigrams and pointed saws 
 Whose narrow truth is but broad falsity. 
 Confess your friend was shallow. 
 
 GllAF. 
 
 I confess 
 Life is not rounded in an epigram, 
 And saying aught, we leave a world unsaid. 
 I quoted, merely to shape forth my thought 
 That high success has terrors when achieved — 
 Like preternatural spouses whose dire love 
 Hangs perilous on slight observances: 
 Whence it were possible that Armgart crowned 
 Might turn and listen to a pleading voice, 
 Though Armgart striving in the race was deaf. 
 You said you dared not think what life had been 
 Without the stamp of eminence ; have you thought 
 How you will bear the poise of eminence 
 With dread of sliding? Paint the future out 
 As an unchecked and glorious career, 
 'Twill grow more strenuous by the very love 
 You bear to excellence, the very fate 
 Of human powers, which tread at every step 
 On possible verges. 
 
 Armgart. 
 I accept the peril. 
 I choose to walk high with sublimer dread 
 Ifathcr than crawl in safety. And, besides, 
 I am an artist as yon are a noble: 
 I ought to bear the burdeu of my rank. 
 
 GUAF. 
 
 Such parallels, dear Armgart, are but snares 
 To catch the mind with seeming argument— 
 Small baits of likeness 'mid disparity. 
 Men rise the higher as their task is high. 
 The task being well achieved. A woman's rank 
 Lies in the fulness of her womanhood : 
 Therein alone she is royal. 
 
ARMGART. 3^ 
 
 Akmoaet. 
 
 Yes, 1 know 
 The oft-tanglit Gospel: "Woman, thy desire 
 Shall be that all superlatives on earth 
 Belong to men, save the one highest kind — 
 To be a mother. Thon shalt uot desire 
 To do anght best save pure subservience : 
 Nature has willed it so !" O blessed Nature ! 
 Let her be arbitress ; she gave me voice 
 Such as she only gives a woman child, 
 Best of its kind, gave me ambiliou too, 
 That sense transcendent which can taste the joy 
 Of swaying multitudes, of being adored 
 For such achievement, needed excellence, 
 As man's best art must wait for, or be dumb. 
 Men did not say, when I had sung last night, 
 "'Twas good, nay, wonderful, considering 
 She is a woman" — and then turn to add, 
 "Tenor or baritone had sung her songs 
 Better, of course : she's but a woman spoiled." 
 I beg yonr pardon, Graf, you said it. 
 
 Gkaf. 
 
 No! 
 How should I say it, Armgart? I who own 
 The magic of yonr nature-given art 
 As sweetest effluence of your womanhood 
 Which, being to my choice the best, must find 
 The best of utterance. But this I say : 
 Your fervid youth beguiles you ; you mistake 
 A strain of lyric passion for a life 
 Which in the spending is a chronicle 
 With ugly i>ages. Trust me, Armgart, trust me ; 
 Ambition exquisite as yours which soars 
 Towards something quintessential you calr fame, 
 Is not robust enough for this gross world 
 Whose fame is dense with false and foolish breatli. 
 Ardor, a-twin with nice refining thought, 
 Prepares a double pain. Pain had been saved, 
 Nay, purer glory reached, had you beeu throDed 
 As woman only, holding all your art 
 As attribute to that deiji^ iovereignty— 
 Concentering yonr power m home delights 
 Which penetrate and purify the world. 
 
 What*. ieave the opera-^with-my part ill-snng 
 
 While I was warbling in a drawing-room? 
 
 Sing iu the chimney-corner to inspire 
 
 My husband reading news? Let the world hear 
 
 My music only in his morning speech 
 
 Less stammering than most honorable men's? 
 
 No! tell me that my song is poor, my art 
 
 The piteous feat of weakness aping strength — 
 
 That were fit proem to your argument. 
 
 Till then, I am an artist by my birth-- 
 
34 ARMGART. 
 
 By the same warrant that 1 am a woman: 
 Naj', in the added rarer gift I i^ee 
 Supreme vocation ; if a conflict come?. 
 Perish — no, not the woman, but tlie joys 
 Wlijch men malve narrow by their narrowness. 
 Oil, I am happy! Tlie great masters write 
 For women's voices, and great Music wants me! 
 I need not crush myself within a mould 
 Of theory called Nature : I have room 
 To breathe and grow iiustuuted. 
 
 Gkaf. 
 
 Armgart, hear me. 
 I meant not that our talk should hurry ou 
 To sncli collision. Foresight of the ills 
 Thick shadowing yonr path, drew on my speech 
 Beyond intention. True, I came to ask 
 A great renunciation, but not this 
 Towards which my words at first perversely strayed, 
 As if in memory of their earlier suit, 
 
 Forgetful 
 
 Armgart, do you remember too? the suit 
 Had but postponement, was not quite disdained — 
 Was told to wait and learn — what it has learned^ 
 A more submissive speech. 
 
 Armgart (with some agitution). 
 
 Then it forgot 
 Its lesson cruelly. As I remember, 
 'Twas not to speak save to the artist crowned, 
 Nor speak to her of casting off her crowu. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Nor will it, Armgart. I come not to seek 
 
 Any renunciation save the wife's. 
 
 Which turns away from other i)ossil)le love 
 
 Future and worthier, to take his love 
 
 Who asks the name of husband. He who sought 
 
 Armgart obscure, and heard her answer, " Wait "— 
 
 Jlay come without suspicion now to seek 
 
 Armgart applauded. 
 
 AuMQART {tvrnmg towards him). 
 
 Yes, without suspicion 
 Of aught save what consists with faithfulness 
 In all e-xpressed intent. Forgive me, Graf — 
 I am ungrateful to no soul that loves me — 
 To you most grateful. Yet the best intent 
 Grasps but a living present which may grow 
 Like any unfledgedi bird. You are a noble, 
 And have a high career; just now you said 
 'Twas higher far than aught a woman seeks 
 Beyond mere womanhood. You claim to be 
 More than a husband, but could not rejoice 
 That I were more than wife. What follows, then? 
 You choosing me with such persistency 
 As is but stretched-out rashness, soon must find 
 
AUMGART. 
 
 Our marriage asks concessions, asks resolve 
 
 To share reuiiuciation or deinand it. 
 
 Either we both renounce a mutual ease, 
 
 As iu a nation's need both man and wife 
 
 Do public services, or one of us 
 
 Must yield that something else for which each lives 
 
 Besides the other. Men are reasouers : 
 
 That premisa of superior claims perforce 
 
 Urges couclusiou — "Arragart, it is you." 
 
 GUAF. 
 
 But if I say I have considered Ihis 
 
 With strict prevision, counted all the cost 
 
 Which that great good of loving you demands — 
 
 Questioned my stores of patience, half resolved 
 
 To live resigned without a bliss whose threat 
 
 Touched you as well as me— and finally, 
 
 With impetus of undivided will 
 
 Returned to say, "You shall be free as now; 
 
 Only accept the refuge, shelter, guard, 
 
 My love will give your freedom "—then your words 
 
 Are hard accusal. 
 
 Ar.mgap.t. 
 
 Well, I accuse myself. 
 My love would be accomplice of your will. 
 
 Geaf. 
 Again — my will ? 
 
 AltMGAUT. 
 
 Oh, your unspoken will. 
 Your silent tolerance would torture me. 
 And on that rack I should deny the good 
 I yet believed in. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Then I am the man 
 Whom you would love ? 
 
 Armgaet. 
 
 Whom I refuse to love i 
 No; I will live alone and pour my pain 
 With passion into music, where it turns 
 To what is best within my better self. 
 I will not take for husband one who deems 
 The thing my soul acknowledges as good— 
 The thing I hold worth striving, suffering for, 
 To be a thing dispensed with easily, 
 Or else the idol of a mind infirm. 
 
 Gbaf. 
 
 Armgart, you are ungenerous ; you strain 
 My thought beyond its mark. Our difference 
 Lies not so deep as love — as union 
 Through a mysterious fitness that transcends 
 Formal agreement. 
 
oG ARMGAUT. 
 
 Aemgart. 
 It lies deep enouRh 
 To chafe the uniou. If many a. man 
 Refrains, degiaded, from the utmost right. 
 Because the pleadings of his wife's small fears 
 Are little serpents biting at his heel, — 
 How shall a woman keep her steadfastness 
 Beneath a frost within her husband's eyes 
 Where coldness scorches? Graf, it is your sorrow 
 That you love Armgart. Nay, it is her sorrow 
 That she may not love you. 
 
 GUAP. 
 
 Woman, it seems, 
 Has enviable power to love or not 
 According to her will. 
 
 Au.MGART. 
 
 She has the will — 
 I have— who am one woman — not to take 
 Disloyal pledges that divide her will. 
 The man who marries me must wed my Art — 
 Honor and cherish it, not tolerate. 
 
 Gkaf. 
 The man is yet to come whose theory 
 Will weigh as nought with you against his lov';» 
 
 An.MG.iuT. 
 
 Whose theory will plead beside his love. 
 
 Geaf. 
 
 Himself a singer, then ? who knows no life 
 Out of the oijera books, where tenor parts 
 Arc found to suit him? 
 
 AK.VGAKT. 
 
 You are bitter, Graf. 
 Forgive me; seek the woman you deserve. 
 All grace, all goodness, who has not yet found 
 A meaning in her life, nor any end 
 Beyond fuliilling yours. The type abounds. 
 
 Geaf. 
 And happily, for the world. 
 
 Armgakt. 
 
 Yes, happily. 
 Let it excuse me that my kind is rare: 
 (Jomniouuess is its own security. 
 
 GUAK. 
 
 Armgart, I would with all my soul I knew 
 The man so rare that he could make your life 
 As woman sweet to you, as artist safe. 
 
ARMGAKT. 37 
 
 Armqakt. 
 
 oil, I can live uiimated, but not live 
 Without the bliss of singing to the world, 
 And feeling all my world respond to lue. 
 
 GUAF. 
 
 May it be lasting. Then, we two must part? 
 
 AUMGAKT. 
 
 I thank you from my heart for all. Farewell! 
 
 SCENE UI. 
 
 A Ykak Later. 
 
 Tl^e same Salon. WAi-rcRQA is standing looking towards the vrindow toitk an air 
 o/ U7ieasiness. Doctor Giiaun. 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 Where is my patient, Friiuleiu ? 
 
 Wai.pukga. 
 
 Fled ! escaped ! 
 Gone to reheareal. Is it dangerous ? 
 
 DnoTOE. 
 
 No, no ; her throat is cured. I only came 
 
 To hear her try her voice. Had she yet sung? 
 
 Wai.pdkga. 
 
 No; she had meant to wait for you. She said, 
 "The Doctor has a right to my first song." 
 Her gratitude was full of little plans, 
 But all were swept away like gathered flowers 
 By sudden storm. She saw this opera bill — 
 It was a wasp to sting her: she turned pale. 
 Snatched up her hat and mufflers, said in haste, 
 "I go to Lei) — to rehearsal — none 
 Shall sing Fidelio to-night but me!" 
 Then rushed down-stairs. 
 
 Doctor {looking at his match). 
 
 And this, not long ago? 
 
 WAT-rUUGA. 
 
 Barely an hour. 
 
 Doctor. 
 I will come again, 
 Returning from Charlottenburg at one. 
 
 Walpuuqa. 
 Doctor, I feel a strange presentiment. 
 Are you quite easy? 
 
88 
 
 DOOTOK. 
 
 She can take no harm. 
 'Twaa time foi' her to siiij;; her throat is well. 
 It was a fierce attack, and dangerous ; 
 I had to use strong remedies, but— well I 
 At one, dear Frfiulein, we shall meet again. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 Two Ilouua Latke. 
 
 WAi.ruBQA starts v.}}, looking towards the door. Abjioakt enters, followed by Leo. 
 She throws herself on a chair which stands with its back towards the dom; 
 speechless, not seeming to see anything. WalpceG/V casts a questioning terri- 
 fied look at Leo. He shr^i.gs his shoulders, a7>d lifts itp his hands behind Afm- 
 GAiiT, to/to sits like a helpless image, while Walpuuga takes off her hat and 
 mantle. 
 
 WALrUltOA. 
 
 Armgart, dear Armgart (kneeling and taking her haiuls), 
 
 only speak to me, 
 Your poor Walpurga. Oh, yonr hands are cold. 
 Clasp mine, aud warm them ! I will kiss them warm. 
 
 (Akmqaut looks at her an instant, then draios away her hands, and, turiting aside, 
 buries her face against the back of the chair, Wai.pubga rising and standing 
 7iear.) 
 
 (DopTOK Guaun enters.) 
 
 DocroK. 
 News ! stirring uews to-day ! wonders come thick. 
 Abmoakt {starting up at the first sound of his voice, and speaking vehemently). 
 Yes, thick, thick, thick! and yon have mnrdered it! 
 Murdered my voice — poisoned the soul in me, 
 And kept me living. 
 
 You never told me that yonr cruel ernes 
 Were clogging films— a mouldy, dead'niug blight— 
 A lava-mud to crust and bury me, 
 Yet liold me living in a deep, deep tomb, 
 Crying unheard forever ! Oh, your cures 
 Are devil's triumphs: yon can rob, maim, shi)', 
 And keep a hell on the other side yonr cure 
 Where yon can see your victim quivering 
 Between the teeth of torture— see a soul 
 Made keen by loss— all anguish with a good 
 Once knowu and gone ! {Txirns and sinks back on her chair.) 
 
 O misery, misery ! 
 You might have killed me, might have let me sleep 
 After my happy day and wake — not here ! 
 In some new unremembered world— not here, 
 "Where all is faded, flat— a feast broke off- 
 Banners all meaningless — exulting words 
 Dull, dull— a drum that lingers in the air 
 Beating to melody which no man hears. 
 
ARMGART. 89 
 
 DocToii (a/lcr a mnmenVs silence). 
 A suddeu check has shaken yon, poor child! 
 All things seem livid, tottering to your sense, 
 ffrom inward tunuilt. Stricken by a threat 
 Yon see yonr terrors only. Tell me, Leo: 
 'Tis not such utter loss. 
 
 (Lko, with a shrug, goes quietly out.) 
 The freshest bloom 
 Merely, has left the fruit; the fruit itself . . . 
 
 Akmoakt. 
 
 Is ruined, withered, is a thing to hide 
 
 Away from scorn or pity. Oh, you stand 
 
 And look compassionate now, but when Death came 
 
 With mercy in his hands, you hindered him. 
 
 I did not choose to live and have yonr pity. 
 
 You never told me, never gave me choice 
 
 To die a singer, lightning-strnck, unmnimed. 
 
 Or live what you would make me with your cures— 
 
 A self accursed with consciousness of change, 
 
 A mind that lives in nought but members lopped, 
 
 A power turned to pain — as meaningless 
 
 As letters fallen asunder that once made 
 
 A hymu of rapture. Oh, 1 had meaning once. 
 
 Like day and sweetest air. What am I now? 
 
 The millionth woman in superfluous herds. 
 
 Why should I be, do, think? 'Tis thistle-seed. 
 
 That grows and grows to feed the rubbish-heap. 
 
 Leave me alone ! 
 
 Doctor. 
 Well, I will come again ; 
 Send for me when yon will, though but to rate me. 
 That is medicinal— a letting blood. 
 
 Akmqaut. 
 Oh, there is one physician, only one, 
 Who cures and never spoils. Him I shall send forj 
 Be comes readily. 
 
 Doctor {to WAi.ruKOA). 
 
 One word, dear Friiuleiu. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 ARMOART, WALrORGA. 
 AUMGART. 
 
 Walpurga, have yon walked this morning? 
 AValpuuga. 
 
 Armoart. 
 Go, then, and walk ; I wish to be alone. 
 
40 . ARMGART. 
 
 Wai.pdega. 
 I will uot leave you. 
 
 AUMGART. 
 
 M'ill not, at my wish ? 
 Wali'ukga. 
 
 Will not, because you wish it. Say no more, 
 But take this draught. 
 
 Armoaut. 
 The Doctor gave it you? 
 It is an anodyne. Put it away. 
 lie cured me of my voice, and now he wants 
 To cure mc of my vision and resolve — 
 Drug me to sleep that I may wake again 
 Without a purpose, ahject as the rest 
 To bear the yoke of life. He shall not cheat nic 
 Of that fresh strength which anguish gives the socl. 
 The inspiration of revolt, ere rage 
 Slackens to faltering. Now I sec the truth. 
 
 WAi.ruRGA (scltinrf dottm the glass). 
 
 Then you must see a future in your reach, 
 With happiness enough to make a dower 
 For two of modest claims. 
 
 Akmgart. 
 
 Oh, you intone 
 That chant of consolation wherewith ease 
 Makes itself easier in the sight of pain. 
 
 Wai.pukga. 
 No; I would not console you, but rebuke. 
 
 Aumgaut. 
 
 Tliat is more bearable. Forgive me, dear. 
 Say what you will. But now I want to write. 
 
 (She rises and moves toivards a table.] 
 
 Walpuuo.v. 
 I say, then, you are simply feveied, mad; 
 You cry aloud at horrors that would vanish 
 ]f you would change the light, throw into shade 
 Tlie loss you aggrandize, and let day fall 
 On good remaining, nay on good refused 
 Which may be gain now. Did you not reject 
 A woman's lot more brilliant, as some held, 
 Than any singer's? It may still be yours. 
 Graf Doruberg loved you well. 
 
 Akmgaet. 
 
 Not me, not me. 
 He loved one well who was like me in all 
 Save in a voice which made that All unlike 
 
ARMGAKT. 41 
 
 As cliamond is to cliarcoal. Oh, a man's love! 
 Think you he loves a wonip-.i's inner self 
 Aching with loss of loveliness? — as mothers 
 Cleave to the palpitating paiu that dwells 
 Within theif misformed offspring? 
 
 Walptrga. 
 
 But the Graf 
 Cbose you as simple Arnigart— had preferred 
 That you should never seek for any fame 
 But such as matrons have who roar great sons. 
 And therefore you rejected Mm; but now — 
 
 AUMOAUT. 
 
 Ay, now — now he would see me as I am, 
 
 (She takes u}) a hand-mirror.) 
 Russet and songless as a missel-thrush. 
 An ordinary girl— a plain brown girl, 
 Who, if some meaning flash irom out her words, 
 Shocks as a disproportioned thing— a Will 
 That, like an arm astretch and broken ofl", 
 Has nought to hurl — the torso of a soul. 
 I sang him into love of me : my song 
 Was consecration, lifted me apart 
 From the crowd chiselled like me, sister forms. 
 But empty of divinencss. Kay, my charm 
 Was half that I could win fame yet renounce ! 
 A wife with glory possible absorbed 
 Into her husband's actual. 
 
 WaT.I'URGA. 
 
 For shame! 
 Armgart, you slander him. W^hat would you sny 
 If now he came to you and asked again 
 That you would be his wife ? 
 
 Aemoaut. 
 
 No, and thrice no! 
 It would be pitying conotanc-', not love, 
 That brought him to me now. I will not be 
 A pensioner in marriage. Sacraments 
 Are not to feed the paupers of the world. 
 If he were generous— I am generous too. 
 
 WAi.nruQA. 
 
 Proud, Armgart, but not generous. 
 
 Aemoaut. 
 
 Say uo more^, 
 Ee will not know until— 
 
 Walpctrga. 
 
 He knows already. 
 
 AKMQAnT (quicldij). 
 
 Is he come back? 
 
 17 c 
 
42 ARMGAKT. 
 
 Walptoqa. 
 
 Yes, and will soon be here. 
 The Doctor had twice seen him and would go 
 From hence again to see him. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 Well, he knows. 
 It is all one. 
 
 WALrUEGA. 
 
 What if he were outside? 
 I hear a footstep in the ante-room. 
 
 AitMOABT (raising herself and assuming calnmess). 
 
 Why let him come, of course. I shall behave 
 Like what I am, a common personage 
 Who looks for nothing but civility. 
 1 shall not play the fallen heroine. 
 Assume a tragic part and throw out cues 
 For a beseeching lover. 
 
 Walpfrga. 
 
 Some one raps. 
 
 A letter— from the Graf 
 
 AUMGART. 
 
 (Goes to the door.) 
 
 Then open it. 
 
 (Walpurga s'.iU offers it.) 
 Nay, my head swims. Read it. I cannot see. 
 
 (Wai.pukga opens it, reads and jmtises.) 
 Read it. Have done ! No matter what it is. 
 
 Walpurga O'eads in a low, hesitating voice). 
 " I am deeply moved — my heart is rent, to hear of your illness and its cruel re- 
 sult, just now communicated to me by Dr. Grahn. But surely it is possible Hint 
 this result may not be permanent. For youth such as yours. Time may hold iu 
 store something more than resignation: who shall say that it dues not hold re- 
 newal ? I have not dared to ask admission to you in the hours of a recent shock, 
 but I cannot depart on a long mission without tendering my sympathy and my 
 farewell. I start this evening for the Caucasus, and thence I proceed to India, 
 where I am intrnsled by the Government with business which may be of long 
 duration." 
 
 (Walpurga sits dnini dejectedly.) 
 
 Akmoart {after a slight shudder, bitterb\ 
 'i'he Graf has much discretion. I am glad. 
 He spares us both a pain, not seeing nie. 
 What I like least is that consoling hope- 
 That empty cup, so neatly ciphered "Time," 
 Handed me as a cordial for despair. 
 
 (!^lowlg and dreamily) Time— what a word to fling as charity ! 
 Bland neutral word for slow, dull-beating pain- 
 Days, months, and years I— If I would wait for them. 
 {She takes vp her hat and puts it or', then wraps her mantle round her. Wal- 
 purga leaves the room.) 
 
ARMGAFwT. 45 
 
 Why, this is but begiuning. (Walp. re-ryitei;-:) Kiss me, dear. 
 
 I am going now — alone — out — for a walk. 
 
 Say yon will nevei' woiiud me any more 
 
 WiUi such cajolery as narses nse 
 
 To jiatients amorous of a crippled life. 
 
 Flatter the blind: I see. 
 
 WAI.rtJKGA. 
 
 Well, I was \vrong. 
 In haste to soothe, I snatched at flickers meieljr. 
 Believe me, I will flatter you no move. 
 
 Aemgaet. 
 
 Bear witness, I am calm. I read my lot 
 
 As soberly as if it were a tale 
 
 Writ by a creeping feuilletonist and called 
 
 "The Woman's Lot: a Tale of Everyday:" 
 
 A middling woman's, to impress the world 
 
 With high superfluousness ; her thoughts a crop 
 
 Of chick-weed errors or of pot-herb facts, 
 
 Smiled at like some child's drawing ou a slate. 
 
 "Genteel?" "O yes, gives lessons; not so good 
 
 As any man's would be, but cheaper far." 
 
 "Pretty?" "No; yet she malces a figure fit 
 
 For good society. Poor thing, she sews 
 
 Both late and early, turns and alters all 
 
 To suit the changing mode. Some widower 
 
 Might do well, marrying her ; but in these days ! . . , 
 
 Well, she can somewhat eke her narrow gains 
 
 By writing, just to furnish her with gloves 
 
 And droschliies in the rain. Thoy print her things 
 
 Often for charity. "—Oh, a dog's life! 
 
 A harnessed dog's, that draws a little cart 
 
 Voted a nuisance ! I am going now. 
 
 Wai.pcuga. 
 
 Not now, the door is locked. 
 
 AUMGAUT. 
 
 Give me the key I 
 Wai.purga. 
 Loclced ou the outside. Gretcheu has the key: 
 She la gone on errands. 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 What, you dare to keep me 
 
 Your prisoner? 
 
 Wai.ppega. 
 
 And have I not been yours? 
 Your wish has been a bolt to keep me in. 
 Perhaps that middling woman whom yon paint 
 With far-off scorn, . . . 
 
 AuMOAET. 
 
 I paint what I must be- 
 What is my soul to me without the voice 
 
44 AUMGART. 
 
 That gave it fieodoni ?— gave it one grand touch 
 And made it nobly Immau '—Prisoned now, 
 Prisoned in all the petty mimicries 
 Called woman's knowledge, that will fit the world 
 As doll-clothes fit a man. I can do nought 
 Better than what a million .women do- 
 Must drudge among the crowd and feel my life 
 Beating upon the world without response, 
 Beating with passiou through an insect's horn 
 That moves a millet-seed laboriously. 
 If I would do it ! 
 
 Walpukga {coldly). 
 
 And why should you not I 
 
 Aemgatit (turning qnicklii). 
 
 Because Heaven made me royal— wrought me ont 
 
 With subtle fluish towards pre-eminence, 
 
 Made every channel of my soul converge 
 
 To one high function, and then flung me dowu, 
 
 That breaking I might turn to subtlest pain. 
 
 An inborn passion gives a rebel's right: 
 
 I would rebel aud die in twenty worlds 
 
 Sooner than bear the yoke of thwarted life. 
 
 Each keenest sense turned into keen distaste. 
 
 Hunger not satisfied but kept alive 
 
 Breathing in languor half a century. 
 
 All the world now is but a rack of threads 
 
 To twist and dwarf me into pettiness 
 
 And basely feigned content, the placid mask 
 
 Of women's misery. 
 
 WAi.rnno a {ind-ignanthi). 
 
 Ay, such a mask 
 As the few born like you to easy joy, 
 Cradled in privilege, take for natural 
 On all the lowly faces that nuist look 
 Upward to you ! What revelation now 
 Shows you the mask or gives presentiment 
 Of sadness hidden? You who every day 
 These five years saw me limp to wait on yon, 
 And thought the order perfect which gave me, 
 The girl without pretension to be aught, 
 A splendid cousin for my happiness : 
 To watch the night through when her brain was fii< 
 With too much gladness — listen, always listen 
 To what she felt, who having power had ri^ht 
 To feel exorbitantly, and submerge 
 The souls around her with the i)oured-out flood 
 Of what must be ere she were satisfied ! 
 That was feigned patience, was it ? Why not love. 
 Love nurtured even with that strength of self 
 Which found no room save in another's life? 
 Oh, such as I know joy by negatives. 
 And all their deejjest passion is a pang 
 Till tboy accept their pauper's heritage, 
 Aud meekly live from out the general store 
 
AKMGART. 45 
 
 Of joy they were born stripjied of. I accept- 
 Nay, now would sooner choose it, than the we;illh 
 Of natures you call royal, who can live 
 In mere mock knowledge of their fellows' woe, 
 Thinking their smiles may heal it. 
 
 AitiMQART (tremulously). 
 
 Kay, Walpiirtja,, 
 I did not make a palace of my joy 
 To shut the world's truth from -me. All my good 
 Was that I touched the world and made a pari 
 In the world's dower of beauty, strength, and bliss; 
 It was the glimpse of consciousness divine 
 Whicli pours out day and sees the day is good. 
 Now I am fallen dark; I sit in gloom, 
 Kenieniberiug bitterly. Yet you speak truth; 
 I wearied you, it seems; took all your help 
 As cushioned nobles use a weary serf, 
 Not looking at his face. 
 
 WAl.rUROA. 
 
 Oh, I but stand 
 As a small symliol for the niii;hty sura 
 Of claims unpaid to needy myriads; 
 I think yon never set your loss beside 
 That mighty deficit. Is your work gone— 
 The prouder queenly work that paid itself 
 And yet was overpaid with men's applause? 
 Ar3 you no longer chartered, jirivileged, 
 But sunk to simple woman's penury. 
 To ruthless Nature's chary average — 
 Where is the rebel's right for you alone? 
 Noble rebellion lifts a common load; 
 But what is he who flings his own load off 
 And leaves his fellows toiling? Rebel's right? 
 Say rather, the deserter's. Oh, you smiled 
 From your clear height on all the million lots 
 Which yet you brand as abject. 
 
 Ak.mgakt. 
 
 I was blind 
 With too much happiness: true vision ccnnes 
 Only, it seems, with sorrow. Were there one 
 This moment near me, suft'ering what I feel. 
 And needing me for comfort iu her pang — 
 Then it were worth the while to live; not else. 
 
 WAI.rUUGA. 
 
 One— near you — why, they throng! you hardly stir 
 
 But your act touches them. We touch afar. 
 
 For did not swarthy slaves of yesterday 
 
 Leap iu their bondage at the Hebrews' flight. 
 
 Which touched them through the thrice millennial dark? 
 
 But yon can find the suflerer you need 
 
 Willi touch less subtle. 
 
 Armoakt. 
 
 Who has need of me? 
 
46 AUMGAKT. 
 
 WAI.rDRGA. 
 
 Love finds the need it fills. But you are hard. ' 
 Armgart. 
 
 Is it not you, Walpurga, who are hard? 
 You humored all my wishes lill to-day, 
 Wlieu fate has blighted nie. 
 
 Wai.piirga. 
 
 You would not hear 
 The "chant of consolation:" words of hope 
 Only embittered you. Theu hear the truth— 
 A lame girl's truth, whom no one ever praised 
 For beiug clieerful. "It is well," they said: 
 "Were she cross-grained slie could not be endured." 
 A word of truth fmm her had startled yon ; 
 But you — you claimed tlie universe; nt)nght less 
 Than all existence working in sure tracks 
 Towards your supremacy. The wheels might scathe 
 A myriad destinies— nay, ninst perforce; 
 But yours they must keep clear of; jus', for you 
 The seething atoms through the firmament 
 Must bear a human heart — which yon had not! 
 For what is it to yon that women, men, 
 Plod, fiiint, are weary, and espouse despair 
 Of aught but fellowship? Save that you spurn 
 To be among them ? Now, then, you are lame — 
 Maimed, as you said, and levelled with the crowd: 
 Call it new birth — birth from that monstrous Self 
 Which, smiling down upon a race oppressed. 
 Says, "All is good, for I am throned at ease." 
 Dear Armgart — nay, you tremble— I am erne!. 
 
 AU.MQAUT. 
 
 O no! hark I Some one knock.s. Come in! — come in! 
 
 {Enter Leo. 
 Li-.o. 
 See, Gretchen let me in. I could not rest 
 Longer away from you. 
 
 Ar.mqart. 
 
 Sit down, dear Leo. 
 Walpurga, I would speak with him alone. 
 
 (Wai.pukga goes otU.) 
 
 Leo (hesitatinglij). 
 
 You mean to walk? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 No, I shall stay within. 
 (Slie takes off her hat and mantle, and sits down immedialelij. After a pause, 
 speaking in a subdued tone to Leo.) 
 How old are you? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Threescore and five. 
 
47 
 
 AnMGART. 
 
 That's old, 
 I never thought till now how yon have lived. 
 They hardly ever play your music? 
 
 Lko {raising his eyebrows and throwing out his lip). 
 
 No! 
 Schubert too wrote for silence: half his work 
 Lay like a frozen llhiue till summers came 
 That warmed the grass above him. Even so I 
 His music lives now with a mighty youth. 
 
 Ar..MG.4.nT. 
 
 Do you think yours will live when you are dead? 
 
 Lf.o. 
 
 rfiii ! The time was, I drank that home-brewed wine 
 And found it heady, while my blood was young: 
 Now it scarce warms nie. Tipple it as I may, 
 I am sober still, and say : " My old friend Leo, 
 Much grain is wasted in the world and rots; 
 Why nut thy handful ?'' 
 
 Aemg.\ut. 
 
 Strange! since I have known you 
 Till now I never wondered how you lived. 
 When I sang well — that was your jubilee. 
 But you weie old already. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Yes, child, yes : 
 Youth thinks itself the goal of each old life; 
 Age has biit travelled from a far-oft' time 
 Just to be ready for youth's service. Well ! 
 It was my chief delight to perfect you. 
 
 Armgaut. 
 
 Good Leo! You have lived on little joj's. 
 
 But your delight in me is crushed forever. 
 
 Your pains, where are they now? They shaped intent 
 
 Which action frustrates ; shaped an inward sense 
 
 Which is but keen despair, the agony 
 
 Of highest vision iu the lowest pit. 
 
 Lro. 
 Nay, nay, I have a thought : keep to the stage, 
 To drama without song; for you can act — 
 Who knows how well, when all the soul is ponied 
 Into that sluice alone ? 
 
 Akmgaut. 
 
 I kuow, and yon: 
 The second or third best in tragedies 
 That cease to touch the fibre of the time. 
 No; song is gone, but nature's other gift, 
 
4b AK.MGAKT. 
 
 Self-judgmeut, is not gone. Song was my speech. 
 
 And with its impulse only, action came: 
 
 Song WKS the battle's onset, when cool purpose 
 
 Glows into rage, becomes a warring god 
 
 And moves the limbs with miracle. But now — 
 
 Oh, I i-honld stand lienimed in with thoughis and rules— 
 
 SMy"Tlns way passion j.cts,"' yet never feel 
 
 The might of passion. How should I declaim? 
 
 As monsters write with feet instead of hands. 
 
 I will not feed on doing gieat tasks ill. 
 
 Dull the world's sense with mediocrity, 
 
 And live by trash that smothers excellence. 
 
 One gift I had that ranked me with the best — 
 
 The secret of my frame — ai;d that is gone. 
 
 For all life now I am a broken thing. 
 
 But silence there ! Good Leo, advise me now. 
 
 I would take humble work and do it well — 
 
 Teach masic, singing— what I can— not hei-e. 
 
 But in some smaller town "/here I may bring 
 
 The method you have taught me, pass your gift 
 
 To others who can use it for delight. 
 
 You think I can do that? 
 
 {She jjauses, icith a .soft in her voice.] 
 
 Leo. 
 
 ".es, yes, dear child J 
 And it were well, perhaps, to change the i)hicc— 
 Begin afresh as I did when I left 
 Vienna with a. heart half broken^ 
 
 Ai'.MQATiT {I'ouaed H^j .lurpritte). 
 Yon ? 
 Lko. 
 
 ■Well, it 18 long ago. But I had lost — 
 No matter ! We must bury our dead joys 
 And live above them with a living W()rl(l. 
 But whither, think yon, you would like to go? 
 
 To Freiburf 
 
 It is too small. 
 
 AltMG.VRT- 
 
 Li:o 
 In the Br^iisgau? And why there? 
 
 Aemoart. 
 
 Walpurga was born there, 
 And loves the place. She caitted it for me 
 These five years past. Now I will take her there- 
 Dear Leo, 1 will bury my dead joy. 
 
 Lko. 
 Mothers do so, bereaved ; then learn to love 
 Another's living child. 
 
49 
 
 18T0. 
 
 Armgaet. 
 
 Ob, it is hard 
 To take the little corpse, and lay it low, 
 And say, "None misses it but me." 
 She sings. . . . 
 
 I mean Paulina sings Fidelio, 
 And they will welcome her to-uight. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Well, well, 
 'Tis better that our griefs should not spread far. 
 
 17* C* 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Six hundred years ago, in Dante's time, 
 
 Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme — 
 
 When Europe, fed afresli frotn Eastern story. 
 
 Was like a garden tangled with the glory 
 
 Of flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown, 
 
 Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown, 
 
 Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars, 
 
 And springing blades, green troops in innocent wars. 
 
 Crowd every shady spot of teeming earth. 
 
 Making invisible motion visible birth — 
 
 Sis hundred years ago, Palermo town 
 
 Kept holiday. A deed of great renown, 
 
 A high revenge, had freed it from the yoke 
 
 Of hated Frenchmen, and from Calpe's rock 
 
 To where the Bosporus caught the earlier sun, 
 
 'Twas told that Pedro, King of Aragon, 
 
 Was welcomed master of all Sicily, 
 
 A royal knight, supreme as kings shonld be 
 
 lu strength and gentleness that make high chivalry. 
 
 Spain was the favorite home of Icnightly grace, 
 
 Wliere generous men rode steeds of generous race ; 
 
 Both Spanish, yet half Arab, both inspired 
 
 By mutual spirit, that each motion fired 
 
 With beauteous response, like minstrelsy 
 
 Afresh fulfilliMg fresh expectancy. 
 
 So when Palermo made high festival. 
 
 The joy of matrons and of maidens all 
 
 Was the mock terror of the tournament, 
 
 Where safety, with the glimpse of danger blent. 
 
 Took exaltation as from epic song. 
 
 Which greatly tells the pains that to great life belong. 
 
 And in all eyes King Pedro was the king 
 
 Of cavaliers: as In a full-gemined ring 
 
 The largest ruby, or as that bright star 
 
 Whose shining shows us where the Hyads are. 
 
 His the best jennet, and he sat it best; 
 
 His weapon, whether tilting or in rest. 
 
 Was worthiest watching, and his face once seen 
 
 Gave to the promise of his royal mien 
 
 Such rich fulfilment as the opened eyes 
 
 Of a loved sleeper, or the long-watched rise 
 
 Of vernal day, whose joy o'er stream and meadow flies 
 
 But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathed 
 The broad piazza and sweet witchery breathed, 
 
HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 51 
 
 With innocent faces budding all arow 
 
 From balconies and windows high and low, 
 
 Who was it felt the deep mysteiious glow, 
 
 The impregnation with supernal tire 
 
 Of young ideal love — transformed desire, 
 
 Whose passion is but worship of tliat Be^t 
 
 Taught by the many-mingled creed of each young breast? 
 
 'Twas gentle Lisa, of no noble line. 
 
 Child of Bernardo, a rich Florentine, 
 
 Who from his merchant-city hither came 
 
 To trade in drugs; yet kept an honest fame, 
 
 And had the virtue not to try and sell 
 
 Drugs that had none. He loved his riches well. 
 
 But loved them chiefly for his Lisa's sake, 
 
 Whom with a father's care he sought to make 
 
 The bride of some true honorable man : — 
 
 Of Perdicone (so the rumor ran), 
 
 M'hose birth was higher than his fortunes were; 
 
 For still your trader likes a mixture fair 
 
 Of blood that hurries to some higher strain 
 
 Than recivoning money's loss and money's gain. 
 
 And of such mixture good may surely come: 
 
 Lords' scions so may learn to cast a sum, 
 
 A trader's graudsou bear a well-set head, 
 
 And have less conscious manners, better bred; 
 
 Nor, when he tries to be polite, be rude instead. 
 
 'Twas Perdicone's friends made overtures 
 
 To good Bernardo; so one dame assures 
 
 Her neighbor dame who notices the youth 
 
 Fixing his eyes on Lisa; and in truth 
 
 Eyes that could see her on this summer day 
 
 Might find it, liard to turn another way. 
 
 She had a jjensive beauty, yet not sad ; 
 
 Rather, like minor cadences that glad 
 
 The hearts of little birds amid spring boughs ; 
 
 And oft the trumpet or the joust would rouse 
 
 Pulses that gave her clieelv a liner glow. 
 
 Parting her lips that seemed a mimic bow 
 
 By chiselling Love for play in coral wrought. 
 
 Then quickened by him with the passionate thought, 
 
 The soul that trembled in the lustrous night 
 
 Of slow long eyes. Her body was so slight, 
 
 It seemed she could have floated in the sky, 
 
 And with the angelic choir made symphony; 
 
 But in her cheek's rich tinge, and in the dark 
 
 Of darkest hair and eyes, she bore a mark 
 
 Of kinship to her generous mother earth, 
 
 The fervid laud that gives the plumy palm-trees birth. 
 
 She saw not Perdicone : her young mind 
 Dreamed not that any man had ever pined 
 For such a little simple maid as she : 
 She had but dreamed how heavenly it would be 
 To love some hero noble, beauteous, great, 
 Who would live stories worthy to narrate, 
 
52 HOAV LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Like Ilolaud, or the warriors of Troy, 
 The Cid, or Aniadig, or that frir boy 
 Who conquered everything Leneath the snn, 
 And somehow, some time, died at Babylon 
 Fighting the Moors. For heroes all were good 
 And fair as that archangel who withstood 
 The Evil One, the author of all wrong- 
 That Evil One who made the French so strong; 
 And now the flower of heroe? must be he 
 Who drove those tyrants from dear Sicily, 
 So that her maids might walk to vespers tranquilly. 
 
 Young Lisa saw this hero in the king. 
 
 And as wood-lilies that sweet odors bring 
 
 Might dream the liglit that opes their modeet eyne 
 
 Was lily-odored,— and as rights divine, 
 
 Round tnrf-laid altars, or 'neath roofs of stoue. 
 
 Draw sanctity from out the heart alone 
 
 That loves and worships, so the miniature 
 
 Perplexed of her soul's world all virgin pure, 
 
 Filled with heroic virtues that bright form- 
 
 Raona's royalty, the finished norm 
 
 Of horsemanship — the half of chivalry: 
 
 For how could generous meu avengers be. 
 
 Save as God's messengers on coursers fleet? — 
 
 These, scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meet 
 
 lu one self world where the same right had sway, 
 
 And good mirst grow as grew the blessed day. 
 
 No more; great Love his essence had endued 
 
 With Pedro's form, and entering subdued 
 
 The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense, 
 
 Proud in its choice of proud obedience 
 
 To hardship glorified by perfect reverence. 
 
 Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest. 
 And in her chamber through the hours of rest 
 Tlie darkness was alight for her with sheen 
 Of arms, and plumed helm, and. bright between 
 Their commoner gloss, lilce the pure living spring 
 'Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird's bright wing 
 'Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king 
 Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there 
 Of Icnown delights love-mixed to new and rare: 
 The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh, 
 Chill tliought of summer to the warm close mesh 
 Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves, 
 Clothing her life of life. Oh, she believes 
 That she could be content if h'^ but knew 
 (Her poor small self could claim no other due) 
 How Lisa's lowly love had highest reach 
 Of winged passion, whereto wingt^d speech 
 Would be scorched remnants left by mounting flame. 
 Though, had she such lame message, were it blame 
 To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank 
 She held in loving? Modest maidens shrank 
 From telling love that fed on selfish hope ; 
 But love, as hopeless as the shattering song 
 Wailed for loved beings who have joined the tbroug 
 
now LISA LOVED THE KING. 53 
 
 Of mighty dead ones. . . . Nay, but she was weak— 
 Knew only prayers and balhids— could not ^ipeak 
 With eloquence save what dumb eieatures have, 
 That with small cries and touches small boons crave. 
 
 She watched all day that she might see him pass 
 
 With knights and ladies; but she said, "Alasl 
 
 Though he should see me, it were all as one 
 
 He saw a pigeon silting on the stone 
 
 Of wall or balcony : some colored spot 
 
 His eye just sees, his mind regardetli not. 
 
 I h.ave no music-touch that could bring nigh 
 
 My love to his soul's hearing. I shall die, 
 
 Aud he will never know who Lisa was— 
 
 The trader's child, whose soaring spirit rose 
 
 As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose. 
 
 "For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen 
 
 A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green 
 
 Gold-bordered, like Costanza, I should need 
 
 No change within to make me queenly there; 
 
 For they the royal-hearted women are 
 
 Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace 
 
 For needy suffering lives in lowliest place. 
 
 Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile, 
 
 The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile. 
 
 My love is such, it cannot choose but soar 
 
 Up to the highest; yet for evermore, 
 
 Though I were happy, throned beside the king, 
 
 I should be tender to each little thing 
 
 With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell 
 
 Its inward pang, and I would soothe it well 
 
 Willi tender touch and with a low soft moan 
 
 For company: ray dumb love-pang is lone, 
 
 Prisoned as topaz-beam within a rough-garbed stone." 
 
 So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days. 
 
 Each night the August moon with changing phase 
 
 Looked broader, harder on her unchanged pain ; 
 
 Each noon the heat lay heavier again 
 
 On her despair ; until lier body frail 
 
 Shrank like the snow that watchers in the vale 
 
 See narrowed on the height each summer morn ; 
 
 While her dark glance burnt larger, more forlorn, 
 
 As if the soul within her all on fire 
 
 Made of her being one swift funeral pyre. 
 
 Father and mother saw with sad dismay 
 
 The meaning of their riches melt away : 
 
 For without Lisa what would sequins buy? 
 
 What wish were left if Lisa were to die? 
 
 Through her they cared for summers still to come. 
 
 Else they would be as ghosts without a home 
 
 In any flesh that could feel glad desire. 
 
 They pay the best physicians, never tire 
 
 Of seeking what will soothe her, promising 
 
 That aught she longed for, though it were a thing 
 
 Hard to be come at as the ludian snow, 
 
 Or roses that on alpine summits blow — 
 
54 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 It should be hers. She answers wilh low voice, 
 She loii<js for death alone — death is her choice ; 
 Death is the King who never did think scoru, 
 But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow born. 
 
 Yet one day, as they bent above her bed 
 And watched her in brief sleep, her drooping head 
 Turned gently, as the thirsty flowers that feel 
 Some moist revival through their petals steal, 
 And little flutterings of her lids and lips 
 Told of such dreamy joy as sometimes dips 
 A skyey shadow in tlie mind's poor pool. 
 She oped her eyes, and turned tlieir dark gems full 
 Upon her father, as in utterance dumb 
 Of some new prayer that in her sleep had come. 
 "What is it, Lisa?" "Father, I would see 
 Minuccio, the great singer; bring him me." 
 For always, night and day, her uustilled thought, 
 Wandering all o'er its little world, had songlit 
 How she could reach, by some soft pleading touch, 
 King Pedro's soul, that she who loved so niucli 
 ])ying, might have a place withiu his mind — 
 » A little grave which he would sometimes find 
 
 And plant some flower on it — some thought, scmie memory kind. 
 
 Till in her dream she saw Minuccio 
 
 Touching his viola, and chanting low 
 
 A strain that, falling on her brokenly. 
 
 Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree. 
 
 Each burdened wilh a word that was a scent — 
 
 Tlaonn, Lisa, love, death, tournament; 
 
 Then in her dream she said, "He sings of mc — 
 
 Might be my messenger; ah, now I see 
 
 The king is listening — " Tlien she awoke, 
 
 And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing spoke. 
 
 She longed for music : that was natural ; 
 Physicians said it was medicinal ; 
 The liiimors might be schooled by true consent 
 Of a fine tenor and fine instrument; 
 In brief, good music, mixed with doctor's stuff, 
 Apollo with Asklepios— enough ! 
 Minuccio, entreated, gladly came. 
 (He was a singer of most gentle fame — 
 A noble, kindly spirit, not elate 
 That he was famous, but that song was great- 
 Would sing as finely to this suffering child 
 As at -the court where princes on him smiled.) 
 Gently he entered and sat down by her. 
 Asking what sort of strain she would prefer — 
 The voice alone, or voice with viol wed : 
 Then, when she chose the last, he preluded 
 With magic hand, that summoned from the strings 
 Aeiial spirits, rare yet vibrant wings 
 TliaL fanned the pulses of his listener, 
 And waked each sleeping sense with blissfid stir. 
 Her cheek already showed a slow faint blush, 
 But soon the voice, in pure full liquid rush. 
 
now LISA LOVED THE KINO. 55 
 
 Made all the passion, that till now she felt, 
 
 Seem but cool waters that in warmer melt. 
 
 Finished the soug, she prayed to be alone 
 
 With kind Miniiccio ; for her faith had grown 
 
 To trust him as if missioned like a priest 
 
 With some high grace, tliat when his singing ceased 
 
 Still made him wiser, more magnanimous 
 
 Thau coniniou men who had uo genius. 
 
 So laying her small hand within his palm, 
 
 She told him how that secret glorious harm 
 
 Of loftiest loving had befallen her ; 
 
 That death, her only hope, most bitter were, 
 
 If when she died her love must perish too 
 
 As songs unsung and thoughts unspoken do. 
 
 Which else might live within another breast. 
 
 She said, "Minuccio, the grave were rest. 
 
 If I were sure, that lying cold and lone, 
 
 My love, my best of life, had safely flown 
 
 And nestled in the bosom of the king; 
 
 See, 'tis a small weak bird, wiili unfledged wing. 
 
 But you will carry it for me secretly, 
 
 And bear it to the king, then come to me 
 
 And tell me it is safe, and I shall go 
 
 Content, knowing that he I love my love doth know..'- 
 
 Then she wept silently, but each large tear 
 
 Made pleading music to the inward ear 
 
 Of good Minuccio. "Lisa, trust in me,"' 
 
 lie said, and kissed her fingers loyally; 
 
 " It is sweet law to me to do your will, 
 
 And ere the sun his round shall thrice fulfil, 
 
 I hope to bring you news of such rare skill 
 
 As amulets have, that aches In trusting bosoms still." 
 
 He needed not to pause and first devise 
 
 How he should tell the king; for in nowise 
 
 Were such love-message worthily bested 
 
 Save in fine verse by music rendered. 
 
 He sought a poet-friend, a Sieunese, 
 
 And " Mico, mine," he said, "full oft to please 
 
 Thy whim of sadness I have sung thee strains 
 
 To make thee weep in verse: now pay my pains, 
 
 And write me a cauzon divinely sad, 
 
 Sinlessly jjassionate and meekly mad 
 
 With young despair, speaking a maiden's heart 
 
 Of fifteen summers, who would fain depart 
 
 From ripening life's new-urgent mystery — 
 
 Love-choice of one too high her love to be — 
 
 But cannot yield her breath till she has poured 
 
 Her strength away in this hot-bleeding word 
 
 Telling the secret of her soul to her soul's lord.-' 
 
 Said Mico, "Nay, that thought is poesy, 
 
 I need but listen as it sings to me. 
 
 Come thou again to-morrow." The third day, 
 
 When linked notes had perfected the lay, 
 
 Minuccio had his summons to the court 
 
 To make, as he was wont, the moments short 
 
56 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Of cei-eraonions diiinci- to the king. 
 
 This was the time wlieu hu liad meant to bring 
 
 Melodious message of young Lisa's love : 
 
 He waited till the air had ceased to move 
 
 To ringing silver, till Falerniau wine 
 
 Made quickened sense witli quietude combine, 
 
 And then with passionate descaut made each ear incline. 
 
 Love, thou didst see me, light as Tnorning^s breath, 
 lioaviing a garden in a joyous error. 
 Laughing at chases vain, a happy child. 
 Till of thy countenance the alluring terror 
 In majesty from otU the blossoms smiled. 
 From out their life seeming a beauteous Death. 
 
 O Love, icho so didst choose me for thine own, 
 
 Taking this little isle to thy great sway. 
 
 See noio, it is the honor of thy throne 
 
 That tohat thou gavest perish not away, 
 
 Nor leave some sweet remembrance to atone. 
 
 By life that icitl be for the brief life gone : 
 
 Hear, ere the shroud o^er these frail limbs be thrown— 
 
 Since every hing is vassal ^mto thee. 
 
 My heart's lord needs must listen loyally — 
 
 O tell him I am waiting for my Death ! 
 
 Tell him,, for that he hath such royal poicer 
 'Twcre hard for him to think how small a thing. 
 How slight a sign, loould make a wealthy dowtr 
 For one like me, the bride of that pale king 
 Whose bed is mine at some swift-nearing hour. 
 Go to my lord, and to his memory bring 
 That happy birtliday of my sorrowing 
 When his large glance made meaner gazers glad, 
 ' Entering the bannered lists: 'twas then I had 
 The ivound that laid me in the arms of Death. 
 
 Tell him, O Love, I ain a lowly maid, 
 Xo more than any little knot of thyme 
 That he with careless foot may often tread ; 
 Yet lowest fragrance oft %cill mount sublime 
 And cleave to things most high and hallowed. 
 As doth the fra^jrance of my life's springtime. 
 My lowly love, that soaring seeks to climb 
 Within his thought, and make a gentle bliss. 
 More blissful than if mine, in being his: 
 So shall I live in him and rest in Death. 
 
 The strain was new. It seemed a pleading cry, 
 And yet a rounded perfect melody, 
 Making grief beauteous as the tear-tilled eyes 
 Of little child at little miseries. 
 Tremliling at first, theu swelling as it rose, 
 Like rising light that broad and broader grows, 
 It filled the hall, and so possessed the air 
 That not one breathing soul was present there, 
 Though dullest, slowest, but was quivering 
 In music's grasp, and forced to hear her sing. 
 
HOW LISA LOVED TIIE KING. 57 
 
 Bnt most such sweet compulsion took the mood 
 
 Of PecU-o (tired of doing what he would). 
 
 Wheiher the words which that strange meaning bore 
 
 Were but the poet's feigning or anght more, 
 
 Was bounden question, since their aim must be 
 
 At some imagined or true royalty. 
 
 He called Minnciio and bade him tell 
 
 What poet of the day had wiit so well ; 
 
 For though they came behind all former rhymes. 
 
 The verses were not bad for these poor times. 
 
 "Monsignor, they are only three days old," 
 
 Minuccio said; "but it must not be told 
 
 How this song grew, save to your royal ear." 
 
 Eager, the king withdrew where none was near. 
 
 And gave close audience to Miimccio, 
 
 Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know. 
 
 The king had features pliant to confess 
 
 The presence of a manly tenderness — 
 
 Sou, father, brother, lover, blent in one. 
 
 In fine harmonic exaltation — 
 
 The spirit of religious chivaliy. 
 
 He listened, and Alinuccio could see 
 
 The tender, generous admiration spread 
 
 O'er all his face, and glorify his head 
 
 With royalty that would have kept its rank 
 
 Though his brocaded robes to tatters shrank. 
 
 He answered without pause, "So sweet a maid, 
 
 In nature's own insignia arrayed, 
 
 Though she were come of unmixed tradiug blood 
 
 That sold and bartered ever since the Flood, 
 
 Would hare the self-contained and single worth 
 
 Of radiant jewels born in darksome earth. 
 
 Raona were a shame to Sicily, 
 
 Letting such love and tears unhonored be: 
 
 Hasten, Minuccio, tell her that the king 
 
 To-day will surely visit her when vespers ring." 
 
 Joyful, Minuccio bore the joyous word. 
 
 And told at full, while none but Lisa heard, 
 
 How each hiug had befallen, sang the song, 
 
 And like a patient nurse who would prolong 
 
 All means of soothing, dwelt upon each tone. 
 
 Each look, with which the mighty Aragou 
 
 Marked the high worth his royal heart assigned 
 
 To that dear jilace he held iu Lisa's mind. 
 
 She listened till the draughts of pure content 
 
 Through all her limbs like some new being went — 
 
 Life, not recovered, bnt untried before, 
 
 From out the growing world's unmeasured store 
 
 Of fuller, better, more divinely mixed. 
 
 'Twas glad reverse : she had so firmly fixed 
 
 To die, already seemed to fall a veil 
 
 Shrouding the inner glow from light of senses pale. 
 
 Her parents wondering see her half arise — 
 Wondering, rejoicing, see her long dark eyes 
 Brimful with clearness, not of 'scaping tears, 
 Eut of some light ethereal that cnspheies 
 
58 HOW LISA LOVED THE XING. 
 
 Their orbs willi cnlni, some vision newly learnt 
 
 Where strangest fires erevvhilu had blindly burnt. 
 
 She asked to have her soft white robe and band 
 
 And coral ornaments, and with her hand 
 
 She gave her locks' dark length a backward fall, 
 
 Then looked intently in a mirror small, 
 
 And feared her face might perhaps displease the king; 
 
 "In truth," she said, "1 am a tiny thing; 
 
 I was too bold to tell what could such visit bring." 
 
 Meanwhile the king, revolving in his thought 
 That virgin passion, was more dee|)ly wrought 
 To chivalrous pity; and at vesper bell. 
 With careless mien which hid his i)urpose well, 
 Went forth on horseback, and as if by chance 
 Passing Bernardo's house, he paused to glance 
 At the flue garden of this wealthy man. 
 This Tuscan trader turned P;ileiniitaii : 
 But, presently dismounting, chose to walk 
 Amid the trellises, in gracious talk 
 With this same trader, deigning even to ask 
 If he had yet fulfilled the fiither's task 
 Of marrying that daughter whose young charms 
 Himself, betwixt the passages of arms, 
 Noted admiringly. "Monsiguor, no, 
 She is not married ; that were little woe. 
 Since she has counted barely fifteen years ; 
 But all such hopes of late have turned to fears; 
 She droops and fades ; though for a space quite brief- 
 Scarce three hours past— she finds some strange lelief." 
 The king avised: " 'Twere dole to all of us, 
 The world should lose a maid so beauteous ; 
 Let me now see her; since I am her liege lord. 
 Her spirits must wage war with death at my strong word.' 
 
 In such half-serious playfulness, he wends. 
 
 With Lisa's father and two chosen friends. 
 
 Up to the chamber where she pillowed sits 
 
 Watching the open door, that now admits 
 
 A presence as much better than her dreams, 
 
 As happiness than any longing seems. 
 
 The king advanced, and, with a reverent kis3 
 
 Upon her hand, said, "Lady, what is this? 
 
 You, whose sweet youth should others' solace be, 
 
 Pierce all our hearts, languishing j)iteously. 
 
 We pray you, for the love of us, be cheered. 
 
 Nor be too reckless of that life, endeared 
 
 To us who know your passing worthiness, 
 
 And count your blooming life as part of our life's bliss." 
 
 Those words, that touch upon her hand from him 
 Whom her soul worshipped, as far seraphim 
 Worship the distant glory, brought some shame 
 Quivering upon her cheek, yet thrilled her frame 
 With such deep joy she seemed in paradise. 
 In wondering gladness, and in dumb surprise 
 That bliss could be so blissful : then she spoke — 
 "Signer, I was too weak to bear the yoke. 
 
now LISA LOVED THE KING. 59 
 
 The goldeu yoke of thoughts too great for me ; 
 
 'I'hat was the grouud of my infirmity. 
 
 But now, I pray your grace to have belief 
 
 That I shall soon be well, nor any more cause grief." 
 
 The king aloue perceived the covert sense 
 Of all her words, which made one evidence 
 With her pure voice and candid loveliness, 
 That he had lost much honor, honoring less 
 That message of her passionate distress. 
 He stayed beside her for a little while 
 With gentle looks and speech, until a smile 
 As placid as a ray of early morn 
 On opening flower-cups o'er her lips was borne. 
 When he had left her, and the tidings spread 
 Through all the town how he had visited 
 The Tuscan trader's daughter, who was sick, 
 Men said, it was a royal deed and catholic. 
 
 And Lisa? she no longer wished for death ; 
 
 But; as a poet, who sweet verses saith 
 
 Within his soul, and joys in music there, 
 
 Nor seeks another heaven, nor can bear 
 
 Disturbing pleasures, so was she content, 
 
 Breathing the life of grateful sentiment. 
 
 She thought no maid betrothed could be more blest; 
 
 For treasure must be valued by the test 
 
 Of highest excellence and rarity. 
 
 And her dear joy was best as best could be; 
 
 There seemed no other crown to her delight 
 
 Now the liigh loved one saw her love aright. 
 
 Thus her soul thriving on that e.xqui^ite mood. 
 
 Spread like the May-time all its beauteous good 
 
 O'er the soft bloom of neck, and arms, and check. 
 
 And strengthened the sweet body, once so weak. 
 
 Until slie rose and walked, and, like a bird 
 
 With sweetly rippling throat, she made her spring joys heard. 
 
 The king, when lie the happy change had seen. 
 
 Trusted the ear of Constance, his fair queen. 
 
 With Lisa's innocent secret, and conferred 
 
 How they should jointly, by their deed and word. 
 
 Honor this maiden's love, which, like the prayer 
 
 Of loyal hermits, never thought to share 
 
 In what it gave. Tlie queen had that chief grace 
 
 Of womanliood, a heart that can embrace 
 
 All goodness in another woman's form ; 
 
 And that same day, eie the sun lay too warm 
 
 On southern terraces, a messenger 
 
 Informed Bernardo that the royal jiair 
 
 Would straightway visit him and celebrate 
 
 Their gladness at his daughter's happier state. 
 
 Which they were fain to see. Soon came the king 
 
 On horseback, with his barons, heralding 
 
 Tlie advent of the queen in courtly state ; 
 
 And all, descending at the garden gate, 
 
 Streamed with their feathers, velvet, and brocade. 
 
 Through the pleached alleys, till they, pausing, made 
 
60 now LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 A lake of splendor 'raid the aloes gray — 
 
 Where, meekly facing all their prond array, 
 
 I'he white-robed Lisa with her parents stood, 
 
 As some white dove before the gorgeons brood 
 
 Of dapple-breasted birds boru by the Colchian flood. 
 
 The king and queen, by gracious looks and speech, 
 
 Kncoiirage her, and tints their courtiers teach 
 
 How this fair morning they may courtliest be 
 
 By making Lisa pass it happily. 
 
 And soon the ladies and the barons all 
 
 Draw her by turns, as at a festival 
 
 Made for her sake, to easy, gay discourse, 
 
 And compliment with looks and smiles enforce ; 
 
 A joyous hum is heard the gardens round ; 
 
 Soon there is Spanish dancing and the sound 
 
 Of minstrel's song, and autumn fruits are plucked; 
 
 Till mindfully the king and queen conduct 
 
 Lisa apart to where a trelliscd shade 
 
 Made pleasant resting. Then King Pedro said— 
 
 "Excellent maiden, that rich gift of love 
 
 Your heart hath made us, hath a worth above 
 
 All royal treasures, nor is fitly met 
 
 Save when the grateful memory of deep debt 
 
 Lies still behind the outward honors done: 
 
 And as a sign that no oblivion 
 
 Shall overflood that faithful memory, 
 
 M'e while we live your cavalier will be. 
 
 Nor will we ever arm ourselves for fight. 
 
 Whether for struggle dire or l)rief delight 
 
 Of warlike feigning, but we lirst will take 
 
 The colors you ordain, and for your sake 
 
 Charge the more bravely where your emblem is ; 
 
 Nor will we ever claim an added bliss 
 
 To our sweet thoughts of you save one sole kiss. 
 
 But there still rests the outward honor meet 
 
 To mark your worthiness, and we entreat 
 
 That you will turn your ear to proflcred vows 
 
 Of one who loves you, and would be your spouse. 
 
 We must not M'roug yourself and Sicily 
 
 By letting all your blooming years pass by 
 
 Unmated: you will give the wcnld its due 
 
 From beauteous maiden aud become a matron true." 
 
 Then Lisa, wrapt in virgin wonderment 
 
 At her jimbilious love's complete content, 
 
 Which left no further good for her to seek 
 
 Than love's obedience, said with accent meek— 
 
 "Monsignor, I know well that were it known 
 
 To all the world how high my love had flown, 
 
 There would be few who would not deem me mad. 
 
 Or say my mind the falsest image had 
 
 Of my condition and your lofty place. 
 
 ]$iit beaveu has seen that for no moment's space 
 
 Have I forgotten you to be the king. 
 
 Or me myself to be a lowly thing— 
 
 A little lark, enamoured of the sky. 
 
 That soared to sing, to break its breast, and die. 
 
now LISA LOVED THE ICING. 61 
 
 But, as yon better know than I, the heait 
 
 In clioosiug chooseth not its own desert, 
 
 L!nt that great merit which attractetli it; 
 
 'Tis law, I strnggU'd, but I must submit. 
 
 And having seen a worth all worth above, 
 
 1 loved yon, love you, and shall always love. 
 
 But that doth mean, my will is ever youis. 
 
 Not only when your will my gooa insures. 
 
 But if it wrought me what the world calls harm — 
 
 Fire, wounds, would wear from your dear will a charm. 
 
 That you will be my knight is full content, 
 
 And for that kiss — I pray, first for the queen's consent." 
 
 Her answer, given with such firm gentleness. 
 
 Pleased the queen well, and made her hold no less 
 
 Of Lisa's merit than the king had held. 
 
 And so, all cloudy threats of grief dispelled, 
 
 There was betrothal made that very morn 
 
 'Twixt Perdicone, youthful, brave, well-born. 
 
 And Lisa, whom h-e loved ; she loving well 
 
 The lot that from obedience befell. 
 
 The queen a rare betrothal ring on each 
 
 Bestowed, and other gems, with gracious speech. 
 
 And tliat no joy might lack, the king, who knew 
 
 The youth was poor, gave him rich CefTald 
 
 And Cataletta, large and fruitful lands — 
 
 Addiug much promise when lie joined their hands. 
 
 At last he said to Lisa, with an air 
 
 Gallant yet noble: "Now we claim or,r share 
 
 From your sweet love, a share whicli is not small: 
 
 For in the sacrament one crumb is all." 
 
 Then taking h«r small face his hands between. 
 
 He kissed her on the brow with kiss serene. 
 
 Fit seal to that ptire vision her young soul had seen, 
 
 Sicilians witnessed that King Pedro kept 
 His royal promise: Perdicone stept 
 To many honors honorably won. 
 Living with Lisa in true union. 
 Throughout his life the king etiVl took delight 
 To call himself fair Lisa's faithful knight: 
 And never wore in field or tournament 
 A scarf or emblem save by Lisa sent. 
 
 Such deeds made subjects loyal in that land : 
 
 They joyed that one so worthy to command. 
 
 So chivalrous and gentle, had become 
 
 The king of Sicily, and filled the room 
 
 Of Frenchmen, who abused the Church's trust, 
 
 Till, in a righteous vengeance on their lust, 
 
 Messina rose, with God, and with the dagger's thrnet. 
 
 L'Envoi. 
 Reader, this storij pleased me long ago 
 In the bright pages of Boccaccio, 
 And where the author of a good ice know. 
 Let vs iiot fail to pay the grateful tluniks wc owe. 
 
A MINOR PROPHET. 
 
 I u.vTK a fi'ieiul, a vegetarian seer, 
 
 By name Elias Baptist Biitterwoi-tli, 
 
 A harmless bland, disinterested man, 
 
 Whose ancestors in Cromwell's day believed 
 
 The Second Advent certain in five years, 
 
 But when King Charles the Second came instead. 
 
 Revised their date and sought another world: 
 
 I mean— not heaven bnt— America. 
 
 A fervid stock, whose generous hope embraced 
 
 The fortunes of mankind, not stop|)ing short 
 
 At rise of leather, or the fall of gold, 
 
 Nor listening to the voices of the time 
 
 As housewives listen to a cackling hen, 
 
 With wonder whether she has laid her egg 
 
 On their own nest-egg. Still they did insist 
 
 Somewhat too wearisomely on the joys 
 
 Of their Millennium, when coats and hats 
 
 Would all be "of one pattern, books and songs 
 
 All fit for Sundays, and the casual talk 
 
 As good as sermons preached extempore. 
 
 And in Elias the ancestral zeal 
 
 Breathes strong as ever, only modified 
 
 By Transatlantic air and modern thonglit. 
 
 You could not pass him in the street and fail 
 
 To note his shoulders' long declivity. 
 
 Beard to the waist, swan-neck, and large pale eyes 
 
 Or, when he lifts his hat, to mark his hair 
 
 Brushed back to show his great capacity — 
 
 A full grain's length at the angle of the brow 
 
 Pioving him witty, wliile the shallower men 
 
 Only seem witty in their repartees. 
 
 Not that he's vain, but that his doctrine needs 
 
 Tlie testimony of his frontal lobe. 
 
 On all points he adopts the latest views; 
 
 Takes for the key of universal Mind 
 
 The "levitation" of stout gentlemen; 
 
 Believes the Rappings are not spirits' work, 
 
 But the Thought-atmosphere's, a steam of brains 
 
 In correlated force of raps, as proved 
 
 By motion, heat, and science generally; 
 
 The spectrum, for example, which has shown 
 
 The self-same metals in the sun as here; 
 
 f^o the Thought-atmosphere is everywhere: 
 
 High truths that glimmered under other names 
 
A MIISOll PJIOPIIET. 63 
 
 To iincicut sngC!*, whence good scholarship 
 
 Applied lo E!eu^*illii^n nij'steries — 
 
 The Vediis — Tiipitaka — Veiididad — 
 
 Might furnish weaker proof for weaker minds 
 
 That Thought was rapping in the hoary past, 
 
 And might liave edified the Greeks by raps 
 
 At the greater Dionysia, if their ears 
 
 Had not been filled with Sophocleau verse. 
 
 And when all Earth is vegetarian — 
 
 When, lacking butchers, quadrupeds die out, 
 
 And less Thought-atmosphere is reabsorbed 
 
 By nerves of insects parasitical, 
 
 Those higher truths, seized now by liigher minds 
 
 But not expressed (the insects hindering) 
 
 AVill either flash out into eloquence, 
 
 Or better still, be comprehensible 
 
 By rajipings simply, without need of roots. 
 
 'Tis on this theme— the vegetarian world — 
 
 That good Elias willingly expands : 
 
 He loves to tell in mildly nasal tones 
 
 And vowels stretched to suit the widest views, 
 
 The future fortunes of our infant Earth — 
 
 When it will be too full of human kind 
 
 To have the room for wilder animals. 
 
 Snith he, Sahara will be populous 
 
 With families of gentlemen retired 
 
 From commerce in more Central Africa, 
 
 Who order coolness as we order coal. 
 
 And have a lobe anterior strong enough 
 
 To ihiuk away the sand-storms. Science thus 
 
 Will leave no spot on this terraqueous globe 
 
 Unfit to be inhabited by man. 
 
 The chief of animals : all meaner brutes 
 
 Will have been smoked and elbowed out of life. 
 
 No lions then shall lap Oaffrarian pools. 
 
 Or shake the Atlas with their midnight roar: 
 
 Even the slow, slime-loving crocodile, 
 
 The last of animals to take a hint. 
 
 Will then retire forever from a scene 
 
 Where public feeling strongly sets against him. 
 
 Fishes may lead carnivorous lives obscure. 
 
 But must not dream of culinary rank 
 
 Or bewg dished in good society. 
 
 Imagination in that distant age. 
 
 Aiming at fiction called historical, 
 
 Will vai-^ly try to reconstruct the times 
 
 When jt was men's preposterous delight 
 
 To sif" astride live horses, which consumed 
 
 Haieiiiils for incalculable cakes; 
 
 When there were milkmaids who drew milk from cowe 
 
 With udders kept abnormal for that end 
 
 Since the rude mythopoeic period 
 
 Of Aryan dairymen, who did not blu.'^h 
 
 To call their milkmaid and their daughter one — 
 
 Helplessly gazing at the Milky Way 
 
 Nor dreaming of the astral cocoa-uuls 
 
A MINOR PROPHET. 
 
 Quite at the service of posterity. 
 "I'is to be feared, thoiigli, that the chiller boys, 
 Much given to anachronisms and nnts 
 (Ellas has confessed boys will be boys) 
 May write a jockey for a centaur, think 
 Enropa's suitor was an Irish bull, 
 .iEsop a journalist who wrote up Fox, 
 And Bruin a chief swindler npuu 'Cliangc. 
 Boys will be boys, but dogs will all be moral, 
 Wiih longer alimentary cauals 
 Suited to diet vegetarian. 
 The uglier breeds will fade from memory, 
 Or, being paliBontoIogical, 
 Live but as portraits in large learned books. 
 Distasteful to the feelings of an age 
 Nourished on purest beauty. Earth will hold 
 No stupid brutes, no cheerful queernesses, 
 No naive cunning, grave ab?urdity. 
 Wart-pigs with lender and parental grunts, 
 Wombats much flattened as to tlieir contour, 
 Peihaps from too much crushing in the ark, 
 But taking meekly that fatality; 
 The serious cranes, uustung by ridicule ; 
 Long-headed, short-legged, solemn-looking curs, 
 (Wise, silent critics of a flippant age) ; 
 The silly, straddling foals, the weak-brained geese 
 Hissing fallaciously at sound of wheels- 
 All these rude products will have disappeared 
 Along with every faulty human type. 
 By dint of diet vegetarian 
 All will be harmony of hue and line. 
 Bodies and minds all perfect, limbs well-turned, 
 And talk quite free from aught erroneous. 
 
 Thus far Ellas in his seer's mantle: 
 
 But at this climax in his prophecy 
 
 My sinking spirits, fearing to be swamped, 
 
 Urge me to speak. "High prospects these, my frieuci-. 
 
 Setting the weak carnivorous brain astretch ; 
 
 We will resume the thread another day." 
 
 "To-morrow," cries Ellas," "at this hour?" 
 
 "No, not to-morrow — I shall have a cold — 
 
 At least I feel some soreness — this endemic — 
 
 Good-bye." 
 
 No tears are sadder than the smile 
 With which I quit Elias. Bitterly 
 I feel that every change upon this earth 
 Is bought with sacrifice. My yearnings fail 
 To reach that high apocalyptic mount 
 Which shows in bird's-eye view a perfect world, 
 Or enter warmly into other joys 
 Than those of faulty, struggling human kind. 
 That strain upon my soul's too feeble wing 
 Ends in ignoble floundering: I fall 
 Into short-sighted pity for the men 
 Wlio living in those perfect future times 
 Will not know half the dear imperfect things 
 
A MIXOIl niOI'UET, 65 
 
 That move my smiles and tenis— will never know 
 
 The line old iiiconL;iuities that raise 
 
 My friendly laugh; the iimotent conceits 
 
 That like a needless eyeglass or black patch 
 
 Give those who wear them liarinless happiness; 
 
 The twists and cracks in our poor earilicnware, 
 
 That t(Mich me to more coiis<:ioiis folloxvship 
 
 (I am not myself the finest Parian) 
 
 Willi my coevals. So poor Colin Clout, 
 
 To whom raw ouioii gives prospective zest. 
 
 Consoling hours of dampest winiry work, 
 
 Could hardly fancy any i^egal joys 
 
 Quite unimpregnate with the onion's scent: 
 
 Perhaps his highest hopes are not all clear 
 
 Of waftiugs from that energetic bulb; 
 
 'Tis well that onion is not heresy. 
 
 Speaking in parable, I am Colin Clout 
 
 A clinging flavor tienetiates my life— 
 
 My onion is imperfectness; I cleave 
 
 To nat«re's blunders, evanescent types 
 
 Which sages banish from Utopia. 
 
 "Not worship l)eauty?" say you. Patience, friend! 
 
 I worship in the temple with tlie rest; 
 
 But by my hearth I keep a sacred nook 
 
 For gnomes and dwarfs, duck-footed waddling elv€« 
 
 Who stitched and hammered for the weary mau 
 
 In days of old. And in that piety 
 
 I clotlie ungainly forms inherited 
 
 From toiling generations, daily iKMit 
 
 At desk, or plough, or loom, or in the mine. 
 
 In pioneering labors for the world. 
 
 Nay, I am apt when floundering confused 
 
 From too rash flight, to grasp at paradox, 
 
 And pity future men who will not know 
 
 A keeu experience with pity blent. 
 
 The pathos exquisite of lovely minds 
 
 Hid in harsh forms— not penetrating them 
 
 Like Are divine within a common bush 
 
 Which glows transfigured by the heavenly guest, 
 
 So that men put their shoes oft"; but encaged 
 
 Like a sweet child within some thick-walled cell. 
 
 Who leaps and fails to hold the window-bars, 
 
 But having shown a little dimpled hand 
 
 Is visited thenceforth by tender hearts 
 
 Whose eyes keep watch about the prison wall*. 
 
 A foolish, nay, a wicked paradox ! 
 
 For purest pity is the eye of love 
 
 Melting at sight of sorrow; and to grieve 
 
 Because it sees no sorrow, shows a love 
 
 Warped from its truer nature, turned to 1ot9 
 
 Of merest habit, like the miser's greed. 
 
 But I am Colin still: my prejudice 
 
 Is for tlie flavor of my daily food. 
 
 Hbt that I doubt the world is growing still 
 
 As once it grew from Chaos and from Night; 
 
 Or have a soul too slirunken for the hope 
 
 Which dawned in human breasts, a double nioru, 
 
 18 l> 
 
66 A MINUK I'KOPUKT. 
 
 With earliest watchiugs of the rising light 
 Chasing the daricness; and through many an age 
 Has raised the vision of a future time 
 That stands an Angel with a face all mild 
 Spearing the demon. I too rest in faith 
 That man's perfection is the crowning flower. 
 Toward which the urgent sap in life's great tree 
 Is pressing — seen iu pnny blossoms now, 
 But in the world's great morrows to expand 
 With broadest petal and with deepest glow. 
 
 Yet, see the patched and plodding citizen 
 
 Waiting upon the pavement with the throng 
 
 While some victorious world-hero makes 
 
 Triumphal entry, and the peal of shouts 
 
 And flash of faces 'nealh uplifted hats 
 
 Run like a storm of joy along the streets I 
 
 He says, "God bless him!" almost with a sob, 
 
 As the great hero passes ; he is glad 
 
 The world holds mighty men and mighty deeds; 
 
 The music stirs his pulses like strong wine. 
 
 The moving splendor touches him with awe — 
 
 'Tis glory shed around the common weal, 
 
 And he will pay his tribute willingly. 
 
 Though with the pennies earned by sordid toil. 
 
 Perhaps the hero's deeds have helped to bring 
 
 A time when every honest citizen 
 
 Shall wear a coat unpatched. And yet he feels 
 
 More easy fellowship with neighbors there 
 
 Who look on too; and he will soon relapse 
 
 From noticing the banners and the steeds 
 
 To think with pleasure there is just one bun 
 
 Left in his pocket, that may serve to tempt 
 
 The wide-eyed lad, whose weight is all too much 
 
 For that young mother's arms: and then he falls 
 
 To dreamy picturing of sunny days 
 
 When he himself was a small big-cheeked lad 
 
 In some far village where no heroes came, 
 
 And stood a listener 'twixt his father's legs 
 
 In the warm fire-light, while the old folk talked 
 
 And shook their heads and looked upon the floor; 
 
 And he was puzzled, thinking life was fine — 
 
 The bread and cheese so nice all through the year 
 
 And Christmas sure to come. Oh that {,'ood time ! 
 
 He, could he choose, would have those days again 
 
 And see the dear old-fashioned things once more. 
 
 But soon the wheels and drums have all passed by 
 
 And tramping feet are heard like sudden rain: 
 
 The quiet startles our good citizen ; 
 
 He feels the child upon his arms, and knows 
 
 He is with the jieople making holiday 
 
 Because of hopes for better days to come. 
 
 Bnt Hope to him was like the brilliant west 
 
 Telling of sunrise in a world unknown, 
 
 And from that dazzling curtain of bright hues 
 
 He turned to the familiar face of fields 
 
 Lying all clear in the calm morning laud. 
 
A MINOK PROPHET. 67 
 
 Maybe 'tis wiser not to fix a lens 
 
 Too scrutinizing ou the glorious times 
 
 When Barbarossa shall arista and shake 
 
 His mountain, good King Arthur come again, 
 
 And all the heroes of such giant soul 
 
 That, living ouce to cheer mankind with hope, 
 
 'I'hey had to sleep until the time was ripe 
 
 For greater deeds to match their grea'er thought. 
 
 Yet uo ! the eartli yields nothing more divine 
 
 Than high prophetic vision — than the Seer 
 
 Who fasting from man's meaner joy beholds 
 
 The paths of beauteous order, and constnicta 
 
 A fairer type, to shame our low content. 
 
 But prophecy is like potential sound 
 
 Which turned to music seems a voice sublime 
 
 From out the soul of light ; but turns to noise 
 
 In scrannel pipes, and makes all ears averse. 
 
 The faith that life on earth is being shaped 
 
 To glorious ends, tliat order, justice, love 
 
 Mean man's completeness, mean effect as sure 
 
 As roundness in the dew-drop — that great faith 
 
 Is but the rushing and expanding stream 
 
 Of thought, of feeling, fed by all the past. 
 
 Our finest hope is finest memory, 
 
 As they who love in age think youth is blest 
 
 Because it has a life to fill with love. 
 
 Full souls are double mirrors, making still 
 
 An endless vista of fair things before 
 
 Repeating things behind; so faith is strong 
 
 Only wheu we are strong, shrinks when we shrink 
 
 It comes when music stirs us, and the chords 
 
 Moving on some grand climax shake our souls 
 
 With influx new that makes new energies. 
 
 It comes in swellings of the heart and tears 
 
 That rise at noble and at gentle deeds — 
 
 At labors of the master-artist's hand 
 
 Which, trembling, touches to a finer end, 
 
 Trembling before au image seen within. 
 
 It comes in moments of heroic love, 
 
 Unjealous joy in joy not made for us— 
 
 In conscious triumph of the good within 
 
 Making us worship goodness that rebukes. 
 
 Even our failures are a prophecy, 
 
 Even our yearnings and our bitter tears 
 
 After that fair and true we cannot grasp ; 
 
 As patriots who seem to die in vain 
 
 Make liberty more sacred by their pangs. 
 
 Presentiment of better things on earth 
 
 Sweeps in with every force that stirs our Boulg 
 
 To admiration, self-renouucing love. 
 
 Or thoughts, like light, that bind the world in one. 
 
 Sweeps like the fense of vastness, when at night 
 
 We hear the roll and dash of waves that break 
 
 Nearer and nearer with tlie rushing tide. 
 
 Which rises to the level of the cliff 
 
 P.ocause the wide Atlantic rolls behind 
 
 Throbbing respondent to the far-off orbs. 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 I oannCt choose bnt think upon the time 
 Wlien our two lives grew like two buds that kiss 
 At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, 
 Because the one so near the other is. 
 
 lie was the elder and a little man 
 Of forty inches, bound to show no xlread, 
 And I the girl that puppy-like now ran, 
 Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. 
 
 I held him wise, and when he talked to me 
 Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, 
 I thought his knowledge marked the boundary 
 Where men grew blind, thougli angels knew the rest. 
 
 If he said "Hush!" I tried to hold my breath; 
 Wherever he said "Cornel" I stepped in faith. 
 
 Loiig years have left their writing on my brow. 
 But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam 
 Of those young mornings are about me now, 
 When we two wandered toward the far-off stream 
 
 With rod and line. Onr basket held a store 
 Baked for us only, and I thought with joy 
 That I should have my share, though he had more. 
 Because he was the elder and a boy. 
 
 The firmaments of daisies since to me 
 Have had those mornings iu their opening eyes, 
 The bunched cowslip's pale transparency 
 Carries that sunshine of sweet memories. 
 
 And wild-rose branches take their finest scent 
 From those blest hotu's of infantine content. 
 
 Our mothc^ bade us keep the trodden ways. 
 Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, 
 Taen svitli tiie benediction of her gaze 
 Clung to us lesseuiug, and pursued us still 
 
 Across the homestead to the rookery elms, 
 Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mouud. 
 So rich for us, we counted them as realms 
 With varied products: here were earth-nuts found. 
 
CTlOTnEU AND SISTER. 
 
 And here the Lady-flngers in deep shade; 
 Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew, 
 The hvrge to split for pith, the small to braid ; 
 While over all the dark rooks cawing flew, 
 
 And made a happy strange solemnity, 
 
 A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me. 
 
 Onr meadow-path had memorable spots: 
 One where it bridged a tiny rivnlot, 
 Deep hid by tangled blue Foigct-nie-notsi; 
 And all along the waving grasses met 
 
 My little palm, or nodded to my cheek, 
 When flowers with upturned faces gazing drew 
 My wonder downward, seeming all to speak 
 With eyes of souls that dumbly heard and knew. 
 
 Then came the copse, where wild things rushed miseen. 
 And black-scathed grass betrayed the past abode 
 Of mystic gypsies, who still lurked between 
 Me and each hidden distance of the road. 
 
 A gypsy once had startled me at play. 
 Blotting with her dark smile my sunny day. 
 
 Thus rambling we were schooled in deepest lore. 
 And learned the meanings that give words a sonl, 
 The fear, the love, the primal passionate .stores, 
 Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole. 
 
 Those honrs were seed to all my after good ; 
 My infant gladness, through eye, ear, and touch. 
 Took easily as warmth a various food 
 To nourish the sweet sliill of loving much. 
 
 For who in age shall roam the earth and And 
 Reasons for loving that will strike out love 
 With sudden rod from the hard year-pressed mind? 
 Were reasons sown as thick as stars above, 
 
 'Tis love must see them, as the eye sees light: 
 Day is but Number to the darkened sight. 
 
 Our brown canal was endless to my thought; 
 And on its banks I sat in dreamy peace. 
 Unknowing how the good I loved was wrought, 
 Untroubled by the fear that it would cease. 
 
 Slowly the barges floated into view 
 Rounding a grassy hill to me sublime 
 With some Unknown beyond it, wliilher flew 
 The parting cuckoo toward a fiesli spring time. 
 
70 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 The wide-ni'checl bridge, the scented eldei-flowers, 
 The wondrous watery rings that died too soon. 
 The echoes of the qnai'ry, the still hoius 
 With white robe sweepiiig-ou the shadeless noon, 
 
 Were but my growing self, are pait of me 
 My present Past, my root of piety. 
 
 Those long days measured by my little feet 
 Had chronicles which yield me many a text ; 
 Where irony still finds an image meet 
 Of full-grown judgments iu tliis world perplext. 
 
 One day my brother left me in high charge, 
 To mind the rod, while he went seeking bait, 
 And bade me, when I saw a neaiing barge. 
 Snatch out the line, lest he should come too late. 
 
 Proud of the task, I watched with all my might 
 For one whole minute, till my eyes grew wide, 
 Till sky and earth took on a strange new light 
 And seemed a dream-world floating on some tide- 
 
 A fair pavilioned boat for me alone 
 
 Bearing me onward through the vast unknown. 
 
 But sudden came the barge's pitch-black prow, 
 Nearer and angrier came my brother's cry. 
 And all my soul was qniveiiug fear, when lo ! 
 Upon the imperilled line, suspended high, 
 
 A silver perch ! My guilt that won the prey, 
 Now turned to merit, had a guerdon rich 
 Of hugs and praises, and made merry play. 
 Until my triumph reached its highest pitch 
 
 When all at home were told the wondrous feat, 
 And how the little sister had fished well. 
 In secret, though my fortune tasted sweet, 
 I wondered why this happiness befell. 
 
 "The little lass had luck," the gardener said: 
 And so I learned, luck was with glory wed. 
 
 We h:id the self-same world enlarged for each 
 By loving difference of girl and boy: 
 The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach 
 He plucked for me, and oft he must employ 
 
 A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe 
 Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind 
 "This tiling I like my sister may not do, 
 For she is little, and I must be kind." 
 
1S69. 
 
 EKOTHER AND PISTETl. 
 
 Thns boyish Will the nobler mnstery learned 
 Where inward vision over impulse reigns, 
 Widening its life with separate life discerned, 
 A Like unlike, a Self tliat self restrains. 
 
 His years with others must the sweeter be 
 For those brief days he spent in loving me. 
 
 His. sorrow was my sorrow, and his joy 
 
 Sent little leaps and laughs through all my frame; 
 
 My doll seemed lifeless and no girlish toy 
 
 Had auy reason when my brother came. 
 
 I knelt with him at marbles, marked hie fling 
 Cut the ringed stem and make the apple drop, 
 Or watched him winding close the spiral string 
 Tliat looped the orbits of the humming top. 
 
 Grasped by such fellowship my vagrant thought 
 Ceased with dream-fruit dream-wishes to fulfil; 
 My aery-picturing fantasy was taught 
 Subjection to the harder, truer skill 
 
 That seeks with deeds to grave a thought-tracked i:na. 
 And by "What is," "What will be" to define. 
 
 School parted ns; we never found again 
 That childish world where our two spirits mingled 
 Like scents from varying roses that remain 
 One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled. 
 
 Yet the twin habit of that early time 
 Lingered for long about the heart and tongue: 
 We had been natives of one hapiiy clime, 
 And its dear accent to our utterance clung. 
 
 Till the dire years whose awful name is Change 
 Had grasped our souls still yearning iu divorce, 
 And pitiless shaped them in two forms that range 
 Two elements which sever their life's course. 
 
 But were another childhood-world my share, 
 I would be born a little sister there. 
 
STRADIVARIUS. 
 
 Your soul was lifted by the wings to-day 
 
 Hearing the master of the violin : 
 
 You praised hira, praised the groat Sebastian too 
 
 Who made that flue Chacoinio; bnt did you think 
 
 Of old Antonio Stradivari? — him 
 
 Who a good century and half ago 
 
 Pnt his true work ia that brown instrnnieut 
 
 And by the nice adjustment of its frame 
 
 Gave it responsive life, continuous 
 
 With the master's finger-tips and perfected 
 
 Like them by delicate rectitude of use. 
 
 Not Bach alone, helped by fine precedent 
 
 Of genius gone before, nor Joachim 
 
 Who holds the strain afresh incorporate 
 
 By inward hearing and notation strict 
 
 Of nerve and muscle, made our joy to-day: 
 
 Another soul was living in the air 
 
 And swaying it to true deliverance 
 
 Of high invention and responsive skill — 
 
 That plain white-aproned nvan who stood at worfe 
 
 Patient and accurate fair fourscore yeirs, 
 
 C;herished his sight and touch by temperance-. 
 
 And since keen sense is love of perfectuess 
 
 Made perfect violins,, the needed paths 
 
 For inspiration and high mastery. 
 
 No simpler man than he: he never cried, 
 
 "Why was I born to this monotonous la^k 
 
 Of making violins?" or flung them down 
 
 To suit with hurling act a well-hurled curse 
 
 At labor on such perishable stuff. 
 
 Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull. 
 
 Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a macliinc. 
 
 Begged him to tell his motives or to lend 
 
 A few gold i)ieces to a loftier mind. 
 
 Yet he had pithy woids fall fed liy fart ; 
 
 For Fact, weJl-trnsted, reasons and pen^uades. 
 
 Is gnomic, cutting, or ironical, 
 
 Draws tears, or is a tocsin to arouse — 
 
 Can hold all figures of the orator 
 
 In one |)lain sentence ; has her panses toO' — 
 
 Ehiquent silence at tlie chasm abrupt 
 
 Where knowledge ceases. Thus Antonio 
 
 Made answers as Fact willed, and made them stronj 
 
 Naldo, a i)ainter of eclectic school. 
 Taking hLs dicers, candlelight, and grius 
 
STRADIVARICS. 73 
 
 Prom Caravaggio, and in holiei- groups 
 
 Combining Flemisli flesli with niartyidom— 
 
 Knowing all ti-icks of s^iyle at thirty-one, 
 
 And weary of them, while Antonio 
 
 At isixty-nine wrought placidly his best 
 
 Making the violin you heard to-day^ 
 
 Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims. 
 
 " Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed— 
 
 The love of louis d'ors in heaps of finr. 
 
 Each violin a heap — I've nought to blame; 
 
 My vices waste such heaps. I'ut then, why work 
 
 With painful nicety? Since fame once earned 
 
 By luck or merit — oftenest by luck — 
 
 (I'ljse why do I put IJonifazio's name 
 
 To work tliat '•pinxit Xalclo' would not sell?) 
 
 Is welcome index to the wealthy mob 
 
 Where they should jiay their gold, and where ihey pa/ 
 
 There they find merit— take your tow for flax, 
 
 And hold the flax unlabelled with your name, 
 
 Too coarse for sufferance." 
 
 Antonio then : 
 " I like the gold— well, yes — but uot for meals. 
 And as my stomach, so my eye and hand, 
 And inward sense that works along with both, 
 Have hunger that can never feed on coin. 
 Who draws a line and satisfies his soul, 
 Making it crooked where it should be straight? 
 An idiot with an oyster-shell may draw 
 His lines along the sand, all wavering, 
 Fixing no point or pathway to a point; 
 An idiot one remove may choose his line. 
 Straggle and be content; but God be praised, 
 Antonio Stradivari has an eye 
 That winces at false work and loves the true, 
 With hand and arm that play upon the tool 
 As willingly as any singing bird 
 Sets him to sing his morning roundelay, 
 Because he likes to sing and likes the song." 
 
 Then Naldo : "'Tis a petty kind of fame 
 At best, that comes of making violins; 
 And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go 
 To purgatory none the less." 
 
 But he : 
 •"Twere purgatory here to make them ill; 
 And for my fame — when any master holds 
 'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine. 
 He will be glad that Stradivari lived. 
 Made violins, and made them of the best. 
 The masters only know whose work is good : 
 They will choose mine, and while God gives theia skill 
 I give them instruments to play upon, 
 God choosing me to help Him." 
 
 "What! were God 
 At fault for violins, thou absent?" 
 
 'Yes; 
 lie were at fault for Stradivari's work." 
 
 IS" 1^* 
 
74 STRADIVARirS. 
 
 "Wlij-, many hold Giuseppe's violins 
 As good as thiue." 
 
 "May l)e: they are different. 
 His quality declines: lie spoils his hand 
 With ovei'-drinking. ISiit were his the best, 
 He could not work for two. jMy work is mine, 
 And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked 
 I shonld rob God — since He is fullest good — 
 Leaving a blank instead of violins. 
 I say, not God himself can make man's best 
 Without best men to help Him. I am one best 
 Here iu Cremona, using snnlight well 
 To fashion finest maple till it serves 
 More cunningly than throats, for harmony. 
 • 'Tis rare deliglit: I would not change my skill 
 To be the Emperor with bungling hands. 
 And lose my work, which comes as natural 
 As self at waking." 
 
 "Thou art little more 
 Than a deft potter's wheel, Antonio; 
 Turning out work by mere necessity 
 And lack of varied function. Higher arts 
 Subsist on freedom — eccentricity- 
 Uncounted inspirations — influence 
 
 That conies with drinking, gambling, talk turned wild, 
 Then moody misery and lack of fi)od — 
 With every dithyrambic fine excess: 
 These make at last a storm which flashes out 
 In lightning revelations. Steady work 
 Turns genius to a loom ; the soul must lie 
 Like grapes beneath the sun till ripeness comes 
 And mellow vintage. I could paint yon now 
 Tlie finest Crucifixion; yesternight 
 Returning home I saw it on a sky 
 IJlue-black, thick-starred. I want two louis d'ors 
 To buy the canvas and the costly blues — 
 Trust me a fortnight." 
 
 " Where are those last two 
 I lent thee for thy Judith?— her thou saw'st 
 In saffron gown, with Holofernes' head 
 And beauty all complete?" 
 
 "She is but sketched: 
 I lack the proper model— and the mood. 
 A great idea is an eagle's egg. 
 Craves time for hatching; while the eagle sits 
 Feed her." 
 
 "If thou wilt call thy pictures eggs 
 I call the hatching, Work. 'Tis God gives skill. 
 But not without men's hands: He could not make 
 Antonio Stradivari's violins 
 Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel." 
 
 18T3. 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 YouNo Unralet, not the hesitating Dane, 
 But one named after him, who hitely stiove 
 For honors at our English Wittenberg- 
 Blond, metaphysical, and sensuous, 
 Questioning all things and yet half convinced 
 Credulity were better; held inert 
 'Twixt fascinations of all opposites. 
 And half suspecting that the mightiest soul 
 (Perhaps his own?) was union of extremes, 
 Having no choice but choice of everyttiing: 
 As, drinking deep to-day for love of wiue, 
 To-morrow half a Brahmin, scorning life 
 As mere illusion, yearning for that True 
 Which has no qualities; another day 
 Finding the fount of grace in sacraments, 
 And purest reflex of the light divine 
 In gem-bossed pyx and broidered chasuble, 
 Resolved to wear no stockings and to fast 
 With arms extended, waiting ecstasj'; 
 But getting cramps instead, and needing change, 
 A would-be pagan next: — 
 
 Young Ilamlet sat 
 A guest with five of somewhat ijper age 
 At breakfast witli Horatio, a friend 
 With few opinlinis, but of faithful heart. 
 Quick to detect the til)rous spreading roots 
 Of character that feed men's theories, 
 Yet cloaking weaknesses with charity 
 And ready in all service save rebuke. 
 
 With ebb of breakfast and the cider-cnp 
 Came high debate: the others seated there 
 Were Osric, spinner of fine sentences, 
 A delicate insect creeping over life 
 Feeding on molecules of floral breath, 
 And weaving gossamer to trap the sun ; 
 Laertes, ardent, rash, and radical ; 
 Discursive Rosencranz, grave Guildenstern, 
 And he for whom the social meal was made — 
 The polished priest, a tolerant listener. 
 Disposed to give a hearing to the lost. 
 And breakfast with them ere they went below. 
 
 From alpine metapliysic glaciers first 
 
 The talk sprang copious ; the themes were old. 
 
 But so is human breath, so infant eyes, 
 
76 A C<)l.l.K(iE JiUEAKFAST PAItTY. 
 
 The daily nurslings of creative light. 
 
 Small words held mighty meanings: Matter, Force, 
 
 Self, Not-self, Being, Seeming, Space, and Time — 
 
 I'lobeian toilers on the dnsty road 
 
 Of daily traffic, turned to Genii 
 
 And cloudy giants darkening snn and moon. 
 
 Creation was reversed in lininan talk: 
 
 None said, "Let Darkness be," bnt Darkness was; 
 
 And in it weltered with Tentonic ease. 
 
 An arginnentativc Leviatliaai, 
 
 Blowing cascades from out his clement, 
 
 The thiinderons lloseiicraiiz, till 
 
 " Ti sice, I beg '." 
 Said Osric, with nice accent. "I abhor 
 That battling of the ghosts, that strife of terms 
 For ntmo.'^t lack of color, form, and brealh. 
 That tasteless squabbling called Philosophy: 
 As if a bine-winged butterfly afloat 
 For ju.-'t three days above the Italian fields. 
 Instead of sipping at the heart of flowers, 
 Poising in sunshine, fluttering towards its bride, 
 Should fast and specidate, considering 
 What were if it were not? or what now is 
 Instead of that which seems to be itself? 
 Its deepest wisdom surely were to be 
 A sipping, marrying, blue-winged butterfly; 
 Since utmost speculation on itself 
 Were but a three days' living oC worse sort — 
 A bruising struggle all within the bounds 
 Of butterfly existence." 
 
 "I protest," 
 Burst in Laertes, "against arguments 
 That start with calling me a l)utterfly, 
 A bubble, spark, or other metaphor 
 Which carries your conclusions as a phrase 
 In quibbling law will carry property. 
 Put a thin sucker for my human lips 
 Fed at; a niother's breast, who now needs food 
 That I will earn for her; put bubbles blown 
 From frothy thinking, for the joy, the love. 
 The wants, the pity, and the fellowship 
 (The ocean deeps I might say, were I benl 
 On bandying metaphors) that make a man- 
 Why, rhetoric brings within your easy reach 
 Conclusions worthy of — a butterfly. 
 The universe, I hold, is no charade, 
 No acted pun unriddled by a word. 
 Nor pain a decimal diminishing 
 With hocus-pocus of a dot or nought. 
 For those wl»o know it, pain is solely pain: 
 Not any letters of the alphabet 
 Wrought .eyllogistically pattern-wise, 
 Nor any cluster of fine images. 
 Nor any missing of tlieir figured dance 
 By blundering molecules. Aualj'sis 
 May show you the right physic for the ill. 
 Teaching the molecules to find their dance, 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST- PAllTY. T/ 
 
 But spare lae your analogies, that hold 
 Such insight as the lignie of a crow 
 And bai- of music put to signify 
 A crowbar. " 
 
 Said the Priest, "There I agree— 
 Would add that sacramental grace is grace 
 Wliich to be known must first be feir, with all 
 The strengthening influxes that come by prater. 
 I note this passingly— would uot delay 
 The conversation's tenor, save to hint 
 That taking stand with Ilosencvanz one sees 
 Final equivalence of all we name 
 Our Good and 111— their din'erence meanuhile 
 Being inborn prejudice that plumps you dowu 
 An Ego, brings a weiglit into your scale 
 Forcing a standard. That resistless weight 
 Obstiuate, irremovable by thought. 
 Persisting through ^Jisproof, an ache, a need 
 That spaceless stays where sharp analysis 
 lias shown a plenum filled without it— what 
 If tills, to use your phrase, were just that Being 
 Not looking solely, grasping from the dark. 
 Weighing the difference you call Ego? This 
 Gives you persistence, regulates the flux 
 With strict relati(m rooted in the All. 
 Who is he of your late philosophers 
 Takes the true name of Being to be Will? 
 I— nay, the Church objects nought, is content: 
 Reasou has reached its utmost negative, 
 Phvsic and metaphysic meet in the inane 
 And backward shrink to intense prejudice. 
 Making their absolute and Inmiogene 
 A loaded relative, a choice to be 
 Whatever is— supi)osed : a What is not. 
 The Church demands ho more, has standing rooiB 
 And basis for her doctrine: this (no more)— 
 That the strong bias which we name the Soul, 
 Though fed and clad by dissoluble waves, 
 Has antecedent quality, and rules 
 By veto or consent the strife of thought. 
 Making arbitrament that we call faith." 
 Here was brief silence, till young Hamlet spoke. 
 "I crave direction, Fatlier, how to know 
 The sign of that imperative whose right 
 To sway my act in face of thronging doubts 
 Were an oracular gem in jirice beyond 
 Urim and Thummim lost to Israel. 
 That bias of the soul, that conquering die 
 Lon^led with golden emphasis of Will— 
 How find it where resolve, once made, becomes 
 The rash exclusio)i of an opposite 
 Which draws the stronger as I turn aloof." 
 
 "I think I hear a bias in your words," 
 The Priest said mildly,— "that sti-ong natural beirt 
 Which we call hunger. What more positive 
 Than appetite?— of spirit or of fle.-h. 
 
78 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 I care not — 'seuse of need' were truer phrase. 
 
 You hunger for authoritative right, 
 
 And yet discern no difference of tones. 
 
 No weight of rod that marks imperial rule? 
 
 Laerles granting, 1 will put your case 
 
 In analogic form: the doctors hold 
 
 Hunger whicii gives no relish— save caprice 
 
 That tasting venison fancies mellow pears — 
 
 A symi)toui of disorder, and prescribe 
 
 Strict discipline. Were I physician here 
 
 I would piesciibe that e.xercise of soul 
 
 Which lies in full obedience: you ask, 
 
 Obedie ice to what? The answer lies 
 
 Within the word itself; for how obey 
 
 What has no rule, asserts no absolute claim? 
 
 Take inclination, taste — why, that is you, 
 
 No rule- above you. Science, reasoning 
 
 On nature's order — they exist and move 
 
 Solely by disputation, liold no pledge 
 
 Of final consequence, but push the swing 
 
 Where Epicurus and the Stoic sit 
 
 Id endless see-saw. One authority. 
 
 And only one, says simply this. Obey: 
 
 Place yourself in that current (test it so I) 
 
 Of spiritual order where at least 
 
 Lies promise of a high communion, 
 
 A Head informing members. Life that breathes 
 
 With gift of forces over and above 
 
 The pins of arithmetic interchange. 
 
 'Tlie Church too has a body,' you object, 
 
 'Can be dissected, put beneath the lens 
 
 And shown the merest continuity 
 
 Of all existence else beneath the sun.' 
 
 I grant you; hut the lens will not disprove 
 
 A ijresence which eludes it. Take your wir, 
 
 Yoiu- highest passion, widest-reacliing thought: 
 
 Show their conditions if you will or can, 
 
 ISut though you saw the final atom-dance 
 
 Making each molecule that stands for sign 
 
 Of love being present, where is still your love? 
 
 How measure that, how certify its weight? 
 
 And so I say, the body of the Church 
 
 Carries a Presence, promises and gifts 
 
 Never disproved— whose argument is found 
 
 In lasting failure of the search elsewhere 
 
 For what it holds to satisfy man's need. 
 
 But I grow lengthy : my exr-use must be 
 
 Your question, Hamlot, which has jirobed right through 
 
 To tlie pith of our belief. And I have robbed 
 
 Myself of pleasure as a listener. 
 
 'Tis noon, I see; and my appointment stands 
 
 For half-past twelve with Voltimand. Uood-bye." 
 
 Brief parting, brief regret — sincere, but quenched 
 In fumes of best Havannah, which consoles 
 For lack of other certitude. Then said, 
 Mildly sarcastic, quiet Guildenslern : 
 
A COLLEGE BKEAKFAST-PAIITY. 79 
 
 "I mai'vel how the Father gave new charm 
 To weak concUisious : I was half couviuced 
 The poorest reasoner made the finest man, 
 And held his logic lovelier for its limp." 
 
 '■I fain would hear," said Ilamlet, "how you find 
 
 A stronger fooling than the Father gave. 
 
 How base your self-resistance save ou faith 
 
 In some invisible Order, higher Right 
 
 Thau changing impulse. What does Reason bid? 
 
 To take a fullest rationality 
 
 What offers best solution : so the Church. 
 
 Science, detecting hydrogen aflame 
 
 Outside our firmament, leaves mystery 
 
 Whole and untouched beyond; nay, in our blaod 
 
 And in the potent atoms of each germ 
 
 The Secret lives— envelops, penetrates 
 
 Whatever sense perceives or thought divines. 
 
 Science, whose soul is explanation, halts 
 
 With hostile front at mystery. The Church 
 
 Takes mystery as her empire, brings its wealth 
 
 or possibility to fill the void 
 
 'Twixt contradictions— warrants so a faith 
 
 Defying sense and all its rutliless train 
 
 Of arrogant 'Therefores.' Science with her lens 
 
 Dissolves the Forms that made the other h.alf 
 
 Of all our love, which thenceforth widowed lives 
 
 To gaze with maniac stare at what is not. 
 
 The Church explains not, governs — feeds resolve 
 
 By vision fraught with heart-experience 
 
 And human yearning." 
 
 "Ay," said Gnildeustcrn, 
 With friendly nod, "the Father, 1 can see. 
 Has caught you up in his air-chariot. 
 His thought takes rainbow-bridges, out of reach 
 By solid obstacles, evaporates 
 The coarse and common into subtilties. 
 Insists that what is real in the Church 
 Is something out of evidence, and begs 
 (Just in parenthesis) you'll never mind 
 What stares you in the face and bruises you. 
 Why, by his method I could justify 
 Each superstition and each tyranny 
 That ever rode upon the back of man. 
 Pretending fitness for his sole defence 
 Against life's evil. How can aught subsist 
 That holds no theory of gain or good ? 
 Despots with terror in their red right hand 
 Must argue good to helpers and themselves. 
 Must let submission hold a core of gain 
 To make their slaves choose life. Their theory, 
 Abstracting inconvenience of racks. 
 Whip-lashes, dragonnades and all things coarse 
 Inherent in the fact or concrete mass, 
 Presents the pure idea— utmost good 
 Secured by Order only to be found 
 In strict subordination, hierarchy 
 
80 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Of forces where, by nature's law, the stroug 
 
 lias rightful empire, rule of weaker luoved 
 
 Mere dissolution. What cau you object? 
 
 The luquisitiou — if you turu away 
 
 From narrow notice how the scent of gold 
 
 Has guided sense of damning heresy — 
 
 The Inquisition is sublime, is love 
 
 Hindering the spread of poison in men'a souls: 
 
 The flames are nothing: only smaller paiu 
 
 To hiuder greater, or the paiu of one 
 
 To save the many, such as throbs at heart 
 
 Of every system born into the world. 
 
 So of the Church as high communion 
 
 Of Head with member.-, fount of spirit force 
 
 Beyoud the cakulus, aud carrying proof 
 
 In her sole power to satisfy man's need: 
 
 That seems ideal truih as clear as lines 
 
 That, necessary though invisible, trace 
 
 The balance of the planets and the sun^ 
 
 Until I find a hitch in that last claim. 
 
 'To satisfy man's need.' Sir, that depends: 
 
 We settle first the measure of man's need 
 
 Before we grant capacity to fill. 
 
 John, James, or Thomas, you may satisfy: 
 
 But since you choose ideals I demand 
 
 Your Chnrch shall satisfy ideal man, 
 
 His utmost reason and his utmost love. 
 
 And say these rest a-hungered — find no scheme 
 
 Content them both, but hold the world accursed, 
 
 A Calvary where Reason mocks at Love, 
 
 Aud Love forsaken sends out orphan cries 
 
 Hopeless of answer; still the soul remains 
 
 Larger, diviner than your half-way Church, 
 
 Wliicli racks your reason into false consent, 
 
 And soothes your Love with sops of selfishness." 
 
 "There I am with you," cried Laertes. "What 
 
 To me are any dictates, though they came 
 
 With thunders from the Alouut, if still witliin 
 
 I see a higher Right, a higher Good 
 
 Compelling love aud worship? Though tlie earth 
 
 Held force electric to discern aud kill 
 
 Each thinking rebel — what is martyrdom 
 
 But death-defying utterance of belief. 
 
 Which being mine remains ray truth supreme 
 
 Though solitary as the throb of paiu 
 
 Lying outside the pulses of the world? 
 
 Obedience is good: sy, but to what? 
 
 Aud for what ends? For say that I rebel 
 
 Against your rule as devilish, or as rule 
 
 Of thunder-guiding powers that deny 
 
 Man's highest benefit : rebellion then 
 
 Were strict obedience to another rule 
 
 Which bids me flout your thunder." 
 
 "Lo you now !" 
 Said Osric, delicately, "how yon come, 
 Laertes mine, with all your warring ze il 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 81 
 
 As Python-slayer of the present age- 
 Cleansing all social swamps by darting rays 
 Of dubious doctrine, hot with energy 
 or private judgment and disgust for doubt — 
 To state my thesis, which y<ni most abhor 
 When snng in Daphnis-notes l)eueath the pines 
 To gentle rush of waters. Your belief— 
 In essence wliat is it but simply Taste? 
 I urge with you exemption from all claims 
 Tliat come from other than my proper will, 
 An Ultimate within to balance yours, 
 A solid meeting yon, excluding you, 
 Ti.l you sliow fuller force by entering 
 My spiritual space and crushing Me 
 To a subordinate complement of You: 
 Such Ultimate must stand alike for all. 
 Pieach your crusade, then : all will join who lilie 
 The hurly-burly of aggressive creeds ; 
 Siill your unpleasant Ought, your itch to choose 
 What grates upon the sense, is simply Taste, 
 Differs, I tliink, from mine (permit the word, 
 Discussion forces it) in being bad." 
 
 The tone was too polite to breed offence, 
 
 Showing a tolerance of what was "bad" 
 
 Becoming courtiers. Louder Rosencranz 
 
 Took ui> the ball with rougher movement, wont 
 
 To show contempt for doting reasoners 
 
 M'ho hugged some reasons with a preference. 
 
 As warm Laertes did : he gave five puffs 
 
 Intolerantly sce))tical, then said, 
 
 "Your human Good, which you would make supreme. 
 
 How do you know it? Has it shown its face 
 
 In adamantine type, with features clear. 
 
 As this republic, or that monarchy? 
 
 As federal grouping, or municipal? 
 
 Equality, or finely shaded lines 
 
 Of social difference ? ecstatic whirl 
 
 And draught intense of passionate joy and pain. 
 
 Or sober teif-control that starves its youth 
 
 And lives to wonder what the world calls joy? 
 
 Is it in sympathy that shares men's pangs 
 
 Or in cool brains that can explain them well? 
 
 Is it iu labor or in laziness? 
 
 In training for the tug of rivalry 
 
 To be admired, or in the admiring soul? 
 
 In risk or certitude? Iu battling rage 
 
 And hardy challenges of Protean luck, 
 
 Or in a sleek and rural apathy 
 
 Fnll fed with sameness? Pray define your Good 
 
 Beyond rejection by majority ; 
 
 Kext, how it may subsist without the 111 
 
 Which seems its only outline. Show a world 
 
 Of pleasure not resisted ; or a woild 
 
 Of pressure equalized, yet various 
 
 III action formative; for that will serve 
 
 As illustration of your human Good— 
 
83 A COLLEGE BKEAKPAST-PAUTY. 
 
 Which at its perfecting (your goal of hope) 
 Will uot be straight extinct, or fall to sleep 
 In the deep bosom of the Unchangeable. 
 What will you work for, then, and call it good 
 Witli full and certain vision — good for aught 
 Save partial ends which happen to be your.-? 
 How will you get your stringency to bind 
 Thought or desire in demonstrated tracks 
 Which are but waves within a balanced wli.ilc? 
 Is 'Relative' the magic word that turns 
 Your flux mercurial of good to gold ? 
 Why, that analysis at which you lage 
 As anti-social force that sweeps you down 
 The world in one cascade of molecules, 
 Is brother 'Relative' — and grins at you 
 Like any convict whom you thought to send 
 Outside society, till this enlarged 
 And meant New England and Australia too. 
 The Absolute is your shadow, and the s|)ace 
 Which you say might be leal weie you milled 
 To curves pellicular, the thinnest thin. 
 Equation of no thickness, is still you." 
 
 "Abstracting all that makes him clubbable," 
 
 Horatio interposed. But Rosencranz, 
 
 Deaf as the angry turkey-cock whose ears 
 
 Are plugged by swollen tissues when he scolds 
 
 At men's pretensions: "Pooh, your 'Relative' 
 
 Shuts you in, hopeless, with your progeny 
 
 As in a Hunger-tower; your social Good, 
 
 Like other deities by tuin supreme, 
 
 Is transient reflex of a prejudice, 
 
 Anthology of causes and effects 
 
 To suit the mood of fanatics who lead 
 
 The mood of tribes or nations. I admit 
 
 If you could show a sword, nay, chance of sword 
 
 Hanging conspicuous to their inward eyes 
 
 With edge so constant threatening as to sway 
 
 All greed and lust by terror; and a law 
 
 Clear-writ and proven as the law supreme 
 
 Which that dread sword enforces— then ymir Right, - 
 
 Duty, or social Good, were it once brought 
 
 To common measure with the potent law, 
 
 Would dip the scale, would put unchanging marks 
 
 Of wisdom or of folly on each deed. 
 
 And warrant exhortation. Until then, 
 
 Where is your standard or criterion ? 
 
 'What always, everywhere, by all men' — why, 
 
 That were but Custom, and your system needs 
 
 Ideals never yet incorporate. 
 
 The imminent doom of Custom. Can you find 
 
 Ai)|)eal beyond the sentience in each man ? 
 
 Frighten the blind with scarecrows? raise an awe 
 
 Of things unseen where appetite commands 
 
 Chambers of imagery in the soul 
 
 At all its avenues?— You chant your liymns 
 
 To Evolution, on your altar lay 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-l'AUTY. 83 
 
 A sacred egg called Progress : have you proved 
 
 A Best unique where all is relative, 
 
 And where each change is loss as well as gain? 
 
 The age of healthy Saurians, well supplied 
 
 With heat and prey, will balance well enough 
 
 A huniau age where maladies are strong 
 
 And pleasures feeble; wealth a monster gorged 
 
 Mid hungry populations; intellect 
 
 Aproned in laljoratories, bent on proof 
 
 That this is that and both are good for nought 
 
 Save feeding error through a weary life ; 
 
 While Art and Poesy struggle like poor ghosts 
 
 To hinder cock-crow and the dreadful light, 
 
 Lurking in darkness and the charnel-house, 
 
 Or like two stalwart greybeards, imbecile. 
 
 With limbs still active, idaying at belief 
 
 That hunt the slipper, foot-ball, hide-and-seek, 
 
 Are sweetly merry, donning pinafores 
 
 And lisping emulously in their speech. 
 
 humau race! Is this then all thy gain? — 
 Working at disproof, playing at belief, 
 Debate ou causes, distaste of effects. 
 Power to transmute all elements, and lack 
 Of any power to sway the fatal skill 
 
 And make thy lot aught else than rigid doom? 
 The Sanrians were better. — Guildenstern, 
 Pass me the taper. Still the humau curse 
 Has mitigation in the best cigars." 
 
 Then swift Laertes, not without a glare 
 
 Of leoniue wrath, "I thank thee for that word: 
 
 That one confession, were I Socrates, 
 
 Should force you onward till you ran your head 
 
 At your own image — flatly gave the lie 
 
 To all your blasphemy of that human Good 
 
 Which bred and nourished you to sit at ease 
 
 And learnedly deny it. Say the world 
 
 Groans ever with the pangs of doubtful births: 
 
 Say, life's a poor donation at the best — 
 
 Wisdom a yearning after nothingness — 
 
 Nature's great vision and the thrill supreme 
 
 Of thought-fed passion but a weary play — 
 
 1 argue not against you. Who can prove 
 Wit to be witty when with deeper ground 
 Dulness intuitive declares wit dull ? 
 
 If life is worthless to you— why, it is. 
 
 You only know how little love you feel 
 
 To give you fellowship, how little force 
 
 Responsive to the quality of things. 
 
 Then end your life, throw off the unsought yoke. 
 
 If not— if you remain to taste cigars. 
 
 Choose racy diction, perorate at large 
 
 With tacit scorn of meaner men who win 
 
 No wreath or tripos— then admit at least 
 
 A possible Better in the seeds of earth ; 
 
 Acknowledge debt to that laborious life 
 
 Which, sifting evermore the mingled seeds, 
 
84 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-rAUT?. 
 
 Testing ths Possible witli patient skill, 
 
 And diiriug 111 in presence of a Good 
 
 For futures to inherit, made your lot 
 
 One you would choose rather than end it, nay. 
 
 Rather than, say, soMe twenty iiiillioii lots 
 
 Of fellow-Britons toiling all to make 
 
 That nation, that community, whereon 
 
 Yon feed and thrive and talk philosophy. 
 
 I am no optimist whose faith must hang 
 
 On hard pretence that pain is beautiful 
 
 And agony explained for men at ease 
 
 By virtue's exercise in pitying it. 
 
 But this I hold: that he who takes one gift 
 
 Made for him by tlie hopeful work of man, 
 
 Who tastes sweet bread, walks where he will uuarmcd« 
 
 His shield and warrant the invisible law, 
 
 Wlio owns a hearth and household charities. 
 
 Who clothes his body and his sentient sr)ul 
 
 With skill and thoughts of men, and yet denies 
 
 A human Good worth toiling for, is cursed 
 
 With worse negation than the poet feigned 
 
 In Mephistopheles. The Devil si)ins 
 
 His wire-drawn argument against all good 
 
 With sense of brimstone as Lis private lot. 
 
 And never drew a solace from the Earth." 
 
 Laertes fuming paused, and Guildenstem 
 
 Took np with cooler skill the fusillade : 
 
 "I meet your deadliest challenge, Roseucrauz: — ■ 
 
 Where get, you say, a binding law, a rule 
 
 Enforced by sanction, an Ideal throned 
 
 With thunder in its hand? I answer, there 
 
 ^Vhence every faith and rule has drawn its force 
 
 Since human consciousness awaking owned 
 
 An Outward, whose nnconquerable sway 
 
 Resisted tirst and then subdued desire 
 
 By pressure of the dire Impossible 
 
 Urging to possible ends the active soul 
 
 And shaping so its terror and its love. 
 
 Why, you have said it — threats and promises 
 
 Depend on each man's sentience for their force: 
 
 All sacred rules, imagined or revealed, 
 
 Can have no form or jiotency apart 
 
 From the percipient and emotive mind. 
 
 God, duty, love, submission, fellowship, 
 
 Must first be framed in man, as music is. 
 
 Before they live outside him as a law. 
 
 And still they grow and shape themselves anew. 
 
 With fuller concentration in their life 
 
 Of inward and of outward energies 
 
 Blending to make the last result called Man, 
 
 Which means, not this or that i)hilosopher 
 
 Loiiking through beauty into blnnkness, not 
 
 The swindler who has sent his fruitful lie 
 
 By 'he last telegram: it means the tide 
 
 Of needs recijirocal, toil, trust, and love— 
 
 The surging multitude of humau claims 
 
A COLLKGK BKEAIUj'AST rAItTY. 85 
 
 Which make ' a presence not to be pat by ' 
 
 Above the horizon of the general soul. 
 
 Is inward Reason shrunk to subtleties, 
 
 And inward wisdom pininij passion-starved? — . 
 
 Tlie outward Reason has the world in t^tore. 
 
 Regenerates passion with the stress of want, 
 
 Regenerates knowlc(lj;e with discovery, 
 
 Shows sly rapacious Self a blunderer, 
 
 Widens dei>eudence, knits the social whole 
 
 In sensible relation more detiued. 
 
 Do Boards and dirty-handed milliouairos 
 
 Govern the planetary system ? — sway 
 
 The pressure of tlie Universe? — decide 
 
 Tlial man henceforth shall retrogress to ai>e, 
 
 Kmptied of every sympathetic tlirill 
 
 The All has wrought in him? dam up henceforth 
 
 The flood of human claims as private force 
 
 To turn their wheels and make a private hell 
 
 For fish-pond to their mercantile domain? 
 
 What are they but a parasitic growth 
 
 On the vast real and ideal world 
 
 Of man and nature blent in one divine? 
 
 Why, take your closing dirge— say evil grows 
 
 And good is dwindling ; science mere decay, 
 
 Mere dissolution of ideal wholes 
 
 Which throngh the ages past alone have made 
 
 The earth and firmament of human failh ; 
 
 Say, the small arc of Being we call man 
 
 Is near its mergence, what seems growing life 
 
 Nought but a hurrying change towards lower typcSj 
 
 The ready rankness of degeneracy. 
 
 Well, they who mourn for the world's dying good 
 
 May take their common sorrows (dt a rock. 
 
 On it erect religion and a church, 
 
 A worship, rites, and passionate piety — 
 
 The worshij) of the Best though crucified 
 
 And God-forsaken in its dying pangs; 
 
 The sacramental riles of fellowship 
 
 In common woe ; visions that purify 
 
 Through admiration and despairing love 
 
 Whicli keep their spiritual life intact 
 
 Beneath the murderous clutches of disproof 
 
 And feed a martyr-strength." 
 
 " Religion high !" 
 (Rosencranz here) "but with communicants 
 Few as the cedars upon Lebanon^ 
 A child might count them. What the world demands 
 Is faith coercive of the multitude." 
 
 "Tush, Guiklenstern, you granted him too much," 
 
 Burst in Laertes; "I will never grant 
 
 One inch of law to feeble blasphemies 
 
 Which hold no higher ratio to life — 
 
 Full vigorous human life that peopled earth 
 
 And wrought and fought and loved and bravely died— 
 
 Than the sick morning glooms of debauchees. 
 
 Old nations breed old children, wizened babes 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Whose youth is languid and inciedulous, 
 
 Weary of life without the will to die ; 
 
 Their passions visionary appetites 
 
 Of bloodless spectres wailing that the world 
 
 For lack of substance slips from out their grasp ; 
 
 Their thoughts the withered husks of all things dead, 
 
 Holding no force of genus instinct with life, 
 
 Which never hesitates but moves and grows. 
 
 Yet hear them boast in screams their godlike ill, 
 
 Excess of knowing ! Fie on you, Iloseucranz ! 
 
 You lend your l)rains and tine-dividing tongue 
 
 For bass-notes to iliis shrivelled crudity, 
 
 This immature decrepitude that strains 
 
 To All our ears and claim the prize of strength 
 
 For mere unmanliness. Out on them all ! — 
 
 Wits, pilling minstrels, and philosophers, 
 
 Who living softly prate of suicide. 
 
 And suck the commonwealth to feed their ease 
 
 While they vent epigratns and threnodies, 
 
 Mocking or wailing all the eager work 
 
 Which makes that public store whereon they feed. 
 
 Is wisdom flattened sense and mere distaste? 
 
 Why, any superstition warm with love, 
 
 Inspired with purpose, wild with energy 
 
 That streams resistless through its ready frame, 
 
 lias more of human truth within its life 
 
 Thau souls that look through color into nought, — 
 
 M'^hose brain, too uuimpassioned for delight, 
 
 Has feeble ticklings of a vanity 
 
 Whicli flnds the universe beneath its mark. 
 
 And scorning the blue heavens as merely blue 
 
 Can only say, 'What then?' — pre-eminent 
 
 In wondrous want of likeness to their kind, 
 
 Founding that worship of sterility 
 
 Whose cue supreme is vacillating Will 
 
 Which makes the Light, then says, ' 'Twere better noU'** 
 
 Here rash Laertes brought his Ilandel-straiu 
 As of some angry Polypheme, to pause ; 
 And Osric, shocked at ardors out of taste, 
 Relieved the audience with a tenor voice 
 And delicate delivery. 
 
 "For me, 
 I range myself in line with Kosencranz 
 Agaiust all schemes, religious or profane. 
 That flaunt a Good as pretext for a lash 
 To flog us all who have the better taste. 
 Into conformity, requiring me 
 At peril of the thong and sharp disgrace 
 'J'o care how mere Philistines pass their lives ; 
 Whether the English pauper-total grows 
 From one to two before the noughts ; how far 
 'I'euton will outbreed Roman ; if the class 
 Of proletaires will make a federal band 
 To bind all Europe and America, 
 Throw, in their wiestling, every government, 
 Snatch the world's purse and keep the guillotine: 
 
A COLLEGE BKEAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Oi- else (admitting these are casualties) 
 
 Driviug my soul with scientific hail 
 
 That shuts the laudscnpe out with particles; 
 
 Insisting that the Palingenesis 
 
 Meaus telegraphs and measure of the rate 
 
 At which the stars move — nobody knows where. 
 
 So far, my Rosencranz, we are at one. 
 
 But uot when you blaspheme the life of Art, 
 
 The sweet perennial youth of Poesy, 
 
 Which asks no logic but its sensuous growth, 
 
 No right but loveliness ; which fearless strolls 
 
 Betwixt the burning mountain and the sea, 
 
 Ueckless of earthquake and the lava stream. 
 
 Filling its hour with beauty. It knows nought 
 
 Of bitter strife, denial, grim resolve. 
 
 Sour resignation, busy emphasis, 
 
 Of fresh illusious named the new-born True, 
 
 Old Error's latest child ; but as a lake 
 
 Images all things, yet within its depths 
 
 Dreams them all lovelier— thrills with sound, 
 
 And makes a harp of plenteous liquid chords — 
 
 So Art or Poesy: we its votaries 
 
 Are the Olympians, fortunately born 
 
 From the elemental mixture ; 'tis our lot 
 
 To i)ass more swiftly than the Delian God, 
 
 But still the earth breaks into flowers for ns. 
 
 And mortal sorrows when they reach our ears 
 
 Are dying falls to melody divine. 
 
 Hatred, war, vice, crime, sin, those human stoi-ms, 
 
 Cyclones, floods, what you will — outbursts of forcG 
 
 Feed Art with contrast, give the grander toucli 
 
 To the master's pencil and the poet's song, 
 
 Serve as Vesuviau fires or navies tossed 
 
 On yawning waters, which when viewed afar 
 
 Deepen the calm sublime of those choice souls 
 
 Who keep the heights of poesy and turn 
 
 A fleckless mirror to the various world, 
 
 Giving its many-named and fitful flu.K 
 
 An imaged, harmless, spiritual life. 
 
 With pure selection, native to Art's frame. 
 
 Of beauty only, save its minor scale 
 
 Of ill and pain to give the ideal jny 
 
 A keener edge. This is a mongrel globe ; 
 
 All finer being wrought from its coarse earth 
 
 Is but accepted privilege: what else 
 
 Your boasted virtue, which proclaims itself 
 
 A good above the average consciousness ? 
 
 Nature exists by partiality 
 
 (Eacli planet's poise must carry two extremes 
 
 With verging breadths of minor wretchedness); 
 
 We are her favorites and accept our wings. 
 
 For your accusal, Rosencranz, that Art 
 
 Shares in the dread and weakness of (he time, 
 
 I hold it null; since Art or Poesy pure, 
 
 Being blameless by all standards save her own, 
 
 Takes no account of modern or antique 
 
 In morals, science, or philosophy: 
 
83- A COLLECtE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 No (lull cleiiclius iiKikcs a 3'()kc f.ir her, 
 Whose l:i\v and nie:isiire are the sweet consent 
 or sensibilities that move apart 
 From rise or fail of systems, slates or creeds — 
 Apart from what Philistines call man's weal." 
 
 "Ay, we all know those votaries of the Mnse 
 Ravished with singing till they qnite forgot 
 Their manhood, saug, and gaped, and took no f>)od!j 
 Then died of emptiness, and for reward 
 Ijved on as grasshoppers '' — Laerles thus : 
 But then he checked himself as one who feels 
 His muscles dangerous, and Guildenstcru 
 Filled up the pause with calmer coulidcuce. 
 
 "You use your wings, my Osric, poise yourself 
 Safely outside all reach of argument, 
 Tlien dogmatize at will (a method knowu 
 To ancient women and philosopliers. 
 Nay, to Philistines whom you most abhor) ; 
 Else, could au arrow reach you, I should ask 
 Wlience came taste, beauty, sensibilities 
 Refined to preference infallible? 
 Doubtless, ye'rc gods— these odors ye inhale, 
 A sacrificial scent. But how, I pray, 
 _ Are odors made, if not by gradual change 
 
 Of sense or substance ? Is your Beautiful 
 A seedless, rootless flower, or has it grown 
 With human growth, which means the rising sn-n 
 Of human struggle, order, knowledge ? — sense 
 Trained to a fuller record, more exact — 
 To truer guidance of each passionate force / 
 Get me your roseate flesh without the blood ; 
 Get fine aromas without structure wrought 
 From simi)ler being into manifold: 
 Tlieu and then only flaunt your Beautiful 
 As what can live apart from thought, creeds, states, 
 VVhich mean life's structure. Osric, I beseech — 
 The infallible should be more catholic — 
 Join in a war-dance with the cannibals, 
 Hear Chinese music, love a face tattooed. 
 Give adoration to a pointed skull. 
 And think the Hindu Siva looks divine: 
 'Tis Art, 'tis Poesy. Say, you object: 
 How came you by that lofty dissidencc. 
 If not through changes iu the social man 
 Widening his consciousness from Here and Now 
 To larger wholes beyond the reach of sense; 
 Controlling to a fuller harmony 
 The thrill of passion and the rule of fact; 
 And paling false ideals in the light 
 Of full-rayed sensibilities which blond 
 Truth and desire? Taste, beauty, what are they 
 But the souTs choice towards perfect bias wrought 
 By finer balance of a fuller growth- 
 Sense brought to subtlest metamorphosis 
 Through love, thought, joy — the general human store 
 Which grows from all life"s functious? As the plan; 
 
A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 88 
 
 Holds its corolla, pui-plc, delicate, 
 Solely as outflnsh of that energy 
 Which moves traiisformiDgly in root and branch." 
 
 Guildenstern paused, and Hamlet, quivering 
 Since Osiic spoke, in transit imniineut 
 Prom calliolic striving into laxity. 
 Ventured his word. "Seems to me, Guildeustern, 
 Your argument, though shattering Osric's point 
 That sensibilities can move apart 
 From social order, yet has not annulled 
 His thesis that the life of Poesy 
 (Admitting it must grow from out the whole) 
 Has sei)arat9 functions, a transligured realm 
 Freed from the rigors of the practical. 
 Where what is hidden from the grosser world- 
 Stormed down by roar of engines and the shouts 
 Of eager concourse — rises beauteous 
 As voice of water-drops in sapphire caves ; 
 A realm where finest spirits have free sway 
 In exquisite selection, uncontrolled 
 By hard material necessity 
 Of cause and consequence. For you will grant 
 The Ideal has discoveries which ask 
 No test, no faith, save that we joy in them: 
 A new-found continent, with spreading lands 
 Where pleasure charters all, where virtue, rank, 
 Use, right, and truth have but one name. Delight. 
 Thus Art's creations, when etherealized 
 To least admixture of the grosser fact 
 Delight may stamp as highest." 
 
 "Possible !" 
 Said Guildenstern, with touch of weariness, 
 " But then we might dispute of what is gross, 
 What high, what low." 
 
 "Nay," said Laertes, "ask 
 The mightiest makers who have reigned, still reiga 
 Within the ideal realm. See if their thought 
 Be drained of practice and the thick warm blood 
 Of hearts that beat iu action various 
 Through the wide drama of the struggling world. 
 Good-bye, Horatio." 
 
 Each now said "Good-bye." 
 Snch breakfast, such beginning of the day 
 Is more than half the whole. The sun was hot 
 On southward branches of the meadow elms, 
 The shadows slowly farther crept and veered 
 Like changing memories, and Hamlet strolled 
 Alone and dubious on the impurpled path 
 Between the waving grasses of new June 
 Close by the stream where well-compacted boata 
 Were moored or moving with a lazy creak 
 To the soft dip of oars. All sounds were light 
 As tiny silver bells upon the robes 
 Of hovering silence. Birds made twitterings 
 That seemed but Silence self o'erfull of love. 
 'Twas invitation all to sweet repose ; 
 
 19 K 
 
90 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 
 
 Aud Hamlet, drowsy with the mingled draughts 
 
 Of cider and conflicting sentiments, 
 
 Chose a green couch and watched with half-closed eyes 
 
 The meadow-road, the stream and dreamy lights, 
 
 Until they merged themselves in sequence strange 
 
 With undulating ether, time, the soul. 
 
 The will supreme, the individual claim, 
 
 The social Ought, the lyrist's liberty, 
 
 Democritus, Pythagoras, in talk 
 
 With Anselm, Darwin, Comte, aud Schopenhauer, 
 
 The poets rising slow from out their tombs 
 
 Summoned as arbiters— that border-world 
 
 Of dozing, ere the sense is fully locked. 
 
 And then he dreamed a dream so luminous 
 He woke (he says) convinced ; but what it taught 
 Withholds as yet. Perhaps those graver shades 
 Admonished him that visions told in haste 
 Part with their virtues to the squandering lips 
 Aud leave tlie soul in wider emptiness. 
 
 April, 18T4. 
 
1866. 
 
 TWO LOVERS. 
 
 Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: 
 They leaned soft cheeks together there. 
 Mingled the dark and sunny hair, 
 And heard the wooing thrushes sing. 
 O budding time I 
 O love's blest prime! 
 
 Two wedded from the portal stept: 
 The bells made happy carollings, 
 The air was soft as fanning wings, 
 White petals on the pathway slept. 
 
 O pure-eyed bride ! 
 O tender pride ! 
 
 Two faces o'er a cradle bent: 
 Two hands above the head were locked; 
 These pressed each other while they rocked, 
 Those watched a life that love had sent. 
 O solemn hour ! 
 O hidden power ! 
 
 Two parents by the evening fire: 
 The red light fell about their knees 
 On heads that rose by slow degrees 
 Like buds upon the lily spire. 
 
 O patient life '. 
 O tender strife I 
 
 The two still sat together there, 
 The red light shone about their knees ; 
 But all the heads by slow degrees 
 Had gone and left that lonely pair. 
 O voyage fast ! 
 O vanished past! 
 
 The red light shone npou the floor 
 And made the space between them wide ; 
 They drew their chairs np side by side, 
 Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!" 
 O memories ! 
 O past that is! 
 
SELF AND LIFE. 
 
 Sef.f. 
 
 Changeful comrade, Life of miue, 
 
 Before we two must part, 
 I will tell thee, thou shalt say, 
 
 What thou hast been and art. 
 Ere I lose my hold of thee 
 Justify thyself to me. 
 
 LlFB. 
 
 I was thy warmth upon thy mother's knee 
 
 Wheu light and love withiu her eyes were one; 
 We laughed together by the laurel-tree, 
 Culling warm daisies 'neath the sloping sun; 
 We heard the chickens' lazy croon. 
 
 Where the trellised woodbines grew, 
 And all the summer afternoon 
 Mystic gladness o'er thee threw. 
 Was it person? Was it thing? 
 Was it touch or whispering? 
 It was bliss and it was I: 
 Bliss was what thou kuew'st me by. 
 
 SlCI.F- 
 
 Soon I knew thee more by Fear 
 
 And sense of what was not, 
 Haunting all I held most dear; 
 
 I had a double lot: 
 Ardor, cheated with alloy. 
 Wept the more for dreams of joy. 
 
 Life. 
 Eemember how thy ardor's magic sense 
 
 Made poor things rich to thee and small things great 
 How hearth and garden, field and bushy fence, 
 Were thy own eager love incorporate ; 
 And how the solemn, splendid Past 
 
 O'er thy early widened earth 
 Made grandeur, as on sunset cast 
 Dark elms near take mighty girth. 
 Hands and feet were tiny still 
 When we knew the historic thrill, 
 Breathed deep breath in heroes dead, 
 Tasted the immortals' bread. 
 
SELF AND lilFB. 
 
 Self. 
 
 93 
 
 Seeiug what I might have been 
 
 Reproved the thing I was, 
 Smolce on heaven's clearest sheen, 
 
 The specli within tlie rose. 
 By revered ones' frailties stung 
 Reverence was with anguish wrung. 
 
 Life. 
 But all thy anguish and thy discontent 
 
 Was growth of mine, the elemental strife 
 Towards feeling manifold with vision blent 
 To wider thought: I was no vulgar life 
 That, like the water-mirrored ape. 
 
 Not discerns the thing it sees, 
 Nor kuows its own in others' shape, , 
 Railing, scorning, at its ease. 
 Half man's truth must hidden lie 
 If unlit by Sorrow's eye. 
 I by Sorrow wrought in thee 
 Willing paiu of ministry. 
 
 Self. 
 
 Slowly was the lesson taught 
 
 Through passion, error, care ; 
 Insight was with loathing fraught \ 
 
 And effort with despair. 
 Written on the wall I saw 
 " Bow 1" I knew, not loved, the law. 
 
 Life. 
 
 But then I brought a love that wrote within 
 
 The law of gratitude, and made thy heart 
 Beat to the heavenly tune of seraphin 
 Whose only joy in having is, to impart: 
 Till thou, poor Self— despite thy ire. 
 
 Wrestling 'gainst my mingled share, 
 Thy faults, hard falls, and vain desire 
 Still to he what others were 
 Filled, o'erflowed with tenderness 
 Seeming more as thou wert less, 
 Knew me through that anguish past 
 As a fellowship more vast. 
 
 Self. 
 Yea, I embrace thee, changeful Life ! 
 
 Far-sent, unchosen mate I 
 Self and thou, no more at strife. 
 
 Shall wed in hallowed state. 
 Willing spousals now shall prove 
 Life is justified by love. 
 
THE DEATH OF MOSES. 
 
 !Mo6E8, who spake with God as with his frieud, 
 Aud ruled his people with the twofold power 
 Of wisdom that can dare and still be meek. 
 Was writing bis last word, the sacred name 
 Unutterable of that Eternal Will 
 Which was aud is and evermore shall be. 
 Yet was his task not tinished, for the flock 
 Needed its shepherd, aud the life-taught sage 
 Leaves no snccesisor ; but to chosen meu. 
 The rescuers aud guides of Isi-ael, 
 A death was given called the Death of Grace, 
 Which freed them from the burden of the flesh 
 But lefc them rulers of the multitude 
 Aud loved companious of the lonely. This 
 Was God's last gift to Moses, this the hour 
 Wheu soul must part from self aud be but soul 
 
 God spake to Gabriel, the messenger 
 
 Of mildest death that draws the parting life 
 
 Gently, as wheu a little rosy child 
 
 Lifts up its lips from off the bowl of milk 
 
 And so draws forth a curl that dipped its gold 
 
 Ir. the soft white— thus Gabriel draws the soul. 
 
 " Go, bring the soul of Moses unto me !" 
 
 And the awe^stricken angel answered, "Lord, 
 
 How shall I dare to take his life who lives 
 
 Sole of his kind, not to be likeued ouce 
 
 In all the generations of the earth?" 
 
 Then God called Michael, him of pensive brow 
 Snow-vest and flaming sword, who knows aud actBr 
 " Go, bring the spirit of Moses unto me !" 
 But Michael with such grief as angels feel, 
 Loving the mortals whom they succor, pled: 
 " Almighty, spare me : it was I who taught 
 Thy servant Moses; he is part of me 
 As I of thy deep secrets, knowing them." 
 
 Then God called Zamael, the terrible, 
 The angel of fierce death, of agony 
 That comes in battle aud in pestilence 
 Remorseless, sudden or with lingering throes. 
 Aud Zamat'l, his raiment and broad wings 
 Blood-tinctured, the dark lustre of his eyes 
 Shrouding the red, fell like the gathering night 
 Before the prophet. But that radiance 
 
THE DEATH OF MOSES. 93 
 
 Won from the heavenly Presence in the motint 
 
 Gleamed on the prophei's biow and dazzling pierced 
 
 Its conscious opposite: the angel turned 
 
 His murky gaze aloof and inly said : 
 
 "An angel this, deathless to angel's stroke." 
 
 But Moses felt the subtly uearing dark: — 
 
 "Who art thou? and what wilt thou?" Zamaul then: 
 
 "I am God's reaper; through the fields of life 
 
 I gather ripened and unripened souls 
 
 Both willing and nuwilling. And I come 
 
 Now to reap thee." But Moses cried, 
 
 Firm as a seer who waits the trusted sign: 
 
 " Reap thou the fruitless plant and common herb — 
 
 Not him who from the womb was sanctified 
 
 To teach the law of purity and love." 
 
 And Zamaiil baffled from his errand fled. 
 
 But Moses, pausing, in the air serene 
 Heard now that mystic wliisper, far yet near. 
 The all-peuetratiug Voice, that said to him, 
 "Moses, the hour is come and thou must die." 
 " Lord, I obey ; but thou rememberest 
 How thou, Ineflable, didst take me once 
 Within thy orb of light untouched by death." 
 Then the Voice answered, "Be no more afraid: 
 With me shall be thy death ami burial." 
 So Moses waited, ready now to die. 
 
 And the Lord came, invisible as a thought, 
 
 Three angels gleaming on his secret track, 
 
 Prince Michai-l, Zamael, Gabriel, charged to guard 
 
 The soul-forsaken body as it fell 
 
 And bear it to the liiddeu sepulchre 
 
 Denied forever to the search of man. 
 
 And the Voice said to Moses: "Close thine eyes." 
 
 He closed them. "Lay thine hand upon tlwne hearr- 
 
 And draw thy feet together." He obeyed. 
 
 And the Lord said, "O spirit, child of mine! 
 
 A hundred years and twenty thou hast dwelt 
 
 Wiihiu this tabernacle wrought of clay. 
 
 This is the end: come forth and flee to heaven." 
 
 But the grieved soul with plaintive pleading cried, 
 " I love this body with a clinging love : 
 The courage fails me, Lord, to part from it." 
 
 "O child, come forth! for thou shalt dwell with me 
 About the immortal throne where seraphs joy 
 In growing vision and in growing love." 
 
 Yet hesitating, finltering, like the bird 
 
 With young wiug weak and dubious, the soul 
 
 Stayed. But behold ! upon the death-dewed lips 
 
 A kiss descended, pure, unspeakable — 
 
 The bodiless Love without embracing Love 
 
 That lingered in the body, drew it forth 
 
 With heavenly strength and carried it to heaven. 
 
"SWEET EVENINGS COME AND GO, I.OVE." 
 
 But uow beneath the sky the watchei'S all, 
 
 Angels that keep the homes of Israel 
 
 Or on high purpose wander o'er the world 
 
 Leading the Gentiles, felt a dark eclipse : 
 
 The greatest ruler among men was gone. 
 
 And from the westward sea was heard a wail, 
 
 A dirge as from the isles of Javaniin, 
 
 Crying, "Who now is left upon the earth 
 
 Like him to teach the right and smite the wrong?'" 
 
 And from the East, far o'er the Syrian waste, 
 
 Came slowlier, sadlier, the answering dirge: 
 
 "No prophet like him lives or shall arise 
 
 In Israel or the world for eveiinore." 
 
 But Israel waited, looking toward the mqunt,' 
 Till with the deepening eve the elders came 
 Saying, "His burial is hid with God. 
 We stood far off and saw the angels lift 
 His corpse aloft until they seemed a star 
 That burnt itself away within the sky." 
 
 The people answered with mute orphaned gaze 
 Looking for what had vanished evermore. 
 Then through the gloom without them and within 
 The spirit's shaping light, mysterious speech, 
 Invisible Will wrought clear in sculptured sound, 
 The thought-begotten daughter of the voice, 
 Tlirilled on their listening sense: "lie has no tomb. 
 He dwells not with you dead, but lives as Law." 
 
 "SWEET EVENINGS COME AND GO, LOVE." 
 
 *' La nocbe buena se viene, 
 La noche buena se va, 
 Y nosotros nos irenios 
 Y no volveremos mas."— Old J'i'ffonctiw. 
 
 Sweet evenings come and go, love, 
 
 They came and went of yore: 
 This evening of our life, love, 
 
 Shall go and come uo more. 
 
 When we have passed away, love, 
 All things will keep their name; 
 
 But yet no life on earth, love, 
 With ours will be the same. 
 
 The daisies will be there, love. 
 The stars in heaven will shine: 
 
 I shall not feel thy wish, love. 
 Nor thou my hand iu thine. 
 
 A better time will corae, love. 
 And better souls be born: 
 
 I would not be the best, love, 
 To leave thee now forlorn. 
 
ARION. 
 
 (HiEOD. I. 24.) 
 
 Aeion, whose melodic soul 
 Taught the dithyramb to roll 
 
 Like forest fires, and sing 
 
 Olympian suflferiug, 
 
 Had carried his diviner lore 
 From Coriuth to the sister shore 
 
 Where Greece could largelier be,' 
 
 Branching o'er Italy. 
 
 Then weighted with his glorious name 
 And bags of gold, aboard he came 
 'Mid ha'sh seafariug men 
 To Coriuth bound again. 
 
 The sailors eyed the bags and thought: 
 "The gold is good, the man is nought — 
 And who shall track the wave 
 That opens for his grave ?" 
 
 With brawny arms and cruel eyes 
 They press around him where he lies 
 lu sleep beside his lyre, 
 Hearing the Muses quire. 
 
 He waked and saw this wolf-faced Death 
 Breaking the dream that filled his breath 
 
 Witli inspiration strong 
 
 Of yet unchauted song. 
 
 "Take, take my gold and let me live!" 
 He prayed, as kings do when they give 
 Their all with royal will. 
 Holding born kingship still. 
 
 To rob the living they refuse. 
 
 One death or other he must choose, 
 
 Either the watery pall 
 
 Or wounds and burial. 
 
 "My solemn robe then let me don. 
 
 Give me high space to stand upon, 
 
 That dying I may pour 
 
 A song unsung before." 
 
 19* E* 
 
98 ARION. 
 
 It pleased them well to grant this prayer. 
 To hear for nought how it might fare 
 
 With men who paid their gold 
 
 For what a poet sold. 
 
 In flowing stole, his eyes aglow 
 With iuward fire, he neared the prow 
 
 And took his god-like stand, 
 
 The cithara in hand. 
 
 The wolfish men all shrank aloof, 
 And feared this singer might be proof 
 
 Against their murderous power, 
 
 After his lyric houi. 
 
 But he, in liberty of song, 
 
 Fearless of death or other wrong. 
 With full spondaic toll 
 Poured forth his mighty soul: 
 
 Poured forth the strain his dream had taught, 
 A nome with lofty passion fraught 
 
 Such as makes battles won 
 
 On fields of Marathon. 
 
 The last long rowels trembled then 
 As awe within those wolfish men : 
 
 They said, with mutual stare. 
 
 Some god was present there. 
 
 But lo I Arion leaped on high 
 Keady, his descant done, to die; 
 
 Not asking, "Is it well?" 
 
 Like a pierced eagle felL 
 
 1578. 
 
"(? MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE." 
 
 Zon^m Ulud tenipus, quutn non erOj magis me movtt, guam hoc exiguum, — Cicero, ad Att. lii. 18. 
 
 O MAY I join the choir invisible 
 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 
 III miuds made better by their piesence: live 
 
 In pulses stirred to generosity, 
 
 In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
 
 For miserable aims that end with self, 
 
 In thoughts sublime that pierce the niglit like stars, 
 
 And with their mild persistence urge man's search 
 
 To vaster issues. 
 
 So to live is heaven : 
 To make undying music in the world, 
 Breathing as beauteous order that controls 
 With growing sway the growing life of man. 
 So we inherit that sweet purity 
 For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 
 With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
 Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
 A vicious parent shaming still its child 
 Poor anxious penitence, is quicli dissolved ; 
 Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, 
 Die in the large and charitable air. 
 And all our rarer, better, truer self. 
 That sobbed religiously in yearning song, 
 That watched to ease the burden of the world, 
 Laboriously tracing what must be. 
 And what may yet be better— saw within 
 A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
 And shaped it forth before the multitude 
 Divinely human, raising worship so 
 To liigher reverence more mixed with love — 
 That better self shall live till human Time 
 Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
 Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb 
 Unread forever. 
 
 This is life to come, 
 Which martyred men have made more glorious 
 For us who strive to follow. May I reach 
 That purest heaven, be to other souls 
 The cup of streugth in some great agony. 
 Enliindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
 Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffused. 
 And in difl"usion ever more intense. 
 So shall I join the choir invisible 
 Whose music is the gladness of the world. 
 
 .867. 
 
 LGft 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 [TJiU tforJc waa originaltif written in the tvinter of lS64-Co ; after a visit to Spain in 1867 it was rewritten 
 mnd ampUjied. The reader conversant with Spanish poetry will see that in two of the lyrics an attempt has 
 bten made to imitate the trochaic measure and assonance of the Spanish ballad. — May, 1868.] 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 'Tis the warm Soulb, where Europe spreads her lauds 
 Like fretted leaflets, breathing on the deep: 
 Broad-breasted Spain, leaning with equal love 
 On the Mid Sea that moans with memories, 
 And on the untravelled Ocean's restless tides. 
 This river, shadowed by the battlements 
 And gleaming silvery towards the northern sky, 
 Feeds the famed stream that waters Andaliis 
 And loiters, amorous of the fragrant air, 
 ]5y Cordova and Seville to the bay 
 Fronting Algarva and the wandering flood 
 Of Guadiana. This deep moimtain gorge 
 Slopes widening on the olive-plumed plains 
 Of fair Granada: one far-stretching arm 
 Points to Elvira, one to eastward heights 
 Of Alpujarras where the new-bathed Day 
 With oriflamme uplifted o'er the peaks 
 Saddens the breasts of iiortliward-looking snows 
 That loved the night, and soared with soaring stars; 
 Flashing the signals of his nearing swiftness 
 From Almeria's jjurple-shadowed bay 
 On to the far-ofl" rocks that gaze and glow- 
 On to Alhambra, strong and ruddy heart 
 Of glorious Morisma, gasping now, 
 
 A maimed giant iu his agony. 
 
 This town that dips its feet within the stream, 
 
 And seems to sit a tower-crowned Cybele, 
 
 Spreading her ample robe adown the rocks. 
 
 Is rich Bed mar: 'twas Moorish long ago. 
 
 But now the Cross is sparkling on the Mosque, 
 
 And bells make Catholic the trembling air. 
 
 The fortress gleams in Spanish sunshine now 
 
 ('Tis south a mile before the lays are Moorish) — 
 
 Hereditary jewel, agrafi'e bright 
 
 On all the many-titled privilege 
 
 Of young Duke Silva. No Castiliaii knight 
 
 That serves Queen Isabel has higher charge ; 
 
 For neai' this frontier sits the Moorish king, 
 
 Not Boabdil the waverer, who usurps 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 101 
 
 A tlii'one he trembles in, and fawning liclis 
 The feet of conquerors, but that fierce lion 
 Grisly El Zagal, who has made his lair 
 In Guadix' fort, and rushing thence with streugth, 
 Half his own fierceness, half the untainted heart 
 Of mountain bands that fight for holiday, 
 Wastes the fair lauds that lie by Alcahi, 
 Wreathing his horse's ueck with Christian heads. 
 
 To keep the Christian frontier— such high trust 
 
 Is young Duke Silva's; and the time is great. 
 
 (What times are little? To the sentinel 
 
 That hour is regal when he mounts on guard.) 
 
 The fifteenth century since the Man Divine 
 
 Taught and was hated in Capernaum 
 
 Is near its end— is falling as a husk 
 
 Away from all the fruit its years have riped. 
 
 The Moslem faith, now flickering like a torch 
 
 In a night struggle on this shore of Spain, 
 
 Glares, a broad column of advancing flame, 
 
 Along the Danube and the Illyriau shore 
 
 Far into Italy, where eager monks. 
 
 Who watch in dreams and dream the while they watch, 
 
 See Christ grow paler in the baleful light. 
 
 Crying again the cry of the forsaken. 
 
 But faith, the stronger for extremity. 
 
 Becomes prophetic, hears the far-off tread 
 
 Of western chivalry, sees downward sweep 
 
 The archangel Michael with the gleaming sword, 
 
 And listens for the shriek of hurrying fiends 
 
 Chased from their revels in God's sanctuary. 
 
 So trusts the monk, and lifts appealing eyes 
 
 To the high dome, the Church's firmaniont. 
 
 Where the blue light-pierced curtain, rolled away, 
 
 Keveals the throne and Him who sits thereon. 
 
 So trust the men whose best hope for the world 
 
 Is ever that the world is near its end : 
 
 Impatient of the stare that keep their course 
 
 And make no pathway for the coming Judge. 
 
 But other futures stir the world's great heart. 
 The West now enters on the heritage 
 Won from the tombs of mighty ancestors. 
 The seeds, the gold, the gems, the silent harps 
 That lay deep buried with the memories 
 Of old renown. 
 
 No more, as once in sunny Avignon, 
 The poet-scholar spreads the Homeric page. 
 And gazes sadly, like the deaf at song; 
 For now the old epic voices ring again 
 And vibrate with the beat and melody 
 Stirred by the warmth of old Ionian days. 
 The martyred sage, the Attic orator, 
 Inunortally incarnate, like the gods. 
 In spiritual bodies, winged words 
 Holding a universe impalpable. 
 Find a new audience For evermore, 
 
102 THE SI'AHISH GYPSY. 
 
 With grauder lesiiirectioii than was feigned 
 Of Attila's fierce Iliiiis, the soul of Greece 
 Conquers the hulk of Persia. The maimed form 
 Of calmly-joyous heauty, marble-limbed, 
 Yet breathing with the thought that shaped its lips. 
 Looks mild reproach from out its opened grave 
 At creeds of terror; and the vine-wreathed god 
 Fronts the pierced Image with the crown of thorns. 
 The soul of man is widening towards the past: 
 No longer hanging at the breast of life 
 Feeding in blindness to his parentage — 
 Quenching all wonder with Omnipotence, 
 Praising a name with indolent piety- 
 He spells the record of his long descent. 
 More largely conscious of the life that was. 
 And from the height that shows where morning shon* 
 On far-off summits pale and gloomy now, 
 The horizon widens round him, and the west 
 Looks vast with nntracked waves whereon his gaze 
 Follows the flight of the swift-vanished bird 
 That like the sunken sun is mirrored still 
 Upon the yearning soul within the eye. 
 And so in Cordova through patient nights 
 Columbus watches, or he sails in dreams 
 Between the setting stars and finds new day; 
 Tlieu wakes again to the old weary days, 
 Girds on the cord and frock of pale Saint Francis, 
 And like him zealous pleads with foolish men. 
 "I ask but for a million maravedis: 
 Give me three caravels to find a world. 
 New shores, new realms, new soldiers for the Cross. 
 Son cosas grandes !^' Thus he pleads in vain: 
 Yet faints not utterly, bnt pleads anew. 
 Thinking, "God means it, and has chosen me." 
 For this man is the pulse of all mankind 
 Feeding an embryo future, offspring strange 
 Of the fond Present, that with mother-prayers 
 And mother-fancies looks for championship 
 or all her loved beliefs and old-world ways 
 From that young Time she bears within her womb. 
 The sacred places shall be purged again, 
 The Turk converted, and the Holy Church, 
 Like the mild Virgin with the outspread robe. 
 Shall fold all tongues and nations lovingly. 
 
 But since God works by armies, who shall be 
 
 The modern Cyrus? Is it France most Christian, 
 
 Who with his lilies and brocaded knights, 
 
 French oaths, French vices, and the newest style 
 
 Of out-puffed sleeve, shall pas.s from west to east, 
 
 A winnowing fan to purify the seed 
 
 For fair millennial harvests soon to come ? 
 
 Or is not Spain the land of chosen warriors? — 
 
 Crusaders consecrated from the womb, 
 
 Carrying the sword-cross stamped upon their souls 
 
 By the long yearnings of a nation's life, 
 
 Through all the seven patient centuries 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 103 
 
 Since first Pelayo and his resolute baud 
 
 Trusted the God witliiii tlicir Gothic hearts 
 
 At CovaduDga, aud defied Maliouud ; 
 
 Beginuiug so the Holy War of Spain 
 
 That now is panting with the eagerness 
 
 Of labor near its end. The silver cross 
 
 Glitters o'er Malaga and streams dread light 
 
 On Moslem galleys, turning all their stores 
 
 From threats to gifts. What Spanish knight is he 
 
 Who, living now, holds it not shame to live 
 
 Apart from that hereditary battle 
 
 Which needs his sword ? Castilian gentlemen 
 
 Choose not their task — they choose to do it well. 
 
 The time is great, and greater no man's trnst 
 Thau his who keeps the fortress for his king, 
 AVearing great honors as some delicate robe 
 Brocaded o'er with names 'twere sin to tarnish. 
 Born do la Cerda, Calatravan kniglit. 
 Count of Segura, fourth Duke of Bedmar, 
 Oftshoot from that high stock of old Castile 
 Whose topmost branch is proud Jledina Cell — 
 Such titles with their blazonry are his 
 Who keeps this fortress, its sworn governor. 
 Lord of the valley, master of the toAvu, 
 Commanding whom he will, himself commanded 
 By Christ his Lord who sees him from the Cross 
 And from bright heaven where the Mother pleads; — 
 By good Saint James upon the milk-white steed, 
 Who leaves his bliss to fight for chosen Spain ; — 
 By the dead gaze of all his ancestors; — 
 And by the mystery of his Spanish blood 
 Charged with the awe and glories cf the past. 
 
 See now with soldiers in his front and rear 
 lie winds at evening through the narrow streets 
 That toward the Castle gate climb devious: 
 His charger, of fine Andalnsian stock. 
 An Indian beauty, black but delicate. 
 Is conscions of the herald trnmpet note, 
 The gathering glances, and familiar ways 
 That lead fast homeward: she forgets fatigne, 
 And at the light touch of the master's spur 
 Thrills with the zeal to bear him royally. 
 Arches her neck and clambers up the stones 
 As if disdainful of the difficult steep. 
 Night-black the charger, black the rider's plnme. 
 But all between is bright with morning hues — 
 Seems ivory and gold and deep blue gems. 
 And starry flashing steel and pale vermilion. 
 All set iu jasper: on his surcoat white 
 Glitter the sword-belt and the jewelled hilt, 
 Red on the back and breast the holy cross, 
 And 'twixt the helmet and the soft-spun white 
 Thick tawny wavelets like the lion's mane 
 Turn backward from his brow, pale, wide, erect. 
 Shadowing blue eyes — blue as the rain-washed sky 
 
104 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 That braced the early stem of Gothic kings 
 
 He claims for aucestry. A goodly knight, 
 
 A uoble caballero, broad of chest 
 
 And long of limb. So much the August sun, 
 
 Now iu the west but shooting half its Ijeams 
 
 Past a dark rocky profile toward the plain, 
 
 At windings of the path across the slope 
 
 Makes suddenly luminous for all who see: 
 
 For women smiling from the terraced roofs ; 
 
 For boys that prone ou trucks with head up-propped 
 
 Lazy and curious, stare irreverent ; 
 
 For men who make obeisance with degrees 
 
 Of good-will shading towards servility, 
 
 Where good-will ends and secret fear begins 
 
 And curses, too, low-muttered through the teeth, 
 
 Explanatory to the God of Shera. 
 
 Five, grouped within a whitened tavern court 
 Of Moorish fashion, where the trellised vines 
 Purpling above their heads make odorous shade, 
 Note through the open door the passers-by, 
 Getting some rills of novelty to speed 
 The lagging stream of talk and help the wine. 
 'Tis Christian to drink wine : whoso denies 
 His flesh at bidding save of Holy Church, 
 Let him beware and take to Christian sins 
 Lest he be taxed with Moslem sanctity. 
 
 The souls are five, the talkers only three. 
 (No time, most tainted by wrong faith and rule. 
 But holds some listeners and dumb animals.) 
 \ Mink Host is one: he with the well-arched nose, 
 
 Soft-eyed, fat-handed, loving men for nought 
 But liis own humor, patting old and young 
 Upon the back, and mentioning the cost 
 With confidential blandness, as a tax 
 That he collected much against his will 
 From Spaniards who were all his bosom frieuds : 
 Warranted Christian — else how keep an inn. 
 Which calling asks true faith? though like his wiuo 
 Of cheaper sort, a trifle over-new. 
 His father was a convert, chose the chrism 
 As men choose physic, kept his chimney warm 
 With smokiest wood upon a Saturday, 
 Counted his gains and grudges on a chaplet. 
 And crossed himself asleep for fear of spies; 
 Trusting the God of Israel would see 
 'Twas Christian tyranny that made him base. 
 Our host his son was born ten years too soon, 
 Had heard his mother call him Ei)hraim, 
 Knew holy things from common, thought it sin 
 To feast on days when Israel's children mourned. 
 So had to be converted with his sire, 
 To doff the awe he learned as Ephraim, 
 And suit his manners to a Christian name. 
 But infant awe, that unborn moving thing, 
 Dies with what nourished it, can never rise 
 From the dead womb and walk and seek new pasture. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 105 
 
 Tlius baptism seemed to him a merry game 
 
 Not tried before, all sacraments a mode 
 
 Of doiug homage for one's property, 
 
 Aud all religious a (ineer human whim 
 
 Or else a vice, according to degrees : 
 
 As, 'tis a whim to like your chestnuts hot, 
 
 Burn your own mouth and draw your face awry, 
 
 A vice to pelt frogs with them— animals 
 
 Content to take life coolly. And Lorenzo 
 
 Would have all lives made easy, even lives 
 
 Of spiders and inquisitors, yet still 
 
 Wishing so well to flies aud Moors and Jews 
 
 He rather wished the others easy death ; 
 
 For loving all men clearly was deferred 
 
 Till all men loved each other. Such mine Host, 
 
 With chiselled smile caressing Seneca, 
 
 The solemu mastiff leaning on his knee. 
 
 His right-hand guest is solemn as the dog, 
 
 Square-faced and massive : Blasoo is his name, 
 
 A prosperous silversmith from Aragon ; 
 
 In speech not silvery, rather tuued as notes 
 
 From a deep vessel made of plenteous iron. 
 
 Or some great bell of slow but certain swing 
 
 That, if you only wait, will tell the hour 
 
 As well as flippant clocks that strike iu haste 
 
 And set ofl" chiming a superfluous tune — 
 
 Like Juan there, the spare man with the Inte, 
 
 Who makes you dizzy with his rapid tongue, 
 
 Whirring athwart your mind with comment swift 
 
 On speech you would have fiuished by aud by, 
 
 Shooting your bird for you while you are loading. 
 
 Cheapening your wisdom as a pattern known, 
 
 Woven by any shuttle on demand. 
 
 Can never sit quite still, too: sees a wasp 
 
 And kills it with a movement like a flash ; 
 
 Whistles low notes or seems to thrum his lute 
 
 As a mere hyphen 'twixt two syllables 
 
 Of any steadier man ; walks up aud down 
 
 And suuS's the orange flowers and shoots a pea 
 
 To hit a streak of light let through the awning. 
 
 Has a queer face: eyes large as plums, a nose 
 
 Small, round, uneven, like a bit of wax 
 
 Melted and cooled by chance. Thin-tiugered, lithe, 
 
 And as a squirrel noiseless, startling men 
 
 Only by quickness. In his speech aud look 
 
 A touch of graceful wildness, as of things 
 
 Not trained or tamed for uses of the world; 
 
 Most like the Fauns that roamed in days of old 
 
 About the listening whispering woods, and shared 
 
 The subtler sense of sylvan ears aud eyes 
 
 Uudulled by scheming thought, yet joined the rout 
 
 Of men aud women on the festal days. 
 
 And played the syrinx too, aud knew love's pains, 
 
 Turning their anguish into melody. 
 
 For Juan was a minstrel still, in times 
 
 When minstrelsy was held a thing outworn. 
 
106 THE SPAiqiSH GYPSY. 
 
 Spirits seem buried and their epitaph 
 
 Is writ in Latin by severest \>enf, 
 
 Yet still they flit above the trodden grave 
 
 Aud find new bodies, animating them 
 
 In quaint and ghostly way wiih antique souls. 
 
 So Juan was a troubadour revived, 
 
 Freshening life's dusty road with babbling rills 
 
 Of wit and song, living 'mid harnessed men 
 
 With limbs ungalled by armor, ready so 
 
 To soothe them weary, and to cheer them sad. 
 
 Guest at the board, companion in the camp, 
 
 A crystal mirror to the life around, 
 
 Flai^hing the comment keen of simple fact 
 
 Defined in words; lending brief lyric voice 
 
 To grief and sadness ; hardly taking note 
 
 Of dififereuce betwixt his own aud others" ; 
 
 But rather singing as a listener 
 
 To the deep moans, tlie cries, the wild strong joys 
 
 Of universal Nature, old yet young. 
 
 Such Jnan, the third talker, shimmering bright 
 
 As butterfly or bird with quickest life. 
 
 The silent Eoldan has his brightness too, 
 
 Bnt only in his spangles and rosettes. 
 
 His parti-colored vest aud crimson hose 
 
 Are dulled with old Valencian dust, his eyes 
 
 With straining fifty years at gilded balls 
 
 To catch them dancing, or with brazen looks 
 
 At men and women as he made his jests 
 
 Some thousand times and watched to count the pence 
 
 His wife was gathering. His olive face 
 
 Has an old writing in it, characters 
 
 Stamped deep by grins that had ao merriment, 
 
 The soul's rnde mark proclaiming all its blank; 
 
 As on some faces that have long grown old 
 
 In lifting tapers up to forms obscene 
 
 On ancient walls and chuckling with false zest 
 
 To please my lord, who gives the larger fee 
 
 For that hard industry in apishness. 
 
 Roldan would gladly never laugh again ; 
 
 Pensioned, he would be grave as any ox, 
 
 And having beans and crumbs and oil secured 
 
 Would borrow no man's jokes for eveiniore. 
 
 'Tis harder now because his wife is gone. 
 
 Who had quick feet, and danced to ravishment 
 
 Of every ring jewelled with Spanish eyes. 
 
 But died and left this boy, lame from his birth. 
 
 And sad and obstinate, though when he will 
 
 He sings God-taught such marrow-thrilling strains 
 
 As seem the very voice of dying Spring, 
 
 A flute-like wail that mourns the blossoms gone. 
 
 And sinks, and is not, like their fragrant breath, , 
 
 With fine transition on the trembling air. 
 
 He sits as if imprisoned by some fear, 
 
 Motionless, with wide eyes that seem not made 
 
 For hungry glancing of a twelve-year'd boy 
 
 To mark the living thing that he could tease, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 107 
 
 But for the gaze of some primeval saduess 
 Dark twiu with light in the creative raj-. 
 This little Pablo has his spaugles too, 
 Aud large rosettes to hide his poor left foot 
 Roiiiuled like any hoof (his mother thought 
 God willed it so to puuisli all her sins). 
 
 I said the souls were five— besides the dog. 
 
 But there was still a sixth, wiih wrinkled face. 
 
 Grave aud disgusted with all merriment 
 
 Not less than Koklau. It is Aijniisai., 
 
 The experienced monkey wlio performs the tricks. 
 
 Jumps through the hoops, and carries round the hat. 
 
 Once full of sallies and impromptu feats. 
 
 Now cautious not to light on auglit that's new. 
 
 Lest he be whipped to do it o'er again 
 
 From A to Z, and make the gentry laugh: 
 
 A misanthropic monkey, gray and grim, 
 
 Bearing a lot that has no remedy 
 
 For want of concert in the monkey triba 
 
 We see the company, above their heads 
 The braided matting, golden as ripe corn, 
 Stretched in a curving strip close by the grapes, 
 Elsewhere rolled back to greet the cooler sky ; 
 A fountain near, vase-shapen and broad-lipped, , 
 Where timorous birds alight with tiny feet. 
 And hesitate and bend wise listening ears. 
 And fly away again with undipped Ijeak. 
 On the stone floor the juggler's heaped-up goods, 
 Carpet and hoops, viol and tambourine, 
 Where Auuibal sits perched with brows severe, 
 A serious ape whom none take seriously, 
 Obliged in this fool's world to earn his nuts 
 By hard buffoonery. We see them all. 
 And hear their talk — the talk of Spanish men. 
 With Southern intonation, vowels turned 
 Caressingly between the consonants. 
 Persuasive, willing, with such intervals 
 As music borrows from the wooing birds, 
 That plead with subtly curving, sweet descent — 
 Aud yet can quarrel, as these Spaniards can. 
 
 Ju.vN {near the doorway). 
 
 You hear the trumpet? There's old Ramon's blast. 
 
 No bray but his can shake the air so well. 
 
 He takes his trumpeting as solemnly 
 
 As angel charged to wake the dead; thinks war 
 
 Was made for trumpeters, and their gieat art 
 
 Made solely for themselves who understand it. 
 
 His features all have shaped themselves to blowing. 
 
 And when his trumpet's bagged or left at home 
 
 He seems a chattel in a broker's booth, 
 
 A spoutless watering-can, a promise to pay 
 
 No sum particular. O line old Ramon ! 
 
 The blasts get louder and the clattering hoofs; 
 
 They crack the ear as well as heaven's thunder 
 
 For owls that listen blinking. There's the banner. 
 
108 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Host {joining him : the others follow to the door). 
 The Duke has finished recouiioitriDg, then? 
 We shall hear news. They say he means a sally- 
 Would strike El Zagal's Moors as they i)ush home 
 Like ants with booty heavier thau themselves; 
 Then, joined by other nobles with their bands, 
 Lay siege to Guadix. Juan, you're a bird 
 That nest within the Castle. What say you ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Nought, I say nought. 'Tis but a toilsome game 
 
 To bet upon that feather Policy, 
 
 And guess where after twice a hundred puflfs 
 
 'Twill catch another feather crossing it: 
 
 Guess how the Pope will blow and how the king; 
 
 What force my lady's fan has ; how a cough 
 
 Seizing the Padre's throat may raise a gust. 
 
 And how the queen may sigh the feather down. 
 
 Such catching at imaginary threads, 
 
 Such spinning twisted air, is not for me. 
 
 If I should want a game, I'll rather bet 
 
 On racing snails, two large, slow, lingering snails — 
 
 No spurring, equal weights— a chance sublime, 
 
 Notliing to guess at, pure uncertainty. 
 
 Here comes the Duke. They give but feeble shouts. 
 
 Aud some look sour. 
 
 Host. 
 That spoils a fair occasion. 
 Civility brings no conclusions with it. 
 And cheerful Vivas make the moments glide 
 Instead of grating like a rusty wheel. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 O they are dullards, kick because they're stung, 
 Aud bruise a friend to show thoy hate a wasp. 
 
 HoaT. 
 
 Best treat your wasp with delicate regard ; 
 
 When the right moment comes say, "By your leave," 
 
 Use your heel— so ! and make an end of him. 
 
 That's if we talked of wasps ; but our young Duke^ 
 
 Spain holds not a more gallant gentleman. 
 
 Live, live, Duke Silva! 'Tis a rare smile he has, 
 
 But seldom seen. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 A true hidalgo's smile. 
 That gives much favoi-, but beseeches none- 
 His smile is sweetened by his gravity: 
 It comes like dawn upon Sierra snows. 
 Seeming more generous for the coldness gone; 
 Breaks from the calm— a sudden opening flower 
 On dark deep waters : now a chalice shut, 
 A mystic shrine, the next a fnll-rayed star. 
 Thrilling, pulse-quickening as a living word. 
 I'll make a song of that. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 109 
 
 Host. 
 
 Prithee, not now. 
 You'll fall to staring like t\ -wooden saint, 
 And wag your head as it were set on wires. 
 Here's fresh sherbet. Sit, be good company. 
 {To Blasoo) You are a stranger, sir, and cannot know 
 How our Duke's nature suits his princely frame. 
 
 Bl.ASOO. 
 
 Nay, but I marked his spurs— chased cunningly! 
 
 A duke should know good gold and silver plate; 
 
 Then he will know the quality of mine. 
 
 I've ware for tables and for altars too, 
 
 Onr Lady in all sizes, crosses, bells : 
 
 He'll need such weapons full as much as swords 
 
 If he would capture any Moorish town. 
 
 For, let me tell you, when a mosque is cleansed . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 
 The demons fly so thick from sound of bells 
 
 And smell of incense, you may see the air 
 
 Streaked with them as with smoke. Why, they are spirits: 
 
 You may well think how crowded they must IJe 
 
 To make a sort of haze. ] 
 
 Bl.ASOO. 
 
 I knew not that. 
 Still, they're of smoky nature, demons are; 
 And since you say so — well, it proves the more 
 The need of bells and censers. Ay, your Duke 
 Sat well : a true hidalgo. I can judge — 
 Of harness specially. I saw the camp. 
 The royal camp at Velez Malaga. 
 'Twas like the court of heaven — such liveries! 
 And torches carried by the score at night 
 Before the nobles. Sirs, I made a dish 
 To set an emerald in would fit a crown. 
 For Don Alonzo, lord of Aguilar. 
 Your Duke's no whit behind him in his mien 
 Or harness either. But you seem to say 
 The people love him not. 
 
 Host. 
 
 They've nought against him. 
 But certain winds will make men's temper bad. 
 When the Solano blows hot veuomed breath, 
 It acts upon men's knives : steel takes to stabbing 
 Which else, with cooler winds, were honest steel, 
 Cutting but garlic. There's a wind just now 
 Blows right from Seville — 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 Ay, you mean the wind . . . 
 Yes, yes, a wind that's rather hot . . . 
 
 Host. 
 
 With fagots. 
 
110 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 A wind that suits not with oiir townsmen's blood. 
 
 Abram, 'tis said, objected to be scorched, 
 
 And, as the learned Aiabs vouch, he gave 
 
 The autipatliy in full to Lshniael. 
 
 'Tis true, these patriarchs had their oddities. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Their oddities ? I'm of their mind, I know. 
 
 Though, as to Abraham and Ishmaiil, 
 
 I'm an old Christian, and owe nought to them 
 
 Or any Jew among them. But I know 
 
 We made a stir in Saragossa— we : 
 
 The men of Aragon ring hard — true metal. 
 
 Sirs, I'm no friend to heresy, but then 
 
 A Christian's money is not safe. As how? 
 
 A lapsing Jew or any heretic 
 
 May owe me twenty ounces: suddenly 
 
 He's prisoned, su3"ers penalties — 'tis well : 
 
 If men will not believe, 'tis good to make them, 
 
 But let the penalties fall on them alone. 
 
 The Jew is stripped, his goods are confiscate ; 
 
 Now, where, I pray you, go my twenty ounces ? 
 
 God knows, and perhaps the King may, but not I. 
 
 And more, ray son may lose his young wife's dowei' 
 
 Because 'twas promised since her father's soul 
 
 Fell to wrong thinking. IIow was I to know? 
 
 I could but use my sense and cross myself. 
 
 Christian is Christian— I give in — but still 
 
 Taxing is taxing, though you call it holy. 
 
 We Saragossans liked not this new tax 
 
 They call the — nonsense, I'm from Aragon! 
 
 I speak too bluntly. But, for Holy Church, 
 
 No man believes more. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Nay, sir, never fear. 
 Good Master Roldan here is no delator. 
 
 RoLDAN (starting from a reverie). 
 
 You speak to me, sirs ? I perform to-night— 
 The Plafa Santiago. Twenty tricks, 
 All different. I dance, too. And the boy 
 Sings like a bird. I crave your patronage. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 Faith, you shall have it, sir. In travelling 
 I take a little freedom, and am gay. 
 You marked not what I said just now? 
 
 ROI.DAN. 
 
 I? no, 
 I pray your pardon. I've a twinging kuee, 
 That makes it hard to listen. You were saying? 
 
 Blasoo. 
 Nay, it was nought. {Aside to Host) Is it his deepness ? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. Ill 
 
 Host. 
 
 No. 
 He's deep in uotliiug but his poverty. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 But 'twas his poverty that made me thiuk . . . 
 
 Host. 
 
 His piety might wish to keep the feasts 
 As well as fasts. No fear ; he hears not. 
 
 Bl.ASCO. 
 
 Good. 
 I speak my mind about the penalties, 
 But, look you, I'm against assassination. 
 You know my meaning — Master Arbues, 
 The Grand Inquisitor in Aragou. 
 I knew nought — paid no copper towards the deed. 
 But I was there, at prayers, within the church. 
 How could I help it? Why, the saints were there, 
 And looked straight on above the altars. I . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 Looked carefully another way. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 Why, at my beads, 
 'Twas after midnight, and the canons all 
 Were chanting matins. I was not in church 
 To gape and stare. I saw the martyr kneel : 
 I never liked the look of hiin alive- 
 He was no martyr then. I thought he made 
 An ugly shadow as he crept athwart 
 The bands of light, then passed within the gloom 
 By the broad pillar. 'Twas iu our great Seo, 
 At Saragossa. The pillars tower so large 
 You cross yourself to see them, lest white Death 
 Should hide behind their dark. And so it was. 
 I looked away again and told my beads 
 Unthinkingly ; but still a man has ears ; 
 And right across the chanting came a sound 
 As if a tree had crashed above the roar 
 Of some great torrent. So it seemed to me; 
 For when you listen long and shut your eyes 
 Small sounds get thunderous. He had a shell 
 Like any lobster : a good iron suit 
 From top to toe beneath the innocent serge. 
 That made the tell-tale sound. But then came shrieks. 
 The chanting stopped and turned to rushing feet, 
 And iu the midst lay Master Arbues, 
 Felled like an ox. 'Twas wicked butchery. 
 Some honest men had hoped it would have scared 
 The Inquisition out of Aragon. 
 'Twas money thrown away — I would say, crime- 
 Clean thrown away. 
 
 Host. 
 
 That was a pity now. 
 Next to a missing thrust, what irks me most 
 
lia THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Is a neat well-aimed stroke that kills your man, 
 
 Yet ends in mischief — aa iu Aragou. 
 
 It was a lesson to our people here. 
 
 Else there's a monk within our city walls, 
 
 A holy, high-born, stern Dominican, 
 
 They might have made the great mistake to kill. 
 
 Bl.ASCO. 
 
 "What ! is he ? . . . 
 
 Host. 
 Yes ; a Master Arbucs 
 Of finer quality. The Prior here 
 And uncle to our Duke. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 He will want plate : 
 A holy pillar or a crucifix. 
 But, did you say, he was like Arbucs ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 As a black eagle with gold beak and claws 
 
 Is like a raven. Even in his cowl. 
 
 Covered from head to foot, the Prior is known 
 
 From all the black herd round. When he uncovers 
 
 And stands white-frocked, with ivory face, his eyes 
 
 Black-gleaming, black his coronal of hair 
 
 Like shredded jasper, he seems less a man 
 
 With struggling aims, than pure incarnate Will, 
 
 Fit to subdue rebellious nations, nay. 
 
 That human flesh he breathes in, charged with passiWC 
 
 Which quivers in his nostril and his lip, 
 
 But disciplined by long in-dwelling will 
 
 To silent labor in the yoke of law. 
 
 A truce to thy comparisons, Lorenzo ! 
 
 Thine is no subtle nose for diifereuce ; 
 
 'Tis dulled by feigning and civility. 
 
 HOBT. 
 
 Pooh, thou'rt a poet, crazed with finding words 
 
 May stick to things and seem like qualities. 
 
 No pebble is a pebble in thy hands: 
 
 'Tis a moon out of work, a barren egg. 
 
 Or twenty things that no man sees but thee. 
 
 Our Father Jsidor's — a living saint, 
 
 And that is heresy, some townsmen think : 
 
 Saints should be dead, according to the Church. 
 
 My mind is this: the Father is so holy 
 
 'Twere sin to wish his soul detained from bliss. 
 
 Easy translation to the realms above, 
 
 The shortest journey to the seventh heaven, 
 
 Is what I'd never grudge him. 
 
 Br.ASOO. 
 
 Piously said. 
 Look you, I'm dutiful, obey the Church 
 When there's no help for it : I mean to say, 
 When Pope and Bishop and all customers 
 Order alike. But there be bishops now, 
 
THE SPAKJSn GYPSY. He 
 
 And weie rtfo"etimc, who have held it wrong, 
 
 This hurry to convert the Jews. As how? 
 
 Youi' Jew p;iys tribnte to the bishop, say. 
 
 That's good, and must please God, to see the Chnich 
 
 Maintained in ways that ease the Christian's piirse. 
 
 Convert the Jew, and Where's the tribute, jiray ? 
 
 He lapses, too: 'tis slippery work, conversion: 
 
 And then the holy taxing carries off 
 
 His money at one sweep. No tribute morel 
 
 He's penitent or burnt, and there's an end. 
 
 Now 2uess which pleases God . . . 
 
 Jlan. 
 
 Whether he likes 
 A well-burnt Jew or well-fed bishop best. 
 
 [While Juan put this problem theologic 
 Entered, with resonant step, another guest — 
 A soldier: all his keenness in his sword, 
 His eloquence in scars upon his cheek. 
 His virtue iii much slaying of the Moor : 
 With brow well-creased in horizontal folds 
 To save the space, as having nought to do: 
 Lips prone to whistle whi.^perlngly — no tuue. 
 But trotting rhytliin: meditative eyes, 
 Most often ti.xed upon his legs and sjjurs: 
 Styled Captain Lopez.] 
 
 LOTEZ. 
 
 At your service, sirs. 
 
 JlI.VN. 
 
 Ha, Lopez? Why, thou hast a face full-charged 
 As any herald's. What news of the wars? 
 
 LOI'EZ. 
 
 Such news as is most bitter on my tongue. 
 
 JCAN. 
 
 Then spit it forth. 
 
 Host. 
 Sir, Captain: here's a cup, 
 Fresh-filled. What news? 
 
 Lorr.z. 
 'Tis bad. We make no sally: 
 We sit still here and wait wluite'er the Moor 
 Shall please to do. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Some townsmen will be glad. 
 
 Loi'KZ. 
 
 Glad, will they be? But I'm not glad, not I, 
 Nor any Spanish soldier of clean blood. 
 But the Duke's wisdom is to wait a siege 
 Instead of laying one. Therefore— meantime — 
 lie will be married straightway. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ha, ha, ha I 
 Thy speech is like an hour-glass; turn it down 
 20 F 
 
114 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 The othei- wny, 'twill stand as well, and sny 
 Tlie Duke will wed, therefoie he waits a siege. 
 But what say Don Diego and the Prior? 
 The holy uncle and the fieiy Don? 
 
 LorEZ. 
 
 there be sayings running all abroad 
 
 As thick as nuts o'ertnrued. No man need lack. 
 Some say, 'twas letters changed the Duke's in'.eiit: 
 From Malaga, says Bias. From Rome, says Quintiu. 
 From spies at Guadix, says Sebastian. 
 Some say, 'tis all a pretext — say, the Duke 
 Is but a lapdog hanging on a skirt. 
 Turning his eyeballs upward like a monk: 
 'Twas Don Diego said that— so says Bias ; 
 Last week, he said . . . 
 
 JU.VN. 
 
 O do without the "said!" 
 Open thy mouth and pause in lieu of it. 
 
 1 had as lief be pelted with a pea 
 Irregularly iu the self-same spot 
 
 As hear such iteration without rule, 
 Such torture of nncertaiu certainty. 
 
 Lori;/. 
 Santiago I Juan, thou ait hard to jdease. 
 I speak not for my own delighting, I. 
 I can be silent, I. 
 
 B I, A SCO. 
 
 Nay, sir, speak on '. 
 I like your matter well. I deal in plate. 
 This wedding touches me. Wlu) is the bride? 
 
 Loncz. 
 One that some say the Duke does ill to wed. 
 One that his mother reared— God rest her soul! — 
 Duchess Diana— she who died last year. 
 A bird picked np away from any nest. 
 Her name — the Duchess gave it — is Fedahna. 
 No harm iu that. But the Duke stoops, they say, 
 In wedding her. And that's the simple truth. 
 
 Ju.VN. 
 
 Thy simple truth is but a false opinion: 
 Tlie simple truth of asses who believe 
 Their thistle is the very best of food. 
 Fie, Lopez, tliou a Spaniard with a sword 
 Dreamest a Spanish noble ever stoops 
 By doing honor to the maid he loves ! 
 lie stoops alone when he dishonors her. 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 Nay, I said nought against her. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Better not. 
 Else I would challenge thee to figlit with wits, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 115 
 
 And spear thee thi-ough and tlu-ongli ere thou couldst draw 
 
 The bluntest word. Ye?, yes, coiissnlt thy spurs : 
 
 Spurs are a sign of kniglithood, and should tell thee 
 
 That knightly love is blent with reverence 
 
 As heavenly air is blent with heavenly blue. 
 
 Don Silva's heart beats to a loyal tune: 
 
 He wills no highest-born Castilian dame, 
 
 liotrothed to highest noble, should be held 
 
 ]More sacred than Pedalma. He enshrines 
 
 Her virgin image for the general awe 
 
 And for his own — will guard her from the w.uld, 
 
 Nay, his profaner self, lest he should lose 
 
 The place of his religion. He does well. 
 
 Nought can come closer to the poet's strain. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Or farther from his practice, Juan, eh ? 
 If thou'rt a sample? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Wrong there, my Lorenzo ! 
 Touching Fedalma the poor poet plays 
 A finer part even than the noble Duke. 
 
 Lopez. 
 By making ditties, singing with round mouth 
 Likest a crowing cock? Thou meanest that? 
 
 JCAN. 
 
 Lopez, take physic, thou art getting ill, 
 
 Growing descriptive; 'tis unnatural. 
 
 I mean, Don Silva's love expects reward. 
 
 Kneels with a heaven to come; but the poor poet 
 
 Wors'hips without reward, nor hopes to find 
 
 A heaven save in his worship. He adores 
 
 The sweetest woman for her sweetness' sake, 
 
 Joys in the love that was not born for him. 
 
 Because 'tis loviugness, as beggars joy, 
 
 Warming their naked limbs on wayside walls, 
 
 To hear a tale of princes and ihcii- glory. 
 
 There's a poor poet (poor, I mean, in coin) 
 
 Worships Fedalma with so true a love 
 
 That if her silken robe w-ere changed for rags, 
 
 .And she were driven out to stony wilds 
 
 Barefoot, a scorned wanderer, he would kiss 
 
 Her ragged garment's edge, and only ask 
 
 For leave to be her slave. Digest that, friend, 
 
 Or let it. lie upon thee as a weight 
 
 To check light thinking of Fedalma. 
 
 LOPKZ. 
 
 I? 
 
 I think no harm of her ; I thank the saints 
 I wear a sword and peddle not in thinking. 
 'Tis Father Marc(;s says she'll not confess 
 And loves not holy water; SMys her blood 
 Is infldel ; says the Duke's wedding her 
 Is union of light with darkness. 
 
116 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Tll!^ll ! 
 
 [Now Jiiaii — who by snatches touched Ids lute 
 
 With soft ari)eggio, like a whispered dream 
 
 Of sleeping mnsic, while he spoke of love — 
 
 In jesting anger at the soldier's talk 
 
 Thrummed loud and fast, then faster and uk re loud, 
 
 Till, as he answered "Tush I'" he struck a chord 
 
 Sudden as whip-crack close hy Lopez' ear. 
 
 Mine Host and Blasco smiled, the mastiff barked, 
 
 Roldau looked up and Annibal looked down. 
 
 Cautiously neutral in so new a case; 
 
 The l)oy raised longing, listening eyes that seemed 
 
 An exiled spirit's waiting in strained hope 
 
 Of voices coming from the distant land. 
 
 But Lopez bore the assault like any rock: 
 
 That was not what he drew his sword at— hi ! 
 
 He spoke with neck erect.] 
 
 If that's a hint 
 The company should ask thee for a song. 
 Sing, tlienl 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ay, Juan, sing, and jar uo more. 
 Something brand new. Thou'rt won't to make my car 
 A lest of novelties. Ilast thou anght fresh ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 As fresh as rain-droi)s. Here's a Caucioii 
 Springs like a tiny mnshrooni delicate 
 Out of the priest's foul scandal of Fedalma. 
 
 j;He preluded with querying intervals. 
 Rising, then falling just a semitone, 
 In minor cadence — sound with poised wing 
 Hovering and quiveiing towards the needed falL 
 Then in a voice that shook the willing air 
 With masculine vibiation sang this song. 
 
 Should I long that dark were fair t 
 
 Say, O aonrj ! 
 
 Lacks my lore atight, that I ishoiiUl long t 
 
 Dark the night, with breath all floio'rs, 
 
 A nd fender hroken voice that Jills 
 
 With ravi-ihment the lislemiig hours: 
 
 Whisperings, wuoings, 
 
 Liquid ri]ri.iles and soft ring-dove cooings 
 
 In low-toned rhythm that love's aclting stills. 
 
 Dark the mght. 
 
 Yet is slie bright, 
 
 For in her dark she brings the mystic star. 
 
 Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love. 
 
 From some itnknmcn afar. 
 
 O radiant Dark ! O darkly fostered ray ! 
 
 TJwu ha)<t a joy too deep for shallow Day. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 117 
 
 While Juan sans;, all roniiil tlie tavern conrt 
 
 Gathered a CDnslellation of hlack eyes. 
 
 Fat Lola leaned upon the balcony 
 
 With arms that miglit have pillowed Hercules 
 
 (Who built, 'tis known, the mightiest Spanish town-) ; 
 
 Tiiiii Alda's face, sad as a wasted passion. 
 
 Leaned o'er the nodding baby's; 'twixt the rails 
 
 The little Pepe showed liis two black beads, 
 
 His flat-ringed hair and small Semitic nose. 
 
 Complete and tiny as a new-born minnow ; 
 
 Patting his head and holding in her arms 
 
 The baby senior, stood Lorenzo's wife 
 
 All negligent, her kerchief discomposed 
 
 By little cmtches, woman's coquetry 
 
 Quite turned to mother's cares and sweet content. 
 
 These on the balcony, wliile at the door 
 
 Gazed the lank boys and lazy-shouldered men. 
 
 'Tis likely too the rats and insects peeped, 
 
 Being southern Spanish ready for a lounge. 
 
 Tlie singer smiled, as doubtless Orpheus smiled, 
 
 To see the animals both great and small. 
 
 The mountainous elephant and scampering mouse, 
 
 Held by the ears in decent audience ; 
 
 'J'hen, when mine host desired the strain once more. 
 
 He fell to preluding with rhythmic change 
 
 Of notes recurrent, soft as pattering drops 
 
 That fall from off the eaves in faery dance 
 
 When clouds are breaking; till at mcasuied pau.=e 
 
 He struck with strength, in rare responsive chords.] 
 
 Host. 
 
 Come, then, a gayer ballad, if thou wilt : 
 
 I quarrel not with change. What say you. Captain ? 
 
 Lopr.z. 
 
 All's one to me. I note no change of tune. 
 Not I, save in the ring of horses' hoofs. 
 Or in the drums and trumpets when they call 
 To action or retreat. I ne'er could see 
 The good of singing. 
 
 Bt.ASCO. 
 
 Why, it passes time — 
 Saves j'ou from getting over-wise: that's good. 
 For, look yon, fools are merry here below, 
 Yet they will go to heaven all the same, 
 Having the sacraments; and, look you, heaven 
 Is a long holiday, and solid men. 
 Used to much business, might be ill at ease 
 Not liking pl.ay. And so, in travelling, 
 I shape myself betimes to idleness 
 And take fools' pleasures . . . 
 
 Host. 
 • Hark, the song begins ! 
 
118 THE SPANISH GYl'SY. 
 
 Jhan {sings). 
 Maiden, crowned with glossi/ blaclcnesii. 
 
 Lithe as panther forest-roaming. 
 
 Long-armed naiad, when she dances. 
 
 On a stream of ether floating — 
 
 Bright, bright Fedahna! 
 
 Form all curves like softness drifted. 
 Wave-kissed marble roundlg dinrpling. 
 
 Far-off music slowly winged, 
 Gently rising, gently sinking — 
 
 Bright, O bright Fedahna ! 
 
 Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf, 
 Cloud high-born in noonday spotless. 
 
 Sudden perfect as the dew-bead, 
 Gem of earth and sky begotten — 
 
 Bright, bright Fedalma! 
 
 Beauty has no mortal father. 
 
 Holy light her form engendered 
 Out of tremor, yearning, gladness. 
 
 Presage sweet and joy remembered — 
 Child of Light, Fedalma .' 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 Failh, a good song, snug to a stirring tnne. 
 I like the words returning in a round ; 
 It gives a sort of sense. Auotlier sucli 1 
 
 RoT.iiAM {rising). 
 
 Sirs, yon will hear my boy. 'Tis very hard 
 When gentles sing fur nought to all the town. 
 How can a poor man live? And now 'tis time 
 I go to the Plaja — who will give me pence 
 When he can hear hidalgos and give nought? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 True, friend. Be pacified. I'll sing no more. 
 Go thou, and we will follow. Never fear. 
 My voice is common as the ivy-leaves, • 
 Plucked in all seasons— bears no price ; thy boy's 
 Is like the almond blossoms. Ah, he's lame ! 
 
 Host. 
 
 Load him not heavily. Here, Pedro! help. 
 Go wiih them to the Plaja, take the hoops. 
 The sights will pay thee. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 I'll be there anon, 
 And set the fashion with a good white coiu. 
 But let us see as well as hear. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ay, prithee. 
 Some tricks, a dance. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 119 
 
 Bl.ASCO. 
 
 Yes, 'tis more rational. 
 
 RoLDAN (turning round with the bundle and monkeii on his i<houlders). 
 
 You sliall see all, sirs. There's no man in Spain 
 Knows his art better. I've a twinginy; knee 
 Oft hinders dancing, and tlie boy is lame. 
 But no man's monkey has more tricks than mine. 
 
 [At this high praise the gloomy Annibal, 
 
 Mournful professor of higli drollery. 
 
 Seemed to look gloomier, and the Utile troop 
 
 Went slowly out, escorted fiom the door 
 
 By all the idlers. From the balcony 
 
 Slowly subsided the black radiance 
 
 Of agate eyes, and broke in chattering sounds. 
 
 Coaxings and trampings, and the small hoarse tqueak 
 
 Of Pepe's reed. And our group talked again.] 
 
 Host. 
 I'll get this juggler, if he quits him well, 
 An audience here as choice as can be lured. 
 For me, when a poor devil does his best, 
 'Tis my delight to soothe his soul with praise. 
 What though the best be bad ? remains the good 
 Of throwing food to a lean hungry dog. 
 I'd give up the best jugglery in life 
 To sec a miserable juggler ))leased. 
 But that's ray humor. Crowds are malcontent 
 As cruel as the Holy . . . Shall we go ? 
 All of us now together? 
 
 LOPHZ. 
 
 %Yel!, not I. 
 I may be there anon, but first I go 
 To the lower prison. There is strict command 
 That all our Gypsy prisoners shall to-niglu 
 Be lodged within the fort. They've foiged enough 
 Of balls and bullets— used up all the metal. 
 At morn to-morrow they must carry stones 
 Up the south tower. 'Tis a tine stalwart batul. 
 Fit fur the hardest tasks. Some say, the queen 
 Would have the Gypsies banished with the Jews. 
 Some say, 'twere belter harness them for work. 
 They'd feed on any filth and save the Spaniard. 
 Some say — but I must go. 'Twill soon be time 
 To head the escort. We shall meet again. 
 
 Bl..\K0O. 
 
 Go, sir, \vith God (exit Lupcz). A very iiro];cr nian, 
 
 And soldierly. But, for this banishment 
 
 Some men are hot on, it ill jileases me. 
 
 The Jews, now (sirs, if any Christian here 
 
 Had Jews for ancestors, I blame him not; 
 
 We cannot all be Goths of Aragon) — 
 
 Jews are not fit for heaven, but on earth 
 
 They are nmst useful. 'Tis the same with mules. 
 
320 TIIK SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Horses, or oxoii, oi' with any pig 
 
 Except Saint Anthony's. Tliey aie useful hero 
 
 (The Jew?, I mean) though they may go to hcU. 
 
 And, loolc yon, nscfiil t-iiis— why Providence 
 
 Sends Jews to do 'em, saving Christian sonls. 
 
 The very Gypsies, curbed and harnessed well, 
 
 Would make dranglit cattle, feed ini vermin loo, 
 
 ("ost less than grazing brutes, and turn l)ad food 
 
 To handsome carcasses; sweat at the fvr'^e 
 
 For little wages, and well drilled and Hogged 
 
 Might work like slaves, some Spawiards looking on. 
 
 I deal in plate, and an\ no jiriest to say 
 
 Wliat God may mean, save when he means plain sense; 
 
 ]}iit when he sent the Gypsies wandering 
 
 In punishment because they sheltered not 
 
 Our Lady fvnd Saint Joseph (and no doubt 
 
 Stole the small ass they lied with into Egypt), 
 
 Why send them here? 'Tis plain he saw the use 
 
 They'd be to Spaniards. Shall we banish them. 
 
 And tell God we know better? 'Tis a sin. 
 
 Tliey talk of vern^iu ; but, sirs, vermin large 
 
 Were made to eat the small, or else to eat 
 
 The i>oxions rubbish, and picked Gyi)sy men 
 
 Might serve in war to climb, be killed, and fall 
 
 To make an easy ladder. Once I saw 
 
 A Gypsy sorcerer, at a spriug and grasp 
 
 Kill (me who came to seize him: talk of strength ! 
 
 Nay, swiftness too, for while we crossed ourselves 
 
 lie vanished like— say like . . . 
 
 JlT/XN. 
 
 A swift black snake. 
 Or like a living nrrow fledged with will. 
 
 Bl,ASC>). 
 
 Wli.v, did yon see him, pray?* 
 
 JCAN. 
 
 Not then, but now. 
 As painters see the many in the one. 
 We have a Gypsy in Bednu'ir whose frame 
 Nature compacted with swch tine selection, 
 'Twonld yield a dozen types: all Spanish knighli?. 
 From hJm who slew Kolando at the pass 
 Up to the mighty Cid ; all deities, 
 Thronging Olympns in fine :vttitiides ; 
 Or all hell's heroes whom the poet saw 
 Tremble like lions, writhe like demigods. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Pause not yet, Juan — more hyperbole! 
 Shoot upward si ill and flare in meteors 
 Before thou sink to earlb in divU brown fact. 
 
 Bi.\sco. 
 
 Nay, give me fact, high shooting suits not me. 
 I never stare to look for soaring larks. 
 What is this Gypsy? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 121 
 
 Host. 
 Chieftain of a band, 
 The Moor's allies, whom lull a month ago 
 Oiii- Duke surprised and brought as captives home. 
 lie needed smiths, aud doubtless the brave Moor 
 Has missed some useful scouts and archers too. 
 Juan's fantastic pleasure is to watch 
 These Gypsies forging, and to hold discourse 
 With this great chief, whom he transfi>rms at will 
 To sage or warrior, and like the sun 
 Plays daily at fallacious alchemy. 
 Turns sand to gold and dewy sjjider-webs 
 To myriad rainbows. Still the sand is sand, 
 And still in sober shade you see the web. 
 'Tis so, I'll wager, with his Gypsy chief— 
 A piece of stalwart cunning, nothing moie. 
 
 Juan. 
 No! My invention had been all too poor 
 To frame this Zarca as I saw him first. 
 'Twas when they stripped him. In his chieftain's g« 
 Amidst his men he seemed a royal baib 
 Followed by wild-maned Andalusiau colts. 
 He had a necklace of a strange device 
 In finest gold of unknown workmanship, 
 But delicate as Moorish, fit to kiss 
 Fedalma's neck, and play in shadows there. 
 He wore flue mail, a rich-wrought sword and belt, 
 Aud on his surcoat black a broidered torch, 
 A pine-branch flaming, grasped by two dark hands. 
 Hut when they stripped him of his ornaments 
 It was the baubles lost their grace, not he. 
 His eyes, his mouth, his nostril, nil inspired 
 With scorn that mastered utterance of scorn, 
 With power to check all rnge until it turned 
 To ordered force, unleashed on chosen prey — 
 It seemed the soul within him made his limbs 
 And made them grand. The baubles were all gone. 
 He stood the more a king, when bared to man. 
 
 Bl.ASOO. 
 
 Maybe. But nakedness is bad for trade. 
 And is not decent. Well-wrought metal, sir. 
 Is not a bauble. Had you seen the camp, 
 The royal camp at Velez Malaga, 
 Ponce de Leon and the other dukes, 
 The king himself and all his thousand knights 
 For bodyguard, 'twould not have left you breath 
 To praise a Gypsy thus. A man's a man ; 
 But when yon see a king, you see the work 
 Of many thousand men. King Ferdinand 
 Bears a fine presence, and hath proper limbs; 
 But what though he were shrunken as a relic? 
 You'd see the gold and gems that cased him o'er, 
 And all the pages round him in brocade. 
 And all the lords, themselves a sort of kings, 
 20* F* 
 
i32 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Doiug him reverence. That strikes au awe 
 luto a common man — especially 
 A judge of plate. 
 
 Host. 
 Faith, very wisely said. 
 Purge thy speech, Jiiaii. It is over-fnll 
 Of this same Gypsy. Praise the Catholic King. 
 And come now, let us see the juggler's skill. 
 
 The Placa Santiago. 
 
 'Tis daylight still, but now the goldeu cross 
 
 Uplifted by the angel on tlie dome 
 
 Stands rayless in calm color clear-defined 
 
 Against the northern blue; from turrets high 
 
 Tbe flitting splendor sinks witli folded wing 
 
 Dark-hid till morning, and the battlements 
 
 Wear soft relenting whiteness mellowed o'er 
 
 By summers generous and winters bland. 
 
 Now iu the east the distance casts its veil 
 
 And gazes with a deepening earnestness. 
 
 Tlie old rain-fretted mountains iu thair robes 
 
 Of shadow-broken gray ; the rounded hills 
 
 Eeddened with blood of Titans, whose huge limba, 
 
 Entombed within, feed full the hardy flesh 
 
 Of cactus green and blue broad-sworded aloes; 
 
 The cypress soaring black above the lines 
 
 Of white court-walls; the jointed sugar-canes 
 
 Pale-golden with their feathers motionless 
 
 In the warm quiet:— all thought-teaching form 
 
 Utters itself in tirm unshimmering hues. 
 
 For the great rock has screened the westering snn 
 
 That still on plains beyond streams vaporous gold 
 
 Among the branches; and within Bedmiir 
 
 Has come the time of sweet serenity 
 
 When color r,!ows unglittering, and the soul 
 
 Of visible things shows silent happiness. 
 
 As that of lovers trusting though apart. 
 
 Tlie ripe-cheeked fruits, the crimson-petalled flowers.' 
 
 The winged life that pausing seems a geni 
 
 Cunningly carven on the dark green leaf ; 
 
 The face of man with hues supremely blent 
 
 To difference line as of a voice 'mid sounds: — 
 
 Each lovely light-dipped thing seems to emerge 
 
 Flushed gravely from baptismal sacrament. 
 
 All beauteous existence rests, yet wakes, 
 
 Lies still, yet conscious, with clear open eyes 
 
 And gentle breath and mild suffiisc-d joy. 
 
 'Tis day, but day that falls like melody 
 
 Repeated on a string with graver tones — 
 
 Tones such as linger in a long farewell. 
 
 The Pla^a widens in the passive air — 
 The Plafa Santiago, where the church, 
 A mosque converted, shows an eyeless face 
 Red-checkered, faded, doing penance still— 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 123 
 
 Bearing with Moorish arch the imaged saint, 
 
 Apostle, baron, Spanish warrior, 
 
 Whose charger's hoofs trample the furbaned dead. 
 
 Whose banner with the Cross, the bloody sword 
 
 Flashes athwart the Moslem's glazing eye, 
 
 And mocks his trust in Allah who forsakes. 
 
 Up to the church the Plapa gently slopes, 
 
 In shape most like the pious palmer's shell, 
 
 Girdled with low white houses; high above 
 
 Tower the strong fortress and sharp-angled wall 
 
 And well-tlanked castle gate. From o'er the roofs, 
 
 And from the shadowed patios cool, there spreads 
 
 The breath of tlowers and aromatic leaves 
 
 Soothing the sense with bliss indefinite— 
 
 A baseless hope, a glad presentiment. 
 
 That curves the lip more sofily, tills tlie eye 
 
 With more indulgent beam. And so it soothes, 
 
 So gently sways the pulses of the crowd 
 
 Who make a zone about the ceutial spcit 
 
 Chosen by Roldan for his theatre. 
 
 Maids with arched eyebrows, delicate-pencilled, dark. 
 
 Fold their round arms below the kerchief full; 
 
 Men shoulder little girls; and grandames gray, 
 
 But muscular still, hold babies ou their arms; 
 
 While mothers kce)) the stout-legged boys in front 
 
 Against their skirts, as old Greek pictures show 
 
 The Glorious Mother with the Boy divine. 
 
 Youths keep the places for themselves, and roll 
 
 Large lazy eyes, and call recumbent dogs 
 
 (For reasons deep below the reach of thouglil). 
 
 The old men cough with purpose, wish to hint 
 
 Wisdom within that cheapens jugglery, 
 
 Maintain a neutral air, and kuit their brows 
 
 In observation. None are quarrelsome, 
 
 Noisy, or very merry; for their blood 
 
 Moves slowly into fervor— they rejoice 
 
 Like those dark birds that sweep witli heavy wing, 
 
 Cheering their mates with melancholy cries. 
 
 But now the gilded balls begin to play 
 
 In rhythmic numbers, ruled by piaclice fine 
 
 Of eye and muscle : all the juggler's form 
 
 Consents harmonious in swift-gliding change. 
 
 Easily forward stretched or backward bent 
 
 With lightest step and movement circular 
 
 Round a 1nxed point: 'tis not the old Roldan now, 
 
 The dull, hard, weary, miserable man. 
 
 The soul all parched to languid appetite 
 
 And memory of desire: 'tis wondrous force 
 
 That moves in combination multiform 
 
 Towards conscious ends: 'tis Roldan glorious, 
 
 Holding all eyes like any meteor. 
 
 King of the moment save when Annibal 
 
 Divides the scene and i)lays the comic |)art, 
 
 Gazing with blinking glances up and down 
 
 Dancing and throwing notight and catching it, 
 
 With mimicry as merry as the tasks 
 
 Of penance-working shades in Tartarus. 
 
134 THE SPANISH GTPST. 
 
 Pablo stands passive, and a space apart. 
 Holding a viol, waiting for command. 
 Mnsic must not be wasted, l)nt must rise 
 As needed climax: and tlie audience 
 Is growing with late comers. Juan now. 
 And the familiar Host, 'with Blasco broad, 
 Find way made gladly to the inmost round 
 Studded with heads. Lorenzo knits the crowd 
 Into one family by showing all 
 Good-will and recognition. Juan casts 
 His large and raind-measuring glance aronnd ; 
 But— with faint quivering, transient as a breatb 
 Shaking a flame— his eyes make sudden pause 
 Where by the jutting angle of a street 
 Castle-ward leading, stands a female furni, 
 A kerchief pale square-drooping o'er the brow, 
 About lier shoulders dim brown serge — in garb 
 Most like a peasant woman from the vale. 
 Who might have lingered after marketing 
 To see the show. What thrill mysterious, 
 Kay-borne from orb to orb of conscious eyes, 
 The swift observing sweep of Juan's glance 
 Arrests an instant, then with prompting fresh 
 Diverts it lastingly? He turns at once 
 To watch the gilded balls, and nod and smile 
 At little round Pepita, blondest maid 
 In all Bedniar— Pepita, fair yet flecked. 
 Saucy of lip and nose, of hair ns red 
 As breasts of robins stepping on the snow— 
 Who stands in front with little tapping feet. 
 And baby-dimpled bands that hide enclosed 
 Those sleei)iiig crickets, the daik castanets. 
 But soon the gilded balls have ceased to play 
 And Anuibal is leai)ing through the hoops, 
 That turn to twelve, meeting him as he flies 
 In the swift circle. Shuddering he leaps, 
 • But with each spring flies swift and swifter still 
 
 To loud and louder shouts, while the great hoops 
 Are changed to smaller. Now the crowd is tiied. 
 The motion swift, the living victim urged. 
 The imminent failure and repeated scape 
 Hurry all pulses and intoxicate 
 With subtle wine of i)assion many-mixt. 
 'Tis all about a monkey leaping hard 
 Till near to gasping; but it serves as well 
 As the great circus or arena dire. 
 Where these are lacking. Roldan cautiously 
 Slackens the leaps and lays the hoops to rest. 
 And Annibal retires with reeling brain 
 And backward stagger— pity, he could not smile I 
 
 Now Roldau spreads his carpet, now he shows 
 
 Strange metamori)hoses: the pebble black 
 
 Changes to whitest egg within his hand ; 
 
 A staring rabbit, with retreating ears. 
 
 Is swallowed by the air and vanishes ; 
 
 He tells men's thoughts about the shaken dice, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Their secret cboosiiigs ; makes ihe white benns pass 
 
 With causeless act sublime from cup Id cup 
 
 Turued empty on the ground— diablerie 
 
 That pales tlie girls and puzzles all the boys: 
 
 These tricks are samples, hinting to the town 
 
 Roldan's great mat^tery. He tumbles next, 
 
 And Annibal is called to mock each feat 
 
 With arduous comicality and save 
 
 By rule romantic the great public mind 
 
 (And Roldan's body) from too serious strain. 
 
 But with the tumbling, lest the feats should fail, 
 
 And so need veiling in a haze of sound, 
 
 Pablo awakes the viol and the bow— ^ 
 
 The masculine bow that draws the woman's heart 
 
 From out the strings and makes them cry, ycaru, plead, 
 
 Tremble, exult, with mystic union 
 
 Of joy acute and tender suffering. 
 
 To play the viol and discreetly mis 
 
 Alternate with the bow's keen biting tones 
 
 The throb responsive to the finger's touch, 
 
 Was rarest skill that Pablo half had caught 
 
 From an old blind and wandering Catalan; 
 
 The other half was rather heritage 
 
 From treasure stored by generations past 
 
 In winding chambers of receptive sense. 
 
 The winged sounds exalt the thick-pressed crowd 
 
 With a new pulse in common, blending all 
 
 The gazing life into one larger soul 
 
 With dimly widened consciousness: as waves 
 
 In heightened movement tell of waves far off. 
 
 And the light changes ; westward stationed clouds, 
 
 The sun's ranged outposts, luminous message spread, 
 
 Rousing quiescent things to doff their shade 
 
 And show themselves as added audience. 
 
 Kow Pablo, letting fall the eager bow. 
 
 Solicits softer murmurs from the strings, 
 
 And now above them pours a wondrous voice 
 
 (Such as Greek reapers heard in Sicily) 
 
 With wounding rapture in it, like love's arrows ; 
 
 And clear upon clear air as colored gems 
 
 Dropped in a crystal cup of water pure, 
 
 Fa'l words of sadness, simple, lyrical: 
 
 Spring comes hither, 
 
 Jiiids the rose ; 
 Roses wither, 
 Sweet spring goes. 
 Ojald, would she carry me I 
 
 Smnyner soars — 
 
 Wide-winged day 
 White light pours. 
 Flics aivay. 
 Ojald, icould he carry me 1 
 
 125 
 
126 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Soft winds blow, 
 
 Westward born, 
 Onward go 
 Toward the morn. 
 Ojald, would they carry me! 
 
 Sioeet birds sing 
 
 O^er the graves, 
 Then take iving 
 
 O'er tlie waves. 
 Ojald, would they carry me ! 
 
 When the voice pansed and left the viol's note 
 To plead forsaken, 'twas as when a cloud 
 Hiding the sun, makes all the leaves and flowers 
 Shiver. But when with measured change the siiiiigs 
 Had taught regi-et new longing, clear again, 
 Welcome as ht)pc recovered, flowed the voice. 
 
 Warm, whispering through the slender olive leaves 
 Came to me a gentle sound. 
 Whispering of a secret found 
 
 In the clear sunshine 'nt id the golden sheaves : 
 
 Said if was sleeping for me in the morn. 
 Called it gladness, called it joy, 
 Drew me on — " Come hither, buy " — 
 
 To ichere the bine tvings rested on the cum. 
 
 I thought the gentle sound had whixpcred true- 
 Thought the little heaven mine, 
 Leaned to clutch the timig divine. 
 
 And saw the blue wings melt within the blue. 
 
 The long notes linger on the tremhling air. 
 
 With suhtle penetration enter all 
 
 The myriad corridors of the passionate soul. 
 
 Message-like spread, and answeiing aclion rouse. 
 
 Not angular jigs that warm the chilly limbs 
 
 In hoary northern mists, hut action curved 
 
 To soft andante strains pitched plaintively. 
 
 Vibrations sympathetic stir all limbs: 
 
 Old men live backward iu their dancing piime, 
 
 And move in memory; small legs and arms 
 
 With pleasant agitation purposeless 
 
 Go up and down like pretty fruits in gales. 
 
 All long iu common for the expressive act 
 
 Yet wait for it; as iu the olden time 
 
 Men waited for the bard to tell their thought. 
 
 "The dance!" "the dance!" is shouted all around. 
 
 Now Pablo lifts the bow, Pepita now, 
 
 Ready as bird that sees the sprinkled corn, 
 
 When Jnau nods and smiles, puts forth her foot 
 
 And lifts her arm to wake the castanets. 
 
 Juan advances, too, from out the ring 
 
 And bends to quit his lute; for now the scene 
 
 Is empty; Roldan weary, gathers pence, 
 
 Followed by Aunibal with purse and stick. 
 
 The carpet lies a colored isle uutrod. 
 
 Inviting feet: "The dance, the dance," resounds, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 127 
 
 The bow enti'eiits with slow melodic strain, 
 Aud all the air with expectatiou yearns. 
 
 Sudden, with gliding motion like a flame 
 
 That through dim vapor makes a path of gloiy, 
 
 A tigiue lithe, all white aud saffron-robed, 
 
 Flashed right across the circle, and now stood 
 
 With ripened arms uplift and regal head, 
 
 Like some tall flower whose dark aud iuteuse heart 
 
 Lies half within a tulip-tinted cup. 
 
 Juan stood fixed and pale ; Pei)ita stepped 
 Backward within the ring : the voices fell 
 From shouts insistent to more passive tones 
 Half meaning welcome, half astonishment. 
 "Lady Fedalma ! — will she dance for us?" 
 
 But she, sole swayed by impulse passionate. 
 
 Feeling all life was music and all ej'es 
 
 The warming, quickeniug light that music makes, 
 
 Moved as, in dance religious, Miriam, 
 
 When on the Red Sea shore she raised her voice 
 
 Aud led the chorus of the people's joy; 
 
 Or as the Trojan maids that reverent sang 
 
 Watching the sorrow-crowned Hecuba: 
 
 Moved in slow curves voluminous, gradual. 
 
 Feeling and acticm flowing into one, 
 
 In Eden's natural taintless marriage-bond; 
 
 Ardently modest, sensuously i)ure. 
 
 With young delight that wonders at itself 
 
 And throbs as innocent as opening flowers, 
 
 Knowing not comment — soilless, beautiful. 
 
 The spirit in her gravely glowing face 
 
 With sweet community informs her limbs. 
 
 Filling their fine gradation with the breath 
 
 Of virgin majesty; as full vowelled words 
 
 Are new impregnate with the master's thought. 
 
 Even the chance-strayed delicate tendrils black, 
 
 That backward 'scape from out her wreathing hair-=» 
 
 Even the pliant folds that cling transverse 
 
 When with obliquely soaring bend alteru 
 
 She seems a goddess quitting earth again — 
 
 Gather expression — a soft undertone 
 
 And resonance exquisite from the grand chord 
 
 Of her harmoniously bodied soul. 
 
 At first a reverential silence guards 
 The eager senses of the gazing crowd: 
 They hold their breath, and live by seeing her. 
 But soon the admiring tension finds relief- 
 Sighs of delight, applausive murmurs low, 
 Aud stirrings gentle as of eared corn 
 Or seed-bent grasses, when the ocean's breath 
 Spreads landward. Even Juan is impelled 
 By the swift-travelling movement: fear aud doubt 
 Give way before the hurrying energy; 
 He takes his lute and strikes in fellowship, 
 Filling more full the rill of melody 
 Raised ever and anon to clearest flood 
 
128 THE SPANISn GYPSY. 
 
 By Pablo's voice, th;it dies nwny too cnoii, 
 Like ttie sweet blackbird's fingmeutaiy cliiint, 
 Yet wakes agaiu, with varying rite and fall, 
 lu songs that seem emergent memories 
 Prompting brief titteraiice— little cancious 
 And villaucicos, Andalusia-born. 
 
 Pabi.o (sings). 
 It was in the prime 
 Of the sweet tipring-tim.e. 
 In the linnet's throat 
 Tremhled the love-note, 
 And the love-stirred air 
 Thrilled the blossoms there. 
 Little shadows danced 
 
 Each a tiny elf, 
 Happy in large light 
 And the thinnest self. 
 
 It was but a minute 
 In a far-off Spring, 
 But each gentle thing. 
 Sweetly-wooing linnet., 
 Soft-thrilled haxothorn-tree, 
 Happy shadowy elf 
 With the thinnest self. 
 Live still on in me. 
 O the sweet, sweet prime 
 Of the past Spring-time. 
 
 And still the light is changing: high above 
 Float soft pink clouds ; others with deepei- flush 
 Stretch like flamingoes bending toward the south 
 Comes a moie solemn brilliance o'er the sky, 
 A meaning more intense npou the air — 
 The inspiration of the dying day. 
 And Juan now, when Pablo's notes subside, 
 Soothes the regretful ear, and breaks the pause 
 With masculine voice in deep antiphony. 
 
 Juan {sings). 
 Day is dying ! Float, O song, 
 
 Down the westward river. 
 Requiem, chanting to the Day — 
 
 Day, the mighty Giver. 
 
 Pierced by shafts of Time lie bleeds. 
 
 Melted rubies sending 
 Through the river and the sly, 
 Earth and heaven blending; 
 
 All the long-drawn earthy banks 
 Up to cloud-land lifting : 
 
 Slow between them drifts the swan, 
 'Twjxt two heavens drifting. 
 
 Wings half open, like aflow'r 
 
 Inly deeper filishing, 
 Xeck and breast as virgin's purr, — 
 
 Vii gin proudly blushing. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 129 
 
 Day is dying ! Float, O aiian, 
 
 Doivn the rxibij river ; 
 Follow, song, in requiem 
 
 To the viighty Gicer. 
 
 The exquisite hour, the ardor of ihe crowd, 
 
 The strains more pleuteoui^, and the gathering might 
 
 Of action passionate where no effort is, 
 
 But selfs poor gates open to rnsliing power 
 
 That blends the inward ebb and outward vast — 
 
 All gathering influences culminate 
 
 And urge Fedalma. Earth and heaven seem one, 
 
 Life a glad trembling on the outer edge 
 
 Of unknown rapture. Swifter now she moves. 
 
 Filling the measui'e with a double beat 
 
 And widening circle; now she seems to glow 
 
 With more declared presence, gloritied. 
 
 Ciicling, she lightly bends and lifts on high 
 
 The mnltitndiuous-sounding tambourine. 
 
 And makes it ring and boom, then lifts it higher 
 
 Stretching her left arm beauteous ; now the crowd 
 
 Exultant shouts, forgetting poverty 
 
 In the rich moment of possessing her. 
 
 But sudden, at one point, the exnltant throng 
 
 Is pushed and hustled, and then thrust apart: 
 
 Something aiiproaches— something cuts the rius 
 
 Of jubilant idlers — startling as a streak , 
 
 From alien wounds across the blooming flesh 
 
 Of cjireless sporting childhood. 'Tis the band 
 
 Of Gypsy prisoners. Soldiers lead the van 
 
 And make sparse flanking guard, aloof surveyed 
 
 By gallant Lopez, stringent in command. 
 
 The Gypsies chained in couples, all save one, 
 
 Walk in dark tile with grand bare legs and arms 
 
 And savage melancholy in their eyes 
 
 That star-like gleam from out black clouds of hair 
 
 Now they are full in sight, and now they stretch 
 
 Right to the centre of the open space. 
 
 Fedalma now, with gentle wheeling sweep 
 
 Keturning, like the loveliest of the Hours 
 
 Strayed from her sisters, truant lingering. 
 
 Faces again the centre, swings again 
 
 The uplifted tambourine. . . . 
 
 When lo! with sound 
 Stupendous throbbing, solemn as a voice 
 Sent by the Invisible choir of all the dead, 
 Tolls the great passing bell that calls to prayer 
 For souls departed: at the mighty beat 
 It seems the light sinks awe-struck — 'tis the note 
 Of the sun's burial; speech and action pause; 
 Religions silence and the holy sign 
 Of everlasting memories (the sign 
 Of death that turned to more diffusive life) 
 Pass o'er the Placa. Little children gaze 
 With lips apart, and feel the unknown god; 
 And the most men and women pray. Not all. 
 The soldiers pray ; the Gypsies stand unmoved 
 
130 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 As pa^an statues with proud level gaze. 
 
 Bnt he who wears a solitary chniii 
 
 Heading the file, has turned to face FedalniR. 
 
 She motionless, with arm uplifted, guards 
 
 The taml)ourine alofi (lest, suddeu-lowered, 
 
 Its trivial jingle mar the duteous pause). 
 
 Reveres the general prayer, but prays not, ftMnrls 
 
 With level ghmce meeting that Gypsy's <'y('s, 
 
 That seem to her the sadness of the world 
 
 Rebuking her, the great bell's hidden thought 
 
 Now first unveiled — the sorrows unredeemed 
 
 Of races outcast, scorned, and wandering. 
 
 Why does he look at her? why she at him? 
 
 As if the meeting light between their eyes 
 
 Made permanent union? Ills deep-knit brow, 
 
 Inflated nostril, scornful lip compressed. 
 
 Seem a dark hieroglyph of coming fate 
 
 Written before her. Father Isidor 
 
 Had terrible eyes and was her enemy: 
 
 She knew it and defied him; all her soul 
 
 Rounded and hardened in its separateness 
 
 When they eucounteied. But this prisoner — 
 
 This Gypsy, passing, gazing casually — 
 
 Was he her enemy too? She stood all quelled.. 
 
 The impetuous joy that hurried in her veins 
 
 Seemed backward rushing turned to chillest awe, 
 
 Uneasy wonder, and a vague self-doubt. 
 
 The minute brief stretched measuieless, dream-filled 
 
 By a dilated new-fraught consciousness. 
 
 Now it was gone ; the pious murmur ceased, 
 
 The Gypsies all moved onward at conwiaud 
 
 And careless noises blent confusedly. 
 
 But the ring closed again, and many ears 
 
 Waited for Pablo's music, mauy eyes 
 
 Turned towards the carpet: it lay bare and dim, 
 
 Twilight was there— the blight Fedalma gone. 
 
 A handsome room in the Castle. On a table a rich jewel-casket. 
 
 Siiva had dofled his mail and with it all 
 The heavier haruess of his warlike cares. 
 He had not seen Fedalma; miser-like 
 He hoarded through the hour a costlier joy 
 By longing oft-repressed. Now it was earned; 
 And with observance wonted he would send 
 To ask admission. Spanish gentlemen 
 Who wooed fair dames of noble ancestry 
 Did homage with rich tunics and slashed sleeves 
 And outward-surging linen's cosily snow ; 
 With broidered scarf transverse, and rosary 
 Handsomely wrought to fit high-blooded prayer; 
 So hinting in how deep respect they held 
 That self they threw before their lady's feet. 
 And Silva— that Fedalma's rate should stand 
 No jot below the highest, that her love 
 Might seem to all the royal gift it was — 
 Turned every trifle in his mieu and garb 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. I'Sl 
 
 To scnipuliins hiugnage, nlteviiig to the world 
 
 Tliiit since she loved him he went carefully, 
 
 Beaiiiig ;i thing so precious in his haud. 
 
 A man of high-wrought strain, fastidious 
 
 lu his acceptance, dreading all delight 
 
 That speedy dies and turns to carrion : 
 
 His senses much exacting, Aeep Instilled 
 
 With keen imagination's airy needs; — 
 
 Like strong-limbed monsters studded o'er with eyes. 
 
 Their hunger checked by overwhelming vision, 
 
 Or that fierce lion in symbolic dieam 
 
 Snatched from the ground by wings and new-endowed 
 
 With a man's thought-propelled relenting heart. 
 
 Silva was both the lion and the man ; 
 
 First hesitating shrank, then liercely siirang, 
 
 Or having sprung, turned pallitl at liis deed 
 
 And loosed the prize, paying his blood for nonght. 
 
 A nature half-transformed, with qualities 
 
 'J'hat oft bewrayed each other, elements 
 
 Not blent but struggling, breeding strange effects, 
 
 Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes. 
 
 Haughty and genercuis, grave and passionate; 
 
 Witli tidal moments of devoutest awe. 
 
 Sinking anon to farthest ebb of doubt ; 
 
 Deliberating ever, till the sting 
 
 Of ii recurrent ardor made him rush 
 
 Right against reasons that himself had drilled 
 
 And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed 
 
 Too proudly special f.ir obedience. 
 
 Too subtly pondering for mastery: 
 
 Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, 
 
 Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity, 
 
 Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness 
 
 And perilous heightening of the sentient soul. 
 
 But look less curiously: life itself 
 
 May not express us all, may leave the worst 
 
 And the best too, like tunes in mechanism 
 
 Never awaked. In various catalogues 
 
 Objects stand variously. Silva stands 
 
 As a young Spaniard, handsome, noble, brave, 
 
 With titles many, high in pedigree; 
 
 Or, as a nature quiveringly poised 
 
 In reach of storms, whose qualities may turn 
 
 To murdered virtues that still walk as ghosts 
 
 Within the shuddering soul and shriek remor.se ; 
 
 Or, as a lover. ... In the screening time 
 
 Of purple blossoms, when the petals crowd 
 
 And softly crush like cherub checks in heaven. 
 
 Who thinks of greenly withered fruit and worms? 
 
 O the warm southern spring is beauteous ! 
 
 And in love's spring all good seems possible: 
 
 No threats, all promise, brooklets ripple full 
 
 And bathe the rushes, vicious crawling things 
 
 Are iiretty eggs, the sun shines graciously 
 
 And parches not, the silent rain beats warm 
 
 As childhood's kisses, days are young and grow. 
 
 And earth seems in its sweet beginning time 
 
132 THE SPANISH C.YrSY, 
 
 Fresh made for two who live in Paradise. 
 
 Bilva is in love's spring, its freshness breathed 
 
 Within his soul along the dusty wa3's 
 
 While marching homeward; 'lis aroiiud him now 
 
 As in a garden fenced in f>)r delight, — 
 
 And he may seek delight. Smiling he lifts 
 
 A whistle from his belt, but lets it fall 
 
 Ere it has reached his lips, jarred by the sound 
 
 Of nshers' knocking, and a voice that craves 
 
 Admission for the Prior of San Domingo. 
 
 Priok (entering). 
 
 You look perturbed, my sou. I thrust myself 
 Between you and some beckoning intent 
 That wears a face more smiling than my own. 
 
 Don Sii.v.v. 
 
 Father, enongh that you are here. I wait, 
 
 As always, yoiii' commands — nay, should have s'>ugbt 
 
 An early audience. 
 
 PlilOR. 
 
 To give, I trust. 
 Good reasons for your change of policy? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Strong reasons, father. 
 
 Prick. 
 
 Ay, but are they good? 
 I have kuowu reasons strong, but strongly evil. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 'Tis possible. I but deliver mine 
 To your strict judgment. Late despatches sent 
 With urgence by the Count of Bavien, 
 No hir.t on my part prompting, with besides 
 The testilied concurrence of the king 
 And our Grand Master, have made jieremptory 
 The course which else bad been but rational. 
 Without the forces furnished by allies 
 The siege of Giiadix would be madness. More, 
 El Zagal has his eyes upon Bedmar: 
 Let him attempt it: in three weeks from hence 
 The Master and the Lord of Aguilar 
 Will biing their f)rces. We shall catch the Moor.s, 
 The last gleaned clusters of their bravest men, 
 As in a trap. You have my reasons, father. 
 
 Pnioit. 
 
 And they sound well. But free-tongued rumor adds 
 
 A pregnant supplement— in substance this: 
 
 That inclination snatches arguments 
 
 To make indulgence seem judicious choice; 
 
 That yon, commanding in God's ILily War, 
 
 Lift prayers to Satan to retard the fight 
 
 And give you time for feasting — wait a siege, 
 
Tire SPANISH GYPSY. 133 
 
 Call daiiug enterprise impossible, 
 Kecaiise you'd many ! Yoii, a Spanish duke, 
 Clirisi's general, would many like ii clown, 
 Who, selling fodder dealer for the war, 
 Is all the merrier ; nay, like the brutes, 
 Who know no awe to check their appetite, 
 Coupling 'mid heaps of slain, while still in front. 
 The battle rages. 
 
 Don Sii.ya. 
 Kunior ou your lii)9 
 
 Is cloq'jeut, father. 
 
 Pr.ioR. 
 Is she true? 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 Perhaps. 
 I seek to ju.stify my public nets 
 And not my private joy. Before the world 
 Enough if I am faithful in command. 
 Betray nor by my deeds, swerve from no task 
 My knightly vows constrain me to: herein 
 I ask all meu to test me. 
 
 Puiou. 
 
 Knightly vows? 
 Is it by their constraint that you must many? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Marriage is not a breach of them. I use 
 A sanctioned liberty. . . . your pardon, father, 
 I need not teach you what the Church decrees. 
 But facts may weaken texts, and so dry up 
 The fount of eloquence. The Church relaxed 
 Our Order's rule befijre I took the vows. 
 
 Puroii. 
 
 Ignoble liberty! you snatch your rule 
 
 From what God tolerates, not what he loves?— 
 
 Inquire what lowest offering may suffice, 
 
 Cheapen it meanly to an obolus. 
 
 Buy, and then count the coin left in your purse 
 
 For your debauch?— Measure obedience 
 
 By scantest powers of brethren whose fjail fleso 
 
 Our Holy Church indulges ?— Ask great Law, 
 
 Tlie rightful Sovereign of the human soul, 
 
 For what it pardons, not what it commands? 
 
 O fallen knighthood, penitent of high vow.«, 
 
 Asking a charter to degrade itself! 
 
 Such poor apology of rules relaxed 
 
 Blunts not suspicion of that doubleness 
 
 Your enemies tax you with. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Ob, for the rest, 
 Conscience is harder than our enemies. 
 
134 TliE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Knows more, accuses with more nicety. 
 Nor ueeds to question Rumor if we fall 
 Below the perfect model of onr thoni,'lit. 
 I fear no outwiird arbiter. — You smile? 
 
 Pkiok. 
 
 Ay, at the contrast 'twixt your portraiture 
 
 And the true image of your com-cience, shown 
 
 As now I see it in your acts. I see 
 
 A drunken sentinel who gives alarm 
 
 At his own shadow, but when scalers snatch 
 
 llis weapon from his hand smiles idiot-like 
 
 At; games he's dreaming of. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A parable ! 
 The husk is rough— holds something bitter, doubtless. 
 
 PutOR. 
 
 Oh, the husk gapes with meaning ovei-ripe. 
 You boast a conscience that controls your deeds, 
 Watches your knightly armor, guards your rank 
 From stain of treachery — you, helpless slave, 
 Whose will lies nerveless in the clutch of lust— 
 Of blind mad passion — passion itself most helpless, 
 Storm-driven, like ihe monsters of the sea. 
 O famous conscience! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Pause there ! Leave unsaid 
 Aught that will match that text. More were too much. 
 Even from holy lips. I own no love 
 But such as guards my honor, since it guards 
 Hers whom I love ! I suffer no foul words 
 To stain the gift I lay before her feet: 
 And, being hers, my honor is more safe. 
 
 Priou. 
 Versemakers' talk ! fit for a world of rhymes. 
 Where facts are feigned to tickle idle ears. 
 Where good and evil play at tournament 
 And end in amity— a world of lies — 
 A carnival of words where every year 
 Stale falsehoods serve fresh men. Your honor safe? 
 What honor has a man with double bonds? 
 Honor is shifting as the shadows are 
 To souls that turn their passions into laws. 
 A Christian knight who weds an infidel . . . 
 
 Don Silva (fiercely). 
 An inflilel .' 
 
 PUIOE 
 
 IMay one day spurn the Crosp, 
 And call that honor!— one day find his sword 
 Stained wiih his brother's blood, and call that honorl 
 Api>Ptates' honor ?— harlots' chastity! 
 Renegades' faithfulueso?— Iscariot's ! 
 
THE SPANISH GYPS/, 135 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 Strong words and burning ; but tbey scorch not mc. 
 Fedalma is a daughter of the Church- 
 Has been baptized and nurtured in the faith. 
 
 Pkiok. 
 Ay, as a thousand Jewesses, who yet 
 Are brides of Satan in a robe of flumes. 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 Fedalma is no Jewess, bears no marks 
 That tell of Hebrew blood. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 She bears the marks 
 Of races uiibaptized, that never bowed 
 Before the holy signs, were never moved 
 By stirrings of the sacramental gifts. 
 
 Don SiLVA {scornful In). 
 
 Holy accusers practise palmistry, 
 
 And, other witness lacUing, read the skiu. 
 
 PlilOll. 
 
 I read a record deeper than the skin. 
 W hat! Shall the trick of nostrils and of lips 
 Descend through generations, and the soul 
 That moves within our frame like God in worldG=> 
 Convulsing, urging, melting, withering- 
 Imprint no record, leave no documents, 
 or her great histoiy ? Shall men bequeath 
 The fancies of Iheir palate to their sous, 
 And shall the shudder of restraining awe. 
 The slow-«-ept teais of contrite memory, 
 Faith's prayerful labor, and the food divine 
 Of fasts ecstatic— shall these pass away 
 Like wind upon the waters, tracklessly? 
 Shall the mere curl of eyelashes remain. 
 And god-enshrining symbols Jeave no tiace 
 Of tremors reverent? — That maiden's blood 
 Is as unchristian as the leopard's. 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 Say, 
 Unchristian as the Blessed Virgin's blood 
 Before the angel spoke the word, "All hail '" 
 
 Pkioi; {smiling bitterly.) 
 Said I not truly? See, your passion weaves 
 Already blasphemies ! 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 'Tis you provoke thera. 
 Peiok. 
 I strive, as still the Holy Spirit strives. 
 To move the will perverse. But, failing this, 
 
136 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 God commands other means to save our blood, 
 
 To save Castiliiiu glory — nay, to save 
 
 The name of Christ from blot of traitorous deeds. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Of traitorous deeds! Age. kindred, and your cowl, 
 
 Give an ignoble license to your lonyne. 
 
 As for your threats, fultil them at your peril. 
 
 'Tis you, not I, will gibbet our great name 
 
 To rot in infamy. If I am strong 
 
 In patience now, trust me, I can be strong 
 
 Then in defiance. 
 
 PuiOtt. 
 
 IMiserable man ! 
 Your strength will turn to anguisli, like the strength 
 Of fallen angels. Can you change your blood? 
 You are a Christian, with the Christian awe 
 In every vein. A S|)aiiish noble, born 
 To serve your peoi)le and your ])eople's faith. 
 Strong, are you? Turn your back upon the Cross- 
 Its shadow is bef.)re you. Leave your place : 
 Quit the great ranks of knighthood : you will waik 
 Forever with a tortured double self, 
 A self that will bo hungry while you feast, 
 Will blush with shame while yon are glorificcl, 
 Will feel the ache and chill of desolation, 
 Even in the very bosom of your love. 
 Mate yourself with this woman, fit for what ? 
 To make the sport of Moorish pa'.:.oes, 
 A lewd Herodias . . . 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 Sto)) ! no other man, 
 Priest though he were, had had his throat left free 
 For passage of those words. I would have clutched 
 His serpent's neck, and flung him out to hell ; 
 A monk must needs defile the name of love: 
 He knows it but as tempting devils paint it. 
 You think to scare my love from its resolve 
 With arbitrary consequences, strained 
 By rancorous efi"ort from the thinnest motes 
 Of possibility ?— cite hideous lists 
 Of sins irrelevant, to frighten me 
 With bugbears' names, as women fright a chili? 
 Poor pallid wisdom, taught by inference 
 From blood-drained life, where phantom terrors rule. 
 And all achievement is to leave undone ! 
 Paint the day dark, make sunshine cold to me, 
 Abolish the earth's fairness, prove it all 
 A fiction of my eyes — then, .after tliat, 
 Profane Fedalma. 
 
 Piiioi;. 
 
 O there is no need: 
 She has profaned herself. Go, raving man. 
 And see her dancing now. Go, see your bride 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. " 137 
 
 Flaunting her beniities grossly in the gaze 
 Of vulgar idlers— eking oat the show 
 Made in the Phifa hy a mountebank. 
 I hinder you no farther. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It is false '. 
 
 Prior. 
 Go, prove it false, then. 
 
 [Father Isidor 
 Drew on his cowl and turned away. The face 
 That flashed anathemas, in swift eclipse 
 Seemed Silva's vanished conlid^nce. In haste 
 He rnshed nnsignalled through the corridor 
 To where the Duchess once, Fedalma now. 
 Had residence retired from diu of arms — 
 Knocked, opened, found all empty— said 
 With muffled voice, "Fedalma!' — called more loud, 
 More oft on liiez, the old trusted nurse — 
 Then searched the teriace-garden, calling still, 
 But heard no answering sound, and saw no face 
 Save painted faces staring all unmoved 
 By agitated tones. He hurried baclv. 
 Giving half-conscious orders as he went 
 To page and ush«r, that they straight should seek 
 Lady Fedalma ; then with stinging shame 
 Wished himself silent; reached again the room 
 Where still the Father's menace seemed to hang 
 Tliickening 4,he air; snatched cloak and plumed hat. 
 And grasped, not knowing why, his poniard's hilt; 
 Then checked himself and said :— ] 
 
 If he spoke truth! 
 To know were wound enough — to see the truth 
 Were fire upon the wound. It must be false ! 
 His hatred saw amiss, or snatched mistake 
 In other men's report. I am a fooll 
 But where can she be gone? gone secretly? 
 And in my absence? Oh, she meant no wrong 1 
 I am a fool !— But where can she be gone? 
 With only Inez? Oh, *he meant no wrong I 
 I swear she never meant it. There's no wrong 
 But she would make it momentary right 
 By innocence in doing it. . . . 
 
 And yet. 
 What is our certainty? Why, knowing all 
 That is not secret. Mighty confidence ! 
 One pulse of Time makes the base hollow — sends 
 The towering certainty we built .vo hitrh 
 Toppling in fragments meaningless. What is — 
 What will be— must be — pooh ! they wait the key 
 Of tlial which is not yet; all other keys 
 Are made of our conjectures, take their sense 
 From humors fooled by hope, or by despair. 
 Know what is good? O God, we know not yet 
 21 G 
 
I'Sa THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 If bliss itself is not young misery 
 With fangs swift growing. . . . 
 
 Bat some outward harm 
 May even now be hurting, grieving her. 
 Oh ! I must search — face shame— if shame be there. 
 Here, Perez ! hasten to Don Alvar— tell him 
 Lady Fedalma must be sought — is lost — 
 Has met, I fear, some mischance. He must send 
 Towards divers points. I go myself to seek 
 First in the town. . . . 
 
 [As Perez oped the door, 
 Then moved aside for passage of the Duke, 
 Fedalma entered, cast away the cloud 
 Of serge and linen, and outbeaming bright. 
 Advanced a pace towards Silva— but then paused, 
 For he had started and retreated ; she. 
 Quick and responsive as the subtle air 
 To change in him, divined that she must wait 
 Until they were alone : they stood and looked. 
 Within the Duke was struggling confluence 
 Of feelings manifold — pride, anger, dread. 
 Meeting in stormy rush with sense secure 
 That she was present, with the new-stilled thirst 
 Of gazing love, with trust inevitable 
 As in beneficent virtues of the light 
 And all earth's sweetness, that Fedalma's soul 
 Was free from blemishing purpose. Yet proud wrath 
 Leaped in dark flood above thcpurer stream 
 That strove to drown it: Anger seeks its prey- 
 Something to tear with sharp-edged tooth and claw, 
 Likes not to go off hungry, leaving Love 
 To feast on milk and honeycomb at will. 
 Silva's heart said, he must be happy soon, 
 She being there ; but to be happy—first 
 He must be angry, having cause. Yet love 
 Shot like a stifled cry of tenderness 
 All through the harshness he would fain have given 
 To the dear word,] 
 
 Don Sn.VA. 
 Fedalma ! 
 Fedalma. 
 
 O ray lord! 
 You are come back, and I was wandering '. 
 
 Don Sii.va (coldly, but with suppressed agitation). 
 You meant I should be ignorant. 
 Fkdai.ma. 
 
 Oh no, 
 I should have told you after— not before, 
 Lest you should hinder me. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Then my known wish 
 Can make no hinderance? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 139 
 
 Fedalma (,archlij). 
 
 That depends 
 Ou what the wish may be. You wished me once 
 Not to uncage the birds. I meant to obey: 
 But in a moment something — something stionger, 
 Forced me to let them out. It did no harm. 
 They all came back again — the silly birds ! 
 -I told you, after. 
 
 Don Silva (with haughtij coldness). 
 
 Will you tell me now 
 What was the prompting stronger than my wish 
 That made you wander? 
 
 Fedai.ma {advancing a step towards him, with a sudden look of anxiety). 
 
 Are you angry? 
 
 Don Sii.va (smiling bitterly). 
 
 Angry ? 
 A man deep-wounded may feel too much pain 
 To feel much anger. 
 
 Fedalma (still more anxiounly). 
 You— deep-wounded ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes ! 
 Have I not made your place and dignity 
 The very heart of my ambition ? You — 
 No enemy conld do it— you alone 
 Can strike it mortally. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 Nay, S'lya, nay. 
 Has some one told you false ? I only went 
 To see the world with liiez — see the town, 
 The people, everything. It was no harm. 
 I did not mean to dance: it happened so 
 At last . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 O God, It's true then '.—true that yon, 
 A maiden nurtured as rare flowers are. 
 The very air of heaven sifted flue 
 Lest any mote should mar, your purity, 
 Have flung yourself out on the dusty way 
 For common eyes to see your beauty soiled ! 
 You own it true— you danced upon the Plafa? 
 
 Fedalma (proudlyy 
 
 Yes, it is true. I was not wrong to dance. 
 The air was filled with music, willi a song 
 That seemed the voice of the sweet eventide — 
 The glowing light entering through eye and ear — 
 That seemed our love— mine, yours— they are but one— 
 
140 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Trembling through all my limbs, as fervent words 
 Tremble wiihin my soul and must be spoken. 
 And all the people felt a common joy 
 And shouted for the dance. A brightness soft 
 As of the augels moving down to see 
 Illumined the broad space. The joy, the life 
 Around, wiihin me, were one heaven : I longed 
 To blend them visibly: I longed to dance 
 Before the people— be as mounting flame 
 To all that burned within them ! Nay, I danced ; 
 There was no longing: 1 but did the deed 
 Being moved to do it. 
 
 {As Fr.DAi-MA speaks, she and Don Silva are (jraduaWj drawn nearer to 
 each other.) 
 
 Oh ! I seemed new-waked 
 To life in unison with a multitude — 
 Feeling my soul upborne by all their souls, 
 Floating within their gladness! Soon I lost 
 All sense of separateness: Fedalma died 
 As a star dies, and melts into the light. 
 I was not, but joy was, and love and triumph. 
 Nay, my dear lord, I jiever could do ought 
 But I must feel you present. And once done. 
 Why, you must love it better than your wif^h. 
 I pray you, say so— say, it was not wrong ! 
 
 {While Fi:i)Ai.MA has been nialcing this last apjical, they have gradually come 
 close together, and at last embrace.) 
 
 Don Silva {holding her hands). 
 
 Dangerous rebel ! if the world without 
 
 Were pure as that within . . . but 'tis a book 
 
 Wherein you only read the poesy 
 
 And miss all wicked meanings. Hence the need 
 
 For trust— obedience — call it what you will — 
 
 Towards him whose life will be your guard — towards me 
 
 Who now am soon to be your husbaud. 
 
 Ficpai.ma. 
 
 Yes! 
 That very thing that when I am yom' wife 
 I shall be something diflerent, — shall be 
 I Ivuow not what, a Duchess with new thoughts— 
 For nobles never think like common men, 
 Nor wives like maidens (Oh, you wot not yet 
 How much I note, with all my ignorance) — 
 That very thing has made me more resolve 
 To have my will before I am your wife. 
 How can the Duchess ever satisfy 
 Fedalma's unwed eyes? and so to-day 
 I scolded Inez till she cried and went.^ 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It was a guilty weakness : she knows well 
 That since you pleaded to be left more free 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 From tedious tendance and control of dames 
 Whose rank matched better with your destiny, 
 Her charge— my trust— was weightier. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, my lord, 
 You must not bhime her, dear old nurse. Slie cried. 
 Why, you would have consented too, at last. 
 I said such things ! I was resolved to go, 
 And see the streets, the shops, the men at work, 
 The women, little children— everything, 
 Just as it is when nobody looks on. 
 And I have done it! We were out four hours. 
 I feel so wise. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Had you but seen the town, 
 Yon innocent naughtiness, not shown yourself— 
 Shown yourself dancing— you bewilder me !— 
 Frustrate my judgment with strange negatives 
 That seem like poverty, and yet are wealth 
 In precious womanliness, beyond the dower 
 Of other women : wealth in virgin gold. 
 Outweighing all their petty currency. 
 You daring modesty! You shrink no more 
 From gazing men than from the gazing flowers 
 That, dreaming sunshine, opeu as you pass. 
 
 Fkbalma. 
 
 No, I should like the world to look at me 
 
 With eyes of love that make a second day. 
 
 I think your eyes would keep the life in me 
 
 Though I had nought to feed on else. Their bine 
 
 Is better than the heavens'— holds more love 
 
 For me, Fedalma— is a little heaven 
 
 For this one little world that looks up now. 
 
 Don SiT.VA. 
 O precious little world! you make the heaven 
 As the earth makes the sky. But, dear, all eyes, 
 Though looking even on you, have not a glance 
 That cherishes .... 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 Ah no, I meant to tell you— 
 Tell how my dancing ended with a pang. 
 There came a man, one among many more. 
 But he came first, with iron on his limbs. 
 And when the bell tolled, and the people prayed, 
 And I stood pausing— tlien he looked at me. 
 O Silva, such a man ! I thought he rose 
 From the dark place of long-imprisoned souls. 
 To say that Christ had never come to them. 
 It was a look to shame a seraph's joy. 
 And make him sad in heaven. It found me there- 
 Seemed to have travelled far to find me there 
 And grasp me— claim this festal life of mine 
 
 141 
 
142 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 As heritage of sorrow, chill my blood 
 
 With the cold irou of some unknown bonds. 
 
 The gladness hurrying full within my veins 
 
 Was sudden frozen, and I danced uo more. 
 
 But seeing you let loose the stream of joy. 
 
 Mingling the present with the sweetest past. 
 
 Yet, Silva, still I see him. Who is he? 
 
 Who are those prisoners with him? Are they Moors? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 No, they are Gypsies, strong and cunning knaves, 
 A double gain to us by the Moors' loss: 
 The man you mean — their chief— is an ally . 
 The infidel will miss. His look might chase 
 A herd of monks, and make them fly more swift 
 Than from St. Jerome's lion. Such vague fear, 
 Such bird-like tremors when that savage glance 
 Turned full upon you in your height of joy 
 Was natural, was not worth emphasis. 
 Forget it, dear. This hour is worth whole days 
 When we are sundered. Danger urges us 
 To quick resolve. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 What danger? what resolve? 
 I never felt chill shadow in my heart 
 Until this sunset. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 A dark enmity 
 Plots how to sever us. And our defence 
 Is speedy marriage, secretly achieved. 
 Then publicly declared. Beseech you, dear, 
 Grant me this confidence ; do my will iu this, 
 Trusting the reasons why I overset 
 All my own airy building raised so high 
 Of bridal honors, marking when you step 
 From off your maiden throne to come to me 
 And bear the yoke of love. There is great need. 
 I hastened home, carrying this prayer to you 
 Within my heart. The bishop is my friend. 
 Furthers our marriage, holds in enmity — 
 Some whom we love not and who love not us. 
 By this night's moon our priest will be despatched 
 From Jaou. I shall march an escort strong 
 To meet him. Ere a second sun from this 
 Has risen — you consenting— we may wed. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 None knowing that we wed ? 
 
 Don Silva, 
 
 Beforehand none 
 Save Ifiez and Don Alvar. But the vows 
 Once safely binding us, my household all 
 Shall know you as their Duchess. No man then 
 Can aim a blow at you but through my breaet, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 143 
 
 And what stains you must stain our ancient name ; 
 
 If any hate you I will take his hate, 
 
 And wear it as a glove upon my helm : 
 
 Nay, God himself will never have the power 
 
 To strike you solely and leave me unhurt. 
 
 He having made us one. Now put the seal 
 
 Of your dear lips on that. 
 
 Fedaima. 
 
 A solemn kiss? — 
 Such as I gave you when you came that day 
 From Cordova, when first we said we loved? 
 When you had left the ladies of the Court 
 For thirst to see me ; and you told me so. 
 And then I seemed to know why I had lived. 
 I never knew before. A kiss like that? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, yes, yon face divine ! When was onr kiss 
 Like any other? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, I cannot tell 
 
 What other kisses are. But that one kiss 
 
 Eemains upon my lips. The angels, spirits. 
 
 Creatures with finer sense, may see it there. 
 
 And now another kiss that will not die, 
 
 Saying, To-morrow I shall be your wife ! 
 {Theij kiss, and patise a moment, looking earnestly in each other'n eyes. Then 
 Fkdal.ma, breaking away from Don Silva, stands at a little distance from 
 him with a look of roguish delight.) 
 
 Now I am glad I saw the town to-day 
 
 Before I am a Duchess— glad I gave 
 
 This poor Fedalma all her wish. For once. 
 
 Long years ago, I cried v.'hen Ifiez said, 
 
 "You are no more a little girl;" I grieved 
 
 To part forever from that little girl 
 
 And all her happy world so near the ground. 
 
 It must be sad to outlive aught we love. 
 
 So I shall grieve a little for these days 
 
 Of poor uuwed Fedalma. Oh, they are sweet. 
 
 And none will come just like them. Perhaps the wind 
 
 Wails so in winter for the summers dead. 
 
 And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries 
 
 For what has been and is not. Are they, Silva ? 
 
 (She comes iiearer to him again, and lays her liand on his arm, looking up at 
 him with melancholy.) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Why, dearest, you began in merriment, 
 
 And end as sadly as a widowed bird. 
 
 Some touch mysterious has new-tuned your soul 
 
 To melancholy sequence. You soared high 
 
 In that wild flight of rapture when you danced, 
 
 And now you droop. 'Tis arbitrary grief, 
 
 Surfeit of happiness, that mourns for loss 
 
 Of uuwed love, which does but die like seed 
 
144 TIIE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 For fuller harvest of our leiulerness. 
 
 We in our wedded life shall know no los?. 
 
 We shrill new-date our years. What went before 
 
 Will be the time of promise, shadows, dreams; 
 
 But this, full revelation of great love. 
 
 For rivers blent take in a broader heaven, 
 
 And we .<liall b'end our souls. Away with p;rief! 
 
 When this dear head sliali wear !lie dunble crown 
 
 Of wife and Dnche.ss — si)iritually crowned 
 
 With sworn espousal before God and man — 
 
 Visibly crowned with jewels that bespeak 
 
 The chosen sharer of my heritage— 
 
 My love will gather perfectness, as thoughts 
 
 That nourish us to magnanimity 
 
 Grow perfect with more perfect utterance, 
 
 Gathering fuU-shapen strength. And then these gems, 
 
 (Don Silva draws Fepat-ma ioioards the jeioel-casket on the table, aiid opens it.) 
 
 Helping the utterance of my soul's full choice. 
 Will be the words made richer by just use, 
 And have new meaning in their lustrousness. 
 You know these jewels ; they are precious signs 
 Of long-transmitted honour, heightened still 
 By worthy wearing ; and I give them you— 
 Ask you to take them— place our house's trust 
 In her sure keeping whom my heart has found 
 Worthiest, most beauteous. These rubies — see- 
 Were falsely placed if not upon your brow. 
 
 (Febalma, while Don Silva holds open the casket, bends over it, looking at the 
 jewels with delight.) 
 
 FEDALiMA. 
 
 Ah, I remember them. In childish days 
 I felt as if they were alive and breathed. 
 I nscd to sit with awe and look at them. 
 And now they will be mine! I'll put them on. 
 Help me, ray lord, and you shall see me now 
 Somewhat as I shall look at Court with you. 
 That we may know if I shall bear them well. 
 I have a fear sometimes : I think your love 
 lias never paused within your eyes to look, 
 And only passes through them into mine. 
 But when the Court is looking, and the queen, 
 Your eyes will follow theirs. Oh, if you saw 
 That I was other than you wished — 'twere death ! 
 
 Don Silva (taking up a jewel and placing it against her ear.) 
 Nay, let ns try. Take out your ear-ring, sweet. 
 This ruby glows with longing for your ear. 
 
 Fedalma (taking out her ear-rings, and then lifting up the other jewels, one 
 by 07ie). 
 
 Pray, fasten in the rubies. 
 
 (Don Sii.va begins to put in the car-ring.) 
 I was right ! 
 These gems have life in them: their colors speak, 
 Say what words fail of. So do many things — 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 145 
 
 The sceut of jasmine, ami the fountain's plash, 
 
 The moving shadows ou the fai-off hills, 
 
 The slanting moonlight, and our clasping hands. 
 
 Silva, there's an ocean round our words 
 
 That overflows and drowns them. Do you know 
 Sometimes wheu we sit silent, and the air 
 Bieathes gently on ns from the oiange-trees, 
 It seems that with the whisper of a word 
 Our souls must shrink, get poorer, more apart. 
 Is it not true? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Yes, dearest, it is true. 
 Speech is hut broken light upon the depth 
 Of the unspoken : even yonr loved words 
 Float in the larger meaning of your voice 
 As something dimmer. 
 {He is still trying in vain to fasten the second ear-ring, ivhile she has stooped 
 again over the casket.) 
 
 Ff.dalma {raising her head). 
 
 Ah ! your lordly hands 
 Will never fix that jewel. Let me try. 
 Women's small finger-tips have eyes. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, no ! 
 
 1 like the task, only you must be still. 
 
 {She stajids perfectly still, clasping her hands together while fie fastens the Beeond 
 ear-ring. Suddenly a clanking noise is heard tcithout.) 
 
 Fed ALMA {starting with an expression of pain). 
 
 What is that sound f— that jarring cruel sound ? 
 'Tis there — outside. 
 (She tries to start atvay toivards the windoiv, hut Don Silva detains her.) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 O heed it not, it comes 
 From workmen in the outer gallery. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It is the sound of fetters ; sound of work 
 Is not so dismal. Hark, they pass along 1 
 I know it is those Gypsy prisoners. 
 I saw them, heard their chains. O horrible, 
 To be in chains ! Why, I with all my bliss 
 Have longed sometimes to fly and be at large ; 
 Have felt Imprisoned in my luxury 
 With servants for my jailers. O my lord, 
 Do you not wish the world were different ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 It will be different wheu this war has ceased. 
 You, wedding me, will make it different, 
 Making one life more perfect. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 That is true ! 
 And I shall beg much kindness at your hands 
 
 21* ^^* 
 
146 THE SPANISn GYPSY. 
 
 For those who aie less happy than oni-selves. — 
 {Brightening) Oh I shall lule you! ask for many things 
 Before the world, which you will not deny 
 For very pride, lest men should say, "• The Duke 
 Holds lightly by his Duchess; he repeuts 
 His humble choice." 
 {She breaks aioay/rom. hivi and returns to the jewels, taking up a necklace, and 
 
 clasping it on her neck, while he takes a circlet of diamonds and rubies and 
 
 raises it towards her head as he speaks.) 
 
 Don Silt a. 
 
 Doubtless, I shall persist 
 In loving yon, to disappoint the world ; 
 Out of pure obstinacy feel myself 
 Happiest of men. Now, take the coronet. 
 
 {He places the circlet on her head.) 
 The diamonds want more light. See, from this lamp 
 I can set tapers burning. 
 
 Fepalma. 
 
 Tell me, now. 
 When all these cruel wars are at an end, 
 And when we go to Court at Cordova, 
 Or Seville, or Toledo— wait awhile, 
 I must be farther off for you to see — 
 (She retreats to a distance from him, and then advances slowlif.) 
 
 Now think (I would the tapers gave more light !) 
 
 If when you show me at the tournaments 
 
 Among the other ladies, they will say, 
 
 " Duke Silva is well matched. His bride was nought, 
 
 Was some poor foster-child, no man knows what; 
 
 Yet is her carriage noble, all her robes 
 
 Are worn with grace: she might have been well boru." 
 
 Will they say so? Think now we are at Court, 
 
 And all eyes bent on me. 
 
 Don Sii-va. 
 
 Fear not, my Duchess! 
 Some knight who loves may say his lady-love 
 Is fairer, being fairest. None can say 
 Don Silva's bride might better fit her ranlc. 
 You will make rank seem natural as kind. 
 As eagle's plumage or the lion's might. 
 A crown upon your brow would seem God-made. 
 
 Fjcdalma. 
 
 Then I am glad ! I shall try on to-night 
 The other jewels— have the tapers lit. 
 And see the diamonds sparkle. 
 
 {She goes to the casket again.) 
 Here is gold — 
 A necklace of pure gold — most finely wrought. 
 {She takes out a large gold iiecklace and holds it up before her, then turns to 
 Don Silva.) 
 But this is one that yon have worn, my lord? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 147 
 
 Don Silva. 
 No, love, I never wore it. Lay it down. 
 {He p^lts the necklace gently out of her hand, then joins both her hands and 
 holds them xip between his oiD7i.) 
 You must not look at jewels any more. 
 But look at me. 
 
 Fedalma (looking up at him). 
 O you dear heaven ! 
 I should see nought if you were gone. 'Tia true 
 My mind is too much given to gauds— to things 
 That fetter thought within this narrow space 
 That comes of fear. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 What fear ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Fear of myself. 
 For when I walk upon the battlements 
 And see the river travelling toward the plain, 
 The mountains screening all the world beyond, 
 A longing comes that haunts me in my dreams — 
 Dreams where I seem to spring from oflf the walls, 
 And fly far, far away, until at last 
 I find myself alone among the rocks, 
 Remember then that I have left you— try 
 To fly back to you — and my wings are gone ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 A wicked dream ! If ever I left you. 
 Even in dreams, it was some demon dragged me. 
 And with fierce struggles I awaked myself. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 It is a hateful dream, and when it comes — 
 I mean, when in my waking hours there conies 
 That longing to be free, I am afraid: 
 I run down to my chamber, plait my hair, 
 Weave colors in it, lay out all my gauds. 
 And in my mind make new ones prettier. 
 You see I have two minds, and both are foolish. 
 Sometimes a torrent rushing through my soul 
 Escapes in wild strange wishes; presently. 
 It dwindles to a little babbling rill 
 And plays among the pebbles and the flowers. 
 Inez will have it I lack broidery. 
 Says nought else gives content to noble maids. 
 But I have never broidered — never will. 
 No, when I am a Duchess and a wife 
 I shall ride forth— may I not?— by your side 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, you shall ride upon a palfrey, black 
 To match Bavieca. Not Queen Isabel 
 Will be a sight more gladdening to men's eyes 
 Thau my dark queen Fedalma. 
 
148 THE SPANISH GYPST. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 Ah, but yon, 
 You are my king, and I shall tremble still 
 With some great fear that throbs wiihiu my love. 
 Does your lovo fear? 
 
 Don Sii.VA. 
 
 Ah, yes ! all precionsness 
 To mortal hearts is guarded by a fear. 
 All love fears loss, and most that loss supreme. 
 Its own perfection — seeing, feeling change 
 Prom high to lower, dearer to less dear. 
 Can love be careless? If we lost onr love 
 What should we liud ? — with this sweet Past torn off, 
 Our lives deep scarred just where their beanty lay? 
 The best we found thenceforth were still a worse: 
 The only better is a Past that lives 
 On through an added Present, stretching 'Still 
 In hope unchecked by shaming memories 
 To life's last breath. And so I tremble too 
 Before my queen Fedabna. 
 
 Pkdalma. 
 
 That is just. 
 'Twere hard of Love to make us women fear 
 And leave you bold. Yet Love is not quite even. 
 For feeble creatures, little birds and fawns, 
 Are shaken more by fear, while lai'go strong things 
 Can bear it stoutly. So we women still 
 Are not well dealt with. Yet I'd choose to be 
 Fedalma loving Silva. You, my lord, 
 Hold the worse share, since you must love poor inc. 
 But is it what we love, or how we love. 
 That makes true good ? 
 
 Do.N Silva. 
 
 O subtlety ! for me 
 'Tis what I love determines how I love. 
 The goddess with pure rites reveals herself 
 And makes pui'e worship. 
 
 Feoai-ma. 
 
 Do you worship me? 
 Don Silva. 
 Ay, with that best of worship which adores 
 Goodness adorable. 
 
 FiciiALMA {arcjtli'). 
 
 (loodness obedient. 
 Doing your will, devoutest worshipper? 
 
 Don Su.va. 
 Yes— listening to this prayer. This very night 
 I shall go forth. Aud yon will rise with day 
 And wait for me? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 149 
 
 Fkdat.ma. 
 Yes. 
 
 Don S11.VA. 
 
 I ishall snrely come. 
 And then we shall be married. Now I go 
 To audience fixed in Abderahmau's tower. 
 Farewell, love ! 
 
 (J^hey embrace.) 
 Fei>at.ma. 
 Some chill dread possesses me ! 
 Don Sii.VA. 
 Oh, confidence has oft been evil augury, 
 So dread may hold a promise. Sweet, farewell ! 
 I shall send tendance as I pass, to bear 
 This casket to yonr chamber. — One more kiss. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 
 Fedalxia (when Don Sii.va is rjone, returning to the casket, and looking dreamily 
 at the jeivels). 
 
 Yes, now that good seems less impossible ! 
 
 Now it seems true that I shall be his wife. 
 
 Be ever by his side, and make a part 
 
 In all his purposes 
 
 These rubies greet me Duchess. How they glow ! 
 
 Their prisoned souls are throbbing like my own. 
 
 Perchance they loved once, were ambitions, proud; 
 
 Or do they only dream of wider life, 
 
 Ache from intenseness, yearn to burst the wall 
 
 Compact of crystal splendor, and to flood 
 
 Some wider space with glory ? Poor, poor gems 1 
 
 We must be patient in our prison-house, 
 
 Aud find our space in loving. Pray you, love me. 
 
 Let us be glad together. And you, gold — 
 
 (She takes up the gold necklace.) 
 
 You wondrous necklace — will you love me, too, 
 
 And be my amulet to keep me safe 
 
 From eyes that hurt ? 
 (She spreads out the necklace, meaning to clasp it on her neck. Then pauses, 
 startled, holding it before her.) 
 
 Why, it is magical ! 
 
 He says he never wore it — yet these lines — 
 
 Nay, if he had, I should remember well 
 
 'Twas he, no other. And these twisted lines — 
 
 They seem to speak to me as writing would. 
 
 To bring a message from the dead, dead past. 
 
 What is their secret? Are they character.s? 
 
 I never learned them; yet they stir some sense 
 
 Tliat once I dreamed— 1 have forgotten what. 
 
 Or was it life? Perhaps I lived before 
 
 In some strange world where first my soul was shaped, 
 
 And all this passionate love, and joy, and pain, 
 
 That come, I know not whence, and sway my deeds, 
 
 Are old imperious memoric.-^, blind yet strong. 
 
 That this woild stirs within mc; as this chain 
 
150 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Stirs some strange certainty of visions gone, 
 And all my mind is as an eye that stares 
 Into the darkness painfnlly. 
 {While Fedai.ma. has hecn looking at the 7iecklace, Jdan has entered, and finding 
 himself unobserved by her, says at last), 
 Senora ! 
 Fepalma startt, and gathering the necklace together, turns round — 
 Oh, Juan, it is you ! 
 
 JtJAN. 
 
 I met the Duke — 
 Had waited long without, no matter why — 
 And when he ordered one to wait on you 
 And carry forth a burden you would give, 
 I prayed for leave to be the servitor. 
 Dou Silva owes me twenty granted wishes 
 That I have never tendered, lacking aught 
 That I conld wish for and a Duke could grant; 
 But this one wish to serve you, weighs as much 
 As twenty other longings. 
 
 Fedai.jia {smiling). 
 
 That sounds well. 
 You turn your speeches prettily as songs. 
 But I will not forget the many days 
 You have neglected me. Your pupil learns 
 But little from you now. Her studies flag. 
 The Duke says, "That is idle Juan's way: 
 Poets must rove— are honey-sucking birds 
 And know uot constancy." Said he quite true? 
 
 JnAN. 
 O lady, constancy has kind and rank. 
 One man's is lordly, plump, and bravely clad. 
 Holds its head high, and tells the world its name: 
 Another man's is beggared, must go bare. 
 And shiver through the world, the jest of all, 
 But that it puts the motley on, and plays 
 Itself the jester. But I see you hold 
 The Gypsy's necklace : it is quaintly wrought 
 
 Fedalma. 
 The Gypsy's? Do you know its history? 
 
 Jdan. 
 No farther back than when I saw it taken 
 From off its wearer's neck— the Gypsy chiefs.') 
 
 Fedai.ma (eagerly). 
 What ! he who paused, at tolling of the bell, 
 Before me in the Plapa? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes, I saw 
 His look fixed on you. 
 
 Fk1)AT.MA. 
 
 Know you aught of him? 
 Juan. 
 Something and nothing— as I know the sky. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPST. 151 
 
 Or some great stoi-y of the olden time 
 
 That hides a secret. I have oft talked with him. 
 
 He seems to say much, yet is but a wizard 
 
 Who draws down rain by spriulvling; throws me out 
 
 Some pregnant text that urges comment; casts 
 
 A sharp-hooked question, baited with such skill 
 
 It needs must catch the answer. 
 
 Fepalma. 
 
 It is hard 
 That such a man should be a prisoner- 
 Be chained to work. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Oh, he is dangerous ! 
 Granada with this Zarca for a king 
 Might still maim Christendom. He is of those 
 Who steal the keys from snoring Destiny 
 And make the prophets lie. A Gypsy, too, 
 Suckled by hunted beasts, whose mother-milk 
 Has filled his veins with hate. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I thought his eyes 
 Spoke not of hatred — seemed to say he bore 
 The pain of those who never could be saved. 
 What if the Gypsies are but savage beasts 
 And must be hunted ? — let them be set free, 
 Have benefit of chase, or stand at bay 
 And fight for life and offspring. Prisoners! 
 Oh ! they have made their fires beside the streams, 
 Their walls have 1)eeu the rocks, the pillared jiiues, 
 Their roof the living sky that breathes with light: 
 They may well hate a cage, like strong-winged birds, 
 Like me, who have no wings, but only wishes. 
 I will beseech the Duke to set them free. 
 
 Juan. 
 Pardon me, lady, if I seem to warn. 
 Or try to play the sage. What if the Duke 
 Loved not to hear of Gypsies? if their name 
 Were poisoned for him once, being used amiss? 
 I speak not as of fact. Our nimble souls 
 Can spin an insubstantial universe 
 Suiting our mood, and call it possible. 
 Sooner than see one grain with eye exact 
 And give strict record of it. Yet by chance 
 Our fimcies may be truth and make us seers. 
 'Tis a rare teeming world, so harvest-full, 
 * Even guessing ignorance may pluck some fruit. 
 Note what I say no farther than will stead 
 The siege you lay. I would not seem to tell 
 Aught that the Duke may think and yet withhold: 
 It were a trespass in me. 
 
 Feualma. 
 
 Fear not, Juan. 
 Your words bring daylight with them when you speak. 
 I understand your care. But I am brave — 
 
153 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Oh I nnd so cii nii in jj !— always I prevail. 
 Kow, honored Troubadour, if you will be 
 Your pupil's servant, bear this casket heuce. 
 Kay, not the necklace: it is hard to place. 
 Pray g(5 before me ; Inez will be there. 
 
 {Exit JcAN with the casket.) 
 
 FicDALMA (looking again at the necklace). 
 It is his past clings to you, not my own. 
 If we have each our angels, good and bad, % 
 Fates, separate from ourselves, who act for us 
 When we are blind, or sleep, then this man's fate, 
 Hovering about the thing he used to wear, 
 Has laid its grasp on mine appealingly. 
 Dangerous, is he? — well, a Spanish knight 
 Would have his enemy strong— defy, not bind him, 
 I can dare all things when my soul is moved 
 By something hidden that possesses me. 
 If Silva said this man must keep his chains 
 I should And ways to free him — disobey 
 And free him as I did the birds. But no ! 
 As soon as we are wed, I'll put my ))rayer, 
 And he will not deny me: he is good. 
 Oh, I shall have much power as well as joy! 
 Duchess Fedalma may do what she will. 
 
 A Street by the Castle. Juan leans against a parapet, in moonlight, and touches 
 his lute half unconsciously. Pi'.pita sta7ids on tiptoe icatching him, and then 
 advances till her shadow falls in front of him. He looks towards her. A 
 piece of white drapery throion over her head catches the moonlight. 
 
 J0AN. 
 
 Ha! my Pepita! see how thin and long 
 Your shadow is. 'Tis so your ghost will be, 
 When you are dead. 
 
 Pepita {crossing herself). 
 
 Dead ! — O the blessed saints ! 
 Yon would be glad, then, if Pepita died ? 
 
 Juan. 
 Glad! why? Dead maidens are not merry. Ghosts 
 Are doleful company. I like you living. 
 
 Pepita. 
 I think you lilce me not. I wish yon did. 
 Sometimes you sing to me and make me dance. 
 Another time you take no heed of me, 
 Not though I kiss my hand to you and smile. 
 But Andres would be glad if I kissed him. 
 
 Juan. 
 My poor Pepita, I am old. 
 
 Pepita. 
 
 No, no. 
 You have no wrinkles. 
 
 Juan. 
 Yes, I have — within; 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 153 
 
 The wiiukles are within, my little bird. 
 Why, I liave lived through twice a thousand years, 
 And kept the company of men whose boues 
 Crumbled before the l)lesred Virgin lived. 
 
 Pepita [crosninrj herself). 
 Nay, God defend us, that is wicked talk! 
 You say it but to scorn me. {With a sol) I will go. 
 
 Juan. 
 Stay, little pigeon. I am not unkind. 
 Come, sit upon the wall. Nay, never cry. 
 Give me your cheek to kiss. There, cry no more! 
 
 (Pepita, sittiniy on the loio parapet, puts up her cheek to Jdan, who kisses it, 
 puttimj his hand under her chin. She takes his hand and kisses it). 
 
 Pbpita. 
 I like to kiss your hand. It is so good — 
 So smooth aud soft. 
 
 Juan. 
 Well, well, I'll sing to yon. 
 
 PjtPITA. 
 
 A pi-etty song, loving and merry? 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes. 
 (Juan sings.) 
 Jlnvwry, 
 fell to me 
 What is fair. 
 Past compare, 
 In the land of Tubal f 
 
 Is it Springes 
 Lovely things. 
 Blossoms white. 
 Rosy dight ? 
 Then it is Pep'ita. 
 
 Stimmer''s crest 
 Red-gold tressed. 
 
 Corn-flowers peeping under t — 
 Idle noons. 
 Lingering moons. 
 Sudden cloud. 
 Lightning's shroud. 
 Sudden rain, 
 Quick again 
 
 Smiles where late was thunder T — 
 Are all these 
 Made to please f 
 
 So too is Pep'Ua. 
 
 Autumn's prime, 
 Apple-time, 
 Smooth cheek round. 
 Heart all sound t 
 
154 THE SPANISH GYPST. 
 
 Is it this 
 
 Yon would kiss? 
 
 Then it is PejiJa. 
 You can bring 
 No sweet thing, 
 But my mind 
 Still shall find 
 
 It is my Pep'ita. 
 Memory 
 Says to me 
 It is she — 
 She is fair 
 Past compare 
 
 In the land of Tubal. 
 
 Pepita. {seizing Juan's hand again). 
 Oh, then, you do love nie ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes, iu the song. 
 
 PitPiTA {sadly). 
 Not out of it?— not love me out of it? 
 
 Juan. 
 Ouly a little out of it, my bird. 
 When I was singing I was Andres, say, 
 Or one who loves you better still than he. 
 
 Pepita. 
 Not yourself? 
 
 Juan. 
 No! 
 
 Pepita {throwing his hand dotvn pettishly). 
 
 Then take it back again ! 
 I will not have it I 
 
 Juan. 
 Listen, little one. 
 Juan is not a living man by himself: 
 His life is breathed in him by other men. 
 And they speak out of him. lie is their voice. 
 Juan's own life he gave once quite away. 
 Pepita's lover sang that song — not Juan. 
 We old, old poets, if we kept our hearts. 
 Should hardly know them from another man's. 
 They shrink to make room for the many more 
 We keep within us. There, now — one more kiss, 
 And then go home again. 
 
 Pepita (a littU frightened, after letting Juan kiss Jier), 
 Yon are not wicked? 
 Juan. 
 Ask your confessor— tell him what I said. 
 (Pbpita goes, while Juan thrums his lute again, atid eingg.) 
 Came a pretty maid 
 By the moon^s pure light, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 155 
 
 Loved me icell, she said, 
 Hyes icith tears all bright, 
 A pretty viaid ! 
 But too late she strayed. 
 
 Moonlight pure was there; 
 She was nought but shade 
 Hiding the inore fair. 
 The heavenly maid ! 
 
 A vaulted room all stone. The light shed from a high lamp. Wooden chairs, a 
 desk, book-shelves. The Puior, in white frock, a Mack rosary with a crucifix of 
 ebony and ivory at his side, is toalking up and down, holding a written paper 
 in his hands, ivhich are clasped behind him. 
 
 What if this wituess lies ? he says he heard her 
 Counting her blasphemies on a rosary, 
 And ia a bold discourse with Salonio, 
 Say that the Host was nought but ill-mixed flour, 
 That it was mean to pray — she never prayed. 
 I know the man who Avrote this for a cur, 
 Who follows Don Diego, sees life's good 
 In scraps my nephew flings to him. Wliat then? 
 Particular lies may speak a general truth. 
 I guess him false, but know her heretic — 
 Know her for Satan's instrument, bedecked 
 Witli lieathenish charms, luring the souls of men 
 To damning trust in good nnsanctified. 
 Let her be prisoned — questioned — she will give 
 Witness against herself, that were this false . . . 
 {He looks at the paper again and reads, then again thrusts it behind him). 
 The matter aud the color are not false : 
 The form concerns the witness not the judge; 
 For proof is gathered by the sifting mind, 
 Not given in crude and formal circumstance. 
 Suspicion is a heaven-seut lamp, and I— 
 I, watchman of the Holy Office, bear 
 That lamp in trust. I will keep faithful watch. 
 The Holy Inquisition's discipline 
 Is mercy, saving her, if penitent — 
 God grant it !— else— root up the poison-plant. 
 Though 'twere a lily with a golden heart ! 
 This spotless maiden with her pagan soul 
 Is the arch-enemy's trap: he turus his back 
 On all the prostitutes, and watches her 
 To see her poison men with false belief 
 In rebel virtues. She has poisoned Silva; 
 His shifting mind, dangerous in fltfulness. 
 Strong in the contradiction of itself. 
 Carries his young ambitions wearily. 
 As holy vows regretted. Once he seemed 
 The fresh-oped flower of Christian knighthood, born 
 For feats of holy daring ; and I said : 
 " That half of life which I, as monk, renounce, » 
 
 Shall be fulfilled in him: Silva will be 
 That saintly noble, that wise warrior, 
 That blameless excellence in worldly gifts 
 I would have been, had I not asked to live 
 
156 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 The hi';hei- life of man impei'soual 
 Who leigns o'er all things by refusing all." 
 What is his promise now ? Apostasy 
 From every high intent: — languid, nay, gone, 
 The prompt devoutness of a generous heart, 
 The strong obedience of a reverent will. 
 That breathes the Church's air and sees her light. 
 He peers and strains with feeble questioning, 
 Or else he jests. He thinks I know it not — 
 I who have read the history of his lapse, 
 As clear as it is writ in the angel's book. 
 He will defy me — flings great words at me — 
 Me who have governed all our house's acts. 
 Since I, a stripling, ruled his stripling father. 
 This maiden is the cause, and if they wed, 
 The Holy War may count a captain lost. 
 For better he were dead than keep his place, 
 And till it inlaniously : in Gud's war 
 Slackness is infamy. Shall I stand by 
 And let the tempter win ? defraud Christ's c;uise, 
 And blot his banner? — all for scruples weak 
 Of pity towards their young and frolicsome blood; 
 Or nice discrimination of the tool 
 By which my band shall work a sacred rescue? 
 The fence of rules is for the purblind crowd; 
 They walk by averaged precepts: sovereign men, 
 Seeing by God's light, see the general 
 By seeing all the special— own no rule 
 But their full vision of the moment's worth. 
 'Tis so God governs, using wicked men- 
 Nay, scheming fiends, to work his pnrposes. 
 Evil that good may come? Measuie the good 
 Before you say what's evil. Perjury? 
 I scorn the perjurer, but I will use him 
 To serve the holy truth. There is no lie 
 Save in his soul, and let his soul be judged. 
 I know the truth, and act upon the truth. 
 
 O God, thou knowest that my will is pure. 
 
 Thy servant owns nought for himself, his wealth 
 
 Is l)ut obedience. And I have sinned 
 
 In keeping small respects of human love — 
 
 Calling it mercy. Mercy? Where evil is 
 
 True mercy holds a sword. Mercy would save. 
 
 Save whom? Save serpents, locusts, wolves? 
 
 Or out of i)!ty let the idiots gorge 
 
 Within a famished town? Or save the gains 
 
 Of men who trade in poison lest they starve? 
 
 Save all things mean and foul that clog the earth 
 
 Stifling the better? Save the fools who cling 
 
 For refuge round their hideous idol's limbs, 
 
 So leave the idol grinning unconsnmed., 
 
 And save the fools to breed idolaters? 
 
 O mercy worthy of the licking hound 
 
 That knows no future but its feeding time I 
 
 Mercy has eyes that pierce the ages— sees 
 
 From heights divine of the eternal purpose 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 157 
 
 Far-scatteied consequence in its vast snni; 
 
 Chooses to save, but with illumined vision 
 
 Sees that to save is greatly to destroy. 
 
 'Tis so the Holy Inquisition sees: its wrath 
 
 Is fed from tlie strong heart of wisest love. 
 
 For love must needs make hatred. He who loves 
 
 God and his law must hate the foes of God. 
 
 And I have sinned in being merciful: 
 
 Being slack in hate, I have been slack in love. 
 
 {He tnkefs the crucifix and holds it up before him.) 
 Thou shuddering, bleediug, thirsting, dying God, 
 Thou Man of Sorrows, scourged and bruised and torn, 
 Suffering to save — wilt thou not judge the world? 
 This arm which held the children, this pale hand 
 That gently touched tlie eyelids of the blind, 
 And opened passive to the cruel nail, 
 Shall one day stretch to leftward of thy throne. 
 Charged with the power tliat makes the lightning strong, 
 And hurl thy foes to everlasting hell. 
 And thou, Tmmaculate Mother, Virgin mild, 
 Thou sevenfold-pierced, thou pitying, pleading Queen, 
 Shalt see and smile, while the black filthy stnils 
 Sink with foul weight to their eternal place. 
 Purging the Holy Light. Yea, I have sinned 
 And called it mercy. But I shrink no more. 
 To-morrow morn this temptress shall be safe 
 Under the Holy Inquisition's key. 
 lie thinks to wed her, and defy me then, 
 She being shielded by our house's name. 
 But he shall never wed her. I have said. 
 
 The time is come. Exiirre, Dominc, 
 Jtidica caunani tuani. Let thy foes 
 Be driven as the smoke before the wind. 
 And melt like wax upon the furnace lip! 
 
 large chamber richlij furnished opening on a terrace-garden, the trees visible 
 through the window in faint moonlight. Flowers hanging about the window, lit 
 up by the tapers. The casket of jewels open on a table. The gold necklace lying 
 ■near. Fi'.dai.ma, splendidly dressed and adoriied with pearls and rubies, i» 
 walking up and down. 
 
 So soft a night was never made for sleep, 
 But for the waking of the tiucr sense 
 Ti) every murmuring and gentle sound, 
 To subtlest odors, pulses, visitings 
 That touch our frames with wings too delicate 
 To be discerned amid the blare of day. 
 {She pauses near tlie window to gather .some jasmine : then walks again.) 
 Surely these flowers keep happy watch — their breail) 
 Is their fond memory of the loving light. 
 I often rue the hours I lose in sleep: 
 It is a bliss too brief, only to see 
 This glorious world, to hear the voice of love, 
 To feel the touch, the breath of tenderness. 
 And then to rest as from a spectacle. 
 I need the curtained stillness of the night 
 
158 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 To live through all my happy hoiu's again 
 
 With more selection — cull them quite away 
 
 From blemished moments. Then in lonelinesu 
 
 The face that bent before me iu the day 
 
 ■Rises in its own light, more vivid seems 
 
 Paiuted upon the dark, and ceaseless glows 
 
 With sweet solemnity of gazing love, 
 
 Till like the heavenly blue it seems to grow 
 
 Nearer, more kindred, and more cherishing. 
 
 Mingling with all my being. Then the words, 
 
 The tender low-toned words come back again, 
 
 With repetition welcome as the chime 
 
 Of softly hurrying brooks — "My only love — 
 
 My love while life shall last— my own Fedalma!'" 
 
 Oh it is mine— the joy that once has been ! 
 
 Poor eager hope is but a stammerer. 
 
 Must listen dumbly to great memory, 
 
 Who makes our bliss the sweeter by her telling. 
 
 {She patises a moment musingly.) 
 But that dumb hope is still a sleeping guard 
 Whose qniet rhythmic breath saves me from dread 
 In this fair paradise. For if the earth 
 Broke off with fiower-fringed edge, visibly sheer, 
 Leaving no footing for my forward step 
 But empty blackness . . . 
 
 Nay, there is no fear — 
 They will renew themselves, day and my joy, 
 'And all that past which is securely mine, 
 Will be the hidden root that nourishes 
 Our still unfolding, ever-ripening love ! 
 (While she is uttering the last words, a little bird falls softly on the floor behind 
 her; she hears the light sound of its fall, and turns round.) 
 Did something enter? . . . 
 
 Yes, this little bird . . . 
 
 (She lifts it.) 
 Dead and yet warm ; 'twas seeking sanctuary, 
 And died, perhaps of fright, at the altar foot. 
 Stay, there is something tied beneath the wing! 
 A strip of linen, streaked with blood — what blood? 
 The streaks are written words — are sent to me— 
 
 God, are sent to me ! Dear child, Fedalma, 
 Be brave, give no alarm — your Father comes ! 
 
 {She lets the bird fall again.) 
 My Father . . . comes ... my Father . . . 
 {She turns in quivering expectation toicards the window. There is perfect stillness 
 a few momenta until Zaroa appears at the toindow. He enters quickly and 
 noiselessly ; then standx still at his full height, and at a distance from Fe- 
 dalma.) 
 
 Fkdalma {in a low, distinct tone of terror). 
 
 It is he! 
 
 1 said his fate had laid its hold on mine. 
 
 Zauca {advancing a step or two). 
 You know, then, who I am? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 The prisoner- 
 He whom I saw iu fetters— and this necklace . . . 
 
THE SPANISH GYPST. 159 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Was played with by your fingers when it hung 
 About my neck, full fifteen years ago. 
 
 Fbdalma {looking at the necklace and handling it, then speaking, as if ■uncon- 
 sciously). 
 
 Full fifteen years ago ! 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 The very day 
 I lost yon, when yon wore a tiny gown 
 Of scarlet cloth with golden broidery: 
 'Twas clasped in front by coins— two golden coins. 
 The one upon the left was split in two 
 Across the king's head, right from brow to nape, 
 A dent i' the middle nicking in the cheek. 
 You see I know the little gown by heart. 
 
 FicDALMA (growing paler and more tremulous). 
 
 Yes. It is true — I have the gown — the clasps — 
 The braid— sore tarnished :— it is long ago ! 
 
 Zaroa. 
 But yesterday to me ; for till to-day 
 I saw you always as that little child. 
 And when they took my necklace from me, still 
 Your fingers played abont it on my neck, 
 And still those buds of fingers on your feet 
 Caught in its meshes as yon seemed to climb 
 Up to ray shoulder. You were not stolen all. 
 You had a double life fed from my heart. . . . 
 (Febalma, letting fall the necklace, makes an impulsive movement towards 
 him loith outstretched hands.) 
 The Gypsy father loves his children well. 
 
 Fedalma (shrinking, trembling, and letting fall hei- hands). 
 How came it that you sought me — no — I mean, 
 How came it that yon knew me— that you lost me? 
 
 Zaroa (standing j)erfectly still). 
 Poor child ! I see— your fother and his rags 
 Are welcome as the piercing wintry wind 
 Within this silken chamber. It is well. 
 I would not have a child who stooped to feign, 
 And aped a sudden love. Better, true hate. 
 
 Fedalma (raising her eyes towards him, loith a flash of admiration, and looking at 
 him fixedly). 
 Father, how was it that we lost each other? 
 
 Zaroa. 
 I lost you as a man may lose a gem 
 Wherein he has compressed his total wealth, 
 Or the right hand whose cunning makes him great; 
 I lost you by a trivial accident. 
 Marauding Spaniards, sweeping like a storm 
 Over a spot within the Moorish bounds 
 Near where our camp lay, doubtless snatched you up, 
 
160 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 When Ziml, j-onr nurse, as she confessed, was urged 
 By biirinii^ thirst to wander toward the stream, 
 And leave yon on the sand some jiace-^ I'ff 
 Playing with i)ebbles, wliile she dot::-like lapped. 
 'Twas so I lost yon— never saw you more 
 Until to-day I saw yon dancing! Saw 
 The danghter of the Zincalu make spoit 
 For those who spit upon her people's name. 
 
 Fkdai.ma {vehcmenthj). 
 It was not sport. What if the world looked on ?— 
 I danced for joy— for love of all the world. 
 Bnt when you looked at me my joy was stabbed— 
 Stabbed with your pain. I wondered . . . now I know . . . 
 It was my father's pain. 
 (She pauses a moment ivith eyes bent downward, during which Zauoa 
 exaiuims her face. Then she sai/s quickly,) 
 How were you sure 
 At once I was your child ? 
 
 Z A lie A. 
 
 I had witness strong 
 As any Cadi needs, before I saw yon ! 
 I fitted all my memories with the chat 
 Of one named Juan — one whose rapid talk 
 Showers like the blossoms from a light-twigged shrnb, 
 If you but cough beside it'. I learned all 
 The story of your Spanish nurture— all 
 The promise of your fortune. When at last 
 I fronted you, my little maid full-grown. 
 Belief was turned to vision: then I saw 
 That she whom Spaniards called the bright Fedahna— 
 The little red-frocked foundling three years old- 
 Grown to such perfectness the Spanish Diikc 
 Had wooed her for his Duchess — was the child, 
 Sole offspring of my flesh, that Lambra bore 
 One hour before the Christian, hunting us. 
 Hurried her on to death. Therefore I sought— 
 Therefore I come to claim you— claim my child, 
 Not from the Spaniard, not from him who robl)ed. 
 But from herself. 
 (FEnAi-MA has gradually approached close to Zauoa, and with a low sob sinks 
 on her knees before him. He stoops to kiss her brow, and lays his hands 
 on her head.) 
 
 Zaroa {with solemn tenderness). 
 Then ray child owns her father ? 
 
 Fehalma. 
 
 Father ! yes. 
 I will eat dust before I will deny 
 The flesh I spring from. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 There my daughter spoke. 
 Away then with these rubies ! 
 (He seizes the circlet of rubies and flings it on the ground. Febalma, start- 
 ing from the ground with strong emotion, shrinks backward.) 
 
 Such a crowu 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 161 
 
 Is infamy around a Ziiicala's brow. 
 It is her people's blood, decking her shame. 
 Fed ALMA (ftfler a vionient, slowly and distinctly, as if acceptiny a doom). 
 Then ... I was born ... a Ziucala ? 
 
 Zaeca. 
 
 Of a blood 
 Unmixed as virgin wine-jiiice. 
 
 Fepalma. 
 
 Of a race 
 More outcast and despised than Moor or Jew ? 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 Yes: wanderere whom no God took knowledge of 
 To give them laws, to fight f(H- them, or blight 
 Another race to make th«m anijilcr room ; 
 Who have no Whence or Whither in their souls, 
 No dimmest lore of glorious ancestors 
 To make a common hearth for piety. 
 
 Fepalma. 
 
 A race that lives on prey as foxes do 
 
 With stealthy, petty rapine : so despised. 
 
 It is not persecuted, only spurned, 
 
 Crushed underfoot, warred on by chance like rats, 
 
 Or swarming flies, or reptiles of the sea 
 
 Dragged in the net unsought, and flung far off 
 
 To perish as they may? 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 You paint us well. 
 So abject are the men whoee blood we share : 
 Untutored, unbefriended, unendowed ; 
 No favorites of heaven or of men. 
 Tlierefore I cling to them ! Therefore no lure 
 Shall draw me to disown them, or forsake 
 The meagre wandering herd that lows for help 
 And needs me for its guide, to seek my pasture 
 Among the well-fed beeves that graze at will. 
 Because our race has no great memories, 
 I will so live, it shall remoniljer me 
 For deeds of such divine benclicence 
 As rivers have, that teach men what is good 
 By blessing them. I have been sciiooled — have caught 
 Lore from the Hebrew, deftness from the Moor — 
 Know the rich heritage, the milder life. 
 Of nations fixthered by a mighty Past ; 
 But were our race accursed (as they who niak€ 
 Good luck a god count all unlucky men) 
 I would espouse their curse sooner than take 
 My gifts from brethren naked of all good. 
 And lend them to the rich for usury. 
 
 (Fkdalma again advances, and jiuttinij forth her right Jmnd grasps Zak- 
 oA'e left- He places his other hand on her ahotdder. They stand so, look- 
 ing at each other.) 
 
 22 II 
 
162 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Zaboa. 
 And you, my child? are you of other mind, 
 Choosing forgetfulness, hating the truth 
 That says you are akin to needy men ?— 
 Wishing your father were some Christian Duke, 
 Who could hang Gypsies when their task was done, 
 While yon, his daughter, were not bound to care? 
 
 Fedalma [in a troubled, eager voice). 
 No, I should always care — I cared for you — 
 For all, before I dreamed . . . 
 
 Zakoa. 
 
 Before yon dreamed 
 That you were born a Ziucala— your flesh 
 Stamped with your people's faith. 
 
 Ficdalma {bitterhi). 
 
 The Gypsies' faith? 
 •Men Bay they have none. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 Oh, it is a faith 
 Taught by no priest, but by their beating hearts : 
 Faith to each other : the fidelity 
 Of fellow-wanderers in a desert place 
 Who share the same dire thirst, and therefore share 
 The scanty water: the fidelity 
 Of men whose pulses leap with kindred fire, 
 Who in the flash of eyes, the clasp of hands, 
 The speech that even in lying tells the truth 
 Of heritage inevitable as birth. 
 Nay, in the silent bodily presence feel 
 The mystic stirring of a common life 
 Which makes the many one: fidelity 
 To the consecrating oath our sponsor Fate 
 Made through our infant breath when we were bom 
 ^ The fellow-heirs of that small island, Life, 
 
 Where we must dig and sow and reap with brothers. 
 
 Fear thou that oath, my daughter— nay, not fear, 
 
 But love it ; for the sanctity of oaths 
 
 Lies not in lightning that avenges them. 
 
 But in the injury wrought by broken bonds 
 
 And in the garnered good of human trust. 
 
 And you have sworn — even with yonr infant breath 
 
 You too were pledged. . . . 
 
 Fedalma {letting go Zakoa's hand, and sinking backward on her kwes, with 
 bent head, as if before some impending, crushing weight)). 
 To what? what have I sworn? 
 Zaroa. 
 To take the heirship of the Gypsy's child : 
 The child of him who, being chief, will be 
 The savior of his tribe, or if he fail ' 
 
 Will choose to fail rather than basely win 
 The prize of renegades. Nay, will not choose — 
 Is there a choice for strong souls to be weak? 
 For men erect to crawl like hissing snakes ? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 1G3 
 
 I choose not — I am Zarca. Let him choose 
 Who halts and wavers, having appetite 
 To feed ou garbage. You, my child— are you 
 Ilaltiug aud wavering? 
 
 Fedalma {raising her head). 
 
 Say what is my tasic. 
 Zaboa. 
 To be the angel of a homeless tribe: 
 To help me bless a race taught by no prophet 
 And make their name, now but a badge of scorn, 
 A glorious banner floating in their midst, 
 Stirring the air they breathe with impulses 
 Of generous pride, exalting fellowship 
 Until it soars to magnanimity. 
 I'll guide my brethren forth to their new land, 
 Where they shall plant and sow and reap their own. 
 Serving each other's needs, and so be spurred 
 To skill in all the arts that succor life; 
 Where we may kindle our lirst altar-fire 
 From settled hearths, and call our Holy Place 
 The hearth that binds us in one family. 
 That land awaits them: they await their chief — 
 Me who am prisoned. All depends on you. 
 
 .''jf.DAi.MA {rising to her full height, and looking solemnly at Zaroa). 
 Father, your child is ready ! She will not 
 Forsake her kindred : she will brave all scorn 
 Sooner than scorn herself. Let? Spaniards all, 
 Christians, Jews, Moors, shoot out the lip and say, 
 " Lo, the first hero in a tribe of thieves." 
 Is it not written so of them ? They, too. 
 Were slaves, lost, wandering, sunk beneath a. curse, 
 Till Moses, Christ, and Mahomet were born, 
 Till beings lonely in their greatness lived. 
 And lived to save the people. Father, listen. 
 The Duke to-morrow weds me secretly: 
 But straight he will present me a' Ms wife 
 To all his household, cavaliers and dames 
 And noble pages. Then I will declare 
 Before them all, "I am his daughter, his, 
 The Gypsy's, owner of this Golden badge." 
 Then I shall win your freedom ; then the Duke — 
 Why, he will be your sou ! — will send you forth 
 With aid and honors. Then, before all eyes 
 I'll clasp this badge ou you, and lift my brow 
 For you to kiss it, saying by that sign, 
 "I glory iu my father." This, to-morrow. 
 
 Zauoa. 
 A woman's dream— who thinks by smiling well 
 To ripen figs in frost. What! marry first. 
 And then proclaim your birth 'f Enslave yourself 
 To use your freedom ? Share another's name, 
 Then treat it as you will ? How will that tune 
 Ring in your bridegroom's ears— tliat sudden song 
 Of triumph in your Gypsy father? 
 
164 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Fedalma {discoxtraged). 
 
 Niiy, 
 
 I meant not so. We many liastily — 
 Yet there is time — there will be : — in less siince 
 Than he can take to look at me, I'll speak 
 And tell him all. Oh, I am uot afraid 1 
 His love for me is stronger than all hate ; 
 Nay, stronger than my love, which cannot sway 
 Demons that haunt me — tempt me to rebel. 
 Were he Fedalma and I Silva, he 
 Could love confession, prayers, and tonsured monks 
 If my soul craved them. He will never hate 
 The race that bore him what he loves the most. 
 I shall but do more strongly what I will, 
 Having his will to help me. And to-morrow, 
 Father, as surely as this heart shall beat, 
 You— every Gypsy chained, shall be set free. 
 Zakoa {coming nearer to her, and laying Ids hand on her shotdder). 
 Too late, too poor a service that, my child ! 
 Not so the woman who would save her tribe 
 Must help its heroes — not by wordy breath, 
 By easy prayers strong in a lover's ear. 
 By showering wreaths and sweets and wafted Kisses, 
 And then, when all the smiling work is done, 
 Turning to rest upon her down again. 
 And whisper languid pity for her race 
 Upon the bosom of her alien spouse. 
 Not to such petty morsels as can fall 
 'Twixt stitch and stitch of silken broidery, 
 Such miracles of mitred saints who pause 
 Beneath their gilded canopy to heal 
 A man sun-stricken: not to such trim merit 
 As soils its dainty shoes for charity 
 And simpers meekly at tlie jiious stain, 
 But never trod with naked, bleeding feet 
 Where no m;in praised it, and where no Church blessed: 
 Not to such almsdeeds fit for holidays 
 Were you, my daughter, consecrated — bound 
 By laws that, breaking, you will dip your bread 
 In murdered brother's blood and call it sweet — 
 When you were born beneath the dark man's tent. 
 And lifted up in sight of all your tribe. 
 Who greeted you with shouts of loyal joy, 
 Sole offspring of the chief in whom they trust 
 As in the oft-tried, never-failing flint 
 They strike their fire from. Other work is yours. 
 
 Fepai^ma. 
 What work?— what is it that you ask of me? 
 
 Zaroa. 
 A work as pregnant as the act of men 
 Who set their ships aflame and spring to land, 
 A fatal deed . . . 
 
 Fkhalma. 
 
 Stay! never utter it! 
 If it can part my lot from his whose love 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 105 
 
 Has chosen me. Talk not of oaths, of birth, 
 
 Of men as nnnieroiis as the dim white stars — 
 
 As cold and distant, too, for my heart's pnlse. 
 
 No ills on earth, though you should count tlieni up 
 
 With grains to make a mountain, can out\veij,'li 
 
 For me, his ill who is my f^uprenie love. 
 
 All sorrows else are but Imajjined flames, 
 
 Making me shudder at an unfelt smart ; 
 
 But his imagined sorrow is a fire 
 
 That scorches me. 
 
 Zauca. 
 I know, I know it M'ell — 
 The first young, passionate wail of spirits called 
 To some great destiny. In vain, my daughter! 
 Lay the young eagle in what nest you will, 
 The cry and swoop of eagles overhead 
 Vibrate prophetic in its kindred frame. 
 And make it spread its wings and poise itself 
 For the eagle's flight. Hear what you have to do. 
 (Fbdalma stands half averted, as if she dreaded the effect of his loohs and 
 
 toords.) 
 My comrades even now file off their chains 
 In a low turret by the battlements, 
 Where we were locked with slight and sleepy guard— 
 We who had flies in our shaggy hair, 
 And possible ropes that waited but our will 
 In half our garments. Oh, the Moorish blood 
 Euus thick and warm to us, though thinned by chrism. 
 I found a friend among our jailers— one 
 Who loves the Gypsy as the Moor's all}'. 
 I know the secrets of this fortress. Listen. 
 Hard by yon terrace is a narrow stair, 
 Cut in the living rock, and at one point 
 In its slow straggling course it branches off 
 Towards a low wooden door, that art has bossed 
 To such unevenness it seems one piece 
 With the rough-hewn rock. Open that door, it leads 
 Through a broad passage burrowed under ground 
 A good half-mile out to the open plain : 
 Made for escape, in dire extremity 
 From siege or burning, of the house's wealth 
 In women or in gold. To find that door 
 Needs one who knows the number of the steps 
 tTust to the turning-point; to open it. 
 Needs one who knows the secret of the bolt. 
 You have that secret: you will ope that door. 
 And fly with us. 
 
 Fbdai.ma {receding a little, and gatherinci herself vp in an altitude of resolve oppo- 
 site to Zaiioa). 
 
 No, I will never fly ! 
 Never forsake that chief half of my soul 
 Where lies my love. 1 swear to set yon free. 
 Ask for no more ; it is not possible. 
 Father, my soul is not too base to ring 
 At touch of your great thoughts; nay, in my blood 
 
166 THE SPAISaSH GYPSY. 
 
 There streams the sense unspeakable of kind, 
 
 As leopard feels at ease with leopard. But — 
 
 Look at these hands ! You say wlien they were little 
 
 Tliey played about the gold upon your ueck. 
 
 I do believe it, for their tiny pulse 
 
 Made record of it iu the inmost coil 
 
 Of growing memory. But see them now! 
 
 Oil, they have made fresh record; twined themselves 
 
 With other throbbing hands whose pulses feed 
 
 Not memories only but a blended life — 
 
 Life that will bleed to death if it be severed. 
 
 Have pity on me, father! Vv'ait the morning; 
 
 Say you will wait the morning. I will win 
 
 Your freedom openly: you shall go forth 
 
 With aid and honors. Silva will deny 
 
 Nought to my asking . . . 
 
 Zakca. {with conlemptumts decision). 
 Till you ask him aught 
 Wherein he is powerless. Soldiers even now 
 Murmur against him that he risks the town. 
 And forfeits all the prizes of a foray 
 To get his bridal pleasure with a bride 
 Too low for him. They'll murmur more and louder 
 If captives of our pith and sinew, fit 
 For all the work the Spaniard hates, are freed — 
 Now, too, when Spanish hands are scanty. What, 
 Turn Gypsies loose instead of hanging them ! 
 'Tis flat against the edict. Nay, perchance 
 Murmurs aloud may turn to silent threats 
 Of some well-sharpened dagger; for your Duke 
 Has to his heir a pious cousin, who deems 
 The Cross were better served if he were Duke. 
 Such good you'll work your lover by your prayers. 
 
 Fkbalma. 
 
 Then, I will fiee you now ! You shall be safe, 
 Nor he be blamed, save for his love to me. 
 I will declare what I have done: the deed 
 May put our marriage off . . . 
 
 Zauca. 
 
 Ay, till the time 
 Wiieu you shall be a queen in Africa, 
 And he be prince enough to sue for yon. 
 You cannot free us and come back to him. ' 
 
 Fedalma. 
 And why? 
 
 Zarca. 
 I would compel you to go forth. 
 
 Feualma. 
 You tell me that? 
 
 Zakoa. 
 Yes, for I'd have you choose ; 
 Though, being of the blood you are— my blood — 
 You have no right to choose. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Fkdalma. 
 
 I only owe 
 A drtughtei'B debt ; I was not born a slave. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 No, not a slave; but you were born to reigu. 
 'Tis a compulsion of a higher sort. 
 Whose fetters are the net invisible 
 That hold all life together. Royal deeds 
 Way make long destinies for multitudes, 
 And you are called to do them. You belong 
 Not to the petty round of circumstance 
 That makes a woman's lot, but to your tribe. 
 Who trust in me and in my blood with trust 
 That men call blind ; but it is only blind 
 As unyeaned reason is, that grows and stirs 
 Within the womb of superstition. 
 
 FfiDALMA. 
 
 No! 
 I belong to him who loves me— whom I love— 
 Who chose me— whom I chose— to whom I pledged 
 A woman's truth. And that is nature too. 
 Issuing a fresher law than laws of birth. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 Unmake yourself, then, from a Zincala— 
 Unmake yourself from being child of mine! 
 Take holy water, cross your dark skin white ; 
 Round your proud eyes to foolish kitten looks; 
 Walk minciugly, and smirk, and twitch your robe: 
 Uuniake yourself— doff all the eagle plumes 
 And be a parrot, chained to a ring that slips 
 Upon a Spaniard's thumb, at will of his 
 That you should prattle o'er his words again! 
 Get a small heart that flutters at the smiles 
 Of that plump penitent, that greedy saint 
 Who breaks all treaties in the name of God, 
 Saves souls by confiscation, sends to heaven 
 The altar-fumes of burning heretics. 
 And chaffers with the Levite for the gold; 
 Holds Gypsies beasts unfit for sacrifice. 
 So sweeps them out like worms alive or dead. 
 Go, trail your gold and velvet in her court !— 
 A conscious Zincala, smile at your rare luck. 
 While half your brethren . . . 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I am not so vile t 
 It is not to such mockeries that I cling. 
 Not to the flaring tow of gala-lights ; 
 It is to him— my love— the face of day. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 What, will you part him from the air he breathes, 
 Never inhale with him although you kiss him? 
 Will you adopt a soul without its thoughts. 
 Or grasp a life apart from flesh and blood? 
 
 167 
 
168 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Till theu you cannot wed a Spanish Dnke 
 And not wed s^hanie at mention of your race. 
 And not wed hardiie.--s to their miseries — 
 Nay, not wed murder. Would you save my life 
 Yet stab my purpose? maim my every liuib, 
 Put out my eyes, and turn me loose to feed? 
 Is that salvation ? ralher diink my blood. 
 That child of mine wlio weds my enemy — 
 Adores a God wht) took no heed of Gypsies — 
 Forsakes her people, leaves their poverty 
 To join the luckier crowd that mocks their woe3-=» 
 That child of mine is doubly murderess, 
 Murdering her father's hope, her people's trust. 
 Such draughts are mingled in your cup of lovel 
 And when yon have become a thing so poor. 
 Your life is all a fashion without law 
 Save frail conjecture of a changing wish, 
 Your worshipped sun, your smiling face of day, 
 Will turn to cloudiness, and you will shiver 
 In yonr thin finery of vain desire. 
 . Men call his passion madness: and he, too, 
 May learn to think it madness: 'lis a thought 
 Of ducal sanity. 
 
 Fkdai.m\. 
 
 No, he is true ! 
 And if I part from him I part from joy. 
 Oh, it was morning with lis, I seemed young. 
 But now I know I am an aged sorrow — 
 My people's sorrow. Father, since I am yours— 
 Since I must walk an nnslain sacrifice. 
 Carrying the knife within me, quivering — 
 Put cords upon me, drag me to the doom 
 My birth has laid upon me. See, I kneel : 
 I cannot will to go. 
 
 Zako.\. 
 Will then to stay! 
 Say yon will take your better, painted such 
 By blind desire, and choose the hideous worse 
 For thousands who were happier but for you. 
 My thirty followers are assembled now 
 Withont this terrace: I yonr father wait 
 That yon may lead us forth to liberty- 
 Restore me to my tribe^flve hundred men 
 Whom I alone can save, alone can rule, 
 And plant them as a mighty nation's seed. 
 Why, vagabonds who clustered round one man, 
 Their voice of God, their prophet and Iheir king. 
 Twice grew to empire on the teeming shores 
 Of Africa, and sent new royalties 
 To feed afresh the Arab sway in Spain. 
 My vagabonds are a seed more generous, 
 Quick as the serpent, loving as the hound, 
 And beautiful as disinherited gods. 
 They have a promised land beyond the sea: 
 There I may lend them, raise my standard, call 
 The wandering Zincali to that new home, 
 And make a nation — bring light, order, law, 
 
THE SPANISH GTTSY. 169 
 
 Instead o? chaos.' You, my only heir, 
 Are called to leigu for me when I am jrone. 
 Now choose your deed : to save or to destroy. 
 You, a born Zincala, yon, fortunate 
 Above youi' fellows — you who hold a curse 
 Or blessing in the hollow of your hand — 
 Say yon will loose that hand from fellowship, 
 Let K'l the rescuing rope, hurl all the tribes, 
 Children and countless beings yet to come, 
 Down from the upward path of light and joy. 
 Back to the dark and marshy wilderness 
 Where life is nought but blind tenacity 
 Of that which is. Say yon will curse your race' 
 
 FicDAT.MA. {rising and stretching out her arms in deprecation). 
 
 No, no — I will not say it — I will go ! 
 Father, I choose ! I will not take a heaven 
 Haunted by shrieks of far-off misery. 
 This deed and I have ripened with the hours: 
 It is a part of me— a wakened thought 
 That, rising like a giant, masters me. 
 And grows into a doom. O mother life. 
 That seemed to nourish me so tenderly. 
 Even in the womb you vowed me to the fire, 
 Hung on my soul the burden of men's hopes. 
 And pledged me to redeem !— I'll pay the debt. 
 You gave me strength that I should pour it all 
 Into this anguish. I can never shrink 
 Back into bliss — my heart has grown too big 
 With things that might be. Father, I will go. 
 I will strip off these gems. Some happier bride 
 Shall wear tlieni, since Fedalma would be dowered 
 With nought but curses, dowered with misery 
 Of men — of women, who have hearts to bleed 
 As hers is bleeding. 
 
 (She sinks on a seat, and begins to take off her jewels.) 
 Now, good gems, we part. 
 Speak of me always tenderly to Silva. 
 
 (She pauses, turning to Zakoa.) 
 O father, will the women of our tribe 
 Suffer as I do, in the years to come 
 When you have made them great in Afiica? 
 Redeemed from ignorant ills only to feel 
 A conscious woe? Then— is it worth the pains? 
 Were it not better when we reach that shore 
 To raise a funeral-pile and perish all. 
 So closing up a myriad avenues 
 To misery yet unwronght? My soul is faint — 
 Will these sharp pangs buy any certain good? 
 
 Zaeoa. 
 Nay, never falter: no great deed is done 
 By falterers who ask for certainty. 
 No good is certain, but the steadfast mind, 
 The undivided will to seek the good : 
 'Tis that compels the elements, and wrings 
 
 22* H* 
 
170 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 A human music from the HKlifferent nW. 
 The greatest gift the lieio leaves his race 
 Is to have been a hero. Say we fail ! — 
 We feed the high tradition of tlie world, 
 Aud leave our spirit in o'.ir childreu's breasts. 
 
 Fedalma. (unclaapiiig her jewelled belt, and throwing it dtncn). 
 
 Yes, say that we shall fail ! I will not count 
 Ou aught but being faithful. I will take 
 This yearning self of mine and strangle it. 
 I will not be half-hearted: never yet 
 Fedalma did aught with a wavering sonl. 
 Die, my young joy— die, all my hungry hopes — 
 The milk you cry for from the breast of life 
 Is thick with curses. Oh, all fatness here 
 Snatches its meat from leanness— feeds on graves. 
 I will seek nothing but to shim base joy. 
 The saiuts were cowards who stood by to see 
 Christ crucified: they should have flung themselves 
 Upon the Roman spears, and died in vain — 
 Tlie grandest death, to die in vain — for love 
 Greater than sways the forces of the world ! 
 That death shall be my bridegroom. I will wed 
 The curse that blights my people. Father, cornel 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 No curse has fallen on us till wc cease 
 To help each other. You, if you are false 
 To that first fellowship, lay on the curse. 
 But write now to the Spaniard ; briefly say 
 That I, your father, came ; that you obeyed 
 The fate which made you Zincala, as his fate 
 Made him a Spanish duke and Christian knight. 
 He must not think . . . 
 
 Fkdai.ma. 
 
 Yes, 1 will write, but he — 
 Oil, he would know it — he would never think 
 The chain that dragged me from him could be aught 
 But scorching iron entering in my soul. 
 
 {She writes.) 
 Silva, sole love — he came — my fatlier came. 
 I am the daughter of the Gi/p.i;; chief 
 Who meaiui to be the savior of our tribe. 
 lie calls on me to live for Jiis great end. 
 To live f nay, die for it. Fedalma dies 
 In leaving Silva : all that lives henceforth 
 Is the poor Z'liicala. {She rises.) 
 
 Father, now I s" 
 To wed my people's lot. 
 
 Zaeoa. 
 
 To wed a crown. 
 Our peoi)le's lo\Vly lot we will make royal- 
 Give it a country, homes, and monuments 
 Held sacred through the lofty memories 
 That we shall leave behind us. Come, my Queen 1 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 171 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 Stay, my betrothal ring ! — one kiss— farewell ! 
 O love, you were my crown. No other crown 
 Is aught but thorns on my poor woman's brow. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 Sti.va was marching homeward while the moon 
 
 Still shed mild brightness like the far-off hope 
 
 Of those pale virgin lives that wait and pray. 
 
 The stars thin-scattered made the heavens large, 
 
 Beuding iu slow procession ; in tlie east 
 
 Emergent from the dark waves of the hills, 
 
 Seeming a little sister of the moon, 
 
 Glowed Venus all unqueuched. Silvn, in haste. 
 
 Exultant and yet anxious, urged his troop 
 
 To quick and quicker march : he had delight 
 
 In forward stretching shadows, in the gleams 
 
 That travelled on the armor of the van. 
 
 And in the many-hoofed sound: in all that told 
 
 Of liurrying movement to o'ertake his thought 
 
 Already in Bedniar, close to Fedalma, 
 
 Leading her forth a wedded bride, fast vowed, 
 
 Defying Father Isidor. His glance 
 
 Took in with much content the priest who rode 
 
 Firm in his saddle, stalwart and broad-backed. 
 
 Crisp-curled, and comfortably secular. 
 
 Right in the front of him. But by degrees 
 
 Stealthily faint, disturbing with slow loss 
 
 That showed not yet full promise of a gain, 
 
 The light was changing, and the watch intense 
 
 Of moon and stars seemed weary, shivering : 
 
 The sharp white brightness passed from off the rocks 
 
 Carrying the shadows: beauteous Night lay dead 
 
 Under the pall of twilight, and the love-star 
 
 Sickened and shrank. The troop was winding now 
 
 Upward to where a pass between the peaks 
 
 Seemed like an opened gate— to Silva seemed 
 
 An outer-gate of heaven, for through that pass 
 
 They entered his own valley, near Bedmar. 
 
 Sudden within the pass a horseman rose. 
 
 One instant dark upon the banner pale 
 
 Of rock-cut sky, the next iu motion swift 
 
 With hat and plume high shaken— ominous. 
 
 Silva had dreamed his future, and the dream 
 
 Held not this messenger. A minute more — 
 
 It was his friend Don Alvar whom he saw 
 
 Reining his horse up. face to face with him, 
 
 Sad as the twilight, all his clothes ill-girt— 
 
 As if he had been roused to see one die, 
 
 And brought the news to liini whom death had robbed. 
 
 Silva believed he saw the worst — the town 
 
 Stormed by the infidel- or, could it be 
 
172 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Fedalin.a dragged ?— no, there was not yet time. 
 But with u m:ul)le face, lie only saiil, 
 "What evil, Alvar V" 
 
 "What this pajjer speaks." 
 It was Fedalma's letter folded close 
 And mute as yet for Silva. But his friend 
 Keeping it still sharp-pinched against his breast, 
 "It will smite hard, my lord : a private grief. 
 I would not have you pause to read it here. 
 Let us ride on — we use the moments best. 
 Reaching the town with speed. The smaller ill 
 Is that our Gypsy prisoners have esca])ed." 
 "No more. Give me the paper — nay, I know — 
 'Twill make no difference. Bid tliem march on faster." 
 Silva pushed forward — held the paper crushed 
 Close in his right. "They have imprisoned her," 
 He said to Alvar in low, hard-cut tones, 
 Like a dream-speech of slumbering revenge. 
 "No — when they came to fetch her she was gone." 
 Swift as the right touch on a spring, that word 
 Made Silva read the letter. She was gone ! 
 But not into locked darkness — only gone 
 Into free air— where he might find her yet 
 The bitter loss had triumph in it — what ! 
 They would have seized her with their holy claws 
 The Prior's sweet morsel of despotic hate 
 Was snatched from off his lips. This misery 
 Had yet a taste of joy. 
 
 But she was gone! 
 The sun had risen, and in the castle walls 
 The light grew strong and stronger. Silva walked 
 Through the long corridor where dimness ye-t 
 Cherished a lingering, flickering, dying hope: 
 Fedalma still was there — he could not see 
 The vacant place that once her presence filled. 
 Can we believe that the dear dead are gone? 
 Love in sad weeds forgets the fiinei'al day, 
 Opens the chamber door and almost smiles — 
 Tlieu sees the sunbeams pierce athwart the bed 
 Where the pale face is not. So Silva's joy. 
 Like the sweet habit of caressing hands 
 That seek the memory of another hand, 
 Still lived on fllfully in spite of words. 
 And, numbing thought Avith vague illusion, dulled 
 The slow and steadfast beat of certainty. 
 But in the rooms inexorable light 
 Streamed through the open window where she fled, 
 Streamed on the belt and coronet thrown down — 
 Mute witnesses— sought out the typic ring 
 That sparkled on the crimson, solitary, 
 Wounding him like a word. O hateful light! 
 It filled the chambers with her absence, glared 
 On all the motionless things her hand had touched, 
 Motionless all — save where old liiez lay 
 Snnli on the floor holdiug her rosary, 
 Making its shadow tremble with her fear. 
 And Silva passed her by because she grieved: 
 
TIIE SPANISH GYPSY. 173 
 
 It was the lute, the gems, the pictured heads, 
 
 He longed to crush, because they made no sif,'ii 
 
 But of insisteuce that she was not there, 
 
 She who liad filled his sight and hidden them. 
 
 He went forth on the terrace tow'rd the stairs, 
 
 Saw the rained petals of the cistus flowers 
 
 Crushed by large feet; but on one shady spot 
 
 Far down the steps, where dampness made .1 home, 
 
 He saw a footprint delicate-slippered, small, 
 
 So dear to him, he searched for sister-prints, 
 
 Searched in the rock-hewn passage with a lamp 
 
 For other trace of her, and found a glove; 
 
 But not Fedalma's. It was Juan's glove, 
 
 Tasselled, perfumed, embroidered with his name, 
 
 A gift of dames. Th.en Jiiau, too, was gone? 
 
 Full-mouthed conjecture, hurrying through the town, 
 
 Had spread the tale already: it was he 
 
 That helped the Gypsies' flight- He talked and saug 
 
 Of nothing but the Gypsies and Fedalma. 
 
 He drew the threads together, wove the jjlau ; 
 
 Had lingered out by moonlight, had been seen 
 
 Strolling, as was his wont, within the walls. 
 
 Humming his ditties. So Don Alvar told, 
 
 Conveying outside rumor. But the Duke, 
 
 Making of haughtiness a visor closed, 
 
 Would show uo agitated front in quest 
 
 Of small disclosures. What her writing bore 
 
 Had been enough. He knew that she was gone, 
 
 Knew why. 
 
 "The Duke," some said, "will send a force, 
 Retake the prisoners, and bring back hie bride." 
 But others, winking, "Nay, her wedding dress 
 Would be the san benito. 'Tis a fight 
 Between the Duke and Prior. Wise bets will choose 
 The churchman: he's the iron, and the Duke . . ." 
 "Is a fine piece of pottery," said mine host, 
 Softeniug the sarcasm with n bland regret. 
 
 There was the thread that in the new-made knot 
 Of obstinate circumstance seemed hardest drawn. 
 Vexed most the sense of Silva, iu these hours 
 Of fresh and angry pain— there, iu that fight 
 Against a foe whose sword was magical. 
 His shield invisible terrors— against a foe 
 Who stood as if upon the smoking mount 
 Ordaining plagues. All else, Fedalma's flight. 
 The father's claim, her Gypsy birth disclosed, 
 Were momentary crosses, hinderances 
 A Spanish noble might despise. This Chief 
 Might siill be treated with, would not refuse 
 A proffered ransom, which would better serve 
 Gypsy prosperity, give him more power 
 Over his tribe, than any fatherhood : 
 Nay, all the father in him must plead lond 
 For marriage of his daughter where she loved — 
 Iler love being placed so high and lustrously. 
 The Gypsy chieftain had loreseen a price 
 
174 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 That would be paid him for his daughter's dower- 
 Might soon give signs. Oh, all his purpose lay 
 Face upward. Silvu here felt strong, and smiled. 
 What could a Spanish noble not command? 
 He only he'iped the Queen, because he chose; 
 Could war on Spaniards, and could si)are the Moor; 
 Buy justice, or defeat it — if he would : 
 Was loyal, not from weakness, hut from strength 
 Of high resolve to use his birihiight well. 
 For nobles too are gods, like Emperors, 
 Accept perforce their own divinity, 
 And wonder at the virtue of their touch, 
 Till obstinate resistance shakes their creed, 
 Shattering that self whose wholeness is not rouuded 
 Save in the plastic souls of other men. 
 Don Silva had been suckled in that creed 
 (A high-taught speculative noble else), 
 Held it absurd as foolish argument 
 If any failed in deference, was too proud 
 Not to be courteous to so poor a knave 
 As one who knew not necessary truths 
 Of birth and dues of rank; but cross his will, 
 The miracle-working will, his rage leaped out 
 As by a right divine to rage more fatal 
 Than a mere mortal man's. And now that will 
 Had met a stronger adversary— strong 
 As awful ghosts are whom we cannot touch. 
 While they clutch us, subtly as poisoned air. 
 In deep-laid flbres of inherited fear 
 That lie below all courage. 
 
 Silva said, 
 "She is not lost to me, might still be mine 
 But for the Inquisition — the dire baud 
 That waits to clutch her with a hideous grasp 
 Not passionate, human, living, but a grasp 
 As in the death-throe when the human soul 
 Departs and leaves force unrelenting, locked, 
 Not to be loosened save by slow decay 
 That frets the universe. Father Isidor 
 Has willed it so: his phial dropped the oil 
 To catch the air-borne motes of idle slander; 
 He fed the fascinated gaze that clung 
 Round all her movements, frank as growths of f^pnng, 
 With the new hateful interest of suspicion. 
 What barrier is this Gypsy? a mere gate 
 I'll find the key for. The one barrier. 
 The tightening ccn'd that winds about my limbs, 
 Is this kind uncle, this imperious saint. 
 He who will save me, guard me from myself. 
 And he can work his will: I have no help 
 Save reptile secrecy, and no revenge 
 Save that I loill do what he schemes to hinder. 
 Ay, secrecy and disobedience — these 
 No tyranny can master. Disobey ! 
 You may divide the universe with God, 
 Keeping your will unbent, and hold a world 
 Where lie is not supreme. The Prior shall know it I 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. * 175 
 
 Ilis will shall breed resistance: he shall do 
 The thing he would not, further what he hates 
 By hardening my resolve." 
 
 But 'ueath this speech — 
 Defiant, hectoring, the more passionate voice 
 Of mauy-blended consciousness — there breathed 
 Murmurs of doubt, the weakness of a self 
 That is not one ; denies and yet believes ; 
 Protests with passion, "This is natural" — 
 Yet owns the other still were truer, better, 
 Could nature follow it: a self disturbed 
 By budding growths of reason premature 
 That breed disease. With all his outflung rage 
 Silva half shrank before the steadfast man 
 Whose life was one compacted whole, a realm 
 Where the rule changed not, and the law was strong. 
 Then that reluctant homage stirred new hate, 
 And gave rebellion an iutenser will. 
 
 But soon this inward strife the slow-paced hours 
 
 Slackened ; and the soul sank with hunger-pangs. 
 
 Hunger of love. Debate was swept right down 
 
 By certainty of loss intolerable. 
 
 A little loss! only a dark-tressed maid 
 
 Who had no heritage save her beauteous being ! 
 
 But in the candor of her virgin eyes 
 
 Saying, I love; and in the mystic charm 
 
 Of her dear presence, Silva found a heaven 
 
 Where faith and hope were drowned as stars in day. 
 
 Fedalma there, each momentary Now 
 
 Seemed a whole blest existence, a full cup 
 
 That, flowing over, asked no pouring hand 
 
 From past to future. All the world was hers. 
 
 Splendor was but the herald trumpet-note 
 
 Of her imperial coming : penury 
 
 Vanished before her as before a gem, 
 
 The pledge of treasuries. Fedalma there, 
 
 He thought all loveliness was lovelier, 
 
 She crowning it : all goodness credible, 
 
 Because of that great trust her goodness bred. 
 
 For the strong current of the passionate love 
 
 Which urged his life tow'rd hers, like urgent floods 
 
 That hurry through the various-mingled earth, 
 
 Carried within Its stream all qualities 
 
 Of what it penetrated, and made love 
 
 Only another name, as Silva was. 
 
 For the whole man that breathed within his frame. 
 
 And she was gone. Well, goddesses will go; 
 
 Bnt for a noble there were mortals left 
 
 Shaped just like goddesses— O hateful sweet ! 
 
 O impudent pleasure that should dare to front 
 
 With vulgar visage memories divine ! 
 
 The noble's birthright of miracirlous will 
 
 Turning / icould to viw^t be, spurning all 
 
 Offered as substitute for what it chose, 
 
 Tightened and fixed in strain irrevocable 
 
 The passionate selection of that love 
 
176 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Which came iiot, first but as all-conquering last. 
 Great Love has many attribntes, and t^hriues 
 For varied worship, but liis force divine 
 Shows most its many-named fulness in the man 
 Whose nature nniltitudiuously mixed- 
 Each ardent impulse grappling with a Ihouglit— 
 Resists all easy gladness, all content 
 Save mystic rapture, where the questioning soul 
 Flooded with consciousness of good that is 
 Finds life one bounteous answei'. So it was 
 In Silva's nature, Love had mastery there, 
 Not as a holiday ruler, but as one 
 Who quells a tumult in a day of dread, 
 A welcomed despot. 
 
 O all comforters, 
 All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy, 
 Came with her coming, in her iiresence lived. 
 Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall 
 Pencilled upon the grass ; high summer morns 
 When white light rains upon the quiet sea 
 And corn-fields flush with ripeness; odors soft- 
 Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home 
 And find it deep within, 'mid stiriings vague 
 Of far-off moments when our life was fresh ; 
 All sweetly-tempered music, gentle change 
 Of sound, form, color, as on wide lagoons 
 At sunset when from black far-floating prows 
 Comes a clear wafted song; all exquisite joy 
 Of a subdued desire, like some strong stream 
 Made placid in the fulness of a hike- 
 All came with her sweet presei-.ce, for she brought 
 The love supreme which gathers to its realm 
 All powers of loving. Subtle nature's hand 
 Waked with a touch the far-linked harmonies 
 III her own manifold work. Fedalma there, 
 Fastidiousness became the prelude fine 
 For full contentment; and young melancholy, 
 Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain 
 Of waiting for that perfect happiness. 
 The happiness was gone I 
 
 He sate alone, 
 Hating companionship that was not hers; 
 Felt bruised with hopeless longing; drank, as wine, 
 Illusions of what had been, would have been ; 
 Weary with anger and a strained resolve. 
 Sought passive happiness in waking dreams. 
 It has been so with rulers, emperors. 
 Nay, sages who held secrets of gieat Time, 
 Sharing his hoary and beneficent life- 
 Men who sate throned among the multitudes— 
 They have sore sickened at the los^s of one. 
 Silva sat lonely in her chamber, leaned 
 Where she had leaned, to feel the evening breath 
 Shed from the orange trees ; when suddenly 
 IHs grief was echoed in a sad young voice 
 Far and yet near, brought by aerial wings. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 177 
 
 The world is great : the birds all fly from me. 
 The stars are golden fruit upon a tree 
 All out of reach : viy little sister went, 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 The Ivor Id is great: I tried to mount the hill 
 Above the pines, where the light lies so still, 
 But it rose higher : little Lisa went, 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 The icorld is great : the wind comes rushing by, 
 I wonder lohere it comes from ; sea-birds cry 
 And hurt my heart: my little sister went, 
 A nd I am lonely. 
 
 The world is great : the iieople laugh and talk. 
 And make loud holiday: how fast they ivalk ! 
 Vin lame, they push me : little Lisa went, 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 'Tw.is Pablo, like the wounded spirit of song 
 
 Poni'iiig melodious pain to cheat the hour 
 
 For idle soldiers in the castle couvt. 
 
 Dreamily Silva heard and hardly felt 
 
 The song was outward, rather felt it part 
 
 Of his own aching, like the lingering da)', 
 
 Or slow and mournful cadence of the bell. 
 
 But when the voice had ceased he longed for it, 
 
 And fretted at the pause, as memory frets 
 
 When words that made its body fall away 
 
 And leave it yearning dumbly. Silva then 
 
 Bethought him whence the voice came, framed perforce 
 
 Some outward image of a life not his 
 
 That made a sorrowful centre to the world: 
 
 A boy lame, melancholy-eyed, who bore 
 
 A viol— yes, that very child he saw 
 
 This morning eating roots by the gateway— saw 
 
 As one fresh-ruined sees and spells a name 
 
 And knows not what he does, yet finds it writ 
 
 Full in the inner record. Hark, aga'u ! 
 
 The voice and viol. Silva called his thought 
 
 To guide his ear and track tne travelling sound 
 
 O bird that used to press 
 
 Thy head against my cheek 
 
 With touch that seemed to speak 
 And ask a tender ^"^ yea" — 
 Ay de mi, my bird! 
 
 O tender downy breast 
 
 And warmly beating heart. 
 
 That heating seemed a part 
 Of me loho gave it rest — 
 
 Ay de mi, my bird! 
 
 The western court! The singer might be seen 
 From the upper gallery: quick the Duke was there 
 Looking upon the court as on a stage. 
 Men eased of armor, stretched upon the ground, 
 
178 THE SPAlSTISn GYPSY. 
 
 Gambling by snatches; shepherds from the hills 
 
 Who bionght their bleating friends for slaughter; grooms 
 
 Shouldering loose harness ; leather-aproned smiths, 
 
 Traders wiih wares, green-suited serving-men, 
 
 Made a round audience; and in their midst 
 
 Stood little Pablo, pouring forth his song, 
 
 Just as the Duke had pictui'ed. But the song 
 
 Was strangely companied by Koldan's play 
 
 With the swift gleaming balls, and now was crushed 
 
 By peals of laughter at grave Annibal, 
 
 Who carrying stick and purse o'erturned the pence, 
 
 Making mistake by rule. Silva had thought 
 
 To melt hard bitter grief by fellowship 
 
 With the world-sorrow trembling in his ear 
 
 In Pablo's voice; had meant to give command 
 
 For the boy's presence ; but this company, 
 
 This mountebank and monkey, must be— stay ! 
 
 Kot be excepted — must be ordered too 
 
 Into his private presence ; they had brought 
 
 Suggestion of a ready shapen tool 
 
 To cut a path between his helpless wish 
 
 And what it imaged. A ready shapen tool! 
 
 A spy, an envoy whom he might despatch 
 
 In unsuspected secrecy, to find 
 
 The Gypsies' refuge so that none beside 
 
 Might learn it. And this juggler could be bribed. 
 
 Would have no fear of Moors— for who would kill 
 
 Dancers and monkeys?— could pretend a journey 
 
 Back to his home, leaving his boy the while 
 
 To please the Duke with song. Without such chance — 
 
 An envoy cheap and secret as a mole 
 
 Who could go scatheless, come back for his pay 
 
 And vanish straight, tied by no neighborhood — 
 
 Without such chance as this poor juggler brought, 
 
 Finding Fedalma was betraying her. 
 
 Short interval betwixt the thought and deed. 
 
 Roldan was called to private audience 
 
 With Annibal and Pablo. All the world 
 
 (By which I mean the score or two who heard) 
 
 Shrugged high their shoulders, and supposed the Duke 
 
 Would fain beguile the evening and replace 
 
 His lacking happiness, as was the right 
 
 Of nobles, who could pay for any cure, 
 
 And wore nought broken, save a broken limb. 
 
 In truth, at first, the Duke bade Pablo sing. 
 
 But, while he sang, called Roldan wide apart, 
 
 And told him of a mission secret, brief— 
 
 A quest which well performed might earn much gold, 
 
 But, if betrayed, another sort of pay. 
 
 Roldan was ready; "wished above all for gold 
 
 And never wished to speak; had worked enough 
 
 At wagging his old tongue and chiming jokes ; 
 
 Thought it was others' turn to play the fool. 
 
 Give him but pence enough, no rabbit, sirs. 
 
 Would eat and stare and be more dumb than he. 
 
 Give him his orders." 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 179 
 
 They weve given straight; 
 Gold for the journey, and to buy a mnle 
 Outside the gates through which he was to pass 
 Afoot and carelessly. Tlie boy would stay 
 Within the castle, at the Dulce's command, 
 Aud must have nonglit but ignorance to betray 
 For threats or coaxing. Once the quest performed, 
 The news delivered with some pledge of truth 
 Safe to the Duke, the juggler should go forth, 
 A fortune in his girdle, take his boy 
 And settle firm as any planted tree 
 In fair Valencia, never more to roam. 
 "Good! good! most worthy of a great hidalgo! 
 Aud Roldan was the mati ! But Aunibal— 
 A monkey like no other, though morose 
 In private character, yet full of tricks— 
 Twere hard to carry him, yet harder still 
 To leave the boy and him in company 
 And free to slip away. The boy was wild 
 And shy as mountain kid ; once hid himself 
 And tried to run away; aud Annibal, 
 Who always took the lad's side (he was small, 
 And they were nearer of a size, and, sirs, 
 Your monkey has a spite against us men 
 For being bigger) — Anuibal went too. 
 Would hardly know himself, were he to lose 
 Both boy and monkey— aud 'twas property, 
 The trouble he had put in Aunibal. 
 He didn't choose another man should beat 
 His boy and monkey. If they ran away 
 Some man would snap them up, and square himself 
 And say they were his goods— he'd taught them— no 3 
 He, Roldan, had no mind another man 
 Should fatten by his monkey, and the boy 
 Should not be kicked by any pair of sticks 
 Calling himself a juggler." . . . 
 
 But the Duke, 
 Tired of that hammering, signed that it should cease. 
 Bade Koldan quit all fears — the boy and ape 
 Should be safe lodged in Abderahman's tower, 
 In keeping of the great ph}'sician there. 
 The Duke's most special confldaut and friend. 
 One skilled in taming brutes, and always kind. 
 The Duke himself this eve would see them lodged. 
 Koldan must go— spend no more words— but go. 
 
 The Astrologer's Study. 
 
 A room high up in Abderahman's tower, 
 
 A window opeu to the still warm eve, 
 
 And the bright disk of royal Jupiter. 
 
 Lamps burning low make little atmospheres 
 
 Of light amid the dimness; here and there 
 
 Show books and phials, stones and instruments. 
 
 lu carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps 
 
 Right in the rays of Jupiter a small maw. 
 
 In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curlr, 
 
180 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 And l()o?c lihick gown showing a neck and breast 
 
 Protected by a dini-gieen amulet; 
 
 Pale-faced, witii flncsc nostfil wont to breathe 
 
 Ethereal ini^sion in a world of thonght; 
 
 Eyebrows jet-black and iirm, yet delicate; 
 
 Beard scant and grizzled ; mouth shut firm, with curves 
 
 So subtly turned to meanings exquisite, 
 
 You seem to read Ihora as yon read a word 
 
 FuU-vowelled, long-descended, pregnant— rich 
 
 With legacies from long, laborious lives. 
 
 Close by him, like a genius of sleep, 
 
 Puns the gray cat, bridling, with snowy breast. 
 
 A loud knock. "Forward!" in clear vocal ring. 
 
 Enter the Duke, Pablo, and Annibal, 
 
 Exit the cat, retreating toward the dark. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 You slept, Sephardo. I am come too soon. 
 
 SurnAUDO. 
 
 Nay, my lord, it was I who slept too long. 
 I go to court among the stars to-night. 
 So bathed my soul beforehand in deep sleep. 
 But who are these ? 
 
 Don Sii.ta. 
 
 Small guests, for whom I ask 
 Your hospitality. Their owner comes 
 Some short time hence to claim them. I am pledged 
 To keep them safely ; so I bring them you, 
 Trusting your friendship for small animals. 
 
 Skpuakpo. 
 Yea, am not I too a small animal ? 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 I shall be much beholden to your love 
 If yon will be their guardian. I can trust 
 No other man so well as you. The boy 
 Will please you with his singing, touches too 
 The viol woudrously. 
 
 SF.rjiAP.no. 
 
 They are welcome both. 
 Their names are ? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 Pablo, this — this Annibal, 
 And yet, I hope, no warrior. 
 
 SurUAKDO. 
 
 We'll make peace. 
 Come, Pablo, let us loosen our friend's chain. 
 Deign you, my lord, to sit. Here Pablo, thou— 
 Close to my chair. Now Annibal shall choose. 
 
 [The cautious monkey, in a Moorish dress, 
 A tunic white, turban and scimitar, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 181 
 
 Wears these stage garnieiits, nay, his very flesh 
 
 With silent protest; keeps a neutral air 
 
 As aiming at a metapliysic state 
 
 'Twixt "is" and "is not;" lets his chain be loosed 
 
 By sage Sephardo's hands, sits still at first, 
 
 Then trembles out of his neutrality. 
 
 Looks up and leaps into Sephardo's lap, 
 
 Aud chatters forth his agitated soul. 
 
 Turning to peep at Pablo on the floor.] 
 
 Sepuakbo. 
 See, he declares we are at amity ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 No brother sage had read your nature faster. 
 
 Sr.rnABDo. 
 Why, so he is a brother sage. Man thinks 
 Brutes have no wisdom, since they know not kis: 
 Can we divine tlieir world ?— the hidden life 
 That mirrors us as hideous shapeless power, 
 Cruel supremacy of sharp-edged death, 
 Or fate that leaves a bleeding mother robbed ? 
 Oh, they have long tradition and swift speech, 
 Can tell with touches and sharp darting aies 
 Whole histories of timid races taught 
 To breathe in terror by red-handed man. 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 Ah, you denounce my sport with hawk and houud. 
 
 I would not have the angel Gabriel 
 
 As hard as you in noting down my sins. 
 
 Sepiiaedo. 
 Nay, they are virtues for you warriors — 
 Hawking and hunting! You are merciful 
 When you leave killing men to kill the brutes. 
 But, for the point of wisdom, I would choose 
 To know the mind that stirs between the wings 
 Of bees and building wasps, or fills the woods 
 With myriad murmurs of responsive sense 
 And true-aimed impulse, rather than to know 
 The thoughts of warriors. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Yet they are warriors tao-= 
 Your animals. Your judgment limps, Sephardo; 
 Death is the king of this world ; 'tis his park 
 Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of paiu 
 Are music for his banquet; and the masque — 
 The last grand masque for his diversion, is 
 The Holy Inquisition. 
 
 Ski-haudo. 
 Ay, anon 
 I may chime in with yon. But not the less 
 My judgment has firm feet, 'i'iioiigli death were king. 
 
182 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 And cruelty his lisht-linud minister, 
 
 Pity insurgent iu some hum:iu breasts 
 
 Makes spiritual empire, reigns supreme 
 
 As persecuted faith in faithful hearts. 
 
 Your small physician, weighing ninety pounds, 
 
 A petty morsel for a healthy shark. 
 
 Will worship mercy throned within his soul 
 
 Though all the luminous angels of the stars 
 
 Burst into cruel chorus on his ear, 
 
 Singing, "We know no mercy." He would cry 
 
 "I know it" still, and soothe the frightened bird 
 
 And feed the child a-hungered, walk abreast 
 
 Of persecuted men, and keep most hate 
 
 For rational torturers. There I stand firm. 
 
 But you are bitter, and my speech rolls on 
 
 Out of your uote. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 No, no, I follow you. 
 I too have that within which I will worship 
 Iu spite of . . . Yes, Sephardo, I am bitter. 
 I need your counsel, foresight, all your aid. 
 Lay these small guests to bed, then we will talk. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 See, they are sleeping now. The boy has made 
 My leg his pillow. For my brother sage. 
 He'll never heed us; he knit long ago 
 A sound ape-system, wherein men are brutes 
 Emitting doubtful noises. Pray, my lord. 
 Unlade what burdens you: my ear and hand 
 Arc servants of a heart much bound to you. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, yours is love that roots in gifts bestowed 
 By you on others, and will thrive the more 
 The more it gives. I have a double want: 
 First a confessor — not a Catholic ; 
 A heart without a livery — naked manhood. 
 
 SKrnAEDO. 
 
 My lord, I will be frank; there's no such thing 
 
 As naked manhood. If the stars look down 
 
 On any mortal of our shape, whose streugth 
 
 Is to judge all things without preference, 
 
 He is a monster, not a faithful man. 
 
 While my heart beats, it shall wear livery — 
 
 My people's livery, whose yellow badge 
 
 Murks them for Christian scorn. I will not siV7 
 
 Man is first man to me, then Jew or Gentile : 
 
 That suits the rich marranos; but to me 
 
 My father is first father and then man. 
 
 So much for frankness' sake. But let that passL 
 
 'Tis true at least, I am no Catholic 
 
 But Salomo Sephardo, a born Jew, 
 
 Willing to serve Don Silva. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 183 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 OR you sing 
 Another strain, and melt distinctions down 
 As no more real than the wall of dark 
 Seen by small fishes' eyes, that pierce a span 
 In the wide ocean. Now yon leagne yourself 
 To hem me, hold me prisoner in bonds 
 Made, say you — how? — by God or Demiurge, 
 By spirit or flesh — I care uot ! Love was made 
 Stronger than bonds, and where they press must break thenb 
 I came to you that I might breathe at large, 
 And now you stifle me with talk of birth. 
 Of race and livery. Yet you knew Fedalma. 
 She was your friend, Sephardo. And you know 
 She is gone from me — know the hounds are loosed 
 To dog me if I seek her. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Yes, I know. 
 Forgive me that I used untimely speech, 
 Pressing a bruise. 1 loved her well, my lord: 
 A woman mixed of such fine elements 
 That vrere all virtue and religion dead 
 She'd make them newly, being what she was. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Wasf say uot was, Sephardo I She still lives — 
 
 Is, and is mine; and I will not renounce 
 
 What heaven, uay, what she gave me. I will sin. 
 
 If sin I must, to win my life again. 
 
 The fault lie with those powers who have embroiled 
 
 The world iu hopeless conflict, where all truth 
 
 Fights manacled with falsehood, and all good 
 
 Makes but one palpitating life with ill. 
 
 (Don Silva pauses. Sephardo is silent,) 
 Sephardo, speak! am I not justified? 
 You taught my mind to use the wing that soars 
 Above the petty fences of the herd : 
 Now, when I need your doctiine, you are dumb. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 Patience ! Hidalgos want interpreters 
 Of untold dreams and riddles ; they insist 
 On dateless horoscopes, ou formulas 
 To raise a possible spirit, nowhere named. 
 Science must be their wishing-cap ; tlie stars 
 Speak plainer for high largesse. No, my lord ! 
 I cannot counsel you to unknown deeds. 
 This much I can divine : you wish to find 
 Her whom you love— to make a secret search. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 That is begun already : a messenger 
 Unknown to all has been despatched this night. 
 But forecast must be used, a plan devised, 
 Ready for service when my scout returns. 
 
184 THE SPANISH GYP3x\ 
 
 Bringing the invisible thread to guide my steps 
 Toward that lost self my life is aching with. 
 Sephai-do, I will go: and I must go 
 Unseeu by all save you ; though, at our need. 
 We may trust Alvar. 
 
 SUPIIAEDO. 
 
 A grave task, my lord. 
 Have you a shapen purpose, or mere will 
 That sees the end alone and iiot the means? 
 Eesolve will melt no rocks. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 But it can scale tbeio. 
 This fortress has two private issues: one, 
 Which served the Gypsies' flight, to me is closed: 
 Our bands must watch the outlet, now betrayed 
 To cunning enemies. Remains one other, 
 Known to no man save me: a secret left 
 A? heirloom in our house: a secret safe 
 Even from hira^from Father Isidor. 
 'Tis he who forces me to use it— he: 
 All's virtue tliat cheats bloodhounds. Hear, Sephard 
 Given, my scout returns and brings me news 
 I can straight act on, I shall want your aid. 
 The issue lies below this tower, your fastness, 
 Where, by my charter, you rule absolute. 
 I shall feign illness ; you with mystic air 
 Must speak of treatment asking vigilance 
 (Nay, I am ill— my life has half ebbed out). 
 I shall be whimsical, devolve command 
 On Don Diego, speak of poisoning. 
 Insist on being lodged within this tower, 
 And rid myself of tendance save from yon 
 And perhaps from Alvar. So I shall escape 
 Unseen by spies, shall win the days I need 
 To ransom her and have her safe enshrined. 
 No matter, were my flight disclosed at last: 
 I shall come back as from a duel fought 
 Which no man can undo. Now- you know all. 
 Say, can I count on you? 
 
 SlCrUARDO. 
 
 For faithfulness 
 In aught that I may promise, yes, my lord. 
 But— for a pledge of faithfulness- this warning. ■ 
 I will betray nought for your personal harm: 
 I love you. But note this— I am a Jew; 
 And while the Christian persecutes my race, 
 I'll turn at need even the Christian's trust 
 Into a weapon and a shield for Jews. 
 Shall Cruelty crowned— wielding the savage force 
 Of nmltitudes, and calling savageness God 
 Who gives it victory— upbraid deceit 
 And ask for faithfulness? I love you well. 
 You are my friend. But yet you are a Christian, 
 Whose birth has bound you to the Catholic kiugSi 
 
THK SPANISH GYPSY. 185 
 
 Thevc may come moments when to share my joy 
 Would make yon traitor, when to s^.are your grief 
 Would make me otlier than a Jew . . . 
 
 Don Silva.. 
 
 What need 
 To urge that now, Sephardo? I am one 
 Of many Spanish nobles who detest 
 The roaring bigotry of the herd, wonld fain 
 Dash from the lips of king and queen the cni> 
 Filled with besotting venom, half infused 
 By avarice and half by priests. And now — 
 Now when the cruelty you flout me with 
 Pierces me too in the ajipte of my eye. 
 Now when my kinship scorches me like hate 
 Flashed froni a mother's eye, you choose this tin-.e 
 To talk of birth as of inherited rage 
 Deep-down, volcanic, fatal, bursting forth 
 From under hard-taught reason? Wondrous friend 1 
 My uncle Isidor's echo, mocking me. 
 From the opposing quarter of the heavens. 
 With iteration of th-e thing I know, 
 That I'm a Christian knight and Spanish duke! 
 The consequence ? Why, that I know. It lies 
 In my own hands and not on raven tongues. 
 The knight and noble shall not wear th-e chain 
 Of false-linked thoughts in brains of other men. 
 What qF.estiou was there 'tv/ixt us two, of aught 
 That makes division? When I come to you 
 I come for other doctrine than the Prior's. 
 
 Sephawthj. 
 
 My lord, yon are o'erwrought by pain. My words. 
 
 That carried innocent meaning, do but float 
 
 Like little emptied cups upon the flood 
 
 Your mind brings with it I but answered you 
 
 With regular proviso, such as stands 
 
 In testaments and charters, to forefend 
 
 A possible case which none deem likelihood; 
 
 Just turned my sleeve, and pointed to the brand 
 
 Of brotherhood that limits every pledge. 
 
 Superfluous nicety — the student's trick. 
 
 Who will not drink until he can define 
 
 What water is and is not. But enough. 
 
 My will to serve you now knows no division 
 
 Save the alternate beat of love and fear. 
 
 There's danger in this quest — name, honor, life — 
 
 My lord, the stake is great, and are you sure . . . 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 No, I am snre of nought but this, Sephardo, 
 That I will go. Prudence is but conceit 
 Hoodwinked by ignorance. There's uonght exists 
 That is not dangerous and holds not death 
 For souls or bodies. Prudence turns its helm 
 To flee the storm and lands 'mid pestilence. 
 Wisdom would end by throwing dice with folly 
 
 23 J 
 
186 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 But for diie passion which alone makes choice. 
 And I have chosen as the lion robbed 
 Chooses to turn npou the ravisher. 
 If love were slack, the Prior's impeiious will 
 Would move it to outmatch him. But, Sephardo, 
 Were all else mute, all passive as sea-calms, 
 My soul is one great hunger — I must see her. 
 Now yon are smiling. Oh, yon merciful men 
 Pick up coarse griefs and fling them in the face 
 Of Hs whom life with long descent has trained 
 To subtler pains, mocking your ready balms. 
 You smile at my soul's hunger. 
 
 SEPUA.EDO. 
 
 Science smiles 
 And sways our lips in spite of us, my lord. 
 When thought weds fact— when maiden prophecy 
 Waiting, believing, sees the bridal torch. 
 I use not vulgar measures for your grief. 
 My pity keeps no cruel feasts; but thought 
 Has joys apart, even in blackest woe, 
 And seizing some flue thread of verity 
 Knows momentary godhead. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Aud your thought? 
 
 Sephardo. 
 
 Seized on the close agreement of your words 
 With what is written in your horoscope. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Reach it nie now. 
 
 Sepiiakdo. 
 
 By your leave, Aunibal. 
 (He places Annibat, on Pablo's lap atid rises. The hoy moves without wak- 
 ing, and his head falls on the opposite side. Sephahdo fetches a ctishion 
 and lays Pablo's head gently doion upon it, then goes to reach the parch- 
 ment from a cahinet. Annibal, having waked up in alarm, shuts his eyes 
 quickly again and pretends to sleep. ) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I wish, by new appliance of your skill, 
 Reading afresh tlie records of the sky, 
 You could detect more special augury. 
 Such chance oft happens, for all characters 
 Must shrink or widen, as our wine-skins do. 
 For more or less that we can pour in them; 
 And added years give ever a new key 
 To fixed prediction. 
 
 Sepuaeuo (returning with the parchment and reseating himseif.) 
 True ; our growing thought 
 Makes growing revelation. But demand not 
 Specific augury, as of sure success 
 la meditated projects, or of ends 
 To be foreknown by peeping in God's scroll. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 187 
 
 I say— nay, Ptolemy said it, but wise books 
 For half the tinths they hold are honored tombs- 
 Prediction is contiugent, of effects 
 Where causes and concomitants are mixed 
 To seeming wealth of possibilities 
 Beyond our reclvoning. Who will pretend 
 To tell the adventures of each single fish 
 Wiihin the Syrian Sea ? Show me a fish, 
 I'll weigh him, tell his kind, what he devoured, 
 What would have devoured him — but fur one BlaB 
 ' Who netted him instead ; nay, could I tell 
 That had Bias missed him, he would not have died 
 Of poisonous mud, and so made carrion. 
 Swept off at last by some sea-scavenger? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Ay, now you talk of fishes, you get hard. 
 1 note you merciful nieu : you can endure 
 Torture of fishes and hidalgos. Follows? 
 
 Si:ruAUDO. 
 
 By how much, then, the fortunes of a man 
 
 Are made of elements refined and mixed 
 
 Beyond a tunny's, what our science tells 
 
 Of the star's influeuce hath contingency 
 
 lu special issues. Thus, the loadstone draws, 
 
 Acts like a will to make the iron submiss ; 
 
 But garlic rubbing it, that chief effect 
 
 Lies in suspense; the iron keeps at large, 
 
 And garlic is controller of the stone. 
 
 And so, my lord, your horoscope declares 
 
 Not absolutely of your sequent lot, 
 
 But, by our lore's authentic rules, sets forth 
 
 What gifts, what dispositions, likelihoods 
 
 The aspects of the heavens conspired to fuse 
 
 With your incorporate soul. Aught more than this 
 
 Is vulgar doctrine. For the ambient. 
 
 Though a cause regnant, is not absolute. 
 
 But suffers a determining restraint 
 
 From action of the subject qualities 
 
 lu proximate motion. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yet you smiled just now 
 At some close fitting of my horoscope 
 With present fact — with this resolve of mine 
 To quit the fortress ? 
 
 Sephakdo. 
 
 Nay, not so ; I smiled. 
 Observing how the temper of your soul 
 Sealed long tradition of the influence shed 
 By the heavenly spheres. Here is your horoscopes 
 The aspects of the Moon with ]Mars conjunct, 
 Of Venus and the Sun with Saturn, lord 
 Of the ascendant, make symbolic speech 
 Whereto jour words gave running paraphrase. 
 
188 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Don SiLTA {impatiently). 
 
 What did I say f 
 
 Sephakpo. 
 
 You spoke as oft you did 
 When I was schooling you at Cordova, 
 And lessons on the noun and verb were drowned 
 With sudden stream of general debate 
 On things and actions. Always in that stream 
 I saw the play of babbling currents, saw 
 A nature o'er-endowed with opposites 
 Making a self alternate, where each hour 
 Was critic of the last, each mood too strong 
 For tolerance of its fellow in close yoke. 
 The ardent planets stationed as supreme, 
 Potent in action, suffer light malign 
 From luminaries large and coldly bright 
 Inspiring meditative doubt, which straight 
 ^ Doubts of itself, by interposing act 
 
 Of Jupiter iu the fourth house fortified 
 With power ancestral. So, my lord, I read 
 The changeless in the changing ; so I read 
 The constant action of celestial powers 
 Mixed into waywardness of mortal men, 
 Whereof no sage's eye can trace the course 
 And see the close. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Fruitful result, O sage ! 
 Certain uncertainty. 
 
 ShPUAEDO. 
 
 Yea, a result 
 Fruitful as seeded earth, where certainty 
 Would be as barren as a globe of gold. 
 I love you, and would serve you well, my lord. 
 Your rashness vindicates itself too much, 
 Puts harness ou of cobweb theory 
 While rushing like a cataract. Be warned. 
 Resolve with you is a fire-breathing steed, 
 But it sees visions, and may feel the air 
 Impassable with thoughts that come too lare, 
 Rising from out the grave of murdered honor. 
 Look at your image iu your horoscope : 
 
 (Laying the horoscope before Don &ilva.) 
 You are so mixed, my lord, that each to-day 
 May seem a maniac to its morrow. 
 
 Don SiLVA {pushing away the horoscojie, rising and turning ti looic out at 
 the open window). 
 
 No! 
 Ko morrow e'er will say that I am mad 
 Not to renounce her. Risks ! I know them all. 
 Pve dogged each lurking, ambushed consequence. 
 I've handled every chance to know its shape 
 As blind men handle bolts. Oh, I'm too sane ! 
 I see the Prior's nets. lie does my deed; 
 For he has narrowed all my life to this— 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 189 
 
 That I must find her by some hidden menus. 
 
 {He turns and stands close in front o/Sepuaudo.) 
 Odc word, Sephardo — leave that horoscope, 
 Which is but iteration of myself, 
 And give me promise. Shall I count on you 
 To act upon my signal? Kings of Spain 
 Like me have found their refuge in a Jew, 
 And trusted in his counsel. You will help me? 
 
 Sepuaudo. 
 Yes, my lord, I will help yon. Isi-ael 
 Is to the nations as the body's heart: 
 Thus writes our poet Jehuda. I will act 
 So that no man may ever say through me 
 "Yiiur Israel is nought,'' and make my deeds 
 The mud they fling upon my brethren. 
 1 will not fail you, save— you know the terms: 
 I am a Jew, and not that infamous life 
 That takes on bastardy, will Icnow no father, 
 So shrouds itself in the pale abstract, Man. 
 You should be sacriliced to Israel 
 If Israel needed it. 
 
 Don Sii,va. 
 
 I fear not that. 
 I am no friend of fines and banishment. 
 Or flames that, fed on heretics, still gape, 
 And must have heretics made to feed them siil). 
 X take your terms, and for the rest, your love 
 Will not forsake me. 
 
 SurOAKDO. 
 
 'Tis hard Roman love, 
 That looks away and stretches forth the sword 
 Bared for its master's breast to run upon. 
 But you will have it so. Love shall obey. 
 
 33oN SiLVA ttirns to the zvindoio again, ana is silent for a few mormnfs, looly 
 itig at the skg.) 
 
 Don Sn.VA. 
 
 See now, Sephardo, you would keep no faith 
 To smooth the path of cruelty. Confess, 
 The deed I would not do, save for the strait 
 Another brings me to (quit my command. 
 Resign it for brief space, I mean no more)— 
 Were that deed branded, then the brand should fix. 
 On him who urged me. 
 
 Skpuaedo. 
 Will it, though, my lord? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 I speak not of the fact but of the right. 
 
 SKPUAnno. 
 
 My lord, you said but now you were resolved. 
 Question not if the world will be unjust 
 Branding your deed. If conscience has two courts 
 
190 THE SPANISH OVrSY. 
 
 With differing verdicts, where shall lie the appeal? 
 
 Our law must be without lis or within. 
 
 The Highest speaks through all our people's vc-;ce. 
 
 Custom, tradition, and old sanctities; 
 
 Or he reveals himself by new decrees 
 
 Of inward certitude. 
 
 Don Sit.va. 
 
 My love for her 
 Makes highest law, must be the voice of God. 
 
 Sr.rnAUDo. 
 I thought, but now, you seemed to make excuse. 
 And plead as in some court where Spauisli knights 
 Are tried by other laws than those of love. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 'Twas momentary. I shall dare it all. 
 How the great planet glows, and looks at me, 
 And seems to pierce me with his effluence! 
 ■Were he a living God, these rays that stir 
 In me the pulse of wonder were in him 
 Fulness of knowledge. Are you certified, 
 Sephardo, that the astral science shrinks 
 To such pale ashes, dead symbolic forms 
 For that congenital mixture of effects 
 Which life declares without the aid of lore? 
 If there are times propitious or malign 
 To our first framing, then must all events 
 Have favoring periods: you cull your plants 
 By signal of the heavens, then why not ti'ace 
 As others would by astiologic rule 
 Times of good augury for momentous acts, — 
 As secret journeys ? 
 
 Sepuaedo. 
 
 Oh, my lord, the stars 
 Act not as witchcraft or as muttered spells. 
 I said before they are not absolute. 
 And tell no fortunes. I adhere alone 
 To such tradition of their agencies 
 As reason fortilies. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A barren science I 
 Some argue now 'tis folly. 'Twere as well 
 Be of their mind. If those bright stars had will- 
 But they are fatal fires, and know no love. 
 Of old, I think, the world was happier 
 With many gods, who held a struggling life 
 As mortals do, and hel[)ed men in the straits 
 Of forced misdoing. I doubt that horoscope. 
 (Don Sii.va turns from the window and reseats himself opposite Sepuakpo ) 
 I am most self-contained, and strong to bear. 
 No man save you has seen my trembling lip 
 Utter her name, since she was lost to me. 
 I'll face the progeny of all my deeds. 
 
 Sepiiakdo. 
 May they be fair ! No horoscope makes slaves. 
 
TIIE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 'Tis but a mirror, shows one image forth, 
 And leaves the future darli with eudless " ifs." 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 I marvel, my Sephardo, yon can pinch 
 With confident selection these few grains, 
 And call them veritj', from out the dust 
 Of crumbling error. Surely such thought creeps, 
 With insect exploration of the world. 
 Were I a Hebrew, now, I would be bold. 
 Why should you fear, not being Catholic? 
 
 SErUAKBO. 
 
 Lo ! you yourself, my lord, mix subtleties 
 With gross belief; by momentary lapse 
 Conceive, with all the vulgar, that we Jews 
 Must hold ourselves God's outlaws, and defy 
 All good with blasphemy, because we hold 
 Yonr good is evil ; think we must turn pale 
 To see our portraits painted in your hell. 
 And sin the more for knowing we are lost. 
 
 Don Sit.vA. 
 Read not my words with malice. I but meant. 
 My temper hates an over-cautious march. 
 
 SF.rUAEDO. 
 
 The Unnaineable made not the search for truth 
 
 To suit hidalgos' temper. I abide 
 
 By that wise spirit of listening reverence 
 
 "Which marks the boldest doctors of our race. 
 
 For Truth, to us, is like a living child 
 
 Born of two parents : if the parents part 
 
 And will divide the child, how shall it live? 
 
 Or, I wiir rather say: Two angels guide 
 
 The path of man, both aged and yet young, 
 
 As angels are, ripening through endless years. 
 
 On one he leans : some call her Memory, 
 
 And some. Tradition ; and her voice is sweet. 
 
 With deep, mysterious accords : the other. 
 
 Floating above, holds down a lamp which streams 
 
 A light divine and searching on the earth, 
 
 Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields. 
 
 Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew 
 
 Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp 
 
 Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked 
 
 But for Tradition ; we walk evermore 
 
 To higher paths, by brightening Reason's lamp. 
 
 Still we are purblind, tottering. I hold less 
 
 Than Aben-Ezra, of that aged lore 
 
 Brought by long centuries from Chaldaeau plains; 
 
 The Jew-taught Florentine r.ejects it all. 
 
 For still the light is measured by the eye, 
 
 And the weak organ fails. I may see ill ; 
 
 But over all belief is faithfulness, 
 
 Which fulfils vision with obedience. 
 
 So, I must grasp my morsels: truth is oft 
 
 Scattered in fragments round a stately pil« 
 
 191 
 
192 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Built half of error ; and the eye's clefect 
 
 May breed too much denial. Bnt, my lord, 
 
 I weary your sick soul. Go now with me 
 
 Into the turret. We will watch the spheres. 
 
 And see the constellations bend and i)lnnge 
 
 Into a depth of being where our eyes 
 
 Hold them no more. We'll quit ourselves and be 
 
 The red Aldebaran or bright Sirins, 
 
 And sail as in a solemn voyage, bound 
 
 On some great quest we know not. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Let us go. 
 She may be watching, too, and thought of her 
 Sways me, as if she knew, to every act 
 Of pure allegiance. 
 
 Sepuakdo. 
 
 That is love's perfection — 
 Tuning the soul to all her harmonics 
 So that no chord can jar. Now we will mount. 
 
 A large hall in the Castle, of Moorish architecture. On the. side where the windows 
 are, an outer gallery. Pages and other yortng gentlemen attacked to Don Sii.- 
 va's household, gathered chiefly at one end of the hall. Some are moving 
 about; others are lounging on the carved benches; others, half .stretched on pieces 
 of 'matting and carpet, are gambling. AniAS, a stripling nf fifteen, sin 's by 
 snatches in a bogish treble, as he loalks up and down, and tosses back the mtts 
 which another youth flings towards him. In the middle Don A.mador, a 
 gaunt, gray-haired soldier, in a handsoine uniform, sils in a marble red-cush- 
 toned chair, loith a large book .spread out on his knees, from which he is read- 
 ing aloud, while his voice is half drowned by the talk that is going on around 
 him, first one voice and then another surgitig above the hum. 
 
 A niAS (singing). 
 
 There teas a holy hermit 
 
 Who counted all things lo.<is 
 For Christ his Master's glory: 
 
 He made ati ivory cross. 
 And as he knelt before it 
 
 And wej^ his murdered Lord, 
 The ivory turned to iron, 
 
 'The cross became a sivord. 
 
 Jose (from the floor). 
 I say, twenty crnzadosi thy Galician wit can never count. 
 
 Ilr.RNANDO {aUo from the floor). 
 And thy Scvilliau wit always counts double. 
 Aiti.vs {singing)i. 
 The tears that fell upon it. 
 
 They turned to red, red rust. 
 The tears that fell from off it 
 
 Made writing in the dust. 
 The holy hermit, gazing, 
 ^^' Saw words upon the ground: 
 
 " The sioord be red forever 
 
 With the blood of .false 3[ahound." 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 193 
 
 Don Amador {looking tip from his book, and raising his voice). 
 Wliat, gentlemeu ! Our Glorious Lady defend us ! 
 
 Enuiqdez {from the benches). 
 Serves the infidels rijjlit ! Tliey have sold Clu-istians enongh to people half 
 the towns In Paradise. If the Qneen, now, had divided the pretty damsels of 
 Malaga among the Castilians who have been helping in the holy war, and not 
 sent half of them to Naples . . . 
 
 Aeias (singing again). 
 At the battle of C'avijo 
 In the dags of King Itamiro, 
 Help us, Allah! cried the Moslem, 
 Cried the Spaniard, Ueaven\t chosen, 
 
 God and Santiago ! 
 Fabian. 
 Oh, the very tail of onr chance has vanished. The royal army is breaking np 
 — going home for the winter. The Grand Master sticks to his own border. 
 
 Arias (singing). 
 Straight out-flushing like the rainbow. 
 See him cotne, celestial liar on. 
 Mounted knight, with red-cros ed banner, 
 . Plunging earthward to the battle, 
 
 Glorious Santiago ! 
 
 HCKTADO. 
 
 Yes, yes, throngh the pass of By-and-by, yon go to the valley of Never. Wc 
 might have done a great feat, if the Marquis of Cadiz . . . 
 
 Akias (sings). 
 As the flame before the swift wind. 
 See, he fires us, tve burn with him ! 
 Flask our swords, dash Pagans backward — 
 Victory he ! pale fear is A llah ! 
 
 God laith Santiago ! 
 Don Amador (raising his voice to a cry). 
 Sangre de Dies, gentlemen ! 
 
 (He shuts the book, and letH it fall with a bang on the floor. There is instant 
 silence. ) 
 
 To what good end is it that T, who studied at Salamanca, and can write 
 verses agreeable to the Glorious Lady with the point of a sword which liath 
 done harder service, am reading aloud in a clerkly manner from a book which 
 hath been culled from the flowers of all books, to instruct you in the knowledge 
 befitting those who would be knights and worthy hidalgos? I had as lief be 
 reading in a belfry. And gambling too! As if it weie a time when we needed 
 not the help of God and tlie saints '. Surely for the space of one hour ye might 
 subdue your tongues to your ears, that so your tongues might learn somewhat of 
 civility and modesty. Wherefore am I master of tlie Dnke's retinue, if my voice 
 is to run along like a gutter in a storm ? 
 
 IIuutado (lifting up the book, and respectfully presenting it to Don A.madob). 
 
 Pardon, Don Amador ! The air is so commoved by your voice, that it stirs our 
 tongues in spite of us. 
 
 Don Amadoe (reopening the book). 
 
 Confess, now, it is a goose headed trick, that when rational sounds are made 
 for your edification, you find nought in it but an occasion for purposeless gabble. 
 
 28* 1* 
 
194 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 I will report it to the Dtike, and the reading-time shall be donbled, and my office 
 of reader shall be handed over to Fray Domingo. 
 
 (While Don Amadou has heen speaking, Don Silva, with Don Alvar, has ap- 
 peared walking in the outer gallery mi which the loindows are opened.) 
 
 Ai.L {in concert). 
 No, no, no. 
 
 Don Amadok. 
 Are ye ready, then, to listen, if I finish the wholesome extract from the Seven 
 Parts, wherein the wise King Alfonso hath set down the reason why knights 
 shonld be of gentle birth ? Will ye now be silent ? 
 
 Al.T.. 
 
 Yes, silent. 
 
 Don Amahor. 
 
 But when I pause, and look np, I give any leave to speak, if he hath anght per- 
 tinent to say. 
 
 (Reads.) 
 
 " And this nobility cometh in three ways : first, by lineage, secondlii, by science, 
 and thirdly, by valor and worthy behavior. Now, although they whf) gain no- 
 bility through science or good deeds are rightfully called noble and gentle ; never- 
 theless, they are with the highest fitness so called who are noble by ancient line- 
 age, and lead a worthy life as by inheritance from afar ; and hence are more bound 
 and constrained to act well, and guard themselves from error, and wrong-doing; 
 for in their case it is more true that by evil-doing they bring injury and shame not 
 only on themselves, but also on those from whom they are derived." 
 
 Don Ajiadok {placing his forefinger for a mark on the page, and looking up, 
 while he keeps his voice raised, as wishing Do.n Sii.va to overhear hiiii in the 
 judicious discharge of his function). 
 
 Hear ye that, young gentlemen? See ye not that if ye have but bad manners 
 even, they disgrace j'ou more than gross misdoings disgi-ace the low-born? 
 Think you. Arias, it becomes the son of your liouse irreverently to sing and fling 
 nuts, to the interruption of your elders? 
 
 Am AS {sitting on the floor, and leaning backward on his elbows). 
 
 Nay, Don Amador; King Alfonso, they say, was a heretic, and I think that is 
 not true writing. For noble birth gives ns more leave to do ill if we like. 
 
 Don Amapok {lifting his brows). 
 What bold and blasphemous talk is this? 
 
 Akias. 
 Why, nobles are only punished now and then, in a grand way, and have their 
 heads cut off, like the Grand Constable. I shouldn't mind that. 
 
 Josrj. 
 Nonsense, Arias ! nobles have their heads cut off because their crimes are noble. 
 If they did what was unkuightly, they would come to shame. Is not that true, 
 Don Amador? 
 
 Don Ama7«)k. 
 Arias is a contumacious puppy, who will bring dishonor on his parentage. 
 Pray, sirrah, whom did yon ever hear speak as you have spoken ? 
 
 Akias. 
 Nay, I speak out of mine own head. I shall go and ask the Duke. 
 
 IIubtado. 
 . Now, now' you are too bold. Arias. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 195 
 
 Arias. 
 Oh, he is never angry with me,—{dro2^piiig his voice) because the Lady Fedalma 
 liked me. She said I was a good boy, and pretty, aud that is what you are not, 
 Hurtado. 
 
 HURTADO. 
 
 Girl-face ! See, now, if yon dare aslc the Duke. 
 
 (Don Silva is just enterinig the hall from the gallery, with Don Ai.var behind 
 him, intending to pass out at the other end. All rise with homage. Don Silva 
 bows coldbj and abstractedUj. Auias advances from the group and goes up to 
 Don Silva.) 
 
 Akias. 
 
 My lord, is it true that a noble is more dishonored than other men if he does 
 aught dishonorable ? 
 
 Don Silva (first blushing deeply, and grasping his sword, then raising his hand and 
 giving Akias a blow on the ear). 
 Varlet ! 
 
 Arias. 
 My lord, I am a gentleman. 
 
 (Don Silva pushes him away, and passes on hurriedly.) 
 Don Alvar (following and turning to speak). 
 Go, go ! you should not speak to the Duke when you are not called upon. lie 
 is ill and much distempered. 
 
 (AniAS retires, jlushed, with tears in his eyes. His companions look too much 
 surprised to triumph. Don Amadoe remains silent and conftised.) 
 
 TJie Plata Santiago during busy market-time. Mules and asses laden with .fruits and 
 vegetables. Stalls and booths filled with wares of all sorts. A crowd of buyers and 
 sellers. A stalwart woman, with keen eyes, leaning over the panniers of a mule 
 laden toith apples, ivatches Lorenzo, who is lounging through the fharket. As lie 
 approaches her, he is met by Blasco. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 Well met, friend. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Ay, for we are soon to part, 
 And I would see you at the hostelry. 
 To take my reckoning. I go forth to-day. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 'Tis grievous parting with good company. 
 I would I had the gold to pay such guests 
 For all my pleasure in their talk. 
 
 Blabco. 
 
 Why, yes ; 
 A solid-headed man of Aragon 
 Has matter in hira that you Southerners lack. 
 You like my company — 'tis natural. 
 But, look you, I have done my business well, 
 Have sold aud ta'en commissions. I come straight 
 From— you know who— I like not naming him. 
 I'm a thick man : you reach not my backbone 
 With any tooth-pick ; but I tell you this: 
 
196 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 He reached it with his eye, right to the marrow. 
 It gave me heart that I had phite to sell, 
 For, saiut or no saint, a good silversmith 
 Is wanted for God's service ; and my plate — 
 He judged it well — l)ought nobly. 
 
 LOKKKZO. 
 
 A great m.iD, 
 And holy I 
 
 Blagoo. 
 
 Yes, I'm glad I leave to-day. 
 For there are stories give a sort of smell — 
 One's nose has fancies. A good trader, sir. 
 Likes not this jjlague of lapsing in the air, 
 Most caught by men v.'ith fnuds. And they do say 
 There's a great terror here in Moors and Jews, 
 I would say. Christians of unhappy blood. 
 'Tis monstrous, sure, that men of substance lapse, 
 And risk their property. I know I'm sound. 
 No heresy was ever bait to me. Whate'er 
 Is the right faith, that I believe— nought else. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 Ay, truly, for the flavor of true faith 
 Once known must sure be sweetest to the taste. 
 But an uneasy mood is now abroad 
 Within the town ; partly, for that the Duke 
 Being sorely sick, has yielded the command 
 To Don Diego, a most valiant man. 
 More Catholic than the Holy Father's self, 
 Half chiding God that he will tolerate 
 A Jew or Arab; though 'tis plain they're made 
 For profit of good Christians. And weak heads — 
 Panic will knit all disconnected facts — 
 Draw hence belief in evil auguries, 
 Rumors of accusation and arrest. 
 All air-begotteu. Sir, yon need not go. 
 But if it must be so, I'll follow you 
 In fifteen minutes — finish marketing, 
 Then be at home to speed you on your way. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 Do so. I'll back to Saragossa straight. 
 The court and nobles are retiring now 
 And wending northward. There'll be fresh demand 
 For bells and images against the Spring, 
 When doubtless our great Catholic sovereigns 
 Will move to conquest nf these eastern parts, 
 And cleanse Granada from the infidel. 
 Stay, sir, with God, until we meet again 1 
 
 LOEENZO. 
 
 Go, sir, with God, until I follow you ! 
 {Exit Blasoo. LoitKNZo }ia.ises on towards the market-nonian, ivho, as he ap- 
 proaches, raises herself from her leaning attitude.) 
 
 LOUENZO. 
 
 Good-day, my mistress. How's your merchandise ? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 197 
 
 Fit for a host to biij-f Yonr apples now, 
 
 They have fair cheeks ; how are they at the core ? 
 
 M AUKET-WoM AN. 
 
 Goocl,go&J, sir! Taste and try. See, here is one 
 Weighs a raaji-s head. The best are bound with tow: 
 1'hey're worth the pains, to keep the peel from splits. 
 {She i:akes out an apple botind loith tow, and, as she puts it into Lorknzo's 
 hand, speaks in a lower tone.) 
 'Tis called the Allracle. You open it, 
 ..Ind find it full of speech. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Ay, give it me, 
 y\\ >ake it to the Doctor in the lower. 
 He fo<ds on fruit, and if he likes the sort 
 I'll buy them for him. Meanwhile, drive yonr ass 
 Round to my hostelry. I'll straight be there. 
 You'll not refuse some barter? 
 
 Maukkt- Woman. 
 
 No, not I. 
 Feather and skins. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 Good, till we meet again. 
 (Lorenzo, ajter smelling at the apple, puts it into a pouch-like basket which 
 hangs before him, and walks away. The looman drives off the mule.) 
 
 A Letter. 
 "Zarca, the chieftain of the Gypsies, greets 
 The King El Zagal. Let the force be sent 
 With utmost swiftness to the Pass of Lnz. 
 A good five hundred added to my bands 
 Will master all the garrison : the town 
 Is half with us, and will not lift an arm 
 Save on our side. My scouts have found a way 
 Where once we thought the fortress most secure: 
 Spying a man upon the height, they tiaced, 
 By keen conjecture piecing broken sight. 
 His downward path, and found its issue. There 
 A file of tis can mount, surprise the fort 
 And give the signal to our friends within 
 To ope the gates for our confederate bands, 
 Who will lie eastward ambushed by the rocks. 
 Wailing the night. Enough ; give me command, 
 Bedmar is yours. Chief Zarca will redeem 
 His pledge of highest service to the Moor: 
 Let the Moor too be faithful and repay 
 The Gypsy with the furtherance he needs 
 To lead his people over Bahr el Scliam 
 And plant them on the shore of Africa. 
 So may the King El Zagal live as one 
 Who, trusting Allah will be true to him, 
 Maketh himself as Allah true to friends." 
 
198 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 Quit now the town, and with a journeying dream 
 
 Swift as the wings of sound yet seeming slow 
 
 Through multitudinous pulsing of stored sense 
 
 And spiritual space, see walls and towers 
 
 Lie in the silent whiteness of a trance, 
 
 Giving no sign of that warm life within 
 
 That moves and murmurs through their hidden heart. 
 
 Pass o'er the mountain, wind in sombre shade, 
 
 Then wind into the light and see the town 
 
 Shrunk to white crust upon tlie darker rock. 
 
 Turn east and south, descend, then rise anew 
 
 'Mid smaller mountains ebbing towards the plain: 
 
 Scent the fresh breath of the height-loving herbs 
 
 That, trodden by the pretty parted hoofs 
 
 Of nimble goats, sigh at the innocent bruise, 
 
 And v\Tth a mingled difference exquisite 
 
 Pour a sweet burden on the buoyant air. 
 
 Pause now and be all ear. Far from the south, 
 
 Seeking the listening silence of the heights, 
 
 Comes a slow-dying sound — the Moslems' call 
 
 To prayer in afteinoon. Bright in the sun 
 
 Like tall white sails on a green shadowy sea 
 
 Stand Moorish watch-towers: 'neath that eastern sky 
 
 Couches unseen the strength of Moorish Baza ; 
 
 Whore the meridian bends lies Guadix, hold 
 
 Of brave El Zagal. Tliis is Moorish land, 
 
 Wliere Allah lives unconquered in dark breasts 
 
 And blesses still the many-nourishing earth 
 
 Wiih dark-armed industry. See from the steep 
 
 The scattered olives hurry in gray throngs 
 
 Down towards the valley, where the little stream 
 
 Parts a green hollow 'twixt the gentler slopes : 
 
 And in that hollow, dwellings: not wliite homes 
 
 Of building Moors, but little swarthy tents 
 
 Such as of old perhaps on Asian plains, 
 
 Or wending westward past the Caucasus, 
 
 Our fathers raised to rest iu. Close they swaim 
 
 About two taller tents, and viewed afar 
 
 Might seem a dark-rol)ed crowd in penitence 
 
 That silent kneel ; but come now in their midst 
 
 And watch a bu?y, bright-eyed, sportive life! 
 
 Tall maidens bend to feed the tethered goat, 
 
 The ragged kiitle fringing at the knee 
 
 Above the living curves, the shoulder's smoothness 
 
 Parting the torrent strong of ebon hair. 
 
 Women with babes, the wild and neutral glance 
 
 Swayed now to sweet desire of mothers' eyes, 
 
 Kock their strong cradling arms and chant low strains 
 
 Taught by monotonous and soothing winds 
 
 That fall at night-time on the dozing ear. 
 
 The crones phiit reeds, or shred the vivid herbs 
 
 Into the caldrou: tiny urchins crawl ^ 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 199 
 
 Or sit and gni'gle forth their infant joy. 
 
 Lads lying sphiux-iilje with nplifted breast 
 
 Propped oil their elbow.--, their blacli manes tossed back, 
 
 Fling np the coin and watch its fatal fall, 
 
 Dispnte and scramble, run and wrestle fierce. 
 
 Then fall to play and fellowship again ; 
 
 Or in a thieving swarm they rim to plague 
 
 Tiio grandsires, who return with rabbits slung. 
 
 And with the mnles fruit-laden from the fields. 
 
 Some striplings choose the smooth stones from tlie brook 
 
 To serve the slingers, cut the twigs for snares. 
 
 Or trim the hazel-wands, or at the bark 
 
 Of some exploring dog they dart away 
 
 With swift precision towards a moving speck. 
 
 These are the brood of Zarca's Gypsy tribe ; 
 
 Most like an earth-born race bred by the Sua 
 
 On some rich tropic soil, the father's light 
 
 Flashing in coal-black eyes, the mother's blood 
 
 With bounteous elements feeding their young limbs. 
 
 The stalwart men and youths are at the wars 
 
 Following their chief, all save a trusty band 
 
 Who keep strict watch along the northern heights. 
 
 But see, upon a pleasant spot removed 
 
 From the camp's hubbub, where the thicket strong 
 
 Of huge-eared cactus makes a bordering curve 
 
 And casts a shadow, lies a sleeping man 
 
 With Spanish hat screening his upturned face. 
 
 His doublet loose, his right arm backward flung, 
 
 His left caressing close the long-necked Inte 
 
 That seems to sleep too, leaning tow'rds its lord. 
 
 He draws deep breath secure but not unwatclied. 
 
 Moving a-tiptoe, silent as the elves. 
 
 As mischievous too, trip three bare-footed girls 
 
 Not opened yet to womanhood— dark flowers 
 
 In slim long buds : some paces farther off 
 
 Gathers a little white-teethed shaggy group, 
 
 A grinning chorus to the merry play. 
 
 The tripping girls have robbed the sleeping man 
 
 Of all his ornaments. Hita Is decked 
 
 Wiih an embroidered scarf across her rags; 
 
 Tialla, with thorns for pins, sticks two rosettes 
 
 Upon her threadbare woollen ; Ilinda now, 
 
 Prettiest and boldest, tucks her kirtle up 
 
 As wallet for the stolen buttons— then 
 
 Bends with her knife to cut from off the hat 
 
 The aigrette and long feather ; deftly cuts. 
 
 Yet wakes the sleeper, who with sudden start 
 
 Shakes ofl' the masking hat and shows the face 
 
 Of Juan : Hinda swift as thought leaps back, 
 
 But carries off the spoil triumphantly, 
 
 And leads the chorus of a happy laugh, 
 
 Running witli all the naked-footed imps, 
 
 Till wiih safe survey all can face about 
 
 And watch for signs of stimulating chase. 
 
 While Hinda ties long grass around her brow 
 
 To stick the feather in with majesty. 
 
200 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juau still sits contemplative, witli looks 
 Alternate at the spoilers and theii' work. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Ah, yon maranding kite— my feather gone! 
 
 My belt, my scarf, my buttons and rosettes! 
 
 This is to be a brother of yonr tribe ! 
 
 The flery-blooded children of the Sun — 
 
 So says chief Zarca — children of the San ! 
 
 Ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds 
 
 To plague the decent body of mankind. 
 
 "Orpheus, professor of the gai saber, 
 
 Made all the brutes polite by dint of soug." 
 
 Pregnant— but as a guide iu daily life 
 
 Delusive. For if song and music cure 
 
 The barbarous trick of thieving, 'tis a cure 
 
 That works as slowly as old Doctor Time 
 
 In curing folly. Why, the minxes there 
 
 nave rhythm iu their toes, and music rings 
 
 As readily from them as from little bells 
 
 Swung by the breeze. Well, I will try the physic. 
 
 {He touches his lute.) 
 Hem ! taken rightly, any single thing, 
 The Rabbis say, implies all other things. 
 A knotty task, though, the unravelling 
 Meum and Tuwn from a saraband : 
 It needs a subtle logic, nay, perhajjs 
 A good large property, to see the thread. 
 
 {He touches the lute again.) 
 There's more of odd than even in tliis world. 
 Else pietly sinners would not be let ofl" 
 Sooner than ugly ; for if honeycombs 
 Are to be got by stealing, they should go 
 Where life is bitterest on the tongue. And yet — 
 Because this minx has pretty ways I wink 
 At all her tricks, though if a flat-faced lass, 
 With eyes askew, were half as bold as she, 
 I should chastise her with a hazel switch. 
 I'm a plucked peacock — even my voice and wit 
 Without a tail'.— why, any fool detects 
 The abs^ence of your tail, but twenty fools 
 May not detect the presence of your wit. 
 
 (He to^tches his lute again.) 
 Well, I must coax my tail back cunningly, 
 For to run after these brown lizards — ah! 
 I think the lizards lift their ears at this. 
 
 (.As he thrums his lute the lads and girls graduallij approach : he touches it mors 
 brisklii, and IIinda, advancing, begins to move arvis and legs with an initiator!/ 
 dancing movement, smiling coaxingbj at J dan. He suddenly stops, lays down 
 his lute and folds his arms.) 
 
 Juan. 
 What, you expect a tune to dance to, eli? 
 
 HiNDA, IIlTA, TliAI.I.A, AND TUB BEST 
 
 {clapping their hands). 
 Yes, yes, a tune, a tuue ! 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 201 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Bnt that is what you cannot have, my sweet brothers and sisters. The tunes 
 are all dead^dcad as the tunes of the lark when yon have plucked his wings otT; 
 dead as the song of the grasshopper wlien the ass has swallowed him. I can 
 play and sing no moie. Hindu has killed my tunes. 
 
 {All cry out in consternation. Hinda gives a wail and tries to examiiie the lute.) 
 
 Jdan {wavinii h?r of). 
 
 Understand, Seiiora Hinda,that the tunes are in me; they are not in the lute 
 till I put them tliere. And if you cross my humor, I shall be as tuneless as a bag 
 of wool. If the tunes are to be brought to life again, I mus^t have my feather 
 back. 
 
 (IIiNDA kisses Ids hands and feet coaxinglij.) 
 No, no ! not a note will come for coaxing. The feather, I say, the feather I 
 
 (UiNDA sorroxvfttllij takes off tite feather, and gives it to Juan.) 
 Ah, now let us see. Perhaps a tune will come. 
 (He plays a measure, a7id the three gids begin to dance; then he suddenly stops.) 
 
 Juan. 
 No, the tune will not come: it M'auts the aigrette (pointing to it on Ilinda's 
 neck). 
 (HiNi)A, ivith rather less hesitation, but again .torroivfully, takes off the aignlte, 
 and gives it to him.) 
 
 Juan. 
 Ha ! (He plays again, but, after rather a longer time, again sto}JS.) No, no ; 'tis 
 the buttons are wanting, Hiiida, the buttons. This tune feeds chiefly on buttons 
 — a greedy tunc. It wants one, two, three, four, five, six. Good I 
 
 (.Ifter HiNTiA has given up the buttons, a7id Juan lias laid them down one by one, 
 he begins to play again, going on longer than before, so that the dancers become 
 excited by the movement. Then he stop.s) 
 
 Jdan. 
 Ah, Hita, it is the belt, and, Tralla, the rosettes— both are wanting. I see the 
 tune will not go ou without them. 
 (Hita and Tiiai.la take off the belt and rosettes, and lay them doivn quickly, being 
 fired by the dancing, and eager for the Ttntsic. All the articles lie by J I'Ati^B side 
 on the ground.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Good, good, my docile wild-cats! Now I think the tunes are all alive again. 
 Now you may dance and sing loo. Hinda, my little screamer, lead off with the 
 song I taught you, and let us see if the tune will go right on from beginning to 
 end. 
 
 ^He plays. Tlie dance begins again, IIint>a singing. A II the other boys and girls 
 join in the chorus, and all at last dance wildly.) 
 
 Song. 
 
 All things journey : sun. and moon. 
 Morning, noon, and afternoon, 
 
 Night and. all her stars : 
 '■Twixt the east and western bars 
 
 Round they journey. 
 Come and go ! 
 
 We go with them ! 
 For to roam and. ever roam 
 Is the Z'tncali's loved home. 
 
202 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Earth is good, the hillside hreaka 
 By the ashen roots and makes 
 
 Hungry nostrils glad : 
 Then we run till we are mad. 
 
 Like the horses, 
 And we cry, 
 
 None shall catch us! 
 Swift winds tci7ig ns — we are free — 
 Drink the air — we Zincali ! 
 
 Falls the snow: the pine-lranch split. 
 Call the fire out, see it flit, 
 
 Through the dry leaves r%tn. 
 Spread and gloio, and make a sun 
 
 In the dark tent: 
 warm dark ! 
 
 Warm as conies ! 
 Strong fire loves us, we are tcarm I 
 Who the Z'mcali shall harm .' 
 
 Omcard journey : fires are spent; 
 SuiHcard, sunward ! lift the tent, 
 
 Run before the rain. 
 Through the pass, along the p)liiin. 
 
 JIurry, hurry. 
 Lift vs, u'ind ! 
 
 Like the horses. 
 For to roam and ever roam 
 Is the Zmcali's loved fiome. 
 
 { When the dance is at its height, Hind/v breaks away from the rest, and datices round 
 Jdan, who is now standing. As he turns a little to watch her movement, some 
 of the boys skip towards the feather, aigrette, etc., snatch them, up, and run away, 
 swiftly followed, by Hita, Teat.t.a, and the rest. Hinda, as she turns again, 
 sees them, screams, and falls in her whirling ; hut immediately gets up, and 
 rushes after them, still screaming with rage.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Santiago! these imps get boUler. Halial Senora Iliiida, this finishes your les- 
 son in ethics. You have seen the advantage of giving up stolen goods. Now you 
 see the ugliness of thieving when practiced by otliers. That fable of mine about 
 the tunes was excellently devised. I feel like an ancient sage instructing our lisp- 
 ing ancestors. My memory will descend as the Orpheus of Gypsies. But I must 
 prepare a rod for those rascals. I'll bastinado them with prickly pears. It seems 
 to me these needles will have a sound moral teaching in them. 
 
 {While Jdan takes a knife from his belt, and surveys a bush of the prickly pear, 
 HiNDA returns.) 
 
 Juan. 
 Pray, Senora, why do you fume ? Did you want to steal my ornameuts again 
 yourself? 
 
 HiNDA {sobbing). 
 
 No ; I thought you vcould give them me back again. 
 Ju.\N. 
 
 What, did you want the tuues to die again? Do you like finery better than 
 dancing ? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 303 
 
 HiNDA. 
 
 Oil, that was a tale ! I shall tell tales too, when I want to get anything I can't 
 steal. And I know what I will do. I shall tell the boys I've fonnd some little 
 foxes, and I will never say where they are till they give me back the foathci-! 
 
 (57(6 runs off again.) 
 Juan. 
 Hem ! the disciple seems to seize the mode sooner than tlie matter. Teaching 
 virtue with this prickly pear may only teach the youngsters to nse a new weapon ; 
 as your teaching orthodoxy with fagots may only bring up a fashion of roasting. 
 Dios ! my remarks grow too pregnant — my wits get a plethora by solitary feeding 
 on the produce of my own wisdom. 
 (As lie puts iip his knife again, IIinda comes running back, and crijinn, "Our 
 Queen! our Queen!" Juan adjusts his garments and his lute, while IlnsiDA 
 turns to meet Ficdalma, wlio wears a Moorish dress, her black hair hanging 
 round her in 2)laits, a white turban mi her head, a dagger bij her side. She car- 
 ries a scarf on her left arm, whicli she holds vp as a shade.) 
 
 Fedalma (patting Hisda's head). 
 
 How now, wild one? You are hot and panting. Go to my tent, aud help 
 Noiiua to piait reeds. 
 (Hinda kisses Fedalma's hand, and runs of. FEnAi.MA advances towards Juan, 
 who kneels to take up the edge of her cymav, and kisses it.) 
 
 Juan. 
 How is it with you, lady ? Y^ou look sad. 
 Fkdalma. 
 
 Oh, I am sick at heart. The eye of day, - 
 
 The insistent summer sun, seems pitiless, 
 
 Shining in all the barren crevices 
 
 Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark. 
 
 Where I may dream that hidden waters lie ; 
 
 As pitiless as to some shipwrecked man. 
 
 Who gazing from his narrow shoal of sand 
 
 On the wide unspecked round of blue and blue 
 
 Sees that full light is errorless despair. 
 
 The insects' hum that slurs the silent dark 
 
 Startles and seems to cheat me, as the tread 
 
 Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher 
 
 Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause. 
 
 And hears them never pause, but pass aud die. 
 
 Music sweeps by me as a messenger 
 
 Carrying a message that is not for me. 
 
 The very sameness of the hills and sky 
 
 Is obdurac)', and the lingering hours 
 
 Wait round me dumbly, like superfluous slaves, 
 
 Of whom I want nought but the secret news 
 
 They are forbid to tell. And, Juan, you — 
 
 You, too, are cruel — would be over-wise 
 
 In judging your friend's needs, and choose to hide 
 
 Something I crave to know. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 1, lady? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 You, 
 
204 TUE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 I never had the vii-tiie to liiile might, 
 
 yave what a man is wliipped f(H- publishing. 
 
 I'm no more reticent tluui tlie vohil)le air — 
 
 Dote on disclosure — never could contain 
 
 The latter half of all my sentences, 
 
 But for the need to utter the begiuuing. 
 
 My lust to tell is so imiiortuuate 
 
 That it abridges every other vice, 
 
 And makes me temperate lor want of time. 
 
 I dull sensation iu the haste to say 
 
 'Tis this or that, and choice report with surmise. 
 
 Judge then, dear lady, if I could be mute 
 
 AVheu but a glance of yours had bid me speak. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 Nay, sing such falsities ! — you mock me worse 
 
 By speech that gravely seems to ask belief. 
 
 You are but babbling in a part you play 
 
 To please my father. Oh, 'tis well meant, say yoa= 
 
 Pity for woman's wealcness. Take my thanks. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Thanks angrily bestowed are red-hot coin 
 Burning your servant's palm. 
 
 Fedat,ma. 
 
 Deny it not, 
 Yon know how many leagues this camp of ours 
 Lies from Bedmar — what mountains lie between — 
 Could tell me if you would about the Duke — 
 That he is comforted, sees how he gains 
 Losing the Zincala, finds now how slight 
 The thread Fedalma made in that rich web, 
 A Spanish noble's life. No, tliat is false ! 
 lie never would think lightly of our love. 
 Some evil has befallen him — he's slain— 
 Has sought for danger and has beclconed death 
 Because I made all life seem treachery. 
 Tell me the worst — be merciful— no worst, 
 Acrainst the hideous painting of my fear, 
 Would not show like a better. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 If I speak, 
 Will you believe your slave? For truth is scant; 
 And where the appetite is still to hear 
 And not believe, falsehood would stint it less. 
 How say you ? Does your hunger's fancy choose 
 The meagre fact? 
 
 Fki)at.ma (seating herself on the ground). 
 
 Yes, yes, the truth, dear Juan. 
 Sit now, and tell me all. 
 
 Juan. 
 That all is nonght 
 I can unleash my fancy if you wish 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 205 
 
 And hi'.ut for phantoms: shoot au airy guess 
 
 And bring dowa airy likelihood — some lie 
 
 Mas-ked cunningly to look like royal truth 
 
 Aud cheat the shooter, while King Fact goes free; 
 
 Or else some image of reality 
 
 That doubt will handle and reject as false. 
 
 As for conjecture— I can thread the sky 
 
 Like any swallow, but, if you insist 
 
 On knowledge that would guide a pair of feet 
 
 Right to Bedniar, across the Moorish bounds, 
 
 A mule that dreams of stumbling over stones 
 
 Is better stored. 
 
 Fepalma. 
 
 And you have gathered nought 
 About the border wars ? No news, no hint 
 Of any rumors that concern the Duke- 
 Rumors kept from me by my father? 
 
 Joan. 
 
 None. 
 Your father trusts no secret to the echoes. 
 Of late his movements have been hid from all 
 Save those few hundred chosen Gypsy breasts 
 He carries with him. Think you he'.s a mau 
 To let his projects slip from out his belt, 
 Then whisper him who haps to tiud them straj'ed 
 To be so kind as keep his counsel well ? 
 Why, if he found me knowing aught too much. 
 He would straight gag or strangle me, and say, 
 "Poor hound! it was a pity that his bark 
 Could chauce to mar my jjlans : he loved my daughter.,*. 
 The idle hound had nought to do but love, 
 So followed to the battle and got cruslied." 
 
 Fedalma (holdinij out her hand, ichich Juan kisses)^ 
 Good Juau, I could have no nobler friend. 
 You'd ope your veins and let your life-blood out 
 To save another's pain, yet hide the deed 
 With jesting — say, 'twas merest accident, 
 A sportive scratcli that went by chance too deep — 
 And die content with men's slight thoughts of you, 
 Finding your glory in another's joy. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Dub not my likings virtues, lest they get 
 A drug-like taste, and breed a nausea. 
 Honey's not sweet, commended as cathartic. 
 Such names are parchment labels upon gems, 
 Hiding their color. What is lovely seeu 
 Priced in a tariff? — lapis lazuli. 
 Such bulk, so many drachmas: amethysts 
 Quoted at so much ; sapphires higher still. 
 The stone like solid heaven in its blueness 
 Is what I care for, not its name or jirice. 
 So, if I live or die to serve my friend, 
 'Tis for my love— 'tis for my friend aloue, 
 
206 TUE spajS'ish gypsy. 
 
 And not for any rate that fiiendship bears 
 lu heaven or on earih. Nay, I romance — 
 I talk of Roland and the ancient peers. 
 In me 'lis hardly friendship, only lack 
 Of a .substantial self that holds a weight ; 
 So I kiss larger things and roll with them. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Oh, yon will never liide your soul from me ; 
 I've seen the jewel's flash, and know 'lis there, 
 Muffle it as you will. That foam-like talk 
 Will not wash out a fear which blots the good 
 Your prejsence brings me. Oft I'm pierced afresh 
 Through all the pressure of my selfish griefs 
 By thought of you. It was a rash resolve 
 Made you disclose yourself when you kept watch 
 About the terrace wall : — your pity leaped, 
 Seeing alone my ills and not your loss. 
 Self-doomed to exile. Juan, you must repent. 
 'Tis not in nature that resolve, which feeds 
 On strenuous actions, should not pine and die 
 In these long days of empty listlessness. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Repent? Not I. Repentance is the weight 
 
 Of indigested meals ta'en yesterday. 
 
 'Tis for large animals that gorge on prey, 
 
 Not for a honey-sipping butterfly. 
 
 I am a thing of rhythm and redondillas — 
 
 The momentary rainbow on the si>ray 
 
 Made by the thundering torrent of men's lives: 
 
 No matter whether I am here or there; 
 
 I still catch sunbeams. And in Africa, 
 
 Where melons and all fruits, they say, grow large, 
 
 Fables are real, and the apes polite, 
 
 A jjoet, too, may prosper past belief: 
 
 I shall grow epic, like the Florentine, 
 
 And sing the founding of our infant state, 
 
 Sing the new Gypsy Carthage. 
 
 Fedat.ma. 
 
 Africa I 
 Would we were there '. Under another heaven, 
 In lands where neither love nor memory 
 Can plant a selfish hope — in lands so far 
 I should not seem to see the outstretched arms 
 That seek me, or to hear the voice that calls. 
 I should feel distance only and despair ; 
 So rest forever from the thought of bliss. 
 And wear my weight of life's great chain uustniggling, 
 Juan, if I could know he would forget — 
 Nay, not. forget, forgive nie — be content 
 That I forsook him for no joy, but sorrow. 
 For sorrow chosen rather than a joy 
 That destiny made base ! Then he would taste 
 No bitterness in sweet, sad memory, 
 And I should lived unblemished in his thought, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 207 
 
 Hallowed like her who dies an nuwed bride. 
 Our words have wings, but fly not where we would. 
 Could mine but reach him, Juan ! 
 Juan. 
 
 Speak the wish — 
 My feet have wings — I'll be your Mercury. 
 I fear no shadowed perils by the way. 
 No man will wear the sharpness of his sword 
 On me. Nay, I'm a herald of the Muse, 
 Sacred for Moors and Spaniards. I will go — 
 Will fetch you tidings for an amulet. 
 But stretch not hope too strongly towards that mark 
 As issue of my wandering. Given, I cross 
 Safely the Moorish border, reach Bedmar : 
 Fresh counsels may prevail there, and the Duke 
 Being absent in the lield, I may be trapped. 
 Mcu who are sour at missing larger game 
 May wing a chattering sparrow for revenge. 
 It is a chance no further worth the note 
 Than as a warning, lest you feared worse ill 
 If my return were stayed. I might be caged ; 
 They would not harm me else. Untimely death, 
 The red auxiliary of the skeleton, 
 lias too much work ou hand to think of me ; 
 Or, if he cares to slay me, I shall fall 
 Choked with a grape-stoue for economy. 
 The likelier chance is that I go and come, 
 Bringing you comfort back. 
 
 Fedat.ma {starts from her seat a7id walks to a little distance, standing a few 
 viomcnis icith her back towards Jcan, then she tttrns round quickly, and 
 aoee towards him). 
 
 No, Juan, no ! 
 Those yearning words came from a soul intirm, 
 Crying and struggling at the pain of bonds 
 AVhich yet it would not loosen. lie knows all — 
 All that he needs to know: I said farewell: 
 I stepped across the cracking earth and knew 
 'Twould yawn behind me. 1 must walk right on. 
 No, I will not win aught by risking you : 
 That risk would poison my poor hope. Besides, 
 'Twere treachery in me : my father wills 
 That we — all here — should rest within this camp. 
 If I can never live, like hira, on faith 
 In glorious morrows, I am resolute. 
 While he treads painfully with stillest step 
 And beady brow, pressed 'neath tlie weight of arms, 
 Shall I. to ease my fevered restlessness. 
 Raise peevish moans, shattering that fragile silence? 
 No ! On the close-thronged spaces of the earth 
 A battle rages: Fate has carried me 
 'Mid the thick arrows: I will keep my stand — 
 Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast 
 To pierce another. Oh, 'tis written large 
 The thing I have to do. But you, dear Juan, 
 Renounce, endure, are brave, nuurged by aught 
 Save the sweet overflow of your good will. 
 
 (She seats fierself af/ain.) 
 
208 THK SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Nay, I endure nonglit worse than napping sheep 
 
 When nimble birds uproot a fleecy hick 
 
 To line tlieir nest with. See 1 your bondsman, Queen» 
 
 The minstrel of yonr court, is fealherless; 
 
 Deforms your presence by a nuniltiiig garb; 
 
 Shows like a roadside bush culled of its buds 
 
 Yet, if your graciousness will not disdain 
 
 A poor plucked songster — shall he sing to you? 
 
 Some lay of afternoons— some ballad strain 
 
 Of those who ached once but are sleeping now 
 
 Under the sun-warmed flowers? 'Twill cheat I he lime. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Thanks, Juan— later, when this hour is passed. 
 My soul is clogged with self; it could not float 
 On with the pleasing sadness of your song. 
 Leave me in this green spot, but come again,— 
 Come with the lengthening shadows. 
 
 JlTAN. 
 
 Then your slave 
 Will go to chase the robbers. Queen, farewell ! 
 
 FlCDALMA. 
 
 Best friend, my well-spriug in the wilderness I 
 
 [While Juau sped along the stream, there came 
 From the dark tents a ringing joyous shout 
 That thrilled Fedalma with a summons grave 
 Yet welcome, too. Straightway she rose and stood, 
 All languor banished, with a soul suspense, 
 Like one who waits high presence, listening. 
 Was it a message, or her father's self 
 That made the camp so glad ? 
 
 It was himselfl 
 She saw him now advancing, girt with arms 
 That seemed like idle trophies hung for show 
 Beside the weight and fire of living strcngtii 
 That made his frame. He glanced with absent triumpin 
 As one who conquers iu some field afar 
 And bears off' unseen spoil. But uearing her. 
 His terrible eyes intense sent forth new lays — 
 A sudden sunshine where the lightning was 
 'Twixt meeting dark. All tenderly he laid 
 His hand upon her shoulder ; tenderly, 
 His kiss upon her brow.] 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 My royal daughter ! 
 Fkdai.ma. 
 Father, I joy to .see your safe return. 
 
 Naj', I but stole the time, as hungry men 
 
 Steal from the morrow's meal, made a forced march. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 309 
 
 Left Haseau as my watch-dog, all to see 
 My daugUtei-, aud to feel her famished bo^d 
 With new^ of promise. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Is the tas^k achieved 
 That was to be the herald of our flight ? 
 
 Zakoa. 
 
 Not outwardly, but to my inward vision 
 Things are achieved when they are well begun. 
 The perfect archer calls the deer his own 
 While yet the shaft is whistling. His keen eye 
 Never sees failure, sees the mark alone. 
 You have beard nought, then— had no messenger!' 
 
 Fr.DALMA. 
 
 I, father? no: each quiet day has fled 
 
 Like the same moth, returning with slow vfiug, 
 
 Aud pausing in the sunshine. 
 
 Zaboa. 
 
 It is well. 
 You shaii not long count days in weariness. 
 Ere the full moon has waned again to new, 
 We shall reach Ahneiia: Berber ships 
 Will take us for their freight, and we shall go 
 With i)lenteous spoil, not stolen, bravely won 
 By service done on Spaniards. Do you shrink? 
 Are you aught loss than a true Zincala ? 
 
 Fkdalm.v. 
 No; but I am more. The Spaniards fostered me. 
 
 Zarca. 
 They stole you first, and reared you for tlie flames. 
 1 found you, rescued you, that you might live 
 A Zincala's life; I saved you from their doom. 
 Your bridal l)ed had been the rack. 
 
 Fedalma {ill a low tone). 
 
 They meant — 
 To seize me? — ere he came? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Yes, I know all. 
 Thay found your chamber empty. 
 
 Fedalma (eagerlij). 
 
 Then you know — 
 
 {checking herself) 
 Father, my soul would be less higgaid, fed 
 With fuller trust 
 
 Zarca. 
 My daughter, I must keep 
 The Arab's secret. Arabs are our friends, 
 
 24 K 
 
2i0 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Grappling for life with Christians who lay waste 
 
 Grauada's valleys, and with devilish hoofs 
 
 Trample the young green corn, with devilish play 
 
 Fell blossomed trees, and tear np well-pruned vines: 
 
 Crnel as tigers to the vanqnished brave. 
 
 They wring out gold by oaths they mean to break: 
 
 Take jiay for pity and are pitiless; 
 
 Then liukle bells above the desolate earth 
 
 And praise their monstrous gods, supposed to lova 
 
 The flattery of liars. I will strike 
 
 The full-gorged dragon. You, my child, must watch 
 
 The battle with a heart, not fluttering 
 
 But duteous, firm-weighted by resolve, 
 
 Choosiug between two lives, like her who holds 
 
 A dagger which must pierce one of two breasts, 
 
 And one of them her father's. You divine— 
 
 I speak not closely, but iu parables ; 
 
 Put one for many. 
 
 Fewai.ma (collecHng herself and look.'ng firmly at Zaroa). 
 
 Then it is your will 
 That I ask nothing? 
 
 Zauoa. 
 You shall know enough 
 To trace the sequence of the seed and flower. 
 El Zagal trusts me, rates my counsel high : 
 He, knowing I have won a grant of lands 
 Within the Berber's realm, wills me to be 
 The tongue of his good cause iu Africa, 
 So gives us furtherance in our pilgrimage 
 For service hoped, as well as service doue 
 Iu that great feat of which I am the eye. 
 And my live hundred Gypsies the best arm. 
 More, I am charged by other noble Moors 
 With messages of weight to Telemsiin. 
 Ha, your eye flashes. Are you glad? 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 Yes, glad 
 That men can greatly trust a Ziucalo. 
 
 Zabca. 
 Why, fighting for dear life men choose their swords 
 For cutting only, not for ornament. 
 What nought but Nature gives, man takes perforce 
 Where she bestows it, though in vilest place. 
 Can he compress invention out of pride. 
 Make heirship do the work of muscle, sail 
 Towards great discoveries with a pedigree? 
 Sick men ask cures, and Nature serves not heru 
 Daintily as a feast. A blacksmith once 
 Founded a dynasty, and raised on high 
 The leathern apron over armies spread 
 Between the mountains like a lake of steel. 
 
 Fkdai.ma {bitterly). 
 To be contemned, then, is fair augury. 
 That pledge of future good at least is ours. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. Sli 
 
 Zaroa. 
 Let men contemn us: 'tis such blind contempt 
 That leaves the winged broods to thrive in warmth 
 Unheeded, till they till the air like storms. 
 So we shall thrive — still darkly shall draw force 
 Into a new and maltiludinons life 
 That likeness fashions to community, 
 Mother divine of customs, faith and laws. 
 'Tis ripeness, 'tis fame's zenith that kills hope. 
 Iliige oaks are dying, forests yet to come 
 Lie ill the twigs and rotteu-seemiug seeds. 
 
 FKnALMA. 
 
 And our wild Ziiicali? 'Neath their rough husk 
 Can you discern such seed? You said our band 
 Was the best arm of some hard enterprise; 
 They give out sparks of virtue, then, and show 
 There's metal in their earth? 
 
 Zauca. 
 
 Ay, metal fine 
 In my brave Gypsies. Not the lithest Moor 
 Has lither limbs for scaling, keener eye 
 To mark the meaning of ilie furthest si)eck 
 That tells of change ; and they are disciplined 
 By faith in me, to such obedience 
 As needs no spy. My scalers and my scouts 
 Are to the Moorislr force they're leagued withal 
 As bow-string to the bow; while I, their chief, 
 Command the enterprise and guide the will 
 Of Moorish captains, as the pilot guides 
 With eye-instructed hand the passive helm. 
 For high device is still the highest force, 
 And he who holds the secret of the wheel 
 May make the rivers do what work he would. 
 With thoughts impalpable we clutch men's souls, 
 Weaken the joints of armies, make them fly 
 Like dnst and leaves before the viewless wind. 
 Tell me what's mirrored in the tiger's heart, 
 I'll rule that too. 
 
 Fedalma (wrought to a glow of admiration). 
 O my imperial fatlier ! 
 'Tis where there breathes a mighty soul like yours 
 That men's contempt is of good augury. 
 
 Zakca {seizing both Fedalma's hands, and looking at her sear chi uglify. 
 And you, my daughter, what are you — if not 
 The Zincalo's child ? Say, does not his great hope 
 Thrill in your veins like shouts of victory? 
 'Tis a vile life that like a garden pool 
 Lies stagnant in tlio round of personal loves; 
 That has no ear save for the tickling lute 
 Set to small measures — deaf to all the beats 
 Of that large music rolling o'er the world: 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 A miserable, petty, low-roofed life, 
 
 That knows the mighty orbits of the skies 
 
 Through nought save light or daik in its own cabin. 
 
 The very brutes will feel the force of kind 
 
 And move together, gathering a new soul — 
 
 The soul cf multitudes. S;iy now, my child, 
 
 You will not falter, not look back and long 
 
 For unfledged ease in some soft alien nest. 
 
 The crane with outspread wing that heads the tile 
 
 Pauses not, feels no backward impulses : 
 
 Behind it summer was, and is no more ; 
 
 Before it lies the summer it will reach 
 
 Or perish in mid-ocean. Y^ou no less 
 
 Must feel the force sublime of growing life. 
 
 New thoughts are urgent as the growth of wiuge; 
 
 The widening vision is imperious 
 
 As higher members bursting the worm's sheath. 
 
 You cannot grovel in the worm's delights: 
 
 Y'ou must take winged pleasures, winged pains. 
 
 Are you not steadfast? Will you live or die 
 
 For aught below your royal heritage? 
 
 To him who holds the flicliering brief torch 
 
 Tliat lights a beacon for the perishing. 
 
 Aught else is crime. Would you let drop the torch? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Father, my seal is weak, the mist of tears 
 Still rises to my eyes, and hides the goal 
 Which to your undimmed sight is fixed and clear. 
 But if I cannot plant resolve on hope. 
 It will stand firm on certainty of woe. 
 I choose the ill that is most like to end 
 With my poor being. Hopes liave precarious life. 
 They are oft blighted, withered, snapped sheer off 
 In vigorous growth and turned to rottenness. 
 But faithfulness can feed on sufiering, 
 And knows no disai)pointment. Trust in me I 
 If it were needed, this poor trembling hand 
 Should grasp the torch— strive not to let it fall 
 Though it were burning down close to my flesh, 
 No beacon lighted yet: through the damp dark 
 I should still hear the cry of gasping swimmers. 
 Father, I will be true ! 
 
 Zaeoa. 
 
 I trust that word. 
 And, for your sadness— you are young — the bruise 
 Will leave no mark. The worst of misery 
 Is when a nature framed for noblest things 
 Condemns itself in youth to petty joj's. 
 And, sore athirst for air, breathes scanty life 
 Gasping from out the shallows. You are saved 
 From such poor doubleness. The life we choose 
 Breathes high, and sees a full-arched firmament. 
 Our deeds shall speak like rock-hewu messagee, 
 Teaching great purpose to the distant time. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 213 
 
 Now I must liaslen back. I slinll but s])eak 
 To Nadar of the order he must keep 
 111 netting watch and victualiiiig. The stars 
 And the young moon must see me at my post. 
 Nay, rest you here. Farewell, my younger self— 
 Strong-hearted daughter! Shall I live in you 
 When the earth covers me ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 My father, death 
 Should give your will divineness, make it strong 
 With the beseechings of a mighty soul 
 That left its work unfinished. Kiss me now: 
 
 {They embrace, and she adds tremulously as they part,) 
 Aud when you see fair hair, be pitiful. 
 
 [.Exit Zaroa. 
 
 (Fkdai.ma seats herself on the bank, leans her head forward, and covers 
 her face with her drapery. While she is seated thus, Hinda comes from 
 the bank, with a branch of rtutsk roses in her hand. Seeing Fi:i>ai.M;\ 
 tvith head bent and covered, she jiauses, and begins to move on tiptoe.) 
 
 HlNPA. 
 
 Our Qneeu ! Can she be crying? There she sifs 
 As I did every day when my dog Saad 
 Sickened and yelled, and seemed to yell so loud 
 After we buried him, I oped his grave. 
 {She comes forward on tiptoe, kneels at Fedai.ma's feet, and embraces them. 
 Feuai.m\ uncovers her head.) 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Hinda! what is it? 
 
 HlNBA. 
 
 Queen, a brar.ch of roses — 
 So sweet, yon'll love to smell them. 'Twas the last. 
 I climbed the bank to get it before Tralla, 
 And slipped and scratched my arm. But I don't mind. 
 Yon love the roses — .so do I. I wish 
 The sky would rain down roses, as they rain 
 From oft' the shaken bush. Why will it not? 
 Then all the valley would be pink and white 
 And soft to tread on. They would fall as light 
 As feathers, smelling sweet ; and it would be 
 Like sleeping and yet waking, all at ouce! 
 Over the sea. Queen, where we soou shall go, 
 Will it rain roses? 
 
 FlCDAI.MA. 
 
 No, my prattler, no 1 
 It never will rain roses: when we want 
 To have more roses we mnst plant more trees. 
 But you want nothing, little one— the world 
 Just suits you as it suits the tawny squirrels. 
 Come, you want nothing. 
 
 Hinda. 
 
 Yes, I want more berries— 
 Eed ones— to wind about my neck and arms 
 
S14 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 When I am married — on my ankles too 
 
 I want to wind red berries, and on my hea^. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 Who is it yoii are fond of? Tell me, now. 
 
 HlNPA. 
 
 Queen, you know ! It could be no one else 
 But Ismael. He catches all the birds, 
 
 Knows where the speckled fish are, scales the rockp, 
 And sings and dances with me when I like. 
 How should I marry and not marry him ? 
 
 Feuat.ma. 
 Should you have loved him, had he been a Moor, 
 Or white Casuliau ? 
 
 HiNDA {starting to her feet, then kneeling again"). 
 
 Are yon angry, Queen? 
 Say why you will think shame of your poor Hiuda? 
 She'd sooner be a rat and hang on thorns 
 To parch until the wind had scattered her, 
 Thau be an outcast, spit at by her tribe. 
 
 Fepalma. 
 
 1 think no evil — am not angry, child.' 
 
 But would you part from Ismael ? leave him now 
 If your chief bade you— said it was for good 
 To all your tribe that you must part from him ? 
 
 HiNHA {giving a sharp cry). 
 Ah, will he say so? 
 
 FicBALMA {almost fierce in her earnestness). 
 Nay, child, answer me. 
 Could yon leave Ismael ? get into a boat 
 And see the waters widen 'twixt you two 
 Till all was water and you saw him not, 
 And knew that you would never see him more? 
 If 'twas your chiefs command, and if he said 
 Your tribe would all be slaughtered, die of plague, 
 Of famine— madly drink each other's blood . . . 
 
 HiNDA {trembling). 
 
 Queen, if it is so, tell Ismael. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 Yon would obey, then? part from him forever? 
 
 Hinda. 
 How could we live else? With our brethren lost?— 
 No marriage feast ? The day would turn to dark. 
 A Zincala cannot live without her tribe. 
 
 1 must obey ! Poor Ismael— poor Hinda ! 
 But will it ever be so cold and dark? 
 Oh, I would sit upou the rocks and cry, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 215 
 
 And cry so long that I conUl cry no more: 
 Then I should go to sleep. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No, Hinda, no ! 
 Thou never shall be called to part from him. 
 I will have berries for thee, red and black, 
 And I will be so glad to see thee glad, 
 That earth will seem to hold enough of joy 
 To outweigh all the pangs of those who part. 
 Be comforted, bright eyes. See, I will tie 
 These roses in a crown, for thee to wear. 
 
 HiNPA (e.lajyping her hands, while Fedai.ma puts the roses on her head). 
 Oh, I'm as glad as many little foxes— 
 I will flud ismaul, and tell him all. 
 
 (She runs off.) 
 
 Fedai.ma (alone). 
 She has the strength I lack. Within her world 
 The dial has not stirred since first she woke: 
 No changing light has made the shadows die, 
 And taught her trusting soul sad difference. 
 For her, good, right, and law are all summed up 
 In what is possible: life is one web 
 Where love, joy, kindred, and obedience 
 Lie fast and even, in one warp and woof 
 With thirst and drinking, hunger, food, and sleep. 
 She knows no struggles, sees no double path : 
 Her fate is freedom, for her will is one 
 With her own people's law, the only law 
 She ever knew. For me— I have fire within. 
 But on my will there falls the chilling snow 
 Of thoughts that come as subtly as soft flakes, 
 Yet press at last with hard and icy weight. 
 I could be firm, could give myself the wrench 
 And walk erect, hiding my life-long wound, 
 If I but saw the fruit of all my pain 
 With that strong vision which commands the soul, 
 And makes great awe the monarch of desire. 
 But now I totter, seeing no far goal : 
 I tread the rocky pass, and pause and grasp, 
 Guided by flashes. When my father comes. 
 And breathes into my soul his generous hope- 
 By his own greatness making life seem great, 
 As the clear heavens bring sublimity. 
 And show earth larger, spanned by that blue vast- 
 Resolve is strong: I can embrace my sorrow, 
 Nor nicely weigh the fruit ; possessed with need 
 Solely to do the noblest, though it failed— 
 Though lava streamed upon my breathing deed 
 And buried it in night and barrenness. 
 But soon the glow dies out, the trumpet strain 
 That vibrated as strength through all my limbs 
 Is heard no longer; over the wide scene 
 There's nought but chill gray silence, or the hum 
 And fitful discord of a vulgar world. 
 
iia THE SPANISH f4YPSY. 
 
 Then I sink helpless — sink into the arms 
 
 Of all sweet memories, and dream of bliss; 
 
 See looks that penetrate like tones; hear tonos 
 
 That flash looks wiih them. Even now I feel 
 
 Soft airs enwrap me, as if yearning rays 
 
 Of some far presence tonchcd me with their warmth 
 
 And brought a tender miirniiiriii>^ . . . 
 
 [While she mused, 
 A figure came from out the olive-trees 
 That bent close-whispering 'twixt the parted hills 
 Beyond tha crescent of thick cactus: paused 
 At sight of her ; then slowly moved 
 With carafid steps, and gently said, "Fudalma !" 
 Fearing lest fancy bad enslaved her sense. 
 She quivered, rose, but turned not. Soon again : 
 "Fedalma, it is Silva!" Then she turned. 
 Me, with bared head and arms entreating, beamed 
 Like morning on her. Vision held her still 
 One moment, then with gliding motion swift, 
 Inevitable as the melting stream's. 
 She found her rest within his circling arms.] 
 
 Fkpai.ma. 
 O love, yon are living, and believe iu me I 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 Once more we are together. Wishing dies- 
 Stifled with bliss. 
 
 Feb ALMA. 
 
 Yon did not hate me, then — 
 Think me an ingrate— think my love was small 
 That T forsook you? 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 Dear, I tnisted yon 
 As holy men trust God. You could do nought 
 That was not pure and loving— though the deed 
 Might pierce me unto death. You had less trust. 
 Since yon suspected mine. 'Twas wicked doubt. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Nay, when I saw you hating me, the fault 
 Seemed in my lot— roy bitter birthright— hers 
 On whom yon lavished all your wealth of love 
 As price of nought but sorrflw. Then I said, 
 "'Tis better so. He will be happier!" 
 But soon that thought, struggling to be a hope. 
 Would end in tears. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 It was a cruel thought 
 Happier! True misery is not begun 
 Until I cease to love thee. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 Silva I 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 217 
 
 Don Silta, 
 
 Mine ! 
 {They stand a moment or two in silence.) 
 
 Febai^ma.. 
 I thought I had so much to tell you, love — 
 Loug eloquent stones— how it all befell — 
 The solemn message, calluiy^ me away 
 To awfnl spoiisals, where my own dead joy, 
 A conscious ghost, looked ou and saw me wed. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Oh, that grave speech would cumber our quick sonls 
 Like bells that waste the moments with their loudness. 
 
 Fei>alma. 
 And if it all were said, 'twould end in this. 
 That I still loved you when I fled away. 
 'Tis no more wisdom than the little birds 
 Make known by their soft twitter when they feci 
 Each other's heart beat. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 All the deepest thiugs 
 We now say with our eyes and meeting pulse: 
 Our voices need but prattle. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 I forget 
 All the drear days of thirst in this one draught. 
 
 {Again they are silent for a few moments.) 
 But tell me how you came? Where are your guards? 
 Is there no risk? And now I look at you, 
 This garb is strange . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I came alone. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Alone ? 
 
 Yes— fled in secret. There was no way else 
 To find you safely. 
 
 Fedalma {lettinri one hand fall and moving a little from him with a look of 
 
 sudden terror, while he clasps her more firmly by the other arm). 
 
 Silva ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It is nought. 
 Enough that I am here. Now we will cling. 
 What power shall hinder us? You left me once 
 To set your father free. That task is done, 
 And you are mine again. I have braved all 
 That I might find yon, see your father, win 
 His furtherance in bearing you away 
 To some safe refuge. Are we not betrothed? 
 
 24* K* 
 
218 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 FEDAt.MA. 
 
 Oh, I am trembling 'ueath the rush of thoiighto 
 That come like griefs at morning — look at me 
 With awful faces, from the vauishiug haze 
 That momently had hidden them. 
 
 Don Sii-va. 
 
 What thoughts* 
 Fedalma. 
 Forgotten burials. There lies a grave 
 Between this visionary present and the past. 
 Our joy is dead, and only smiles on lis 
 A loving shade from out the place of tombs. 
 
 Don Sii-va. 
 Your love is faint, else anght that parted us 
 Would seem but superstition. Love supreme 
 Defies dream-terrors — risks avenging fires. 
 I have risked all things. But your love is faint, 
 
 Feuai.ma (retreating a little, but keeping his hand). 
 
 Silva, if now between us came a sword. 
 Severed my arm, find left onr two hands clasped. 
 This poor maimed arm would feel the clasp till death. 
 What parts us is a sword . . . 
 
 2aboa has been advancing in the background. He has drawn his sword 
 and now thrust.'i the naked blade between them. Don Silva lets go Fk- 
 J)ai,ma's hand, and grasps his sioord. Fedalma, startled at first, stands 
 Jirrnhj, as if prepared to interpose between her father and the Dxike.) 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 Ay, 'tis a sword 
 That parts the Spaniard and the Ziiicala : 
 A sword that was baptized in Christian lilood. 
 When once a band, cloaking with Spanish law 
 Their brutal rapine, would have butchered us, 
 And outraged then our women. 
 
 {Resting the point of his sword on the ground.) 
 My lord Duke, 
 I was a guest within your fortress once 
 Against my will; had entertainment too — 
 Much like a galley-slave's. Pray, have you sought 
 The Zincalo's camp, to find a fit return 
 For that Castilian courtesy? or rather 
 To make amends for all our prisoned toil 
 By free bestowal of your presence here i 
 
 Don Silva, 
 
 Chief, I have brought no scorn to meet your scorn. 
 I came because' love urged me — that deep love 
 I bear to her whom you call daughter— her 
 Whom I reclaim as my betrothed bride. 
 
 Zaeca. 
 Doubtless yon bring for final argument 
 Your men-at-arms who will escort your bride? 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 219 
 
 Don Silta. 
 I came alone. The only force I bring 
 la tenderness. Nay, I will trnst besides 
 In all tlie pleadings of a father's care 
 To wed his daughter as her nurtnre bids. 
 And for your tribe — whatever purposed good 
 Your thoughts may cherish, I will make secure 
 With the strong surety of a noble's power: 
 My wealth shall be your treasury. 
 
 Zakoa (ivith irony). 
 
 My thanks 1 
 To me you offer liberal price ; for her 
 Your hwe's beseeching will be force supreme. 
 She will go with you as a willing slave, 
 Will give a word of parting to her father, • 
 
 Wave farewells to her tribe, then turn and say, 
 "Now, my lord, I am nothing but your bride; 
 I am quite culled, have neither root nor trunk, 
 Now wear me with your plume !" 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yours is the wrong 
 Feigning in me one thought of her below 
 The highest homage. I would make my rank 
 The pedestal of her worth ; a noble's sword, 
 A noble's honor, her defence ; his love 
 The life-long sanctuary of her womanhood. 
 
 Zauoa. 
 I tell you, were you King of Aragoii, 
 And won my daughter's hand, your liiglier rank 
 Would blacken her dishonor. 'Twere excuse 
 If you were beggared, homeless, spit upon, 
 And SI) made even with her people's lot; 
 For then she would be hired by want, not wealth. 
 To be a wife amongst an alien race 
 To whom her tribe owes curses. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Such blind hate 
 Ts fit for beasts of prey, but not for men. 
 
 My hostile acts against you, should but count 
 As ignorant strokes against a friend unknown; 
 And for the wrongs inflicted ou your tribe 
 By Spanish edicts or the cruelty 
 Of Spanish vassals, am I criminal? 
 Love comes to cancel all ancestral hate, 
 Subdues all heritage, proves that in mankind 
 Uuin is deeper than division, 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Ay. 
 Such love is common : I have seen it oft- 
 Seen many women rend the sacred ties 
 That bind them in high fellowship with men. 
 
i20 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Making them mothers of a people's virtue: 
 
 Seen them so levelled to a handsome steed 
 
 Thiit yesterday was Moorish projierty, 
 
 To-day is Christian — \ve;irs ncw-lashioned jrear, 
 
 Keiglis to new feeders, and will i)rance alike 
 
 Under all banners, so tlie banner be 
 
 A master's who caresses. Such light change 
 
 You call conversion ; but we Zincali call 
 
 Conversion infamy. Onr people's faith 
 
 Is faithfdluess; not the role-learned belief 
 
 That we are heaven's highest favorites, 
 
 But the resolve that being most forsaken 
 
 Among the sons of men, \te will be true 
 
 Each to the other, and onr common lot. 
 
 You Christians burn men for their heresy: 
 
 Onr vilest heretic is that Zincala 
 
 Who^ choosing ease, forsakes her people's wo«9 
 
 The dowry of my daughter is to be 
 
 Chief woman of her tribe, and rescue it. 
 
 A bride with such a dowry has no match 
 
 Among the subjects of that Catholic Qnecn 
 
 Who would have Gypsies swept into the sea 
 
 Or else would have them gibbeted. 
 
 Don Su.va. 
 
 And you, 
 Fedalma's father— you who claim the dues 
 Of fatherhood — will offer up her youth 
 To mere grim idols of your phantasy! 
 Worse than all Pagans, with no oracle 
 To bid yon murder, no sure good to win, 
 Will sacrifice your daughter — to no god. 
 But to a ravenous Are within your sonl. 
 Mad hopes, blind hate, that like possessing fiends 
 Shriek at a name! This sweetest virgin, reared 
 As garden flowers, to give the sordid world 
 Glimpses of perfectuess, yon snatch and thrust 
 On dreary wilds ; in visions mad, proclaim 
 Semiramis of Gypsy wanderers ; 
 Doom, with a broken arrow in her heart, 
 To wait for death 'mid squalid savages : 
 For what? You would be savioiu' of your tribe; 
 So said Fedalma's letter; rather say. 
 You have the will to save by ruling men. 
 But tirst to rule; and with that flinty will 
 You cut your way, though the rtrst cut you give 
 Gash your child's bosom. 
 
 {While Don Su.va has been speaking, with groiring pasnion, Fedalma Tiaa 
 placed herself betiveen him mid her father.) 
 
 Zakc\ {with calm irony). 
 
 Yon are loud, my lord! 
 You only are the reasonable man , 
 You have a heart, I none. Fedalma's good 
 Is what you see, you care for; while I seek 
 No good, not eveu my own, urged on by nought 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 221 
 
 But hellish hniigei-, which must still be fed 
 
 Though in the feeding it I suffer throes. 
 
 Fume at yonr own opinion as you will : 
 
 I speak not now to you, but to my daughter. 
 
 If she still calls it good to mate with you. 
 
 To be a Spanish duchess, kneel at court, 
 
 And hope her beauty is excuse to men 
 
 When women whisper, "A mere Zincala!" 
 
 If she still calls it good to take a lot 
 
 Tliat measures joy for her as she forgets 
 
 llcr kindred and her kindred's miseiy, 
 
 Kor feels the softness of her downy conch 
 
 Marred by remembrance that she once forsook 
 
 The place that she was born to— let her go I 
 
 If life for her still lies in alien love, 
 
 That forces her to shut her soul from truth 
 
 As men in shameful pleasures shut out day ; 
 
 And death, for her, is to do rarest deeds, 
 
 Which, even failing, leave new faitli to men, 
 
 The faith in human hearts — then, let her go! 
 
 She is my only offspring; in her veins 
 
 She bears the blood her tribe has trusted in ; 
 
 Her heritage is their obedience, 
 
 And if I died, she might still lead them forth 
 
 To plant the race her lover now reviles 
 
 Where they may make a iiatimi, and may rise 
 
 To grander manhood than his race can show; 
 
 Then live a goddess, sanctifying oaths. 
 
 Enforcing right, and ruling consciences. 
 
 By law deep-graven in exalting deeds, 
 
 Through the long ages of her people's life. 
 
 If slie can leave that lot for silken shame, 
 
 For kisses honeyed by oblivion— 
 
 The bliss of drunkards or the blank of fools — 
 
 Then let her go ! You Spanish Catholics, 
 
 When you are cruel, base, and treacherous, 
 
 For ends not pious, tender gifts to God, 
 
 And for men's wounds offer much oil to churches: 
 
 We have no altars for such healing gifts 
 
 As soothe the heavens for outrage done on earth. 
 
 We have no priesthood and !io cieed to teach 
 
 That she — the Zincala — who might save her raij 
 
 And yet abandons it, may cleanse that blot. 
 
 And mend the curse her life has been to n)eu, 
 
 By saving her own soul. Her one base choice 
 
 Is wrong unchangeable, is poison shed 
 
 Where men must drink, shed by her poisoning will 
 
 Now choose, Fedalma ! 
 
 [But her choice was mado, 
 Slowl}', while yet her father spoke, she moved 
 From where oblique with deprecatinp" arms 
 She stood between the two who swayed her heart: 
 Slowly she moved to choose sublimer pain ; 
 Yearning, yet shrinking ; wrought upon by awe, 
 Her own brief life seeming a little isle 
 Remote through visions of a wider world 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 With fates close-crowded; firm to slay her Joy 
 That cut her heart with smiles beneath the knife, 
 Like a sweet babe foredoomed by propliecy. 
 She stood apart, yet near her father: stood 
 Hand clutching hand, her limbs all tense with will 
 That strove 'gainst anguish, eyes that seemed a soul 
 Yearning in death towards him she loved and left. 
 He faced her, iiale with passion and a will 
 Fierce to resist whatever might seem strong 
 And ask him to submit: he saw one end — 
 He must be couqneror ; monarch of his lot 
 And not its tributary. But she spoke 
 Tenderly, pleadingly.] 
 
 Fkdat.ma. 
 
 My lord, farewell ! 
 'Tvvas well we met once more; now we must part. 
 I think we had the chief of all love's joys 
 Only iu knowing that we loved each other. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I thought we loved with love that clings till death, 
 Clings as brute mothers, bleeding, to their young, 
 Still sheltering, clutching it, though it were dead; 
 Taking the death-wound sooner than divide. 
 I thought we loved so. 
 
 FiSDALMA. 
 
 Silva, it is fate. 
 Great Fate has made mc heiress of this woe. 
 You must forgive Fedalma all her debt: 
 She is quite beggared : if she gave herself, 
 'Twould be a self corrupt with stifled thoughts 
 Of a forsaken better. It is truth 
 My father speaks: the Spanish noble's wife 
 Were a false Ziiicala. No I I will bear 
 The heavy trust of my inheritance. 
 See, 'twas my people's life that throbbed in me: 
 An unknown need stirred darkly in my soul, 
 And made me restless even in my bliss. 
 Oh, all my bliss was iu our love; but now 
 I may not taste it: some deep energy 
 Compels me to choose hunger. Dear, farewell 1 
 I must go with my people. 
 
 [She stretched forth 
 Her tender hands, that oft had lain in his, 
 The hands he knew so well, that sight of them 
 Seemed like their touch. But he stood still as death; 
 Locked motionless by forces opposite: 
 His frustrate hopes still battled with despair; 
 His will was prisoner to the double grasp 
 Of rage and hesitancy. All the way 
 Behind him he had trodden confident, 
 Ruling munificently in his thought 
 This Gypsy fither. Now the father stood 
 Present and silent and unchangeable 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 As a celestial portent. Backward lay 
 
 The traversed road, the towu's forsaken wall, 
 
 The risk, the daring ; all around him now 
 
 Was obstacle, save where the rising flood 
 
 Of love close pressed by anguish of denial 
 
 Was sweeping him resistless; save where she, 
 
 Gazing, stretched forth her tender hands, that hurt 
 
 Like parting kisses. Then at last he spoke.j 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, 1 can never take those hands iu mine 
 Then let them go forever! 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It must be. 
 We may not make this world a paradise 
 By walking it together hand in hand, 
 With eyes that meeting feed a double strength. 
 We must be only joined by i)ain8 divine 
 Of spirits blent in mutual memories. 
 Silva, our joy is dead. 
 
 Don Su.va. 
 But love still lives, 
 And has a safer guard iu wretchedness. 
 Pedalma, women know no perfect love: 
 Loving the strong, they can forsake the strong.; 
 Man clings because the being whom he loves 
 Is weak and needs him. I can never turn 
 And leave yon to your difficult wandering; 
 Know that you tread the desert, bear the storm. 
 Shed tears, see terrors, faint with weariness. 
 Yet live away from you. I should feel nought 
 But your imagined pains: in my own steps 
 See your feet bleeding, taste your silent tears, 
 And feel no presence but your loneliness. 
 No, I will never leave you ! 
 
 Zakoa. 
 
 My lord Dnke, 
 I have been patient, given room for speech, 
 Bent not to move my daughter by command. 
 Save that of her own faithfulness. But now, 
 All further words are idle elegies 
 Unfitting times of action. You are here 
 With the safe-conduct of that trust you showed 
 Coming unguarded to the Gypsy's camp. 
 I would fain meet all trust with courtesy 
 As well as honor; but my utmost power 
 Is to afford you Gypsy guard to-night 
 Within the tents that keep the northward lines, 
 And for the morrow, escort on your way 
 Back to the Moorish bounds. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 What if my worda 
 Were meant for deeds, decisive as a leap 
 
221 TIIE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Into the cuiieut? It is uot my wont 
 To utter hollow words, and speak lesolvea 
 Like verses bandied in a madrigal. 
 1 spoke in action first: I faced all rislvS 
 To find Fedalma. Action speaks again 
 When I, a Spanish noble, here declare 
 That I abide with her, adopt her lot, 
 Claiming alone fiiltilment of her vows 
 As my betrothed wife. 
 
 Fedalma {wresting herself frovihim, and standing oppositeicith. a look of terror). 
 Naj', Silva, nay ! 
 Yon could not live so — spring from your high place . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, I have said it. And you, chief, are bound 
 By her strict vows, no stronger fealty 
 Being left to cancel them. 
 
 Zakoa. 
 
 Strong words, my lord ! 
 Sounds fatal as the hammer-strokes that shape 
 The glowing metal : they must shape your life. 
 That you will claim my daughter is to say 
 That you will leave your Spanish dignities, 
 Yonr home, yotir wealth, your people, to become 
 Wholly a Zincalo: share our wanderings, 
 And be a match meet for my daughter's dower 
 By living for her tribe; take the deep oath 
 Tliat binds you to us ; rest within our camp, 
 Never more hold command of Spanish men, 
 And keep my orders. See, my lord, you lock 
 A many-winding chain — a heavy chain. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 I have bnt one resolve: let the rest follow. 
 What is my rank ? To-morrow it will be filled 
 By one who eyes it like a carrion bird, 
 Waiting for death. I shall be no more missed 
 Than waves are missed that, leaping on the rock. 
 Find there a bed and rest. Life's a vast sea 
 That does its mighty errand without fail. 
 Panting in unchanged strength though waves are chaiiging. 
 And I have said it: she shall be my ])eoi)le, 
 And where she gives her life I will give mine. 
 She shall not live alone, nor die alone. 
 I will elect my deeds, and be the liege 
 Not of my birth, but of that good alone 
 1 have discerned and chosen. 
 
 Zauca. 
 
 Our poor faith 
 Allows not rightful choice, save of the right 
 Our birth has made for us. And you, my lord, 
 Can still defer your choice, for some days' space. 
 1 march perforce to-night; you, if you will. 
 Under a Gypsy guard, can keep the heights 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 225 
 
 With sileut Time that slowly opes the scroll 
 Of change inevitable— take no oath 
 Till my accomplished task leave me at large 
 To see you keep your purpose or renounce it. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 Chief, do I hear amiss, or does your speech 
 Ring with a doubleuess which I had held 
 Most alien to you ? You would put me off, 
 And cloak evasion with allowance ? No I 
 We will complete our pledges. I will take 
 Q'hat oath which binds not me alone, but you. 
 To join my life forever with Fedalma's. 
 
 Zakca. 
 I wrangle not—time presses. But the oath 
 Will leave you that same post upon the heights; 
 Pledged to remain there while my absence lasts. 
 You are agreed, my lord? 
 
 Don Sri.VA. 
 
 Agreed to all. 
 Zakoa. 
 Then I will give the summons to our camp. 
 We will adopt you as a brother now, 
 After our wonted fashion. 
 
 [Exit Zaroa, 
 (Sii.va takes Fedai-ma's limids.) 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 O my lord ! 
 I think the earth is trembling: nought is firm. 
 Some terror chills me with a shadowy grasp. 
 Am I about to wake, or do you breathe 
 Here in this valley? Did the outer air 
 Vibrate to fatal words, or did they shake 
 Only my dreaming soul? You — join — our tribe? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 Is then your love too faint to raise belief 
 Up to that height? 
 
 FtDALMA. 
 
 Silva, had yon but said 
 That you would die — that were an easy task 
 For you who oft have fronted death in war. 
 But so to live for me— you, used to rule — 
 You could not breathe the air my father breathes: 
 His presence is subjccti<'.n. Go, my lord ! 
 Fly, while there yet is time. Wait not to speak. 
 I will declare that I refused your love- 
 Would keep no vows to you. . . . 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 It is too late. 
 You shall not thrust me back to seek a good 
 Apart from you. And what good ? Why, to face 
 
226 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Your absence— all the want that drove me forth— 
 
 To work the will of a more tyrannous fiiend 
 
 Than any nncowled father. Life at least 
 
 Gives choice of ills ; forces me to defy, 
 
 But shall not force me to a weali detiance. 
 
 The power that threatened yon, to master me, 
 
 That scorches like a cave-hid dragon's breath, 
 
 Sure of its victory In spite of hate, 
 
 Is what I last will bend to— most defy. 
 
 Your father has a chieftain's end.*, befitting 
 
 A soldier's eye and arm: were he as stnnig 
 
 As the Moors' prophet, yet tlie prophet too 
 
 Had yonnger captains of illustrious fame 
 
 Among the infidels. Let him command. 
 
 For when your father speaks, I shall hear you. 
 
 Life were no gain if you were lost to me : 
 
 I would straight go and seek the Moorish walls. 
 
 Challenge their bravest, and embrace swift death. 
 
 The Glorious Mother and her pitying Son 
 
 Are not Inquisitors, else their heaven were hell. 
 
 Perhaps they hate their cruel worshippers, 
 
 And let them feed on lies. I'll rather trust 
 
 They love you aud have sent me to defend you. 
 
 Ff.pai.m.v. 
 I made my creed so, just to suit my mood 
 Aud smooth all hardship, till my father came 
 And taught my soul by ruling it. Since then 
 I cannot weave a dreaming happy creed 
 Where our love's happiness is not accursed. 
 My father shook my soul awake. And you — 
 The bonds Fedalma may not break for you, 
 I canuot joy that you should break for her. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Oh, Spanish men are not a petty band 
 Where one deserter makes a fatal breach. 
 Men, even nobles, are more pleuteous 
 Thau steeds and armor ; and my weapons left 
 Will find new hands to wield them. Arrogance 
 Makes itself champion of mankind, and holds 
 God's purpose maimed for oue hidalgo lost. 
 
 See where your fattier comes and brings a crowd 
 Of witnesses to hear my oath of love ; 
 The low red sun glows on them like a fiie. 
 This seems a valley in some strange new world, 
 Where we have found each other, my Fedahna. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 Now twice the day had sunk from off the hills 
 While Silva kept his watch there, with the baud 
 Of stalwart Gypsies. Wheu the sun was high 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY, 237 
 
 He slept; then, waking, strained impatient eyes 
 
 To catch the protnihie of some moving form 
 
 That might be Juan — Jnan who went and came 
 
 To sootlie two he:irts, and claimed nought for his own: 
 
 Friend more divine than all divinities, 
 
 Quenching his hnman thirst in others' joy. 
 
 All through the lingering nights and pale chill dawns 
 
 Jnan had hovered near; with delicate sense, 
 
 As of some breath from every changing mood, 
 
 Had spoken or kept silence : touched his lute 
 
 To hint of melody, or poured brief strains 
 
 That seemed to make all sorrows natural, 
 
 Hardly worth weeping for, since life was short. 
 
 And shared by loving souls. Such pity welled 
 
 Within the minstrel's heart of light-tongued Jnan > 
 
 For this doomed man, who with dream-shrouded eyes 
 
 Had stepped into a torrent as a brook, 
 
 Thiuking to ford it and return at will. 
 
 And now waked helpless in the eddying flood. 
 
 Hemmed by its raging hurry. Once that thought. 
 
 How easy wandering is, how hard and strict 
 
 The homeward way, had slipped from reverie 
 
 Into low-murmured song; — (brief Spanish song 
 
 'Scaped him as sighs escape from other men). 
 
 Push off the boat. 
 Quit, quit the shore, 
 
 The stars will guide vs haek :— 
 O (/atherinff cloud, 
 wide, wide sea, 
 
 O loams that keep no track ! 
 
 On through the pines ! 
 The pillared woods. 
 
 Where silence breathes siceet breath .•— 
 O labyrinth, 
 O snnless gloom. 
 
 The other side of death ! 
 
 Such plaintive song had seemed to please the Duke- 
 Had seemed to melt all voices of reproach 
 To sympathetic sadness; but his moods 
 Had grown more fitful with the growing hours. 
 And this soft murmur had the iterant voice 
 Of heartless Eclio, whom no pain can move 
 To say aught else thau we have said to her. 
 He spoke, impatient : "Juan, cease thy song. 
 Onr whimpering poesy and small-paced tunes 
 Have no more utterance than the cricket's chirp 
 For souls that carry heaven and hell williiu.'' 
 Then Juan, lightly: "True, my lord, 1 chirp 
 For lack of soul ; some hungry poets chirp 
 For lack of bread. 'Twere wiser to sit down 
 And count the star-seed, till I fell asleep 
 With the cheap wine of pure stupidity." 
 And Silva, checked by courtesy ; " Nay, Juan. 
 Were speech once good, thy song were best of speecli. 
 I meant, all life is but poor mockery : 
 
238 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Action, i)lace, power, Uie visible wide world 
 
 Are tattered inasqneiading of this self. 
 
 This ])iilse of conscious mystery : all change, 
 
 Whether to high or low, is change of rags. 
 
 Bnt for her love, I would not take a good 
 
 Save lo burn out in battle, iu a flame 
 
 Of madness that would feel no mangled linibs!. 
 
 And die not knowing death, but passing straight 
 
 — Well, well, to other flames — in purgatory." 
 
 Keen Juau's ear caught the self-discontent 
 
 That vibrated beneath the changing tones 
 
 Of life-coutemniug scoru. Gently he said: 
 
 " But loith her love, my lord, the world deserves 
 
 A higher rate ; were it but masquerade, 
 
 The rags were surely worth the wearing?" "Yes. 
 
 No misery shall foj-ce me to repent 
 
 That I have loved her." 
 
 So with wilful talk, 
 Fencing the wonuded soul from beating winds 
 Of truth that came unasked, companionship 
 Made the hours lighter. And the Gypsy guard, 
 Trusting familiar Juan, were content, 
 At friendly hint from hiin, to still their songs 
 And busy jargon round the nightly fires. 
 Such sounds, the quick-conceiving poet knew 
 Would strike ou Silva's agitated soul 
 Like mocking repetition of the oath 
 That bound him iu strange clanship with the tribe 
 Of human panthers, flame-eyed, lithe-limbed, tierce, 
 Unrecking of time-woven subtleties 
 And high tribunals of a phautom-world. 
 
 But the third day, though Silva southward gazed 
 
 Till all the shadows slanted towards him, gazed 
 
 Till all the shadows died, no Juan came. 
 
 Now in his stead came loneliness, and Thought 
 
 Inexorable, fastening with firm chain 
 
 What is to what hath been. Now awful Night, 
 
 The prime ancestral mystery, came down 
 
 Past all the generations of the stars. 
 
 And visited his soul with touch more close 
 
 Than when he kept that younger, briefer watch 
 
 Under the church's roof beside his arms, 
 
 And won his knighthood. 
 
 Well, this solitude, 
 This company with the enduring universe. 
 Whose mighty silence carrying all the past 
 Absorbs our history as with a breath. 
 Should give him more assurance, make him strong 
 In all contempt of that poor circumstance 
 Called human life— customs and bonds and laws 
 Wherewith men make a better or a worse, 
 Like children playing on a barren mound 
 Feigning a thing to strive for or avoid. 
 Thus Silva argued with his many-voiced self, 
 Whose thwarted needs, like angry muhitudes, 
 Lured from the home that nurtured them to streiigtih, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 229 
 
 Made loud iiLstirgence. Thus he called on Thought, 
 
 On dexterous Thou^'ht, with its swift alchemy 
 
 To change all forms, dissolve all prejudice 
 
 Of man's long heritage, and yield him up 
 
 A crude fused woild to fashion as he would. 
 
 Thought plaj-ed him dcnhle; seemed to wear the jolie 
 
 Of sovereign passion in the noon-day height 
 
 Of passion's prevalence; but served anon 
 
 As tribune to the larger soul which brought 
 
 Loud-mingled cries from every human need 
 
 That ages had instructed into life. 
 
 He could not grasp Night's black blank mystery 
 
 And wear it for a spiritual garb 
 
 Creed-proof; he shuddered at its passionless touch. 
 
 On solitary souls, the universe 
 
 Looks down inhospitable; the humau heart 
 
 Finds nowhere shelter but in human kind. 
 
 He yearned towards images that had breath iu themj 
 
 That sprang warm palpitant with memories 
 
 From streets and altars, from ancestral homes 
 
 Banners and trophies and the cherishing rays 
 
 Of shame and honor in the eyes of man. 
 
 Tlese made the speech articulate of his soul. 
 
 That could not move to utterance of scorn 
 
 Save in words bred by fellowship; could not feel 
 
 Resolve of hardest constancy to love 
 
 The lirmer for the sorrows of the loved. 
 
 Save by concurrent energies high-wrought 
 
 To sensibilities transcending sense 
 
 Through close community, and long-shared pains 
 
 Of far-off generations. All in vain 
 
 He sought the outlaw's strength, and made a right 
 
 Contemning that hereditary right 
 
 Which held dim habitations iu his frame, 
 
 Mysterious haunts of echoes old and firr. 
 
 The voice divine of human loyalty. 
 
 At home, among his people, he had played 
 
 111 sceptic ease with saints and litanies. 
 
 And thunders of the Church that deadened fell 
 
 Through screens of priests plethoric. Awe, unscathcci 
 
 By deeper trespass, slept without a dream. 
 
 But for such trespass as made outcasts, still 
 
 The ancient Furies lived with faces new 
 
 And lurked with lighter slumber than of old 
 
 O'er Catholic Spain, the land of sacred oaths 
 
 That might be broken. 
 
 Now the former life 
 Of close-linked fellowshii), ihe life that made 
 His full-formed self, as the impregnate sap 
 Of years successive frames the fiill-branchcd tree-= 
 Was present in one whole ; and that great trust 
 His deed had broken turned reproach on him 
 From faces of all witnesses who heard 
 His uttered pledges ; saw him hold high place 
 Centring reliance ; use rich privilege 
 That bound him like a victim-nourished god 
 By tacit covenant to sliield and ble.^s; 
 
230 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Assume the Cross and take his knightly oath 
 Matme, deliberate: faces human all, 
 And some divine as well as human : His 
 Who hung supreme, the suffering Mau divine 
 Above the altar; Hers, the Mother pure 
 Whose glance informed his masculine tenderness 
 With deepest reverence ; the Archangel armed, 
 Trampling man's enemy: all heroic forms 
 That till the world of faith with voices, hearts, 
 And high companionship, to Silva now 
 Made but one inward and insistent world 
 With faces of his peers, with court and hall 
 Arid deference, and reverent vassalage, 
 And tilial pieties— one current strong. 
 The warmly mingled life-blood of his mind, 
 Sustaining him even when he idly played 
 With rules, beliefs, charges, and ceremonies 
 As arbitrary fooling. Such revenge 
 Is wrought by the long travail of mankind 
 On him who scorns it, and would shape his life 
 Without obedience. 
 
 But his warrior's pride 
 Would take no wounds save on the breast. He faced 
 The fatal crowd: "I never shall repent! 
 If I have sinned, my sin was made for me 
 By men's peiverseness. There's no blameless life 
 Save for the passionless, no sanctities 
 But have the self-same roof and props with crime, 
 Or have their roots close interlaced with wrong. 
 If I had loved her less, been more a craven, 
 I had kept my place and won the easy praise 
 Of a true Spanish noble. But I loved. 
 And, loving, dared — not Death the warrior 
 But Infamy that binds and strips, and holds 
 The brand and lash. I have dared all for her. 
 She was my good— what other men call heaven, 
 And for the sake of it bear penances; 
 Nay, some of old were baited, tortured, flaj'ed 
 To win their heaven. Heaven was their good. 
 She, mine. And I h.ave braved for her all fires 
 Certain or threatened ; for I go away 
 Beyond the reach of expiation — far away 
 From sacramental blessing. Does God bless 
 No outlaw ? Shut his absolution fast 
 In human breath? Is there no God for me 
 Save him whose cross 1 have forsaken ?— Well, 
 I am forever exiled— but with her! 
 She is dragged out into the wilderness ; 
 I, with my love, will be her providence. 
 I have a right to choose my good or ill, 
 A right to damn myself! The ill is mine. 
 I never will repent !" . . . 
 Thus Silva, inwardly debating, all his ear 
 Turned into audience of a twofold mind ; 
 For even in tumult full-fraught consciousness 
 Had plenteous being for a self aloof 
 That gazed and listened, like a soul in dreams 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 231 
 
 Weaviii;; llie vvondrons tale it marvels at. 
 
 But oft the conflict slackened, oft strong Love 
 
 With tidal energy returning laid 
 
 All other restlessness: Fedalina came, 
 
 And with her visionary presence brought 
 
 What. seemed a waking iu the warm spring moriio 
 
 He still was pacing on the stony earth 
 
 Under the deepening night; the fresh-lit fires 
 
 Were flickering on dark forms and eyes that met 
 
 His forward and his backward tread ; but she, 
 
 She was within him, making his whole self 
 
 Mere correspondence with her image : sense, 
 
 In all its deep recesses where it keeps 
 
 The mystic stores of ecstasy, was turned 
 
 To memory that killed the hour, like wine. 
 
 Then Silva said, "She, by herself, is life. 
 
 What was my joy before I loved her — what 
 
 Shall heaven lure us with, love being lost,?"' — 
 
 For he was young. 
 
 But now around the fires 
 The Gypsy band felt freer ; Juan's song 
 Was no more there, nor Juan's friendly ways 
 For links of amity 'twixt their wild mood 
 And this strange brother, this pale Spanish duke^ 
 \Vho with their Gypsy badge upon his breast 
 Took readier place within their alien hearts 
 As a marked captive, who would fain escape. 
 And Nadar, who commanded them, had known 
 The prison in Bedniar. So now, in talk 
 Foreign to Spanish ears, they said their minds, 
 Discussed their chief's intent, the lot marked out 
 For this new brother. Would he wed their queen? 
 And some denied, saying their queen would wed 
 Only a Gypsy duke — one who would join 
 Their bands in Telemsiin. But others thought 
 Young Hassan was to wed her; said their chief 
 Would never trust this noble of Castile, 
 Who in his very swearing was forsworn. 
 And then one fell to chanting, in wild notes 
 Recurrent like the moan of outshut winds, 
 The adjuration they were wont to nse 
 To any Spaniard who would join their tribe: 
 Words of plain Spanish, lately stirred anew 
 And ready at new impulse. Soon the rest, 
 Drawn to the streani of sound, made unison 
 Higher and lower, till the tidal sweep 
 Seemed to assail the Duke and close him round 
 With force dsemouic. All debate till now 
 Had wrestled with the urgence of that oath 
 Already broken ; now the newer oath 
 Thrust its loud presence on him. He stood still, 
 Close baited by loud-barking thoughts— fierce hounds 
 Of that Supreme, the irreversible Past. 
 
 The ZiNOAi.i sing. 
 Brother, hear and take the curse. 
 Curse of soul's and body's throeg. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 If you hate not all our foes, 
 Cling not fast to all our woes, 
 Turn false Z'lncalo ! 
 
 May you he accurst 
 By hunger and by thirst 
 My spiked pangs, 
 StarvationPs fangs 
 Clutching you alone 
 When nont, hut peering vultures hear your tnoa/K^ 
 Curst hy burning hands. 
 Curst hy aching brow. 
 When on sea-wide sands 
 
 Fever lays yon low; 
 
 By the maddened brain 
 
 When the running water glistens, 
 
 And the deaf ear listens, listens. 
 
 Prisoned fire within the vein. 
 
 On the tongue and on the lip, 
 
 Not a sip 
 From the earth or skies; 
 Hot the desert lies 
 Pressed into your anguish. 
 Narrowing earth and narrowing sky 
 Into lonely misery. 
 Lonely may you languish 
 Through the day and throtigh the night. 
 Hate the darkness, hate the light, 
 Pray and find no ear. 
 Feel no brother near. 
 Till on death you cry. 
 Death who j)asses hy. 
 And anew you groan. 
 Bearing the vuliure-s all to leave you licing lon&i: 
 Curst hy souTs and body's throes 
 If you love the dark men's foes. 
 Cling not fitst to all the dark men's woes. 
 Turn false Zlnealo ! 
 Swear to hate the cruel cross. 
 
 The silver cross! 
 Glittering, laughing at the blood- 
 shed below it in a flood 
 When it glitters over Moorish porches; 
 
 Laughing at the scent of flesh 
 When it glitters where the fagot scorches. 
 Burning life's Jnysierious mesh; 
 Blood of ^vandering Isra'il, 
 Blood of tcandering IsmaU, 
 Blood, the drink of Christian scorn. 
 Blood of wanderers, sons of morn 
 Where the life of men began: 
 Swear to hate the cross ! — 
 Sign of all the wanderers' foes, 
 Sign of all the wanderers' woe*— 
 
 Else its curse light on you ! 
 Else the curse upon you light 
 Of Us sharp, red-suorded might 
 
Tnr; Spanish gypsy. 233 
 
 May it lie u Mood-red blight 
 
 On all things within your sight: 
 
 On the white haze of the morn. 
 
 On the meadows and the corn, 
 
 On the sun and on the moon. 
 
 On the clearness of the noon, 
 
 On the darkness of the night. 
 
 May it fill yoxi,r aching sight — 
 
 Red-cross sxcord and sicord hlood-red~- 
 
 Till it press ujjon your head. 
 
 Till it lie within your brain, 
 
 Piercing sharp, a cross of pain. 
 
 Till it lie upon your heart. 
 Burning hot, a cross of fire. 
 
 Till from sense in every part 
 Pains have clustered like a stinging sjuarm 
 
 In the cross''s form. 
 And yon see nought but the cross of blood. 
 And you feel nought but the cross of fire: 
 
 Curst by all the cross's throes 
 
 If you hate not all our foes. 
 
 Cling not fast to all otir ^coes, ^ 
 Turn false Z'mcalo ! 
 
 A fierce delight was in the Gypsies' chaut; 
 
 They thoughc no more of Silva, only felt 
 
 Like those broad-chested rovers of the iiiglit 
 
 Who pour exuberant strength upon the air. 
 
 To him it seemed as if the hellish rhythm, 
 
 Revolving in long curves that slacliened now^, 
 
 Now hurried, sweeping round again to slackness, 
 
 Would cease no more. What use to raise his voice, 
 
 Or grasp his weapon ? He was powerless now. 
 
 With these new comrades of his future — he 
 
 Who had been wont to have his wishes feared 
 
 And guessed at as a hidden law for men. 
 
 Even the passive silence of the night 
 
 That left these howlers mastery, even the moon, 
 
 Rising and staring with a helpless face 
 
 Angered him. He was ready now to fly 
 
 At some loud throat, and give the signal bo 
 
 For batchery of himself. 
 
 But suddenly 
 The sounds that travelled towards no foreseen close 
 Were torn right off and fringed into the night; 
 Sharp Gypsy ears had caught the onward strain 
 Of kindred voices joining in the chant. 
 All started to their feet and mustered close. 
 Auguring long-waited summons. It was come: 
 The summons to set forth and join their chief. 
 Fedalma had been called, and she was gone 
 Under safe escort, Juan following her: 
 The camp— the women, children, and old men — 
 Were moving slowly southward on tlie way 
 To Almeria. Silva learned no more. 
 He marched perforce ; what other goal was his 
 Than wliere Fediilma was? And so he marched 
 
 25 L 
 
334 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Through the dim passes aud o'er rising hills, 
 Not kuowing whither, till the moruiug came. 
 
 The Moorish hall in the castle at Bedmdr. 7'he morning twilight dimly shotes 
 stains of blood on the white marble floor ; yet there has been a careful restora- 
 tion of order among the spare objects of furniture. Stretched on mats lie three 
 corpses, the faces bare, the bodies covered with mantles. A little way off, with 
 rolled matting for ax>illow, lies Zakoa, sleeping. His chest and arms are bare ; 
 his weapons, turban, mail-shirt, and other xqiper garmerits lie on the floor beside 
 him. In the outer gallery Z'lncali are pacing, at intervals, jiast the arched open- 
 ings. 
 
 Zabca (half rising and resting his elboic on tlie inllow while he looks round). 
 
 The moruing ! I have slept for full three hours ; 
 
 Slept without dreams, save of my daughter's face. 
 
 Its saduess waked me. Soon she will he here, 
 
 Soon must outlive the worst of all the pains 
 
 Bred by false nurture in au alien home — 
 
 As if a lion in fangless iufaucy 
 
 Learned love of creatures that with fatal growth 
 
 It scents as natural prey, aud grasps aud tears, 
 
 Yet with heart-huuger yearns for, missiug them. 
 
 She is a lioness. Aud they— the race 
 
 That robbed me of her — reared her to this pain. 
 
 He will be crushed aud toru. There was no help. 
 
 But she, my child, will bear it. For strong souls 
 
 Live like fire-hearted suns to spend their strengtii 
 
 In farthest striving action ; breathe more free 
 
 In mighty anguish than in trivial ease. 
 
 Her sad face waked me. I shall meet it soon 
 
 Waking . . . 
 
 (He rises and stands looking at the corpses.) 
 As now I look on these pale dead, 
 These blossoming branches crushed beneath the fall 
 Of that broad trunk to which I laid my axe 
 With fullest foresight, so will I ever face 
 In thought beforehand to its utmost reach 
 The consequences of my conscious deeds ; 
 So face them after, bring them to my bed. 
 And never drug my soul to sleep with lies. 
 If they are cruel, they shall be arraigned 
 By that true name ; they shall be justified 
 By my high purpose, by the clear-seeu good 
 That; grew into my vision as I grew. 
 And makes my nature's function, the full pulse 
 Of inbred kingship. Catholics, 
 Arabs, and Hebrews, have their god apiece 
 To fight and conquer for them, or be bruised. 
 Like Allah now, yet keep avenging stores 
 Of patient wrath. The Zincali have no god 
 Who speaks to them aud calls tliem his, unless 
 I, Zarca, carry living in my frame 
 The power divine that chooses them and saves. 
 " Life and more life unto the chosen, death 
 To all things living that would stifle them!" 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 235 
 
 So ^iK-iiks each god thfit makiis a uatiou strong; 
 JDtirns uees and brutes and slays all hindering men. 
 Tlie Spaniards boast tlieir god the strongest now: 
 They win most towns by treachery, make most slaves, 
 Burn the most vines and men, and rob the most. 
 I fight against that strength, and in my turn 
 Slay these brave young who duteously strove. 
 Cruel ? ay, it is cruel. But, how else? 
 To save, ve kill ; each blow we strike at guilt 
 Hurts innocence with its shock. Men mijjht well seek 
 For purifying rites; even pious deeds 
 Need washing. But my cleansing waters flow 
 Solely from my intent. 
 {He turns aipay from the bodies to tclicre his garments lie, but does iiot lift them.) 
 
 And she must suffer ! 
 But she has seen the unchangeable and bowed 
 Her head beneath the yoke. And she will walk 
 No moi-e in chilling twilight, for to-day 
 Rises our sun. The difficult night is pastj 
 We keep the bridge no more, but cross it ; march 
 Forth to a land where all our wars shall be 
 With greedy obstinate plants that will not yield 
 Fruit for their nurture. All our race shall come 
 From north, west, east, a kindred multitude, 
 And make large fellowship, and raised inspired 
 The shout divine, tbe unison of resolve. 
 So I, so she, will see our race redeemed. 
 And their keen love of family and tribe 
 Shall no more thrive on cunning, hide and lurk 
 In petty arts of abject, hunted life, 
 But grow heroic in the sanctioning light, 
 And feed with ardent blood a nation's heart. 
 That is my work : and it is well begun. 
 On to achievement '. 
 (He takes up the mail-shirt, and looks at it, then throws it down again.) 
 
 No, I'll none of you ! 
 To-day there'll be no fighting. A few hours. 
 And I shall doff these garment* of the Moor; 
 Till then I will walk lightly and breathe high. 
 
 Sepuardo {appearing at the archway leading into tlie outer gallery]. 
 You bade me wake you. . . . 
 Zauca. 
 
 Welcome, Doctor; see, 
 With that small task I did but beckon you 
 To graver work. You know these corpses ? 
 
 Sepuardo. 
 
 \es. 
 I would they were not corpses. Storms will lay 
 The fairest trees and leave the withered stumps. 
 This Alvar and ihe Duke were of one age, 
 And very loving friends. I minded not 
 The sight of Don Diego's corpse, for death 
 Gave him some gentleness, and had be lived 
 I had still hated him. But this young Alvar 
 
236 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Was doubly noble, as a. gem that holds 
 Rare virtues in its lustre ; and his death 
 Will pierce Don Silva with a poisoned dart. 
 Tliis fair and curly youth was Arias, 
 A SDU of the Pachecos ; this dark face. . . . 
 
 Zauca. 
 Enough ! you know their names. I had divined 
 That they were near the Duke, most like had served 
 My daughter, were her friends ; so rescued them 
 From being flung upon the heap of slain. 
 Beseech you. Doctor, if you owe me aught 
 As having served your people, take the pains 
 To see these bodies buried decently. 
 And let their names be writ above their graves, 
 As those of brave young Spaniards who died well. 
 I needs must bear this womanhood in my heart- 
 Bearing my daughter therCi For once she prayed — 
 'Twas at our parting— " When you see fair hair 
 Be pitiful." And I am forced to look 
 On fair heads living and be pitiless. 
 Your service, Doctor, will be done to her. 
 
 Sepuakdo. 
 A service doubly dear. For these young dead, 
 And one less happy Spaniard who still lives. 
 Are offeriugs which I wrenched from out my heart, 
 Constrained by cries of Israel : while ray hands 
 Rendered the victims at command, my eyes 
 Closed themselves vainly, as if vision lay 
 Through those poor loopholes only. I will go 
 And see the graves dug by some cypresses. 
 
 Zabc'a. 
 Meanwhile the bodies shall rest here. Farewell. 
 
 {Exit Sepharbo.) 
 Nay, 'tis no mockery. She keeps me so 
 From hardening with the hardness of my acts. 
 This Spaniard shrouded in her love— I would 
 He lay here too that I might pity him. 
 
 Morning. — The Placet Santiago in Bedmcir. A crowd of toivnsmen forming an 
 outer circle : ivithin, Zincali and Moorish soldiers drawn iip round the central 
 space. On the higher ground in front of the church a stake with fagot's heaped, 
 and at a little distance a gibbet. Moorish music. Zaroa enters, iDearing his gold 
 necklace with the Gypsy badge of the flaming torch over the dress of a Moorish 
 Captain, accompanied by a small band of armed Zincali, who fall aside atid 
 range themselves with the other soldiers tohile he takes his stand in front of the 
 stake and gibbet. The music ceases, a7id there is expectant silence. 
 Zaeoa. 
 
 Men of Bedmar, well-wishers, and allies, 
 Whether of Moorish or of Hebrew blood, 
 Who, being galled by the hard Spaniard's yoke, 
 Have welcomed our quick conquest as release, 
 I, Zarca, chief of Spanish Gypsies hold 
 By delegation of the Moorish King 
 
THE SPANISH «YPSY. 237 
 
 Supreme command within this town aud fort. 
 
 Nor will I, with false show of modesty, 
 
 Profess myself uuwortby of this post, 
 
 For so I should but tax the giver's choice. 
 
 Aud, as ye kuow, while I was prisoner here. 
 
 Forging- the, bullets meant for Moorish hearts, 
 
 But likely now to reach another mark, 
 
 I learned the secrets of the town's defence. 
 
 Caught the loud whispers of your discontent, 
 
 And so conld serve the purpose of the Moor 
 
 As the edge's keenness serves the weapon's weight. 
 
 My Zincali, lynx-eyed and lithe of limb, 
 
 Tracked out the high Sierra's path, 
 
 Guided the hard ascent, and were the first 
 
 To scale the walls aud brave the showering stones. 
 
 In brief, I reached this rank through service done 
 
 By thought of mine and valor of my tribe, 
 
 Yet hold it but in trust, with readiness 
 
 To lay it down ; for we— the Zincali — 
 
 Will never pitch our tents again on laud 
 
 The Spaniard grudges us: we seek a home 
 
 Where we may spread and ripen like the corn 
 
 By blessing of the sun and spacious earth. 
 
 Ye wish us well, I think, aud areour friends? 
 
 Crowd. 
 Long life to Zarca aud his Ziucaii ! 
 
 Zaroa. 
 Now, for tlie cause of our assembling here. 
 'Twas my command that rescued from your hauds 
 That Spanish Prior and Inquisitor 
 Whom in fierce retribution you had bound 
 Aud meant to buru, tied to a planted cross. 
 I rescued him with promise that his death 
 Should be more signal in its justice — made 
 Public in fullest sense, and orderly. 
 Here, then, you see the stake— slow death by fire ; 
 And there a gibbet— swift death by the cord. 
 Now hear me, Moors and Hebrews of Bedmdr, 
 Our kindred by the warmtli of Eastern blood 1 
 Punishing cruel wrong by cruelty 
 We copy Christian crime. Vengeance is just: 
 Justly we rid the earth of human fiends 
 Who carry hell for pattern in their souls. 
 But in high vengeance there is noble scorn: 
 It tortures not the torturer, nor gives 
 Iniquitous jjayment for iniquity. 
 The great avenging angel does not crawl 
 To kill the serpent with a mimic fang; 
 He stands erect, with sword of keenest edge 
 That slays like lightning. So too we will slay 
 The cruel man; slay him because he works 
 Woe to mankind. And I have given command 
 To pile these fagots, not to burn quick flesh. 
 But for a sign of that dire wrong to men 
 Which arms our wrath with justice. While, to show 
 
238 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 This Christian worshipper thnt we obey 
 A better law Ihau his, he shall be led 
 Straight to the gibbet and to swiftest death. 
 Fi)r I, the chieftain of the Gypsies, will 
 My people shed no blood but what is shed 
 III heat of battle or in judgment strict 
 With calm deliberation on the right. 
 Such is my will, and if it please you — well. 
 
 Ckowh. 
 It pleases us. Long life to Zarca ! 
 
 Zauca. 
 
 Hark ! 
 The bell is striking, and they bring even now 
 The prisoner from the fort. What, Nadar ? 
 Nabau {has appeared, cutting the crowd, and advancing towards Zarca till he 
 is near enough to speak in ati imdertone). 
 
 I have obeyed yonr word, have followed it 
 As water does the farrow in the rock. 
 
 Chief, 
 
 Yonr baud is here? 
 
 'Twas so 1 ordered. 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 Nadar, 
 Ye.s, and the Spaniard too 
 Zaroa. 
 
 Nabar. 
 Aj% but this sleek honncT, 
 Who slipped his collar off to join the wolves. 
 Has still a heart for none but kennelled brutes. 
 He rages at the taking of the town, 
 Says all his friends are butchered ; and one corpse 
 He stumbled on — well, I would sooner l)e 
 A murdered Gypsy's dog, and howl for him, 
 Thau be this Spaniard. Rage has made him whiter. 
 One townsman taunted him with his escape^ 
 And thanked bim for so favoring us 
 
 Zakca. 
 
 EnoHgho 
 You gave him my comm.and tilat he should wait 
 Within the castle, till I saw him? 
 
 Nadar. 
 
 Yes. 
 But he defied me, broke away, ran loose 
 I know not whither; he may soon be here. 
 I came to warn you, lest he work ns harm. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 Fear not, I know the road I travel by: 
 Its turns are no surprises. He who rules 
 Must humor full as much as he commands r 
 Must let men vov^ impossibiHties ; 
 Grant folly's prayers that hinder folly's wish 
 And serve the ends of wisdom. Ah, he comes I 
 
 [Sweepiug like some pale herald fronv the dead. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 239 
 
 Whose shadow-nurtured eyes, dazed by full light, 
 
 See nought without, but give reverted seuse 
 
 To the soul's imagery, Silva came. 
 
 The wondering people parting wide to get 
 
 Couliuuous sight of him as he passed on — 
 
 This high hidalgo, who tlirough blooming years 
 
 Had shone on men with planetary calm, 
 
 Believed in with all sacred images 
 
 And saints that must be taken as they were, 
 
 Though rendering meagre service for men's praise: 
 
 Bareheaded now, carrying an unsheathed sword. 
 
 And on his breast, where late he bore the cross, 
 
 Wearing the Gypsy badge; his form aslant, 
 
 Driven, it seemed, by some invisible chase. 
 
 Right to the front of Zarca. There he paused.] 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Chief, you are treacherous, cruel, devilish ! 
 Relentless as a curse that once let loose 
 From lips of wrath, lives bodiless to destroy, 
 And darkly traps a mau in nets of guilt 
 Which could not weave themselves iu open day 
 Before his eyes. Oh, it was bitter wioug 
 To hold this knowledge locked within your mind. 
 To stand with waking eyes in broadest light. 
 And see me, dreamiug, shed my kindred's blood. 
 'Tis horrible that men with hearts and hands 
 Should smile in silence like the firmament 
 And see a fellow-mortal draw a lot 
 On M'hich themselves have written agony t 
 Such injury has no redress, no healing 
 Save what may lie in stemming further ill. 
 Poor balm for maiming! Yet I come to claim it. 
 
 Z.VUOA. 
 
 First prove your wrongs?, and I will hear your claim. 
 Mind, you are not commander of Bedmar, 
 Nor duke, nor knight, nor anything for me. 
 Save a sworn Gypsy, subject with my tribe. 
 Over whose deeds my will is absolute. 
 Yon chose that lot, and would have railed at me 
 Had I refused it you : I warned you first 
 What oaths you had to take . . . 
 Don Silva. 
 
 You never warned ma 
 That you had linked yourself with IMoorish men 
 To take this towfi and fortress of Bedmar — 
 Slay my near kinsman, him who held my place, 
 Our house's heir and guardian — slay my friend, 
 My chosen brother— desecrate the church 
 Where once my mother held me in her arms, 
 Making the holy chrism holier 
 With tears of joy that fell upon my brow! 
 You never warned . . . 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 I warned you of your oath. 
 You shrank not, were resolved, were sure your pl.ioe 
 
240 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Would never miss you, aucl you had your will. 
 I am CO priest, and keep no consciences: 
 I keep my own place and my own command. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 1 said ray place would never miss me— yes ! 
 A thousand Spaniards died on that same day 
 And were not missed ; their garments clothed the backs 
 That else were bare . . . 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 But you were just the one 
 Above the thousand, had you known the die 
 That fate was throwing then. 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 You knew it — yea I 
 With fiendish knowledge, smiling at the end. 
 You knew what snares had made my flying steps 
 Murderous ; you let me lock my soul with oaths 
 Which your acts made a hellish sacrament. 
 I say, you knew this as a tiend would know it, 
 And l«t me damn myself. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 The deed was done 
 Before you took your oath, or reached our camp,— 
 Done when you slipped in secret from the post 
 'Twas yours to keep, and not to meditate 
 If others might not fill it. For your oath, 
 What man is he who brandishes a sword 
 In darkness, kills his fiiends, and rages then 
 Against the night that kept him ignorant? 
 Should I, for one unstable Spaniard, quit 
 My steadfast ends as father and as chief; 
 Renounce my daughter and my people's hope. 
 Lest a deserter should be made ashamed? 
 
 Don Sit.vA. 
 
 Your daughter— O gieat God ! I vent but madness. 
 The past will never change. I come to stem 
 Harm that may yet be hindered. Chief— this stake- 
 Tell me who is to die ! Are you not bonnd 
 Yourself to him you took in fellowship? 
 The town is yours ; let me but save the blood 
 That still is warm in men who were my . . . 
 
 Zaeoa. 
 
 Peace ! 
 
 They bring the prisoner. 
 
 [Zarca waved his arm 
 With head averse, in peremptory sign 
 That 'twixt them now there should be space and silence. 
 Most eyes had tuined to where tlie prisoner 
 Advanced among his guards; and Silva too 
 Turned eagerly, all other striving quelled 
 By striving with the dread lest he should see 
 His thought outside him.. And he saw it there. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 241 
 
 The prisoner was Father Isidor : 
 
 The man whom ouce he fiercely had accused 
 
 As author of his misdeeds— whose designs 
 
 Had forced him into fatal secrecy. 
 
 The imperious and inexorable Will 
 
 Was yoked, and he who had been pitiless 
 
 To Silva's love, was led to pitiless death.' 
 
 O hateful victory of blind wishes — prayers 
 
 Which hell had overheard and swift fulfilled! 
 
 The triumph was a torture, turning all 
 
 The strength of passion into strength of pain. 
 
 Eeraorse was born within him, that dire birth 
 
 Which robs all else of nurture— cancerous, 
 
 Forcing each pulse to feed its anguish, turuiug 
 
 All sweetest residues of healthy life 
 
 To fibrous clutches of slow misery. 
 
 Silva had but rebelled— he was not free ; 
 
 And all the subtile cords that hound his soul 
 
 Were tightened by the strain of one rash leap 
 
 Made in defiance. He accused no more, 
 
 But dumbly shrflnk before accusing throngs 
 
 Of thoughts, the impetuous recurrent rush 
 
 Of all his past-created, unchanged self. 
 
 The Father came bareheaded, frocked, a rope 
 
 Around his neck, — but clad with majesty, 
 
 The strength of resolute undivided souls 
 
 Who, owning law, obey it. In his hand 
 
 He bore a crucifix, and praying, gazed 
 
 Solely on that white image. But his guards 
 
 Parted in front, and paused as they approached 
 
 The centre where the stake was. Isidor 
 
 Lifted his eyes to look around him — calm, 
 
 Prepared to speak last words of willingness 
 
 To meet his death— last words of faith unchanged, 
 
 That, working for Clirist's kingdom, he had wrought 
 
 Righteously. But his glance met Silva's eyes 
 
 And drew him. Eveu images of stone 
 
 Look living with reproach on him who maims, 
 
 Profanes, defiles them. Silva penitent 
 
 Moved forward, would have knelt before the mau 
 
 Who still was one with all the sacred things 
 
 That came back on him in their sacredness, 
 
 Kindred, and oaths, and awe, and mystery. 
 
 But at the sight, the Father thrust the cross 
 
 With deprecating act before him, and his face 
 
 Pale-quivering, flashed out horror like white light 
 
 Flashed from the angel's sword that dooming drave 
 
 The sinner to the wilderness. He spoke.] 
 
 Father Isidor. 
 
 Back from me, traitorous and accursed man! 
 
 Defile not me, who grasp the holie.<t. 
 
 With touch or breath! Thou foulest murderer 1 
 
 Fouler than Cain who struck his brother down 
 
 In jealous rage, thou for thy base delight 
 
 Hast oped the gate for wolves to come and tear 
 
 25* L* 
 
242 THE SPANISH GTPSr. 
 
 Uiiconuted brethren, weak and strong alike. 
 The helpless priest, the warrior all unarmed 
 Against a faithloss leader: on thy bead 
 Will rest the sacrilege, on ihy soul tlie blood. 
 These blind barbarians, misbelievers. Moors, 
 Are but as Pilate and his soldiery; 
 Thou, Judas, weighted with that heaviest criine 
 'Which deepens hell ! I warned yoi> of this end- 
 A traitorous leader, false to God and man, 
 A knight apostate, you shall soon behold 
 Above your people's blood the liglit of flames 
 Kindled by you to burn me— buru the flesh 
 Twin with your father's. O most wretched man J 
 Whose memory shall be of brokeu oaihs— 
 Broken for lust — I turn away nuine eyes 
 Forever from you. See, the stake is ready 
 And I am ready too. 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 It shall not be ! 
 ^Raising his sword, lie rushes in front of the fjuat-ds who are advaneintf, 
 and impedes them.) 
 If you are human. Chief, hear my demand ! 
 Stretch not my soul upon the endless rack 
 Of this man's torture I 
 
 Zauc.\, 
 Staud aside, my lord 5 
 Pat up your sword. You vowed obedience 
 To me, your chief. It was your latest vow. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 No ! hew me from the spot, or &stcn me 
 Amid the fagots too, if he must buru. 
 
 Zakc.v. 
 What should befall that persecuting monk 
 Was fixed before you came: no cruelly, 
 No nicely measured torture, weight for weight 
 Of injury, no luscious-toothed revenge 
 That justifies the injurer l)y its joy: 
 I seek but rescue and security 
 For harmless men, and such security 
 Means death to vipers and inquisitors- 
 These fagots shall but innocently blaze 
 In sign of gladness, when this man is dead. 
 That one more torturer has left the earth. 
 'Tis not for infidels to burn live men 
 And ape the rules of Christian piety. 
 This hard oppressor shall n(jt die by fire: 
 He mounts the gibbet, dies a speedy death, 
 That, like a transfixed dragon, he may cease 
 To vex mankind. Quick, guards, and clear the path I 
 
 [As well-trained hounds that hold their fleetuess tense 
 
 In watchful, loving fixity of dark eyes. 
 
 And move with movement of their master's will, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 243 
 
 The Gypsies with a wavelike swiftness met 
 Around the Father, and in wheeling course 
 Passed heyond Silva to the gibbet's foot, 
 Behind their chieftain. Sudden left alone 
 With weapon bare, the multitude aloof, 
 Silva was mazed in doubtful consciousness, 
 As one who slumbering in the day awakes 
 From striving into freedom, and yet feels 
 His sense half captive to intangible things; 
 Then with a flush of new decision sheathed 
 His futile naked weapon, and strode quick 
 To Zarca, speaking with a voice new-toned, 
 The struggling soul's hoarse, suffocated cry 
 Beneath the grappling anguish of despair.] 
 
 Don Su.va. 
 You, Zincalo, devil, blackest infidel I 
 You cannot hate that mau as yon hate me ! 
 Finish your torture — take me — lift me up 
 And let the crowd spit at me— every Moor 
 Shoot reeds at me, and kill me with slow death 
 Beneath the mid-day fervor of the sun— 
 Or crucify me with a thieving hound — 
 Slake your hate so, and I M'ill thank it: spare ms 
 Only this man ! 
 
 Zakoa. 
 Madman, I hate you not. 
 But if I did, my hate were poorly served 
 By my device, if I should strive to mix 
 A bitterer misery for you than to taste 
 With leisure of a soul in unharmed limbs 
 The flavor of your folly. For my course, 
 It has a goal, and takes no truant path 
 Because of you. I am your chief: to me 
 You're nought more than a Zincalo in revolt. 
 
 Don Sii.VA. 
 No, I'm no Zincalo ! I here disown 
 The name I took in maduess. Here I tear 
 This badge away. I am a Catholic knight, 
 A Spaniard who will die a Spaniard's death 1 
 
 [Hark ! while he casts the badge upon the ground 
 
 And tramples on it, Silva hears a shout: 
 
 Was it a shout that threatened him ? He looked 
 
 From out the dizzying flames of his own rage 
 
 In hope of adversaries — and he saw above 
 
 The form of Father Isidor upswung 
 
 Convulsed with martyr throes ; and Icnew the shont 
 
 For wonted exultation of the crowd 
 
 When malefactors die— or saints, or heroe?. 
 
 And now to him that white-frocked murdered form 
 
 Which hanging judged him as its murderer, 
 
 Turned to a symbol of his guilt, and stirred 
 
 Tremors till then unwaked. With sudden snatch 
 
 At something hidden in his breast, he strode 
 
 Bight upon Zarca : at the instant, down 
 
244 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Fell the great Chief, and Silva, staggering back, 
 Heard not the Gypsies' shriek, felt not tho fangs 
 Of their fierce grasp— heard, felt bnt Zarca's words 
 M'liich seemed his soul ontleaping in a cry 
 And urging men to run like rival waves 
 Whose chivalry is but obedience.] 
 
 Zaroa (as he falla). 
 My daughter! call her! Call my daughter! 
 
 Nadab (supportinrj Zakoa and crtjing to the Gi/psies who have clutched Silt a). 
 
 Stay ! 
 Tear not the Spaniard, tic him to the stake : 
 Hear what the Chief shall bid us— there is time ! 
 
 [Swiftly they tied him, i)leasing vengeance so 
 
 Witli promise that would leave them free to watch 
 
 Their stricken good, their Chief stretched helplessly 
 
 Pillowed upon the strength of loving limbs. 
 
 He heaved low groans, but would not spend his breath 
 
 In useless words : he waited till she came. 
 
 Keeping his life within the citadel 
 
 Of one great hope. And now around him closed 
 
 (But in wide circle, checked by loving fear) 
 
 His people all, holding their wails suppressed 
 
 Lest Death believed in should be over-bold : 
 
 All life hung ou their Chief— he would not die ; 
 
 His image gone, there were no wholeness left 
 
 To make a world of for the Zincali's thought. 
 
 Eager they stood, but hushed ; the onter crowd 
 
 Spoke only in low murmurs, and some climbed 
 
 And clung with legs and arms on perilous coigues, 
 
 Striving to see where that colossal life 
 
 Lay panting — lay a Titan struggling still 
 
 To hold and give the precious hidden fire 
 
 Before the stronger grappled him. Above 
 
 The young bright morning cast athwart white walls 
 
 Her shadows blue, and with their clear-cut line, 
 
 Mildly relentless as the dial-hand's, 
 
 Measured the shrinking future of an hour 
 
 Which held a shrinking hope. Aud all the while 
 
 The silent beat of time in each man's soul 
 
 Made aching pulses. 
 
 But the cry, " She comes !" 
 Parted the crowd like waters: and she came. 
 Swiftly as once before, inspired with joy. 
 She flashed across the space and made new light, 
 Glowing upon the glow of evening. 
 So swiftly now she came, inspired with woe. 
 Strong with the strength of all her father's pain, 
 Thrilling her as with fire of rage divine 
 And battling energy. She knew— saw all : 
 The stake with Silva bound — her father pierced— 
 To this she had been born : a second time 
 Her father called her to the task of life. 
 
 She knelt beside him. Then he raised himself, 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 245 
 
 And ou her face there flashed from his the light 
 
 As of a star that waned, but flames auew 
 
 In mighty dissolution : 'twas the flame 
 
 Of a surviving trust, in agony. 
 
 He spoke the parting prayer that was command, 
 
 Must sway her will, and reign invisibly.] 
 
 Z Alio A. 
 
 My daughter, you have promised— you will live 
 
 To save our people. In my garments here 
 
 I carry written pledges from the Moor: 
 
 He will keep faith in Spain and Africa. 
 
 Your weakness may be stronger than my strength, 
 
 Winning more love. ... I cannot tell the end. . . . 
 
 I held my people's good within my breast. 
 
 Behold, now 1 deliver it to yon. 
 
 See, it still breathes nnstraugled— if it dies, 
 
 Let not your ftiiling will be murderer. . . . 
 
 Rise, tell our people now I wait iu pain . . . 
 
 I cannot die until I hear them say 
 
 They will obey you. "^ 
 
 [Meek, she pressed her lips 
 With slow solemnity upon his brow, 
 Sealing her pledges. Firmly then she rose. 
 And met her people's eyes with kindred gaze, 
 Dark-flashing, flred by effort strenuous 
 Trampling on pain.] 
 
 Fkhai.ma. 
 
 Ye Zincali all, who hear I 
 Your Chief is dying: I his daughter live 
 To do his dying will. He asks you now 
 To promise me obedience as your Queen, 
 That we may seek the laud he won for us, 
 And live the better life for whicli he toiled. 
 Speak now, and till my father's dying ear 
 With promise that you will obey him dead, 
 Obeying me his child. 
 
 [Straightway arose 
 A shout of promise, sharpening into cries 
 That seemed to plead despairingly with death.] 
 
 The Zinoali. 
 We will obey ! Our Chief shall never die ! 
 We will obey him— will obey our Queen ! 
 
 [The shout unanimous, the concurrent rush 
 
 Of many voices, quiring shook the air 
 
 With multitudinous wave: now rose, now fell 
 
 Then rose again, the echoes following slow, 
 
 As if tiie scattered brethren of the tribe 
 
 Had caught afar and joined the ready vow. 
 
 Then some could hold no longer, hut must rush 
 
 To kiss his dying feet, and some to kiss 
 
 The hem of their Queen's garment. But she raised 
 
 Her hand to hush them. " Hark ! your Chief may speak 
 
 Another wish.'' Quickly she kneeled again, 
 
246 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 While they upon the ground kept motionless, 
 
 With head oiitstietched. They heard his words; for now. 
 
 Grasping at Nadar's arm, he spol^e more loud, 
 
 As one who, having fought and conquered, hurls 
 
 His strength away with hurling off his shield.] 
 
 Zakoa. 
 Let loose the Spaniard ! give him back his sword; 
 He cannot move to any vengeance more— 
 His soul is locked 'twixt two opposing crimes. 
 I charge you let him go nnharnicd and free 
 Now through your midst. . . . 
 
 [With that he sank again — 
 His breast heaved strongly tow'rd sharp sudden falls. 
 And all his life seemed needed for each breath: 
 Yet once he spoke.] 
 
 My daughter, lay your arm 
 Beneath my head . . . so . . . bend and breathe on me. 
 I cannot see you more . . . the Night is come. 
 Be strong . . . remember ... I can only . . . die. 
 
 [His voice went into silence, but his breast 
 
 Heaved long and moaned : its broad strength kept a life 
 
 That heard nought, saw nought, save what once had heeu. 
 
 And what might be in days and realms afar — 
 
 Which now in pale procession faded on 
 
 Toward the thick darkness. And she bent above 
 
 In sacramental watch to see great Death, 
 
 Companion of her future, who would wear 
 
 Forever in her eyes her father's form. 
 
 And yet she knew that hurrying feet had gone 
 
 Q'o do the Chiers behest, and in her soul 
 
 He who was once its lord was being jaried 
 
 With loosening of cords, that would not loose 
 
 The tightening torture of his anguish. This — 
 
 Oh, she knew it! — knew it as martyrs knew 
 
 The prongs that tore their flesh, while yet their tongues 
 
 llefused the ease of lies. In moments high 
 
 Space widens in the sonl. And so she knelt, 
 
 Clinging with piety and awed resolve 
 
 Beside this altar of her father's life, 
 
 Seeing long travel under solemn suns 
 
 Stretching beyond it; never turned her eyes. 
 
 Yet felt that Silva passed; beheld his face 
 
 Pale, vivid, all alone, imploring her 
 
 Across black waters fathomless. 
 
 And he passed. 
 The Gypsies made wide pathway, shrank ahiof 
 As those who fear to touch the thing they hate. 
 Lest hate triumphant, mastering all the limbs. 
 Should tear, bite, crush, in spite of hindering wilL 
 Slowly he walked, reluctant to be safe 
 And bear dishonored life which none assailed; 
 M^alked hesitatingly, all his frame instinct 
 With high-born spirit, never used to dread 
 Or crouch for smiles, yet stung, yet quivering 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 247 
 
 With helpless sttength, and in his soul convulsed 
 
 By visions where pale honor held a lamp 
 
 Over wide-reaching crime. Silence hung ronnd : 
 
 It seemed the Plaja hushed itself to hear 
 
 His footsteps and the Chiefs deep dying bieath- 
 
 Eyes quickened in the stillness, and the light 
 
 Seemed one clear gaze upon his misery. 
 
 And yet he could not pass her without pause: 
 
 One instant he must pause and look at her; 
 
 But with that glance at her averted head, 
 
 New-urged by pain he turned away and went, 
 
 Carrying forever with him what he fled — 
 
 Her murdered love— her love, a dear wronged ghont. 
 
 Facing him, beauteous, 'mid the throngs of hell. 
 
 O fallen and forsaken ! were no hearts 
 Amid that crowd, mindful of what had been? — 
 Hearts such as wait on beggared royalty, 
 Or silent watch by sinners who despair? 
 
 Silva had vanished. That dismissed revenge 
 Made larger room for sorrow in fierce hearts; 
 And sorrow filled them. For the Chief was dead. 
 The mighty breast subsided slow to calm, 
 Slow from the face the ethereal spirit wane-d. 
 As wanes the parting glory from the heights, 
 And leaves them in their pallid nnijesty. 
 Fedalma kissed the marble lips, and said, 
 "He breathes no more." And then a long loud wail. 
 Poured out upon the nKuning, made her light 
 Gliastly as smiles on some fair maniac's face 
 Smiling unconscious o'er her bridegroom's corse. 
 The wailing meu in eager press closed round, 
 And made a shadowing pall beneath the sun. 
 Tliey lifted reverent the prostrate strength, 
 Sceptred anew by death. Fedalma walked 
 Tearless, erect, following the dead — her cries 
 Deep smothering in her breast, as one who guides 
 Her children through the wilds, and sees and knows 
 Of danger more than they, and feels more i>angs, 
 Yet shrinks not, groans not, bearing in her heart 
 Their ignorant misery and their trust in her. 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 TuK eastward rocks of Almeria's bay 
 
 Answer long farewells of the travelling st>n 
 
 With softest glow as from an iuward pulse 
 
 Changing and flushing: all the Moorish ships 
 
 Seem conscious too, and shoot out sudden shadows ; 
 
 Their black hulls snatch a glory, and their sails 
 
 Show variegated radiance, gently stirred 
 
 Like broad wings poised. Two galleys moored apart 
 
 Show decks as busy as a home of ants 
 
 Storing new forage ; from their sides the boats. 
 
 Slowly pushed off", anon with flashing oar 
 
 Make transit to tlie quay's smooth-quarried edge, 
 
248 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Where thronging Gypsies are in haste to lade 
 
 Each as it comes with graiidames, babes, and wives, 
 
 Or with diist-tinted goods, the company 
 
 Of wandering years. Nonglit seems to lie unmoved, 
 
 For 'mid the throng the lights and shadows play, 
 
 And make all surface eager, while the boats 
 
 Sway restless as a horse that heard the shouts 
 
 And surging hum iucessaut. Naked limbs 
 
 With beauteous ease bend, lift, and throw, or raise 
 
 High signalling hands. The black-haired mother steps 
 
 Athwart the boat's edge, and with opened arms 
 
 A wandering Isis outcast from the gods. 
 
 Leans towards her lifted little one. The boat 
 
 Full-laden cuts the waves, and dirk-like cries 
 
 Eise and then fall within it as it moves 
 
 From high to lower and from bright to dark. 
 
 Hither and thither, grave white-turbanued Moors 
 
 Move helpfully, and some bring welcome gifts, 
 
 Bright stuffs and cutlery, and bags of seed, 
 
 To make new waving crops in Africa. 
 
 Others aloof with folded arms slow-eye^l 
 
 Survey man's labor, saying, "God is great;" 
 
 Or seek with question deep the Gypsies' root. 
 
 And whether their false faith, being small, will prove 
 
 Less damning than the copious false creeds 
 
 Of Jews and Christians; Moslem subtlety 
 
 Found balanced reasons, warranting suspense 
 
 As to whose hell was deepest — 'twas enough 
 
 Tliat there was room for all. Thus the sedate. 
 
 The younger heads were busy with the tale 
 
 Of that great Chief whose exploits helped the Moor. 
 
 And, talking still, they shouldered past their friends 
 
 Following some lure which held their distant gaze 
 
 To eastward of the quay, where yet remained 
 
 A low black tent close guarded all around 
 
 By well-armed Gypsies. Fronting it above, 
 
 Raised by stone-steps that sought a jutting strand, 
 
 Fedalma stood and marked with anxious watch 
 
 Each laden boat the remnant lessening 
 
 Of cargo on the shore, or traced the course 
 
 Of Nadar to and fro in hard command 
 
 Of noisy tumult ; imaging oft anew 
 
 How much of lal)or still deferred the hour 
 
 When they must lift the boat and bear away 
 
 Her father's coffin, and her feet must quit 
 
 This sliore forever. Motionless she stood, 
 
 Black-crowned with wreaths of many-shadowed hair; 
 
 Black-robed, but bearing wide upon her breast 
 
 Her father's golden necklace and his badge. 
 
 Her limbs were motionless, but in her eyes 
 
 And in her breathing lip's soft tremulous curve 
 
 Was intense motion as of prisoned tire 
 
 Escaping subtly in outleaping thought. 
 
 She watches anxiously, and yet she dreams: 
 The busy moments now expand, now shrink 
 To narrowing swarms within the refluent space 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 249 
 
 Of '.nangefiil caiisciousness. For in her thought 
 
 Aheady she has left the fadiug shore, 
 
 Sails with her people, seeks an iinlcnown laud, 
 
 And bears the burning length of weary days 
 
 That parching fall upon her father's hope, 
 
 AVhich she must plant and see it wither only — 
 
 Wither aud die. She saw the end begun. 
 
 The Gypsy hearts were not unfaithful : she 
 
 Was centre to the savage loyalty 
 
 Which vowed obedience to Zarca dead. 
 
 But soon their natures missed the constant stress 
 
 Of his command, that, while it tired, restraiued 
 
 By urgency supreme, aud left no play 
 
 To ficlile impulse scattering desire. 
 
 They loved tlielr Queen, trusted in Zarca's child. 
 
 Would bear lier o'er the desert on their arms 
 
 And think the weight a gladsome victory; 
 
 But that great force which knit them into one, 
 
 The invisible passion of her father's soul, 
 
 That wrought them visibly into its will. 
 
 And would have bound their lives with permanence, 
 
 Waa gone. Already Hassau and two bauds. 
 
 Drawn by fresh baits of gain, had newly sold 
 
 Their service to the Moors, despite her call, 
 
 Known as the echo of her father's will. 
 
 To all the tribe, that they should pass with her 
 
 Straightway to Telemsan. They were not moved 
 
 By worse rebellion than the wilful wish 
 
 To fashion their own service ; they still meant 
 
 To come when it should suit them. But she said, 
 
 This is the cloud no bigger than a hand, 
 
 Sure-threateniug. In a little while, the tribe 
 
 That was to be the ensign of the race, 
 
 Aud draw it into conscious union. 
 
 Itself would break in small and scattered bands 
 
 That, living on scant prey, wonld still disperse 
 
 Aud propagate forgetful n ess. Brief years, 
 
 Aud that great purpose fed with vital lire 
 
 That might have glowed for half a centur)', 
 
 Subduing, quickening, shaping, like a sun — 
 
 Would be a faint tradition, flickering low 
 
 In dying memories, fringing with dim light 
 
 The nearer dark. 
 
 Far, far the future stretched 
 Beyond that busy present on the quay, 
 Far her straight path beyond it. Yet she watched 
 To mark the growing hour, and yet in dream 
 Alternate she beheld auotlier track. 
 And felt Derself unseen pin-suing it 
 Close to a wanderer, who with haggard gaze 
 Looked out on loneliness. The backward years — 
 Oh, she would not forget them — would not drink 
 Of waters that brought rest, while he far oflf 
 Remembered. " Father, I renounced the joy ; 
 You must forgive the sorrow." 
 
 So she stood, 
 Her struggling life compressed into that hour. 
 
250 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Yeanling, resolving, conquering; tliougli slie seemed 
 
 Still as a tutelary image sent 
 
 To guard /ler people and to be the strength 
 
 Of some rock-citadel. 
 
 Below her sat 
 Slim mischievon.s Hiuda, happy, red-bedecked 
 With rows of berries, grinning, nodding oti, 
 And shaking high her small dark arm and hand 
 Eesponsive to the black-nianed Israaol, 
 Who held aloft his spoil, and clad in skins 
 Seemed the Boy-prophet of the wilderness 
 Escaped from tasks prophetic. But auon 
 Hinda would backward turn upon her knees, 
 And like a pretty loving hound would bend 
 To fondle her Qneen'.s leet, then lift her head 
 Hoping to feel the gently pressing palm 
 Which touched the deeper sense. Fedalma knew — 
 From out the blacli robe stretched her speaking hand 
 And shared the girl's content. 
 
 So the dire houre 
 Burdened with destiny — the death of hopes 
 Darkening long generations, or the birth , 
 
 Of thoughts undying— such liours sweep along 
 In their aerial ocean measureless 
 Myriads of little joys, that ripen sweet 
 And soothe the sorrowful sjjirit of tlie world. 
 Groaning and travailing with the painful birth 
 Of slow redemption. 
 
 But emerging now 
 From eastward fringing lines of idling mea 
 Quick Juan lightly sought the upward steps 
 Behind Fedalma, and two pares off, 
 With head uncovered, said in gentle tones, 
 "Lady Fedalma!" — (Juan's password now 
 U.-ed by no other), and Fedalma turned. 
 Knowing who songht her. lie advanced a step. 
 And meeting straight her large calm questioning gaze. 
 Warned her of some grave purport by a face 
 That told of trouble. Lower still he spoke. 
 
 JCAN. 
 
 Look from me, lady, towards a moving form 
 
 That quits the crowd and seeks the lonelier strand— 
 
 A tall and gray-clad pilgrim. . . . 
 
 [Solemnly 
 Ilis low tones fell on her, as if she passed 
 Into religious dimness among tombs. 
 And trod on names in everlasting rest. 
 Liugeringly she looked, and then with voice 
 Deep and yet soft, like notes from some long chord 
 Kesponsive to thrilled air, said — ] 
 
 Fk1)AI..M.\. 
 
 It is he ! 
 
 [Juan kept silence for a little sjjace. 
 
 With reverent caution, lest his lighter grief 
 
 Might seem a wanton touch npou her paiu. 
 
THE SPAKIFir GYPSY. 251 
 
 But time was nrgiiig him with visible flight, 
 Changing the shadows: he must utter all.] 
 
 Juan. 
 That man was young when last I pressed his hand- 
 In that dread moment when he left Bedmiir. 
 He has aged since : the week has made him gray. 
 And yet I knew him— knew the white-streaked hair 
 Before I saw his face, as I shonld know 
 The tear-dimmed writing of a friend. See now — 
 Does he not linger—pause? — perhaps expect . . . 
 
 [Juan pled timidly: Fedalma's eyes 
 
 Flashed; and through all her frame there ran the shock 
 
 Of some sharp- wotmding joy, like his who hastes 
 
 And dreads to come too late, and comes in time 
 
 To press a loved hand dying. She was mute 
 
 And made no gesture: all her being paused 
 
 In resolution, as some leonine wave 
 
 That makes a moment's silence ere it leaps.] 
 
 Juan. 
 He came from Carthageua, in a boat 
 Too slight for safety ; you small two-oared boat 
 Below the rock; the fisher-boy within 
 Awaits his signal. But the pilgrim waits. . • . 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 Yes, I will go !— Father, I owe him this, 
 For loving me made all his misery. 
 And we will look once more— will say farewell 
 As in a solemn rite to strengthen us 
 For our eternal parting. Juan, stay 
 Here in my place, to warn me, were there need. 
 And, Hinda, follow me 1 
 
 [All men who watched 
 Lost her regretfully, then drew content 
 From thought that she must quickly come again, 
 And filled the time with striving to be near. 
 She, down the steps, along the sandy brink 
 To where he stood, walked firm ; with quickened step 
 The moment when each felt the other saw. 
 lie moved at sight of her: their glances met; 
 It seemed they conld no more remain aloof 
 Than nearing waters hnrrying into one. 
 Yet their steps slackened and they paused apart. 
 Pressed backward by the force of memories 
 Which reigned supreme as death al)ove desire. 
 Two paces off they stood and silently 
 Looked at each other. Was it well to speak? 
 Could speech be clearer, stronger, tell them more 
 Than that long gaze of their renouncing love? 
 They passed from silence hardly knowing how ; 
 It seemed they heard each other's thought before.] 
 
 Don Silva. 
 I go to be absolved, to have my life 
 Washed into fitness for an offering 
 To injured Spain. But I have nought to give 
 
253 THE SPAmSH GYPSY. 
 
 For that last injury to her I loved 
 Better than I loved Spain. I am accurst 
 Above all sinners, being made the curse 
 Of her I sinned for. Pardon ? Penitence ? 
 When they have done their utmost, still beyond 
 Out of their reach stands Injury unchanged 
 And changeless. I should see it still in heaven- 
 Out of my reach, forever in my sight: 
 Wearing your grief, 'twould hide the smiling serapha 
 I bring no puling prayer, Fedalma — ask 
 No balm of pardon that may soothe my soul 
 For others' bleeding wounds : I am not come 
 To say, "Forgive me:" you must not forgive, 
 For you must see me ever as I arn— 
 Your father's. . . . 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Speak it not ! Calamity 
 Comes like a deluge and o'erfloods our crimes, 
 Till sin is hidden in woe. You — I — we two, 
 Grasping we knew not what, that seemed delight, 
 Opened the sluices of that deep. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 We two?— 
 Fedalma, you were blameless, helpless. 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No! 
 It shall not be that you did aught alone. 
 For when we loved I willed to reign in yon, 
 And I was jealous even of the day 
 If it could gladden you apart from me. 
 And so, it must be that I shared each deed 
 Our love was root of. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Dear ! you share the woe — 
 Nay, the worst dart of vengeance fell on you. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 Vengeance! She does but sweep ns with her skirts- 
 She takes large space, and lies a baleful light 
 Revolving with long years — sees children's children. 
 Blights them in their prime. . . . Oh, if two lovers leanptt 
 To breathe one air and spread a pestilence, 
 They would but lie two livid victims dead 
 Amid the city of the dying. We 
 With our poor petty lives have strangled one 
 That ages watch for vainly. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Deep despair 
 Fills all your tones as with slow agony. 
 Speak words that narrow anguish to some shapes 
 Tell me what dread is close before you? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 None. 
 No dread, but clear assurance of the end. 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSY. 253 
 
 My fathe;- held within his mighty frame 
 A people's life: great futures died with him 
 Never to rise, uutil the time shall ripe 
 Some other hero with the will to save 
 The outcast Ziucali. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 And yet they shout — 
 I heard it— sounded as the plenteous rush 
 Of full-fed sources, shaking their wild souls 
 With power that promised sway. 
 
 Fbdalma. 
 
 Ah yes, that shout 
 Came from full hearts : they meant obedience. 
 But they are orphaned: their poor childish feet 
 Are viigabond in spite of love, and stray 
 Forgetful after little lures. For me — 
 I am but as a funeral uru that bears 
 The ashes of a leader. 
 
 Don Sii.vA. 
 
 O great God! 
 What am I but a miserable brand 
 Lit by mysterious wrath? I lie cast down 
 A blackened branch upon the desolate ground 
 Where once I kindled ruiu. I shall drink 
 Ko cup of purest water but will taste 
 Bitter with thy lone hopelessness, Fedalma. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, Silva, think of me as one who sees 
 
 A light serene and strong on one sole path 
 
 Which she will tread till death ... 
 
 He trusted me, and I will keep his trust : 
 
 My life shall be its temple. I will plant 
 
 His sacred hope within the sanctuary 
 
 And die its priestess— though I die alone, 
 
 A hoary woman on the altar-step, 
 
 Cold 'mid cold ashes. That is my chief good. 
 
 The deei'iest hunser of a faithful heart 
 
 Is faithfulness. Wish me nought else. And you-=» 
 
 You too will live. . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I go to Rome to seek 
 The right to use my knightly sword again; 
 The riglit to fill my plnce and live or die 
 So that all Spaniards shall not curse my nam.T. 
 I sate one hour upon the barren rock 
 And longed to kill myself; but then I said, 
 I will not leave my name in infamy, 
 I will not be perpetual rottenness 
 Upon the Spaniard's air. If I must sink 
 At last to hell, I will not take my stand 
 Among the coward crew who could not bear 
 The harm themselves had done, which others bor«. 
 
25i THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 My young life yet mny fill some fatal breach, 
 
 And 1 will take no pardon, not my own, 
 
 Not God's — no pardon idly on my knees : 
 
 But it shall come to me npon my feet 
 
 And in the thick of aclion, and each deed 
 
 That can-ied shame and wrong shall be the stiug 
 
 That drives me liigher up the steep of honor 
 
 In deeds of duteous cervice to that Spain 
 
 Who nourished me ou her expectant breast, 
 
 The lieir of tiigliest gifts. I will not fling 
 
 My earthly being down for carrion 
 
 To fill the air with loathing: I will be 
 
 The living prey of some fierce uoble death 
 
 That leaps upon me while I move. Aloud 
 
 I said, "I will redeem my name," and then — 
 
 I know not if aloud : I felt the words 
 
 Drinking up all my senses — "She still lives. 
 
 I would not quit the dear familiar earth 
 
 Where both of us behold the self-same sun. 
 
 Where there can be no strangeness 'twixt our thoughts 
 
 So deep as their communion." Resolute 
 
 I rose and walked. — Fedalma, think of me 
 
 As one who will regain the only life 
 
 Where he is other than apostate— one 
 
 Who seeks but to renew and keep the vows 
 
 Of Spanish knight and noble. Cut the breach 
 
 Outside those vows— the fatal second breach^ 
 
 Lies a dark gulf where I have nought to cast. 
 
 Not even expiation — poor pretence. 
 
 Which changes nought but what survives the past, 
 
 And raises not the dead. That deep dark gulf 
 
 Divides us. 
 
 Fedai-.ma. 
 Yes, forever. We must walk 
 Apart nuto the end. Our marriage rite 
 Is our resolve that we will each be true 
 To high allegiance, higher than our love. 
 Our dear young love — its breath was happiness I 
 But it had grown upon a larger life 
 Which tore its roots asunder. We rebelled — 
 The larger life subdued us. Yet we are wed; 
 For we shall carry each the pressure deep 
 Of the other's soul. I soon shall leave the shore. 
 The winds to-night will bear me far away. 
 My lord, farewell ! 
 
 He did not say "Farewell." 
 But neither knew that he was silent. She, 
 For one long moment, moved not. They knew noughS 
 Save that they parted ; for their mutual gaze 
 As with their souls' full speech forbade their hands 
 To seek each other— those ofi-clasping hands 
 Which had a memory of their own, and went 
 Widowed of one dear touch for evermore. 
 At last she turned and with swift movement passed, 
 Beckoning to Hiuda, who was bending low 
 And lingered still to wash her shells, but boou 
 
THE SPANISH GYPSr. 255 
 
 Leaping and sc;impeiing followed, while her Que«u 
 Mounted the steps :ig!\in and toolc hef place, 
 Which Juau leudeied silently. 
 
 And now 
 The press upon tlie quay was thinned; the ground 
 Was cleared of cumbering heaps, the eager shouts 
 Had suuk, and left a, murmur more restrained 
 By common purpose. All the men ashore 
 Were gathering into ordered companies, 
 And with less clamor tilled the waiting boats. 
 As if the speaking light commanded them 
 To quiet speed: for now the farewell glow 
 Was on the topmost heights, and where far ships 
 Were southward tending, tranquil, slow, and white 
 Upon the luminous meadow toward the verge. 
 The quay was in still shadow, and the boats 
 Went sombrely upon the sombre waves. 
 Fedalraa watched again; but now her gaze 
 Takes in the eastward bay, where that small bark 
 Which held the fisher-boy floats weightier 
 With one more life, that rests upon the oar 
 Watching with her. He would not go away 
 Till she was gone ; he would not turn his fac<» 
 Away from her at parting: but the sea 
 Should wideu slowly 'twixt their seeking eyes. 
 
 The time was coming. Nadar had ai)proached. 
 
 Was the Queen ready? Would she follow uow 
 
 Her father's body ? For the largest boat 
 
 Was waiting at the quay, the last strong band 
 
 Of Zincali had ranged themselves in lines 
 
 To guard her passage and to follow her. 
 
 " Yes, I am ready;" and with action prompt 
 
 They cast aside the Gypsy's wandering tomb. 
 
 And fenced the space from curious Moors who pressed 
 
 To see Chief Zarca's cofiin as it lay. 
 
 They raised it slowly, holding it aloft 
 
 Ou shoulders proud to bear the heavy load. 
 
 Bound on the coflin lay the chieftain's arms, 
 
 His Gypsy garments and his coat of mail. 
 
 Fedalma saw the burden lifted high. 
 
 And then descending followed. All was still. 
 
 The Moors aloof could hear the struggling steps 
 
 Beneath the lowered burden at the boat — 
 
 The struggling calls subdued, till safe leleased 
 
 It lay witliin, the space around it filled 
 
 By black-haired Gypsies. Then Fedalma stepped 
 
 From oft' the shore and saw it flee away — 
 
 The land that bred lier helping the resolve 
 
 Which exiled her forever. 
 
 It was night 
 Before the ships weighed anchor and gave sail: 
 Fresh Night emergent in her clearness, lit 
 By the large crescent moon, with Hesperus, 
 And those great stars that lead the eager host. 
 Fedalma stood and watched the little bark 
 Lying jet-black upon moon-whitened waves. 
 
256 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Silva was t^taiidiiif,' too. He too divined 
 A stendfiist form tbat Ueld him with its thought, 
 And eyes that souglit him vanishing: he saw 
 The waters widen slowly, till at last 
 Straining he gazed, and knew not if he gazed 
 On aught but blackness overhung by stars. 
 
NOTES TO "THE SPANISH GYPSY." 
 
 p. 122. Coc^MS. 
 
 The ludian fig (Opuntia), like the other Cactacece, is believed to have been in- 
 troduced into Europe from South America ; but every one who has been in the 
 south of Spain will understand why the anachronism has been chosen. 
 
 P. 182. Marranos. 
 
 The name given by the Spanish Jews to the multitudes of their race converted 
 to Christianity at the end of the fourteenth century and beginning of the fifteenth. 
 The lofty derivation from Maran-atha, the Lord cometb, seems hardly called for, 
 seeing that marraiio is Spanish for pig. The " old Christians " learned to use the 
 word as a term of contempt for the " new Christians," or converted Jews and their 
 descendants ; but not too monotonously, for they often interchanged it with the 
 fine old crusted opprobrium of the name Jew. Still, many Marranos held the high- 
 est secular and ecclesiastical prizes in Spain, and were respected accordingly. 
 
 P. 193. Celestial Baron. 
 
 The Spaniards conceived their patron Santiago (St. James), the great captain of 
 their armies, as a knight and baron: to them, the incongruity would have lain in 
 conceiving him simply as a Galilean fisherman. And their legend was adopted 
 with respect by devout mediieval minds generally. Dante, in an elevated passage 
 of the Paradise— the memorable opening of Canto xxv. — chooses to introduce the 
 Apostle James as il barone. 
 
 " Indi si mosse un lume verso noi 
 Di quella schiera, ond 'usci la primizia 
 Che lascio Cristo de' vicari suoi. 
 E la mia Donna plena de letizia 
 Mi disse : Mira, mira, ecco 1 barone 
 Per cui laggiu si visita Galizia." 
 
 P. 194. The Seven Parts. 
 
 Las Siele Partidas (The Seven Parts) is the title given to the code of laws com= 
 piled under Alfonso the Tenth, who reigned in the latter half of the thirteenth 
 century — 1252-12S4. The passage in t'ne text is translated from Partida IL , Ley II. 
 The whole preamble is worth citing in its old Spanish : 
 
 " Covio deben ser escogidos los caballeros." 
 
 '' Autiguamiente para facer caballeros escogien de los venadoies de moute, que 
 
 26 M 
 
258 KOTES TO "THE SPANISH GYPSY." 
 
 eon homes que snfren grande laceria, et carpinteros, et fcrreros, et pedreros, porqne 
 Hsan mucho a ferir et sou fuerte de manos ; et otrosi de los carnicems, per razou 
 que usau matar >as cosas vivas et esparcei- la saiigre dellas; et aun catabau otra 
 cosa eu escogieudolos que fueseu bien faccionadas de menibros para ser recios, et 
 fuertes et ligeios. Et esta manera de escoger usarou los autiguos muy grant ti- 
 empo; mas porquc despues vieron muchas vegadas que estos atales uon habieudo 
 vergiienza olvidaban todas estas cosas sobredichas, et en logar de viucer sus ene- 
 niigos venciense ellos, tovieron por bien los sabidores destas cosas que cataseu 
 homes para esto que hobiesen uaturalmiente eu si vergiienza. Et sobresto dixo 
 u'j sabio que hai)ie uombre Vf.oeoio que fablo de la orden de caballeria, que la ver- 
 giienza vierta al caballero que nou fuya de la batalla, et por ende ella le face ser 
 veucedor ; ca mucho tovieron que era mejor el homo flaco et sofridor, que el fuerte 
 et ligero para foir. Et por esto sobre todas las otras cosas cataron que fueseu 
 homes porqne se guardasen de facer cosa por que podiesen caer en vergiieuza ; et 
 porque estos fueron escogidos de buenos logares et algo, que quiere tauto decir eu 
 leugnage de Espaiia como bien, por eso los llamaron fljosdalgo, que muestra atanto 
 como fljos de bien. Et eu alguuos otros logares los llamaron gentiles, et tomarou 
 este nombre de gentileza que muestra atanto como nobleza de bondat, porque los 
 gentiles fuerou nobles homes et buenos, et vevieron mas ordenadameute que las 
 otras gentes. Et esta gentileza avieue en ties maueras ; la una por linage, la se- 
 gunda por saber, et la tercera por bondat de armas et de costumbres et de ma- 
 ueras. Et comoquier que estos que la gauau por sn sabidoria 6 por su bondat, sou 
 con derecho llamados nobles et gentiles, mayormieute lo sou aquellos que la hau 
 por linage autignamieute, et facen bueua vida porque les viene de luene como por 
 heredat ; et por ende son mas encargados de facer bien et gnardarse de yerro et de 
 malestanza; ca uon tan solamiente quando lo facen resciben daflo et vergiiauza 
 ellos mismos, ma auu aquellos onde ellos vienen." 
 
BROTHER JACOB 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 " Trompeurs, c'est pour vous que j'ecris, attendez-vous a la pareille." 
 
 La Fontaine. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 Amcng the many fatalities attending the blootn of 
 young desire, that of blindly taking to the confec- 
 tionery line has not, perhaps, been sufficiently consid- 
 ered. How is the son of a British yeoman, who has 
 been fed principally on salt pork and yeast dumplings, 
 to know that there is satiety for the human stomach 
 even in a paradise of glass jars full of sugared almonds 
 and pink lozenges, and that the tedium of life can 
 reach a pitch where plum -buns at discretion cease to 
 offer the slightest enticement ? Or how, at the tender 
 age when a confectioner seems to him a very prince 
 whom all the world nmst envy — who breakfasts on 
 macaroons, dines on meringues, sups on twelfth-cake, and 
 fills up the intermediate hours with sugar -candy or 
 peppermint — how is he to foresee the day of sad wis- 
 dom, when he will discern that the confectioner's call- 
 ing is not socially intluential or favorable to a soaring 
 ambition ? I have known a man who turned out to 
 have a metaphysical genius, incautiously, in the period 
 of youthful buoyancy, commence his career as a dan- 
 cing master ; and you may imagine the use that was 
 made of this initial mistake by opponents who felt 
 
202 BKOTHER JACOB. 
 
 tlioiiiselves bound to warn the public against his doc- 
 trine of the Inconceivable. He couldn't give i.p his 
 dancing lessons, because he made his bread by them, 
 and metaphysics would not have found hiin in so much 
 as salt to his bread. It was nearly tlie same with 
 Mr. David Faux and the confectionery business. His 
 uncle, tlie butler at the great house close by Brigford, 
 had made a pet of him in his early boyhood, and it was 
 on a visit to this uncle that the confectioners' shops ih 
 that brilliant town had, on a single day, fired his tender 
 imagination. He carried home the pleasing illusion that 
 a confectioner must be at once the happiest and the 
 foremost of men, since the things he made were not 
 only the most beautiful to behold, but the very best 
 eating, and such as the Lord Mayor must always order 
 largely for his private recreation ; so that when his 
 father declared he must be put to a trade, David chose 
 his line without a moment's hesitation, and, with a rash- 
 ness inspired by a sweet tooth, wedded himself irrevo- 
 cably to confectionery. Soon, however, the tooth lost 
 its relish and fell into blank indifference, and all the 
 while his mind expanded, his ambition took new shapes, 
 which could hardly be satisfied within the sphere his 
 youthful ardor had chosen. But what was he to do ? 
 He was a young man of much mental activity, and, 
 above all, gifted with a spirit of contrivance ; but then 
 his faculties would not tell with great effect in any oth- 
 er medium than that of candied sugars, conserves, and 
 pastry. Say what you will about the identity of the 
 reasoning process in all branches of thought, or about 
 the advantage of coming to subjects with a fresh mind, 
 the adjustment of butter to flour, and of heat to pas- 
 
BROTHER JACOB, 263 
 
 try, is not the best preparation for the office of Prime- 
 minister; besides, in the present imperfectly organized 
 state of society there are social barriers. David could 
 invent delightful things in the way of drop-cakes, and 
 he had the widest views of the " rock" department ; but 
 in other directions he certainly felt hampered by the 
 want of knowledge and practical skill ; and the world 
 is so inconveniently constituted, that the vague con- 
 sciousness of being a fine fellow is no guarantee of suc- 
 cess in any line of business. 
 
 This difficulty pressed with some severity on Mr. 
 David Faux even before his apprenticeship was ended. 
 His soul swelled with an impatient sense that he ought 
 to become something very remarkable — that it M'as 
 quite out of the question for him to put up with a nar- 
 row lot as other men did : he scorned the idea that he 
 could accept an average. He was sure there was noth- 
 ing average about him : even such a person as Mrs. 
 Tibbits, the washer-woman, perceived it, and probably 
 had a preference for his linen. At that particular peri- 
 od he was weighing out gingerbread-nuts ; but such an 
 anomaly could not continue. No position could be 
 suited to Mr. David Faux that was not in the highest 
 degree easy to the flesh and flattering to the spirit. If 
 he had fallen on the present times, and enjoyed the ad- 
 vantages of a Mechanics' Institute, he would certainly 
 have taken to literature and have written reviews; but 
 his education had not been liberal. He had read some 
 novels from the adjoining circulating library, and had 
 even bought the story of "Inkle and Yarico," which 
 had made him feel very sorry for poor Mr. Inkle, so 
 that his ideas mio:ht not have been below the mark of 
 
204 BROTJIEK JACOB. 
 
 the literary calling; but his spelling and diction were 
 too unconventional. 
 
 When a man is not adequately appreciated or com- 
 fortably placed in his own country, his thoughts natu- 
 rally turn towards foreign climes ; and David's imagi- 
 nation circled round and round the utmost limits of his 
 geographical knowledge in search of a country where 
 a young gentleman of pasty visage, lipless mouth, and 
 stumpy hair, M'ould be likely to be received with the 
 hospitable enthusiasm which he had a right to expect. 
 Having a general idea of America as a country where 
 the population was chiefly black, it appeared to him the 
 most propitious destination for an emigrant who, to 
 begin with, had the broad and easily recognizable merit 
 of whiteness; and this idea gradually took such strong 
 possession of him that Satan seized the opportunity of 
 suggesting to him that he might emigrate under easier 
 circumstances if he supplied himself with a little money 
 from liis master's till. But that evil spirit, whose un- 
 derstanding, I am convinced, has been much overrated, 
 quite wasted his time on this occasion. David would 
 certainly have liked well to have some of his master's 
 money in his pocket, if he had been sure his master 
 would have been the only man to suffer for it ; but he 
 was a cautious youth, and quite determined to run no 
 risks on his own account. So he stayed out his appren- 
 ticeship, and committed no act of dishonesty that was 
 at all likely to be discovered, reserving his plan of emi- 
 gration for a future opportunity. And the circum- 
 stances under which he carried it out were in this wise. 
 Having been at home a week or two partaking of the 
 f;imi1v l)cans, he had used his leisure in ascertaining a 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 265 
 
 fact which was of considerable importance to liim,tianie- 
 ] J, that his niotlier had a small sum in guineas painfully 
 saved from her maiden perquisites, and kept in the cor- 
 ner of a drawer where her baby linen had reposed for 
 tlie last twenty years — ever since her son David had 
 taken to his feet, with a slight promise of bow-legs, 
 which had not been altogether unfulfilled. Mr. Faux, 
 senior, had told his son very frankly that he must not 
 look to being set up in business by him: with seven 
 sons, and one of them a very healthy and well-devel- 
 oped idiot, who consumed a dumpling about eight inches 
 in diameter every day, it was pretty well if they got a 
 hundred apiece at his death. Under these circumstances 
 what was David to do ? It was certainly hard that he 
 should take his mother's money ; but he saw no other 
 ready means of getting any, and it was not to be ex- 
 pected that a young man of his merit should put up 
 with inconveniences that could be avoided. Besides, it 
 is not robbery to take property belonging to your moth- 
 er ; she doesn't prosecute you. And David was very 
 well behaved to his mother; he comforted her by speak- 
 ing highly of himself to her, and assuring her that he 
 never fell into the vices he saw practised by other 
 youths of his own age, and that he was particularly 
 fond of honesty. If his mother would have given him 
 her twenty guineas as a reward of this noble disposition 
 he really would not have stolen them from her, and it 
 would have been more agreeable to his feelings. Nev- 
 ertheless, to an active mind like David's, ingenuity is 
 not without its pleasures. It was ratiier an interesting 
 occupation to become stealthily acquainted with the 
 wards of his mother's simple key (not in the least like 
 
26G BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 Clinbb's patent), and to get one that M'ould do its work 
 equally well, and also to arrange a little drama by which 
 he would escape suspicion, and run no risk of forfeiting 
 the prospective hundred at his father's death, which 
 would be convenient in the improbable case of his not 
 making a large fortune in the "Indies." 
 
 First, he spoke freely of his intention to start shortly 
 for Liverpool, and take ship for America: a resolution 
 which cost his good mother some pain, for, after Jacob 
 the idiot, there was not one of her sons to whom her 
 heart clung more than to her yonngest-born, David. 
 JN^ext, it appeared to him that Sunday afternoon, when 
 everybody was gone to church, except Jacob and the 
 cow-boy, was so singularly favorable an opportunity for 
 sons who wanted to appropriate their mother's guineas, 
 that he half thought it must have been kindly intended 
 by Providence for such purposes. Especially the third 
 Sunday in Lent, because Jacob had been out on one of 
 liis occasional wanderings for the last two days; and 
 David, being a timid young man, had a considerable 
 dread and hatred of Jacob, as of a large personage who 
 went about habitually with a pitchfork in his hand. 
 
 Kothing could be easier, then, than for David on this 
 Sunday afternoon to decline going to church on the 
 ground that he was going to tea at Mr. Lunn's, whose 
 pretty daughter Sally had been an early flame of his, 
 and, when the church-goers were at a safe distance, to 
 abstract the guineas from their wooden box and slip 
 them into a small canvas bag — nothing easier than to 
 call to the cow-boy that he was going, and tell him to 
 keep an eye on the house for fear of Sunday tramps. 
 David thought it would be easy, too, to get to a small 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 267 
 
 thicket, and bury his bag in a hole he had ah*eady made 
 and covered up under the roots of an old hollow ash ; 
 and he had, in fact, found the hole without a moment's 
 difficulty, had uncovered it, and was about gently to drop 
 the bag into it, when the sound of a large body rustling 
 towards him with something like a bellow was such a 
 surprise to David, who, as a gentleman gifted with much 
 contrivance, was naturally only prepared for what lie 
 expected, that instead of dropping the bag gently, he 
 let it fall so as to make it untwist and vomit forth the 
 shining guineas. In the same moment he looked up 
 and saw his dear brother Jacob close upon him, holding 
 the pitchfork so that the bright smooth prongs were a 
 yard in advance of his own body, and about a foot off 
 David's. (A learned friend, to whom I once narrated this 
 history, observed that it was David's guilt which made 
 these prongs formidable, and that the mens nil conscia 
 sibi strips a pitchfork of all terrors. I thought this idea 
 so valuable that I obtained his leave to use it, on con- 
 dition of suppressing his name.) Nevertheless, David 
 did not entirely lose his presence of mind; for in that 
 case he would have sunk on the earth or started back- 
 ward ; whereas he kept his ground and smiled at Jacob, 
 who nodded his head up and down and said, " Hoich, 
 Zavy !" in a painfully equivocal manner. David's heart 
 was beating audibly, and if he had had any lips they 
 would have been pale ; but his mental activity, instead 
 of being paralyzed, was stimulated ; while he was in- 
 wardly praying (he always prayed when he was much 
 frightened) — " Oh, save me this once, and I'll never get 
 into danger again!" — he was thrusting his hand into his 
 pocket in search of a box of yellow lozenges, which he 
 
2G8 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 had brouglit with liiin from Bi-igford among other deli- 
 cacies of the same portable kind, as a means of concili- 
 ating proud beauty, and more particularly the beauty of 
 Miss Sarah Lunn. Not one of these delicacies had he 
 ever offered to poor Jacob, for David was not a young 
 man to waste his jujubes and barley -sugar in giving 
 pleasure to people from whom he expected nothing. 
 iJiit an idiot with equivocal intentions and a pitchfork 
 is as well worth flattering and cajoling as if he were 
 Louis Napoleon. So David, with a promptitude equal 
 to the occasion, drew out his box of j^ellow lozenges, 
 lifted the lid, and performed a pantomime with his 
 mouth and fingei's which was meant to imply that he 
 was delighted to see his dear brother Jacob, and seized 
 the opportunity of making him a small present which 
 he would find particularly agreeable to the taste. Jacob, 
 you understand, was not an intense idiot, bnt within a 
 certain limited range knew how to choose the good 
 and reject the evil. He took one lozenge, by wa_y of 
 test, and sucked it as if he had been a philosopher; then 
 in as great an ecstasy at its new and complex savor as 
 Caliban at the taste of Trinculo's Avine, chuckled and 
 stroked this suddenly beneficent brother, and held out 
 his hand for more; for, except in fits of anger, Jacob 
 was not ferocious or needlessly predatory. David's 
 courage half returned, and he left off praying; pouring 
 a dozen lozenges into Jacob's palm, and trying to look 
 very fond of him. He congratulated himself that he 
 had formed the plan of going to see Miss Sally Lunn 
 this afternoon, and that, as a consequence, he had brought 
 with him these propitiatory delicacies. He was certain- 
 ly a lucky fellow; indeed it was always likely Provi- 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 269 
 
 dence shonld be fonder of liini than of other apprentices, 
 and since he ^vas to be interrupted, why, an idiot was 
 preferable to any other sort of witness. For the first 
 time in his life David thought he saw the advantage of 
 idiots. 
 
 As for Jacob, he had thrust his pitchfork into the 
 ground, and had thrown himself down beside it, in thor- 
 ough abandonment to the unprecedented pleasure of 
 having five lozenges in his mouth at once, blinking 
 meanwhile, and making inarticulate sounds of gustative 
 content. He had not yet given any sign of noticing 
 the guineas, but in seating himself he had laid his broad 
 right hand on them, and unconsciously kept it in that 
 position, absorbed in the sensations of his palate. If he 
 could only be kept so occupied wnth the lozenges as not 
 to see the guineas before David could manage to cover 
 them ! That was David's best hope of safety, for Jacob 
 knew his mother's guineas; it had been part of their 
 common experience as boys to be allowed to look at 
 these handsome coins, and rattle them in their box on 
 high days and holidays, and aniong all Jacob's narrow 
 experiences as to money, tliis__,was likely to be the most 
 memorable. 
 
 " Here, Jacob," said David, in an insinuating tone, 
 handing the box to him, " I'll give 'em all to you. Run ! 
 — make haste ! — else somebody '11 come and take 'em." 
 
 David, not having studied the psychology of idiots, 
 was not aware that they are not to be wrought upon by 
 imaginative fears. Jacob took the box with his left 
 hand, but saw no necessity for running away. AVas 
 ever a promising young man, wishing to lay the foun- 
 dation of his fortune by appropriating his mother's 
 
270 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 guineas, obstructed by such a day-mare as this ? But 
 the moment must come when Jacob would move his 
 right hand to draw off the lid of the tin box, and then 
 David would sweep the guineas into the hole with the 
 utmost address and swiftness, and immediately seat him- 
 self upon them. Ah, no ! It's of no use to have fore- 
 sight when you are dealing with an idiot ; he is not to 
 be calculated upon. Jacob's right hand was given to 
 vague clutching and throwing; it suddenly clutched the 
 guineas as if they had been so many pebbles, and was 
 raised in an attitude which promised to scatter them 
 like seed over a distant bramble, when, from some 
 prompting or other ^ — probably of an unwonted sensa- 
 tion — it paused, descended to Jacob's knee, and opened 
 slowly under the inspection of Jacob's dull eyes. David 
 began to pray again, but immediately desisted — another 
 resource having occurred to him. 
 
 "Mother! zinnies!" exclaimed the innocent Jacob. 
 Then, looking at David, he said, interrogatively, " Box V 
 
 "Hush! hush!" said David, summoning all his in- 
 genuity in this severe strait. "See, Jacob!" He took 
 the tin box from his brother's hand, and emptied it of 
 the lozenges, returning half of them to Jacob, but se- 
 cretly keeping the rest in his own hand. Then he held 
 out the empty box, and said, " Here's the box, Jacob — 
 the box for the guineas," gently sweeping them from 
 Jacob's palm into the box. 
 
 This procedure was not objectionable to Jacob ; on 
 the contrar}'^, the guineas clinked so pleasantly as they 
 fell that he wished for a repetition of the sound, and 
 snatching the box, began to rattle it very gleefully. 
 David, seizing the opportunity, deposited his reserve of 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 271 
 
 lozenges in the ground and hastily swept some earth 
 over them. " Look, Jacob," he said at last. Jacob 
 paused from his clinking and looked into the hole, 
 while David began to scratch away the earth, as if in 
 doubtful expectation. When the lozenges were laid 
 bare, he took them out one by one, and gave them to 
 Jacob. 
 
 " Hush !" he said, in a loud whisper ; " tell nobody 
 — all for Jacob — hush-sh-sh ! Put guineas in the 
 hole — they'll come out like this." To make the lesson 
 more complete, he took a guinea, and lowering it into 
 the hole, said, " Put in soJ' Then, as he took the last 
 lozenge out, he said, "Come out sc," and put the loz- 
 enge into Jacob's hospitable mouth. 
 
 Jacob turned his head on one side, looked first at his 
 brother and then at the liole, like a reflective monkey, 
 and finally laid the box of guineas in the hole with 
 much decision. David made haste to add every one of 
 the stray coins, put on the lid, and covered it well with 
 earth, saying, in his most coaxing tone, 
 
 "Take 'm out to-morrow, Jacob; all for Jacob! 
 Hush-sh-sh !" 
 
 Jacob, to whom this once indifferent brother had all 
 at once become a sort of sweet-tasted Fetich, stroked 
 David's best coat with his adhesive fingers, and then 
 hugged him with an accompaniment of that mingled 
 chuckling and gurgling by whicli he was accustomed 
 to express the milder passions. But if he had chosen 
 to bite a small morsel out of his beneficent brother's 
 cheek, David would have been obliged to bear it. 
 
 And here I must pause to point out to you the short- 
 sifirhtedness of human contrivance. This ino^enious 
 
272 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 young man, Mi'. David Faux, thought lie had achieved 
 a triumph of cunning when he had associated himself 
 in his brother's rudimentary mind >4'ith the flavor of 
 yellow lozenges. But he had yet to learn that it is a 
 dreadful thing to make an idiot fond of you, when yon 
 yonrself are not of an affectionate disposition ; espe- 
 cially an idiot with a pitchfork — obviously a difficult 
 friend to shake off by rough usage. 
 
 It may seem to you rather a blundering contrivance 
 for a clever young man to bury the guineas. But if 
 everything had turned out as David had calculated, 
 you would have seen that his plan was worthy of his 
 talents. The guineas would have lain safely in the 
 earth while the theft was discovered, and David, with 
 the calm of conscious innocence, would have lingered 
 at home, reluctant to say good-bj^e to his dear mother 
 while she was in grief about her guineas ; till, at 
 length, on the eve of his departure, he would have dis- 
 interred them in the strictest privac}', and carried them 
 on his own person without inconvenience. But David, 
 you perceive, had reckoned without his host, or, to 
 speak more precisel}', without his idiot brother — an 
 item of so uncertain and fluctuating a character that I 
 doubt whether he would not have puzzled the astute 
 heroes of M. De Balzac, whose foresight is so remarka- 
 bly at home in the future. 
 
 It was clear to David now that he had only one alter- 
 native before him — he must either renounce the guin- 
 eas, by quietly putting them back in his mother's draw- 
 er (a course not unattended with difficulty), or he must 
 leave more than a suspicion behind him, by departing 
 early next morning without giving notice, and witlj 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 273 
 
 the guineas in his pocket. For if he gave notice that 
 he was going, his mother, he knew, would insist on 
 fetching from her box of guineas the three she liad 
 always promised him as his share ; indeed, in his origi- 
 nal plan he had counted on tliis as a means by which 
 the theft would be discovered under circumstances that 
 would themselves speak for his innocence; but now, as 
 I need hardlv explain to you, that well-combined plan 
 was completely frustrated. Even if David could have 
 bribed Jacob with perpetual lozenges, an idiot's secrecy 
 is itself betrayal. He dared not even go to tea at Mr. 
 Lunn's, for in that case he would have lost sight of 
 Jacob, who, in his impatience for the crop of lozenges, 
 might scratch up the box again while he was absent, 
 and carry it home — depriving him at once of reputation 
 and guineas. ISTo ! he must think of nothing all the 
 rest of this day but of coaxing Jacob and keeping him 
 out of mischief. It was a fatiguing and anxious even- 
 ing to David ; nevertheless, he dared not go to sleep 
 without tying a piece of string to his thumb and great 
 toe, to secure his frequent waking ; for he meant to 
 be up with the first peep of dawn, and be far out of 
 reach before breakfast-time. His father, he thought, 
 would certainly cut him off with a shilling; but what. 
 then ? Such a striking young man as he would be sure 
 to be well received in the West Indies : in foreign 
 countries there are always openings — even for cats. 
 It was probable that some Princess Yarico would want 
 him to marry her, and make him presents of very largo 
 jewels beforehand, after which he needn't marry her 
 unless he liked. David had made up his mind not to 
 steal any more, even from people who were fond of 
 
274 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 him ; it was an unpleasant way of making your fortune 
 in a world where you were likely to be surprised in the 
 act by brothers. Such alarms did not agree with Da- 
 vid's constitution, and lie had felt so much nausea this 
 evening that I have no doubt his liver was affected. 
 Besides, he would have been greatly hurt not to be 
 thought well of in the world ; he always meant to 
 make a figure, and be thought worthy of the best seats 
 and the best morsels. 
 
 Ruminating to this effect on the brilliant future in 
 reserve for him, David, by the help of his check-string, 
 kept himself on the alert to seize the time of earliest 
 dawn for his rising and departure. His brothers, of 
 course, were early risers, but he should anticipate them 
 by at least an hour and a half, and the little room 
 which he had to himself as only an occasional visitor, 
 had its window over the horse-block, so that he could 
 slip out through the window without the least diffi- 
 culty. Jacob, the horrible Jacob, had an awkward 
 trick of getting up before everybody else, to stem liis 
 hunger by emptying the milk-bowl that was " duly set" 
 for him ; but of late he had taken to sleeping in the 
 hay-loft, and if he came into the house, it would be on 
 the opposite side to that from which David was making 
 his exit. There was no need to think of Jacob, yet 
 David was liberal enough to bestow a curse on him — 
 it was the only thing he ever did bestow gratuitously. 
 His small bundle of clothes was ready packed, and he 
 was soon treading lightly on the steps of the horse- 
 block, soon walking at a smart pace across the fields to- 
 wards the thicket. It would take him no more than 
 two minutes to get out the box; he could make out 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 275 
 
 the tree it was under by the pale strip where the bark 
 was off, althougli the dawning light was rather dimmer 
 in the thicket. But w^hat, in the name of — burned 
 pastry — was that large body with a staff planted beside 
 it, close at the foot of the ash-tree? David paused, not 
 to make up his mind as to the nature of the apparition 
 — he had not the happiness of doubting for a moment 
 that the staff was Jacob's pitchfork — but to gather the 
 self-command necessary for addressing his brother with 
 a sufficiently honeyed accent. Jacob was absorbed in 
 scratching up the earth, and liad not heard David's 
 approach. 
 
 " I say, Jacob," said David, in a loud whisper, just 
 as the tin box was lifted out of the hole. 
 
 Jacob looked up, and discerning his sweet -flavored 
 brother, nodded and grinned in the dim light in a way 
 that made him seem to David like a triumphant demon. 
 If he had been of an impetuous disposition, he would 
 have snatched the pitchfork from the ground and im- 
 paled this fraternal demon. But David was by no 
 means impetuous; he was a young man greatly given 
 to calculate consequences — a habit which has been held 
 to be the foundation of virtue. But somehow it had 
 not precisely that effect in David ; he calculated whether 
 an action would harm himself, or w^hether it would only 
 harm other people. In the former case he was very 
 timid about satisfying his immediate desires, but in the 
 latter he would risk the result with much courage. 
 
 "Give it me^ Jacob," he said, stooping down and pat- 
 ting his brother. " Let us see." 
 
 Jacob, finding the lid rather tight, gave the box to 
 his brother in perfect faith. David raised the lid and 
 
276 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 shook his head, while Jacoh put his finger in and took 
 out a guinea to taste whether the metamorphosis into 
 lozenges was complete and satisfactory. 
 
 "No, Jacob; too soon, too soon," said David, when 
 the guinea had been tasted. " Give it me ; we'll go 
 and bury it somewhere else. We'll put it in yonder," 
 he added, pointing vaguely towards the distance. 
 
 David screwed on the lid, while Jacob, looking grave, 
 rose and grasped his pitchfork. Then seeing David's 
 bundle, he snatched it, like a too officious Newfound- 
 land, stuck his pitchfork into it, and carried it over his 
 shoulder in triumph, as he accompanied David and the 
 box out of the thicket. 
 
 What on earth was David to do ? It would have been 
 easy to frown at Jacob, and kick him, and order him to 
 get away ; but David dared as soon have kicked the 
 bull. Jacob was quiet as long as he was treated indul- 
 gently ; but on the slightest show of anger he became 
 unmanageable, and was liable to fits of fury, which 
 would have made him formidable even without his 
 pitchfork. There was no mastery to be obtained over 
 him except by kindness or guile. David tried guile. 
 
 " Go, Jacob," he said, when they were oat of the 
 thicket, pointing towards the house as he spoke — "go 
 and fetch me a spade — a spade. But give me the bun- 
 dle," he added, trying to reach it from the fork, where 
 it hung hiwh above Jacob's tall shoulder. 
 
 But Jacob showed as much alacrity in obeying as a 
 wasp shows in leaving a sugar-basin. Near David he 
 felt himself in the vicinity of lozenges; he chuckled 
 and rubbed his brother's back, brandishing the bundle 
 higher out of reach. David, with an inward groan, 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 277 
 
 clmnged his tactics, and walked on as fast as he could. 
 It was not safe to linger. Jacob would get tired of fol- 
 lowing him, or, at all events, could be eluded. If they 
 could once get to the distant high-road, a coach would 
 overtake them, David would mount it, having previous- 
 ly, by some ingenious means, secured his bundle, and 
 then Jacob might howl and flourish his pitchfork as 
 much as he liked. Meanwhile he was under the fatal 
 necessity of being very kind to this ogre, and of pro- 
 viding a large breakfast for him when they stopped at 
 a roadside inn. It was already three hours since they 
 had started, and David was tired. Would no coach be 
 coming up soon ? he inquired. No coach for the next 
 two hours. But there was a carrier's cart to come im- 
 mediately, on its way to the next town. If he could 
 slip out, even leaving his bundle behind, and get into 
 the cart without Jacob ! But there was a new obstacle. 
 Jacob had recently discovered a remnant of sugar-candy 
 in one of his brother's tail-pockets, and since then had 
 cautiously kept his hold on that limb of the garment, 
 jjerhaps Avith an expectation that there would be a fur- 
 ther development of sugar-candy after a longer or short- 
 er interval. Now every one who has worn a coat will 
 understand the sensibilities that must keep a man from 
 starting away in a hurry when there is a grasp on his 
 coat-tail. David looked forward to being well received 
 among strangers, but it might make a difference if he 
 had only one tail to his coat. 
 
 He felt himself in a cold perspiration. He could 
 walk no more ; he must get into the cart and let Jacob 
 get in with him. Presently a cheering idea occurred to 
 him. After so large a breakfast, Jacob would be sure 
 to go to sleep in the cart; you see at once that David 
 
278 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 meant to seize his bundle, jump out, and be free. His 
 expectation was partly fulfilled ; Jacob did go to sleep 
 in the cart, but it was in a peculiar attitude — it was with 
 his arms tightly fastened round his dear brother's body ; 
 and if ever David attempted to move, the grasp tight- 
 ened with the force of an affectionate boa-constrictor. 
 
 " Th' innicent's fond on you," observed the carrier, 
 thinking that David was probably an amiable brother, 
 and wishing to pay him a compliment. 
 
 David groaned. The ways of thieving were not ways 
 of pleasantness. Oh, why had he an idiot brother? Or 
 why, in general, was the world so constituted that a man 
 could not take his mother's guineas comfortably ? David 
 became grimly speculative. 
 
 Copious dinner at noon for Jacob, but little dinner, 
 because little appetite, for David. Instead of eating, 
 he plied Jacob with beer ; for through this liberality he 
 descried a hope. Jacob fell into a dead sleep at last, 
 witJwut having his arms round David, who paid the 
 reckoning, took his bundle, and walked off. In another 
 half hour he was on the coach on his way to Liverpool, 
 smiling the smile of the triumphant wicked. He was 
 rid of Jacob — he was bound for the Indies, where a 
 gullible princess awaited him. He would never steal 
 any more, but there would be no need ; he would show 
 himself so deserving that people would make him pres- 
 ents freely. He must give up the notion of his father's 
 legacy ; but it was not likely he would ever want that 
 trifle ; and even if he did, why, it was a compensation 
 to think that in being forever divided from his family 
 he was divided from Jacob, more terrible than Gorgon 
 or Demogorgon to David's timid green eyes. Thank 
 Heaven, he should never see Jacob any more I 
 
BKOTHER JACOB. 279 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 It was nearly six years after the departure of Mr, 
 David Faux for the West Indies tliat the vacant shop 
 in the market-place at Grimworth was understood to 
 liave been let to the stranger with a sallow complexion 
 and a buff cravat, whose first appearance had caused 
 some excitement in the bar of the Woolpack, where he 
 iiad called to wait for the coach. 
 
 Grimworth, to a discerning eye, was a good place to 
 set up shopkeeping in. There was no competition in 
 it at present ; the Church people had their own grocer 
 and draper ; the Dissenters had theirs ; and the two or 
 three butchers found a read}^ market for their joints 
 without strict reference to religions persuasion — except 
 that the rector's wife had given a general order for the 
 veal sweetbreads and the mutton kidneys, while Mr. 
 Rodd, the Baptist minister, had requested that, so far 
 ;s was compatible with the fair accommodation of other 
 customers, the sheep's trotters might be reserved for 
 him. And it was likely to be a growing place, for the 
 trustees of Mr. Zephaniah Crypt's Charity, under the 
 stimulus of a late visitation by commissioners, were 
 beginning to apply long- accumulating funds to the re- 
 building of the Yellow Coat School, which was hence- 
 forth to be carried forward on a greatly extended scale, 
 the testator having left no restrictions concernino: the 
 curriculum, but only concerning the coat. 
 
 The shopkeepers at Grimworth were by no means 
 
2S0 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 uiuiiiimous as to the advantages promised by this pros= 
 ])ect of increased population and trading, being substan- 
 tial men, who liked doing a quiet business in which 
 they were sure of their customers, and could calculate 
 their returns to a nicety. Ilitiierto it had been held 
 a point of honor by the families in Grimworth parish 
 to buy their sugar and their flannel at the shops where 
 their fathers and mothers had bought before them ; but 
 if new-comers were to bring in the system of neck-and- 
 neck trading, and solicit feminine eyes by gown pieces 
 laid in fan-like folds, and surmounted by artificial flow- 
 ers, giving them a factitious charm (for on what human 
 figure would a o-own sit like a fan, or what female head 
 was like a bunch of china-asters?), or if new grocers 
 were to fill their windows with mountains of currants 
 and sugar, made seductive by contrast and tickets, what 
 security w'as there for Grimworth, that a vagrant spirit 
 in shopping, once introduced, would not in the end carry 
 the most important families to the larger market-town 
 of Cattleton, where, business being done on a system of 
 small profits and quick returns, the fashions were of the 
 freshest, and goods of all kinds might be bought at an 
 advantage? 
 
 With this view of the times predominant among the 
 tradespeople at Grimworth, their uncertainty concern- 
 ine the nature of the business which the sallow-eom- 
 plexioned stranger was about to set up in the vacant 
 shop naturally gave some additional strength to the 
 fears of the less sanguine. If he was going to sell dra- 
 pery, it was probable that a pale-faced fellow like that 
 would deal in show}^ and inferior articles — printed cot- 
 tons and muslins which would leave their dye in the 
 
BKOTHER JACOB. 281 
 
 wash - tub, jobbed linen full of knots, and flannel that 
 would soon look like gauze. If grocery, then it was to 
 be hoped that no mother of a family would trust the 
 teas of an untried grocer. Such things had been known 
 in some parishes as tradesmen going about canvassing 
 for custom with cards in tlieir pockets: when people 
 came from nobody knew where, there Avas no knowing 
 what tliey might do. It was a thousand pities that 
 Mr. Moffat, the auctioneer and broker, had died without 
 leaving anybody to follow him in the business, and Mrs. 
 Clove's trustee ought to have known better than to let 
 a shop to a stranger. Even the discovery that ovens 
 wore being put up on the premises, and that the shop 
 was, in fact, being fltted up for a confectioner and pas- 
 try-cook's business, hitherto unknown in Grimworth, did 
 not quite suflice to turn the scale in the new-comer's 
 favor, though the landlady at the Woolpack defended 
 him warmly, said he seemed to be a very clever young 
 man, and from what she could make out came of a very 
 good family ; indeed, was most likely a good many peo- 
 ple's betters. 
 
 It certainly made a blaze of light and color, almost as 
 if a rainbow had suddenly descended into the market- 
 place, when, one fine morning, the shutters were taken 
 down from the new shop, and the two windows dis- 
 played their decorations. On one side there were the 
 variegated tints of collared and marbled meats, set off 
 by bright green leaves, the pale brown of glazed pies, 
 the rich tones of sauces and bottled fruits enclosed in 
 their veil of glass — altogether a sight to bring tears into 
 the eyes of a Dutch painter; and on the other there 
 
 was a predominance of the more delicate hues of pink 
 
 27 ^' 
 
282 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 a:id white and yellow and buff in the abundant loz- 
 enges, candies, sweet biscuits, and icings which to the 
 eyes of a bilious person might easily have been blended 
 into a fairy landscape in Turner's latest style. What 
 a sight to dawn upon the eyes of Grimworth children ! 
 They almost forgot to go to their dinner that day, 
 their appetites being preoccupied with imaginary su- 
 gar-plums; and 1 think even Punch, setting up his tab- 
 ernacle in the market-place, would not have succeeded 
 in drawing them away from those shop windows, where 
 they stood according to gradations of size and strength, 
 the biggest and strongest being nearest the window, and 
 the little ones in the outermost rows lifting wide-open 
 eyes and mouths towards the upper tier of jars, like 
 small birds at meal-time. 
 
 The elder inhabitants pished and pshawed a little at 
 the folly of the new shop-keeper in venturing on such 
 an outlay in goods that would not keep. To be sure, 
 Christmas was coming, but what housewife in Grim- 
 worth would not think shame to fnrnisli forth her table 
 with articles that were not home-cooked? Ko, no; Mr. 
 Edward Freely, as he called himself, was deceived if he 
 thought Grimworth money was to flow into his pockets 
 on such terms. 
 
 Edward Freely was the name that shone in gilt let- 
 ters on a mazarine ground over the door-place of tlie 
 new shop — a generous-sounding name that might have 
 belonged to tlie open-hearted, improvident hero of an 
 old comedy, wlio would have delighted in raining su- 
 gared almonds, like a new manna-gift, among that small 
 generation outside the windows. But Mr, Edward Free- 
 ly was a man whose impulses were kept in due subor- 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 283 
 
 dination : he held tliat the desire for sweets and pastry 
 must only be satisfied in a direct ratio with the power 
 of paying for them. If the smallest child in Grim- 
 worth would go to him with a half-penny in its tiny 
 fist, lie would, after ringing the half-penny, deliver a 
 just equivalent in "rock." He was not a man to cheat 
 even the smallest child ; he often said so, observing at 
 the same time that he loved honesty, and also that he 
 was very tender-hearted, though he didn't show his feel- 
 ings as some people did. 
 
 Either in reward of such virtue, or according to some 
 more hidden law of sequence, Mr. Freely's business, in 
 spite of prejudice, started under favorable auspices. For 
 Mrs. Chaloner, the rector's wife, was among the earliest 
 customers at the shop, thinking it only right to encour- 
 age a new parishioner who had made a decorous appear- 
 ance at church; and she found Mr. Freely a most civil, 
 obliging 3'oung man, and intelligent to a surprising 
 degree for a confectioner; well-principled, too, for in 
 giving her useful hints about choosing sugars he had 
 thrown much light on the dishonesty of other trades- 
 men. Moreover, he had been in the AVest Indies, and 
 had seen the very estate which had been her poor 
 grandfather's property ; and he said the missionaries 
 were the only cause of the negro's discontent — an ob- 
 serving young man, evidently. Mrs. Chaloner ordered 
 wine-biscuits and olives, and gave Mr. Freely to under- 
 stand that she should find his shop a great convenience. 
 So did the doctor's wife, and so did Mrs. Gate, at the 
 large carding mill, who, having high connections fre- 
 quently visiting her, might be expected to have a large 
 consumption of ratafias and macaroons. 
 
284 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 The less aristocratic matrons of Griniworth seemed 
 likely at first to justify their husbands' confidence that 
 they would never pay a percentage of profits on drop- 
 cakes, instead of making their own, or get up a hollow 
 show of liberal house-keeping by purchasing slices of 
 collared meat when a neighbor came in for supper. 
 But it is my task to narrate the gradual corruption of 
 Griniworth manners from their primitive simplicity — 
 a melancholy task, if it were not cheered by the pros- 
 pect of the fine peripateia or downfall by which the 
 progress of the corruption was ultimately checked. 
 
 It was young Mrs. Steene, the veterinary surgeon's 
 M'ife, who first gave way to temptation. I fear she had 
 been rather over-educated for her station in life, for she 
 knew by heart many passages in " Lalla Eookh," the 
 "Corsair," and the "Siege of Corinth," which had 
 given her a distaste for domestic occupations, and 
 caused her a withering disappointment at the discovery 
 that Mr. Steene, since his marriage, had lost all interest 
 in the "bulbul," openly preferred discussing the nature 
 of spavin with a coarse neighbor, and was angry if the 
 pudding turned out watery — indeed, was simply a top- 
 booted " vet," who came in hungry at dinner-time, and 
 not in the least like a nobleman turned corsair out of 
 pure scorn for his race, or like a renegade witli a turban 
 and crescent, unless it were in the irritability of his tem- 
 per. And anger is such a very different thing in top- 
 boots ! 
 
 This brutal man had invited a supper- party for 
 Christmas-eve, when he would expect to see niince-pies 
 on the table. Mrs. Steene had prepared her mince- 
 meat, and had devoted much butter, fine flour, and 
 
BROTHER JACOB, 285 
 
 labor to the making of a batch of pies in the morning; 
 but they proved to be so very heavy when they came 
 out of the oven that slie could only think with trem- 
 bling of the moment when her husband should catch 
 sight of them on the snpper-table. lie would storm at 
 her, she was certain, and before all the company; and 
 then she should never help crying. It was so dreadful 
 to think she Iiad come to that, after the bulbul and 
 everything! Suddenly the thought darted through 
 her mind that this once she might send for a dish of 
 mince-pies from Freely's : she knew he had some. But 
 what was to become of the eighteen heavy mince-pies? 
 Oh, it was of no use thinking about that; it was veiy 
 expensive — indeed, making mince-pies at all was a great 
 expense, when they were not sure to turn out well: it 
 would be much better to buy them ready-made. You 
 paid a little more for them, but there was no risk of 
 waste. 
 
 Such was the sophistry with which this misguided 
 young woman — Enough. Mrs. Steene sent for the 
 mince-pies, and, I am grieved to add, garbled her house- 
 hold accounts in order to conceal the fact from her hus- 
 band. This was the second step in a downward course, 
 all owing to a young woman's being out of harmony 
 with her circumstances, yearning after renegades and 
 bulbuls, and being subject to claims from a veterinary 
 surgeon fond of mince-pies. The third step was to 
 harden herself by telling the fact of the bought mince- 
 pies to her intimate friend Mrs. Mole, who had already 
 guessed it, and who subsequently encouraged herself in 
 buying a mould of jelly, instead of exerting her own 
 skill, by the reflection that "other people" did the 
 
286 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 same sort of thing. The infection spread ; soon tliere 
 was a party or clique in Grimworth on the side of 
 " buying at Freely's ;" and many husbands, kept for 
 some time in tlie dark on tliis point, innocently swal- 
 lowed at two mouthfnls a tart on M'hieh tliey were 
 paying a profit of a hundred per cent., and as innocently 
 encouraged a fatal disingenuousness in the partners of 
 their bosoms by praising the pastry. Others, more 
 keen-sighted, winked at the too frequent presentation 
 on washing-days and at impromptu suppers of superior 
 spiced beef, which flattered their palates more than the 
 cold remnants they had formerly been contented with. 
 Every housewife who had once "bought at Freely's" 
 felt a secret joy when she detected a similar perversion 
 in her neighbor's practice, and soon only two or three 
 old-fashioned mistresses of families held out in the pro- 
 test against the growing demoralization, saying to their 
 neighbors who came to sup with them, "I can't offer 
 you Freely's beef, or Freely's cheese-cakes ; everything 
 in our house is home-made. I'm afraid you'll hardly 
 have any appetite for our plain pastry." The doctor, 
 whose cook was not satisfactory, the curate, who kept 
 no cook, and the mining agent, who was a great hon 
 vivanf, even began to rely on Freely for the greater 
 part of their dinner when they wished to give an enter- 
 tainment of some brilliancy. In short, the business of 
 manufactnring the more fanciful viands was fast pass- 
 ing out of the hands of maids and matrons in private 
 families, and was becoming the work of a special com- 
 mercial organ. 
 
 I am not ignorant that this sort of thing is called the 
 inevitable course of civilization, division of labor, and 
 
BROTHEK JACOB. 287 
 
 SO forth, and tliat the maids and matrons may be said 
 to have had their hands set free from cookery to add to 
 the wealth of society in some other way. Only it hap- 
 pened at Grimworth, which, to be sure, was a low 
 place, that the maids and matrons could do nothing 
 with their hands at all better than cooking ; not even 
 those who had always made sad cakes and leathery 
 pastry. And so it came to pass that the progress of 
 civilization at Grimworth was not otherwise apparent 
 than in the impoverishment of men, the gossiping 
 idleness of women, and the heightening prosperit}^ of 
 Mr. Edward Freely. 
 
 The Yellow Coat School was a double source of 
 profit to the calculating confectioner, for he opened an 
 eating-room for the superior workmen employed on the 
 new school, and he accommodated the pupils at the old 
 school by giving great attention to the fancy-sugar de- 
 partment. When I think of the sweet-tasted swans and 
 other ingenious white shapes crunched by the small 
 teeth of that rising generation, I am glad to remember 
 tnat a certain amount of calcareous food has been held 
 good for young creatures whose bones are not quite 
 formed ; for I have observed these delicacies to have 
 an inorganic flavor which would have recommended 
 them greatly to that young lady of the Spectator''s ac- 
 quaintance who habitually made her dessert on the stems 
 of tobacco-pipes. 
 
 As for the confectioner himself, he made his way 
 gradually into Grimworth homes, as his commodities 
 did, in spite of some initial repugnance. Somehow or 
 other his reception as a guest seemed a thing that re- 
 quired justifying, like the purchasing of his pastry. In 
 
288 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 the first place, he was a stranger, and therefore open to 
 suspicion ; secondly, the confectionery business was so 
 entirel}' new at Griinworth that its place in the scale of 
 rank had not been distinctly ascertained. There was no 
 doubt about drapers and grocers, when they came of 
 good old Grimworth families, like Mr. Luff and Mr. 
 Prettyman : they visited with the Palfreys, and the 
 Palfreys farmed their own land, played jnany a game 
 at whist with the doctor, and condescended a little to- 
 w\ards the timber merchant, who had lately taken to the 
 coal trade also, and had got new furniture ; but whether 
 a confectioner should be admitted to this higher level 
 of I'espectabilit}^ or should be understood to find his 
 associates among butchers and bakers, was a new ques- 
 tion on which tradition threw no light. His being a 
 bachelor was in his favor, and would, perhaps, have 
 been enough to turn the scale, even if Mr. Edward 
 Freely's other personal pretensions had been of an en- 
 tirely insigniiicant cast. But so far from this, it very 
 soon appeared that he M-as a remarkable young man, 
 who had been in tlie AYest Indies, and had seen many 
 wonders by sea and land, so that he could charm the 
 ears of 'Grimworth Desdemonas with stories of strange 
 fish, especially sharks, which he had stabbed in the nick 
 of time by bravely plunging overboard just as the mon- 
 ster was turning on his side to devour the cook's mate ; 
 of terrible fevers which he had undergone in a land 
 where the wind blows from all quarters at once ; of 
 rounds of toast cut straight from the bread-fruit trees; 
 of toes bitten of by land-crabs; of large honors that had 
 been offered to him as a man who knew what was what, 
 and was, therefore, particularly needed in a tropical 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 289 
 
 climate ; and of a Creole heiress who had wept bitterly 
 at his departure. Sneh conversational talents as these, 
 we know, will overcome disadvantages of complexion ; 
 and young Towers, whose cheeks were of the finest 
 pink, set off bj a fringe of dark whisker, was quite 
 eclipsed by the presence of the sallow Mr, Freely. So 
 exceptional a confectioner elevated his business, and 
 might well begin to make disengaged hearts flutter a 
 little. 
 
 Fathers and mothers were naturally more slow and 
 cautious in their recognition of the new-comer's merits. 
 
 "He's an amusing fellow," said Mr. Prettyman, the 
 highly respectable grocer (Mrs. Prettyman was a Miss 
 Fothergill,and her sister had married a London mercer) 
 ■ — "he's an amusing fellow, and Pve no objection to his 
 making one at the Oyster Club ; but he's a bit too fond 
 of riding the high horse. He's uncommonly knowing, 
 Pll allow; but how came he to go to the Indies? I 
 should like that answered. It's unnatural in a confec- 
 tioner. I'm not fond of people that have been beyond 
 seas, if they can't give a good account how they hap- 
 pened to go. When folks go so far off, it's because 
 they've got little credit nearer home — that's my opin- 
 ion. However, he's got some good rum ; but I don't 
 want to be hand-and-glove with him, for all that." 
 
 It was this kind of dim suspicion which beclouded 
 the view of Mr. Freely's qualities in the maturer minds 
 of Grimworth through the early months of his residence 
 there. But when the confectioner ceased to be a nov- 
 elt}', the suspicions also ceased to be novel, and people 
 got tired of hinting at them, especially as they seemed 
 
 to be refuted by his advancing prosperity and impor- 
 
 07* N* 
 
290 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 tance. Mr. Freely was becoming a person of influence 
 in the parish ; he was found useful as an overseer of the 
 poor, having great firmness in enduring other people's 
 pain — which firmness, he said, was due to his great be- 
 nevolence ; he always did what was good for people in 
 the end, Mr. Chaloner had even selected him as clergy- 
 man's church-warden, for he was a very handy man, and 
 much more of Mr. Chaloner's opinion in everything 
 about church business than the older parisliioners. Mr. 
 Freely was a very regular churchman, but at the Oyster 
 Club he was sometimes a little free in his conversation, 
 more than hinting at a life of Sultanic self-indulgence 
 which he had passed in the "West Indies, shaking his 
 head now and then and smiling rather bitterly, as men 
 are wont to do when they intiniate that they have be- 
 come a little too wise to be instructed about a world 
 which has long been flat and stale to them. 
 
 For some time he was quite general in his attentions 
 to the fair sex, combining the gallantries of a lady's man 
 with a severity of criticism on the person and manners 
 of absent belles, which tended rather to stimulate in the 
 feminine breast the desire to conquer the approval of so 
 fastidious a judge. Nothing short of the very best in 
 the department of female charms and virtues could suf- 
 fice to kindle the ardor of Mr. Edward Freely, who had 
 become familiar with the most luxuriant and dazzling 
 beauty in the West Indies. It may seem incredible to 
 you that a confectioner should have ideas and conver- 
 sation so much resembling those to be met with in a 
 higher walk of life, but you must remember that he 
 had not merely travelled, he had also bow -legs and 
 a sallow, small-featured visage, so that nature herself 
 
BROTHER JACOB, 291 
 
 had stamped him for a fastidious connoisseur of the 
 fair sex. 
 
 At last, however, it seemed clear that Cupid had found 
 a sharper arrow than usual, and that Mr. Freelj's heart 
 was pierced. It was the general talk among the young 
 people at Grimworth. But was it really love, and not 
 rather ambition ? Miss Fullilove, the timber mei'chant's 
 daughter, was quite sure that if she were Miss Penny 
 Palfrey she would be cautious ; it was not a good sign 
 when men looked so much above themselves for a wife. 
 For it was no less a person than Miss Penelope Palfrey, 
 second daughter of the Mr. Palfrey who farmed his own 
 land, that had attracted Mr. Freely's peculiar regard and 
 conquered his fastidiousness; and no wonder, for the 
 Ideal, as exhibited in the finest waxwork, was perhaps 
 never so closely approached by the Real as in the per- 
 son of tlie pretty Penelope. Her yellowish flaxen hair 
 did not curl naturally, I admit, but its bright, crisp ring- 
 lets were such smooth, perfect miniature tubes that you 
 would have longed to pass your little finger through 
 them and feel their soft elasticity. She wore them in a 
 crop — for in those days, when society was in a healthier 
 state, young ladies wore crops long after they were twen- 
 ty, and Penelope was not yet nineteen. Like the waxen 
 Ideal, she had round blue eyes, and round nostrils in her 
 little nose, and teeth such as the Ideal would be seen to 
 have if it ever showed them. Altogether, she was a 
 small, round thing, as neat as a pink and white double 
 daisy, and as guileless ; for I hope you do not think it 
 argues any guile in a pretty damsel of nineteen to think 
 that she should like to have a beau and be "engaged," 
 when her elder sister had already been in that position 
 
292 IJKOTHEK JACOB. 
 
 a year and a half. To be sure, there was young Towers 
 always coining to the house ; but Penny felt convinced 
 he only came to see her brother, for he never had any- 
 thing to say to her, and never offered her his arm, and 
 was as awkward and silent as possible. 
 
 It is not unlikely that Mr. Freely had early been smit- 
 ten by Penny's charms as brought under his observation 
 at church, but he had to make his way in society a little 
 before he could come into nearer contact with them ; and 
 even after he was well received in Grimworth families, 
 it was a long while before he could converse with Penny 
 otherwise than in an incidental meeting at Mr. Luff's. 
 It was not so easy to get invited to Long Meadows, the 
 residence of the Palfreys ; for though Mr. Palfrey had 
 been losing money of late years — not being able quite to 
 recover his feet after the terrible murrain which forced 
 him to borrow — his family were far from considering 
 themselves on the same level even as the old-established 
 tradespeople with whom they visited ; for the greatest 
 people, even kings and queens, must visit with somebody, 
 and the equals of the great are scarce. They were es- 
 pecially scarce at Grimworth, which, as I have before 
 observed, was a low parish, mentioned with the most 
 scornful brevity in gazetteers. Even the great people 
 there were far behind those of their own standing in 
 other parts of this realm. Mr. Palfrey's farm-yard doors 
 had the paint all worn off them, and the front garden 
 walks had lonoj been mero-ed in a general weediness. Still 
 his father had been called Squire Palfrey, and had been 
 respected by the last Grimworth generation as a man 
 who could afford to drink too much in his own house. 
 
 Pretty Penny was not blind to the fact that Mr. Freely 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 293 
 
 admired her, and she felt sure that it was he wlio had 
 sent her a beautiful valentine; but her sister seemed to 
 think so lightly of him (all engaged young ladies think 
 lightly of the gentlenien to whom they are not engaged), 
 that Penny dared never mention him, and trembled and 
 blushed whenever they met him, thinking of the valen- 
 tine, which was very strong in its expressions, and which 
 she felt guilty of knowing by heart. A man who had 
 been to the Indies, and knew the sea so well, seemed to 
 her a sort of public character, almost like Robinson Cru- 
 soe or Captain Cook; and Penny had always wished her 
 husband to be a remarkable personage, likely to be put 
 in MangnalTs Questions, with which register of the im- 
 mortals she had become acquainted during her one year 
 at a boarding-school. Only it seemed strange that a re- 
 markable man should be a confectioner and pastry-cook, 
 and this anomaly quite disturbed Penny's dreams. Her 
 brothers, siie knew, laughed at men who couldn't sit on 
 horseback well, and called them tailors; but her broth- 
 ers were very i-ough, and were quite without that power 
 of anecdote which made Mr. Freely such a delightful 
 companion. He was a very good man, she thought ; for 
 she had heai-d him say at Mr. Luff's, one day, that he al- 
 ways wished to do his duty in whatever state of life he 
 might be placed ; and he knew a great deal of poetry, 
 for one day he had repeated a verse of a song. She 
 wondered if he had made the words of the valentine. 
 It ended in tliis waj^: 
 
 " Without thee, it is pain to live; 
 But with thee, it were sweet to die." 
 
 Poor Mr. Freely ! her father would very likely object ; 
 she felt sure he would, for he always called Mr. Freely 
 
294: BEOTHER JACOB. 
 
 "that sngar-pliitn fellow." Oh, it was very cruel, when 
 triie-Iove was crossed in that way, and all because Mr. 
 Freely was a confectioner ! Well, Penny would be true 
 to him, for all that; and since his being a confectioner 
 gave her an opportunity of showing her faithfulness, she 
 was glad of it. Edward Freely was a pretty name, much 
 better than John Towers. Young Towers had offered 
 her a rose out of his button-hole the other day, blushing 
 very much ; but she refused it, and thought with de- 
 light how much Mr. Freely would be comforted if he 
 knew her firmness of mind. 
 
 Poor little Penny ! the days were so very long among 
 the daisies on a grazing farm, and thought is so active, 
 how was it possible that the inward drama should not 
 get the start of the outward ? I have known young la- 
 dies much better educated, and with an outward world 
 diversified by instructive lectures, to say nothing of lit- 
 erature and highly developed fancy - work, who have 
 spun a cocoon of visionary joys and sorrows for them- 
 selves, just as Penny did. Her elder sister, Letitia, who 
 had a prouder style of beauty and a more worldly am- 
 bition, was engaged to a wool-factor, who came all the 
 way from Cattleton to see her; and everybody knows 
 that a wool -factor takes a very high rank, sometimes 
 driving a double-bodied gig. Letty's notions got high- 
 er every day, and Penny never dared to speak of her 
 cherished griefs to her lofty sister; never dared to pro- 
 pose that they should call at Mr. Freely's to buy licorice, 
 though she had prepared for such an incident by men- 
 tioning a slight sore throat. So she had to pass the 
 shop on the other side of the market-place, and reflect, 
 with a suppressed sigh, that behind those pink and white 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 295 
 
 jars somebody was thinking of her tenderly, unconscious 
 of the small space that divided her from him. 
 
 And it was quite true that, when business permitted, 
 Mr. Freely thought a great deal of Penny. He thought 
 her prettiness comparable to the loveliest things in con- 
 fectionery ; he judged her to be of submissive temper 
 — likely to wait upon him as well as if she had been a 
 negress, and to be silently terrified when his liver made 
 him irritable; and he considered the Palfrey family 
 quite the best in the parish possessing marriageable 
 daughters. On the whole, he thought her worthy to 
 become Mrs. Edward Freely, and all the more so be- 
 cause it would probably require some ingenuity to win 
 her. Mr. Palfrey was capable of horsewhipping a too 
 rash pretender to his daughter's hand ; and, moreover, 
 he had three tall sons : it was clear that a suitor would 
 be at a disadvantage with such a famil}^ unless travel 
 and natural acumen had given him a countervailing 
 power of contrivance. And the first idea that occurred 
 to him in the matter was that Mr. Palfrey would object 
 less if he knew that the Freelys were a much higher 
 family than his own. It had been foolish modesty in 
 him hitherto to conceal the fact that a branch of the 
 Freelys held a manor in Yorkshire, and to shut up 
 the portrait of his great-uncle the admiral, instead of 
 hanging it up where a family portrait should be hung 
 — over the mantel-piece in the parlor. Admiral Freely, 
 K.C.B., once placed in this conspicuous position, was 
 seen to have had one arm only and one eye — in these 
 points resembling the heroic Nelson — while a certain 
 pallid insignificance of feature confirmed the relation- 
 ship between himself and his grandnephew. 
 
29G BUOTHEIl JACOB. 
 
 Next, Mr. Freely was seized with an irrepressible am- 
 bition to possess Mrs. Palfrey's receipt for brawn, hers 
 being pronounced on all hands to be superior to his own 
 — as he informed her in a very flattering letter carried 
 by his errand-boy. ]JTow Mrs. Palfrey, like other gen- 
 iuses, wrought by instinct rather than by rule, and pos- 
 sessed no receipts — indeed, despised all people who used 
 them, observing that people who pickled by book must 
 pickle by weights and measures, and such nonsense; as 
 for herself, her weights and measures were the tip of her 
 finger and the tip of her tongue ; and if you went near- 
 er, why, of course, for dry goods like flour and spice, you 
 went by handfuls and pinches ; and for wet, there was 
 a middle-sized jug — quite the best thing, whether for 
 much or little, because you might know how much a 
 teacupful was, if you'd got any use of your senses, and 
 you might be sure it would take five middle-sized jugs 
 to make a gallon. 
 
 Knowledge of this kind is like Titian's coloring — 
 difficult to communicate; and as Mi's. Palfrey, once 
 remarkably handsome, had now become rather stout 
 and asthmatical, and scarcely ever left home, her oral 
 teaching could hardly be given anywhere except at 
 Long Meadows. Even a matron is not insusceptible 
 to flattery, and the prospect of a visitor whose great ob- 
 ject would be to listen to her conversation was not with- 
 out its charms to Mrs. Palfrey. Since there was no re- 
 ceipt to be sent,in reply to Mr. Freely's humble request, 
 she called on her more docile daughter. Penny, to write 
 a note, telling him that her mother would be glad to 
 see him and talk with him on brawn any day that he 
 could call at Long Meadows. Penny obeyed with a 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 297 
 
 trembling hand, thinking how wonderfully things came 
 about in this world. 
 
 In this way Mr. Freely got himself introduced into 
 tlie home of the Palfreys, and notwithstanding a ten- 
 dency in the male part of the family to jeer at him a 
 little as "peaky " and bow-legged, he presently estab- 
 lished his position as an accepted and frequent guest. 
 Young Towers looked at him with increasing disgust 
 when they met at the house on a Sunday, and secretly 
 longed to try his ferret upon him, as a piece of vermin 
 which that valuable animal would be likely to tackle 
 with unhesitating vigor. But — so blind sometimes are 
 parents — neither Mr, nor Mrs. Palfrey suspected that 
 Penny w^ould have anything to say to a tradesman of 
 questionable rank, whose youthful bloom was much 
 withered. Young Towers, they thought, had an eye to 
 her, and that was likely enough to be a match someday; 
 but Penny was a child at present. And all the while 
 Penny was imagining the circumstances under which 
 Mr. Freely would make her an offer ; perhaps down by 
 the row of damson-trees, when they were in the garden 
 before tea; perhaps by letter — in which case how 
 would the letter begin ? " Dearest Penelope ?" or " My 
 dear Miss Penelope?" or straight off, without dear any- 
 thing, as seemed the most natural when people were 
 embarrassed? But however he might make the offer, 
 she would not accept it without her father's consent: 
 she would always be true to Mr. Freely, but she would 
 not disobey her father. For Penny was a good girl, 
 though some of her female friends were afterwards of 
 opinion that it spoke ill for her not to have felt an in- 
 stinctive repugnance to Mr. Freely. 
 
298 BEOTIIER JACOB. 
 
 But he was cautious, and wished to be quite sure of 
 the ground he trod on. His views i?i marriage were 
 not entirely sentimental, but were as duly mingled with 
 considerations of what would be advantageous to a man 
 in his position, as if he had had a very large amount of 
 money spent on his education. He was not a man to 
 fall in love in the wrong place, and so he applied him- 
 self quite as much to conciliate the favor of the parents 
 as to secure the attachment of Penny. Mrs. Palfrey 
 had not been inaccessible to flattery, and her husband, 
 being also of mortal mould, would not, it might be 
 hoped, be proof against rum — that very fine Jamaica 
 rum of which Mr. Freely expected always to have a 
 supply sent him from Jamaica. It was not easy to get 
 Mr. Palfrey into the parlor behind the shop, where a 
 mild back-street light fell on the features of the heroic 
 admiral ; but by getting hold of him rather late one 
 evening, as he was about to return home from Grim- 
 worth, the aspiring lover succeeded in persuading him 
 to sup on some collared beef which, after Mrs. Pal- 
 frey's brawn, he would find the very best of cold eat- 
 ing- 
 
 From that hour Mr. Freely felt sure of success : be- 
 ing in privacy with an estimable man old enough to be 
 his father, and being rather lonely in the world, it was 
 natural he should unbosom himself a little on subjects 
 which he could not speak of in a mixed circle — espe- 
 cially concerning his expectations from his uncle in Ja- 
 maica, who had no children, and loved his nephew Ed- 
 ward better than any one else in the world, though he 
 had been so hurt at his leaving Jamaica that he had 
 threatened to cut him off with a shilling. However, 
 
BKOTHER JACOB. 299 
 
 he had since written to state his fall forgiveness, and 
 though he was an eccentric old gentleman and could 
 not bear to give away money during his life, Mr. Ed- 
 ward Freely could show Mr. Palfrey the letter which 
 declared plainly enough who would be the affectionate 
 uncle's heir. Mr. Palfrey actually saw the letter, and 
 could not help admiring the spirit of the nephew who 
 declared that such brilliant hopes as these made no dif- 
 ference to his conduct ; he should work at his humble 
 business and make his modest fortune at it all the same. 
 If the Jamaica estate was to come to him, well and 
 good. It was nothing very surprising for one of the 
 Freely family to have an estate left him, considering 
 the lands that family had possessed in time gone by 
 — nay, still possessed in the Northumberland branch. 
 Would not Mr. Palfrey take another glass of rum ? and 
 also look at the last year's balance of the accounts? 
 Mr. Freely was a man who cared to possess personal 
 virtues, and did not pique himself on his faniil}', though 
 some men would. We know how easily the great Levi- 
 athan may be led when once there is a hook in his nose 
 or a bridle in his jaws. Mr. Palfrey was a large man, 
 but, like Leviathan's, his bulk went against him when 
 once he had taken a turning. He was not a mercurial 
 man, who easily changed his point of view. Enough. 
 Before two months were over he had given his consent 
 to Mr. Freely's marriage with his daughter Penny, and 
 having hit on a formula by which he could justify it, 
 fenced off all doubts and objections, his own included. 
 The formula was this : " I'm not a man to put my nose 
 up an entry before I know M-here it leads." 
 
 Little Penny was very proud and fluttering, but 
 
300 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 hardly so happy as she expected to be in an engage- 
 ment. She wondered if young Towers cared mucli 
 about it, for he liad not been to the house lately, and 
 lier sister and brothers were rather inclined to sneer 
 than to sympathize. Grimworth rang with the news. 
 All men extolled Mr. Freely's good-fortune ; while the 
 women, with the tender solicitude characteristic of the 
 sex, wished the marriai^e mio-lit turn out well. 
 
 While affairs were at this triumphant juncture, Mr. 
 Freely one morning observed that a stone-carver who 
 had been breakfasting in the eating -room had left a 
 newspaper behind. It was the X-shire Gazette, and 
 X-shire being a county not unknown to Mr. Freely, he 
 felt some curiosity to glance over it, and especially over 
 the advertisements. A slight flush came over his face 
 as he read. It was produced by the following an- 
 nouncement: "If David Faux, son of Jonathan Faux, 
 late of Gilsbrook, will apply at the office of Mr. Strutt, 
 attorney, of Rodham, he M'ill hear of something to his 
 advantange." 
 
 " Father's dead !" exclaimed Mr. Freely, involuntarily. 
 " Can he have left me a legacy ?" 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 Perhaps it was a result quite different from your 
 expectations that Mr. David Faux should have returned 
 from the West Indies only a few years after his arrival 
 there, and have set up in his old business, like any plain 
 man who had never travelled. But these cases do occur 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 301 
 
 in life. Since, as we know, men cliange their skies and 
 see new constellations witiiout changing their souls, 
 it will follow sometimes that they don't change their 
 business under those novel circumstances. 
 
 Certainly this result was contraiy to Dav.id's own ex- 
 pectations. He had looked forward, you ai-e aware, to 
 a brilliant career among "the blacks;" but, either be- 
 cause they had already seen too many white men, or 
 for some other reason, they did not at once recognize 
 him as a superior order of human being; besides, there 
 were no princesses among them. Nobody in Jamaica 
 was anxious to maintain David for the mere pleasure 
 of his society ; and those hidden merits of a man which 
 are so well known to himself were as little recoo^nized 
 there as they notoriously are in the effete society of the 
 Old World. So that in the dark hints that David threw 
 out at the Oyster Club about that life of Sultanie self- 
 indulgence spent by him in the luxurious Indies, I 
 really think he was doing himself a wrong; I believe 
 he worked for his bread, and, in fact, took to cooking 
 again, as, after all, the onl}' department in which he 
 could offer skilled labor. He had formed several in- 
 genious plans by which he meant to circumvent people 
 of large fortune and small faculty; but then he never 
 met with exactly the right people under exactly the 
 right circumstances. David's devices for getting rich 
 without work had apparently no direct relation with 
 the world outside him, as his confectionery receipts had. 
 It is possible to pass a great many bad half-pennies and 
 bad half-crowns, but I believe there has no instance 
 been known of passing-a half-penny or a half-cro\vn as 
 a sovereign. A sharper can drive a brisk ti-ade in this 
 
302 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 4 world: it is undeniable that there may be a fine career 
 for him if he will dare consequences ; but David was 
 too timid to be a sharper, or venture in any way among 
 the man-traps of the law. He dared rob nobodj^ but 
 his mother. And so he had to fall back on the genuine 
 value there was in him — to be content to pass as a good 
 lialf-penny, or, to speak more accurately, as a good con- 
 fectioner. For in spite of some additional reading and 
 observation, there was nothing else he could make so 
 much money by ; nay, he found in himself even a ca- 
 pability of extending his skill in this direction, and em- 
 bracing all forms of cookery, while in other branches of 
 human labor he began to see that it was not possible 
 for him to shine. Fate was too strong for him ; he had 
 thought to master her inclination, and had fled over the 
 seas to that end ; but she caught him, tied an apron 
 round him, and snatching him from all other devices, 
 made him devise cakes and patties in a kitchen at 
 Kingstown. He M-as getting submissive to her, since 
 she paid him with tolerable gains; but fevers and 
 prickly heat, and other evils incidental to cooks in ar- 
 dent climates, made him long for his native land ; so he 
 took ship once more, carrying his six years' savings, and 
 seeing distinctly, this time, what were fate's intentions 
 as to his career. If you question me closely as to 
 whether all the money with which he set up at Grim- 
 worth consisted of pure and simple earnings, I am 
 obliged to confess that he got a sum or two for chari- 
 tably abstaining from mentioning some other people's 
 misdemeanors. Altogether, since no prospects were at- 
 tached to his family name, and since a new christen- 
 ing seemed a suitable commencement of a new life, 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 303 
 
 Mr. David Faux thought it as well to call himself Mr. 
 Edward Freelj, 
 
 But lo! now, in opposition to all calculable probabili- 
 ty, some benefit appeared to be attached to the name of 
 David Faux. Should he neglect it, as beneath the at- 
 tention of a prosperous tradesman ? It might bring him 
 into contact with his family again, and he felt no yearn- 
 ings in that direction ; moreover, he had small belief 
 that the "something to his advantage" could be any- 
 tliing considerable. On the other hand, even a small 
 gain is pleasant, and the promise of it in this instance 
 M''as so surprising that David felt his curiosity awaken- 
 ed. The scale dipped at last on the side of writing to 
 the lawyer, and, to be brief, the correspondence ended 
 in an appointment for a meeting between David and 
 his eldest brother at Mr. Strutt's, the vague " something " 
 having been defined as a legacy from his father of 
 eighty-two pounds three shillings. 
 
 David, you know, had expected to be disinherited; 
 and so he would have been if he had not, like some 
 other indifferent sons, come of excellent parents, whose 
 conscience made them scrupulous, where much more 
 highly instructed people often feel themselves warrant- 
 ed in following the bent of their indignation. Good 
 Mrs. Faux could never forget that she had brought this 
 ill-conditioned son into the world when he was in that 
 entirely helpless state which excluded the smallest choice 
 on his part; and, somehow or other, she felt tliat his 
 going wrong would be his father's and mother's fault, 
 if they failed in one tittle of their parental duty. Her 
 notion of parental duty M'as not of a high and subtle 
 kind, but it included giving him his due sliare of the 
 
301 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 family property ; for when a man had got a little honest 
 money of his own, was he so likely to steal? To cnt 
 tlie delinquent son off witli a shilling was like deliver- 
 ing him over to his evil propensities. No; let the 
 snm of twenty guineas which he had stolen be deducted 
 from his shai'c, and then let the sum of three guineas 
 be put back from it, seeing that his mother had always 
 considered three of the twenty guineas as his ; and 
 though he had run away, and was, perhaps, gone across 
 the sea, let the money be left to him all the same, and 
 be kept in reserve for his possible return, Mr. Faux 
 agreed to his wife's views, and made a codicil to his 
 will accordingly, in time to die with a clear conscience. 
 But for some time his family thought it likely that 
 David would never re-appear, and the eldest son, who 
 had the charge of Jacob on his hands, often thought it 
 a little hard that David might perhaps be dead, and yet 
 for want of certitude on that point, his legacy could not 
 fall to his legal heir. But in this state of things the 
 opposite certitude — namelj', that David was still alive 
 a!id in England — seemed to be brought by the testi- 
 mony of a neighbor, who, having been on a journey to 
 Cattleton, was pretty sure he had seen David in a gig, 
 with a stout man driving by his side. He could "swear 
 it was David," though he could "give no account why, 
 for he had no marks on him ; but no more had a white 
 dog, and that didn't hinder folks from knowing a white 
 dos:." It was this incident which had led to the adver- 
 
 CD 
 
 tisement. 
 
 The legacy was paid, of course, after a few prelimi- 
 nary disclosures as to Mr. David's actual position. He 
 begged to send his love to his mother, and to say that 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 305 
 
 he hoped to pay her a dutiful visit by-and-by ; but at 
 present his business and near prospect of marriage made 
 it difficult for him to leave liome. His brother replied 
 with much frankness: 
 
 "My mother may do as she likes about having you 
 to see her, but, for my part, I don't want to catch sight 
 of you on the premises again. When folks Iiave taken 
 a new name, they'd better keep to their new 'quine- 
 tance." 
 
 David pocketed tlie insult along with the eighty-two 
 pounds three, and travelled home again in some triumph 
 at the ease of a transaction which had enriched him to 
 this extent. He had no intention of offending his broth- 
 er by further claims on his fraternal recognition, and 
 relapsed with full contentment into the character of 
 Mr. Edward Freely, the orphan, scion of a great but re- 
 duced family, with an eccentric uncle in the West In- 
 dies. (I have already hinted that he had some acquaint- 
 ance with imaginative literature; and being of a prac- 
 tical turn, he had, you perceive, applied even this form 
 of knowledge to practical purposes.) 
 
 It was little more than a week after the return from 
 his fruitful journey, that the day of his marriage with 
 Penny having been fixed, it was agreed that Mrs. Pal- 
 frey should overcome her reluctance to move from 
 liome, and that she and her husband should bring their 
 two daughters to inspect little Penny's future abode, 
 and decide on the new arrangements to be made for the 
 reception of the bride. Mr. Freely meant her to have 
 a house so pretty and comfortable that she need not 
 envy even a wool-factor's wife. Of course the upper 
 
 room over the shop was to be the best sitting-room, but 
 2S o 
 
306 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 also the parlor behind the shop was to be made a suita- 
 ble bower for the lovely Penny, who would naturally 
 wish to be near her husband, though Mr. Freely de- 
 clared his resolution never to allow his wife to wait in 
 the shop. The decisions about the parlor furniture 
 were left till last, because the party was to take tea 
 there ; and, about five o'clock, they were all seated there 
 with the best muffins and buttered buns before them, 
 little Penny blushing and smiling, with her "crop" in 
 the best order, and a blue frock showing her little white 
 shoulders, while her opinion was being always asked 
 and never given. She secretly wished to have a partic- 
 ular sort of chimney ornaments, but she could not have 
 brought herself to mention it. Seated by the side of 
 her yellow and rather withered lover, who, though he 
 had not reached his thirtieth year, had already crow's- 
 feet about his eyes, she was quite tremulous at the 
 greatness of her lot, being married to a man who had 
 travelled so much — and before her sister Letty ! The 
 handsome Letitia looked rather proud and contemptuous, 
 thought her future brother-in-law an odious person, and 
 M-as vexed with her father and mother for letting Penny 
 marry him. Dear little Penny ! She certainly did look 
 like a fresh white-heart cherry going to be bitten oflE 
 the stem by that lipless mouth. Would no deliverer 
 come to make a slip between that cherry and that mouth 
 without a lip? 
 
 " Quite a family likeness between the admiral and 
 you, Mr. Freely," observed Mrs. Palfrey, who was look- 
 ing at the family portrait for the first time. "It's won- 
 derful ! and only a grand-uncle. Do you feature the 
 rest of your family, as you know of?" 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 307 
 
 "I can't say," said Mr. Freely, with a sigli. "My 
 family have mostly thought themselves too high to take 
 any notice of me." 
 
 At this moment an extraordinary distnrbance was 
 heard in the shop, as of a heavy animal stamping about 
 and making angry noises, and then of a glass vessel 
 falling in shivers, while the voice of the apprentice was 
 heard calling "Master" in great alarm. 
 
 Mr. Freely rose in anxious astonishment, and hast- 
 ened into the shop, followed by the four Palfreys, who 
 made a group at the parlor door, transfixed with won- 
 der at seeing a large man in a smock-frock, with a pitch- 
 fork in his hand, rush up to Mr. Freely and hug him, 
 crying out, " Zavy, Zavy, b'other Zavy !" 
 
 It was Jacob, and for some moments David lost all 
 presence of mind. He felt arrested for having stolen 
 his mothers guineas. He turned cold, and trembled in 
 liis brother's grasp. 
 
 " Why, how's this ?" said Mr. Palfrey, advancing from 
 the door. "Who is he?" 
 
 Jacob supplied the answer by saying over and over 
 again, 
 
 " I'se Zacob, b'other Zacob. Come 'o zee Zavy " — till 
 hunger prompted him to relax his grasp, and to seize a 
 large raised pie, which he lifted to his mouth. 
 
 By this time David's power of device had begun to 
 return, but it was a very hard task for Jiis prudence to 
 master his rage and hatred towards poor Jacob. 
 
 " I don't know who he is ; he must be drunk," he 
 said, in a low tone to Mr. Palfrey. " But he's danger- 
 ous with that pitchfork. He'll never let it go." Then 
 checking himself on the point of betraying too great an 
 
308 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 intimacy with Jacob's habits, he added : " You watcli 
 him, while I run for the constable." And lie hnrried 
 out of the shop. 
 
 " Why, where do you come from, my man ?" said Mr. 
 Palfrey, speaking to Jacob in a conciliatory tone. Ja- 
 cob was eating his pie by large mouthfuls, and looking 
 round at the other good things in the shop, while he 
 embraced his pitchfork with liis left arm, and laid his 
 left hand on some Bath buns. He was in the rare po- 
 sition of a person who recovers a long-absent friend and 
 finds him richer than ever in the characteristics that 
 won his heart. 
 
 " I'se Zacob — b'other Zacob — 't home. I love Zavy 
 — b'other Zavy," he said, as soon as Mr. Palfrey had 
 draw-n his attention. "Zavy come back from z' Indies 
 — got mother's zinnies. Where's Zavy ?" he added, look- 
 ing round, and then turning to the others with a ques- 
 tioning air, puzzled by David's disappearance. 
 
 " It's very odd," observed Mr. Palfrey to his wife and 
 daughters. " He seems to say Freely's his brother come 
 back from th' Indies." 
 
 " What a pleasant relation for us !" said Letitia, sar- 
 castically. "I think he's a good deal like Mr. Freely. 
 He's got just the same sort of nose, and his eyes are the 
 same color." 
 
 Poor Penny was ready to cry. 
 
 But now Mr. Freely re-entered the shop without tlie 
 constal)le. During his walk of a few yards he had had 
 time and calmness enough to widen his view of conse- 
 quences, and he saw that to get Jacob taken to the 
 workhouse or to the lock-up house as an offensive stran- 
 ger, might have awkward effects if his family took the 
 
BKOTIIER JACOB. 309 
 
 troublo of inquiring after him. He must resign him- 
 self to more patient measures. 
 
 "On second tlionghts," he said, beckoning to Mr. 
 Palfrey, and whispering to him while Jacob's back was 
 turned, "he's a poor half-witted fellow. Perhaps his 
 friends will come after him. I don't mind giving him 
 sometliing to eat, and letting hiin lie down for the night, 
 lie's got ir, into his head that he knows me — they do 
 get these fancies, idiots do. He'll perhaps go away 
 again in an hour or two, and make no more ado. I'm 
 a kind-hearted man myself — I shouldn't like to have the 
 poor fellow ill-used." 
 
 "Why, he'll eat a sovereign's worth in no time," said 
 Mr. Palfrey, thinking Mr. Freely a little too magnificent 
 in his generosity. 
 
 "Ell, Zavy, come back ?" exclaimed Jacob, giving his 
 dear brother another hug, which crushed Mr. Freely's 
 features inconveniently against the handle of the pitch- 
 fork. 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Mr. Freely, smiling, with every capa- 
 bility of murder in his mind, except the courage to com- 
 mit it. He wished the Bath buns might by chance 
 liave arsenic in them. 
 
 "Mother's zinnies?" said Jacob, pointing to a glass 
 jar of yellow lozenges that stood in the window. " Zive 
 'em me." 
 
 David dared not do otherwise than reach down the 
 glass jar and give Jacob a handful. He received them 
 in his smock-frock, which he held out for more. 
 
 " They'll keep him quiet a bit, at any rate," thought 
 David, and emptied the jar. Jacob grinned and mowed 
 with delight. 
 
310 BKOTHER JACOB. 
 
 " You're very good to this stranger, Mr. Freely," said 
 Letitia ; and then spitefully, as David joined the party 
 at the parlor door, "I think you could hardly treat him 
 better if he was really your brother." 
 
 "I've always thought it a duty to be good to idiots," 
 said Mr. Freely, striving after the most moral view of 
 the subject. " We might have been idiots ourselves — 
 everybody might have been born idiots, instead of hav- 
 ing their right senses." 
 
 "I don't know where there'd ha' been victual for us 
 all, then," observed Mrs. Palfrey, regarding the matter 
 in a housewifely light, 
 
 " But let us sit down again and finish our tea," said 
 Mr. Freely. " Let us leave the poor creature to him- 
 self." 
 
 They walked into the parlor again ; but Jacob, not 
 apparently appreciating the kindness of leaving him to 
 himself, immediately followed his brother, and seated 
 himself, pitchfork grounded, at the table. 
 
 " Well," said Miss Letitia, rising, " I don't know 
 whether you mean to stay, mother, but I shall go 
 home." 
 
 "Oh, me too," said Penny, frightened to death at 
 Jacob, who had begun to nod and grin at her. 
 
 " Well, I think we had better be going, Mr. Palfrey," 
 said the mother, rising more slowly. 
 
 Mr. Freely, whose complexion had become decidedly 
 yellower during the last half hour, did not resist this 
 proposition. He hoped they should meet again " under 
 happier circumstances." 
 
 "It's my belief the man's his brother," said Letitia, 
 when they were all on theii" way home. 
 
BKOTHER JACOB, 311 
 
 " Lettj, it's very ill-natured of you," said Penny, be- 
 ginning to cry. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Mr. Palfrey. "Freely's got no 
 brother ; he's said so many and many a time. He's an 
 orphan; he's got nothing but uncles — leastwise one. 
 What's it matter what an idiot says? What call had 
 Freely to tell lies?" 
 
 Lotitia tossed her head and was silent. 
 
 Mr. Freely, left alone with his affectionate brother 
 Jacob, brooded over the possibility of luring him out of 
 the town early the next morning, and getting him con- 
 veyed to Gilsbrook without further betrayals. But the 
 thing was difficult. He saw clearly that if he took Ja- 
 cob away himself, his absence, conjoined with the dis- 
 appearance of the stranger, would either cause the con- 
 viction that he was really a relative, or would oblige 
 him to the dangerous course of inventing a story to ac- 
 count for his disappearance and his own absence at the 
 same time. David groaned. There come occasions 
 when falsehood is felt to be inconvenient. It would, 
 perhaps, have been a longer-headed device if he had 
 never told any of those clever fibs about his uncles, 
 grand and otherwise; for the Palfreys were simple peo- 
 ple, and shared the popular prejudice against lying. 
 Even if he could get Jacob away this time, what secu- 
 rity was there that he would not come again, having once 
 found the way? O guineas! O lozenges! what envia- 
 ble people those were who had never robbed their moth- 
 ers and had never told fibs ! David spent a sleepless 
 night, M-hile Jacob was snoring close by. Was this the 
 upshot of travelling to the Indies, and acquiring expe- 
 rience combined with anecdote? 
 
312 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 He rose at break of da}', as he had once before done 
 \vlien he was in fear of Jacob, and took all gentle means 
 to rouse hiin from liis deep sleep ; he dared not be loud, 
 because his apprentice was in the house, and would re- 
 port everything. But Jacob was not to be roused. He 
 fouffht out with his fist at the unknown cause of dis- 
 turbance, turned over, and snoied again. He must be 
 left to wake as he would. David, with a cold perspira- 
 tion on his brow, confessed to himself that Jacob could 
 not be got away that day. 
 
 Mr. Palfrey came over to Griraworth before noon, 
 with a natural curiosity to see how his future son-in- 
 law got on with the stranger to whom he Mas so benev- 
 olently inclined. He found a crowd round the shop. 
 All Grimworth by this time had heard how Freely had 
 been fastened on by an idiot, who called him "Brother 
 Zavy;" and the younger population seemed to find the 
 singular stranger an unwearying source of fascination, 
 while the householders dropped in one by one to inquire 
 into the incident. 
 
 "Why don't you send him to the workhouse?" said 
 Mr. Prettyman. " You'll have a row with him and the 
 children presently, and he'll eat you up. The work- 
 house is the proper place for him ; let his kin claim him 
 if he's got any." 
 
 " Those may be your feelings, Mr. Prettyman," said 
 David, his mind quite enfeebled by the torture of his 
 position. 
 
 " What, is he your brother, then ?" said Mr. Pretty- 
 man, looking at his neighbor Freely rather sharply. 
 
 "All men are our brothers, and idiots particular 
 so," said Mr. Freely, who, like many other men of ex- 
 
BROTHER JACOB. 313 
 
 tensive knowledge, was not master of the English lan- 
 guage. 
 
 " Come, come, if he's your brother, tell the truth, man," 
 said Mr. Prettyman, with growing suspicion. " Don't be 
 ashamed of your own flesh and blood." 
 
 Mr. Palfrey was present, and also had his eye on 
 Freely. It is difficult for a man to believe in the ad- 
 vantage of a truth which will disclose him to have 
 been a liar. In this critical moment David shrank 
 from this immediate disgrace in the eyes of his future 
 father-in-law. 
 
 "Mr. Prettyman," he said, "I take your observations 
 as an insult. I've no reason to be otherwise than proud 
 of my own flesh and blood. If this poor man was my 
 brother more than all men are, I should say so." 
 
 A tall figure darkened the door, and David, lifting his 
 eyes in that direction, saw his eldest brother, Jonathan, 
 on the door-sill. 
 
 "I'll stay wi' Zavy," shouted Jacob, as he, too, caught 
 sight of his eldest brother, and running behind the 
 counter he clutched David hard. 
 
 " What, he is here ?" said Jonathan Faux, coming for- 
 ward. " My mother would have no nay, as he'd been 
 away so long, but I must see after him. And it struck 
 me he was very like come after you, because we'd been 
 talking of you o' late, and where you lived." 
 
 David saw there was no escape ; he smiled a ghastly 
 smile. 
 
 "What, is this a relation of yours, sir?" said Mr. Pal- 
 frey to Jonathan. 
 
 " Ay, it's my innicent of a brother, sure enough," 
 said honest Jonathan. " A fine trouble and cost he is 
 2S- <>* 
 
314 BKOTHER JACOB. 
 
 to US in til' eating and other things, but we must bear 
 what's laid on us." 
 
 "And your name's Freely, is it?" said Mr. Pretty- 
 man. 
 
 " Nay, nay, my name's Faux ; I know nothing o' 
 Freelys," said Jonathan, curtly. " Come," he added, 
 turning to David, " I must take some news to mother 
 about Jacob. Shall I take him with me, or will you un- 
 dertake to send him back ?" 
 
 " Take him, if you can make him loose his hold of 
 me," said David, feebly. 
 
 "Is this gentleman hei'e in the confectionery line 
 your brother, then, sir?" said Mr. Prettyman, feeling 
 that it was an occasion on which formal language must 
 be used. 
 
 "Z don't want to own him," said Jonathan, unable to 
 resist a movement of indignation that had never been 
 allowed to satisfy itself. "He run away from home 
 with good reasons in his pocket years ago ; he didn't 
 want to be owned again, I reckon." 
 
 Mr. Palfrey left the shop ; he felt his own pride too 
 severely wounded by the sense that he had let himself 
 be fooled to feel curiosity for further details. The most 
 pressing business was to go home and tell his daughter 
 that Freely was a poor sneak, probably a rascal, and that 
 her engagement was broken off. 
 
 Mr. Prettyman stayed, with some internal self-gratu- 
 lation that he had never given in to Freely, and that Mr. 
 Chaloner would see now what sort of fellow it was that 
 he had put over the heads of older parishioners. He 
 considered it due from him (Mr. Prettyman) that, for 
 the interests of the parish, he should know all that was 
 
BROTHEK JACOB. 315 
 
 to be known about this " interloper." Grim worth would 
 have people coming from Botany Bay to settle in it, if 
 things went on in this way. 
 
 It soon appeared that Jacob could not be made to quit 
 his dear brother David except by force. He understood, 
 with a clearness equal to tiiat of the most intelligent 
 mind, that Jonathan would take him back to skimmed 
 milk, apple-dumpling, broad-beans, and pork. And he 
 had found a paradise in his brother's shop. It was a 
 difficult matter to use force with Jacob, for he wore 
 heav}^, nailed boots ; and if his pitchfork had been mas- 
 tered, he would have resorted without hesitation to kicks. 
 Nothing short of using guile to bind him hand and foot 
 would have made all parties safe. 
 
 " Let him stay," said David, with desperate resigna- 
 tion, frightened above all things at the idea of further 
 disturbances in his shop which would make his exposure 
 all the more conspicuous. " Y^ou go away again, and to- 
 morrow I can, perhaps, get him to go to Gilsbrook with 
 me. He'll follow me fast enough, I dare say," he added, 
 with a half groan. 
 
 " Very well," said Jonathan, gruffly. " I don't see 
 why you shouldn't have some trouble and expense with 
 him as well as the rest of us. But mind 3'ou bring him 
 back safe and soon, else mother '11 never rest." 
 
 On this arrangement being concluded, Mr. Prettyman 
 begged Mr. Jonathan Faux to go and take a snack with 
 him — an invitation which was quite acceptable; and as 
 honest Jonathan had nothing to be ashamed of, it is 
 probable that he was very frank in his communications 
 to the civil draper, who, pursuing tlie benefit of the 
 parish, hastened to make all the information he could 
 
316 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 gatlier about Frecl}' common parocliial property. You 
 may imagine that the meeting of the club at the Wool- 
 pack tliat evening was unusually livel}'. Every member 
 was anxious to prove that he had never liked Freely, as 
 lie called himself. Faux was his name, was it? Fox 
 would have been more suitable. The majority expressed 
 a desire to see him hooted out of the town. 
 
 Mr. Freely did not venture over his door-sill that 
 day, for he knew Jacob would keep at his side, and 
 there was every probability that they would have a 
 train of juvenile followers. He sent to engage the 
 Woolpack gig for an early hour the next morning; but 
 this order was not kept i-eligiously a secret by the land- 
 lord. Mr. Freely was informed that he could not have 
 the gig till seven ; and the Grim worth people were 
 early risers. Perhaps they were more alert than usual 
 on this particular morning; for when Jacob, with a bag 
 of sweets in his hand, was induced to mount the gig 
 with his brother David, the inhabitants of the market- 
 place were looking out of their doors and windows, and 
 at the turning of the street there was even a muster of 
 apprentices and school-boys, who shouted as they passed 
 in what Jacob took to be a very merry and friendly 
 way, nodding and grinning in return. " Huzzay, Da- 
 vid Faux, how's your uncle?" was their morning's 
 greeting. Like other pointed things, it was not alto- 
 gether impromptu. 
 
 Even this public derision was not so crushing to Da- 
 vid as the horrible thought, that though he might suc- 
 ceed now in getting Jacob home again, there would 
 never be any security against his coming back, like a 
 wasp to the honey-pofe. As long as David lived at 
 
BKOTIIER JACOB. 317 
 
 Grimwoi'th, Jacob's return would be hanging over him. 
 But could he go on living at Grinnvorth — an object of 
 ridicule, discarded by the Palfreys, after having revelled 
 in the consciousness that he was an envied and pros- 
 perous confectioner? David liked to be envied; he 
 minded less about being loved. 
 
 His doubts on tliis point were soon settled. The 
 mind of Griniwortli became obstinately set against liim 
 and his viands, and the new school being finished, the 
 eating-room was closed. If there had been no other 
 reason, sympathy with the Palfreys, that respectable 
 family who had lived in the parish time out of mind, 
 would have determined all well-to-do people to decline 
 Freely's goods. Besides, he had absconded with his 
 mother's guineas: who knew what else he liad done, in 
 Jamaica or elsewhere, before he came to Grimworth, 
 worming himself into families under false pretences? 
 Females shuddered. Dire suspicions gathered round 
 him: his green eyes, his bow - legs, Iiad a ci'iminal as- 
 pect. The rector disliked the sight of a man who 
 iiad imposed upon him ; and all hoys who could not 
 afford to purchase hooted " David Faux " as they passed 
 his shop. Certainly no man now would pay anything 
 for the "good-W'ill" of Mr. Freely's business, and he 
 would be obliged to quit it without a peculium so de- 
 sirable towards defraying the expense of moving. 
 
 In a few months the shop in the market-place was 
 again to let, and Mr. David Faux, alias Edward Free- 
 ly, had gone — nobody at Grimworth knew whither. 
 In this way the demoralization of Grimworth women 
 was checked. Young Mrs. Steene renewed her efforts 
 to make light niince-pies, and liaving at last n\ade a 
 
318 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 batch so excellent that Mr. Steene looked at her with 
 complacency as he ate them, and said they were the 
 best he had ever eaten in his life, she thought less of 
 bnlbiils and renegades ever after. The secrets of the 
 liner cookery were revived in the breasts of matronly 
 housewives, and daughters were again anxious to be 
 initiated in tliem. 
 
 Yon will further, I hope, be glad to hear tliat some 
 purchases of drapery made by pretty Penny, in prepa- 
 ration for her marriage witli Mr. Freely, came in quite 
 as well for her wedding with young Towers as if they 
 had been made expressly for the latter occasion. For 
 Penny's complexion had not altered, and blue alwaj's 
 became it best. 
 
 Here ends the story of Mr. David Faux, confectioner, 
 and his brother Jacob. And we see in it, I think, an 
 admirable instance of the unexpected forms in which 
 the great Nemesis hides lierself. 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 " Give me no light, great Heaven, but such as turns 
 To energy of human fellowship ; 
 No powers beyond the growing heritage 
 That makes completer manhood. " — G. E. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 The time of my end approaches. I liave Lately been 
 subject to attacks of a7igina pectoris, and in the ordi- 
 nary course of things, my physician tells me, I may 
 fairly hope that my life will not be protracted many 
 months. Unless, then, I am cursed with an exceptional 
 physical constitution, as I am cursed with an exceptional 
 mental character, I shall not much longer groan under 
 the wearisome burden of this earthly existence. If it 
 were to be otherwise — if I were to live on to the age 
 most men desire and provide for — I should for once have 
 known whether the miseries of delusive expectation can 
 outweigh the miseries of true prevision. For I foresee 
 when I shall die, and everything that will happen in 
 my last moments. 
 
 Just a month from this da}', on the 20th of Septem- 
 ber, 1850, I shall be sitting in this chair, in this study, 
 at ten o'clock at night, longing to die, weary of incessant 
 insight and foresight, without delusions and without 
 hope. Just as I am watching a tongue of blue flame 
 
322 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 rising in the fire, and my lamp is burning low, the hor- 
 rible contraction will begin at my chest. I shall only- 
 have time to reach the bell, and pull it violentl}', before 
 the sense of suffocation will come. No one answers my 
 bell. I know whj. My two servants are lovers, and 
 will have quarrelled. My house-keeper will have rushed 
 out of the house in a fury, two hours before, hoping 
 that Perry will believe she has gone to drown herself. 
 Perry is alarmed at last, and is gone out after her. The 
 little scullery-maid is asleep on a bench ; she never an- 
 swers the bell; it does not wake her. The sense of suf- 
 focation increases; my lamp goes out with a horrible 
 stench ; I make a great effort, and snatch at the bell 
 again. I long for life, and there is no help. I thirsted 
 for the unknown ; the thirst is gone. O God, let me 
 stay with the known, and be weary of it ! I am content. 
 Agony of pain and suffocation — and all the while the 
 earth, the fields, the pebbly brook at the bottom of the 
 rookery, the fresh scent after the rain, the light of the 
 morning through my chamber window, the warmth of 
 the hearth after the frosty air — will darkness close over 
 them forever? 
 
 Darkness — darkness — no pain — nothing but darkness; 
 but I am passing on and on through the darkness; my 
 thought st!iys in the darkness, but always with a sense 
 of moving onward. . . o 
 
 Before that time comes I wish to use my last hours 
 of ease and strength in telling the strange story of my 
 experience. I have never fully unbosomed myself to 
 any human being; I have never been encouraged to 
 trust much in the sympathy of iny fellow-men. But we 
 have all a chance of meeting with some pity, some ten- 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 323 
 
 deniess, some charity, when we are dead ; it is the living 
 only wlio cannot be forgiven — the living only from whom 
 men's indulgence and reverence are held off, like the 
 rain by the hard east wind. While the heart beats, 
 bruise it — it is your only opportunity; while tlie eye 
 can still turn towards you with moist, timid entreaty, 
 freeze it with an ic}', unanswering gaze ; while the ear, 
 that delicate messenger to the inmost sanctnarj^ of the 
 soul, can still take in the tones of kindness, pat it off 
 with hard civility, or sneering compliment, or envious 
 affectation of indifference ; while the creative brain can 
 still throb with the sense of injustice, with the yearning 
 for brotherly recognition — make haste — oppress it with 
 your ill-considered judgments, your trivial comparisons, 
 your careless misrepresentations. The heart will by-and- 
 hy be still — uhl sceva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare 
 nequit j'^ the eye will cease to entreat; the ear will be 
 deaf; the brain will have ceased from all wants as well 
 as from all work. Then your charitable speeches may 
 find vent ; then you may remember and pity the toil 
 and the struggle and the failure ; then you may give due 
 honor to the work achieved ; then you may find exten- 
 uation for errors, and consent to bury them. 
 
 That is a " trivial school-boy text ;" wh}^ do I dwell on 
 it? It has little reference to me, for I shall leave no 
 works behind me for men to honor. I have no near 
 relatives who will make up, by weeping over my grave, 
 for the wounds they inflicted on me when I was among 
 them. It is only the story of my life that will perhaps 
 win a little more sympathy from strangers when I am 
 
 * Inscription on Swift's tombstone. 
 
324 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 dead, than I ever believed it would obtain from my 
 friends while I was living. 
 
 My childhood perhaps seems happier to me than it 
 really was, by contrast with all the after-years. For then 
 the curtain of the future was as impenetrable to me as 
 to other children. I had all their delight in the present 
 hour, their sweet indefinite hopes for the morrow, and 
 I had a tender mother. Even now, after the dreary 
 lapse of long years, a slight trace of sensation accompa- 
 nies the remembrance of her caress as she held me on 
 her knee, her arms round my little body, her cheek 
 pressed on mine. I had a complaint of the eyes that 
 made me blind for a little while, and she kept me on 
 her knee from morning till night. That unequalled 
 love soon vanished out of my life, and even to my child- 
 ish consciousness it was as if that life had become more 
 chill. I rode my little white pony with the groom by 
 my side as before, but there were no loving eyes looking 
 at me as I mounted, no glad arms opened to me when 
 I came back. Perhaps I missed my mother's love more 
 than most children of seven or eight would have done, 
 to whom the other pleasures of life remained as before, 
 for I was certainlj' a very sensitive child. I remember 
 still the mingled trepidation and delicious excitement 
 with which I was affected by the tramping of the horses 
 on the pavement in the echoing stables, by the loud res- 
 onance of the grooms' voices, by the booming bark of 
 the dogs as my father's carriage thundered under the 
 archway of the court-yard, by the din of the gong as it 
 gave notice of luncheon and dinner. The measured 
 tramp of soldiery which I sometimes heard — for my fa- 
 ther's house lay near a county town where there n-ere 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 325 
 
 large barracks — made me sob and tremble ; and jet when 
 they were gone past I longed for them to come back 
 again. 
 
 I fancy my father thought me an odd child, and had 
 little fondness for me, though he was very careful in 
 fulfilling what he regarded as a parent's duties. But 
 he w^as already past the middle of life, and I was not his 
 only son. My mother had been his second wife, and he 
 was five-and-forty when he married her. He was a firm, 
 unbending, intensely orderly man, in root and stem a 
 banker, but with a flourishing graft of the active land- 
 liolder, aspiring to county influence : one of those peo- 
 ple who are always like themselves from day to day, 
 who are uninfluenced by the weather, and neither know 
 melao-Bholy nor high spirits. I held him in great awe, 
 and appeared mere timid and sensitive in his pi'esence 
 than at other times — a circumstance which, perhaps, 
 helped to confirm him in the intention to educate me 
 on a diiferent plan from the prescriptive one with which 
 he had complied in the case of my elder brother, already 
 a tall youth at Eton. My brother was to be his repre- 
 sentative and successor; he must go to Eton and Oxford, 
 for the sake of making connections, of course. My fa- 
 ther was not a man to underrate the bearing of Latin 
 satirists or Greek dramatists on the attainment of an 
 aristocratic position. But intrinsically he had slight 
 esteem for "those dead but sceptred spirits," having 
 qualified himself for forming an independent opinion 
 by reading Potter's "JEschylus" and dipping into Fran- 
 cis's "Horace." To this negative view he added a posi- 
 tive one, derived from a recent connection with mining 
 speculations — namely, that a scientific education was the 
 
326 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 really useful training for a younger son. Moreover, it 
 was clear that a shy, sensitive boy like me was not fit to 
 encounter the rough experience of a public school. Mr. 
 Letherall had said so very decidedly. Mr. Letherall was 
 a large man in spectacles, who one day took my small 
 head between his large hands, and pressed it here and 
 there in an exploratory, suspicious manner, then placed 
 each of his great thumbs on my temples, and pushed me 
 a little way from him, and stared at me with glittering 
 spectacles. The contemplation appeared to displease 
 him, for he frowned sternly, and said to my father, 
 drawing his thumbs across my eyebrows, 
 
 "The deficiency is there, sir — there; and here," he 
 added — touching, the upper sides of my head — 'Uiere is 
 the excess. Tliat must be brought out, sir, and this 
 must be laid to sleep." 
 
 I was in a state of tremor, partly at the vague idea 
 that I was the object of reprobation, partly in the agita- 
 tion of ray first hatred — hatred of this big spectacled 
 man, who pulled my head about as if he wanted to buy 
 and cheapen it. 
 
 I am not aware how much Mr. Letherall had to do 
 with the system afterwards adopted towards me, but it 
 was presently clear that private tutors, natural history, 
 science, and the modern languages were the appliances 
 by which the defects of my organization were to be 
 remedied. I was very stupid about machines, so I was 
 to be greatly occupied with them ; I had no memory 
 for classification, so it was particularly necessary that I 
 should study systematic zoology and botany ; I was 
 hungry for human deeds and human emotions, so I was 
 to be plentifully crammed with the mechanical powers, 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 327 
 
 the elerneutary bodies, and the phenomena of electricity 
 and magnetism. A better-constituted boy would certain- 
 ly have profited under my intelligent tutors, with their 
 "scientific apparatus, and would doubtless have found the 
 phenomena of electricity and magnetism as fascinating 
 as I was every Thursday assured they were. As it was, 
 I could have paired off, for ignorance of whatever was 
 taught me, with the worst Latin scholar that was ever 
 turned out of a classical academy. I read Plutarch and 
 Shakespeare and " Don Quixote " by the sly, and sup- 
 plied myself in that way with wandering thoughts, 
 while my tutor was assuring me that " an improved 
 man, as distinguished from an ignorant one, was a man 
 who knew the reason why water ran down hill." I had 
 no desire to be this improved man. I was glad of the 
 running water; I could watch it and listen to it gur- 
 gling among the pebbles and bathing the bright green 
 water-plants by the hour together. I did not want to 
 know why it ran ; I had perfect confidence that there 
 were good reasons for what was so very beautiful. 
 
 There is no need to dwell on this part of my life. I 
 liave said enough to indicate that my nature was of the 
 sensitive, unpractical order, and that it grew up in an 
 uncongenial medium, which could never foster it into 
 happy, healthy development. When I was sixteen I 
 was sent to Geneva to complete my course of education ; 
 and the change was a very happy one to me, for the 
 first sight of the Alps, with the setting sun on them, as 
 we descended the Jura, seemed to me like an entrance 
 into heaven ; and the three years of my life there were 
 spent in a perpetual sense of exaltation, as if from a 
 draught of delicious wine, at the presence of Nature in 
 
328 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 all lier awful loveliness. You will think, perhaps, that 
 I must have been a poet, from this early sensibility to 
 Nature. But my lot was not so happy as that. A poet 
 pours fortli his song, and helieves in tiie listening ear 
 and answering soul to which his song will be floated 
 sooner or later. But the poet's sensibility without his 
 voice — the poet's sensibility that finds no vent but in 
 silent tears on the sunny bank, when the noonday light 
 sparkles on the water, or in an inward shudder at the 
 sound of harsh human tones, the sight of a cold human 
 eye — this dumb passion brings with it a fatal solitude 
 of soul in the society of one's fellow-uien. My least 
 solitary moments were those in which I pushed off in 
 my boat at evening towards the centre of the lake. It 
 seemed to me that the sky, and the glowing mountain- 
 tops, and the wide blue wvater surrounded me with a 
 cherishing love such as no human face had shed on me 
 since my mother's love had vanished out of my life. I 
 used to do as Jean Jacques did — lie down in ray boat and 
 let it glide where it would, while I looked up at the de- 
 parting glow leaving one mountain-top after the other, 
 as if the prophet's chariot of fire were passing over them 
 on its w-ay to the home of light. Then, when the white 
 summits were all sad and corpse-like, I had to pusli 
 homeward, for I was under careful surveillance, and 
 was allowed no late wanderings. This disposition of 
 mine was not favorable to the formation of intimate 
 friendships among the numerous youths of my own age 
 who are always to be found studying at Geneva. Yet 
 I made one such friendship ; and, singularly enough, it 
 was with a youth whose intellectual tendencies were 
 the very reverse of my own. I shall call him Charles 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 329 
 
 Meunier, his real surname — an English one, for lie was 
 of English extraction — having since become celebrated. 
 He was an orphan, who lived on a miserable pittance 
 while he pursued the medical studies for which he had 
 a special genius. Strange, that with my vague mind, 
 visionary and unobservant, hating inquiry, and given 
 up to contemplation, I should have been drawn towards 
 a youth whose strongest passion was science ! But the 
 bond was not an intellectual one ; it came from a source 
 that can happily blend the stupid with the brilliant, the 
 dreamy with the practical — it came from community of 
 feeling. Charles was poor and ugly, derided by Gene- 
 vese gamins^ and not acceptable in drawing-rooms. 1 
 saw that he was isolated, as I was, though from a differ 
 ent cause, and stimulated by a sympathetic resentment, 
 I made timid advances towards him. It is enough to 
 say that there sprang up as much comradeship between 
 us as our different habits would allow ; and in Charles's 
 rare holidays we went up the Saleve together, or took 
 the boat to Vevay, while I listened dreamily to the 
 monologues in which he unfolded his bold conceptions 
 of future experiment and discovery. I mingled them 
 confusedly in ray thought with glimpses of blue water 
 and delicate floating cloud, with the notes of birds and 
 the distant glitter of the glacier. He knew quite well 
 that my mind was half absent, yet he liked to talk to 
 me in this way ; for don't we talk of our hopes and our 
 projects even to dogs and birds when they love us ? I 
 have mentioned this one friendship because of its con- 
 nection with a strange and terrible scene which I shall 
 have to narrate in my subsequent life. 
 
 This happier life at Geneva was put an end to by a 
 29 P 
 
330 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 terrible illne&s, which is partly a blank to me, partly a 
 time of dimly remembered suffering, with the presence 
 of my father by my bed from time to time. Then came 
 the languid monotony of convalescence, the days gradu- 
 ally breaking into variety and distinctness as my strength 
 enabled me to take longer and longer drives. On one 
 of these more vividly remembered days my father said 
 to me, as he sat beside my sofa: 
 
 "When you are quite well enough to travel, Lati- 
 mer, I shall take you home witli me. The journey will 
 amuse you and do you good, for I shall go through the 
 Tyrol and Austria, and you will see many new places. 
 Our neighbors the Filinores are come ; Alfred will join, 
 us at Basle, and we shall all go together to Vienna, and 
 back by Prague — " 
 
 My father was called away before he had finished 
 his sentence, and he left my mind resting on the word 
 Prague, with a strange sense that a new and wondrous 
 scene was breaking upon me : a city under the broad 
 sunshine, that seemed to me as if it were the summer 
 sunshine of a long-past century arrested in its course, 
 unrefreshed for ages by the dews of night or the rush- 
 ing rain -cloud, scorching the dusty, weary, time-eaten 
 grandeur of a people doomed to live on in the stale 
 repetition of memories, like deposed and superannuated 
 kings in their regal gold -inwoven tatters. The city 
 looked so thirsty that the broad river seemed to me a 
 sheet of metal ; and the blackened statues, as I passed 
 under their blank gaze, along the unending bridge, with 
 their ancient garments and their saintly crowns, seemed 
 to me the real inhabitants and owners of this place, 
 while, the busy, trivial men and women, hurrying to and 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 331 
 
 fro, were a swarm of ephemeral visitants infesting it 
 for a day. It is such grim, stony beings as these, I 
 tiiought, who are the fathers of ancient faded children 
 in those tanned time-fretted dwellings that crowd the 
 steep before me ; who pay their court in the worn and 
 crumbling pomp of the palace which stretches its mo- 
 notonous length on the height ; who worship wearily 
 in the stifling air of the churches, urged by no fear or 
 hope, but compelled by their doom to be ever old and 
 undying, to live on in the rigidity of habit, as they live 
 on in perpetual mid-day, without the repose of night or 
 the new birth of morning. 
 
 A stunning clang of metal suddenly thrilled through 
 me, and I became conscious of the objects in my room 
 again : one of the fire-irons had fallen as Pierre opened 
 the door to bring me my draught. My heart was pal- 
 pitating violently, and I begged Pierre to leave my 
 draught beside me ; I would take it presently. 
 
 As soon as I was alone again I began to ask myself 
 whether I had been sleeping. Was this a dream, this 
 wonderfully distinct vision — minute in its distinctness 
 down to a patch of colored light on the pavement, trans- 
 mitted through a colored lamp in the shape of a star — ■ 
 of a strange city, quite unfamiliar to my imagination? 
 I had seen no picture of Prague; it lay in my mind as 
 a mere name, with vaguely remembered liistorical asso- 
 ciations — ill-defined memories of imperial grandeur and 
 religious wars. 
 
 Nothing of this sort had ever occurred in my dream- 
 ing experience before, for I had often been humiliated 
 because my dreams wei-e only saved from being utterly 
 disjointed and commonplace by the frequent terrors of 
 
332 THK LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 nightmare. But I could not believe that I had been 
 asleep, for I remembered distinctly the gradual break- 
 ing in of the vision upon me, like the new images in a 
 dissolving view, or the growing distinctness of the land- 
 scape as the sun lifts up the veil of the morning mist. 
 And while I was conscious of this incipient vision, I 
 was also conscious that Pierre came to tell my father 
 Mr. Filmore was waiting for him, and that my father 
 hurried out of the room. No, it was not a dream ; 
 was it — the thought was full of tremulous exultation — 
 was it the poet's nature in me, hitherto only a troubled, 
 yearning sensibility, now manifesting itself suddenly as 
 spontaneous creation ? Surely it was in this way that 
 Homer saw the plain of Troy, that Dante saw the abodes 
 of the departed, that Milton saw the earthward flight 
 of the Tempter, Was it that my illness had wrought 
 some happy change in my organization, given a firmer 
 tension to my nerves, carried off some dull obstruction ? 
 I had often read of such effects — in w'orks of fiction, at 
 least. Nay, in genuine biographies I had read of the 
 subtilizinfy or exaltinsc influence of some diseases on the 
 mental powers. Did not Novalis feel his inspiration 
 intensified under the progress of consumption ? 
 
 When my mind had dwelt for some time on this 
 blissful idea, it seemed to me that I might perhaps test 
 is by an exertion of my will. The vision had begun 
 when my father was speaking of our going to Prague. 
 I did not for a moment believe it was really a represen- 
 tation of that city. I believed,! hoped, it was a picture 
 that my newly liberated genius had painted in fiery 
 haste, with the colors snatched from lazy memory. Sup- 
 pose I were to fix my mind on some other place — Yen- 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 333 
 
 ice, for example, which was far more familiar to my 
 imagination than Prague — perhaps the same sort of 
 result would follow. I concentrated my thoughts on 
 Venice; I stimulated my imagination with poetic mem- 
 ories, and strove to feel myself present in Venice, as 
 I had felt myself present in Prague. But in vain. I 
 was only coloring the Canaletto engravings that hung 
 in my old bedroom at home; the picture was a shift- 
 ing one, my mind wandering uncertainly in search of 
 more vivid images; I could see no accident of form 
 or shadow without conscious labor after the necessary 
 conditions. It was all prosaic effort, not rapt passiv- 
 ity, such as I had experienced half an hour before. 1 
 was discouraged; but I remembered that inspiration 
 was fitful. 
 
 For several days I was in a state of excited expec- 
 tation, watching for a recurrence of my new gift. I 
 sent my thoughts ranging over my world of vknowledge, 
 in the hope that they would find some object which 
 would send a re-awakening vibration through my slum- 
 bering genius. Put no ; my world remained as dim as 
 ever, and that flash of strange light refused to come 
 again, though I watched for it with palpitating eager- 
 ness. 
 
 My father accompanied me every day in a drive and 
 a gradually lengthening walk as my powers of walking 
 increased ; and one evening he had agreed to come and 
 fetch me at twelve the next day, that we might go to- 
 gether to select a musical snuff-box and other purchases, 
 rigorously demanded of a rich Englishman visiting Ge- 
 neva. He was one of the most punctual of men and 
 bankers, and I was always nervously anxious to be quite 
 
334: THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 ready for him at the appointed time. But, to my sur- 
 prise, at a quarter past twelve he had not appeared. I 
 felt all the impatience of a convalescent who has nothing 
 particular to do, and who has just taken a tonic in the 
 prospect of immediate exercise that would carry off the 
 stimulus. 
 
 Unable to sit still and reserve my strength, I walked 
 up and down the room, looking out on the current of 
 the Rhone just where it leaves the dark blue lake, but 
 thinking all the while of the possible causes that could 
 detain my father. 
 
 Suddenly I was conscious that my father was in the 
 room, but not alone : there were two persons with him. 
 Strange! I had heard no footstep, I had not seen the 
 door open ; but I saw my father, and at his right liand 
 our neighbor Mrs. Filmore, whom I remembered very 
 well, though I had not seen her for live years. She was 
 a commonplace, middle-aged woman, in silk and cash- 
 mere ; but the lady on the left of my father was not 
 more than twenty — a tall, slim, willowy figure, with 
 luxuriant blond hair arranged in cunning braids and 
 folds that looked almost too massive for the slight 
 figure and the small -featured, thin -lipped face they 
 crowned. But the face had not a girlish expression : 
 the features were sharp, tlie pale gray eyes at once 
 acute, restless, and sarcastic. They were fixed on me in 
 half-smiling curiosit}', and I felt a painful sensation, as 
 if a sharp wind were cutting me. The pale green dress 
 and the green leaves that seemed to form a border 
 about her blond hair made me think of a Water Nixie; 
 for my mind was full of German lyrics, and this pale, 
 fatal-eyed woman, with the green weeds, looked like a 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 335 
 
 birth from some cold, sedgy stream, tlie daughter of an 
 aged river. 
 
 "Well, Latimer, you thought me long," my father 
 said. . . . 
 
 But while the last word was in my ears the whole 
 group vanished, and there was nothing between me and 
 the Chinese painted folding -screen that stood before 
 the door. I was cold and trembling ; I could only tot- 
 ter forward and throw myself on the sofa. This strange 
 new power had manifested itself again. . . . But was it 
 a power? Might it not rather be a disease — a sort of 
 intermittent delirium, concentrating my energy of brain 
 into moments of unhealthy activity, and leaving my 
 saner hours all the more barren ? I felt a dizzy sense 
 of unreality in what my eye rested on ; I grasped the 
 bell convulsively, like one trying to free himself from 
 nightmare, and rang it twice. Pierre came with a look 
 of alarm in his face. 
 
 "Monsieur ne se trouve pas bien?" he said, anxiously. 
 
 " I'm tired of waiting, Pierre," I said, as distinctly and 
 emphatically as I could — like a man determined to be 
 sober in spite of wine. "Pm afraid something has hap- 
 pened to my father — he is usually so punctual. Pun to 
 the Hotel des Bergues, and see if he is tliere." 
 
 Pierre left the room at once, with a soothing "Bien, 
 monsieur," and I felt the better for this scene of sim- 
 ple waking prose. Seeking to calm myself still further, 
 I went into my bedroom, adjoining the salon, and opened 
 a case of eau-de-Cologne, took out a bottle, went through 
 the process of taking out the cork very neatly, and tiien 
 rubbed the reviving spirit over my hands and forehead 
 and under my nostrils, drawing a new delight from the 
 
330 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 scent because I had procured it by slow details of labor, 
 and by no strange, sudden madness. Already I had be- 
 gun to taste something of the horror that belongs to the 
 lot of a human being whose nature is not adjusted to 
 simple human conditions. 
 
 Still enjoying the scent, I returned to the salon ; but 
 it was not unoccupied, as it had been before I left it. In 
 front of the Chinese folding-screen there was my father, 
 with Mrs. Filmore on his right hand, and on his left — 
 the slim, blond-haired girl, with the keen face and the 
 keen eyes fixed on me in half-smiling curiosity. 
 
 " Well, Latimer, you thought me long," my father 
 said. . . . 
 
 I heard no more, felt no more, till I became conscious 
 that I was lying with my head low on the sofa, Pierre 
 and ray father by my side. As soon as I was thorough- 
 ly revived my father left the room, and presently re- 
 turned, saying, 
 
 "I've been to tell the ladies how yon are, Latimer. 
 They were waiting in the next room. We shall put off 
 our shopping expedition to-day." 
 
 Presently he said, " That young lady is Bertha Grant, 
 Mrs. Filmore's orphan niece. Filmore has adopted her, 
 and she lives with them, so you will have her for a neigh- 
 bor when we go home — perhaps for a near relation ; for 
 there is a tenderness between her and Alfred, I suspect, 
 and I should be gratified by the match, since Filmore 
 means to provide for her in every way as if she were 
 his daughter. It hadn't occurred to me that you knew 
 nothing about her living with the Filmores." 
 
 He made no further allusion to the fact of my having 
 fainted at the moment of seeing her, and I would not 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 337 
 
 for the world have told him the reason. I shrank from 
 the idea of disclosing to any one what might be regard- 
 ed as a pitiable peculiarity, most of all from betraying 
 it to my father, who would have suspected my sanity 
 ever after. 
 
 I do not mean to dwell with particularity on the de- 
 tails of my experience. I have described these two cases 
 at length, because they had definite, clearly traceable re- 
 sults in my after-lot. 
 
 Shortly after this last occurrence — I think the very 
 next day — I began to be aware of a phase in my ab- 
 normal sensibility to which, from the languid and slight 
 nature of my intercourse with others since my illness, I 
 had not been alive before. This was the obtrusion on 
 my mind of the mental process going forward in first 
 one person and tlien another, with whom 1 happened 
 to be in contact. The vagrant, frivolous ideas and emo- 
 tions of some uninteresting acquaintance — Mrs. Filmore, 
 for example — would force themselves on my conscious- 
 ness like an importunate, ill-played musical instrument 
 or the loud activity of an imprisoned insect. But tliis 
 unpleasant sensibility was fitful, and left me moments 
 of rest when the souls of my companions were once more 
 shut out from me, and I felt a relief such as silence 
 brings to wearied nerves. I might have believed this 
 importunate insight to be merely a diseased activity of 
 the imagination, but that my prevision of incalculable 
 words and actions proved it to have a fixed relation to 
 the mental process in other minds. But this superadded 
 consciousness, wearying and annoying enough when it 
 urged on me the trivial experience of indifferent people, 
 became an intense pain and grief when it seemed to be 
 29* P*' 
 
338 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 opening to me the souls of those Avho were in a close 
 relation to me — when the rational talk, the graceful at- 
 tentions, the bon-mots, and the kindly deeds, which used 
 to make the web of their characters, were seen as if thrust 
 asunder by a microscopic vision that showed all the in- 
 termediate frivolities, all the suppressed egoism, all the 
 struggling chaos of puerilities, meanness, vague capri- 
 cious memories, and indolent, makeshift thoughts, from 
 which human words and deeds emerge like leaflets cov- 
 ering a fermenting heap. 
 
 At Basle we were joined by my brother Alfred, now 
 a handsome, self-confident man of six-and-twenty — a 
 thorough contrast to my fragile, nervous, ineffectual self. 
 I believe I was held to have a sort of half- womanish, 
 half-ghostly beauty ; for the portrait-painters, who are 
 thick as weeds at Geneva, had often asked me to sit to 
 them, and I had been the model of a dying minstrel in 
 a fancy picture. But I thoroughly disliked my own 
 physique, and nothing but the belief that it was a con- 
 dition of poetic genius would have reconciled me to it. 
 That brief hope was quite fled, and I saw in my face 
 now nothing but the stamp of a morbid organization, 
 framed for passive suffering — too feeble for the sub- 
 lime resistance of poetic production. Alfred, from 
 whom I had been almost constantly separated, and who, 
 in his present stage of character and appearance, came 
 before me as a perfect stranger, was bent on being 
 extremely friendly and brother-like to me. He had the 
 superficial kindness of a good-humored, self-satisfied nat- 
 ure, that fears no rivalry and has encountered no con- 
 trarieties. I am not sure that my disposition was good 
 enough for me to have been quite free from envy 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 339 
 
 towards him, even if oiir desires had not clashed, and 
 if I had been in the iiealthy human condition that ad- 
 mits of generous confidence and charitable construction. 
 There must always have been an antipathy between our 
 natures. As it was, he became in a few weeks an ob- 
 ject of intense hatred to me ; and when he entered 
 the room, still more when he spoke, it was as if a sen- 
 sation of grating metal had set my teeth on edge. My 
 diseased consciousness was more intensely and continu- 
 ally occupied with his thoughts and emotions than with 
 those of any other person who came in my way. 1 
 was perpetually exasperated with the petty promptings 
 of his conceit and his love of patronage, with his self- 
 complacent belief in Bertha Grant's passion for him, 
 with his half -pitying contempt for me — seen not in 
 the ordinary indications of intonation and phrase and 
 slight action, which an acute and suspicious mind is on 
 the watch for, but in all their naked, skinless compli- 
 cation. 
 
 For we were rivals, and our desires clashed, though 
 he was not aware of it. I have said nothing yet of 
 the effect Bertha Grant produced in me on a nearer ac- 
 quaintance. That effect was chiefly determined by the 
 fact that she made the only exception, among all the 
 human beings about me, to my unhappy gift of insight. 
 About Bertha I was always in a state of uncertainty : I 
 could watch the expression of her face, and speculate 
 on its meaning ; I could ask for her opinion with the 
 real interest of ignorance ; I could listen for her words 
 and watch for her smile with hope and fear: she had 
 for me the fascination of an unravelled destiny. I say 
 it was this fact that chiefly determined the strong effect 
 
340 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 she produced ou me ; for, in the abstract, no womanly 
 character could seem to have less sympathy M'ith that 
 of a shrinking, romantic, passionate youth than Ber- 
 tha's. She was keen, sarcastic, unimaginative, premature- 
 ly cynical, remaining critical and unmoved in the most 
 impressive scenes, inclined to dissect all my favorite 
 poems, and, most of all, contemptuous towards the Ger- 
 man lyrics, which were my pet literature at that time. 
 To this moment I am unable to define my feeling to- 
 wards her: it was not ordinary boyish admiration, for 
 she was the very opposite, even to the color of her hair, 
 of the ideal woman who still remained to me the type 
 of loveliness; and she was without that enthusiasm for 
 the great and good which, even at the moment of her 
 strongest dominion over me, I should have declared to 
 be the highest element of character. But there is no 
 tyranny more complete than that which a self-centred 
 negative nature exercises over a morbidly sensitive nat- 
 ure perpetually craving sympathy and support. Tlie 
 most independent people feel the effect of a man's si- 
 lence in heightening their value for his opinion — feel 
 an additional triumph in conquering the reverence of a 
 critic habitually captious and satirical: no wonder, then, 
 that an enthusiastic, self-distrusting youth should watch 
 and wait before the closed secret of a sarcastic woman's 
 face, as if it were the shrine of the doubtfully benignant 
 deity who ruled his destiny. For a young enthusiast is 
 unable to imagine the total negation in another mind 
 of the emotions that are stirring his own : they may be 
 feeble, latent, inactive, he thinks, but they are there ; 
 they may be called forth — sometimes, in moments of 
 happy hallucinations, he believes they may be there in 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 341 
 
 all the greater strength because he sees no outward sign 
 of them. And this effect, as I have intimated, was 
 heightened to its utmost intensity in me, because Ber- 
 tha "was the only being who remained for me in the 
 it)ysterious seclusion of soul that renders such youth- 
 ful delusion possible. Doubtless there was another sort 
 of fascination at work — that subtle physical attraction 
 which delights in cheating our pyschological predic- 
 tions, and in compelling the men who paint sylphs to 
 fall in love with some honne et hrave femme, heavy- 
 heeled and freckled. 
 
 Bertha's behavior towards me was such as to en- 
 courage all my illusions, to heighten my boyish passion, 
 and make me more and more dependent on her smiles. 
 Looking back with my present wretched knowledge, I 
 conclude that her vanity and love of power were in- 
 tensely gratified by the belief that I had fainted on iirst 
 seeing her purely from the strong impression her per- 
 son had produced on me. The most prosaic woman 
 likes to believe herself the object of a violent, a poetic 
 passion; and without a grain of romance in her, Bertha 
 had that spirit of intrigue which gave piquancy to the 
 idea that the brother of the man she meant to marry 
 was dying with love and jealousy for her sake. That 
 she meant to marry my brother was what at that time 
 I did not believe; for though he was assiduous in his 
 attentions to her, and I knew well enough that both he 
 and my fatlier had made up their minds to this result, 
 there was not yet an understood engagement — there 
 had been no explicit declaration; and Bertha hal)itu- 
 all}', while she flirted with my brother, and accepted his 
 homage in a way that implied to him a thorough ivcog- 
 
342 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 iiition of its intention, made me believe, by the subtlest 
 looks and phrases, slight feminine nothings that could 
 never be quoted against her, that he was really the ob- 
 ject of her secret ridicule — that she thought him, as I 
 did, a coxcomb, whom she would have pleasure in dis- 
 appointing. Me she openly petted in my brother's 
 presence, as if I were too young and sickly ever to be 
 thought of as a lover ; and that was the view he took of 
 me. But I believe she must inwardly have delighted 
 in the tremors into which she threw me by the coaxing 
 way in which she patted my curls, while she laughed at 
 my quotations. Such caresses were always given in the 
 presence of our friends, for when we were alone togeth- 
 er she affected a much greater distance towards me, and 
 now and then took the opportunity, by words or slight 
 actions, to stimulate my foolish, timid hope that she 
 really preferred me. And why should she not follow 
 her inclination? I was not in so advantageous a posi- 
 tion as my brother, but I had fortune, I was not a year 
 younger than she was, and she was an heiress, who 
 would soon be of age to decide for herself. 
 
 The fluctuations of hope and fear, confined to this 
 one channel, made each day in her presence a delicious 
 torment. There was one deliberate act of hers which 
 especially helped to intoxicate me. When we were at 
 Vienna her twentieth birthday occurred, and as she was 
 very fond of ornaments, we all took the opportunity of 
 the splendid jewellers' shops in that Teutonic Paris to 
 purchase her a birthday present of jewellery. Mine, 
 naturally, was the least expensive; it was an opal ring 
 — the opal was my favorite stone, because it seems to 
 blush and turn pale as if it had a soul. I told Bertha 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 343 
 
 SO when I gave it her, and said that it was an emblem 
 of the poetic nature, changing with the changing light 
 of heaven and of woman's eyes. In the evening she 
 appeared elegantly dressed, and wearing conspicuously 
 all the birthday presents except mine. I looked eager- 
 ly at her fingers, but saw no opal. I had no opportu- 
 nity of noticing this to her during the evening; but 
 the next day, when I found her seated near the window 
 alone, after breakfast, I said, " You scorn to wear my 
 poor opal. I should have remembered that you despised 
 poetic natures, and should have given you coral or tur- 
 quoise, or some other opaque, unresponsive stone." " Do 
 I despise it?" she answered, taking hold of a delicate 
 gold chain which she always wore round her neck and 
 drawing out the end from her bosom with my ring 
 hanging to it. "It hurts me a little, I can tell you," 
 she said, with her usual dubious smile, " to wear it in 
 that secret place ; and since your poetical nature is so 
 stupid as to prefer a more public position, I shall not 
 endure the pain any longer." 
 
 She took off the ring from the chain and put it on 
 her finger, smiling still, while the blood rushed to my 
 cheeks, and I could not trust myself to say a word of 
 entreaty that she would keep the ring where it was 
 before. 
 
 I was completely fooled by this, and for two days 
 shut mj'self up in my own room whenever Bertha was 
 absent, that I might intoxicate mj'self afresh with the 
 thought of this scene, and all it implied. 
 
 I should mention that during these two months — 
 which seemed a long life to me from the novelty and 
 intensity of the pleasures and pains I underwent — my 
 
344 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 diseased participation in other people's consciousness 
 continued to torment me. E^ow it was my father, and 
 now my brother, now Mrs. Fihnore or her husband, and 
 now our German courier, whose stream of thought rush- 
 ed upon me like a ringing in the ears not to be got rid 
 of, though it allowed my own impulses and ideas to con- 
 tinue their uninterrupted course. It was like a preter- 
 naturally heightened sense of hearing, making audible 
 to one a roar of sound where others find perfect still- 
 ness. The weariness and disgust of this involuntary 
 intrusion into other souls were counteracted only by 
 my ignorance of Bertha and my growing passion for 
 her — a passion enormously stimulated, if not produced, 
 by that ignorance. She was my oasis of mystery in the 
 dreary desert of knowledge. I had never allowed my 
 diseased condition to betray itself or to drive me into 
 any unusual speech or action, except once, when, in a 
 moment of peculiar bitterness against my brother, I had 
 forestalled some words which I knew he was going to 
 utter — a clever observation, which he had prepared be- 
 forehand. He had occasionally a slightly affected hes- 
 itation in his speech, and when he paused an instant 
 after the second word, my impatience and jealousy im- 
 pelled me to continue the speech for him, as if it were 
 something we had both learned by rote. He colored and 
 looked astonished, as well as annoyed ; and the words 
 had no sooner escaped my lips than I felt a shock of 
 alarm lest such an anticipation of words, very far from 
 being words of course easy to divine, should have be- 
 trayed me as an exceptional being, a sort of quiet en- 
 ergumen, that every one. Bertha above all, would shud- 
 der at and avoid. But I magnified, as usual, the ini- 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 345 
 
 pression any word or deed of mine could produce on 
 others ; for no one gave any sign of having noticed my 
 interruption as more than a rudeness, to be forgiven me 
 on the score of my feeble nervous condition. 
 
 While this superadded consciousness of the actual 
 was almost constant with me, I had never had a recur- 
 rence of that distinct prevision which I have described 
 in relation to my first interview with Bertha; and I was 
 waiting with eager curiosity to know whether or not 
 my vision of Prague would prove to have been an in- 
 stance of the same kind. A few days after the incident 
 of the opal ring, we were paying one of our frequent 
 visits to the Lichtenberg Palace. I could never look at 
 many pictures in succession ; for pictures, when they 
 are at all powerful, affect me so strongly that one or 
 Uvo exhausts all my capability of contemplation. This 
 norning I had been looking at Giorgione's picture of 
 the cruel-eyed woman, said to be a likeness of Lucrezia 
 Borgia. I had stood long alone before it, fascinated by 
 the terrible reality of that cunning, relentless face, till 
 I felt a strange poisoned sensation, as if I had long been 
 inhaling a fatal odor, and was just beginning to be con- 
 scious of its effects. Perhaps even then I should not 
 have moved away, if the rest of the party had not re- 
 turned to this room, and announced that they were go- 
 ing to the Belvedere Galleiy to settle a bet which had 
 arisen between my brother and Mr. Filmore about a 
 portrait. I followed them dreamily, and was hardly 
 alive to what occurred till they had all gone up to tliu 
 galler}', leaving me below ; for I refused to come with- 
 in sight of another picture that day. I made my way 
 to the Grand Terrace, for it was agreed that we should 
 
340 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 saunter in the gardens when tlie dispute had been de- 
 cided. I had been sitting here a short space, vaguely 
 conscious of trim gardens, with a city and green hills in 
 the distance, when, wishing to avoid the proximity of 
 the sentinel, I rose and walked down the broad stone 
 steps, intending to seat myself farther on in the gar- 
 dens. Just as I reached the gravel-walk, I felt an arm 
 slipped wnthin mine, and a light hand gently pressing 
 my wrist. In the same instant a strange intoxicating 
 numbness passed over me, like the continuance or cli- 
 max of the sensation I was still feeling from the gaze 
 of Lucrezia Borgia. The gardens, the summer sky, the 
 consciousness of Bertha's arm being within mine, all 
 vanished, and I seemed to be suddenly in darkness, out 
 of which there gradually broke a dim fire-light, and I 
 felt myself sitting in my father's leather chair in the 
 library at home. I knew the fireplace — the dogs for 
 the wood fire, the black marble chimney-piece wuth the 
 white marble medallion of the dying Cleopatra in the 
 centre. Intense and hopeless misery was pressing on 
 my soul ; the light became stronger, for Bertha was en- 
 tering with a candle in her hand — Bertha, my wife — 
 with cruel eyes, with green jewels and green leaves on 
 her white ball-dress; every hateful thought within her 
 present to me. ..." Madman, idiot ! why don't you kill 
 yourself, then ?" It was a moment of hell. I saw into 
 her pitiless soul — saw its barren worldliness, its scorch- 
 ing hate — and felt it clothe me round like an air I was 
 obliged to breathe. She came with her candle and 
 stood over me with a bitter smile of contempt; I saw 
 the great emerald brooch on her bosom, a studded ser- 
 pent with diamond eyes. I shuddered — I despised this 
 
Tllli LIFTED VEIL. 34:7 
 
 woman with the barren soul and mean thoughts ; but I 
 felt helpless before her, as if she clutched my bleeding 
 lieart, and would clutch it till the last drop of life-blood 
 ebbed away. She was my wife, and we hated each oth- 
 er. Gradually the hearth, the dim library, the candle- 
 light disappeared — seemed to melt away into a back- 
 ground of light, the green serpent with the diamond 
 eyes remaining a dark image on the retina. Then I 
 had a sense of my eyelids quivering, and the living 
 daylight broke in upon me; I saw gardens and heard 
 voices; I was seated on the steps of the Belvedere Ter- 
 race, and my friends were round me. 
 
 The tumult of mind into which I was thrown by this 
 hideous vision made me ill for several days, and pro- 
 longed our sta}^ at Vienna. I shuddered with horror as 
 the scene recurred to me; and it recurred constantly, 
 with all its minutiae, as if they had been burned into 
 my memory; and yet, such is the madness of the human 
 heart under the influence of its immediate desires, I felt 
 a wild hell-braving joy that Bertha was to be mine ; for 
 the fulfilment of my former prevision concerning her 
 first appearance before me left me little hope that this 
 last hideous glimpse of the future was the mere diseased 
 play of my own mind, and had no relation to external 
 realities. One thing alone I looked towards as a possible 
 means of casting doubt on my terrible conviction, the 
 discovery that my vision of Prague had been false — and 
 Prague was the next city on our route. 
 
 Meanwhile, I was no sooner in Bertha's society again 
 than I was as completely under her sway as before. 
 AVhat if I saw into the heart of Bertha, the matured 
 woman — Bertha, my wife ? Bertha, the girl, was a fas- 
 
34:8 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 cinating secret to me still; I trembled under her touch; 
 I felt the witchery of her presence ; I yearned to be as- 
 sured of her love. The fear of poison is feeble against 
 the sense of thirst. Nay, I was just as jealous of my 
 brother as before — just as much irritated by his small 
 patronizing ways ; for my pride, my diseased sensibilitj', 
 were there as they had always been, and winced as in- 
 evitably under every offence as my eye winced from an 
 intruding mote. The future, even when brought within 
 the compass of feeling by a vision that made me shud- 
 der, had still no more than the force of an idea, com- 
 pared with the force of present emotion — of my love for 
 Bertha, of my dislike and jealousy towards my brother. 
 
 It is an old story, that men sell themselves to the 
 tempter, and sign a bond with their blood, because it is 
 only to take effect at a distant day, then rush on to 
 snatch the cup their souls thirst after with no less savage 
 an impulse because there is a dark shadow beside them 
 for evermore. There is no short-cut, no patent tram- 
 road, to wisdom. After all the centuries of invention, 
 the soul's path lies through the thorny wilderness which 
 must be still trodden in solitude, with bleeding feet, with 
 sobs for help, as it was trodden by them of old tiine. 
 
 My mind speculated eagerly on the means by which 
 I should become my brother's successful rival, for I was 
 still too timid, in my ignorance of Bertha's actual feel- 
 ing, to venture on any step that would urge from her an 
 avowal of it. I thought I should gain confidence even 
 for this, if my vision of Prague proved to have been 
 veracious; and yet the horror of that certitude ! Behind 
 the slim girl Bertha, whose words and looks I watched 
 for, whose touch was bliss, there stood continually that 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 349 
 
 Bertha with the fuller form, the harder eyes, the more 
 rigid mouth — with the barren, selfish soul laid bare ; no 
 longer a fascinating seci'et, but a measured fact, urging 
 itself perpetually on my unwilling sight. Are you un- 
 able to give me your sympathy, you who read this ? Are 
 you unable to imagine this double consciousness at work 
 within me, flowing on like two parallel streams which 
 never mingle their waters and blend into a common hue? 
 Yet you must have known something of the presenti- 
 ments that spring from an insight at war with pas- 
 sion ; and my visions were only like presentiments in- 
 tensified to horror. You have known the powerlessness 
 of ideas before the might of impulse ; and my visions, 
 when once they had passed into memory, were mere ideas 
 — pale shadows that beckoned in vain, while my hand was 
 grasped by the living and the loved. 
 
 In after-days I thought with bitter regret that if I had 
 foreseen something more or something different — if in- 
 stead of that hideous vision which poisoned the passion 
 it could not destroy, or if, even along with it, I could 
 have had a foreshadowing of that moment when I looked 
 on my brother's face for the last time, some softening 
 influence would have been shed over my feeling towards 
 him — pride and hatred would surely have been subdued 
 into pity, and the record of those hidden sins would have 
 been shortened. But this is one of the vain thouffhts 
 with which we men flatter ourselves. We try to believe 
 that the egoism within us would have been easily melted, 
 and that it was only the narrowness of our knowledge 
 which hemmed in our generosity, our awe, our human 
 piety, from submerging our hard indifference to the sen- 
 sations and emotions of our fellow. Our tenderness and 
 
350 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 self-reniiticiation seem strong when our egoism has had 
 its day, when, after our mean striving for a triumph that 
 is to be another's loss, the triumph comes suddenly, and 
 we shudder at it, because it is held out by the chill hand 
 of death. 
 
 Our arriv^al in Prague happened at night, and I was 
 glad of this, for it seemed like a deferring of a terribly 
 decisive moment, to be in the city for hours without 
 seeing it. As we were not to remain long in Prague, 
 but to go on speedily to Dresden, it was proposed that 
 we should drive out the next morning and take a gen- 
 eral view of the place, as well as visit some of its specially 
 interesting spots, before the heat became oppressive ; for 
 we were in August, and the season was hot and dry. 
 But it happened that the ladies were rather late at their 
 morning toilet, and, to my father's politely repressed but 
 ]5erceptibTe annoyance, we were not in the carriage till 
 the morning was far advanced. I thought, with a sense 
 of relief, as we entered the Jews' quartei-, where we were 
 to visit the old synagogue, that we should be kept in this 
 flat, shut-up part of the city until we should all be too 
 tired and too warm to go farther; and so we should return 
 without seeing more than the streets through which we 
 had already passed. That would give me another day's 
 suspense — suspense, the only form in which a fearful 
 spirit knows the solace of hope. But as I stood under 
 the blackened, groined arches of that old synagogue, 
 made dimly visible by the seven thin candles in the 
 sacred lamp, while our Jewish cicerone reached down 
 the Book of the Law, and read to us in its ancient 
 tongue, I felt a shuddering impression that this strange 
 building, with its shrunken lights, this surviving with- 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL, 351 
 
 ered remnant of mediaeval Judaism, was of a piece with 
 my vision. Those darkened, dnsty Christian saints, with 
 their loftier arches and their larger candles, needed the 
 consolatory scorn with which they might point to a more 
 shrivelled death in life than their own. 
 
 As I expected, when we left the Jews' quarter the 
 elders of our party wished to return to the hotel. But 
 now, instead of rejoicing in this, as I had done before- 
 hand, I felt a sudden overpowering impulse to go on at 
 once to the bridge, and put an end to the suspense I had 
 been wishing to protract. I declared, with unusual de- 
 cision, that I would get out of the carriage and walk on 
 alone ; they might return without me. My father, think- 
 ing this merely a sample of my usual "poetic nonsense," 
 objected that I should only do myself harm by walking 
 in the heat ; but when I persisted, he said, angrily, that 
 I might follow my own absurd devices, but that Schmidt 
 (our courier) must go with me. I assented to this, and 
 set off with Schmidt towards the bridge. I had no 
 sooner passed from under the archway of the grand old 
 gate leading on to the bridge than a trembling seized 
 me, and I turned cold under the mid -day sun; yet I 
 went on; I was in search of something — a small detail 
 which I remembered with special intensity as part of 
 my vision. There it was — the patch of colored light 
 on the pavement transmitted through a lamp in the 
 shape of a star. 
 
352 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 Before the autumn was at an end, and while the 
 brown leaves still stood thick on the beeches in onr 
 park, my brother and Bertha were engaged to each 
 other, and it was understood that their marriage was 
 to take place early in the next spring. In spite of the 
 certainty I had felt from that moment on the bridge 
 at Prague that Bertha would one day be my wife, my 
 constitutional timidity and distrust had continued to 
 benumb me, and the words in which I had sometimes 
 premeditated a confession of my love had died away 
 unuttered. The same conflict had gone on within me 
 as before — the longing for an assurance of love from 
 Bertha's lips, the dread lest a word of contempt and 
 denial should fall upon me like a corrosive acid. What 
 was the conviction of a distant necessity to me? I 
 trembled under a present glance, I hungered after a 
 present jo}', I was clogged and chilled by a present fear. 
 And so the days passed on : I witnessed Bertha's en- 
 gagement and heard her marriage discussed as if I were 
 under a conscious nightmare, knowing it was a dream 
 that would vanish, but feeling stifled under the grasp 
 of hard-clutching fingers. 
 
 When I was not in Bertha's presence — and I was 
 with her very often, for she continued to treat me with 
 a playful patronage that wakened no jealousy in my 
 brother — I spent my time chiefly in wandering, in stroll- 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 353 
 
 iug, or taking long rides while the daylight lasted, and 
 then shutting myself up with my unread books ; for 
 books iiad lost the power of chaining ray attention. 
 My self-consciousness was heightened to that pitch of 
 intensity in which our own emotions take the form of 
 a drama that urges itself imperatively on our contem- 
 plation, and we begin to weep, less under the sense of 
 our suffering than at the thought of it. I felt a sort of 
 pitying anguish over the pathos of my own lot — the lot 
 of a being finely organized for pain, but with hardly 
 any fibres that responded to pleasure — to whom the 
 idea of future evil robbed the present of its joy, and for 
 whom the idea of future good did not still the uneasi- 
 ness of a present yearning or a present dread. I went 
 dumbly through that stage of the poet's suffering in 
 which he feels the delicious pang of utterance, and 
 makes an image of his sorrows. 
 
 I was left entirely without remonstrance concerning 
 this dreamy, wayward life. I knew my father's thought 
 about me — " That lad will never be good for anything 
 in life: he may waste his years in an insignificant way 
 on the income that falls to him: I shall not trouble 
 myself about a career for him." 
 
 One mild morning in the beginning of November 
 it happened that I was standing outside the portico 
 patting lazy old Caesar, a Newfoundland almost blind 
 with age, the only dog that ever took any notice of me 
 — for the very dogs shunned me, and fawned on the 
 happier people about me — when the groom brought 
 up my brother's horse which was to carry him to the 
 hunt, and my brother himself appeared at the door, 
 florid, broad-chested, and self-complacent, feeling what 
 30 Q 
 
354 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 a good-natured fellow he was not to behave inso- 
 lently to us all on the strength of his great advan- 
 tages. 
 
 " Latimer, old boy," he said to me, in a tone of com- 
 passionate cordiality, " what a pity it is you don't have 
 a run with the hounds now and then. The finest thing 
 in the world for low spirits." 
 
 "Low spirits!" I thought, bitterly, as he rode away; 
 " that's the sort of phrase Avith which coarse, narrow 
 natures like yours think you completely define experi- 
 ence of which you can know no more than j-our horse 
 knows. It is to such as you that the good of this world 
 falls: ready dulness, healthy selfishness, good-tempered 
 conceit — these are the keys to happiness." 
 
 The quick thought came that my selfishness was even 
 stronger than his — it was only a suffering selfishness 
 instead of an enjoj'ing one. But then, again, my exas- 
 perating insight into Alfred's self-complacent soul, his 
 freedom from all the doubts and fears, the unsatisfied 
 yearnings, the exquisite tortures of sensitiveness, that 
 had made the web of my life, seemed to absolve me 
 from all bonds towards him. This man needed no 
 pity, no love ; those fine influences would have been 
 as little felt by him as the delicate white mist is felt 
 by the rock it caresses. There was no evil in store 
 for Jmn: if he was not to marry Bertha, it would be 
 because he had found a lot pleasanter to himself. 
 
 Mr. Filmore's house lay not more than half a mile 
 beyond our own gates, and whenever I knew my broth- 
 er was gone in another direction, I went there for the 
 chance of finding Bertha at home. Later on in the day 
 I walked thither. By a rare accident she was alone, 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. OOJ 
 
 and we walked out in the grounds together, foi' slic 
 seldom went on foot beyond the trimly swept gravel- 
 walks. I remember what a beautiful sylph she looked 
 to ine as the low November sun shone on her blond 
 liair,.and she tripped along teasing me with her usual 
 light banter, to which I listened half fondly, half mood- 
 ily : it was all the sign Bertha's mysterious inner self 
 ever made to me. To-day perhaps the moodiness pi-e- 
 dominated, for 1 had not yet shaken off the access of 
 jealous hate which my brother had raised in me by liis 
 parting patronage. Suddenly I interrupted and startled 
 her by saying, almost fiercely, " Bertha, how can yon 
 love Alfred?" 
 
 She looked at me with surprise for a moment, but 
 soon her light smile came again, and slie answered, 
 sarcastically, "Why do you suppose I love him ?" 
 
 " How can you ask that. Bertha ?" 
 
 "What! your wisdom thinks I must love the man 
 I'm going to marry? The most unpleasant thing in 
 the world. I should quarrel with him ; I should bo 
 jealous of him ; our menage would be conducted in a 
 very ill-bred manner. A little quiet contempt contrib- 
 utes greatly to the elegance of life." 
 
 " Bertha, that is not your real feeling. Why do you 
 delight in trying to deceive me by inventing such cyn- 
 ical speeches ?" 
 
 "I need never take the trouble of invention in order 
 to deceive you, my small Tasso" (that was tiie mocking 
 name she usually gave me). " The easiest way to de- 
 ceive a poet is to tell him the truth." 
 
 She was testing the validity of her epigram in a dar- 
 ing way, and for a moment tlie shadow of my vision — 
 
356 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 the Bertha whose soul was no secret to me — i);issed be- 
 tween me and the radiant girl, the playful s^-lph whose 
 feelings were a fascinating mystery. I suppose I must 
 iiave shuddered, or betrayed in some other way my 
 momentary chill of horror. 
 
 " Tasso," she said, seizing my wrist and peeping round 
 into my face, "are you really beginning to discern what 
 a heartless girl I am? Why, you are not half the poet 
 I thought you were ; you ai-e actually capable of be- 
 lieving the truth about me." 
 
 The shadow passed from between us, and was no long- 
 er the object nearest to me. The girl whose light fin- 
 gers grasped me, whose elfish, charming face looked into 
 mine — who, I thought, was betraying an interest in my 
 feelings that she would not have directly avowed — this 
 warm-breathing presence again possessed my senses and 
 imagination like a returning siren melody that had been 
 overpowered for an instant by the roar of threatening 
 waves. It was a moment as delicious to me as the 
 waking up to a consciousness of youth after a dream 
 of middle age. I forgot everything but my passion, 
 and said, with swimming eyes, 
 
 " Bertha, shall you love me when we are first mar- 
 ried? I wouldn't mind if you really loved me only 
 for a little while." 
 
 Her look of astonishment as she loosed my hand and 
 started away from me recalled me to a sense of my 
 strange, my criminal indiscretion. 
 
 "Forgive me," I said, hurriedly, as soon as I could 
 speak again ; " I didn't know what I was saying." 
 
 " Ah, Tasso's mad fit has come on, I see," she answer- 
 ed, quietly, for she had recovered herself sooner than 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 357 
 
 I had. "Let him go home and keep his head cool. 1 
 must go in, for the sun is setting." 
 
 I left her — full of indignation against myself. 1 had 
 let slip words which, if she reflected on them, might 
 rouse in her a suspicion of my abnormal mental condi- 
 tion — a suspicion which of all things I dreaded. And 
 besides that, I was ashamed of the apparent baseness 
 I had committed in uttering them to my brother's be- 
 trothed wife. I wandered home slowly, entering our 
 park through a private gate instead of by the lodges. 
 As I approached the house, I saw a man dashing off at 
 full speed from the stable-yard across the park. Had 
 any accident happened at home? No; perhaps it was 
 only one of my father's peremptory business errands that 
 required this headlong haste. Nevertheless I quicken- 
 ed my pace without any distinct motive, and was soon 
 at the house. I will not dwell on the scene I found 
 there. My brother was dead — had been pitched from 
 liis horse and killed on the spot by a concussion of the 
 brain. 
 
 I went up to the room where he lay, and where my 
 father was seated beside him with a look of rigid despair. 
 I had shunned my father more than any one since our 
 return home, for the radical antipathy between our nat- 
 ures made my insight into his inner self a constant af- 
 fliction to me. But now, as I went up to him, and stood 
 beside him in sad silence, I felt the presence of a new 
 element that blended us as we had never been blended 
 before. My father had been one of the most successful 
 men in the money-getting world: he had had no senti- 
 mental sufferings, no illness. The heaviest trouble that 
 had befallen him was the death of his first wife. But 
 
358 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 lie married my mother soon after; and I remember he 
 seemed exactly the same, to my keen childish observa- 
 tion, the week after her death as before. But now, at 
 last, a sorrow had come — the sorrow of old age, which 
 suffers the more from the crushing of its pride and its 
 liopes, in proportion as the pride and hope are narrow 
 and prosaic. His son was to have been married soon — 
 would probably have stood for the borough at the next 
 election. That son's existence was the best motive that 
 could be alleged for making new purchases of land every 
 year to round off the estate. It is a dreary thing to live 
 on doing the same things year after year without know- 
 ing why we do them. Perhaps the tragedy of disap- 
 pointed youth and passion is less piteous than the trag- 
 edy of disappointed age and worldliness. 
 
 As I saw into the desolation of my father's heart, I 
 felt a movement of deep pity towards him, which was 
 the beginning of a new affection — an affection that grew 
 and strengthened in spite of the strange bitterness with 
 which he regarded me in the first month or two after 
 my brother's death. If it had not been for the soften- 
 ing influence of my compassion for him — the first deep 
 compassion I had ever felt — I should have been stung 
 by the perception that my father transferred the inherit- 
 ance of an eldest son to me with a mortified sense that 
 fate had compelled him to the unwelcome course of 
 caring for me as an important being. It was only in 
 spite of himself that he began to think of me with anx- 
 ious regard. There is hardly any neglected child, for 
 whom death has made vacant a more favored place, 
 that will not understand what I mean. 
 
 Gradually, however, my new deference to his wishes, 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 359 
 
 the effect of that patience which was born of ray pity 
 for hiui, won upon his affection, and he began to please 
 himself with the endeavor to make me fill my brother's 
 place as fully as my feebler personality would admit. I 
 saw that the prospect which by-and-by presented itself 
 of my becoming Bertha's husband was welcome to him, 
 and he even contemplated in ray case what he had not 
 intended in ray brother's — that his son and daughter-in- 
 law shoulct make one household with him. My softened 
 feeling towards my father made this the happiest time I 
 had known since childhood ; these last mouths in which 
 I retained the delicious illusion of loving Bertha, of 
 longing and doubting and hoping that she loved me. 
 She behaved with a certain new consciousness and dis- 
 tance towards me after my brother's death ; and I, too, 
 was under a double constraint — that of delicacy towards 
 my brother's memory and of anxiety as to the impres- 
 sion my abrupt words had left on her mind. But the 
 additional screen this mutual reserve erected between 
 us only brought rae more completely under her power: 
 no matter how empty the adytum, so that the veil be 
 thick enough. So absolute is our soul's need of some- 
 thing hidden and uncertain for the maintenance of that 
 doubt and hope and effort which are the breath of its 
 life, that if the whole future were laid bare to us beyond 
 to-day, the interest of all mankind would be bent on the 
 hours that lie between ; we should pant after the uncer- 
 tainties of onr one morning and our one afternoon ; we 
 should rush fiercely to the Exchange for our last possi- 
 bility of speculation, of success, of disappointment ; M-e 
 should have a glut of political prophets foretelling a 
 crisis or a no-crisis within the only twenty-four hours 
 
800 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 left open to prophecy. Conceive the condition of the 
 human inind if all propositions whatsoever were self- 
 evident except one, which was to become self-evident at 
 the close of a summer's daj, but in the mean time might 
 be the subject of question, of hypothesis, of debate. Art 
 and pliilosophy, literature and science would fasten like 
 bees on that one proposition that had the honey of prob- 
 ability in it, and be the more eager because their enjoy- 
 ment would end with sunset. Our impulses, our spir- 
 itual activities no more adjust themselves to the idea of 
 their future nullity than the beating of our heart or the 
 irritability of our muscles. 
 
 Bertha, the slim, fair- haired girl, whose present 
 thoughts and emotions were an enigma to me amid 
 the fatig-uing obviousness of the otlier minds around 
 me, was as absorbing to me as a single unknown to-day 
 — as a single hypothetic proposition to remain problem- 
 atic till sunset; and all the cramped, hemrned-in belief 
 and disbelief, trust and distrust, of my nature welled 
 out in this one narrow channel. 
 
 And she made me believe that- she loved me. With- 
 out ever quitting lier tone of badinage and playful su- 
 periority, she intoxicated me with the sense that I was 
 necessary to her, that she was never at ease unless I 
 was near lier, submitting to her playful tyranny. It 
 costs a woman so little effort to besot us in this way ! 
 A half-repressed word, a momei»t's unexpected silence, 
 even an easy fit of petulance on our account, will serve 
 us as hashish for a long while. Out of the subtlest web 
 of scarcely perceptible signs she set me weaving the 
 fancy that she had always unconsciously loved me bet- 
 ter than Alfred, but that, with the ignorant, fluttered 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 361 
 
 sensibility of a jomig- gh-l, she had been imposed on by 
 the charm that lay for her in tlie distinction of being 
 admired and chosen by a man who made so brilliant a 
 figure in the world as my brother. She satirized her- 
 self in a very graceful way for her vanity and ambi- 
 tion. What was it to me that I had the light of my 
 wretched prevision on the fact that now it was I who 
 possessed at least all but the personal part of my broth- 
 er's advantages ? Our sweet illusions are half of them 
 conscious illusions, like effects of color that we know to 
 be made up of tinsel, broken glass, and rags. 
 
 We were married eighteen months after Alfred's 
 death, one cold, clear morning in April, when there 
 came hail and sunshine both together; and Bertha, in 
 her white silk and pale green leaves, and the pale sun- 
 shine of her hair and eyes, looked like the spirit of the 
 morning. My father was happier than he had thought 
 of being again : my marriage, he felt sure, would com- 
 plete the desirable modification of my character, and 
 make me practical and worldly enough to take my place 
 in society among sane men. For he delighted in Ber- 
 tlia's tact and acuteness, and felt sure she would be mis- 
 tress of me, and make me what she chose : I was only 
 twenty-one, and madly in love with her. Poor father ! 
 He kept that hope a little Avhile after our first year of 
 marriage, and it was not quite extinct when paralysis 
 .''ame and saved him from utter disappointment, 
 
 I shall hurry through the rest of my story, uot dwell- 
 ing so much as I have hitherto done on my inward ex- 
 perience. When people are well known to each other, 
 they talk rather of what befalls them externally, leav- 
 ing their feelings and sentiments to be inferred. 
 30* <l* 
 
362 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 We lived in a round of visits for some time after our 
 return home, giving splendid dinner-parties, and mak- 
 ing a sensation in our neighborhood by the new lustre 
 of our equipage, for my father had reserved this dis- 
 play of his increased wealth for the period of his son's 
 marriage; and we gave our acquaintances liberal op- 
 portunity for remarking that it was a pity I made so 
 poor a figure as an heir and a bridegroom. The nerv- 
 ous fatigue of this existence, the insincerities and plat- 
 itudes which I had to live through twice over — through 
 my inner and outward sense — would have been mad- 
 dening to me, if I had not had that sort of intoxicated 
 callousness which came from the delights of a first pas- 
 sion. A bride and bridegroom, surrounded by all the 
 appliances of wealth, hurried through the day by the 
 whirl of society, filling their solitary moments with has- 
 tily snatched caresses, are prepared for their future life 
 together, as the novice is prepared for the cloister by 
 experiencing its utmost contrast. 
 
 Through all these crowded, excited months Bertha's 
 inward self remained shrouded from me, and I still read 
 her thoughts only through the language of her lips and 
 demeanor. I had still the delicious human interest of 
 wondering whether what I did and said pleased her, of 
 longing to hear a word of affection, of giving a deli- 
 cious exaggeration of meaning to her smile. But I 
 W'as conscious of a growing difference in her manner 
 towards me : sometimes strong enough to be called 
 haughty coldness, cutting and chilling me as the hail 
 had done that came across the sunshine on our mar- 
 riage morning; sometimes only perceptible in the dex- 
 trous avoidance of a tete-d-tele walk or dinner, to which 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 363 
 
 I had been looking forward. I had been deeply pained 
 by this, had even felt a sort of crushing of the heart, 
 from the sense that iny brief day of happiness was near 
 its setting; but still I remained dependent on Bertha, 
 eager for the last rays of a bliss that would soon be 
 gone forever, hoping and watching for some after-glow 
 more beautiful from the impending night. 
 
 I remember — how should I not remember? — the time 
 when that dependence and hope utterly left me, when 
 the sadness I had felt in Bertha's growing estrangement 
 became a joy that I looked back upon with longing, as 
 a man might look back on the last pains in a paralyzed 
 limb. It was just after the close of my father's last ill- 
 ness, which necessarily withdrew us from society, and 
 threw us more upon each other. It was the evening of 
 my father's death. On that evening the veil that had 
 shrouded Bertha's soul from me, and made me find in 
 her alone among my fellow-beings the blessed possibility 
 of mystery and doubt and expectation, was first with- 
 drawn. Perhaps it was the first day since the beginning 
 of my passion for her in which that passion was com- 
 pletely neutralized by the presence of an absorbing feel- 
 ing of another kind. I had been watching by my fa- 
 ther's death-bed : I had been witnessing the last fitful, 
 yearning glances his soul had cast back on the spent 
 inheritance of life, the last faint consciousness of lovo 
 he had gathered from the pressure of my hand. What 
 are all our personal loves when we have been sharing in 
 that supreme agony? In the first moments when we 
 come away from the presence of death every other rela- 
 tion to the living is merged, to our feeling, in the great 
 relation of a common nature and a common destiny. 
 
864 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 It was in that state of inind tliat I joined Berths, in 
 her private sitting-room. She was seated in a leaning 
 posture on a settee, with lier back towards the door, the 
 great rich coils of her blond hair surmounting her small 
 neck, visible above the back of the settee. I remember 
 as I closed the door behind me a cold tremulousness seiz- 
 ing me, and a vague sense of being hated and lonely — 
 vague and strong, like a presentiment. I know how I 
 looked at that moment, for I saw myself in Bertha's 
 thought as she lifted her cutting gray eyes and looked 
 at me — a miserable ghost-seer, surrounded by phantoms 
 in the noonday, trembling under a breeze when the 
 leaves were still, without appetite for the common ob- 
 jects of human desire, but pining after the moonbeams. 
 We were front to front with each other, and judged each 
 other. The terrible moment of complete illumination 
 had come to me, and I saw that the darkness had hidden 
 no landscape from me, but only a blank prosaic wall. 
 From that evening forth, through the sickening years 
 that followed, I saw all round the narrow room of this 
 woman's soul ; saw petty artifice and mere negation 
 where I had delighted to believe in coy sensibilities, and 
 in wit at war with latent feeling; saw the light floating 
 vanities of the girl defining themselves into the system- 
 atic coquetry, the scheming selfishness, of the woman ; 
 saw repulsion and antipathy hardening into cruel hatred, 
 giving pain only for the sake of wreaking itself. 
 
 For Bertha, too, after her kind, felt the bitterness of 
 disillusion. She had believed that my wild poet's pas- 
 sion for her would make me her slave, and that, being 
 her slave, I should execute her will in all things. With 
 the essential shallowness of a negative, unimaginative 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 365 
 
 nature, she was iina!)le to conceive the fact that sensi- 
 bilities were anything- else than weaknesses. She had 
 thought my weaknesses would put nie in her power, and 
 she found them nnmanageable forces. Our positions 
 were reversed. Before marriage slie had completely 
 niastered my imagination, for she was a secret to me; 
 and I created the unknown thought before which I trem- 
 bled, as if it were hers. But now that her soul M'as laid 
 open to me, now that I was compelled to share the pri- 
 vacy of lier motives, to follow all the petty devices that 
 preceded her words and acts, she found herself powerless 
 with me, except to produce in me the chill shudder of 
 repulsion — powerless, because I could be acted on by no 
 lever within her reach. I was dead to worldly ambitions, 
 to social vanities, to all the incentives within the com- 
 pass of her narrow imagination, and I lived under in- 
 fluences utterly invisible to her. 
 
 She was really pitiable to have such a husband, and so 
 all the world thought. A graceful, brilliant woman like 
 Bertha, who smiled on morning callers, made a figure in 
 ball-rooms, and was capable of that light repartee which, 
 from such a woman, is accepted as wit, was secure of 
 carrying ofl: all sympathy from a husband who was sick- 
 ly, abstracted, and, as some suspected, crack-brained. 
 Even the servants in our house gave her the balance of 
 their regard and pity. For there were no audible quar- 
 rels between us; our alienation, our repulsion from each 
 other lay within the silence of our own hearts; and if 
 the mistress went out a great deal, and seemed to dis- 
 like the master's society, was it not natural, poor thing? 
 The master was odd. I was kind and just to my depend- 
 ents, but I excited in them a shrinking, half-contemptuous 
 
366 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 pity; for this class of men and women are but slightlj) 
 determined in their estimate of others by general con' 
 siderations of character. They jndge of persons as they 
 judge of coins, and vahie tliose who pass current at a 
 high rate. 
 
 After a time I interfered so little with Bertha's habits 
 that it might seem wonderful how her hatred towards 
 me could grow so intense and active as it did. But she 
 had begun to suspect, by some involuntary betrayals of 
 mine, that there was an abnormal power of penetration 
 in me — that fitfully, at least, I was strangely cognizant 
 of her thoughts and intentions ; and she began to be 
 haunted by a terror of me, which alternated every now 
 and then with defiance. She meditated continually how 
 the incubus could be shaken off her life, how she could 
 be freed from this hateful bond to a being whom she at 
 once despised as an imbecile and dreaded as an inquisi- 
 tor. For a long while she lived in tlie hope that my 
 evident wretchedness would drive me to the commission 
 of suicide; but suicide was uot in my nature. I was 
 too completely swayed by the sense that I was in the 
 grasp of unknown forces to believe in my power of self- 
 release. Towards my own destiny I had become entire- 
 ly passive, for my one ardent desire had spent itself, and 
 impulse no longer predominated over knowledge. For 
 this reason I never thought of taking any steps towards 
 a complete separation, which would have made our al- 
 ienation evident to the world. AVhy should I rush for 
 help to a new course, when I was only suffering from 
 the consequences of a deed which had been the act of 
 my intensest will ? That would have been the logic of 
 one who had desires to gratify, and I had no desires. 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 367 
 
 But Bertha and I lived more and more aloof from each 
 other. The rich find it easj to live married and apart. 
 
 That course of onr life which I have indicated in a 
 few sentences filled the space of years. So much mis- 
 ery, so slow and hideous a growth of hatred and sin may 
 be compressed into a sentence! And men judge of each 
 otlier's lives through this summary medium. They epit- 
 omize the experience of their fellow-mortal, and pro- 
 nounce judgment on him in neat syntax, and feel them- 
 selves wise and virtuous — conquerors over the tempta- 
 tions they define in well -selected predicates. Seven 
 years of wretchedness glide glibly over the lips of the 
 man who has never counted them out in moments of 
 chill disappointment, of head and heart throbbings, of 
 dread and vain wrestling, of remorse and despair. We 
 learn words by rote, but not their meaning; that must 
 be paid for with our life-blood, and printed in the subtle 
 fibres of our nerves. 
 
 But I will hasten to finish my story. Brevity is 
 justified at once to those who readily understand and 
 to those who will never understand. 
 
 Some years after my father's death I was sitting by 
 the dim firelight in my library one January evening — 
 sitting in the leather chair that used to be my father's 
 — when Bertha appeared at the door, with a candle in 
 her hand, and advanced towards me. I knew tlie ball- 
 dress she had on — the white ball-dress, with the green 
 jewels, shone upon by the light of the wax-candle, which 
 lit up the medallion of the dying Cleopatra on the man- 
 tel-piece. Why did she come to me before going out? 
 I had not seen her in the libi'ary, which was my habitual 
 place, for months. Why did she stand before me with 
 
3G8 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 the candle in lier liand, with her cruel, contemptuous 
 eyes fixed on me, and the glittering serpent, like a fa- 
 miliar demon, on her breast? For a moment I thought 
 this fulfilment of my vision at Yienna marked some 
 dreadful crisis in my fate, but I saw nothing in Bertha's 
 mind, as she stood before me, except scorn for the look 
 of overwhelming misery with which I sat before her. 
 . . . "Fool, idiot, why don't you kill yourself, then?" — 
 that was her thought. But at length her thoughts re- 
 verted to her errand, and she spoke aloud. The appar- 
 ently indifferent nature of the errand seemed to make 
 a ridiculous anticlimax to my prevision and my agita- 
 tion. 
 
 " I have had to hire a new maid. Fletcher is going 
 to be married, and she wants me to ask you to let her 
 husband have the public-house and farm at Molton. I 
 wish him to have it. You must give the promise now, 
 because Fletcher is going to-morrow morning — and 
 quickly, because Fm in a hurry." 
 
 "Yery well; you may promise her," I said, indiffer- 
 ently, and Bertha swept out of the library again. 
 
 I always shrank from the sight of a new person, and 
 all the more when it was a person whose mental life 
 was likely to weary my reluctant insight with worldly, 
 ignorant trivialities. But I shrank especially from the 
 sight of this new maid, because her advent had been 
 announced to me at a moment to which I could not 
 cease to attach some fatality. I had a vague dread that 
 I should find her mixed up with the dreary drama of 
 my life — that some new sickening vision would reveal 
 her to me as an evil genius. When at last I did un- 
 avoidably meet her, the vague dread was changed into 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 309 
 
 definite disgust. She was a tall, wiry, dark-eyed wom- 
 an this Mrs. Archer, with a face handsome enough to 
 give her coarse hard nature the odious finish of bold, 
 self-confident coquetry. That was enough to make me 
 avoid her, quite apart from the contemptuous feeling 
 with which she contemplated me. I seldom saw her; 
 but I perceived that she rapidly became a favorite with 
 her mistress, and after the lapse of eight or nine months, 
 I began to be aware that there had arisen in Bertha's 
 mind towards this woman a mingled feeling of fear and 
 dependence, and that this feeling was associated Avith 
 ill-defined images of candle-light scenes in her dressing- 
 room, and the locking up of sometliing in Bertha's cab- 
 inet. My interviews with my wife had become so brief 
 and so rarely solitary that I had no opportunity of per- 
 ceiving these images in her mind with more definite- 
 ness. The recollections of the past become contracted 
 in the rapidity of thought till they sometimes bear 
 hardly a more distinct resemblance to the external 
 reality than the forms of an Oriental alphabet to the 
 objects that suggested them. 
 
 Besides, for tlie last year or more, a modification had 
 been going forward in my mental condition, and was 
 growing more and more marked. My insight into the 
 minds of those around me was becoming dimmer and 
 more fitful, and the ideas that crowded my double con- 
 sciousness became less and less dependent on any per- 
 sonal contact. All that was personal in me seemed to 
 be suffering a gradual death, so that I \vas losing the 
 organ through which the personal agitations and proj- 
 ects of others could affect me. But along with this re- 
 lief from wearisome insight, there was a new develop- 
 
370 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 ment of what I concluded— as I have since found right- 
 ]y — to be a prevision of external scenes. It was as if 
 the relation between me and my fellow-men was more 
 and more deadened, and my relation to what we call 
 the inanimate was quickened into new life. The more 
 I lived apart from societ}^, and in proportion as my 
 wretchedness subsided from the violent throb of ago- 
 nized passion into the dulness of habitual pain, the 
 more frequent and vivid became such visions as that I 
 had had of Prague — of strange cities, of sandy plains, 
 of gigantic ruins, of midnight skies with strange bright 
 constellations, of mountain passes, of grassy nooks flecked 
 with the afternoon sunshine through the boughs. I was 
 in the midst of all these scenes, and in all of them one 
 presence seemed to weigh on rae in all these mighty 
 shapes — the presence of something unknown and piti- 
 less. For continual suffering had annihilated religious 
 faith within ine ; to the utterly miserable — the unlov- 
 ing and the unloved — there is no religion possible, no 
 worship but a worship of devils, and beyond all these, 
 and continually recurring, was the vision of my death 
 — the pangs, the suffocation, the last struggle, when life 
 would be grasped at in vain. 
 
 Things were in this state near the end of the seventh 
 year. I had become entirely free from insight, from 
 my abnormal cognizance of any other consciousness 
 than my own, and instead of intruding involuntarily 
 into the world of other minds, was living continually 
 in my own solitary future. Bertha was aware that I 
 was greatly changed. To my surprise she had of late 
 seemed to seek opportunities of remaining in my socie- 
 ty, and had cultivated that kind of distant yet familiar 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 871 
 
 talk which is customary between a liusband and wife 
 who live in polite and irrevocable alienation. I bore 
 this with languid submission, and without feeling enough 
 interest in her motives to be roused into keen observa- 
 tion ; yet I could not help perceiving something trium- 
 phant and excited in her carriage and the expression 
 of her face — something too subtle to express itself in 
 words or tones, but giving one the idea that she lived 
 in a state of expectation or hopeful suspense. My chief 
 feeling was satisfaction that her inner self was once 
 more shut out from me; and I almost revelled for the 
 moment in the absent melancholy that made me answer 
 her at cross-purposes, and betray utter ignorance of what 
 she had been saying. I remember well the look and 
 the smile with which she one day said, after a mistake 
 of this kind on my part, " I used to think you were a 
 clairvoyant, and that was the reason why you were so 
 bitter against other clairvoyants, wanting to keep your 
 monopoly; but I see now you have become rather 
 duller than the rest of the world." 
 
 I said nothing in reply. It occurred to me that her 
 recent obtrusion of herself upon me might have been 
 prompted by the wish to test my power' of detecting 
 some of her secrets; but I let the thought drop again 
 at once; her motives and her deeds had no interest for 
 me, and whatever pleasures she might be seeking, I had 
 no wish to balk her. There was still pity in my soul 
 for every living thing, and Bertha was living — was sur- 
 rounded with possibilities of misery. 
 
 Just at this time there occurred an event which roused 
 me somewhat from my inertia, and gave me an interest 
 in the passing moment that I had thought impossible 
 
8(2 TIIK LIFTKI) VEIL. 
 
 for me. It was a visit from Charles Mennier, who had 
 written me word that he was coming to England foi* 
 relaxation from too strenuous labor, and wonld like to 
 see me. Meunier had now a European reputation ; but 
 his letter to me expressed that keen remembrance of an 
 early regard, an early debt of sympathy, Avhich is in- 
 separable from nobility of character; and I, too, felt as 
 if his presence would be to me like a transient resurrec- 
 tion into a happier pre-existence. 
 
 He came, and as far as possible I renewed our old 
 pleasure of making tete-d-tete excursions, though instead 
 of mountains and glaciers and the wide blue lake, we 
 had to content ourselves with mere slopes and ponds 
 and artificial plantations. The years had changed us 
 both, but with what different result ! Meunier was now 
 a brilliant figure in society, to whom elegant women 
 pretended to listen, and whose acquaintance was boasted 
 of by noblemen ambitious of brains. Ho repressed with 
 the utmost delicacy all betrayal of the shock which I am 
 sure he must have received from our meeting, or of a 
 desire to penetrate into my condition and circumstances, 
 and sought by the utmost exertion of his charming so- 
 cial powers to make our reunion agreeable. Bertha was 
 much struck by the unexpected fascinations of a visitor 
 whom she had expected to find presentable only on the 
 scoi-e of his celebrit}^, and put forth all her coquetries 
 and accomplishments. Apparently she succeeded in at- 
 tracting his admiration, for his manner towards her was 
 attentive and flattering. The effect of his presence on 
 me was so benignant, especially in those renewals of our 
 old tete-d-tete wanderings M^hen he poured forth to me 
 wonderful narratives of his professional experience, that 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 373 
 
 more than once, when his talk turned on the psychologi- 
 cal relations of disease, the thought crossed my mind 
 that, if his stay with me were long enough, I might pos- 
 sibly bring myself to tell this man the secrets of my lot. 
 Might there not lie some remedy for me, too, in his sci- 
 ence ? Might there not at least lie some comprehension 
 and sympathy ready for me in his large and susceptible 
 mind? But the thought only flickered feebly now and 
 then, and died out before it could become a wish. The 
 horror I had of again breaking in on the privacy of an- 
 other soul made me, by an irrational instinct, draw the 
 shroud of concealment more closely around my own, as 
 we automatically perform the gesture we feel to be want- 
 ing in another. 
 
 When Meunier's visit was approaching its conclusion, 
 there happened an event which caused some excitement 
 in our household, owing to the surprisingly strong effect 
 it appeared to produce on Bertha — on Bertha, the self- 
 possessed, who usually seemed inaccessible to feminine 
 agitations, and did even her hate in a self - restrained, 
 hygienic manner. This event M'as the sudden severe 
 illness of her maid, Mrs. Archer. I have reserved to 
 this moment the mention of a circumstance which had 
 forced itself on my notice shortly before Meunier's ar- 
 rival — namely, that there had been some quarrel between 
 Bertha and this maid, apparently during a visit to a dis- 
 tant family, in which she had accon)panied her mistress. 
 I had overheard Archer speaking in a tone of bitter in- 
 solence, which I should have thought an adequate reason 
 for immediate dismissal. No dismissal followed; on the 
 contrary, Bertha seemed to be silently putting up with 
 personal inconveniences from the exhibition of this 
 
374 'illli LIFTED VEIL, 
 
 woman's temper, I was the more astonished to observe 
 that her ilhiess seemed a cause of strong solicitude to 
 Bertlia ; that she was at the bedside night and day, and 
 would allow no one else to officiate as head-nurse. It 
 happened that our family doctor was out on a holiday — 
 an accident which made Meunier's presence in the house 
 doubly welcome, and he apparently entered into the case 
 with an interest which seemed so much stronger than 
 the ordinary professional feeling that one day, when he 
 had fallen into a long fit of silence after visiting her, I 
 said to him, 
 
 "Is this a very peculiar case of disease, Meunier?" 
 "No," he answered, "it is an attack of peritonitis, 
 which will be fatal, but which does not differ phj'sically 
 from many other cases that have come under my obser- 
 vation. But I'll tell you what I have on my mind, I 
 want to make an experiment on this woman, if you \\ill 
 give me permission. It can do her no harm — will give 
 her no pain — for I shall not make it until life is extinct 
 to all purposes of sensation. I want to try the effect 
 of transfusing blood into her arteries after the heart has 
 ceased to beat for some minutes, I have tried the ex- 
 periment again and again with animals that have died 
 of this disease, with astounding results, and I want to 
 try it on a human subject, I have the small tubes nec- 
 essary in a case I have with me, and the rest of the ap- 
 paratus could be prepared readily, I should use my own 
 blood — take it from my own arm. This woman won't 
 live through the night, I'm convinced, and I want you 
 to promise me your assistance in making the experi- 
 ment, I can't do without another hand, but it would 
 perhaps not be well to call in a medical assistant from 
 
TlIK LIFTED VEIL. 375 
 
 among your provincial doctors. A disagreeable, foolish 
 version of the thing might get abroad." 
 
 " Have you spoken to my wife on the subject ?" I 
 said, "because she appears to be peculiarly sensitive 
 about this woman ; she has been a favorite maid." 
 
 "To tell you the truth," said Meunier, "I don't want 
 her to know about it. There are always insuperable dif- 
 ficulties with women in these matters, and the effect on 
 .the supposed dead body may be startling. You and I 
 will sit up together, and be in readiness. When certain 
 symptoms appear I sliall take you in, and at the right 
 moment we must manage to get every one else out of 
 the room." 
 
 I need not give our further conversation on the sub- 
 ject. He entered very fully into the details, and over- 
 came my repulsion from them by exciting in me a min- 
 gled awe and curiosity concerning the possible results 
 of his experiment. 
 
 We prepared everything, and he instructed me in my 
 part as assistant. He had not told Bertha of his abso- 
 lute conviction that Arclier would not survive through 
 the night, and endeavored to persuade her to leave the 
 patient and take a niglit's rest. But she was obstinate, 
 suspecting the fact that death was at hand, and suppos- 
 ing that he wished merely to save her nerves. She re- 
 fused to leave the sick-room. Meunier and I sat up to- 
 gether in the library, he making frequent visits to the 
 sick-room, and returning with the information that the 
 case was taking precisely the course he expected. Once 
 he said to me, " Can you imagine any cause of ill-feel- 
 ing this w^oman has against her mistress, who is so de- 
 voted to her ?" 
 
3(0 TIIK LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 "I think there was some inisunderstandhig between 
 them before her illness. Why do yon ask?" 
 
 "Becanse I Iiave observed for the last five or six 
 hours — since, I fancy, she has lost all hope of recovery 
 — there seems a strange prompting in her to say some- 
 thing which pain and failing strength forbid her to ut- 
 ter; and there is a look of hideous meaning in her eyes, 
 which she turns continually towards her mistress. In 
 this disease the mind often remains singularly clear to 
 the last." 
 
 " I am not surprised at an indication of malevolent 
 feeling in her," I said. " She is a woman who has al- 
 ways inspired me with distrust and dislike, but she man- 
 aged to insinuate herself into her mistress's favor." 
 
 Meunier remained silent after this, looking at the lire 
 with an air of absorption, till he went up-stairs again. 
 He remained away longer than usual, and on returning, 
 said to me, quietly, " Come now." 
 
 I followed him to the chamber where death was hov- 
 ering. The dark hangings of the large bed made a back- 
 ground that gave a strong relief to Bertha's pale face as 
 I entered. She started forward as she saw me enter, 
 and then looked at Meunier with an expression of an- 
 gry inquiry ; but he lifted up his hand as if to impose 
 silence, while he fixed his glance on the dying woman 
 and felt her pulse. The face was pinched and ghastly, 
 a cold perspiration was on the forehead, and the eyelids 
 were lowered so as almost to conceal the large dark 
 eyes. After a minute or two, Meunier walked round to 
 the other side of the bed where Bertha stood, and with 
 his usual air of gentle politeness towards her begged her 
 to leave the patient under our care — everything should 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 37Y 
 
 be done for her — siie was no longer in a state to be con- 
 scious of an affectionate presence. Bertha ^Yas liesitat- 
 ing, apparently almost willing to believe his assurance 
 and to comply. She looked round at the ghastly dying 
 face, as if to read the confirmation of that assurance, 
 when for" a moment the lowered eyelids were raised 
 again, and it seemed as if the eyes were looking towards 
 Bertha, but blankly. A shudder passed through Ber- 
 tha's frame, and she returned to her station near the pil- 
 low, tacitly implying that she would not leave the room. 
 
 The eyelids \verc lifted no more. Once I looked at 
 Bertha as she watched the face of the dying one. She 
 wore a rich peignoir, and her blend hair was half cov- 
 ered by a lace cap; in her attire she was, as always, an 
 elegant woman, fit to figure in a picture of modern aris- 
 tocratic life ; but I asked myself how that face of hers 
 could ever have seemed to me the face of a woman born 
 of woman, witli memories of childhood, capable of pain, 
 needing to be fondled? The features at that moment 
 looked so preternaturally sharp, the eyes were so hard 
 and eager — she looked like a cruel immortal, finding her 
 spiritual feast in tlie agonies of a dj'ing race. For across 
 those hard features there came something like a flash 
 when the last hour had been breathed out, and we all 
 felt that the dark veil had completely fallen. 
 
 What secret was there between Bertha and this wom- 
 an ? I turned my eyes from her with a horrible dread 
 lest my insight should return, and I should be obliged 
 to see what had been breeding about two unloving 
 women's hearts. I felt that Bertha had been watching 
 for the moment of death as the sealing of her secret* I 
 
 thanked Heaven it could remain sealed for me. 
 31 R 
 
378 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 Meuuier said, quietly, " Gone." He then gave his arm 
 to Bertha, and she submitted to be led out of the room, 
 
 I suppose it was at her order that two female attend- 
 ants came into the room, and dismissed the younger one 
 Avho had been present before. AVhen they entered, 
 Meunier had already opened the artery in the long thin 
 neck that lay rigid on the pillow, and I dismissed them, 
 ordering them to remain at a distance till we rang ; the 
 doctor, I said, had an operation to perform — he was not 
 sure about the death. For the next twenty minutes I 
 forgot everything but Meunier and the experiment in 
 which he was so absorbed, that I think his senses would 
 liave been closed against all sonnds or sights that had 
 no relation to it. It was my task at first to keep up the 
 artificial respiration in the body after the transfusion 
 liad been effected, but presently Meunier relieved me, 
 and I could see the wondrous slow return of life; the 
 breast began to heave, the inspirations became stronger, 
 the eyelids quivered, and the soul seemed to have re- 
 turned beneath them. The artificial respiration was 
 withdrawn ; still the breathing continued, and there 
 was a movement of the lips. 
 
 Just then I heard the handle of the door moving; I 
 suppose Bertha had heard from the women that they 
 had been dismissed ; probably a vague fear had arisen 
 in her mind, for she entered with a look of alarm. She 
 came to the foot of the bed and gave a stifled cry. 
 
 The dead woman's eyes were wide open, and met hers 
 in full recognition — the recognition of hate. With a sud- 
 den strong effort the hand that Bertha had thought for- 
 ever still was pointed towards her, and the haggard face 
 moved. The gasping, eager voice said : 
 
THE LIFTED VEIL. 379 
 
 "Yon mean to poison your husband — the poison is 
 in the black cabinet — I got it for you — you laughed 
 at me, and told lies about me behind my back, to make 
 me disgusting — because you were jealous — are you 
 sorry — now ?" 
 
 The lips continued to murmur, but the sounds were 
 no longer distinct. Soon there was no sound — only a 
 slight movement: the flame had leaped out, and was be- 
 ing extinguished the faster. The wretched woman's 
 heartstrings had been set to hatred and vengeance; the 
 spirit of life had swept the chords for an instant, and 
 was gone again forever. Good God ! This is what it 
 is to live again — to wake up with our unstilled thirst 
 upon us, with our unuttered curses rising to our lips, 
 with our muscles ready to act out their half-committed 
 sins. 
 
 Bertha stood pale at the foot of the bed, quivering 
 and helpless, despairing of devices, like a cunning animal 
 whose hiding-places are surrounded by swift-advancing 
 flame. Even Meunier looked paralyzed ; life for that 
 moment ceased to be a scientific problem to him. As 
 for me, this scene seemed of one texture with the rest 
 of my existence : horror was my familiar, and this new 
 revelation was only like an old pain recurring with 
 new circumstances. 
 
 ******** 
 
 Since then Bertha and I have lived apart — she in her 
 own neighborhood, the mistress of half our wealth, I as 
 a wanderer in foreign countries, until I came to this 
 Devonshire nest to die. Bertha lives pitied and admired 
 — for what had I against that charming woman, whom 
 every one but myself could have been happy with ? 
 
3SU THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 There had been no witness of the scene in the djing- 
 room except Meunier, and while Mennier lived his lips 
 were sealed by a promise to me. 
 
 Once or twice, weary of wandering, I rested in a fa- 
 vorite spot, and my heart went out towards the men 
 and women and ciiildren M'hose faces were becominu' 
 familiar to me; but I was driven away again in terror 
 at the approach of my old insight — driven away to live 
 continually with the one Unknown Presence revealed 
 and yet hidden by the moving curtain of the earth and 
 sky. Till at last disease took hold of me and forced me 
 to rest here — forced me to live in dependence on my 
 servants. And then the curse of insight, of ray double 
 consciousness, came again, and has never left me. I 
 know all their narrow thoughts, their feeble regard, 
 
 their half- wearied pity. 
 
 -A ->:- -X- «- * w * -Ji- 
 
 lt is the 20th of September, 1850. I know these fig- 
 ures I have just written, as if they were a long-familiar 
 inscription. I have seen them on this page in my desk 
 unnumbered times, when tlie scene of my dying struggle 
 has opened upon me. . . . 
 
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 MACAULAY'S ENGLAND. The History of England from the 
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 ;\ 
 
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 STORMONTH'S ENGLISH DICTIONARY. A Dictionary of 
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 LIVINGSTONES LAST JOURNALS. The Last Journals of 
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 BLAIKIE'S LIFE OF DAVID LIVINGSTONE. Memoir of 
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 CURTIS'S LIFE OF BUCHANAN. Life of James Buchanan, 
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 GRIFFIS'S JAPAN. The Mikado's Empire : Book I. History 
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 1874. With Two Supplementary Chapters: Japan in 1883, 
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 SCHLIEMANN'S ILIOS. liios, the City and Country of the 
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 SMILES'S HISTORY OF THE HUGUENOTS. The Hugue- 
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